The Windham Series Boxed Set (Volumes 1-3)

by Grace Burrowes

  An awkward, very unmerry quiet fell, underscored by the continued sounds of revelry coming from the Rooster. Val looked up from the little piano to see Neal’s slack-jawed confusion mirrored on faces all around him.

  “Lads.” Sir Dewey appeared at Val’s side, Nick looming behind him. “Let’s try this again and treat this piano like it was your grannie’s coffin, shall we?” Neal exchanged a look with his brothers, one of whom shrugged and bent to pick up his corner. Nick took the fourth corner, and the procession carefully moved up the stairs.

  “You’ll want to see her situated,” Sir Dewey said softly, his hand on Val’s arm.

  What Val wanted was for the earth to swallow him up and end this miserable, unbearable day. No music, no Ellen, nothing to fight for but a battered old piano that had been knocked about long before the Bragdoll brothers’ drunken buffoonery.

  Still, Sir Dewey was looking at Val with a kind of steadying, level gaze, and what else was there to do, really? Val nodded and followed Sir Dewey up the stairs.

  “There’s an ale for each of you gentlemen,” Sir Dewey said when the piano was back in its place. “Tell Rafe to put it on my tab.”

  “Thankee.” Neal tugged his forelock, shot a glance at the piano once again sitting on the stage, and left with only one puzzled look at Val.

  “You’ll stay with him?” Sir Dewey directed the question at Nick, who nodded and began moving around the room, blowing out candles. “I must return to the Rooster or there will be hell to pay within the hour. Rafe’s special blends are mayhem waiting to happen.”

  “My thanks,” Val got out.

  “Sir Dewey.” Nick saluted in farewell and went on with his task. Val sank down on the piano bench where it sat along the far wall, facing out so he could watch Nick’s perambulations around the room.

  “This looks like a metaphor for my life,” Val said.

  “A bit in need of a tidying?” Nick asked as he picked up the last branch of candles and moved to set it on the piano.

  “Not on the piano,” Val barked then shook his head. “I beg your pardon. Set it wherever you please.”

  Nick put the candles on the floor and budged up next to Val on the bench. “So why is this room like your life?”

  “The party is over, meaning Ellen will not have me.” To his own ears, he sounded utterly, absolutely defeated.

  “This hurts,” Nick observed, a hankie appearing in his large, elegant hands.

  “I thought…” Val looked away from that infernal handkerchief. “I thought losing Bart was the worst, and then Victor was worse yet. I am still mad at them for dying, for leaving. Bart especially, because it was so stupid.”

  “You are grieving,” Nick said, folding the hankie into perfect quarters on his thigh. “It hasn’t been that long, and each loss reminds you of the others.”

  “I miss them.” Three words, but they held universes of pain and bewilderment. And anger.

  “I know, lovey.” Nick scrunched the handkerchief up in a tight ball. “I know.”

  “I missed the piano,” Val said slowly, “but not as I thought I would.” He looked up enough to glance into the gloom where the little piano stood. “I saw myself as talented and having something to offer because I could conjure a few tunes on a keyboard.”

  “You are talented,” Nick said staunchly. “You’re bloody brilliant.”

  Val laughed shortly. “I’m so bloody brilliant I thought if I just played well enough, I might stop…”

  “Stop?”

  “Stop hurting. Stop missing them,” Val said slowly, then fell silent. “I am being pathetic, and you will please shoot me.”

  “Valentine?”

  Nick was a friend, a dear, true friend. He’d neither ridicule nor judge, and Val’s dignity had eloped the moment Ellen had made it plain she’d never really intended to confide in him.

  What did that leave to lose?

  “Being invisible to your father hurts,” Val said. He fell silent, wondering where the words had come from. Growing up, he’d been the runt, too young, too dreamy, too artistic to keep up with his brothers or their friends. As a younger man, he’d been disinclined to academic brilliance, social wit, or business acumen, and denied by ducal fiat from buying his colors. For the first time, he wondered if he’d chosen the piano or simply chained himself to it by default.

  Nick shot him a curious glance. “Would it be so much better if you’d ended up like Bart and Victor? If Esther and Percy had to bury three sons instead of two, while you were spared the pains of living the life God gave you? I think the more important question now, Val, is are you invisible to yourself?”

  “No, Nick.” A mirthless laugh. “I am not, but just when I realize what a pit I had fallen into with my slavish devotion to a simple manual skill, just when I can begin to hope there might be more to life than benumbing myself on a piano bench, I find a woman I can love, but she can’t love me back.”

  “I think she does love you,” Nick replied, remaining seated as Val rose and crossed the room. “And you certainly do love her.”

  Val considered Nick’s words. They settled something inside him, in his head—where he planned and worked out strategies—and in his heart, where his music and his love for Ellen both resided.

  “I do love her.” Val lowered himself to sit on the little stage enthroning the piano. “I most assuredly do. It’s helpful to be reminded of this.”

  “Now I am going to cry,” Nick said with mock disgust as he crossed the room and once again sat right next to Val. “What will you do about Ellen?”

  “About Ellen? I agree with you: We love each other. She believes her love for me requires us to part. I believe our love requires us to be together for whatever time the good Lord grants.”

