Masquerade

by Susan Carroll

  Cold ... she had never felt such numbing cold. The water soaked quickly through her gown, the lengths of her cloak tangling about her legs, weighting her down. She had not had time to catch her breath, and the water choked her.

  In those first few terrifying moments, she forgot everything Gilly had ever taught her. Paralyzed with panic and the icy cold, she floundered, her frantic movements only serving to drag her down. She broke the surface once, then immediately sank again before she could draw air into her tortured lungs.

  She was drowning, dying, her arms and legs becoming numb. Her struggles grew weaker and weaker, the pain in her chest unbearable. Images of her life shifted through her mind, the last one of James, his dark windswept hair, his mouth so tender. So warm, all of him-except for those cold blue eyes, so cold, so very cold.

  Phaedra surrendered, letting blackness take her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Phaedra shivered, drawing up the ends of a ragged blanket to ward off the chill. Such intense cold could spring only from the regions of death itself. She feared to open her eyes, knowing she would confront the darkness of her grave. Yet they fluttered open of their own accord.

  She was confronted not with the blackness she had dreaded, but hazy gray. The mist settled, becoming solid, stone walls that were narrow and confining. She longed to sink back into the peace of oblivion, but her mind fought her, already striving to regain its bearings.

  She must have been dreaming-how long, she could not say. Dreaming of the summer she had spent with James, that season of fire that had blazed far too bright, leading her astray like a will-o'-the-wisp until she was lost in ...

  Phaedra frowned. Exactly where was she? Her eyes roved over the room, which was little better than a cell. Her gaze finally came to rest upon the iron grate that barred the window of her door. Reality slammed upon her as though the door itself had just banged closed.

  Bedlam. She was a prisoner in Bedlam.

  With a groan, Phaedra rolled over, then flinched. Every muscle in her body was raw and aching, and most of the soreness settled in her midsection. She tried to sit up, bracing herself with her hand. She stared at that hand, scarce recognizing it as hers; the skin was nigh transparent, stretched taut over her fingers.

  Her effort to rise left her so dizzy that she had to lie still, both trying to forget and trying to remember. She had been here in Bedlam since the night she had plunged into the pond. How long ago had that been? Two weeks? Three? A month? She was not sure.

  She knew she had been rescued, miraculously, by one of the grooms at the Heath---or so she had been told. But her behavior had been wild. She had been brought to Bedlam by order of the local magistrate and confined amongst the mad for attempting suicide. No one, not even Jonathan, had believed her tale of being pushed. But it was all most strange. She had always thought that one could not be admitted to the hospital without the recommendation of one of the patrons.

  Each day she had paced the floor, waiting for someone to help her, to obtain her release. That much she recalled quite clearly. It was the day that she had collapsed in her cell that was fuzzy in her mind.

  She tensed with the effort to remember. Visitors. That disgusting old hag, her gaoler Belda had been displaying her to visitors again- the foolish Lord Arthur Danby and his simpering mistress, Charmelle. Then Jonathan had come with the dire news he could not have her released. When he had gone, she had tried for the sake of her babe to eat-

  The stew! Poisoned! Phaedra drew in her breath with a sharp gasp. How could she have forgotten the pain that had wracked her, ripping her apart. Her stomach yet burned with the reminder.

  She opened her eyes, and this time she managed to sit up, clutching her abdomen. She felt so weak, as if her very life had been drained. Her fingers froze, the realization creeping over her. She ran her hands over the region of her womb, slowly at first, then more urgently, praying for just one butterfly whispering of life there. But she felt nothing except an aching emptiness. Her lips parted, a shriek of denial echoing off the indifferent walls of her cell.

  Belda's bewhiskered chin appeared at the grating. "Stop that infernal racket. What ails yer?

  "My babe," Phaedra wailed, desperately seeking some assurance that it could not be true.

  But Belda's smug smile confirmed her fears. "Aborted," she said, "And a good thing, too. There are enough bastards to fill the world."

