Whispering Twilight

by Melissa McShane

  “Lovely, is it not?” said a voice from behind her. Bess turned to see Lord Ormerod, tall and potbellied, smiling down at her. He had, with his wife, greeted Bess at the door, and she did not know why he had left his guests now to speak to her, but his smile was pleasant, so Bess curtseyed to him with an answering smile.

  “I apologize for touching it,” she said, “perhaps I should not—”

  “It is Carrera marble, and it is unlikely your touch will hurt it,” Lord Ormerod said. “I beg your pardon if this is presumptuous, but I had hoped to speak with you about your time with the Incas.”

  Bess’s heart sank. “Indeed, my lord?”

  “Nothing so dreadful as you seem to expect. I was simply curious about what you observed of their art.”

  “Oh! Well—you see, my vision is limited, but—their art is very different from ours. They draw very elaborate, very stylized human figures.” Bess tried not to blush at her memory of Achik’s male drawings. “And they like patterns. They also respect the jaguar greatly—I saw it represented frequently in their art.”

  “I see.” Lord Ormerod sounded very pleased. “Did they work in oils, or in sculpture?”

  “I saw no oils, and no paintings such as we have. Though they painted their walls with bright colors. But they did turn the most prosaic items into works of art. Vases for drinking, for example, were adorned with beautiful images and patterns. And—” In time she remembered not to say anything about their works of gold—“their clothing was very finely woven.” An idea came to her. “If you would permit me, my lord, I could Speak images to you so you might see what I did.”

  Lord Ormerod’s eyes gleamed. “I would enjoy that very much.”

  Bess called to memory the walls of her room in the Inca city, her drinking pot with the jaguars painted on it, Achik’s portrait of Sapa Inca, the woven robes Quispe and Inkasisa wore, and one by one Spoke them to Lord Ormerod. His gaze became distant, and a pleased smile touched his lips. In that state, he looked like nothing so much as a child given a wonderful treat. “Beautiful,” he said. “Thank you. That is quite a gift.”

  “It was my pleasure, my lord.”

  “It is so unfortunate we have no contact with them,” Lord Ormerod said. “I would dearly love to possess some of their artwork.”

  “Art is one of the things I wish they could share with us,” Bess agreed. “And some of their food is quite delicious.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Ormerod offered Bess his arm. “May I escort you to the ballroom? It is rather close in here. Though the ballroom also grows warm over time.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” The short conversation had, surprisingly, quite dispelled her bad mood. Surprisingly, because she was accustomed to people’s inquiries about her adventures souring her disposition. Lord Ormerod, on the other hand, had been genuinely interested about something no one else had thought to ask her, and it was refreshing.

  Lord Ormerod walked her through the crowd until they reached Lady Ormerod, who greeted Bess with a pleasure at odds with the somewhat superior way she looked down her narrow nose at Bess. “Miss Hanley, here is someone interested in making your acquaintance,” she said, and with that Bess was swept away in a whirl of dance invitations that left her too busy to feel unhappy.

  She danced again and again, ate a light supper during which she laughed at her companion’s repeated humorous sallies, and took a moment to find her mother, who sat with friends playing at whist in one of the side rooms. “Bess, do not say you are tired,” Mama said. “It is barely midnight.”

  “No, I am quite well,” Bess said, and discovered it was true. “I will just sit for a moment to rest my feet, but I believe I could dance until dawn.”

  “That is the spirit,” Mama said. “Mrs. Rivers, I am quite cast down, I should not have played that card.”

  Bess closed her eyes and let the sounds of the card-room wash over her. The music of the ballroom came distantly to her ear, signaling the beginning of a cotillion. It was not a peaceful setting, but Bess felt remarkably at peace.

  “Miss Hanley? Do I disturb you?”

  Bess opened her eyes and smiled at Mr. Pakenham. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Then may I request your hand for this dance?”

  Bess stood and accepted his arm. “Of course. I am surprised I have not seen you before now.”

  “I was a late arrival. Does that mean you were watching for me? Should I take heart?”