  “So you must convince her,” Nick concluded with a nod. “How will you go about this?”

  “I have some ideas.” Those ideas were like the first stirrings of a musical theme in Val’s head. Tenuous, in need of development, but they were taking hold in Val’s mind with the same tenacity as a lovely new tune. “God alone knows if my ideas will work.”

  Val remained sitting side by side with his friend pondering these ideas as the convivial sounds from the green eventually faded, leaving only the occasional burst of voices from the Rooster, until Darius appeared in the door, Ellen at his side.

  “The coach is ready to take us home,” Darius said, “and I am ready to go.”

  “You go.” Val rose. “I’m not quite ready. Ellen, pleasant dreams. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  ***

  There was nothing brittle or dismissive in Val’s tone as he bid her good night. He sounded weary and resigned—kind, even. She’d seen him remonstrating the Bragdolls but not been able to hear exactly what was said.

  “I’m not quite ready to go either,” she said, drawing her white shawl more closely around her.

  “We’ll send Sean back with the coach, then,” Nick offered, eying them both.

  “No need.” Val reached out to tuck the end of the shawl into the crook of Ellen’s elbow. “We can walk, if Ellen’s agreeable. It’s less than three miles, and it’s a pleasant night.”

  “I do.” And if all it got her was a few more of those small gestures of caring, she’d count the tears worth the heartache.

  “Good night, Ellen.” Darius kissed her cheek and touched her arm. Nick went one better, wrapping her in a careful hug. He kissed her forehead for good measure, then hugged Val and slipped an arm through Darius’s as he took his leave.

  The single candle flickered.

  Like my spirit, Ellen thought, eyes searching Val’s face for some clue to his mood. He’d been angry after their waltz, and so hurt, and she’d had little to offer him in the way of comfort.

  “I have something for you,” Val said, extending a hand to her.

  “You
must not give me one more thing, Valentine.” Ellen linked her fingers through his. “You’ve given me too much.”

  “Things.” Val shrugged. “A few nails and boards, that isn’t much, Ellen.”

  “Not just the conservatory.” She used the back of his hand to brush the tears off her cheeks. “You’ve given me much more than that.”

  “Barely anything worth mentioning,” Val replied, and his voice held a note of true humor. Ellen studied him closely as he tugged her onto the stage. “There’s one more small token I would leave with you. Forgot the bench.” He smiled at her and hopped down to retrieve a piano bench from against the far wall. His step was light, and Ellen realized the difference now as opposed to earlier in the evening was that he seemed to have gained a measure of peace.

  Peace? She hadn’t told him the worst of her secrets yet.

  He set the bench down by the little piano and patted the bench. “I do better with an appreciative audience.”

  Ellen’s eyes flew to his. “But, Valentine, there are things I promised to tell you, hard, miserable things.”

  “Yes, I know.” Val sat and pushed the cover off the keys. “Things to make me hate you until my dying day and wish vile fates upon you nightly.” He patted the bench again and offered her the sweetest smile. “I have made up my mind that I don’t need to hear them, Ellen. If you don’t want to tell me, I don’t need to hear them. If you do want to tell me, then I do need to hear them.”

  She all but fell onto the piano bench, so taken aback was she by his words.

  “You are not arguing,” he observed. “This is good, for I don’t want to argue. There are other things I must convey—things about myself—but to get them out properly, I will need the assistance of my little friend here. You can sit closer than that, can’t you?”

  Cautiously, she moved a little closer, close enough that Val could kiss her cheek.

  “Now.” He laid his fingers on the keyboard. “Where to begin?”

  ***

  Always before, Val had played for others with some secret, suppressed hope somebody was noticing, that they were impressed with his skill, that they would recall the Windham fellow who did so well at the keyboard. Invariably, they did, until all anybody really recalled about the Windham fellow was that he did so well at the keyboard—until it was all he could recall of himself.

  For Ellen, he did not play to impress, he played to express. He did not care if she noted his technical skill, his proficiency, or his virtuosic ability. He wanted her to hear his soul, to hear his love and his absolute faith in her. He played for her, but he also played for himself, for the sheer joy of being so fluent in such a beautiful and challenging language. He opened up his heart, not merely his hands, and played and played and played, giving her every good and noble and honest part of himself he could translate into notes and sounds.

  The crowd in the Rooster went quiet, gradually shifting out into the street to hear the enchanting music drifting so delicately through the summer night. In the shade oak near the livery, Thorn Bragdoll sat rapt, his fingers twitching with longing for his flute. The old men sharing a last pint on the steps of the bakery stopped drinking and drew out handkerchiefs, and Rafe and Tilden left their bar to join their customers, staring up at the open windows of the assembly room.

  And when Valentine let the last tender melody fade up into the stars, he put his hands in his lap and hoped it was good enough for the woman he loved. He shifted to straddle the piano bench and wrapped his arms around Ellen’s waist. She curled up against his chest and held on to him as if she were drowning.

  “Damn you, Val Windham,” she breathed against his neck. “Damn you, damn you. All summer…” She stopped and drew in a shaking sob.

  He listened, his soul calm enough to absorb any reaction, as long as she was in his arms.