  An inhuman scream tore past Phaedra's throat, a sound she hardly recognized as her own. She tried to lunge to her feet, wanting to fling herself at the bars and claw out the old woman's hateful eyes. But she tottered and fell back upon the bed, a prisoner of her own weakness.

  Belda shrank back from the window, muttering, "And the wench would have us believe she isn't mad." But Phaedra barely noticed the woman's retreat as she buried her face in the pillow and wept.

  The sobs that wracked her frame seemed as if they would never end. But when her tears ceased at last, she felt nothing. Her heart was as empty as her womb. With the miscarriage of her child, she seemed to have lost her indomitable spirit as well. She ceased to count the hours. Limp as a cloth doll, she swallowed the food that Belda periodically forced down her throat. But as the days passed, she somehow regained strength; it was as though her body had turned traitor, surviving in spite of her will to die.

  One morning as Phaedra stared listlessly at the walls, Belda came in and flung a gown at her. "Put this on."

  Phaedra allowed the garment to drop to the floor.

  "I said put it on, you fool." Beida snatched up the dress and shook it at her. "Don't you understand? Yer gettin out today."

  Phaedra turned her face to the wall. "Leave me alone."

  But Belda seized her and rent the shift from her back. "I've stood enough of your nonsense. I'll be mighty pleased to see the last of you, my fine lady, and that's the truth."

  Belda roughly dragged the gown over Phaedra's head. Phaedra experienced enough annoyance at the feel of the woman's hands upon her to thrust Belda's fingers away and straighten the garment herself.

  "Why they are letting you go beats all fire out of me," Belda said. "As if one inmate escaping wasn't bad enough, they have to go setting another one loose."

  Although Phaedra evinced not the slighted interest, Belda continued to rant, "That lunatic who thought she was Marie Antoinette vanished only days ago. I don't know how she managed it. One of the visitors must have helped her. Sometimes I'm not certain where the maddest ones are-locked in here or out there on the streets."

  Still shaking her head and grumbling to herself, Belda went out of the cell. It occurred to Phaedra that she had not even bothered to ask who was coming for her. It could not be her grandfather. He might even be dead by now, for all she knew.

  A hope stirred inside her, the first genuine feeling to penetrate the numbness she had wrapped herself in. James. Could it be possible that he had returned and somehow-

  The hope was immediately dashed when the cell door opened to admit Jonathan. His sallow features were suffused with color, the flush in his cheeks appearing to be more than merely the result of the brisk autumn air. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

  He clasped Phaedra's hands between his own. "I have come to take you home, my dearest one."

  She regarded him dully, but Jonathan did not seem to notice her lack of response. He produced a cloak, which he wrapped about her shoulders, his fingers clumsy and trembling. "Come. Let me take you out of this dreadful place."

  Although she was not quite steady on her feet, Phaedra resisted his offers to carry her. When he escorted her through Bedlam's main gallery, the scene that had once so horrified her no longer seemed real. All the slack mouths, the blank stares, the emaciated arms straining against chains, gesturing toward the visitors like performing monkeys-it was like gazing upon one of Hogarth's disturbing sketches of London's dark side. Phaedra remembered what Beida had said about Marie and experienced a brief surge of satisfaction. She was glad that Marie had escaped. Wh
erever the poor creature had gone, it would have to be better than remaining here.

  Phaedra felt exhausted by the time they emerged into the street, and she permitted Jonathan to lift her into his waiting carriage. She sank back against the squabs. In the early days of her confinement at Bedlam, she had longed for nothing so much as the sight of the sky, the feel of the sun upon her face. Now she shrank from the light like a wounded animal.

  As they rumbled away from Bedlam's walls, Phaedra felt grateful for Jonathan's silence. He had made no mention of the loss of her babe. But then, he had ever been a man of great sensitivity and consideration. He appeared content to sit opposite her, gazing at her with a feverish glow of happiness in his eyes. She wished she could demonstrate more thankfulness for his rescue, feel something besides this leaden despair that weighted her soul.

