by Amanda Deed
She blotted the page then rose to stretch her back and legs. As Serena crossed the room to fetch a glass of water, she noted an envelope on the floor just this side of it.
How long had that been there? Days? Hours? Minutes? She had no idea. From whom could it be? What if it came from Mr King? It might hold a message of accusation or apology, and she didn’t want to read either. More accusation would hurt and she wasn’t ready to forgive him. Serena heaved a sigh. There would be no apology. What a foolish thing to expect.
If it came from one of the Joneses, nothing better would be inside the envelope. But then, what if it was mail from her family? Serena hurried over to it, but there was no postmark on the envelope. Just her name in flowing script—Serena.
Heavens above, it was from Mr King. She knew it at once. For a few moments Serena couldn’t even bring herself to pick it up. Biting on her lip, she made herself collect the letter and open it. Within the first two lines, her knees became weak, and she sank onto the bed.
Poetry. Rhyme depicting Athena, the goddess of wisdom, and elaborate comparisons of herself to this goddess filled the page. The words sounded almost worshipful, they were so exaggerated in their praise. Serena shifted uncomfortably on the bed. As beautiful and artistic as the poem was, it seemed excessive. Mr King didn’t think of her this way, did he? Or was it his intention to make sport of her? When did he write it? Before or after today on the beach?
Serena swallowed, confused. Had she not just berated herself for over-imagining things? But here was Mr King’s own hand, testifying that she hadn’t imagined his interest. The paper scrunched in her hand as she groaned yet again. He wrote a poem for her—which normally would be romantic. Well, it was romantic, but, oh, so overwhelming, her stomach churned.
She didn’t know what to make of it. With a deep breath, she went back to the desk and straightened the page out beside her. On another page added to her letter to Papa, she copied out a phrase or two of the poem and asked what he thought it all meant. Papa should be able to give her an objective answer.
In the meantime, she must figure out what to do next. Once again, she feared facing the man behind the words lest he scorn or embarrass her.
16
As it turned out, the decision was eventually made for her. Serena did avoid Mr King, and any depth of conversation with the rest of the family, for two days. During those days, while working, her mind often drifted to the memory of Mr King’s lips on her hand and the warm glow it created. Every time she forced herself to shake it off and try to forget, she’d find her thoughts heading in that direction again moments later. And, when free, her hand involuntarily delved into her pocket for the written sonnet, which she read repeatedly. She almost knew it by heart now, and yet it still swept her into a dizzy spin.
On Tuesday afternoon, Mr King accosted her in the hallway and drew her into the library. Accosted was an apt description because he appeared wild, and she had not heard his steps behind her. His unoiled hair stood out at all angles, a crumpled coat hung loose on his shoulders, and he clearly had not shaved in several days. On top of that, dark rings circled his eyes, even though those eyes still sparked with vitality.
‘I cannot go on like this.’ His glance darted from her to the floor and then at everything else but her.
Serena remembered her parting words to Mr King on Sunday and bit her lip. He probably thought she hated him—she had made no effort to apologise. He still gripped her elbow and Serena pulled away from his grasp. ‘You refer to Sunday, I suppose.’
‘Yes. I’ve been avoiding you. But not because of what you said. Because of what I did.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’m so terribly embarrassed about the way I’—he winced—‘took liberties with you.’ He turned and walked across to the hearth. ‘I don’t know what came over me. Sometimes, I ...’ Instead of finishing his sentence he thumped a fist into his thigh, then covered the few steps between them to stand near her again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘But Mr King, you asked me to come to your room. How else was I to interpret that but that you question my virtue? It is bad enough that you considered me a thief when I first arrived. But, this, this is—’
‘Unforgivable.’ He hung his head. ‘I know.’ He slowly raised his eyes again and ran a shaky hand through his unkempt hair. ‘I do not think so base of you, you must know that. It is just that I…’ His words trailed off as he swallowed.
Serena, still shocked at his haggard appearance, scanned his face. ‘Are you well, Mr King?’
A laugh that almost sounded hysterical erupted from Mr King. ‘No. I think not.’
