by Liz Tyner
But he wasn’t, to her. The way his voice rushed over her when he spoke to her—when it was unguarded—she’d never heard a man speak so. He had a tone she’d never before listened to. It wasn’t just what he said, but the way the words moved around her, like air trying to brush her from all directions and touch her all over. She felt a surge of envy that anyone else might hear that sound and a small measure of pride that he’d talked to her of his feelings.
But it wasn’t just his words. The huskiness of his voice, especially when he talked quietly, was almost more than she could bear.
Mavis snorted. ‘That old trickster. I bet she saw him a few times, felt pity on you and decided to give you something to dream about.’
‘You’re so kind, Mavis.’
‘How are you feeling?’ She squinted and examined Vivian.
‘No better.’ She pushed her hair from her forehead, fingers threaded in the locks.
Mavis opened her reticule and pulled out a length of cloth. ‘His cravat. He left it in the library after you both came out.’
Vivian stared, garbled her words as she spoke, then gasped. ‘You took his cravat? You were spying?’
‘I found it in the library this morning.’ Mavis examined it, then quirked a brow. ‘Are you sure nothing happened.’
‘Nothing.’
‘This does smell good. Very nice shaving soap.’ She handed it to Vivian.
Vivian held the cloth to her nose and breathed in. The scent of a man’s strength.
She heard the rustle of Mavis’s skirts and saw a grin as she darted out the door. ‘I’ll tell the servants we need the carriage.’
Vivian went to the library. She tried to remember where he had left the cravat, but decided anywhere would suffice.
She dropped the cravat when she heard footsteps. Everleigh walked into the room. He had none of the openness she’d seen the night before. His hair didn’t hang straight and perfect as it might have had a valet been at his shoulder. Instead the ends hung with a dash of an unkempt air which gave him the manner of a man who didn’t care much about his appearance—at least not as much as nature did. Nature must have taken extra care and precision when sorting him into a form.
In that instant she understood he was bidding her farewell—she could see the goodbye in his expression and a certain finality.
She asked, rushing the words, ‘Might I borrow the martyr book?’
He examined her and she forced herself not to babble. She needed an excuse to see him again. Returning the book was the best she could think of.
‘Of course.’ He walked to the bookcase, lifting the weighty volume. ‘I’ll take it to the carriage for you.’
She knew he didn’t think her strong enough to carry the large volume and she wasn’t sure she could manage.
He let her precede him and she thought he kept himself ready in case she might fall.
When they stepped into the sunshine, she looked up at him, ignoring the carriage as it pulled to the front, wheels creaking.
‘At the risk of speaking what is on my mind—will you be returning to London soon, or has your last visitor made the thought unpleasant to you?’ she asked.
‘I must return. I have some architect friends whom I help further their projects in London. The city needs to move forward and, with patronage and introductions, these men can change our world.’
She pulled her head back. ‘That sounds ambitious.’
‘Merely practical. Much of the most important works they do is not with the façades which impress people, but with the small, and sometimes large, things to improve lives. In the past people did not want their kitchens attached to the house because of fire. Now we feel comfortable with our chimneys and our food is delivered to our tables warm. Some day, gas lights will be commonplace in homes.’
‘I cannot imagine.’
‘You do not have to. Architects and engineers imagine for us.’
She paused and he almost bumped into her. Her reticule bounced against him.
‘What is—? Is that a parcel of thorns?’ He shifted so he could peer into the bag.
‘Mementos.’ She spoke quickly.
‘You often collect thorns?’ Curiosity sounded in his voice. Then his brows narrowed. She could have sworn she saw distrust in him.
She kept her chin high and used her hand to cover the top of the brambles. ‘As you are not of a mood to speak with frankness and I am not willing to be the only one doing so, I suggest we do not discuss my collections.’
‘Did you find the thorns near here?’ he asked, raising a brow. ‘Near a person called Ella Etta?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Thorns?’ he asked. ‘She must be—’
Vivian carefully lifted the bag so he could see inside. ‘They’re wrapped around a bottle, with a medicinal inside.’
He shook his head. ‘I cannot believe she would give you thorns.’
‘Do you not think I should take it?’
He put his hand over hers. The touch spiked through her body, reaching deeper than even the thorns could have pierced. ‘If she told you to take the liquid, you should. Do exactly as she says. She’s wise.’
‘Oh. My.’
They stopped at the door of the carriage and he tucked the book under his left arm, easily balancing the large tome there. A breeze ruffled his hair, bringing more coolness to the air and a contrast to the rays of sunshine warming her. She shivered, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the air, or his regard.
She dreaded the journey home, fearing what she was returning to.
The driver had already arranged the steps and now had the door open.
Mavis bustled from the house and moved to the carriage door. She gave a long glance at Vivian, then a brief peek at Everleigh before moving inside.
Everleigh waited for Vivian to step into the vehicle.
‘It has been an eventful trip,’ Vivian said. ‘The most eventful of my life.’
He took her glove in the same way he might if he were intent on pulling her hand to his lips for a kiss, but only raised it chest high. ‘I must apologise for your awareness of the disastrous visit from Alexandria earlier. The frankness I had with you. Please forget this happened.’
