This speech sounded more than a little glib, and I wondered if she had recited it frequently as a defense for dispensing with her own mourning. Nevertheless, I was willing to be persuaded; however uncomfortably her reasoning sat with me, I agreed with it in its general import, and soon we returned to the happy task of debating the relative merits of cherry-red satin and peacock-green taffeta.
At her insistence, I chose fabric for two more day dresses, a riding habit (I had never been on horseback), and three dinner gowns. Although she encouraged me to choose what I wished, the duchess gently led me toward more appropriate choices for my remaining costumes than I had made for my dressing gowns. This suited me; I did not wish to appear eccentric, and would gladly dress demurely in public as long as I could wear the rich things I loved for myself. She summoned back Mrs. Prescott, who softened sufficiently to agree to have the hyacinth dress ready for me to wear the next day, and after having deluged me with delicate new stockings, lingerie, and nightgowns of the softest silk, she let me go.
As I wandered back to my room to dress for dinner, my head spinning with visions of dazzling colors, I realized suddenly that my predilection for rich fabrics and colors was something I had in common with Lionel. I had never before had the opportunity to discover such a preference, and I found it comforting to feel this kinship with a brother who, although much loved, never seemed much like me. It made him seem nearer to me, as if some tiny flicker of his character lived still.
I hoped, however, that this newfound sympathy did not mean I would also discover a penchant for Madeira and cards.
At dinner I was able, for once, to converse on a subject dear to Felicity’s heart, as she clamored to hear about my new gowns and told me in return all the details of the dresses she would be ordering once she was allowed to wear long skirts. Felicity was in a sort of no-man’s-land at seventeen: although she still had a governess and wore short skirts she was allowed to take part in conversation with guests and even to flirt mildly with the bachelors, unusual liberties for a girl who had not yet come out. I wondered if this was due to the duchess’s indulgence and blithe disregard for conventions—at least, for those that inconvenienced her. I was certain that Felicity and I both benefited from the duchess’s protection; anyone of less stature than she would not be able to flout society’s strictures so blatantly without enduring widespread censure, even rejection.
I wondered, though, if even her rank exempted the duchess completely; had she had to face down strong opposition when she discarded her mourning crepe and made her scandalous remarriage? Had she had to endure the humiliation of being cut by former friends? I remembered her compressed lips yesterday when she opened her mail, and the voice in which she had told Jenkins that the Willow Room and Clock Room would not be needed. Clearly some of her invitations were being rejected. No wonder she had made so wry an appraisal of convention that evening.
Now I recalled also Miss Yates’s estimation of the duchess as a woman of strength, a quality I had not formerly associated with her. Perhaps the duchess was not the ingenuous creatures she appeared to be, but something like the gowns she wore: to all appearances insubstantial and frivolous, but with a foundation of steel and whalebone under all the ruffles. This new and intriguing line of thought occupied me through the end of the meal.
It was a miserable night, with rain pounding down and a rising wind whipping it against the windows with a sound like flung pebbles, and the drawing room after dinner was all the cozier by contrast. Charles and his father played at chess in front of the fire while Felicity tried out a new piece on the pianoforte.
“Come, Aunt Gwendolyn, sing for us,” she urged, and with very little persuasion the duchess did so. Her sweetly clear soprano lured her husband’s attention from the game, and at his suggestion I took his place at the board so that he could join the group at the piano. Charles caught my eye over the chess pieces and smiled as Lord Claude’s pleasant baritone joined in the song.
“They complement each other very well, don’t they?” he said in an undertone, and I had to agree. Lord Claude never returned to the chess board.
Herron had not appeared, and I wondered if he was keeping his rooftop vigil. Surely, though, on such a night even he would remain indoors.
By the time we retired, the wind had risen: it whined shrilly around the casements of my room, and sheets of rain battered the windows as I climbed into bed. It was so loud I could not have heard Herron’s footsteps overhead if he had been there. I wriggled down under the covers and drew the eiderdown up around my shoulders, devoutly glad to be sheltered and warm.
The storm made me restless, though, and I did not feel like sleep. After an hour of wakefulness I sighed and left my bed long enough to fetch Varney the Vampyre, the book Lionel had urged on me before leaving for battle. It was not what I would have chosen, but a belated feeling of guilt at discarding my mourning suggested that reading it would be a sisterly gesture. And if any night was an appropriate setting for vampire attacks and disappearing corpses, it was this one. I burrowed under the bedclothes again and started to read, not without another sigh at the length of the book. Nine hundred pages seemed rather a large atonement for a new gown. Composing myself to patience, I lit a candle and embarked on the sanguine adventures of Sir Francis Varney.
Clear and distinct through the gusting of the storm came another sound. I looked up. The handle of my door was moving. Without taking my eyes from the door or stopping to think I reached a hand out and snuffed my candle, perhaps out of some obscure notion of hiding myself. The fire still cast its autumnal glow on the hearthrug, but I now sat in dimness.
Silent now, the door opened, and a figure moved into the room. I sat upright in amazement as Herron closed the door behind him with a faint click and stood there, his eyes searching the darkened room.
