by Amanda Deed
She sensed the answer was not in growling at him. ‘Mr King is flying, can you not see, Mr Xavier?’ She gave Mr Xavier a loaded glance. ‘Put your arms out too. Isn’t it wonderful?’
Serena took two hesitant steps toward Mr King and pressed a hand across her heart. ‘Mr King, I must say, though this is exhilarating, I am quite frightened. Will you come and hold my hand?’
She was taking advantage of his affection for her, she knew, but she needed to get him to safety. And so did Mr Xavier.
Almost carelessly, Mr King spun away from the precipice and closed the distance between them, taking both of her hands in his. ‘Always, my dear.’
His fierce gaze locked on hers until a large drop splashed on their clasped hands, soon followed by another.
‘Race you back to the house.’ Mr Xavier seemed to take his cues of misdirection from Serena and bolted to his horse.
Mr King needed no further encouragement. Without releasing her hand, he darted for the curricle. Serena kept up as best she could, only relieved that they had averted a disaster.
19
Serena stared out the window at the linen now sagging on the line with rain. The washing was wetter now than before she fed it through the wringer. She pressed her hand flat up against the glass pane as rivulets streamed down the other side. What had just happened?
Aside from the hair-raising, hell-for-leather flight for Aleron house, which Mr King won by a breath. Aside from the way Mr King spun her in a jig at the joy of the win. And aside from the hard rain that pelted them, or the whispered thanks from Mr Xavier as they darted for the cover of the house.
More than all of that, the experience on the cliff top had ruptured her equilibrium. Serena wiped at a droplet of water that even now trickled from her hair. Something had shifted within her. In that moment when it seemed Mr King might topple over the edge and plunge to his death, something deep inside screamed for a halt to his fall. The world should not be robbed of a man so full of life, enthusiasm and vibrancy. No, it was more than that. She herself—Serena Bellingham—did not wish to be robbed of him. He was like a living rainbow to her. Life without him would become colourless. For surely, before she knew him it had been naught but blanched.
Yes, Edward King was overbearing at times, and proud, even arrogant and improper. But for all that, he was a charming, passionate man to whom she would like to belong. As he teetered on the precipice for less than a second, her confusion and doubt became certainty. If he asked her now, in this moment, to be his wife, she would be tempted to say yes.
Serena started at a clap of thunder that cracked right overhead. Even the walls shuddered at the sound. Shaking herself free of her reverie, she made her way toward her room. Wind howled around the gables as rain hissed and thunder rolled. At times like these she sent thanks to God for a roof over her head and a warm hearth, even if they weren’t in her own home. How would Papa and her sisters fare in this weather? She could imagine the little cottage rattling and shaking through the storm. They probably feared the roof would leak. Keep them safe, Lord.
She halted in her walk and turned her head. What was that? A high-pitched noise. Was it someone crying out for help? Serena stood still and listened. It was faint against the cacophony that drowned out her own footsteps. No, there it was again, a strangled cry. Who was so troubled? Was someone stuck outside in the squall? Serena hurried in the direction she thought the sound came from, although finding direction in this noise was ambiguous at best.
When she arrived back at the main entryway she faltered. From which way had the sound come? She strained her ears, but there were no more cries. Serena fiddled with the damp tendrils of hair which stuck to her neck, turning this way then that in confusion.
Just as she was about to decide, Mr Xavier appeared from around a corner, breathless. When he saw her, he straightened his coat and slowed his steps, flashing her an uncertain smile. ‘Have you not changed yet? You’ll catch a chill.’
Serena let her gaze travel over his wet coat. ‘As will you.’
Mr Xavier shuffled his feet and dipped his head. ‘I had an urgent task to complete as soon as I returned. Mother insisted.’
Serena nodded then remembered her mission. ‘Did you hear someone crying out? I came to help.’
‘You did?’ Mr Xavier’s eyes widened, and he looked over his shoulder and then in each direction before shrugging. ‘This storm is deafening. Are you sure it wasn’t the wind howling?’
‘No. I’m certain it was something else.’
