“No, my lord. I promise.”
“I like the feel of you,” he said, still holding on.
Jenny had to admit that his touch was an entirely new sensation and not unpleasurable. For where his hand firmly gripped her wrist without hurting her, she was tingling.
However, instead of releasing her, he drew her closer until she was off-balance, pulled nearly onto his lap. Then he sniffed her. This stranger actually leaned forward and sniffed in the vicinity of the front of her gown.
“Um,” she began.
“I like the smell of you, too. Lemons, I believe. That’s strange. I’ve never dreamt such a scent before.”
Then he released her.
Taking a shaky step back, very aware that his gaze was trained on her, she reached for the pitcher.
“There is water right here, my lord.”
He visibly flinched but said nothing.
“I’ll pour you a glass,” she offered.
“Just like that?” he asked. “Others have died for the same.”
Jenny didn’t know what to say. After a pause, she merely repeated her words.
“I’ll pour you a glass, and you’ll drink it.” For surely, he sounded delirious, and perhaps it was due to thirst.
He tilted his head. “If you exist, and if I am here, then I suppose you will. And I’ll accept it from you and drink. I’m sure I’ll be relieved for a while. The mind can make even air seem like a cool, delicious potable when you are out of your mind with thirst.”
Unable to envision such suffering, Jenny hurried to pour him a full glass. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed and he visibly shuddered.
“I don’t recognize you, but you certainly feel real,” he said.
“I am, my lord.”
She watched him examine the glass and sniff the water and then he gulped it all down, tilting his head back and holding the glass upside down against his lips to get the last drops.
“There is more if you wish.”
“No, that’s fine. I’m not thirsty anymore, but I know it won’t last. When I’m in the cell, I’ll wonder how I could have imagined the water so veritably. Yet, if I close my eyes again, you’ll disappear and I’ll be back there. I know it. I try very hard never to close my eyes.”
Poor tormented man.
“If you don’t know me,” she reasoned, “then how could you imagine me. How could I be only a dream? Don’t you only dream of people you know?”
He stared at her, then he looked her up and down and down and up in the very thick gloom. Not insolently, and not with any type of improper insinuation that might make her blush. He simply studied her.
“That makes sense. I have dreamed many people while in my cell. With my eyes open, I swear, I talk to the living and the dead. With my eyes closed, I am often here in this very room or walking the orchard. Sometimes I am even riding one of my favorite horses.” He paused and then he reached out, startling her, as he took gentle hold of her forearm once again.
“But it’s true, I always know the person or the place. Or the horse, for that matter.”
Jenny nodded.
“I don’t know you, do I?” he asked, his tone almost pleading.
Oh, dear. She hated to break the logic of her own argument, but she also was unwilling to lie to him.
“You don’t know me, my lord, but we have met.”
He dropped her arm instantly. “A riddle. And proof that you could be imaginary.”
“No,” she added quickly, wondering why she felt so desperate to prove to the man that she was real and that he was safe in England.
“You and I met, more than once, when I was but a child and you a mere downy-faced youth. Thus, to be honest, we know of each other, but you don’t know me. Certainly, you would not envision me as I look today, nearly twelve years later.”
“Again, you make sense,” he said. “As well as any of this makes sense. How did you come to be in my bedroom if you are real?”
“I was passing by your door and heard you call out.”
“Was I very loud?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He nodded. “When I am here, I stay quite still and remain quiet in order not wake up and go back there. Do you understand?”
She nodded, fascinated by his thoughts.
“When I am there, I scream and scream, hoping that I am in a terrible nightmare. My voice sometimes awakens me, and I am here again. And if I keep myself in darkness, then I can’t see the rats.”
Tears sprung to her eyes.
“There are no rats, my lord.”
He shook his head.
“No, not now. But later. Unless I stay awake. Or is it that I must keep dreaming of home?”
She was no doctor, but she believed if he remained in this room in the dark, not knowing if he was awake or dreaming, then he would slip into madness. If it was not already too late.
“What if I keep you awake by talking to you?” Jenny wasn’t even sure what she was saying or why. She only knew she wanted to help. “You won’t go back into the cell while we’re having a conversation, will you, my lord?”
He considered. “No, I don’t believe I will. Nor while drinking. I will have another glass of water after all.”
She poured him one quickly, and he drank half of it before setting it down beside him.
“What about nourishment?”
“What about it?” he asked.
“Someone brings you food, I assume. And you eat it?”
“Yes.”
Jenny wondered if only Mr. Binkley came in or if the as-yet unseen housekeeper, or perhaps one of the maids. For beyond a doubt, this man needed company if only to be kept anchored in the here and now.
“Who brings it?”
“Binkley. And others I don’t see. I believe they are afraid of me.”
“Pish,” she said.
“Indeed, but that’s what Binkley said when he was forced to play housemaid.”
She believed the admiral was trying to knock some sense into the young earl. She also thought that Mr. Binkley had no idea of the extent to which Simon Devere had been traumatized.
And you do? asked a mocking voice in her head.
