Seated at the dressing table, a brush in one hand, he stared at his reflection. What he didn’t understand was that for two years he had functioned reasonably well. The dream had been sporadic. He’d carried on doing what he’d always done. True, there had been doubts, but none strong enough to stop him doing his duty, stop him believing that doing his duty was paramount. Only after Waterloo, when peace was indisputable, when war was over, had his symptoms escalated.
And only after Celeste arrived at Trestain Manor, had he had to cope with not only enduring the symptoms, but confronting the fact that they were in danger of ruining his life.
A flicker of rebellion kindled in his heart. He didn’t want to spend his life enduring. He wanted to have his life back. Not the old one, that was gone for ever, but something preferable to this shadow of a life. Celeste sent his head spinning, she forced him to face a good many unpalatable truths, but she also sent blood rushing to parts of him he’d thought dormant. It frightened him, the thought of giving free reign to the passion she ignited, because he had retained such a tight grip on himself for so long, it was almost impossible for him to think about letting go.
Almost. Jack picked up his other brush and set about taming his hair. Almost was better than completely. Instead of dreading tonight, what he needed to do was to see it as a test. A possible step forward on the road to recovery.
* * *
Celeste was nervous, though she couldn’t account for it. She stood clutching the obligatory small glass of Madeira wine, half-listening to Sir Charles recount a complicated anecdote which seemed to involve a miller, his wife, the village baker, a neighbouring magistrate and, if her ears were not deceiving her, a wheel of Stilton cheese. Celeste took another sip of the sweet wine and smoothed down her gown. It was one of her plainest, of russet-coloured crêpe with a deep V-shaped neckline and high puffed sleeves, the only embellishment being a corded sash tied around the high waistline. Lady Eleanor was dressed far more elaborately in lilac lace. Sir Charles was in full evening dress for the first time since her arrival. Obviously, Auntie Kirsty’s haunch of venison demanded a major effort be made to mark the auspicious occasion. She now regretted her understated choice of attire.
Jack entered the salon just as Lady Eleanor was consulting the clock on the mantel for the third time. He too wore full evening dress. His hair was tamed ruthlessly, his jaw freshly shaved. The deceptively simple cut of his coat, the stark black of the silk suited him. As he strode across the room to bow over Lady Eleanor’s hand, Celeste could not help comparing the two brothers, so similarly attired, and so very different. Sir Charles was probably more classically handsome, but Jack’s imperfections, his austere countenance, were what made him, in Celeste’s eyes, by far the more attractive of the two. She remembered thinking that first day, when she had watched him swimming naked in the lake, that he looked like a man who courted danger.
Heat flooded through her. She should not be thinking of him naked, especially not when he was bowing over her hand. Celeste dipped a formal curtsy, lowering her head to hide her flush. ‘Monsieur.’
‘Mademoiselle. You look beautiful as ever.’
‘And you too look very handsome.’ Though now she studied him, she thought he looked tense. There was no time to pursue the cause of this, however, for at that moment Lady Eleanor’s footman sounded a gong, Sir Charles took his wife’s hand and led the small procession out into the hall and across into the dining room.
Jack was seated opposite her. Sir Charles led the conversation which was primarily concerned with previous haunches of venison and the large parties at which they had been consumed.
‘I hope you’ve not deprived your neighbours of their annual treat on account of me,’ Jack said to Eleanor. ‘After all, it’s not as if I’ve been able to attend more than twice in the last dozen years, while they looked forward to it every year.’
‘Well, to be honest, Jack, we did not think—’
‘What Eleanor means is that we thought it would be cosier to keep it to just the family,’ Sir Charles interrupted hurriedly.
Jack put down his wine glass carefully. ‘Cosier,’ he said with a cold smile. ‘I see.’
Sir Charles rubbed his hands together. ‘Good. Excellent. It is— You must know, Jack, it is good to see you at the table.’
‘You fret about me too much, Charlie.’ Jack pushed his glass aside. ‘I’ve heard reports in the village that it’s going to be a bumper harvest. What do you say?’