In the first moment I felt only shock, and never considered that I might be in a perilous position. Certainly nothing in his appearance or manner suggested that he had come here out of amorous motives, or even conscious choice. He streamed with rainwater; he wore no coat or cloak, and his shirt was sticking transparently to his body, so that he shivered, dripping, where he stood. Probably he had been driven from the roof to the first warm room by the elements. Surely he must realize by now that it was tenanted? Embarrassed, I cleared my throat to speak.
At the sound he turned such a devastated face to me that I was startled into pushing the bedclothes back and stepping to the floor with the half-formed intent of going to him.
“What is it?” I whispered, awed by the terrible anguish in his face. He raised an unsteady hand to push the hair out of his eyes. His whole body was trembling, in short hard spasms; it could not be only the cold. He looked at the end of his strength, and I wondered how long he would be able to stand.
“I’ll ring for someone and—” I began.
“Father.”
It was all he said before his knees buckled and, with a piercing stab of pity, I ran to him, thinking to help him to his feet. But kneeling he clutched at me, wrapping his arms around me so tightly that I had to catch at his shoulders to keep from falling. His face pressed into my waist, he began to cry, with great racking sobs like a child’s. Through the thin silk of my nightdress they burned against my skin, and I shivered. Hesitantly I touched his hair, smoothed it.
“There, now. It’s all right.” What comfort could I offer in the face of such pain? Chafing at my helplessness, I put my arms around his shoulders, stroked his head.
“…wasn’t there.” His voice was muffled against my body.
“Hush now, dearest.” He must be upbraiding himself for not having been there at the end. Had he been carrying that guilt all these weeks?
Still shaken with sobs, he said no more. When his arms loosened for a moment I slipped through them so that I knelt to face him. His face was damp with tears now as well as rain, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss the tear-streaked face. To keep on kissing it. Once or twice I even th
ought the kisses returned, but when I drew back to look at him his eyes were drifting closed, his breath quieting; he leaned against me more heavily.
I should, I suppose, have awakened one of the servants and had him taken to his own room. Instead I draped one of his arms around my shoulders and helped him to his feet. Half pulling, half supporting him I got him to the bed and into it. With a little trouble I peeled his wet shirt off him and hung it before the fire; I was able to remove his boots more swiftly. I crept around to the other side of the bed and leaned across to pull the covers over him; I could sleep on the sofa before the fire and need only a blanket. But I may have lingered longer than I needed to arranging the coverlet, and, as I started to draw back, his eyelids quivered and one hand fastened around my wrist.
“Don’t go. Please.”
The words were sleep-slurred, barely a murmur. Gazing at the flushed face, the long eyelashes spiky with tears where they lay against his cheeks, I did not even think of protesting. I lay down beside him and, with my hand clasped in his, he sighed once and slept.
I could not. Like Psyche with Eros, I could not resist the pleasure of observing him. I had never been in the presence of so beautiful a man, never seen such a lean, finely muscled body except in a sculpture. The arm that rested outside the counterpane swelled with a strength my own did not possess, and I marveled at the contrast. His skin was golden where the firelight touched, except where the beginnings of beard darkened his jaw. Carefully, for fear of waking him, I reached out with one finger to trace the strong line of his shoulder.
At the touch he stirred, turning on his side, so that his face rested very near mine on the pillow. His breath feathered against my cheek, and for a second my heart seemed to forget to beat at the pleasure of that touch. At last my eyes, lingering on his face, began to close, and breathing each other’s breath we slept.
Chapter Seven
I woke before dawn, remembering his presence even before my eyes opened, knowing I must wake him and send him away before he was discovered with me. But he was already gone. His shirt and boots had vanished as well, and the only sign he had been there at all was the hollow in the pillow next to mine, still damp from his rain-wet hair. I stared for a moment at the empty place, then moved over to fill it, resting my head in the place where his had lain.
It was a gloomy day when it dawned. The rain had given way to implacable cold and a snow-colored sky, in whose sullen light the world looked stale and dreary. I lingered in bed, turning over the events of the night before. I was surprised at myself for having behaved with so little regard for propriety. I was even more surprised that I could not feel ashamed for it. I had acted partly out of an instinctive desire to comfort him, as if he’d been a child and I his mother. But only partly. Even in the chill austerity of morning I could call up the picture of him sleeping next to me and feel my heart thud against my ribs at the memory.
What would he say to me?
This thought struck me as I was getting out of bed, and I sat down again under the weight of it. Perhaps, I thought in a rush of humiliation that sent the blood to my cheeks, I had been too welcoming, too forward. Certainly any so-called lady who allowed a man into her room, let alone her bed, could expect to be branded a loose woman. But he had seemed so vulnerable. Surely he would not reward compassion, however unsuitable, with contempt—or, worse, with an attempt to take advantage of it.
Not for the first time since arriving at Ellsmere I wished I had had a more conventional upbringing. If I had been brought up properly, I would have simply shrieked and fainted when Herron appeared in my room, thereby avoiding the consequences of an ill-considered decision.
But I’m glad I didn’t, I thought, remembering his face so near mine, his hair under my fingers. Oh, I’m glad I didn’t faint.