For some reason, yes, she thought she understood his fear. It was not a fanciful melancholy, though many might think it such. It was more practical than that. He had been taught while in the cell that sleep meant cruel dreams of being home. One and one made two. And now that he was home, how could he be sure he wasn’t still in captivity in one of his dreams?
The terror at waking up in the cell would not relinquish its hold on him.
In all likelihood, he needed a doctor to ease his mind back into reality. However, at that moment, she was the only person there.
“The food you eat, is it pies, perhaps, and roast fowl or pork?”
He nodded.
“Do they taste real?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think they could be so vivid in a dream if you were in fact still in your cell?”
Jenny thought he smiled until she realized he was actually grimacing.
“You would be surprised at how real my dreams are. I put a particularly delicious morsel in my mouth once, I’ll never forget it. It was a spoonful of warm apple Charlotte, and I told myself that if it were a dream, I didn’t think I could survive. Then I awakened in hell.”
She gasped, disappointment lancing her as if she’d been there.
“However, I did survive. Lack of sponge cake and apples and creamy custard notwithstanding.”
Wretched soul.
“Therefore, dear phantom beauty, I eat what is given to me by Binkley. I even bathe four times a week. And of course, there are other calls of nature that are handled quite differently in this world than in my other one.”
Jenny didn’t want to think about the horror of attending to bodily functions in a small, enclosed place. With rats and fleas constantly biting his skin.
How could she help him? What could she—?
>
Phantom beauty? Did he truly think her beautiful?
Then she remembered the darkness of the room, and how she could barely make him out in the gloom. Likewise, she must be merely a female voice with a feminine shape, rustically styled hair, and an outdated gown that he could not see.
A tap on the door frame made her jump. The earl did likewise, and they looked at each other like children caught doing something naughty.
At once, Jenny realized that she absolutely shouldn’t be in the earl’s chamber, alone with him.
Chapter Five
Neither of them spoke, but upon seeing Mr. Binkley standing in the doorway, Jenny relaxed. Thank goodness she’d left the door wide open. That certainly bespoke an entirely innocent situation.
Taking a step backward, she addressed the admiral, who stood staring at her as if she had two heads.
“His lordship was in some distress. I entered to see if I could help him.”
The butler nodded. Then he put his hands behind his back in that manner she’d seen in her own parlor.
“This is the third time you’ve been somewhere unexpected, Miss Blackwood. I’m starting to think you are a fairy creature.”
“I thought she was a demon,” the earl chimed in.
Jenny couldn’t contain the nervous laugh that escaped her, for Mr. Binkley was not smiling.
“I shall be getting back to work. Or rather to assisting Mr. Cavendish.”
It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she thought she saw Mr. Binkley roll his eyes.
Turning back to the earl, she bowed her head. “I bid you good day, my lord.”
“Will I dream you again?”
Mr. Binkley coughed.
“I promise you that I am real.”
“Then also promise me that you will return. Tomorrow,” the earl insisted.
She glanced at the admiral for permission. He hesitated, then nodded.
Why did that fill her with warmth instead of dread?
“Yes, my lord. I will come see you again tomorrow.”
Simon Devere visibly relaxed. “I will stay awake until then.”
Oh dear. She rushed to reassure him. “If you go to sleep, I will awaken you when I come back, and you will be right here in your own home.”
“If you say so.” He didn’t sound convinced.
Nodding, she slipped quietly past the piercing stare of Mr. Binkley.
*
After their evening meal, Jenny lost no time in telling Maggie of all that had occurred. She wanted her sister to understand that the earl was not a monster as found in Perrault’s fairytales, nor was he insane, merely tortured by his own dreams.
They were sitting on Jenny’s bed in their cramped bedchamber, where no one could overhear them. Having returned to the library after her encounter with the earl, she’d placated Ned with a heavily-laden tea tray carried by the maid who followed behind. The shortbread, cream, and strawberries distracted Ned from wondering how it could have taken her so long to find the kitchens.
Leaning against the headboard, shoulder-to-shoulder with Maggie, Jenny shifted her skirts, raising them up to her knees to combat the summer warmth that had gathered in their room despite the open window.
“Lord Despair is a truly troubled man,” Maggie said, fanning herself. “And you intend to go back?”
“I promised him.”
Maggie considered her sister’s profile. “Is he safe?”
Jenny shrugged. “I didn’t feel afraid of him for a single moment. When he touched me, he was—”
“Touched you?” Maggie asked, a flash of concern crossing her pretty features.
Jenny felt the heat creep into her face.
“Briefly, he took hold of my arm but was ever so gentle.”
Maggie smiled, saying nothing.
“What? Why are you looking like a cat in front of the cream?”
“Is his lordship handsome?”
Jenny clucked her tongue. “I could hardly see him. I told you it was dark.”
“Well, did you get the sense that he looked like an ogre?”
They both laughed.
“Very well. I will tell you. The Earl of Lindsey is a pleasant-faced man from what I could make out in the darkened chamber. His hair was a little longer than fashionable, though someone had taken care to shave his daily growth. Most likely Mr. Binkley, though there must be a valet there somewhere, don’t you think?”
Maggie nodded. “No doubt. What else?” She nudged her sister with her elbow.