  Bess laughed. “You know I cannot see far enough to watch for anyone. But if it will please you, I will say that I was.”

  They took their places in the dance, and Bess quickly fell into the rhythm of the steps. “I must say I appreciate my spectacles more now that I have experienced many days without them,” she said.

  Mr. Pakenham raised his eyebrows. “That is a benefit of your adventure I had not considered. How quickly we learn to appreciate that which we do not have.”

  “Very true, sir.”

  They fell silent for a time. Bess divided her attention between watching her steps and watching her partner. Mr. Pakenham seemed as intent on her as she was on him. She wondered what he was thinking. If he was Mr. Quinn, he might be considering a way to tell her his identity. Her momentary peace slipped away, replaced by a familiar frustration.

  Her foot came down at an awkward angle, and pain shot through her ankle, making her stumble and go to one knee. Instantly Mr. Pakenham was at her side, supporting her. “Are you well?” he asked.

  Bess shook her head, biting her lower lip against the pain. How embarrassing, to trip so spectacularly in the middle of the dance. Mr. Pakenham helped her rise and hobble away, keeping her well out of the path of the dancers, who seemed not to be interested in her mishap.

  She eyed the rows of chairs lining the ballroom with relief, but Mr. Pakenham, to her surprise, ushered her out of the ballroom and down a short hall to a door he pushed open. The room beyond was dark, though silver moonlight flowed through two tall windows, and smelled of floor polish and disuse. Mr. Pakenham eased her down on a sofa just as dark as the rest of the room and took her ankle in both hands. “Forgive my presumptuousness, but I feel I should ascertain the extent of your injury, in case an Extraordinary Shaper is necessary.”

  “I understand. Thank you.” His nearness made her excited and nervous all at once. Mr. Pakenham felt along her ankle, turned her foot one way and the other, and Bess gasped as another twinge of pain shot up her leg.

  “It does not seem broken, but there might be a sprain,” he said when he finally released her and stood. “Shall I fetch—”

  “No, I will sit here for a few minutes, and if the pain persists…I would rather not trouble an Extraordinary Shaper if there is nothing seriously wrong.” Bess shifted to allow Mr. Pakenham room on the sofa next to her. “You need not wait with me,” she added, feeling unaccountably shy.

  “A fine friend I would be if I deserted you,” Mr. Pakenham said.

  Silence descended, allowing Bess to hear the faint music. The sounds of the crowd were completely inaudible, despite the two of them not being very far away from the ballroom. “I feel rather foolish,” she admitted. “I should have watched my step more carefully.”

  “It might have happened to anyone,” Mr. Pakenham said. He moved closer to Bess. “And I cannot regret your mishap, as it permits me more time with you.”

  Bess swallowed. What did she want? “And why is that?” she asked.

  “You cannot have failed to notice my attentions to you,” he said. “As I have noticed your responses to them.”

  “Oh,” Bess said. “Yes. We…know each other quite well, do we not?”

  “Very well,” Mr. Pakenham said.

  Was that a declaration, or not? “Almost as if…we know each other’s thoughts,” Bess dared.

  “If you want to put it that way, certainly,” Mr. Pakenham said, resting his hand on her knee. The intimacy set her heart to racing…and yet, he had not admitted to being Mr. Quinn, and she did not feel as comforta
ble as she had expected to in his presence.

  “We should not—that is, this room is rather private—” she stammered.

  “I should hope so,” Mr. Pakenham said. He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her close for a kiss.

  She had never been kissed before, not even by John, who had had rather formal and antiquated ideas about the respect due women, and Mr. Pakenham’s lips were dry and pressed against hers unpleasantly hard. Then his hand slid from her knee to her thigh, gripping her tightly, and she broke away from him to say, “Mr. Pakenham, what are you—”

  “Don’t say it isn’t what you want,” he murmured, his other hand sliding from her shoulders to her waist and pulling her even closer. “I have seen the way you look at me, those dark eyes, those lips—” he kissed her again, swiftly this time—“that were made to be kissed.”

  “Mr. Pakenham,” Bess said breathlessly, “you appear to be under some misapprehension.”

