by Laura Locke
“Well, I'm glad you do,” Allectia said firmly. “I was starting to think I was going soft in the head myself. It's not a pleasant thought, I'll tell you.”
“No,” Matilda nodded vigorously. “I can imagine it isn't.”
Allectia took her book and headed downstairs.
I wonder.
Matilda couldn't help thinking that her father's illness and the family's financial cares had simply worn too much on everyone's nerves. It was probably nothing. One of the groundsmen, perhaps. It was worth asking Shipsley about it, but she wouldn't let it bother her.
“Mattie?”
“Oh! Lucas!” Matilda smiled at her handsome older brother. “Is something the matter?”
“Only Mama, wondering where you are and making a to-do about dresses and who is going to sit where...she's rearranging the drawing room and wants a second opinion. You coming?”
Matilda smiled and nodded. “Of course, Brother. I can't let you and Pauline be the only ones facing the cannon-volley.”
Lucas laughed. “Aptly said, sister. Off we go.”
After an afternoon spent rearranging furniture and planning menus with Mama, Pauline and Matilda got dressed together for the recital.
An hour later, Matilda was standing with her sister in the doorway, Lucas on her left, welcoming their visitors.
Matilda had chosen a white dress with ruffles on the sleeves, Pauline pink. Lucas wore dark brown.
“Good evening, Lady Featherston,” Matilda smiled at the tall, slim older lady, who smiled back.
“Good evening, Matilda. You look pretty.”
One by one the usual guests passed by, and Matilda wondered why her mother had been so unusually worried about the arrangement of the furniture. Then she looked up and saw a face that unnerved her, though she could not have said why.
The man from the road. From the ball, that evening. Alexander Dartmoor, Lord Epworth.
“Good evening, my lady.”
His voice was silken, and he bowed to her.
“Good evening, Lord Epworth.”
He took her hand in his own and raised it to his lips. His breath felt hot through her glove. He looked up at her, eyes dancing.
“A pleasure to be invited to your home.” he said.
Matilda winced as he kissed her fingers then released her hand.
Beside her, she felt Lucas raise a brow.
She pulled a face at him.
“Well, he's polite,” Lucas said blandly. “Could do worse.”
“Lucas!” she hissed.
“What?” He smiled, an innocent grin that let her know that he teased.
“You're unbearable, you know that?”
“I'm impeccably-behaved.”
They both laughed.
Inside, the guests joined them in the ballroom for drinks and light refreshments. They would have dinner after an hour or so, and then the recital would begin upstairs.
“My lady.”
Matilda shut her eyes as she heard the velvet voice. It did strange things to her body, even though it also filled her with a sense that was almost fear.
“Lord Epworth.”
“May I say it is a real pleasure to see you again after such a short time?”
“Thank you, my lord. That is very nice.” She curtseyed. His face was grave.
“I do not say it to be nice. I speak my mind, my lady. Not trifling pleasantries.”
“Oh,” Matilda said, heart pounding. “An unusual approach. I wonder you bother with greetings at all. They are, after all, mere social niceties.”
He smiled, though it did not warm those watchful eyes. “Droll, my lady. Though I agree, greetings do seem rather hackneyed. I am a man who likes to get to the central matter at hand.”
“Well, you must make a grand conversationalist,” Matilda said, before she could stop herself. She wanted to groan. Here she was, meant to be making a good impression on an eligible man, and yet she could not help but be rude to him! She flushed. “Sorry, my lord.”
“Not at all,” he said, blinking. He reminded her of a falcon – predatory, watchful. She shivered.
“You like it in the countryside?” she asked brightly.
“I do,” he responded. “It is good to be surrounded by so much greenness.”
“Oh, indeed,” Matilda said, feeling happier now they were on ground where she felt confident. She did much prefer the countryside to town and could wax lyrical about the rolling fields and dark woods if permitted. “I love it.”