Perhaps he would be dismissive, or even insulting. I knew so little about him, after all; maybe I had been unwise to greet him with such trust. But I could not forget that in his grief he had come to me, and no one else. That must mean something. With a rush of renewed optimism I bounded off the bed and snatched up my hairbrush.
“My, you’re looking pleased with yourself, miss,” commented Jane, as she brought in hot water to wash in. “You look like the cat with cream on her whiskers, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Not at all, Jane,” I said, smiling as I plied the hairbrush. “Is my new dress ready? I’d like to wear it.”
“Yes, of course, miss. I’ll fetch it myself and send Mary in to lace you. She has stronger wrists than I.”
That sent a qualm through me, but even the prospect of being strong-armed into a corset could not dampen me for long. If the events of last night had meant anything, it was that there was some special bond between Herron and me. Now I could be sure that it was not just my own feeling, but his as well. Surely it had not been a random search for shelter that had brought him to me, as I had thought at first: he must have sought me out deliberately.
When I reached the breakfast room I was not surprised to find only Charles and Lord Claude there. The duchess rose late, and Felicity and Miss Yates often took their breakfast apart from the family when they had morning lessons. Father and son were on their feet at once with their usual perfect manners. They wished me good morning, and Charles’s eyebrows went up at the sight of me. The admiration in his eyes buoyed my high spirits even further.
“This must be one of the famous new gowns.” He drew out a chair for me and stood back for a moment to survey me further. “My stepmother has talked of little else for days; now I understand why she was so pleased with herself. It suits you beautifully.”
“It does?” I said, so hopefully that Charles smiled as he moved to the sideboard to serve me a plate.
“You look radiant. Don’t you agree, father?”
“Yes, indeed. You look lovely, my dear. Although,” he added, taking up his newspaper, “a bit flushed. You aren’t feeling feverish, I hope?”
“Why, no; I’ve never felt better.” I took a sip of tea to try to calm myself. My excitement must be very visible.
Lord Claude frowned nevertheless. “We can’t have you getting ill, now. Charles, what do you think? Isn’t her color high?”
He glanced at me over his shoulder as he spooned eggs onto my plate with abandon. “A bit, yes. But that may be the effect of the corset. I am correct in thinking my stepmother has forced one of those awful appurtenances onto you?”
“Charles, behave yourself,” said his father mildly. “You’ll embarrass her.”
Charles put my plate down before me. It was heaped high with food, and I regarded it doubtfully. Even if I had not been too happy to eat, the grip of my new stays made swallowing more than two bites seem an impossibility.
“I’m sorry if I’m too frank,” he said, seating himself next to me. “As a student of medicine I feel I have the right to speak openly about anything that can damage your health, and squeezing yourself into a steel-ribbed sausage casing…”
“Charles.”
“Yes, yes. You’re right, Father. I’ll confine myself to observations about the weather; much safer. My dear Miss Pembroke, do you believe we shall have snow soon?”
I laughed and picked up my fork. “It does seem to threaten, Mr. Reginald.”
“It does indeed. I wonder if snow will put a stop to Herron’s Wertheresque wanderings.” Charles offered me the strawberry preserves and, when I shook my head, applied them vigorously to a scone. “It would be a pity for him to contract pneumonia in the name of Romanticism.”
“Perhaps something more than an excessive love for the works of Goethe is behind his wish to be alone,” I said, feeling less cordial toward him. “Her—the duke does not strike me as someone who would put himself to such an effort merely for the sake of conforming to the Romantic standard.”
“Do you think so?” He glanced at his father, who lowered his newspaper as if sensing the gaze.
“I believe I’ll go see if I can raise Gwendolyn,” he said, standin
g. “You’ll excuse me, my dear.” With a courteous bow he left the table, and Charles continued his remarks as soon as his father was out of earshot.
“I’ll allow that Herron has reason to feel alone and unhappy. I’ll never forget what I went through when my mother died. It’s not that I think he shouldn’t mourn. But it’s surely not necessary—or kind, for that matter—for him to flaunt his unhappiness to such an extent.”
“Flaunt!” I exclaimed before I could stop myself.
He shrugged. “That’s the way it seems to me.”
My former feelings of amiability toward Charles had waned considerably. I jabbed at my breakfast with the beginnings of ill temper. “Must you be so critical of him?”
Charles grinned good-naturedly. “It is the primary benefit of being a stepbrother.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “As a mere cousin, you must have been sadly restricted in your remarks.”
He was silent for a moment, watching me pick at my rapidly cooling kippers. “I’m actually more than a little worried about him,” he said in a different voice, “but he won’t listen to me when I tell him to take more care of himself. He really will catch pneumonia one of these days, out roaming at all hours, never eating—”
“Forever the student of medicine.” I reached for the teapot, having abandoned any attempt to eat. “Can a man not enjoy a stroll without risking his life, and your censure?”
He looked startled at my vehemence, but smiled. “Forgive me; you’re quite right. At times I can become a monomaniac. If I say anything more about pneumonia, you may empty the teapot over my head.” His face sobered. “Nevertheless, I cannot help but be concerned about him. Perhaps not his physical condition as much as—”
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