  “Am I?” His hand rounded her thigh to caress her bottom. “I think not.”

  His touch broke Bess out of the confusion his kiss had sent her into. She wrenched away from him, or tried to; his grip around her waist was implacable. “Let me go,” she insisted.

  “Do not pretend you are some fainting maiden,” he whispered. “Not after two weeks alone in an alien land with no chaperon. I know what kind of woman you are—”

  Bess gathered her wits and sent a shriek of Speech into his mind, making him curse and jerk away from her, collapsing against the sofa’s arm. She rose swiftly to her feet, ignoring the remnant of pain in her ankle. “How dare you,” she said. “I thought you were—and you only wanted—how dare you suggest that because I was alone and unprotected, my virtue is lost?”

  Mr. Pakenham groaned, lying slumped in the corner of the sofa. “You doxy,” he said. “Teasing me with those soft looks—”

  “That is all your own delusion, Mr. Pakenham. I assure you I did no such thing. Do not approach me again, or I will make you suffer worse.” She was not sure there was a worse thing she might do than her mental attack, but she was shaking with anger and humiliation and a trace of fear, and she determined to find out if there was.

  “I will ruin you,” Mr. Pakenham said. “You will find your reputation in tatters.”

  “You may try, sir,” Bess said, “but I believe you will find my reticulum is an excellent protection against rumor. And if I say you are an unprincipled cad who believed himself justified in attacking me, you will find that rumor spreads farther and faster than anything you can bring to bear. And that is before my brother finds out what you have done. He is an excellent shot and has no sense of humor where my honor is concerned.”

  “Edmund Hanley? That fool?”

  Bess laughed. “I spoke of my elder brother Charles. Edmund would take you into a dark alley and beat you senseless. I am not without protection, but I confess to being tired of being the subject of gossip. So I will say nothing of this provided you do the same. If I hear even the slightest hint that you have slandered me, you will be pilloried, beaten, and shot.” She adjusted her gown and smoothed it over her hips. “I regret that you are not the man I believed you to be, Mr. Pakenham, for I did harbor the warmest of feelings for you. But as you are clearly the kind of man who believes a woman’s honor is kept between her legs, I will bid you farewell without the smallest regret.”

  She turned and strode from the room, not stumbling even once in the darkness. Mr. Pakenham did not follow.

  In the hallway, she turned right instead of left and found her way to the entry hall, now blessedly free of people. The nymph still stood poised to leap. Bess regarded her for a moment, her mind blank. Then she sighed, a deep breath that shuddered through her, and straightened her gown again, hoping she did not look disheveled. She had been so very wrong it was almost ludicrous. At least she had eliminated one possibility for her mystery man. Even if Mr. Quinn were the sort of man Mr. Pakenham had shown himself to be, he knew very well that no one had molested her during her time in Peru.

  Tears slid down her cheek, and she wiped them away. She might Speak to the women of her reticulum, but she felt a deep desire to remind herself that there was at least one honorable man left in the world.

  Mr. Quinn, she Spoke, I know you have no desire to Speak with me again, but I am in need of comfort, and…please forgive my importunity. Say nothing, if you would prefer, but let me Speak.

  She heard no reply, but felt the quivering sensation of an open connection. It comforted her to know he was listening. There is a man…I believed him to be honorable, and he is not, and he frightened me and made me feel small. I would simply like to know I am not alone right now.

  The silence went on for a few more moments. Then Mr. Quinn said, Did he hurt you?

  The sound of his Voice, vibrant and strong, after so many weeks of silence brought more tears to her eyes. No. Not physically. He was simply not who I believed him to be.

  Sometimes that is the worse pain, feeling betrayed.

  Is that something you understand?

  Another pause. I understand being at the mercy of someone who is not what he ought to be. Will you tell me his identity?

  Does it matter?

  Mr. Quinn said nothing at first, but Bess could feel tension in the connection between them, as if he were suppressing his thoughts. You should not be subjected to such an assault, he said finally. And I am not without the resources to make him regret it.

