by James, Syrie
Her cheeks burned as she headed down the lane and across a field, in the direction of the manor house. She had promised herself so solemnly when she went inside that workshop, that it would be a brief and casual encounter. Yet once again, when alone in his presence, she had found herself wishing for something else entirely.
She had agreed to stay another two-and-a-half weeks at Trevelyan Manor. How in the world was she going to get through them?
Chapter Seventeen
“I cannot think of planning a party right now.” Lady Trevelyan cast a loving look across the table at her husband.
“My dear, I will not take no for an answer,” Lord Trevelyan insisted.
The marquess was making one of his rare appearances at dinner, but Madeleine questioned whether or not he should have come down. He seemed to be very tired and in a lot of pain.
Madeleine poked at her fillet of beef, wishing Lord Trevelyan felt better, and finding it difficult to concentrate on the conversation around her. Since returning from Lord Saunders’s workshop that afternoon, she’d had trouble concentrating on anything. Her mind was full of all that had transpired.
Inside his own private space, Saunders had come to life in a manner which Madeleine had never seen before, giving her a glimpse of a rare and brilliant mind. She’d been enthralled by his inventions and by the intellectual and creative passions that drove him.
Another kind of passion drove him as well. Madeleine’s heart fluttered at the memories of the times she’d spent alone in his company. The kiss in the cave. And that moment in his workshop today, when she had tried out one of his pieces of equipment . . .
Tried out one of his pieces of equipment? The sexual connotations therein made Madeleine’s pulse race even faster.
She felt like Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter, as though a letter A had been embroidered in red across her chest. Glancing at Sophie beside her, then across the table at her hosts, Madeleine was grateful that all were engaged in discussion and unaware of her own discomfiture. They would consider it unseemly that she’d gone inside his workshop at all, without a friend or chaperone.
Madeleine cringed at the idea of the hurt and betrayal she’d see in Sophie’s eyes were she to find out about their almost-kiss that afternoon, and the one that had occurred at the cave. How could you do this to me? she would say. Their friendship would come to an abrupt end. Madeleine would be obliged to leave this house in an instant, her reputation in tatters.
They will never know. I’ll make sure of that. No one will ever know.
“I am sure Madeleine will be happy to help as well.” Sophie’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Isn’t that so, Madeleine?”
Madeleine glanced up, startled. What had they been talking about? Some kind of party? “Of course,” she answered quickly, unsure what she had just committed herself to.
“Invite as many people as you like,” Lord Trevelyan told his wife. “Fancy dress, food, music, dancing. Do it up right.”
“Do you mean it?” Her Ladyship still sounded hesitant.
“Absolutely. It is your birthday, my dearest, and I want you to celebrate it in style.”
“But George. I don’t know. With you being so unwell . . .”
He took her hand. “I insist that the status of my health shan’t stop you from having the party you have been dreaming about all year. I promise I shall make an appearance and stay as long as I am able. And in the meantime, you—and everyone else—will have a jolly good time.”
Lady Trevelyan considered for a moment, then gave in and beamed at him. “Thank you, George. I will set the date for August eighth. Hopefully, Sophie’s injuries will be healed by then, Madeleine will still be staying with us, and it gives us two and a half weeks to plan.”
The following morning, Lord Trevelyan kept to his rooms. Lady Trevelyan and Sophie huddled together after breakfast, putting together the invitation list for Her Ladyship’s party.
It wasn’t an activity in which Madeleine could be of any assistance, which left her feeling out of sorts. She had come to Trevelyan Manor specifically to help Sophie. How, Madeleine, wondered, ought she to occupy her time?
She decided to go upstairs and retrieve her manuscript from her trunk. No one would miss her for a few hours, and she couldn’t deny that she was anxious to get back to writing. As she started up the stairs, however, she encountered Woodson coming down, a worried look on his face.
“Woodson? What is it?” Madeleine paused on the step below him. “Is it His Lordship?”
