Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  With a long breath, she pushed her unfinished eggs and toast away from her. “Thomas, our relationship has been wonderful—”

  “I think so, too,” he remarked casually, lifting his fork, piled with eggs, to his lips. “And far too involving to give up after such a short time. We have lots to learn about each other, Madeleine.”

  She watched him fill his mouth and chew, regarding his food, not reacting at all as if she were serious. Setting a firm tone, she clarified her statement. “It’s been a wonderful few weeks, Thomas, but affairs like ours always end. I’m not happy about it, but let’s let it end satisfactorily, shall we? As friends and companionable colleagues? Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  He swallowed and wiped his lips with his napkin, looking at her again, quiet and evaluating for a moment, though his expression had intensified. He no longer appeared quite so congenial.

  “Classifying what we’ve shared intimately as a simple affair is awfully convenient for you, isn’t it?” he returned dryly, becoming disinterested in the remainder of his breakfast as he lowered his plate to the tray. “It allows you to return home, your time in England neatly tied up into a little package of delightful memories that you can tuck away in the back of your mind while you revert to your private, uncomplicated life.”

  That irritated her, perhaps because he was all too close to conveying the truth, though she would never admit that to him. She also didn’t want to argue the point. Regardless of their personal feelings, she needed to remain pragmatic.

  Folding her hands primly in her lap, she tried again to clarify. “I didn’t mean to imply that what we’ve had between us has been fanciful or unimportant, only that it hasn’t…” Her forehead creased as she attempted to find the right words. “It hasn’t been very practical in terms of finality. We both knew this love affair would end sometime.”

  “Did we?” He looked at her blankly, features flat. “So this relationship, to you, is impractical because you thought of it as temporary?”

  The more he talked in circles, the more irritated she became, and all the more flustered. “The relationship itself has been practical in that we both found comfort and companionship in each other’s arms for a time. Continuing it would be impractical.”

  “I see.”

  When he said nothing more, she decided to add in explanation, “I think it would be more accurate to describe our relationship as a short, enjoyable…escapade, with memories we’ll both treasure for years to come.”

  He remained silent for another second or two, but he peered into her eyes, almost intrusively. It made her uncomfortable.

  “Tell me, Maddie,” he murmured, his voice becoming resonant in the small room, “how do you feel about France?”

  That bothered her tremendously, although she wasn’t sure why precisely. She did her best to hide it by stalling. “I’m not sure what you want me to say—”

  “Just answer the question,” he insisted.

  After a moment of edginess, she fairly announced, “I enjoy its warmth, of course. I miss that and my home in Marseille, my personal things, my work—”

  “That’s a very superficial answer,” he cut in rather sharply, “and not what I asked you.”

  She squirmed a little and dropped her lashes to avoid his gaze, studying the tight weave of the dark blue sheets, refusing to respond to a query that concerned very complex and deep-seated feelings of anguish and longing and resentment—toward her mother for ignoring her goodness, her father for leaving her time and again and finally forever, for her childhood of which she had been robbed, and her past in a country that offered her, in itself, nothing.

  Instead, she whispered, “Desdemona thinks you’re in love with me.”

  The air between them shifted violently, like a fierce, blustering thunderstorm. She could positively feel the abrupt static charge as the blood began to surge through her veins and her words, and fears, hit their target.

  “Is it true?” she urged in a silky wisp of hope, her apprehension about his forthcoming answer probably apparent in her somewhat ill-confident voice.

  Huskily, seconds later, he whispered, “Would you stay in England if I said I was?”

  Her eyes shot up to meet his, and were suddenly seized by his flagrant, torrid gaze.

  She caught her breath; her skin flushed and her heart fluttered. Then the truth revealed its ugly self, and all flickering hope died within her. She understood his desires all too clearly. “Would you lie to me to keep me here? I make a marvelous plaything, don’t I, Thomas?”