His brother was no fool, but as he was, Celeste had noted several times, most definitely a man who avoided confrontation, he was therefore happy to be diverted. Lady Eleanor’s footmen brought in a procession of side dishes. Her ladyship supervised the placing of each, and the brothers chatted about crops. At least, Sir Charles talked, and Jack prompted, saying just enough to keep the conversation ticking over.
The first of the side dishes was already going cold when the door was held open by one footman, and two more entered the dining room bearing an enormous copper platter. Celeste, who was by now rather hungry, felt her mouth watering. The aroma coming from the venison was delicious. The meat looked succulent. Across from her, she caught Jack’s hand curling tightly around the stem of his glass, though he quickly put it down when he noticed her watching him.
She couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. The platter was placed in front of Sir Charles, who made a great show of sharpening the carving knife on a steel before picking up the fork. Blood and juices trickled from the roast haunch as he began to carve through the charred skin.
A footman placed a side dish in front of Jack. A silver tureen containing vegetable broth of some sort, redolent with the herbs of Provence. Surprised, Celeste turned to Lady Eleanor. ‘What is that dish? It smells exactly like home,’ she said.
‘Indeed,’ her ladyship said, gratified. ‘I had cook concoct it as a small gesture to make you feel welcome. I discovered it in a receipt book belonging to Sir Charles’s mother. She was Scottish, you know. I believe the Scots have a great affinity with you French. The Auld Alliance, I believe it is—good heavens, Jack, what on earth is the matter?’
He had turned a deathly pale. As he pushed his chair back, he caught the dish of broth and sent it flying from the footman’s hand. Jack got to his feet, clutching the table and swaying. His skin now had a greenish hue. He was staring at the venison, his eyes dark with horror.
‘Dear lord, I think he is going to be ill, Charles,’ Lady Eleanor exclaimed, turning rather green herself. ‘Charles. Charles!’
Her husband jumped to his feet at the same time as Celeste pushed back her chair and got to hers. Jack swayed. He looked as if he was about to crumple, but when his brother tried to put his arm around him, he swatted it away and began to lurch for the door, his mouth over his hand. Celeste reached him as he clutched the handle. He pushed her to one side and threw himself out into the hallway and from there out of the front door and into the night air.
* * *
Another sleepless night, this one thanks not to his dream but to his lingering and complete mortification. Jack had not actually been physically ill last night. He was trying very hard to see that as some sort of progress, but as he had lain sleepless and sweating in his bed, he replayed the entire hideous scene over and over, to the point where he had thought himself beyond embarrassment. If the dinner had been a test, he’d failed it spectacularly.
Unable to face anyone, knowing he must eventually face them all, he had been wandering aimlessly around the grounds for hours. Exhausted, hungry but unable to contemplate eating, he was instead contemplating retiring to his bed when the sound of voices drifted out through the long French window which gave on to Celeste’s studio.
‘Yes, yes, these are all excellent, Mademoiselle,’ he heard Charlie say.
His brother was giving his approval to the selection of sketches to be painted. They
would all three of them be there. It was an ideal opportunity for Jack to make himself scarce, but he found himself instead positioned behind a trellis which obscured him, but also afforded a view into the studio. It was inevitable that the subject of the dinner would come up. What would their take on it be? Information was the best of ammunition after all. It seemed old habits died hard.
Charlie, unlike his wife, who had studied each of Celeste’s sketches with a great deal of care, gave each a fairly cursory glance, and seemed indiscriminately happy with every one of them. Standing beside him, Celeste, looking pale, with dark circles under her eyes, was struggling to give her patron her full attention. Her gaze drifted over to the window.
Jack froze, though she could not possibly see him. It was ridiculous to be hiding here. He should join them. His feet refused to comply. He wondered fleetingly if this was how Celeste had felt that day—which seemed like months ago—when she had watched him swimming.
Charlie was looking at a view of the lake now. No, he had selected one. Now he was dithering between two views of the Topiary Garden, and Jack could see Celeste making a huge effort not to try to steer him towards the one she herself preferred. She smiled when he opted for it, and pushed the pinery sketches towards him.