Mr Xavier listened again. ‘Well, it’s not there now. Perhaps an owl, or even a fox.’
Serena studied his face. Weren’t those animals nocturnal? It was the middle of the afternoon, even though a dark gloom descended with the menacing weather. It seemed odd that the usually sensitive Mr Xavier would shrug something off with such a cavalier attitude.
‘If you hear it again, come and tell me. We’ll search it out together.’ A half smile turned his mouth as though he realised how nonchalant he sounded and now tried to make up for it. ‘But for now, we should change our sodden garments.’
He turned to leave, but Serena reached toward him, almost taking him by the sleeve before she remembered decorum. ‘Wait. What happened out there? At the lighthouse.’ She shook her damp hair to clear her head. ‘That is, you seemed scared well-nigh to death he would jump.’
Mr Xavier drew in a long breath and let it out, his eyes darting all about the hallway. Was he calming his emotions or choosing his words? ‘His father died falling from a cliff.’
‘Oh dear.’ Serena’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. ‘That is awful.’
Mr Xavier’s head dipped, and he scuffed at the floor with his shoe. ‘Yes, it was.’ He jerked his head up again, lips pursed together. ‘Now and then, my uncle tries to tempt fate. I don’t know why.’ He shoved his hands deep into his pockets then smiled. ‘Although you have the knack of doing what I could never do.’
‘What is that?’ Serena frowned at him, still trying to take in the tragedy of Mr King’s father.
‘Uncle Ed listens to you.’
It was a simple statement, but one that brought heat to Serena’s cheeks and she demurred. ‘Well, I don’t know. I have spent little time with him, but I have discovered that bringing the danger or impropriety of his actions to his attention has very little effect. Somehow, appealing to a different side of his nature seems to divert his mind.’
His intense gaze rested on her face. ‘I can see why.’ Mr Xavier continued to stare at her for a moment before clearing his throat and averting his eyes. ‘I mean, it is obvious my uncle esteems you. I suspect that is why he heeds you.’
Serena reached out and touched his forearm, wanting to reassure him. ‘He esteems you as well. He sings your praises often.’
This time, colour infused Mr Xavier’s neck and he pulled his arm away from her touch. ‘It pleases me to know.’
Serena smiled at him until she realised an awkward silence had fallen between them. She feigned a shiver. ‘I am off to my room to change. Good afternoon to you, Mr Xavier.’
‘And to you, Miss Bellingham.’ He bent his head in deference as she turned away.
Days passed, and true to Mrs Jones’s word, Serena had neither sight nor sound of Mr King. Whatever the woman had said to her brother, he had ceased searching Serena out. Not even during her walk on the shore on Sunday. He appeared at none of the family meals. Serena had even listened at the library door after supper to see if he had joined the menfolk to no avail. She shouldn’t have been watching for him. It was better this way, wasn’t it? But although Mr King had been inappropriate, forward and even taken liberties with her, Serena missed him.
On Monday, she put all hope aside of glimpsing her captor. On Mondays, the extra staff came to give the house a thorough clean, and he never showed his face. Why, Serena could not say. That is how it had been sinc
e she’d arrived. Perhaps, he wanted to keep out of their way. An implausible reasoning. Perhaps he didn’t care for them. Maybe they were too far beneath his genius to approach. That sounded more characteristic of him, particularly set alongside his attitude towards her father’s attempted theft. Criminals in the house must be distasteful to him. And yet, at the same time, it didn’t fit with the man she had begun to know.
Serena fought the temptation to go to his rooms and see how he fared. Why should she wish to attend him? She’d wanted this distance, hadn’t she? Then why was she continually drawn to him? Serena groaned as she hurried from her room to the laundry. A busy day of work might purge her of such thoughts. Not that she had high hopes for any success. Mr King had invaded her every waking moment.
It was nearing the dinner bell when the front door resounded with a heavy knock. She straightened but made no move to answer it. She refused to get herself into trouble again. Anybody might be at the door ready to cause strife.