  The progress of the carriage seemed painfully slow. After some time, Phaedra roused herself enough to glance out the window. Frowning, she realized the coach's dilatory movement was owing to the fact they were heading into the city's crush of traffic, not away from it.

  "Jonathan, this is not the way to the Heath."

  "I know that. I am taking you to my home instead." He could not quite meet her eyes. Phaedra thought she understood why.

  "My grandfather died while I was in Bedlam. Didn't he?" she asked.

  "No.But there is nothing.more that can be done for him. It is you that need taking care of now, and I mean to do it-as I have always done."

  Phaedra started to voice a weary protest, but hesitated. The way Jonathan looked at her made her uneasy. Such a strange stare. And yet, the expression was somehow not unfamiliar to her.

  He reached across to pat her hand. "You were never happy at the Heath. Sawyer was so wretchedly careless of you. So much evil in the world, and he never protected you. First Lord Ewan, then that Searle woman and-and worst of all, that cursed marquis."

  It disturbed Phaedra to hear Jonathan couple James with those other two, although she did not know what caused the shiver to course up her spine. Then the thought struck her. Ewan and Hester were dead. But James-

  Somewhere in the numbness of her heart she felt the first knife stroke of fear. "Jonathan, have you heard some tidings of the marquis?"

  "Aye, he is back in London," came Jonathan’s indifferent reply.

  Back! The knife stroke became a piercing stab. James had been in London, while she lay trapped in Bedlam, near death, losing their child.

  "And he made no effort to come for me?" she faltered."

  “There is nothing to fear my dear. I am the only one who knows where you are.”

  Jonathan's calm statement raised inexplicable prickles of alarm along the back of her neck.

  "Jonathan!" Her voice was sharp as she said his name. She tried to assure herself that as always he was just attempting in his muddled way to help. "I have to see Jam- I mean the marquis."

  "Eventually." Jonathan caressed her fingers. "I will have him out to the house."

  Phaedra found nothing in Jonathan's words or touch that was reassuring. Her fear grew steadily inside her, although she tried to quell it. Nothing was wrong. This was Jonathan, her quiet, solemn friend. He had been part of the background of her life forever, as solid and unthreatening as her desk or books.

  And yet when he kissed her hand, the feel of his lips lingering upon her flesh caused her to shrink away from him. When the carriage was forced to halt because of the press of traffic, she inched toward the door.

  "It is kind of you to want to care for me, Jonathan. But I need some time alone. I will take a hackney back to the Heath."

  She reached for the handle, but he was too quick for her. He caught her, pinning her back against the seat. Although weakened by her recent ordeal, Phaedra yet had no notion that Jonathan could be so strong. Her lips parted to cry out, but he pressed one hand over her mouth, fairly suffocating her.

  "You must be quiet, my dear," he soothed. "Too much excitement is bad for you and I will never let anything bad happen to you again.

  Phaedra's heart thudded as she felt the coach lurch into movement once more. Feeling too stunned to move or struggle, she stared up at Jonathan, past the tension of his fingers crushed against her face. How could she ever have been so blind? After all her weeks amongst the inmates of Bedlam, she should have recognized at once that look of madness roiling in her friend's dark eyes.

  Phaedra strove to maintain an outward semblance of calm as she was led through the silent house, guided by the inexorable pressure of Jonathan's hand upon her elbow. Where was everyone? She saw no sign of any servants whom she had hoped would help her subdue Jonathan. She regretted not having appealed to the coachman or anyone in the street. But it was too late to correct that error in judgment now.

  Jonathan gave her a nudge and forced her into a room of his house she had never seen before. Here the oil lamps were aglow even in the daytime, revealing a chamber far different from the austere decor of the rest of the house. In the center was a bed with a canopy and gauzy, delicate curtains. It looked like a fairy queen's bower, all pristine white lace and ribbons with a pale blush of pink. A gilt dressing table was laid out with all that a feminine heart could desire-perfumes, ivory-handled fans, and a jewel box so laden with sparkling gems the lid did not quite close. Wardrobe doors had been left flung open to draw attention to a rainbow array of gowns.