Woodson hesitated, then said in a lowered voice: “Yes, miss. I am sending for the doctor now.” Glancing beyond her, as if to be certain no one was listening, he added, “He begs me to say nothing to Her Ladyship. He does not wish to distress her or interrupt her party planning.”
“Mum’s the word,” Madeleine nodded. She was sorry to hear this, hated to think of Lord Trevelyan suffering alone in his room all day. A thought suddenly occurred to her—a way that she might be of service to him. “Woodson. Is Lord Trevelyan well enough to receive a visitor?”
“A visitor, miss? Whom do you mean?”
“I mean me.”
A quarter of an hour later, Madeleine found herself seated on a chair at Lord Trevelyan’s bedside with a book on her lap. An elderly nurse knitted in a corner.
“So, Miss Atherton.” Lord Trevelyan lay beneath the quilts, pain and discomfort haunting his eyes. “Woodson said you wished to see me?”
“Yes, please forgive the intrusion,” Madeleine replied. “I know you aren’t feeling well.”
“I am not feeling so ill that I cannot appreciate a visit from a pretty young lady.”
Madeleine smiled. “You’re quite the charmer, my lord.”
“You have got my number, Miss Atherton.” He gave her a small smile in return. “The Lord of Charm, that’s me. Bothers me, though, to see a beauty like yourself buried here in the country, with the Season still underway. Keeping Oakley on tenterhooks, are you?”
Madeleine was determined not to be offended by his comment. “Lord Oakley is away in Europe for the summer. I thought to take that time to consider my answer. Marriage is a big commitment.”
“So it is. End of summer then, I hope to hear good news! I expect another engagement to be announced by then as well—Charles and Sophie. You know they are to marry?”
The remark made Madeleine’s stomach tense. “I’ve heard something about it.”
“It has been Charlotte’s dream since that girl was born, to see those two united in holy wedlock. Sophie is a sweetheart. She will make Charles a fine wife. Don’t you agree?”
“I think Sophie would be very lucky to have him,” Madeleine answered softly.
“There is that, too. One day she will be a marchioness, after all.” He glanced at her. “So. What is all this about? Woodson said you wanted to read me something?”
“If you’re up to it, my lord.” Pushing thoughts of Lord Saunders and Sophie from her mind, Madeleine went on: “I used to read to my grandmother when she was sick. She said it cheered her up to no end.”
Lord Trevelyan made a scoffing sound. “I have not been read to since I was a child.”
“Then you’re missing out, Your Lordship. Listening to a book can be very relaxing. It can help you forget how bad you feel. It’s like a kind of reader’s theater just for you.”
“Theater, eh?” He scratched an elbow through the sleeve of his nightshirt. “Well, I enjoyed that bit of theater you did at Polperran House, Miss Atherton. Can you read to me like that?”
“I’ll give it my best shot, my lord.”
“What do you propose to read?”
She held up the volume she’d brought. “The Diary of Samuel Pepys. Have you read it?”
“Cannot say that I have. Where did you find it?”
“In your library.” Madeleine had been excited to discover the beautifully bound and gilded four-volume collection on the shelves. “I don’t know your taste, but I took a wild guess and hope
d you might enjoy a slice of history.”
“I am very fond of history.”
“Well, this is one of the most fascinating private memoirs ever written. Samuel Pepys began as a clerk and rose to be Chief Secretary to the Admiralty under two kings. He gives a frank, firsthand account of some of the greatest events of the seventeenth century, from the Great Plague and Great Fire of London to the inner workings of the Royal Court and Royal Navy.”
“Indeed?” Lord Trevelyan waved a hand at her. “Get on with it, then.”
For the next hour, Madeleine read aloud to the marquess, who seemed to enjoy both the material and her performance of it. Twice, she noticed his hands close over his belly through the quilts, as his face contorted with pain. The first time it happened, she paused and asked if he wanted her to stop. He insisted that she continue, so she didn’t ask again.