“I noticed you have fine grounds,” Lord Epworth commented. “I would like to see them better, if I may?”
“At night?” Matilda's brows shot into her hair.
“Why not, my lady?”
“Well, I...” Matilda looked around, uncomfortable.
“I am sure we can see an excellent view of the arbour from the terrace?”
“Well, yes, we can,” Matilda admitted, scanning the room for any way out of this and seeing none. “I suppose it would do no harm if we...”
“Lead the way.”
Matilda, biting her lip and wishing she could dissolve, led him to the door to the terrace. He stepped back to let her pass through, then followed her. They were alone, under the star-lit sky.
“It is beautiful,” he commented, looking out over the silent roses, black shadows now, crisp-leafed, under a velvet sky.
“It is!” Matilda breathed. She could smell the scent of dew and freshness, the night cold and dark and exciting with the scent of damp and cleanness. She shivered.
“It is nice to see it under such...amenable conditions,” he continued. He was opposite her, looking down at her. His eyes glowed softly in the scattered light from the door behind. She tensed.
His hand reached up and stroked her hair. She froze. Only Henry touched her like that, and that rarely. And when he did, it did not feel like this. This felt sinister and wrong.
He kissed her.
Matilda gasped as his lips came down on hers. His mouth was hard, and uninviting. She felt as if he were a robber, stealing a kiss, forcing an entry with his probing lips in hers.
“My lord,” she whispered, as he moved back.
“You are a delight, my dear,” he whispered. “I must ask pardon. I couldn't resist.”
“Well, you are pardoned,” Matilda managed, when she had her breath. “But I do not think that...”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he whispered. “I know it is improper, but you are irresistible, you know.”
Matilda struggled in his arms, knowing that they were too strong to let her escape. But she tried in any case. He softened his grip, letting her go.
She stepped back and faced him across a few paces of the terrace tiles.
“You are...bold, Lord Epworth.”
“Thank you. You are remarkable.”
“Oh!” Matilda felt at once surprised and angry. She had no idea why, but rage, confusion and a feeling of fear were all mixing inside her, making tears tremble on her lids. Her body was shaking, her heart shivering and it had a strange mix of excitement and revulsion that she could not explain. All she knew was that it felt horrid.
“My lady, forgive me,” he whispered again. “You are overwrought. You are young and I was over-bold. I beg your forgiveness.”
“You are forgiven, Lord Epworth,” Matilda said in a voice that barely reached above a whisper. “But do not think to do so again.”
“I will be unable to put it from my mind,” he whispered. “And though I may try to resist, I promise naught.”
“Well, then,” Matilda said in a small, clipped voice. “I will go back.”
She walked through the door into the ballroom.
Inside, she looked around. She was shivering, her body rigid with shock or anger – she did not know in truth. She wanted her shawl, and something warm, and she wished she could curl up and sob. But there was Lady Hendersley, already drifting over with a smile on her face, her daughter Clemence with her. She would have to talk to them.
/> “My dear Lady Hendersley! Clemence! So many years, since I've seen you last...”
Matilda heard her own voice with its cheery politeness, going through the motions of polite dinnertime conversation. She couldn't quite believe she could still do it. She felt as if she was standing outside herself, watching another Matilda do the social duties.
Somewhere in the hall their butler clapped his hands discreetly and summoned them all through the big double doors to dinner. Matilda fell in with the group behind her mother and Pauline, still chattering away brightly.
She felt eyes on her and saw Lord Epworth emerge through the doors, then took a seat as far away from the last available ones as she could manage, giving herself time away from him.
Later in the evening she would play the piano and sing and probably have to see him again. For the moment, she wanted a respite.
She glanced at her mother at the table across from hers, and saw her meet her eye, her own dancing with excitement.
Mother was pleased. She knows Lord Epworth pays Matilda attention. She wants him to be interested.
She shuddered. Thought of Henry, and the innocent joy of his company. Thought of running with him, talking and laughing. Of Henry's lips on hers.