  Jonathan’s eyes were pathetically eager, like a child offering a bouquet of wildflowers. Phaedra rubbed her arms, averting her gaze so that he should not see how sick at heart she was. She noted the initials engraved on the silver handle of a brush with a flourishing scroll. P B.

  The significance hit her with a jolt. P B Phaedra Burnell- what her monogram would be, if she were Jonathan's bride. She gazed at the elaborate room, the work of many months of planning and dreams spun out in Jonathan's mind, until the thread must have worn so thin it snapped.

  She stared at her old friend with pitying eyes and fought the urge to sink down upon the bed and weep for him. She would be no use to either of them if she succumbed to hysterics.

  He hovered far too close to her. "Do you like it?"

  "It is beautiful," she managed to choke.

  "I have been arranging it all for over a year now."

  "But Jonathan," she protested, "over a year ago, I was still wed to Ewan."

  His soft smile filled her with apprehension. "There was no difficulty about that. Ewan was ever reckless when he rode, cruel to his horses, cruel to everyone. After you told me what he had done to your books, I couldn't let him torment you any longer. I had to do something."

  "But his death was an accident," she said hoarsely.

  "Not precisely, my dear. Oh, his death was his own fault. But I met him out upon his estate and suggested the direction in which we should ride. When we got to the stone wall, I simply had to rein in. He was so careless the way he took his jumps. The plow was ready and waiting. It was all his own doing."

  Jonathan spoke as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world. Phaedra ran a hand over her eyes. This was a nightmare, and she couldn't seem to wake.

  "Everything would have been all right then." Jonathan sighed and regarded her with mild reproach. "Except by that time, you had started that Robin Goodfellow business. I hated it. I knew it be only a matter of time before that old woman found you out."

  "Old woman? What old woman?" she asked.

  “That Searle woman, of course. She was always prying. Dreadful creature. I told Sawyer never to employ her."

  But her grandfather had paid no heed. No one had ever paid heed to Jonathan, least of all herself. Perhaps, Phaedra thought sadly, that was what had reduced him to this. Feeling her legs ready to give out, she sank down upon the chair at the dressing table. Dreading what he might say next, she felt it far safer to keep him talking, clinging to the desperate hope that someone- perhaps one of Jonathan's servants-might return to the house to help her.

  "So Hester knew about my writing?" Ph
aedra was astonished that her voice could sound so calm. They might have been conversing over the tea table, as they had so many times before.

  "Aye, Hester found your drafts, and she wanted money to keep silent. She knew better than to approach Sawyer, but being aware of my fondness for you, she came to me instead."

  Memory rushed back to Phaedra of Hester's conversation in the garden that night, the unseen man. It had been Jonathan, and not James. Phaedra played with the ivory handle of a fan; the gesture, she hoped, would conceal how unnerved she was. "So then you planned to kill her, too?"

  Jonathan looked hurt. "I didn't plan it, Phaedra. I was very reasonable and paid her what she asked. But the wretch was too greedy. Even as I placed the money in her hands, she was already sniggering, saying this would do for a start. I knew I never would be able to trust her or rest easy again.

  "We were alone in the kitchen the day of Sawyer’s fete. When she turned away from me, I had to do something to stop the greedy witch. There were logs stacked by the hearth. I snatched up one and struck her over the head.

  “She was only unconscious. I knew I had to act quickly before anyone else returned to the house. I realized I had to make her death appear more like suicide or an accident. So I carried her up to the garret and thrust her body out the window."

  Phaedra tried not to tremble when Jonathan rested his hand upon her shoulder. "I felt so relieved when you gave up your writing. The worst part of it all was when those riots began and I overheard Jessym at the coffeehouse, threatening how he would expose Robin Goodfellow if he had to-to save his own miserable hide."

  The grim thought crossed Phaedra's mind that Jessym was lucky to find himself still alive. It was a wonder that Jonathan hadn't- Suddenly another realization clicked in place with painful clarity.

  She stared up at Jonathan. "You! It was you who took my papers, forged grandfather's seal, and gave them to Jessym."