  He shook his head slowly and sneered with disgust, leaning back on his palms, though he never glanced away. “Is that what you think I want? You’ve insulted me by insulting my opinion of you, my feelings for you, but I’m going to ignore it,” he maintained grimly, his dark, heated eyes steady as they blatantly challenged her. “I have more at stake by answering your question about love than you do in hearing that answer, Madeleine. So I’ll ask you again: If I professed a great love for you, would you stay in England?”

  His continued ambiguity made her truly frustrated and angry to the point where she could no longer avoid revealing it. “Remain in England to do what? Be your ready mistress? Marry you? Become the devoted wife to a…a…middle-aged, intellectual spy, while we roam the countryside solving crimes together when we’re not entertaining our neighbors at tea? Where would we live? A small cottage in a tiny village in Eastleigh? How would we spend our days? Our evenings?” Her voice became frigid. “I do not knit, garden, or mother children, Thomas. Regardless of love, there has to be more substance to an extended relationship than enjoying one another’s company while playing chess.”

  His eyes grew caustic and stormy, narrowing to thin slits. “I suppose there’s nothing more to say since you seem to find the idea of a future with me repugnant—”

  “I do not,” she seethed in a quiet, controlled vehemence, sitting forward, mindless of the sheet and blankets falling to her waist, exposing her. “Do not twist my words to take the easy way out by making me the villain. What I’m saying is that I find all of this”—she flung her hand wide—“a fairy tale, and fairy tales may be marvelous, but they are for children, Thomas. In a few short years I will be middle-aged as well, and losing my appeal. What gentleman will want me then? Would you? Let us be very candid here. I am a used woman, a woman who has lived on my own, supporting myself and doing what was needed to provide for my necessities while at the same time attempting to keep what dignity I possess intact. When I was twenty, I found that opportunity in my work for your government and I took it. I won’t give it up for love, for you, for anything or anyone, not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t. The only way I can protect my future is to save as much of my income as possible while working at a profession where I am valued, where my position is secure. What I do is vitally important to my life in later years, my self-preservation, my commitment to my father’s homeland, and most importantly my self-respect. My work is all I have, and I am needed—needed—in France.”

  Although she knew it would hurt him deeply, she sat erect and squared her shoulders defiantly, adding tersely, “I believe you are infatuated with me, Thomas, not in love. Lots of men have felt the same way before you, and there will probably be others to follow, before I become old and undesirable to all of them. It is an illusion, and illusions are easy to put aside when they are honestly faced. This is what you will do when I leave.”

  For an endless moment all that could be heard was the pattering of rain on the roof above and his slow, steady breathing as he sat only a foot away, eyes hard as glass, jaw rigidly set, his body like stone. Then when she thought her pounding heart might explode through her chest, he slowly looked away and stood, walking tensely to the door.

  Pausing with his hand on the knob, and without a glance in her direction, he said brusquely, “I don’t see how expressing my feelings is relevant when you’ve obviously decided they don’t matter.”

  He left the
bedroom, slamming the door behind him for good measure.

  Chapter 23

  Madeleine bathed at the inn for a final time, plaited her clean, wet hair and set it in two hoops around her ears. She then dressed in her plum silk day gown, bundled herself into her mantle and muff, hood over her head to avoid the chill, and walked swiftly back to the cottage.

  Her heart was breaking, she supposed, and yet her mind was firmly set. She would not give in to irrational feelings or harsh persuasion or the sight of Thomas looking at her as if he were losing his greatest friend. She hadn’t seen him since their row this morning, and that was probably for the best. He had left the cottage, and alone she had cleaned the breakfast dishes, tidied up, dressed, and packed some of her things for her return trip which would likely be a day or two from now. She’d visited with Mrs. Mossley and Lady Isadora for the last time, extending her good wishes and promising to write, explaining that her work with the scholar was almost finished.

