Silent in the Grave

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Thank you,” I said, clutching the small charm.

  She nodded and moved heavily to the door, cradling her parcels.

  “You will see me again, lady,” she promised me solemnly.

  “Not for a very long time, I hope,” I said as the door closed softly behind her.

  I opened my hand and stared down at the knot that carried so much powerful magic. And I tried to remember where I had seen one like it only recently.

  THE TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER

  Sharp violins proclaim

  Their jealous pangs, and desperation,

  Fury, frantic indignation,

  Depth of pains, and height of passion,

  For the fair, disdainful dame.

  —John Dryden

  “A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day”

  Perhaps the last activity to promise any diversion that night was an evening with my family. But almost as soon as the door closed behind Magda there was a knock at the door and I could hear the too-cheerful voice of the Ghoul.

  “Julia, dear, are you in there?”

  I was tempted, sorely tempted not to answer her. But I knew she would run me to the ground eventually.

  “Yes, Aunt Ursula.”

  She entered, black skirts swishing, and surveyed the scene—me, woebegone and bewildered, surrounded by a load of Edward’s things, half-packed and tumbled about the room.

  “Oh, my dear girl! Why didn’t you call me to help you? Packing up a loved one’s effects can be so very trying.”

  Especially when one’s laundress admits to wanting to kill your brother in the midst of it, I thought sourly.

  “I thought it was time,” I said.

  “Of course you did. It is only one of the many tasks that you will have now that your first year of mourning is ended.”

  Trust the Ghoul to mark the anniversary of Edward’s death when I had not. Really, she was a better widow to him than I was. I smiled feebly.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “After all, you will need new clothes to observe this new stage in your mourning.”

  I widened my eyes. “I beg your pardon, Aunt? I thought you expected me to observe strict mourning in perpetuity.”

  She gave me a sympathetic cluck. “Oh, no! Well, I admit I did think of it at first, but then I realized how much there would be to do if you put on half mourning. And I thought perhaps it might be best if you had something to occupy your days. Besides, there will be time enough to put your weeds back on when Simon passes.”

  She began to burrow through Edward’s effects and I sat, trying to digest what she had just said. Naturally the arrangements of half mourning would appeal to her. There would be all sorts of doleful things to attend to, all manner of fresh new grimness to inflict upon me. I could well imagine what pleasure she would take in draping the house in purple and ordering new writing paper and candles. I opened my mouth to blast her, then stopped. Her intentions were appalling and her remark about Simon had been utterly cruel, but she was harmless enough. I complained loudly about her, but the truth was I minded her rather less as the months went by. Besides, one look at the wardrobe I had selected for my “half mourning” would likely put her into her own early grave.

  I dragged my attention back to the Ghoul, who had been chattering happily the whole time, poking through Edward’s bits and probably marking out something she would ask for as a “memento.” That was another of her favorite tricks. No matter how far removed she had been from the deceased, she always asked for some small token to remember them by, usually the most expensive bibelot or costliest jewel in the house. Few people had the courage or cruelty to resist her, with the result that she had amassed a collection of jewels and objets d’art to rival the queen’s.

  “And I told dear Hermia that I would be coming with you tonight.”

  I jerked to attention. “Tonight?”

  “Yes, to Hermia’s musical evening. Don’t tell me you have forgotten,” she said with a trill of laughter, sharp and brittle, nothing like Fleur’s silver bells.

  Of course I had forgotten. I had begged off of her oratory contest, pleading a headache, but Aunt Hermia was nothing if not persistent. She had sent me a note more than a week before regarding the musicale, a note I had thrust aside and promptly dismissed. Aunt Hermia’s musical evenings were legendary within the family. Absences were rarely tolerated, and performances were strongly encouraged—or extorted if necessary. Occasionally other guests were invited, which made for hilarity and a boisterous evening. Other times it was just family, and those could be deadly. I wondered which this was to be and I was strongly inclined to send my regrets.