Jenny considered. “He smelled clean and his voice had a rich timbre.”
“When he wasn’t shouting and moaning?”
“Yes, Mags. When he wasn’t shouting and moaning. Poor man!” she uttered, thinking of how terribly he’d suffered. “We should all have compassion for him. I’m sure I was looking at sanity and intelligence.”
“You like him!” her sister declared.
“What? How can you conclude such a thing from what I’ve told you?”
“Do you deny it?”
Jenny squirmed. “I feel sympathy for the man.”
Her sister snorted with amusement. “When will you see your earl again?”
“Stop it. You know very well he is not my earl.”
“Well?” Maggie persisted.
“Tomorrow.” Jenny jumped off the bed when her sister started to laugh. “I’m going to Mummy’s room and finishing the baker’s books.”
“I thought you finished those already,” Maggie pointed out.
“Then I’ll do the innkeeper’s,” Jenny said, fleeing from her sister’s amused expression.
*
Simon screamed, waking himself up. He shook his left leg where he thought he could still feel a rat’s claws. His heart was racing and he had no idea of the time of day or night. That was normal. What wasn’t normal was that he was looking for someone. For whom? He tossed the blanket from him recalling that Binkley had placed it on his lap after supper.
After eating, Simon had taken twenty turns around his large chamber, surprised at how weak his legs felt even after such little exercise, and then he’d collapsed into his chair again. He hadn’t appreciated Binkley trying to tuck him in like he was an aged grandmother.
Still, Simon couldn’t shake the expectant feeling that someone should be, could be, in his room. Then he remembered her. The woman! He would focus on her, recalling her sweet voice and her kindness as she gave him water—and maybe she would reappear.
As long as he stayed awake.
Hadn’t he asked her to return the next day? Was it tomorrow already?
Rising to his feet, he stretched. He was able to maneuver the room easily in the dark now after many weeks of doing so. Going to the window, hesitantly, Simon pulled one drape to the side. He cringed, expecting to see the bars and smell the thick pungent air of the Burmese teak forest. Instead panes of glass, fifteen of them, in fact, sheltered him from the cool English night air. By the look of the stars, it was early in the morning, perhaps a couple of hours until dawn. Such a long time to wait if she was in truth coming back to see him.
He desperately didn’t want to go back into the last nightmare. The rats had been particularly voracious. Simon took a few more turns around his room. He would get his strength back eventually, but perhaps he should be trying harder. If only he could stay out of the cell long enough to exercise.
He almost laughed at his own convoluted thoughts.
For now, a book would do. Binkley had brought to him a shelf full of Simon’s favorite adventure stories from his youth. Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver’s Travels, even Tom Jones (though he hadn’t been allowed to read that until he was fourteen). Now after having had an adventure of his own, and a rather terrible one, he wanted to read something more peaceful.
Against his usual practice, he lit a lamp and perused the offerings. Picking up The Sorrows of Young Werther, Simon glanced at it, considered the protagonist’s solution of suicide, then hurled the book across the room. A moment later, t
hough, he went and picked it up, setting it back on his bookshelf. The burst of spontaneous violence felt foreign to him, especially perpetrated on an innocent book.
What else? Ah, a collection of Robert Burns. A little poetry from a man who loved life and women and drinking. One could do worse. Unable to sit anymore, Simon opened it and proceeded to read while standing in the light of the lamp.
*
The next morning, Jenny decided not to bother keeping up the pretense with Mr. Binkley. It was insulting to the man. Much relieved, she told Ned he could remain at home. Of course, her cousin protested loudly.
“It’s not safe for you to go there alone,” he said.
“But I go there alone,” Maggie pointed out, “and Jenny has before, too.”
“You are with the children,” Ned said, “while she will be without a chaperone.”
Jenny stayed quiet. She wasn’t going to argue.
“In any case, I’m going this afternoon,” Maggie added, “and I’ll check on you, shall I? When Peter and Alice are having their tea.”
“If you wish,” Jenny conceded.
Ned was unsatisfied. “Well, I don’t like this arrangement at all. Lady Blackwood, what do you say?”
Jenny’s mother was reading the London Times, a week late since it had to travel, and had clearly not been listening to a word. Upon hearing her name, she raised her head and looked at her daughters and her guests.
“Did I miss something?”
“No, Mummy,” Jenny said. “Any news worth sharing?”
“Oh, yes,” Eleanor added. “Anything about the Queen?”
“Or the Countess of Dudley?” asked Maisie.
“I shall read further, but so far, all the news is bad. Of course, there are countless stories still of the famine. Those poor souls. Terrible, terrible,” she said, and they all paused a moment to think of the people starving in Ireland.
Then she sipped her tea and scanned the next sheet. “The Duchess of Montrose has passed to her great reward. And Frederick Douglass has returned to America after writing to the editor that he had a lovely stay here.”
Maggie snickered, and Jenny joined in.
“What?” Anne Blackwood asked, looking at her elder two daughters.
“I’m sure he didn’t say to the Times that he had a ‘lovely stay,’” Maggie put forth. “He must have had something more profound to impart after being here for a year and a half,” Maggie said.
Beastly Lords Collection Page 6