  She hadn’t cried in years, and didn’t intend to at her departure from Winter Garden. It was a necessary parting, and she would make the best of the sadness to follow. The snowfall had been magical three nights ago, as had her and Thomas’s feelings for each other when they’d made love beside the fire. Since then a gray bleakness had fallen on the village, and reality on them.

  She would get over the pain of her departure, and she would not cry.

  She would not cry.

  Madeleine strode briskly onto the porch and opened the door to the cottage, her heart dancing nervously because she knew Thomas would be back by now. She didn’t want to argue, but she wasn’t sure she could resist him if he tried to make love to her, and she was fairly certain he would try. Giving in to him would be disastrous, for the act would only unmask how she felt deep within her, exposing the lie she’d so emphatically proclaimed just a few hours ago.

  But Sir Riley was due to arrive at four, and it was already half past three. Hopefully the time would keep her safe from revealing what was in her heart.

  She heard deep male voices as she entered the foyer, however, coming from the front room, and she quickly realized that the Londoner had arrived early. Her agitation increased with every step as she walked into the parlor. She should have been here to welcome him at his arrival, as Sir Riley was her employer, and all that she did was under scrutiny while in his company. Even now she must look and act her best, her most confident self, and that would be a terribly difficult thing to do with Thomas standing only a few feet away, watching her, thinking about the intimate conversation they’d shared where they’d separated so hastily and on such uncertain terms.

  She noticed him first, dressed rather formally in a charcoal-gray suit, black and gray diagonally striped waistcoat, white silk shirt, and black cravat. His hair was combed away from his face and he had recently shaved. Her stomach clenched again at just the sight of him, for as usual, he was impressive to behold, his handsome, commanding presence pervading the room.

  Sir Riley, the younger man by two or three years, was just as imposing as Thomas, and almost as tall and firmly built. He had raven hair and hazel eyes that absorbed detail rather than looked it over, and the intelligence to match the finest scholar. He also possessed a keen sense of truth that gave him the natural ability to discern either a flagrant lie or the slightest prevarication, from the common individual to the well-bred. This made him the perfect man for his position in national security, and Madeleine admired him tremendously for his talents. He maintained a shrewd bearing, but his personality was altogether charming. Also an extremely handsome man, he was someone she might have taken an interest in at another place, in another circumstance. Now such thoughts seemed irrelevant, even laughably adulterous.

  Both men noticed her at the same time—Thomas standing squarely in front of the mantelpiece, a small fire burning in the grate behind his legs, Sir Riley leaning against the north windowsill, gazing out to the gray stillness of the midafternoon. They became silent immediately and turned her way when they heard the clicking of her heels on the foyer floor.

  Thomas’s eyes grazed her figure once, thoroughly, his expression neutral, and at that moment she would have given her life savings to know exactly what he was thinking, what he thought of her, how he felt. That sudden realization staggered her with an incredulity so great she nearly began to cry on the spot. She refused to stay in England because of the life she’d created for herself in France; and yet it was amazingly clear to her now that her future meant very little if Thomas couldn’t be happy. She could make him happy, and there was no one alive who deserved it more—

  “My dear, Madeleine!” Sir Riley fairly bellowed, breaking into her troubled thoughts. “How lovely to see you again, and under such engaging circumstances.” He moved toward her, his gait formal, but a smile of unaffected pleasure lighting his face.

  She blinked quickly to recover herself, yanking her mind back to the present situation, planting an enchanting grin on her lips and extending her hand. “It is always a pleasure, Sir Riley, and how well you look. Was your trip to Winter Garden satisfactory?”

  “Thank you, it was, quite,” he replied, drawing her knuckles to his lips then swiftly releasing them. “A frigid ride on the train as I forgot a hot-water bottle, and there wasn’t one available. But at least the snow had melted, and the roads were once again passable by coach when I journeyed into the village.” He shook his head, brows drawn in consideration. “Rather unusual for this part of England to see such snowfall.”

  “So I’ve been told,” she acknowledged politely.