  But I could not. I had missed the oratory contest and the last two musicales; a third and Aunt Hermia herself would come to Grey House to drag me out of it. Besides, I was not much enthused about spending another evening alone, reading and answering correspondence. For all their faults, my family were gregarious and animated, which I could not say for my books and letters. And as an added incentive, it was very possible that Val might be there. I longed to observe him without his being aware of it. He was so seldom at Grey House that Aunt Hermia’s entertainment might be the only chance I would have to engage him.

  And do what? I asked myself later as I pondered Morag’s selections from my wardrobe. She had laid out a deep-necked, delicious violet velvet and a beautifully cut, tight crimson silk. I dithered between them, trying to imagine how I could possibly accuse my youngest brother of the attempted robbery of a new grave. Perhaps I could ask him to pass the gravy and make a dreadful pun…no, that would never do. I would simply have to go and keep my eyes sharp and my ears sharper. Perhaps I could delicately probe our family for their opinions on his sanity. It made me not a little nervous to think of sharing a house with a person capable of exhuming a young corpse simply to cut it open.

  Shivering, I settled on the crimson and permitted Morag to dress me. I think we were both startled at the result. I had thought the violet revealed a bit of décolletage, but the crimson was nearly as flagrant. In fact, I felt it was a bit much for a family party, but as Morag reminded me, it was only a family party. Who else would be there to see and be shocked by the rather sumptuous display of bosom? I agreed with her, only because it was too late to change, and I made a note to myself never to wear the violet outside of my own home. What on earth had Monsieur Riche been thinking? Honestly.

  I had just a few moments to spare and decided to spend them with Simon. The valet, Renard, was just collecting his dinner tray and he stepped aside at the doorway to let me pass.

  “Good evening, my lady,” he said, casting an approving glance at my bosom. I drew back, ensuring that even my skirts would not touch him.

  “Renard,” I said coolly. I could not help it. Every time I saw him, I thought of the odious drawings he had supplied to Henry and my skin crawled. He slipped past me, brushing as near as he dared, and I closed the door firmly behind him. I moved to Simon, my lips set in a deliberate smile.

  “How are you this evening, dearest?”

  His face brightened. “Julia! You are the very picture—turn around and let me see you properly.”

  I pirouetted obediently. He watched, nodding in appreciation.

  “Lovely. I did tell you bright colours, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” I said, dropping a kiss to his brow. “I feel rather unlike myself, though. I’ve never worn anything quite so…”

  He smiled, reaching for my hand. “You have never looked lovelier. Where are you bound?”

  “March House.”

  “Ah! One of Lady Hermia’s musicales, am I right?”

  “You are. Shall I plump your pillows for you?”

  “Please do. I should far rather have you do it than Renard.” He leaned forward and I busied myself fluffing the feathers. “I remember those evenings,” he said, his voice tinged ever so slightly with nostalgia. “Edward played the most awful piano, but your singing was quite—”

  “Vile,” I put in hel
pfully. He gave me a reproachful little look.

  “I was going to say original, but all right. You are frightfully tone-deaf, my darling.”

  “I know. Pity that I love to sing, isn’t it? But you must have paid better attention than Edward to your piano master. Your melodies were always so lovely.”

  He gazed down at his hands, swollen a little about the knuckles. “I doubt I could play now. Doubt I even remember a note of anything,” he said ruefully. “Funny how we spend our entire adolescence learning skills that are supposed to serve us in society, then spend our entire adulthood forgetting them.”

  “Not all of them. The last time we danced, you still remembered how to do that quite well.”

  “Well, dancing is different. I always enjoyed that. Music and gaiety and breathless promises to meet in darkened gardens—so much intrigue.” He raised a brow meaningfully.

  I settled him back against his pillows. “Ass,” I said affectionately. “When did you ever make assignations in the garden?”

  He waved an airy hand. “Loads of times. I cannot tell you how many lovely memories I have of fumbling with buttons under the cover of leafy darkness….” His voice trailed off and his eyes were dreamy.