  That made the tears rise up again. He cared what happened to her, he wished to defend her…if he loved her as she loved him, surely they should be able to Speak those feelings. But the idea of confessing her love when she could not do it in person made her heart ache worse. I am…I cannot tell you what it means to me that you desire to be my defender, she Spoke. But I do not believe he will approach me again. He threatened to ruin my reputation, and I convinced him that would be a mistake.

  If he chooses to defame your character, I will speak out against him.

  Bess caught her breath. Even if it means exposing yourself?

  Miss Hanley, I would be the worst of cowards if I allowed you to suffer when I could prevent it.

  Bess closed her eyes and let his Voice wash over her. And yet you will not tell me your identity, she said, unable to help herself.

  As I told you, I fear you would no longer be my friend if you knew my identity. Mr. Quinn sighed. Perhaps that is simply a different form of cowardice.

  Do not speak of yourself that way, Bess said hotly. I assure you I am not so inconstant as to spurn you, regardless of whatever sins you believe you have committed.

  You have the most generous heart I have ever encountered, Mr. Quinn said.

  Then—Mr. Quinn, I promised not to pester you to reveal your identity. But I wish you would reconsider. I am—there are so many things I wish to tell you in person.

  There was another pause. Perhaps, Mr. Quinn said. I will consider it. The connection dissolved.

  Bess walked away from the nymph and examined the paintings on the walls. The room was too dimly lit for her to make out details, but it did not matter; she only wanted time to compose herself, so that she might not return to the ballroom in tears. So. Mr. Pakenham was not Mr. Quinn. Lord Ravenscroft was not Mr. Quinn. That left Mr. Addison. She wondered what dark secret he might be hiding. She believed he was present at the ball, but her spirits were low enough she did not feel equal to being sociable, even with the man she secretly loved. And suppose she was wrong? There might have been another man at the Hainsworths’ ball without talent, and she was simply unaware of him. The idea that Mr. Quinn was a total stranger drove her spirits lower.

  She heard footsteps approaching, and turned her back on the person, afraid her face might still show her turmoil. “Miss Hanley,” the man said, startling Bess into turning around. It was the stranger with the odd accent. He was dressed appropriately for the gathering, but in a haphazard way that suggested knee breeches and a frock coat were alien garb. “I beg your pardon, do
I disturb you?” he said.

  “No, it is not…that is, I simply wished to escape the heat of the ballroom,” Bess said. “I am afraid we have not been introduced.”

  “No, we have not,” the man said, taking a few steps closer. “But we know each other well.”

  Confused, Bess said, “We do? I cannot recall—”

  “We have acquaintances in common,” the man said. He was only a few feet away now, his hand resting on the pedestal where the nymph stood. “Close acquaintances.”

  Bess’s heart sped up. Acquaintances in common. She had never seen him before, but suppose… She peered more closely at him. If he was Mr. Quinn…she did not like the way he looked at her, nor the fleshy features of his face, which were not precisely ugly, but gave him a sinister expression. “Are you…someone with whom I have Spoken recently?” she said, willing him to confess his identity.

  The man stepped forward again, once, twice. “Let me show you,” he said. He leapt at her, grabbing her around the waist, and—

  —falling through nothing, gauzy and floating—

  the air suddenly smelled of brine and salt, and above the cry of distant seabirds Bess heard people talking very rapidly in Spanish. She was in a small whitewashed room with an angular sign in orange and green painted on one wall. The man released her so abruptly she fell to the floor, crying out as she twisted her already injured ankle.

  “Where am I—what have you done?” she cried.

  A door opened, and two more men entered. One of them, Bess knew too well. Her blood ran cold at the sight of the familiar beaky nose, the dark hair slicked back, and the English gentleman’s suit. Immediately Bess felt herself gripped by an invisible hand that bound her arms to her sides and immobilized her neck so she could not even turn her head. Of course, she recalled. Mendoza had said he was a Mover.

  The second man, strikingly handsome with well-defined features, reached out a hand to touch her forehead. Bess sucked in a breath to scream and felt her vision wobble and go dimmer than usual. Mr. Quinn, she managed to Speak, and then everything went black.