‘Yes. Excellent.’ Charlie rubbed his hands together again, a sure sign he was nervous. ‘I wonder if I may be so bold, Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘as to enquire how you find my brother?’
Jack’s hackles rose. Celeste looked wary. ‘I am not sure what you mean. He has been most helpful.’
‘Yes, yes. I can see that.’ Charlie pursed his lips. ‘It cannot have escaped your notice, Mademoiselle, that my brother is not quite— That he is not— That in short, he is rather out of sorts. On occasion.’
‘He has been wounded. I think his arm has given him a great deal of pain. What do you think of this vista, Sir Charles?’
Charlie ignored the proffered sketch. ‘It amounts to more than tetchiness, Mademoiselle. More than the residual pain from a wound now healed. Last night—for heaven’s sake, you witnessed what occurred last night. What in the name of all that’s sacred was that about, do you think?’
Celeste blanched. ‘I don’t know. I was as much— I don’t know.’
Charlie threw the sketch down. ‘The time has come to stop beating about the bush. My wife and I are at our wits’ end. We have tried but we seem singularly ill equipped to help him, Mademoiselle, indeed I think we unintentionally exacerbate matters.’
Jack strained forward. Charlie was leaning over Celeste. Celeste, hindered by the table, was bending backwards. ‘I am fain to embroil you in a private family matter,’ his brother said, ‘but it has struck both my wife and myself that you seem to be able to...well, to influence Jack in a way we cannot.’
‘Monsieur, Sir Charles, I do not...’
‘You do. He listens to you. Eleanor says that it was only at your behest that he finally consented to come to dinner last night.’
‘No.’ Celeste flushed. ‘That is, I might have— But it was very wrong of me. Jack was eager to please you too, Monsieur—Sir Charles. He is not— He— I should not have—’
‘What sparked such an extreme reaction out of the blue like that—that’s what I want to know. It can’t go on, that much is certain.’
Clearly agitated now, Charlie thumped his fist on the table. Jack felt his own fists curl. Appalled, sick to the stomach and furious, he forced himself to listen.
‘He used to be the most even-tempered of chaps,’ Charlie was saying, ‘and now one must constantly be treading on eggshells around him. He barely eats. He hardly sleeps. I don’t know how many times the chambermaid has reported some piece of broken china from his bedchamber. Then there is the way he— He— Our little boy, Robert.’
‘You remember, Mademoiselle Marmion was witness to one of those episodes in the portrait gallery the other day, my love.’
‘Lady Eleanor, I really do think that your son—’
‘I hate to say it,’ Charlie interrupted again. ‘It pains me a great deal to say it, but I must protect my child from upset or worse. Last night, you will admit, Mademoiselle, that Jack was quite out of control?’
‘He was— I admit he was not himself.’
Celeste! It was like a punch in the gut. Jack closed his eyes, only to find himself immediately swamped with the smell of that damned soup and the ferrous tang of bloody meat and scorched flesh. He swayed, clutching at the trellis for support. He opened his eyes. Deep breaths. More.
It was as if he was watching a play, the voices booming and fading, his own vision wavering. Celeste was wringing her hands. Charlie was tirading. Celeste was shaking her head. Jack shook his like a dog after a swim.
‘We don’t know,’ Charlie was saying. ‘That’s the nub of it, we simply don’t know. My brother is not the man he was. I hoped we could help him. Fresh country air, good food, that sort of thing. But he is getting worse. We don’t know what he will do next, and I’m not sure we can afford to wait and see. I would suggest he see a medical man, one who specialises in matters of the mind, but...but dear God, I cannot contemplate having my brother confined.’
Confined? Stunned, Jack wondered if he’d misheard.
‘Confined!’ Celeste went quite still. ‘Sir Charles, are you saying that you believe Jack—Monsieur Trestain is—is of unsound mind?’
Silence greeted this remark. Jack waited, every muscle clenched so tight his jaw ached. Charlie shuffled his feet. He rubbed his hands together. He cast Eleanor an anguished look. Then he sighed. ‘I must confess with a heavy heart that I fear it may be the case,’ he said, and Jack, with a growl of fury, launched himself through the French doors and into the studio.