She couldn’t help but stop, however, when he suddenly winced and started massaging his hands. “My lord? Can I help you?”
“No, no. Nothing you can do. It is just this damn tingling in my hands and feet.”
“They tingle?” It upset Madeleine to see him in such distress.
“It is nothing to the agony of the leg cramps at night. But I do not wish to bother you with my problems, Miss Atherton. Please go on,” he urged. “I am quite enamored of this Mr. Pepys.”
There was a sudden tap at the door. The nurse opened it and Dr. Hancock strode in.
“Doctor!” Lord Trevelyan called out cheerfully. “You are not needed. I have found a new medicine: book-reading by an agreeable young woman.”
Dr. Hancock chuckled. Greetings were exchanged. Her visit was clearly at an end. Lord Trevelyan thanked Madeleine. She excused herself, and left.
As she returned to her own chamber, though, Madeleine’s thoughts remained on Lord Trevelyan. Dr. Hancock’s words from the first morning she’d returned to the manor house rang in her ears: He has an array of symptoms that do not normally go together, or point to any one disease.
Something about Lord Trevelyan’s symptoms struck a familiar chord with her, but she didn’t know why. She paced back and forth in her room, struggling to remember. Suddenly, the answer came to her.
Madeleine ran back down the hallway, into the connecting wing, and down yet another corridor. To her relief, when she arrived at Lord Trevelyan’s chambers, Dr. Hancock was just exiting.
“Doctor!” Madeleine called out, stopping to catch her breath. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Certainly. How may I help you, Miss Atherton?”
She walked with him as he made his way down the hall. “I know I am but a visitor here, and no relation to the family. But I am concerned about Lord Trevelyan. As I understand it, he’s had digestive pain for quite a while now.”
“True.”
“I noticed him scratching. He told me he suffers from leg cramps at night and tingling in the hands and feet?”
Dr. Hancock seemed surprised that she would mention such things. “He does,” he replied carefully.
“You said his symptoms do not point to any known disease. This might be nothing. But when I was in town last month, I overheard something that might interest you.”
The doctor appeared to be striving for patience. “What is that, Miss Atherton?”
“I was at a party,” she began slowly, “that was rather boring, so I hid in the library. I was reading a book in a corner when two gentlemen entered the room. They were clearly unaware of my presence, as they began discussing their health concerns. One of them had been suffering from digestive issues, and had just been cured. He’d had severe stomach pain, he said, accompanied by leg cramps that woke him up, tingling in his extremities, and rashes on his elbows, even tooth pain.”
“Indeed?” Dr. Hancock looked intrigued now.
“The man said this had been going on for years, he’d never been so sick in his life, but he was now fully recovered after being treated at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in town.”
“I have heard of it.” Dr. Hancock stopped and turned to her. “Did he say what the treatment was?”
“As I recall, it was something about . . . diet.”
“Diet? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. But His Lordship’s symptoms are so similar, I thought I should mention it.”
“I am glad you did.” Dr. Hancock gave her a nod and started off again. At the top of the stairs, he paused and glanced back. “Miss Atherton. Did the fellow mention the name of the physician who treated him?”
“I think he said ‘Dr. G.’ Which I thought strange at the time, as if he were just using the first initial of the doctor’s name to hide his identity.”
“Dr. G? At St. Bartholomew’s Hospital?” Dr. Hancock seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Then his dark eyebrows lifted and he nodded slowly. “Thank you, Miss Atherton. Good day.” With that, he placed his hat on his head and descended the stairs.
Charles glowered at the typewriter in front of him.
His attempt to redesign the type-bar fork was a complete failure. And no matter how many times he adjusted and readjusted the type bars, he could not get them to swing upward with more speed or agility. If he typed any faster than a snail’s pace, the bars always crashed into each other and stuck.
“Infernal bloody machine,” he spat in disgust. Two days straight, and he’d gotten nowhere.
It hadn’t helped that for all that time, his ability to concentrate had been fractured. Try as he might, he could not prevent his thoughts from continually returning to Miss Atherton.