  I slapped lightly at his hand. “You are a beast, Simon Grey.”

  “Yes, but a discreet one. You never knew I was off misbehaving, did you? Did you never once see me slip back into a ballroom, cravat askew, face dewy and flushed with rapture?”

  “No, thank God. What of the poor creatures you were deflowering? Were they ever discovered?”

  “No, not one, mercifully. But as I say, I was discreet. Edward used to get up to the same, did he never tell you?”

  There was a flash of excitement in his eyes, an avidity that comes with truly succulent gossip.

  “No!” I leaned forward, heedless of my neckline. “Do tell.”

  He smiled and wagged his finger. “I shall not. Some secrets should be kept. But the stories I could tell…”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “Very well. Keep your secrets. I don’t care a bit.” I kissed him again and bade him good-night.

  “Good night, Julia. You really do look quite delicious.” I blew him a kiss and slipped out, thinking about Edward as a youth, cavorting in the garden with some innocent maid, and wondering why he had never asked me to step outside with him.

  Probably because he knew from the first he wanted to marry me, I thought reasonably. Gentlemen do not propose to girls who lift their skirts, Aunt Hermia had warned me, and in this case, she appeared to be correct. Edward had had trysts before me, but had not touched me until our wedding night. Although, if he had ever seen me in this scarlet, he might not have kept his hands so politely to himself, I thought wickedly, with one final glance at the glass.

  Wrapping my black cloak tightly around me, I collected the Ghoul and we set off, arriving at March House punctually—no one ever had the courage to do otherwise. Aunt Hermia was legendary for her insistence upon promptness. Most people thought she was a stickler for manners, but the truth was, she had a horror of leathery meat. Rather than hold the meal to accommodate tardy guests, she simply struck the unpunctual from her guest list and harangued the rest of us into promptness. We were greeted at the door by Hoots, Father’s butler. There was no sign of Aunt Hermia.

  Hoots reached to help me off with my cloak and I asked after her.

  “She is attending to Cook, my lady. Some accident concerning a knife and a sprout.”

  His eyes fell to my exposed bosom and he averted them quickly.

  “It is very good to see you out and about again, my lady,” he said without a trace of irony. I looked at him suspiciously, but his face was perfectly correct.

  “Hmm. Yes, thank you, Hoots.”

  I turned and Aunt Ursula got her first unimpeded view of my gown. She blanched and reached for her salts, but said nothing. There was a commotion behind me as Portia and her companion, Jane, appeared from the drawing room.

  “Portia, Jane, good evening,” I greeted, going to kiss them.

  “Julia, dearest, I am so glad you are here!” Portia exclaimed, returning my kiss with enthusiasm. “All of you,” she murmured with a lift of the brow toward my gown. She was dressed in blue, a delicious cerulean shade that flattered her wide eyes. “Father is just now gone to change and Aunt Hermia is bandaging up Cook in the stillroom. Jane and I were simply aching for conversation. Oh, good evening, Aunt Ursula.” Portia went to make polite noises at the Ghoul and I turned to Jane.

  As usual, she looked as though she had been dragged through a bush backward. She was wearing one of her favorite shapeless dresses. Usually they were made up in heavy cottons, but she had a few in thick, unattractive fabrics for evening. She wore them with heavy ropes of dull, lumpy beads that could not hope to match the sparkle of her fine eyes or the exquisite colour of her complexion. She put a hand to her untidy red hair. “I know,” she said mournfully. “I look a fright. I had put my hair up, I promise. But I seem to have lost the pins.”

  I smiled at her. “Nonsense. I was just thinking that you look like Daphne, the moment she metamorphosed into a laurel bush.”

  She looked very happy at the allusion, and I tucked my arm through hers. “Now, what shall you play for us tonight? I am quite out of practice, so I shall not perform, but I always look forward to hearing you.”