* * *
Lady Eleanor screamed. Sir Charles froze in mid-sentence. Jack’s expression was thunderous and extremely intimidating, but instead of cowering, Celeste caught herself at the last moment and stood her ground.
He looked wild. His eyes were stormy. His fingers were furling and unfurling into fists. ‘I am of a certainty not mad, Charlie.’
‘I didn’t say—’
‘You did.’ Jack took a menacing step towards his brother. Sir Charles shrank back. ‘“I must confess...I fear it may be the case” is what you said.’
‘Yes, and I also said it was with a very heavy heart I did so,’ Charlie countered.
‘You should not have been listening in to a private conversation,’ Lady Eleanor said primly. ‘Eavesdroppers, it is well known, never hear any good of themselves.’
‘Eavesdropping is one of the many things I was required to do to protect my country,’ Jack said, rounding on her with a snarl. ‘A duty I discharged assiduously. Would you rather I had not?’
Her ladyship blanched, but Jack turned his attention back to his brother. ‘Tell me I am not mad, Charlie.’
‘Well, you must admit, you’re not precisely stable, old chap,’ Sir Charles said, accompanied by a feeble attempt at a smile, in an utterly misguided attempt to inject humour into the situation.
Jack recoiled, whirling around to face Celeste. ‘And you! You must think it too, else you would not have asked the question in the first place. You, of all people! I thought...’
‘Jack...’ Celeste took hold of his arm and gave it a shake ‘...Jack, you must know that I don’t think...’
He shook her off. He staggered against a gilt-leafed side table. The bowl of dried flowers which sat on it clattered to the ground and smashed. He stared at them all blankly.
Celeste took hold of his arm once again. ‘Jack.’
He removed her fingers gently. ‘Let me alone.’ He straightened his shoulders and marched towards the door. It closed behind him gently.
Chapter Eight
‘Why did you say that he was not stable?’ Celeste turned furiously on Sir Charles. �
��You could not have said anything more damaging had you tried. Jack has not lost his mind, but a part of him is afraid he might. Eh, bien, he asks his only brother for a little reassurance and what does he get?’
Sir Charles looked shocked to the core. ‘I did not intend— I would never— With respect, Mademoiselle, you have been here a matter of days. Eleanor and I have been living with this situation for months. We have tried ignoring him, we have tried pretending nothing is wrong, and now we have tried confronting him. You saw the effect. I am most—most— I am extremely concerned about my brother.’
Lady Eleanor put a comforting hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Sir Charles has only his brother’s best interests at heart. This has been a terrible strain for all of us. I am as shaken as my husband by Jack’s decline. We have the advantage over you, Mademoiselle, of knowing Jack before this—this change. You must believe me when I tell you it is drastic. And then there is our son.’
‘Jack loves Robert, Madame—Lady Eleanor. That is precisely why he doesn’t want to fill his head with the barbarity of war. You asked me how I found Jack. Well, I will tell you, for what it is worth. I think he is a deeply unhappy man, and also a very brave one. I think that he has seen and done things that none of us can even imagine. Things so horrific he cannot sleep for thinking of it. All this, he has done unquestioningly in the name of you and your country and your little boy. I think he deserves better than to be told by his own flesh and blood that he is mad. That is what I think. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find him.’
‘But, Mademoiselle, Jack made it very clear he wanted to be left alone, I don’t think...’
Ignoring Sir Charles, Celeste made her way out of the French window, and quickly across the stretch of lawn. She wondered if she had managed for the first time ever to get herself dismissed from a commission, but she could not, at this moment, bring herself to care. She did not know where Jack had gone but she had a pretty good idea where to start looking.
* * *
He was sitting on a rock, casting pebbles into the lake, his expression forbidding. Celeste was tempted, for a moment, to turn tail. Perhaps Sir Charles was right, and it would be best to leave him alone. She had no idea what to say. She had no idea what was wrong with Jack, but she had missed the chance once before, to try to comfort a person in torment, and she was not going to repeat the mistake by running away from a similar situation.
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