A sense of unease stirred in Serena’s gut. ‘Do you have a fever?’ Although hesitant, she reached up to press the back of her hand to his forehead.
Mr King captured her hand and held it to his cheek. ‘Of sorts. I cannot stop thinking about you.’
Serena’s concern for him transformed to a flutter in her stomach, as though a flock of birds had taken up residence there. She did not imagine this. His own mouth now betrayed him. ‘You, you can’t?’
‘Every second, of every minute, of every hour.’ Mr King edged closer. Close enough Serena had to tilt her head to see his face, and stale tobacco and lavender met her nose. ‘Of every day, of every week.’
Once again, Serena found herself caught up in his fervent expression. There was a desperate, pleading in his look as he leaned closer as if to kiss her. Instead, he drew her hand to his lips again, his kiss searing her fingers. Serena equally knew both bliss and a deep conviction that this was improper. She pulled her hand free and drew the courage to push him away. Hadn’t he just apologised for the self-same behaviour at the beach?
He released her, but his eyes gazed at her with burning intensity. ‘Marry me?’
Serena’s mouth dropped open. It wasn’t an invitation to his bed this time, but it was still shocking in the extreme. ‘We hardly know one another.’ Shouldn’t he have broached the subject of love first? Heavens, he hadn’t even courted her. Unless he considered the midnight house tour, and all-night city drive courting. Certainly, she found him mesmerising, and attractive, but was it love? She admired him, yes, and thought him rather impressive, but was that enough? Perhaps she even cared for him, and yet there were times she almost hated him because of what he had done to Papa. How could they build a bond of love with that hanging over their heads? Serena took a few stumbling steps backward. ‘No. No we can’t.’
‘No?’ The wild expression returned to his face. ‘You don’t feel the same way?’
Serena breathed in deeply. ‘I ... I ... No.’
‘No?’ He repeated.
Regretful that he seemed unable to comprehend her denial, Serena bit her lip and shook her head. Mr King stared at her momentarily then left the room, banging the door behind him.
Serena hung her head. Part of her wished she could say yes. He exhibited countless wonderful qualities and she couldn’t deny the pull between them. But what did he see in her? He was her captor, her master, after all.
With a deep sigh, Serena trudged back to the laundry to complete her work. She was still frowning over the afternoon when she sat at the dining table for supper. Mrs Jones glanced at her with concern several times during the meal. As soon as the menfolk went off to smoke and drink, she beckoned Serena to join her in the parlour.
‘You seem troubled, my dear,’ she said as soon as they were comfortably seated opposite each other, with warm cups of tea.
Serena attempted a carefree smile and waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just homesickness, I suppose.’ She held the cup close to her nose to inhale the leafy aroma.
Mrs Jones studied her face as though trying to read the truth there. ‘Are you sure?’
Serena nodded, forcing another smile.
‘Because if my brother has made you uncomfortable, you may confide in me. I shall not accuse you of untoward be
haviour, I promise. I’m well acquainted with Eddie’s…faults.’
Did Mrs Jones realise exactly what had been happening over the past week? Including the altercation with Mr Simon? Serena swallowed a gulp of tea, barely tasting the sweet brew. Should she mention Mr King’s fervent and impulsive behaviour? Not enough time had passed for Papa to receive and respond to her letter yet, and Serena remained confused to a certain extent. But what should she tell Mrs Jones? How much of the truth should she reveal?
‘He…he wrote me a sonnet.’ That was a beginning. Serena watched Mrs Jones’s face for her reaction, but not a muscle twitched. Instead, she nodded.
‘I thought as much.’ It seemed more of a murmur to herself than a confirmation to Serena. But then Mrs Jones made direct eye contact again. ‘I shall be blunt, Miss Bellingham. Has he made advances toward you?’
The woman’s forthrightness surprised Serena. She hadn’t expected such candour. She drew in a deep breath and, releasing it slowly, nodded. Serena’s hopes fell though. If Mrs Jones had the boldness to ask such a direct question, incidents like this must have happened previously. So then, Serena was not the first Mr King had proposed to, or propositioned, or kissed. What a deflating revelation.