  “All summer,” she went on, “you climbed around on the roofs and in the trees, hanging bat houses, mucking stalls, wrecking your hands, when you can… My God, Valentine. My God.”

  She was shocked, Val got that much, but he wasn’t sure what the rest of her reaction was.

  “I have listened to you,” Ellen said earnestly.

  Not, I have listened to you play, or I have listened to your music. I have listened to you. Val heard the distinction and saw it in the urgency on her face. “I have listened to you,” she said again, “and I am grateful for the privilege. More grateful than I can ever say, but now, you must listen to me.”

  “I’m here, Ellen.” Val’s arms settled back around her, and he waited until she was again tucked against his chest. “I’m listening.”

  “My babies,” Ellen said in soft, heartbroken tones. “Val, I killed my babies.”

  “You did not kill your children, Ellen.” Val stroked a hand down over her hair, gently disentangling the flowers she’d woven into her bun earlier. “You will never convince me otherwise. You would never knowingly bring harm to any living thing in your care.” She went still against him, utterly, unbreathingly still. “Love?”

  “Oh, Valentine.” She let out her breath. “I do love you. For those few words alone, I love you. Your faith in me warms my soul and brings light to places condemned to shadow. But you’re wrong.”

  “I am not, but tell me why you think otherwise.”

  “I conceived three times,” Ellen said slowly. “Each time, the child did not live to draw breath.”

  “Many women cannot complete their pregnancies,” Val pointed out, his fingers now working on the chignon itself. “It isn’t your fault you miscarried.”

  Ellen shook her head. “I did not miscarry. I aborted those babies, Valentine. My actions were what caused those pregnancies to end.”

  “You loved your husband. You wanted to give him children, and you loved those children, Ellen. Knowing you, I believe you loved them before they were born.” He pressed his cheek to her temple and knew an urge to take her inside his body, to envelope her with the physical protection of his larger, stronger form.

  “I did love them, husband and children both.” Ellen stopped and drew in an unsteady breath. “I could not protect my children. I did not carry easily and suffered endless upsets of digestion. With every pregnancy, even before my menses were late, I was unable to keep my meals down. Francis was distraught, but everybody said it would pass quickly. It never did.”

  “You still did not cause those pregnancies to end.”

  “My love…” She used the endearment for the first time, though Val had never heard anything so sad. “You are wrong. To treat my upset digestion, I drank teas and tisanes by the gallon. I found one Freddy offered me to be the most soothing and the one that stayed down the best. He was so solicitous, and Francis was pleased to see it, as Freddy was not the most promising young man in other regards. I was grateful for the relief, but then I would lose the child. Three times this happened, the last time just a few weeks before Francis came to grief.”

  Three miscarriages in five years, followed by the death of her husband? Val wanted to howl with the unfairness of it, to shake his fist at God and take a few swings at Francis.

  “You needed time to heal.” Val began teasing her braid from its coil at her nape. “You should have been given more time to recover.”

  “I didn’t want time to recover,” Ellen wailed. “I wanted to provide my husband with his heir, and he accommodated my wishes reluctantly, as it was the only thing I asked of him, and I asked it incessantly.”

  “So where in all this very sad tale do you accuse yourself of not caring for your children, Ellen?” Val drew his hand down the thick length of her braid in slow, soothing sweeps. “You were young, and God’s will prevailed.”

  “Not God’s will, Val,” Ellen said tiredly. “Freddy’s. That lovely, comforting tea he brought me, the only one that quieted my digestion? It was mostly pennyroyal, though he told me it was a blend of spearmint, and I did no
t know any better.”

  “Pennyroyal?” Val’s memory stirred, but nothing clear came to mind. “Ah, the little plant you tossed aside. You were not happy to see it.”

  “Pennyroyal will bring on menses. Ask any midwife or physician. It is an ancient remedy for the unwanted pregnancy, but in a tea or tisane, particularly if it’s mixed with other ingredients, it tastes like spearmint. I eagerly swilled the poison that killed all three of my babies, Val, and it’s my fault they died.”

  “But you didn’t know. Freddy should be brought to account for this, and it is not your fault.”

  “It is my fault,” Ellen rejoined. “Early in my marriage, Freddy approached me and suggested he and I might be allies of a sort. He was just a boy then, a gangly, spotty, lonely boy, and I found his overture endearing. It soon became clear he wasn’t a nice boy. We had trouble keeping maids when he was visiting in the summers, and then when he was sixteen, he came to live with us.”

  “He’s a bully and a sneak and a thoroughgoing scoundrel.”

  “He suggested I might want to share my pin money with him,” Ellen went on, “but I’d overheard the footmen discussing Freddy’s gambling losses, and since he was still only a boy, I did not think it wise to indulge him.”

  “And you were right.”

  “And I was a fool,” Ellen retorted bitterly. “Freddy exploded when I refused him; that’s the only word I can use. His reason came undone, and he said awful things. I had not said anything to Francis about Freddy trying to borrow from me, because I didn’t want Freddy to suffer in his cousin’s esteem. But when Freddy lost his temper like that, I had the first inkling I should have been afraid of him.”