She eased out a slow breath when soon enough voices drifted from the open door. A small commotion erupted, followed by Mrs Jones calling out in a sharp tone.
‘Miss Bellingham!’
Who would call at the house for her? Serena stiffened, but wiped her hands and smoothed her skirts before making her way to the entryway. Dare she hope Papa, Julianne and Rachel visited. Oh, how wonderful that would be. But most likely Mrs Jones needed her help with something.
‘I’m here, Mrs Jones. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s not for me, but it’s what these folks can do for you.’
Although the words sounded clear enough, the meaning was lost on Serena. A slight frown creased Mrs Jones’s brow. Serena dragged her gaze from the housekeeper to the visitors—a man and a woman, dressed well and wearing broad smiles.
Mrs Jones made the introduction. ‘Mr Thomas Broughton and, pardon, what did you say your name was again? Madame ...?’
‘Madame la Monde.’ A sultry voice purred from the woman whose skirts stretched as wide as fashion allowed, and whose hair tumbled in thick curls beside her heart-shaped face.
‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Sir.’ Serena dipped a brief curtsy, still at a loss as to why they wished to call on her.
Mr Broughton nodded in response. ‘Miss Bellingham. Mr King has commissioned us to create you a new wardrobe.’
‘A cupboard for my clothes? I already have one.’
Madame la Monde tittered behind gloved fingers. ‘No, my dear. New clothes for your cupboard.’ It might have sounded like an insult, but her expression was warm and friendly. In fact, she reached out her hand to clasp Serena’s fingertips, a flimsy shake if ever she felt one. But the action sent a waft of what must be a French ambergris perfume to her nostrils. Oddly though, Madame la Monde did not have a French accent as Serena expected by that name. Curious.
‘I don’t understand,’ Mrs Jones yet frowned. ‘How did Mr King commission you when he has not left the house for weeks?’
Mr Broughton chuckled at that. ‘Well, you see, he wrote to me several weeks ago. But I was amid an elaborate wedding trousseau and then there was the Honourable Mr Fordham. Of course, he must have the most up-to-date styles for his current mistress. I suppose Mr King wishes to keep up with that set.’
Since Mr King held none of that ‘set,’ as he called them, in high enough esteem to wish to compete with them, Serena could not agree. Instead, she gave him her own opinion. ‘I suspect his want of fashion comes from his own creative instinct and from his charitable nature.’ Glancing at Mrs Jones, she caught a brief flash of admiration in her eyes.
‘What goes on here?’
Serena craned her neck around Mr Broughton to see Mr Simon almost charge through the door.
‘Your uncle has asked Mr Broughton here to make Miss Bellingham new clothes.’ Mrs Jones gave her son an intense look.
Was she trying to convey something? Whatever it was, the meaning was elusive to Serena.
‘How is that possible?’
‘They were just explaining that Eddie wrote to them weeks ago.’
‘I see. But he doesn’t have—’
‘What my son is trying to say, Mr Broughton, is this commission must be rather expensive. Are you sure he requested a whole wardrobe of clothes?’
‘Yes. As sure as I have two feet.’
‘Then he made a mistake,’ Mr Simon blustered, his cheeks becoming red. ‘Why would he pay for a whole swathe of clothes for a servant girl?’
‘Why indeed?’ Mr Broughton rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘And yet, he sent along with his letter, rather a large draught on his bank account. I can assure you he was in earnest.’
‘Then you should return it. Obviously, the girl has bewitched him.’ Mr Simon’s temper grew.
Serena had watched this interaction as if from afar, as though it weren’t even about her. But this last comment snapped her out of her stupor. Bewitched him, indeed. How dare Mr Simon insult her so! And what had Mr King been thinking? Was it after the night he noticed how thin her shawl was? Even though she had insisted she did not suffer for it. Once again, Mr King had behaved with extravagant generosity, and as a result, she found herself in strife. But she could not allow it. ‘Am I permitted to speak on the matter?’
Suddenly all eyes were on her and the heat rose in her cheeks, though her chest remained tight with frustration.