Mrs Jones must have sensed her dismay for she shifted to the sofa next to her and clasped one of her hands. ‘Don’t you worry, Miss Bellingham. Eddie can be too familiar sometimes, but he is harmless. He would never actually do anything—never follow through with action. It’s mostly thoughtless words. His tongue is loose, if you know what I mean.’
Serena didn’t know whether to feel better or worse with that. Mr King didn’t want her at all? His mouth was just running away with him? It was a relief she’d had the presence of mind to refuse him. She glanced at her hands where she still imagined the feel of his lips burning on her fingers. But what about that? Serena would have defined those kisses as ‘following through’.
‘Eddie has a weakness for a pretty face.’ Mrs Jones sighed. ‘I suspect that’s why you’re still here. But like I said, don’t worry. I’ll sort him out. But, I do beg of you not to mention this to anyone else. He really is quite harmless.’
Better to keep the secret of his kiss to herself. If Mrs Jones intended to scold her brother, Serena did not wish her to mention that detail. It was a mortifying thought, and heat rose in her cheeks.
‘What is it, Miss Bellingham?’
Serena pressed her hands to her face to cool the flush. ‘How do you suggest I respond if he approaches me again?’
‘Well, my advice is to stay away from him, as I think I instructed you from the beginning.’
Hadn’t she been doing that? And yet, Mr King had ‘come across’ her too many times for coincidence sake. ‘And if he seeks me out?’
Mrs Jones shook her head. ‘Oh, he won’t seek you out anymore. You can trust me on that.’
17
Wednesday 25th May, 1842
…what a fool I am.
Blasted curse.
How to fix this. Serena will not wish to speak to me again. Not after bombarding her with affection twice within a week. And yet, I hardly know myself.
Serena. Serena. Serena.
Xavier knows it all now. I made him swear not to speak to Serena again. I daresay, he didn’t like it, but it can’t be helped. He’s a good lad.
And Judith must insist I not speak with Serena again, lest the curse be known and I am ruined.
How she suffocates me.
I must escape this house, these bounds. Feel the wind in my face. Feel free…
18
‘Miss Bellingham! Quickly, you must come.’ Mr Xavier’s somewhat breathless voice beckoned her from where she stood at the washing lines, pegging up linen.
‘What is it?’ She matched his expression of concern as she approached, wiping her damp hands on her apron.
‘Uncle Ed.’ Mr Xavier rolled his eyes. ‘He insists on going out to the lighthouse, even though it threatens to rain.’
Rain? She peered at the cloud-ridden sky, something she should have done before hanging washing out to dry. The dark, heaviness of the clouds testified to Mr Xavier’s words. With a sigh of frustration, Serena fell into step beside him as he hurried around the house toward the stables. The linen would not dry today.
‘I’m happy to go with him, but you are important to him and I sense you need to be there.’
She stopped mid-step, baffled by his cryptic explanation. ‘How can you know that? And besides, I am not attired for an outing.’ Serena gestured to her servant’s garb, which was no longer fresh. Saints above, she probably reeked of lye and bore smudges of dust as well.
‘Never mind your appearance. Just come.’ He reached out and clasped her hand, tugging her along with him. ‘And I know because he told me.’
Told him? Too bemused to argue, Serena stumbled behind the young stable-hand. How was a visit to the lighthouse urgent, anyway? And why was it so significant for her to join them? Hadn’t Mrs Jones told her to stay away from Mr King, and that she promised to keep the charmer away from Serena? Well, so much for that.
Rounding the corner, Serena saw Mr King seated in his curricle, with the reins in hand. He was just as dishevelled as she had last seen him. ‘Ah, good for you, Xavier. You thought to bring the lovely Miss Bellingham, I see. Come along then.’ His eyes were bright with impatience.
As Mr Xavier handed her up into the carriage, Serena saw Mr King pull his snuff box from a pocket. He flicked it open and took a pinch, sniffing hard at each nostril. She must have frowned for his face spread into a wide grin. ‘Nothing like a pinch of snuff to refresh the senses.’