He could not forget the way she had looked when she’d arrived on his doorstep the other day. The way her cheeks had glowed from her long walk. The way the sun had sparkled on her hair. Once she’d finagled her way inside his private sanctum, it had, just as he’d anticipated, been difficult to keep his thoughts in order, when all he wanted to do was to reach out and touch her.
At the same time, though, it had proven incredibly satisfying to show her what he was working on. She understood him and what he was trying to accomplish. He had enjoyed every moment of her visit. If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell her perfume, could almost imagine that she was standing here again in front of him at this very table while he rolled that piece of paper into the Remington.
He recalled the sensation of his body pressed against her back. The curve of her waist and buttocks. The heat that had emanated from the nape of her neck, so close to his lips, and so inviting. When she had turned in his arms—oh, how he had wanted to kiss her. And not just kiss her. He had wanted to strip every article of clothing from her body, bring her upstairs, and make passionate love to her.
Just as he had wanted to do the day they had kissed in the cave.
The memory of that kiss sent blood coursing through his every vein. He could still feel the sparks that had pulsed through him as his hands had traced patterns on her lithe form. She’d made it clear with every touch of her lips and tongue, every moan and hitch of breath, that she’d enjoyed that kiss in the cave every bit as much as he had.
They both knew it had been a mistake.
We got carried away.
Let’s pretend it never happened.
He had tried to forget. It had proved impossible.
He had tried to stay away from her. But fate kept throwing them together.
Now, she was back at the manor house again, acting—of all things—as Sophie’s companion. The irony was not lost on him. The woman he admired and desperately wanted in his arms was not only almost betrothed to a friend of his, but had become close friends with the woman he was expected to marry. It was the most vexing conundrum in the world, with no solution in sight.
With a sigh, Charles tossed the tool he was holding onto the littered workbench, determined to rise above these useless reflections, which did nothing but torment him. He pulled out his pocket watch. It was after midnight. He was tired, but his stomach rumbled.
He realized he was starving. The last thing he ha
d eaten was the Cornish pasty Mrs. Smith had left for him at six o’clock. Before that, it had just been a ham sandwich at noon. And there wasn’t a thing to eat in his shop.
He went to the window and glanced out. It was a clear night with a three-quarter moon, which should provide sufficient light for the ride home.
Madeleine dipped her pen into the ink bottle and returned it to the page.
It was marvelous to be writing again. There were few occupations that filled her with such pleasure or satisfaction. If she continued working every night after everyone else went to bed, she might actually complete a first draft of the book during her stay at this house.
She scribbled on, her story taking a direction she hadn’t anticipated. Madeleine paused uncertainly and scratched out a sentence, only to have the split-tip metal nib of the pen catch, splashing ink across the page. She sighed in frustration. Now she’d have to copy out the entire page again.
Just then, the clock in the hall struck one. The single, resonant chime caused her to sit up in surprise. Was it really so late? Where had the time gone? She had better retire or she’d never be able to get up in the morning.
Madeleine got ready for bed, climbed beneath the sheets, and closed her eyes. Her entire being, however, still buzzed with the excitement that came from writing. Thoughts and ideas, plots and dialogue, all clamored for attention in her brain.
Finally, unable to sleep, Madeleine threw back the covers and sat up. A cup of hot milk. That was the ticket. Back home, whenever she was up late writing, hot milk had always helped to calm her.
After slipping into her silk dressing gown, Madeleine lit a candle and quietly made her way down the stairs. Although this was her second visit to Trevelyan Manor, she had never actually seen the kitchen, but knew it was on the basement level.
Instinct led her to the far end of the lower floor, where she entered the vast, silent room, expecting to find it cold and dark. To her surprise, a small fire glowed in the enormous hearth, and several lamps were lit. Madeleine heard rustling from a room next door, which she presumed to be a pantry. She wondered if the cook was up late—or very early—preparing something for the morrow.
