by Jo Goodman
If not for the letters, she might never have doubted his sincerity. Even Nicholas’s suicide did not make her leap to the conclusion that he hadn’t loved her. She’d been too numb to consider any thoughts save that he had abandoned her; later she’d been too angry. Grief had come in time. In the beginning it was for him, but with the arrival of the first letter, she had also grieved for herself.
Turning, Cybelline sat on the floor and rested her back against the bench. She opened the box’s side panel and shook it so the contents spilled onto her lap. She’d hoped that her coming to Penwyckham would make the letters stop. The box had little room left in it when she left London, and now it had even less. There had been two more missives since her arrival. Just as in London, they did not come in the same post, but they were addressed to her in the same careful, unsteady hand. One of them held Nicholas’s composition inside; the other held the accusation.
As soon as she received the first, she knew she could expect to receive the second. The Sharpe house had not proved to be the sanctuary she was seeking. She had escaped nothing by coming here, neither the letters nor Ferrin.
Quelling this last thought, Cybelline chose one of the missives. It was not entirely a random selection. She could tell by the relative thickness of one to the other which were those penned by her husband and which held only the few words of his mistress.
14 August 1813
My dearest,
You cannot conceive how it pained me to take my leave so abruptly. I felt as if more should have been said between us, certainly I had more to say. You were angry, though with good cause, and I hold myself responsible for provoking you to that most agitated state.
I wish that you might find some measure of happiness for me, or if that is too presumptuous, then that you might yet forgive me. We have always known that our lives must take mostly a parallel course. Mayhap I am selfish to think that occasionally our paths will cross and that when they do, you will make room for me in your heart and in your bed.
It is a great burden to me that you grieve so. I wish also that you would find another protector, though I do not know that I would bear it half so well as you if I discovered you came to love him as you have always loved me.
My wife (I know you will think me without regard for you for writing of her now) makes my life less difficult in ways I have only begun to comprehend. She has joy of small things that I often fail to notice, though I endeavor to attend more to them, as it gives her pleasure. To whatever degree you hold me in contempt, you must not allow it to touch her. She is an innocent whom I have sorely abused, but selfishly, I am glad of her presence in my life, as I cannot always be in yours.
Always
Cybelline folded her husband’s letter carefully. He never put his name to paper. Always was his signature. He often closed notes to her in the same manner, though nothing in the content was as intimate or heartfelt.
My dear Mrs. Caldwell,
I will be late this evening. The trial begins tomorrow and I must prepare.
Always
And:
My dear Mrs. Caldwell,
I must beg off from attending you at Lady Hendershot’s this evening. I trust your brother will offer his escort when he understands I am on the Crown’s business.
Always
Not My dearest. Not for her. My dear Mrs. Caldwell. And the same signature. She’d teased him about them. Always excuses, she’d called them, and he’d laughed and made it up to her by presenting her with the golden torc he’d discovered on his last trip to Norfolk. If she found joy in small things, she also appreciated the extravagant gesture.
Nicholas made her happy in so many ways, she’d told herself it was of little consequence that their marriage bed felt so oddly empty even when he was there. In some ways she was grateful to his anonymous mistress for helping her understand why that was. It did not absolve Cybelline of guilt that she had not been able to please her husband, but it did offer an explanation as to why he had not been able to please her.
She tapped one corner of the letter against her chin. He had written it a little more than a year after they were married. She had one other in her possession that was penned earlier, but she no longer doubted that there were more. She imagined how she would feel when she received one that was written even before their marriage. She could only believe that such a letter existed. Nicholas was conscientious. He would have told his mistress, and he would have done so in person first, then poured all of his soul into his writing.
Cybelline dropped the letter into the box and chose another. This one was from the mistress.
My dear Mrs. Caldwell,
We both know you killed him.
Always
More obscene than the message itself was the way Nicholas’s mistress used his salutation and closing. To Cybelline it meant that Nicholas had shared the always excuses he’d penned to the woman he married with the woman he loved. She had bled a little the first time she’d realized it. That wound had never healed.
Cybelline chose another.
My dear Mrs. Caldwell,
When will you tell your daughter that you murdered her father?
Always
This one Cybelline closed quickly and pushed back into the box. She gathered a few more and thrust them inside as well. She knew she was punishing herself by taking them out at all. It hadn’t been enough that she’d been a whore for Ferrin this afternoon, now she must needs do this as well.
Her hands trembled. She finally stilled them by making a single fist and pressing it against her midriff. She realized she had been right to eat only a little of her supper, because what remained in her stomach was turning over. It passed in time, just as it always did, though she often thought it would be better if she could be sick.
She slowly picked up the remainder of the letters and replaced them in the box. As always before she put it away, she wondered if she should destroy it. The fire blazed hotly thanks to Webb’s care. The Chinese puzzle box would burn quickly, and the letters would be reduced to ash. She had imagined doing it any number of times, yet this occasion ended no differently than the others. She put the box away, returned the blankets to the chest, and closed the lid.