Serena turned back to Mr Xavier, a question on her lips. Before she could speak, it seemed he read her mind.
‘I shall catch up on my horse.’
She had only framed her mouth into an ‘O’ before Mr King flicked the reins and the horses lunged forward. And not at a calm walk either. He urged them straight into a run. Serena knew there was no point in trying to slow him. Mr King loved the speed and, on all accounts, it was likely to pour with rain at any moment, so there was reason to hurry. Rather than comment, she gripped the side of the curricle hard enough to make her knuckles white. She tried not to fall against Mr King when they bumped through a rut or rounded a bend.
When they arrived at the stately lighthouse, however, Mr King raced right by it, heading straight for the grey sky. Serena sucked in her breath and held on with both hands, visions of the curricle soaring over the edge flashing through her mind. Did the man intend to stop? At the last moment, Mr King pulled Misty and Storm to a sudden halt, laughing with his head thrown back.
‘Your face was worth the dramatic stop, Serena.’
It was funny? He thought it a great joke to scare her? The corners of her mouth curved upward, even as she scolded him. ‘Mr King, that was not very genteel of you.’ If she had a fan in her hand, she might have rapped him over the knuckles.
He handed her from the curricle, civilised to perfection now. ‘Perhaps not. But don’t you think it would be marvellous to fly over the edge?’
Serena gurgled a chuckle. ‘If I had wings, maybe.’
Mr King tucked her hand through his elbow and led her closer to the edge. The wind whipped at their clothing as the storm clouds rolled in from the sea, dark and menacing. Seagulls gleamed white against the darkness, playing in the gale, their cry a stark reminder that nature would have its way. Serena shivered and pulled her thin wrap tighter around her body.
Mr King’s arm slipped around her shoulders and rubbed up and down her arm. ‘Too cold for you, my dear?’
Serena shrugged away from him, not willing to encourage his attentions. Surely he’d understood her refusal. But both Mr Xavier and Mrs Jones did say Mr King was too impulsive. She shook her head free of these troubling thoughts and focused on the view.
‘A storm is c
oming.’
‘I enjoy a good storm.’
Serena shuddered again, remembering they had almost lost Papa several times to storms like this.
He continued. ‘They speak to me.’
‘What? Storms?’
‘Yes. Well, it is as if they speak my language.’
Serena turned to watch his profile as he stared at the approaching dark clouds. His eyes were fervent with excitement, as though he would hasten the storm’s approach if he could. How did he derive so much energy from thunder and lightning? Even as the question entered her mind, the clouds answered with a rumble and a flash.
Mr King closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. In the next moment, his eyes snapped open and turned to her. ‘I feel like flying.’
Serena chuckled, unsure of what he meant, but she became aware when he stepped right to the edge of the precipice and stretched his hands out. Alarm shot through her as though struck by the lightning currently slicing through the sky into sea. ‘Mr King!’
‘Come and try it,’ he shouted into the wind.
Dear God, what was he thinking? This was more than reckless, but she dared not chastise him. If he became angry and slipped ...
Serena forced a merry smile. ‘No, no. I can feel it from right here.’ She spread her arms out to mimic him. In truth, she could imagine taking flight with only ocean below, and the wind in her face.
For a moment, thunder seemed to approach from both directions, but when Serena looked over her shoulder, she realised the noise behind her was Mr Xavier arriving. She let out a breath of relief. He would know what to do. He leapt from his horse and hurried over, his face pale.
‘Saints above, we have to get him away from the edge.’
Mr King made a sudden movement, turning to scowl at his nephew, and Serena gasped as he seemed to lose his balance. Time hung in that moment. Would he fall? Serena’s entire body tensed, her breath caught, ready to lunge and pull him to safety, even though she knew she would never get to him in time. What was likely two seconds, stretched into an eternity of dread, until, with a rush of relief, Mr King regained his footing. Serena breathed out her tension, her hands pressed against her cheeks. But how to get him away from there?