‘I suspect I won’t easily forget these past few days.’ She pulled her hand from his and put her fingertips to her temple. ‘You do tend to linger in a woman’s notions.’ She tapped her forehead, but her upturned lips took the seriousness from the words.
‘You may keep the book.’ He again took her hand to guide her on to the steps. ‘I hope that while you are reading it, you do not feel that our time together has been more of a trial for you than the misfortunes mentioned in the pages.’
She contemplated his serious manner. Then she moved into the carriage. He stepped inside enough to place the volume in her hands before exiting and shutting the door with a quiet snap.
She stared at the tome and the carriage lurched forward. He’d ended the one excuse she’d had to see him again by giving her the book. And the regard he gave her said he understood what he did.
She hoped he did not regret telling her to follow Ella Etta’s instructions—because if she lived he would have to marry her.
Chapter Six
Vivian stared into the mirror. Every day her mother commented that Vivian appeared so much healthier. She could see it and she could feel the strength growing each day.
A stranger’s reflection stared at her. The countenance in the looking glass, while thin, had gained strength. Now, she had been corseted, plumped, lightly coloured with cosmetics and adorned from her toes to well beyond her temples.
The day before her maid had practised three different coiffures on Vivian, until they found one which met with her mother’s approval. She’d insisted Vivian should appear perfect for what she called a modest gathering. Just a few fri
ends of her father’s for an evening of music, dance and boring discussions about lumber. Her mother’s words.
Vivian knew full well what pursuit stood foremost in her mother’s plans and Vivian had contributed.
She herself had crafted the guest list with more precision than Wellington would have given to the War Office missives.
Twenty-four days had passed since she’d taken the first drop of the sweet mixture. Even under the cosmetics she wore, her skin glowed more vibrantly than she would have believed possible.
As far as she was concerned, though, her journey to recovery had started when she’d kissed Everleigh and if she was wrong, she didn’t want to know it.
And, at night, if she didn’t dream of Everleigh’s kiss, she dreamed of the promise.
The door opened, and Vivian expected to be summoned to help with the event, but instead her mother bustled into the room, a maid following.
‘We’ve brought more Fowler’s solution for you, dear.’ Her mother touched a glove near her lips and blew a kiss Vivian’s way. ‘And also the extra apothecary mixtures.’
The maid moved more slowly, a small crate of jostling bottles in her hands.
Vivian hid her scowl. She didn’t want to upset her mother. ‘Wonderful.’
‘But you must let me send for the physician. I’m so thankful the cures we’ve tried are finally working. You must be sure to continue the Fowler’s solution.’
The maid moved to the dressing table and began placing the bottles about.
Mavis stepped inside the open door. She scowled at the curatives.
‘Mother, I’m sure the last time the physician saw me before you visited your sister was all the curative I needed. He doubled his mixtures before that. After you returned, I was so much better.’
‘I suppose. But you should see him again, just in case.’ Her mother rushed to Vivian, took her daughter’s face in her hands, examined her, and the older woman’s chin trembled. ‘You are much improved.’ Then she rotated, advising Mavis, ‘You’ll see she takes her remedies.’
‘Miss Vivian’s health is my foremost concern.’ Mavis bounced to alertness. She moved to the bedside table and lifted the spoon, holding it as if she were about to rap a child’s hand. ‘I watch over her with all the care of a—a gaoler.’
Her mother took a step to leave and the maid, holding the empty crate, opened the door. The sound of violins wafted in. ‘After you take a dose of the Fowler’s, then come and join our guests.’
‘Thank you for taking care of me, Mother.’
Her mother fluttered away and the maid darted out behind her.
Mavis moved to take the stopper from the bottle of Fowler’s solution. She sniffed it. ‘I’ve been pouring this into the bowl that Mrs Cuddie uses to feed the stray cat and mixing it with his food. I thought it might help fatten up the puss...but now he’s wasting away.’ She eyed Vivian and sniffed the bottle again. ‘I think I’ll put it in the chamber pot from now on. I will not even let that stray cat near it.’
Mavis stared at Vivian. ‘I would not be surprised if that Fowler’s solution was part of the problem. Mrs Rush thinks it is a disastrous mixture.’
‘I’m not taking it ever again.’ Vivian held up the glass vial that the old woman had given her, staring at the light that filtered through the bottle. ‘Besides, this tastes better—not at all bitter.’
Then Vivian took out the novel she’d hidden behind the mirror when she’d heard her mother’s footsteps. ‘Have you finished the martyr book?’
Mavis grumbled, ‘No. I’ve not enjoyed it.’
Vivian tucked her novel inside the wardrobe press. ‘I let Everleigh read a few pages to me because he didn’t think it suitable for females. I wanted to show him how tough I could be. But I dozed off. Then, when I got home and viewed a few pages, I couldn’t tolerate it at all. I tried and it would give me nightmares if I finished the stories. It reminded me of how precarious my own health has been.’