If the Sharpe house could offer no sanctuary, where would she go now?
Most of Christmas Day was celebrated quietly. Cybelline had hoped to entertain the villagers in her home with food and drink, music, and dancing. Now that she was in residence and occupied the largest home in or around the village, such entertainments were as much her duty as her privilege. Until she became bedfast, she had been looking forward to it.
Mrs. Henley called upon Mrs. Meeder to spread the word that there would be no festivities at the Sharpe house. It was a disappointment, Mrs. Meeder told the housekeeper, but not unexpected, as everyone in Penwyckham knew Mrs. Caldwell had been gravely ill. She also reported that there was favorable talk in the village regarding the very fine gentleman Mr. Wellsley. Everyone seemed to know that he had been the model of charity in lending his most excellent assistance to Mrs. Caldwell’s full recovery. Upon hearing this from her housekeeper, Cybelline had to chuckle. Her survival had guaranteed that poor Mr. Wellsley’s reputation once again would come under some scrutiny. He was making the ascension from paragon to near deity.
Cybelline had prepared small boxes for her staff with money and treats, but it was Ferrin who arrived that evening—without invitation—to pass out the real treasures. She couldn’t turn him away, not at Christmas, and when she saw Anna’s radiant smile, she knew she would not turn him away on any other day.
Her own welcome was considerably cooler, though polite. She stood when he entered the drawing room and offered the greetings of the season. Ferrin replied in tones that were just as cool and impersonal, and he saved his warmth for Anna.
Watching him, Cybelline was struck again by how very handsome he was. He moved easily, always with purpose and no wasted motion. His eyes were constantly assessing, watchful to a degree that co
uld make one feel either discomfort or attended to. He listened with his entire body and demonstrated more than courteous interest. He leaned forward and engaged the speaker with his direct gaze and the thoughtful tilt of his head. Those eyes, wintry blue and reflective at times, could also be deep pools of light that beckoned one closer. His chin was strong, his features cut with the same broad strokes as his pirate—or privateer—forebears. His smile was a trifle lopsided, which lent it equally well to amusement or scorn.
It was amused now, she saw, as he scolded Anna for trying to reach into his pockets and retrieve the gift he’d promised her. “It’s not here,” he said. “I left it outside.” Over the top of Anna’s head he mouthed the word “puppy.”
Cybelline was prepared to deliver a scold herself, then stopped and surrendered to what was surely inevitable. She nodded and waited almost as impatiently as Anna for Ferrin to retrieve the present. Anna’s squeals brought several servants to the edge of the drawing room, and Cybelline invited them in.
The puppy, a small, black terrier bitch, was a wriggler. She squirmed mightily trying to evade Anna’s grasping hands and even made a few attempts at nipping, but Anna was more tenacious, and she managed to capture the dog and hold it to her chest like one of her dolls.
Cybelline watched the proceedings with some trepidation. She noticed that Ferrin, too, appeared ready to lend a hand if Anna could not quiet the puppy. In the end, there was much mutual nuzzling, and Anna made another conquest.
“What will you name it, darling?” asked Cybelline.
Anna looked at Ferrin. Clearly, she had not considered this. “No name?”
Ferrin shook his head. “I have left the naming to you. She’s a girl, though, so you should consider that when you christen her.”
Anna glanced around the room, looking for inspiration. She found it when her eyes alighted on the greenery strung along the mantelpiece. “Holly,” she announced. “Name is Holly.”
“That is an excellent name,” Cybelline said. To Ferrin and the others she said, “Tomorrow it is likely to be something else. If it is still her name in three days, it will be Holly always.”
There was general agreement that this was so, and those present took delight in Anna’s fascination with her pet. When Holly tired of Anna’s attention and wriggled her way behind the drinks cabinet, Anna crawled onto her mother’s lap and offered her own belly for rubbing. Laughing, Cybelline obliged, then agreed to Ferrin’s request to assemble all the staff in the drawing room so that he might distribute his presents. Mr. Henley was dispatched to bring them all forward.
Cybelline owned that she was as curious as anyone when Ferrin stepped outside again to retrieve the gifts. He carried in a large burlap sack and set it on the floor beside Cybelline. She was relieved to see that nothing inside it appeared to be moving. One animal inside the house was all she was prepared to accept.
The first drawstring pouch that he pulled out of the bag was for Mrs. Henley. The housekeeper marveled at finding a small magnifying glass inside. It was attached to a blue silk cord, and she held it up for the assembly to see. “So you can wear it around your neck,” Ferrin explained, “and have it close at hand when you want to read your Bible.”
There was a pair of sharpened shears for Webb’s sewing basket and a compass for Mr. Henley. The maids received combs for their hair that were admired for the clip that kept them securely in place. Mr. Kins was the recipient of a lantern that Ferrin promised would extinguish itself if it tipped on its side. “So you won’t worry that one of your animals will kick it over and start a fire.” Ferrin had others exactly like it for the stable lads. The footman received a grooming kit with a razor like the one he’d admired in Ferrin’s possession.