‘While it is wonderfully openhanded of Mr King, I am in no need of new apparel. I was unaware of his intentions to order a wardrobe for me, nor did I ask him to, or even wish it. I am more than happy to cancel his request. However, I am also loath to dishonour him by doing so. He meant it as a gift, I am certain of that, though extravagant it may be. Perhaps we can agree on one dress and a warm coat, and I shall be more than happy.’
For a moment, they gaped at her. Had she said something too outrageous? Serena swallowed, uncomfortable.
Mr Simon turned to his mother with a tight-lipped grimace, while his finger pointed at Serena. ‘You see how she has wormed her way into his affections.’
‘Simon, that is enough. You are being quite rude and it’s not befitting of one of my sons.’ Colour now infused Mrs Jones’s face as well. Serena knew the feeling well, her own sisters having embarrassed her on more than one occasion with their silliness.
‘Perhaps we could ask Mr King himself. I’m sure he could set things straight.’
Now all eyes swerved to the tailor. Yes, that was the idea. Serena preferred to hear the words from Mr King’s mouth, especially in front of Mr Simon, even if his words dripped sonnets of Athena. Embarrassing, but not as uncomfortable as this fiasco.
‘I’m afraid that is out of the question.’ Mrs Jones did not hesitate. ‘He is working on a commission for the governor and cannot be disturbed. It interrupts his creativity and puts him behind schedule.’
That was the same explanation Mrs Jones had given Serena when she first arrived at Aleron. And yet from her experience, Mr King never minded being disturbed and often left his workroom of his own accord. So, why the pretence? Why refuse to fetch him? Something did not seem right, and yet, Serena refrained from saying so while strangers were in the house.
‘That is a shame. I should have enjoyed meeting this Mr King of yours.’ Madame la Monde’s lips curled into a sensuous smile. ‘Mr Broughton has told me so much about him.’
Mrs Jones gave her a half smile. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am.’ She turned back to Mr Broughton. ‘I am inclined to agree with Miss Bellingham. A whole wardrobe is simply unnecessary for a maid. But it was my brother’s wish to give her a gift, so it shall be as she says. An evening dress and a warm pelisse shall do nicely.’
20
Serena determined to seek Mr King and thank him for the new clothes at the earliest opportunity, despite Mrs Jones’s warnings to the contrary, but the chance never came. The hour of the day demanded t
hey welcome the visitors to join them for dinner. After that, Madame Le Monde fussed over Serena’s measurements, and of course, had to show her a variety of fabrics. According to the estimable dressmaker, each specimen of material ‘becomes you to perfection, my dearest Serena.’ A statement which Serena met with veiled doubt, especially upon viewing one such fabric draped across her shoulders in the long mirror. It turned her face a hideous shade of grey—not becoming in the slightest. However, she finally agreed upon a vibrant blue silk for the evening gown and a beige velvet for the pelisse.
By the time they’d decided on these details, Serena had little time left for her work. What little sunshine had struggled from behind the clouds, now diminished quickly. She must bring in the linen from the morning, fold it and put it away, before the air became too chilled for further airing that day. She had no choice but to leave any dusting and polishing until the morrow, instead setting out to accomplish her mission to find Mr King and thank him for his generosity.
Her heart pounded louder with each step that drew her nearer to Mr King’s rooms. Why should she be so nervous? Or did another emotion beset her? Excitement? Anticipation? She couldn’t admit it. Wouldn’t admit it. Serena only wished to see the man to discuss his benevolence toward her—a kindness which belied his original actions in keeping her at Aleron. Oh, it was too confusing. She shook her head, attempting to clear her muddled thoughts.
Serena paused at his door, smoothed her skirts and tucked loose strands of hair back into the chignon at her nape. She straightened her bodice and, drawing in a deep breath, knocked on the wooden panelling. With any luck, it would please him to see her, rather than anger him at her interruption—as Mrs Jones always insinuated he would. Several heartbeats ticked by, however, and no response came from within the room. Serena knocked again, a little louder and, after waiting another minute, pressed her ear against the door. Not a sound came from within. Not even the shuffling of papers.