That is what a kiss should feel like. Not this.
She hoped she would not have to see Lord Epworth again.
She knew he was somewhere in the room, down at the table closest to the door, and she deliberately avoided looking in that direction. She didn't even want to see him at this moment. But she knew there was no way to explain how she felt to their mother. She wanted a duke for her daughters. And she would not brook any dissent – not even their own.
All Matilda could hope was that there were other dukes on offer. Or that her father recovered. Nothing else was going to dissuade her mother from this plan.
Chapter 6
The sun shone through the high window onto the parquet floor of the drawing-room. Matilda looked up from her sketching, as the clock struck five. She had spent most of the day firmly putting Lord Epworth and the awful night of the recital out of her mind. Now, finally, she had found some peace.
“I should really do something.”
She looked down at her attempts at drawing. The first depicted a vase of flowers, a sketch that was not too terrible, always assuming that the artist had limited practice. The second was a surprise. It was a sketch of a young man. A gaunt face with high cheeks and long, lazy eyes, the young man gave a full-lipped, easygoing smile at the viewer.
Henry.
Matilda pushed the picture away, feeling disappointed and angry with herself. She should not be daydreaming about Henry Plowden! Of all the people unsuitable for her, he was top of the list.
He is the son of a baron. Far out of the range of what Mother considers suitable.
She sighed. The memories of him from their childhood, the times they spent together in their youth...all those scenes and recollections haunted her, bittersweet ghosts.
She felt restless, then, and pushed her last piece of sketch-paper aside, walking to the window. The sky was low over the distant hills, the first clouds starting to gather. It would certainly rain that night.
“Matilda?”
Matilda turned to find Lucas in the doorway. He looked worried. Matilda tensed.
“Lucas? What is it?”
Lucas came in and sank down onto the chaise-lounge with a sigh.
“It's Father.”
He covered his head with his hands as he said it, clearly distressed. Matilda went and sat down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. He tensed and then relaxed.
“What? Is he very...bad?” Matilda asked, cautious not to upset Lucas.
“You would have to see him,” Lucas said quietly.
“I should.”
They sat there beside each other, her hand loosely held in Lucas' own. Outside, the sun sank a little closer toward the hills. Matilda watched the day become more golden, the clouds just lit from beneath by the stretching rays. She thought about the predicament that faced them.
Beside her, Lucas shifted on the chair. Matilda looked up at him, a frown on her delicate brows.
“What is it?”
Lucas sighed. His long, tapered fingers ran through his hair, clutching as if he was desperate. He turned to face her, the muscles around his eyes tight with emotion.
“It's...you know I am set to inherit all this.”
“Yes,” Matilda said gently. “You will manage well.”
“It's not that,” he said, then paused. “I am sorry, sister. I did not mean to speak harshly. What I meant to say was that, it's not stepping into our father's shoes that worries me. It's other things.”
“Mother?”
He sighed. “Yes. And, well...” Matilda saw him swallow hard. She guessed what it was.
“It's about Raymonda, isn't it?”
Lucas sighed. He said nothing, but Matilda saw his shoulders slump.
Matilda held his hand tightly, knowing there was little she could say to offer comfort on this matter.
Raymonda LeCrecy was the daughter of the French diplomat and recent exile, Baron Levin. She was beautiful, stylish, witty and also disgraced. Her father was essentially a refugee from the troubles in France: the Revolution. Though many exiles flocked from France, Baron Levin was not well-accepted, due to comments he had made prior to the revolution. Lucas had met his daughter at a salon in London run by the somewhat-controversial Leona Whitsley. Raymonda, though beautiful and aristocratic, was not acceptable to their family. Not the sort of girl earls married.
“I wish Mama would see my side of this,” he sighed. “It is impossible, I know. But I wish...I love her, Mattie.” When Lucas turned to look at Matilda, she could see the tortured look in his eyes. She bit her lip, nodding.