‘If Everleigh asks if you’ve read it, just mention that people died most inelegantly and agree that it’s not for ladies—not because we’re too weak, just because we’re above that sort of thing. Your mother didn’t train you to be an improper daughter.’
Vivian stood and smoothed out her skirt. ‘Mavis, who actually guided me?’
‘I will take responsibility for a few tiny errors in that regard.’ Mavis took the bottle and placed it on the table. ‘But you’re old enough to think for yourself now. You must get to this gathering you and your mother have planned so carefully. Your guests await,’ Mavis muttered. ‘Architects.’ She grimaced. ‘Architects and musty old men. Do they even know how to dance?’
‘There is one way to find out.’ Vivian felt something spark inside her body. If all went well, she intended to waltz with a certain friend of architects. His hand would be at her back and he would glide her around the floor, and her feet would move like petals on a cloud. Or at least she would remain upright.
She had practised and could manage the waltz better than any other dance.
He’d given her her first kiss and now she wanted her first real waltz to be in his arms. She felt her heart thump stronger at the thought. Maybe it wasn’t Ella Etta’s potion which spurred her to health, but the promise of Everleigh’s touch.
She hurried to the ballroom, the strains of music becoming louder with each step and increasing her anticipation.
When she walked through the doorway, she shivered inside. She imagined herself in the waltz with Everleigh, and her heart pounded. She could hardly wait until the dance. The musicians had been instructed to change the order of their musical numbers depending on when she stopped next to a tall blue-eyed man—assuming the maid had passed the message along.
In the ballroom, feathers bobbed from the heads of silver-haired matrons. Many of the males had waistcoat buttons burdened by the tension of holding fabric together.
One group of three older women talked in one corner. A cluster of four mixed at the edge. Many of the husbands had made their way to the smoking room where they could be comfortable with more boisterous talk.
Her father raised his glass to her when she entered and immediately started her way. In only a few strides, he stood at her side.
But she didn’t see Everleigh.
‘What are you up to?’ her father asked when he stopped beside her. ‘When your mother told me the men you wished invited, I thought you must be planning a construction project. Are you? Are you planning on building some sort of nest? If so, I must say I am pleased.’
She couldn’t smell wine on his breath. She noticed his glass and wasn’t sure what it contained.
Blast it, she hoped he did not get foxed.
She pulled the top of the long glove taut. ‘I like the smell of sawdust.’
He took an exaggerated sniff of the air. ‘On the right man, I’m sure. All but one of the ones you suggested is stodgy and smells of eau de camphor as much as wood shavings. Everleigh would make a good match, but...’
He took a sip of his drink, downing a good portion.
She followed her father’s stare to find Everleigh, who stood with his back her direction.
‘I see there’s method in your madness. Though your mother might be bored, the men are clustering together like bees working a hive. And, since I know their interests...’ he spotted a group wearing coats behind the fashion ‘...I can only suppose they’re buzzing about timbers or some form of waste water.’
‘Important topics for men.’
‘I must warn you...’ his voice lowered ‘...I think the particular bee you’re watching is not marriage-minded. Not long ago Alexandria Abernathy was pursuing him and she couldn’t get him to wed.’
She waited, hardly breathing while she wondered what her father would say next.
‘He’s standoffish, but not rude. Hardly ever at the clubs, tho
ugh I know he belongs to Boodle’s. Never jests much. Solitary much of the time. Never been connected with any particular woman long, except Miss Abernathy.’
‘Anything else bad of him?’
‘Vivie, most women only wish to hear good of the men they are interested in pursuing.’
‘I suppose I could find that out on my own. But the bad—that is often concealed more.’
‘But spoken of more hastily sometimes,’ he said.
Her father observed Everleigh. ‘Vivie, he’s just...’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t see the two of you making a match. I’ve known of his father for a very long time. He was a few years above me at Oxford.’
He took his empty glass and retrieved fresh drinks, returning in seconds to hand her a glass of lemonade. She took it, relieved he wasn’t slurring his speech and was taking care what he put in his glass. He wasn’t foxed.
Vivian took a drink, and pretended she was more interested in her own glass. ‘Thank you, Father. Now tell me all you know about Everleigh that might give me pause. Not the soft things I might hear from Mother about the way his grandmother embarrassed herself or his father beheaded a rose bush.’
‘Apparently, he gets his reserve from his father, who left London and moved to his country home. He rarely graces events. The man never considers his duties. Barely attended his studies, though he was smart enough. Makes it all the sadder how he has wasted his life. For all I know Everleigh could have inherited the title now.’
‘No, his father is very much alive.’
Her father snapped his head towards Vivian. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Well, as you know, unlike us, servants do talk.’ She examined the glass in her hand. ‘Mavis has become acquainted with Everleigh’s housekeeper and you would think they are sisters. Mavis has taken to visiting with the lady on occasion and sharing titbits of family news.’
‘So that is how you know of him?’
‘Mavis.’ Vivian took a delicate sip. ‘Plus, his town house isn’t far from ours, so it would be expected that I might see him about.’
‘I don’t trust your companion either. Never have. Your mother insisted we keep her on.’