  He stood back on his heels, hands clasped together behind him. “I took a room at the inn upon my immediate arrival. It seems to be warm and comfortable enough for my needs. I intend to get a good night’s rest before the events of tomorrow unfold.”

  She glanced to Thomas, who stood unyielding in front of the small fire, head bowed, gaze down, arms to his sides, though he nervously tapped his fingers against his thumbs.

  “Perhaps it would be best, Sir Riley, if we all sit so that you can explain what is to take place,” she submitted warmly. “Or have you two already been discussing it?”

  His eyes widened as if he couldn’t imagine that. “Oh, no, not really,” he insisted. “Our conversation has centered mostly around the unusual weather and everyone’s health, of course. That sort of thing. And I’m very glad to know you’ve both managed to escape the nasty influenza that’s so recently struck. But, no, we were waiting for you before we began an in-depth discussion, Madeleine.”

  Madeleine suppressed a laugh of delight. The man was highly charming in an extremely adorable way, reminding her of a favorite stuffed doll a child might cuddle with and carry by the throat.

  No, not a doll. A large, stuffed bear.

  “Would you care for tea?” she asked sweetly, wondering why Thomas hadn’t offered it.

  “Oh, no. Thank you, no,” he declined with a wave of his hand. “I’m saving my appetite for stew and ale at the inn very shortly. I won’t be here long, as I’m sure you and”—he shot a quick glance to Thomas—“and Mr. Blackwood have much to discuss.”

  That statement struck her forcibly, though she wasn’t exactly sure why.

  How much does he know?

  “Of course, Sir Riley,” she said as expected, refusing to give her discomfiture away as she ushered him to the sofa with her palm. “Please be seated.”

  Thomas had yet to say a word upon her entering. She tried not to let that bother her as she walked around the tea table, her skirts sweeping across his booted legs even when she tried to avoid them, seating herself at the farthest end of the sofa, away from his chair should he choose to occupy it.

  He didn’t appear to even notice her, remaining transfixed on the rug at his feet, his hands behind his back now, the slightest of frowns crossing his complex face.

  Sir Riley sat beside her, one leg crossed over the knee of the other, maintaining a relaxed demeanor as he cleared his throat to begin.

&n
bsp; “Well,” he started, attempting to chip away the ice, “let’s get down to the business at hand, shall we? I…um…think I have a plan in mind that will entrap the baron and expose his unlawful doings as he carries out another illicit theft.”

  Madeleine’s eyes widened in surprise, and pride. English pride. How clever this man was. “You’re going to set him up to be caught in the act,” she whispered aloud. “How marvelous. I cannot wait to see the shock in his eyes when he is arrested. What an arrogant man.”

  Thomas looked at her for the first time, betraying nothing. “It’s the only way to be sure we can convict him,” he remarked evenly. A small smile tugged at the left corner of his mouth, momentarily hiding his scar, though she wasn’t certain if it was a smile of genuine or sarcastic pleasure. “Desdemona, although a magnificent witness, could turn on us and decide not to testify at the last minute.” He lowered his voice to a meaningful murmur, “We need proof, and she is, after all, a fanciful young lady.”

  The hidden significance of that did not go unnoticed, and Madeleine squirmed on the sofa, turning her attention to Sir Riley. “I’d like to be involved, then. He wants to take me through the tunnels, and with a note to him, I’m sure it would be easy for me to gain access. Perhaps I can…accidentally discover something, catch him in the act of lying. Maybe unnerving him is enough.” She shrugged. “Then again, maybe I can see the opium and witness the rest of his operation.”

  Sir Riley became immediately uncomfortable, his gaze shifting from Thomas to her and back again. He shuffled his feet by changing their positions, his hands rubbed his trousers over his thighs, and with that, Madeleine got the first real hint that things were not as they appeared.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked cordially, her pulse beginning to speed beneath her calm, professional manner.