“I wish that, too,” she said quietly. Though whether she meant that she wished it for herself or for Lucas, she was not sure. They were both in the same predicament with their mother, both cut off from those they truly loved.
They sat silent a while, both thinking about their worry. Matilda coughed. “Could I..?”
“If you mean to see Father, he's not busy,” Lucas said quickly, seeming to take the thoughts out of her head. “I think he might be resting. I would like it if you saw him.”
“Thank you, Lucas,” Matilda agreed, squeezing his hand and then raising hers to smooth down her skirts, standing slowly. “I will go and see him now.”
“I'll come up too?” Lucas offered. “If you like, that is.”
“No, thank you, Lucas. I will go alone.”
Matilda checked her hair in the mirror at the door, not wanting to look to disheveled when visiting someone ill, then headed quickly up the stairs to her father's chambers.
She knocked at the door of his office. There was no answer.
She peered into the room adjacent, feeling worried. Where was he? She stepped in.
With a small fireplace and a few seats upholstered in green linen, the place was cozy, if not overly so. The afternoon sun bathed the room, striking on white hair.
“Father!” Matilda felt a sudden wash of relief.
Her father looked up. Matilda was shocked at his changed appearance. His eyes were sunken, the skin around them gray and dry, his skin like parchment. He was more gaunt then she recalled, and looked achingly tired. He seemed to her to have aged ten years between now and the last time she saw him.
“Daughter,” he said, his voice a thread of sound. “I was just resting. Silly me. It must barely be teatime. Come. Sit,” he added, waving her to the chair across the room.
Matilda sank down into it, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.
“Father,” she said softly. “I was just passing and I...I thought I'd look in on you. I trust you're not busy?”
Her father laughed, showing pale gums. “Busy?” he said in that same thin, soft voice. “I have plenty that needs doing. Always busy.” He coughed, then and Matilda sat, quiet and tense, as th
e choked cough reverberated in the silent room.
“Father?”
He waved a hand, dismissive. “Always busy, like I said. Just not got the strength for it nowadays.”
Matilda looked around, distressed. Her father was always slim and tall, but now he seemed shrunken, frail somehow where before he had been lithe and strong. His cheekbones poked through his skin, his hands bony and mottled. His eyes were two amber-brown windows onto suffering, the skin around them tight with tension and suppressing his evident pain.
“Is there something...have you seen Jarrow?”
Matthias Jarrow was their physician. Excellent and reliable.
Her father coughed again. “No...need for him. Nothing...the matter. Silly me. Just...exercising too much. The ride...shouldn't have gone.”
“The ride?”
“You know. Epstone's sorry arrangement. Getting ready for the hunt, he said. We should go on that soon.”
Matilda gaped. It was May. The hunting season had ended a month ago. The ride on the Epstone park had been two months before. Matilda felt a sudden tension, as if a fist of ice had gripped her heart.
“Father, I...”
“Don't you fuss about me, dearie,” he said, smiling up at her with those bloodless lips. “I'm well.”
Matilda shivered. She reached down and pressed his hand. “Yes, Father.”
“Now, when is teatime? I have a good mind for something hot to drink.”
“I'll ask the housekeeper to send you up something,” she said quickly.
“No, dearie. I'll come down,” he sighed. He looked at the clock. “Oh, my. Is it almost five already? Well, I'll be down directly. Tell them to hold back some of the teacakes for me...that wretched Lucas and his appetites...”
“Oh, Papa.” Matilda smiled at her father.
She stood and then waited, cautiously, as he struggled to get to his feet. She wanted to help but knew he would be offended.
“Off you go,” he smiled caringly at her in the doorway, waving her ahead. “Ladies before age, and all that.”
He stood back for her to leave first, and Matilda walked rigidly ahead, wincing as she heard him puff with exertion. He had managed to rise from the chair and he followed her, slowly, to the door.
He is suddenly so ill.