“You can split a hair with it,” the footman announced, prepared to pluck one from his head to demonstrate until Ferrin stayed his hand. Sheepishly, he added, “But it takes a remarkably unsteady hand to nick a throat.”
Nanny Baker showed more animation than was her usual mein as she thanked Ferrin for the unique metal bookmarks he’d given her, and Mrs. Minty declared herself the most fortunate of women to receive a box of recipes, every one of them translated from their original French into the King’s English.
There were gifts for those who worked at the Sharpe house but who were in Penwyckham with their families, and finally there was one last present, and it was meant for Cybelline.
She was embarrassed to accept it, but Ferrin insisted. With so many looking on, she would have seemed churlish to refuse. The drawstring bag she opened had a match and striker inside it. She held it up, a question in her eyes.
“Come,” he said. “Everyone, get your coats and hats and come outside. Mr. Lowell will have made everything ready by now.”
Cybelline was startled to realize that poor Mr. Lowell had been out of doors so long, but when she saw him he tipped his hat and gave her a nod, which taken together was the warmest of greetings. Hefting Anna in her arms, Cybelline came to stand on the lip of the small porch and waited for Ferrin’s instruction. He asked for the match and striker back, then went to join Mr. Lowell in the center of the curved drive.
The servants spilled off the porch but didn’t go far. A murmur went through their tightly huddled group as everyone speculated on what Mr. Wellsley had planned. Cybelline didn’t participate in the conjecture. She felt so very young of a sudden, full of anticipation and almost giddy with hope. She gave Anna a squeeze and endeavored to demonstrate more patience for the proceedings than her squirming daughter did.
The thin blanket of snow and a half moon provided enough contrast and light for Cybelline to see Ferrin hunker down and strike the match. She glimpsed a dark, slender cylinder half as long as his forearm poking out of the ground. Ferrin set the fire at his fingertips to it, then stood back.
“Oh, Anna,” Cybelline whispered, “what a treat we shall have tonight.”
The Roman candle whistled as it rose in the air. Like everyone watching, Cybelline tipped her head back to try to make out the arc of its ascent. She held her breath in expectation of what it would bring before the fall.
Its explosion rained stars above her head. They sparkled and shimmered, dancing gracefully as they dropped from the sky. Before they were quite gone, another shrill whistle cut the awed silence all around her. This time the stars were bright green, lighter and more brilliant than emeralds. They spun end over end in their descent to the ground.
Cybelline smiled at her daughter’s oooh of appreciation and raised her own voice in a like fashion when the next firework was released. Ruby stars burst forth like the petals of a rose after a nourishing rain. Pinwheels of light spun with dizzying speed in their race to make it back to Earth before they burned themselves out.
Pyrotechnic displays by their very nature were ephemeral, but Cybelline knew this one would remain with her long after the last spark was extinguished. She would be able to recall the crispness of the evening air, the pungent scents of fresh pine and acrid smoke, the precise pitch of the whistling fireworks and Anna’s squeals, the radiance and clarity of the light. This was a memory to be treasured, she thought, one that she might bring to mind when darkness threatened her vision and her future.
When it was over and the applause finally ended, Cybelline remained behind on the porch, giving Anna to Nanny to carry inside. She waited until all the servants had filed into the house before she stepped down and crossed the drive to where Ferrin and Mr. Lowell were collecting the detritus of the fireworks.
“We’ll be taking our leave shortly,” Ferrin said as Mr. Lowell conscientiously moved out of hearing range.
Cybelline nodded. It was on the tip of her tongue to invite him in for warm cider and mince tarts, but she stayed the urge and merely thanked him instead. She wished that she could infuse her voice with just a small measure of the intensity of her feelings, but even to her own ears her delivery was stiff and perfunctory.
“You’re welcome,” Ferrin said.
“Anna has
never seen fireworks before.” If she could not speak for herself, Cybelline thought, then perhaps she could speak for her daughter. “She was properly awed.”
“It was a success, then.”
Ferrin’s laconic response did not seem to be in want of a reply, so Cybelline only nodded in agreement.
“You should go back inside,” Ferrin said. “It is too cold for you to linger.”
She acknowledged this, but she didn’t move away. “I thought you would return to London for Christmas. Your family must miss you.”
“I suspect that’s so.”
“Perhaps by the new year…” Uncertain if she intended a question or a comment, Cybelline’s voice simply trailed off.
“Perhaps.”
She felt unaccountably sad of a sudden. Tears threatened, and she was grateful for the chill that seemed to press them back. “Then…” She paused, wondering what she might say if she could not say it with proper feeling. “Then in the event I do not see you again, I wish you a safe journey.”
“Thank you.”
Cybelline pressed her lips together, nodded once, and turned to leave.
“Mrs. Caldwell?”
She stopped and glanced back at him. “Yes?”
“I arranged for the spear to be returned to your home in London. I wanted you to know that it had been done.”
Unable to find the words because she scarcely knew how she felt, Cybelline nodded again, jerkily this time, then hurried off in the direction of the house.