  This was entirely true. Jane was a gifted musician with a remarkably sweet, clear singing voice and a talent with three different instruments. This was perhaps the most significant reason behind why we loved Jane so. The family, and occasionally, friends, were pressed into performing at Aunt Hermia’s evenings, usually something we had all heard a hundred times before, and usually done quite badly. We had our gifts, we Marches, but I do not think we numbered music among them. Having Jane with us was rather like having Sarah Siddons stride into the midst of an amateur theatrical.

  “The harp,” Jane said promptly. “I have a new Irish air I have been practicing. It is very melancholy, very atmospheric. You will smell the peat fires and damp wool, I promise.”

  Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and I shivered playfully. “Sounds quite intriguing. What of you, Portia?” I called over my shoulder. “Will you play, or is simply giving us all something beautiful to look at contribution enough?”

  She raised a brow at me. “Good Lord, Julia, what has come over you? You are positively giddy. Well, I am glad you are in high spirits, because if I am not mistaken, that is a footstep upon the walk.”

  A moment later Hoots opened the door. The thing I remember most clearly from that moment are Portia’s eyes, dancing with amusement, and Father appearing just at that second, still straightening his necktie. He, too, was looking highly amused, and I wondered if that is how the gods of Olympus looked when they were meddling with people’s lives, for they were certainly meddling with mine.

  There upon the doorstep stood Brisbane, beautifully dressed in evening clothes, and with him was an elderly gentleman I had never seen before. They were returning Hoots’ very civil greeting, and I took the opportunity to hiss at Portia. “What do you think you are doing?”

  She smiled back, dazzlingly. “Stirring the pot, darling. But it isn’t my hand on the spoon. Father invited them. Mind you speak up, the Duke of Aberdour is rather deaf.”

  Father had moved forward and was welcoming the pair of them. According to precedence, he presented us to the duke.

  “You remember my daughter, Lady Bettiscombe, your Grace.” He motioned to Portia.

  The duke murmured something, but his old eyes were sharp, noting Portia’s beauty, I had little doubt.

  “Your Grace,” she said loudly, dropping an elegant curtsey as she dimpled up at him. “I am so pleased you could come.”

  The duke patted her hand and seemed reluctant to let it go.

  Portia stepped back and Father waved at me. “I don’t believe you know my youngest daughter, Lady Julia Grey.”

  I made a proper curtsey, and his Grace
reached for my hand, taking in an eyeful of my displayed bosom.

  “Enchanting. Why have I never met you before?” he asked in an accent slightly blurred with Scottish vowels. He was as perfectly turned out as Brisbane, but with much better jewels. I nearly goggled at the size of the ruby in his cravat.

  “I have been in mourning this past year for my husband, your Grace,” I said. He was still holding my hand, his eyes wandering over my décolletage in an openly appraising manner. I should have been insulted by such treatment from anyone else, but from him it was merely amusing.

  “You have my condolences, my dear, but your husband is more deserving of them. I cannot imagine what a loss he suffered at leaving you behind.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “You are too kind, your Grace.”

  “Not at all. I simply like good-looking women.” He tucked my hand through his arm. “You will help me in to greet my hostess, won’t you? I do not need the help, but I will pretend to in order to keep you close to me.” He finished this with an exaggerated leer and I laughed. Father and Brisbane had greeted each other quietly as Hoots closed the door, and now they stood, watching my exchange with the duke.

  “I would be honoured to escort you, your Grace, but I must warn you, your reputation precedes you. I shall be on my guard with you.”

  He cackled and motioned toward Brisbane. “She is clever as well. I like this one. Say hello, boy. I believe you know the lady.”

  Brisbane smiled thinly and did his duty. I would have thought it impossible for anyone to speak to him in such a fashion and emerge unscathed, but the duke apparently had the gift of charm. It was clear that Portia thought him adorable.

  The duke turned back to me. “I do like you. I might make you an offer of marriage before the evening is over. What do you think of that? Would you like to be a duchess? I’m very rich, you know.”

  “I do know it. But I am entirely unworthy to be your wife, I assure you, your Grace. Perhaps, if it is not too presumptuous of me, we could just be very good friends.”