How did he know how long? She hadn't told him.
He pulled her closer. "You can tell me. I won't judge you."
Chrysanthemum scent hovered in his cravat and along his waistcoat. The tart, Cynthia Miller had been in his arms, whispering her sordid gossip.
Bunching up her collar, she backed away. He went from loving Amora straight to Cynthia. Did they compare notes and laugh at her?
How foolish she was to believe things would change by telling him the truth. Everything had become worse. His wife, the liar, was enough to send him to willing arms.
He scooped wasted vegetables and beefsteaks onto a shard of the broken Wedgewood. His knuckles tightened about the fragment as if he hid anger. "Well if not tonight, then, when you are ready."
With a shrug, she stepped behind Barrington away from the strong arms that should enwrap her and chase away her fear. No, she couldn't admit to being scared and give additional fodder to his mistress confidante. She stooped and picked up broken plates.
Mrs. Gretling marched inside wearing her tartan robe, her graying auburn hair filled with curl papers. "What happened here?"
The housekeeper neared on all fours and took the sharp pieces of china from Amora. Her soft cherry eyes misted. "Don't hurt yourself, Mrs. Norton. I'll have this all cleaned up. Nothing like a good sleep to set things right."
The portly woman was so protective. But nothing would set things right, ever.
Barrington neared and lifted Amora to her feet. "Rest. I'll assist the housekeeper."
What could she say after pummeling him with beefsteak, and him smelling like chrysanthemums? She nodded and slipped from the room.
In the quiet hall, she leaned against the wall and watched the flicker of cranberry colored flames fluttering in a sconce.
James plodded at the end of the corridor lighting others. He stopped in front of her and lit the one over her head.
Within a blink, wonderful light showered her.
"Ma'am, if I'd known you had something special planned I would have gotten him home." The burly man bowed his head as if the floor was more interesting than the crazy woman who'd just caused another disaster for his employer.
He glanced up, "I would've done that."
His face, ruddy with flecks of henna along his jaw where a beard might grow, glowed in the brightness of the hall. His hair was ebony but hidden beneath the colored powder Barrington had him wear. It was such an old tradition, just like Grandfather Norton's servants. Yet, James never complained. He bore it all with grace.
He fingered his silver blue livery and straightened his posture. "Do you need anything?"
Nothing that even faithful James could fix. "I've made quite a muddle in the dining room." She pivoted to the stairs. The second level appeared dark and foreboding.
"Wait, Mrs. Norton." He placed a candle in her hand. "I haven't had a chance to light the upstairs yet. This will guide you."
Something, maybe understanding, simmered in his deep chocolate eyes.
"Thank you. I like the light." She took a step and held onto the railing.
"You have to do more than just like it. You have to seek it, fight for it to be in your life."
She pivoted and stared at him. Could James understand suffering? "I've no fight left."
"Ma'am?" James's strong voice made her blink and grip the stairs more firmly. "Should I get Mr. Norton?"
With a shake of her head, she charged up the rest of the stairs. Her eyes were too full of water to turn and say goodnight.
With Mrs. Gretling and James tidying up the dining room, Barrington trudged up the stairs to find his wife. He stripped off his fouled waistcoat, swiped a spot of gravy from his ear lobe and put it to his mouth. A hint of garlic and onions danced on his tongue. His wife had prepared his favorite, smothered beefsteaks. Pity it sat in Mrs. Gretling's rubbish bin.
Huffing air through his tight lips, he stood at Amora's sealed door and fingered the panels.
Ordinarily, he might've thought she acted out of anger, but the scowl on her countenance possessed wide eyes. Her skin felt clammy. She looked lost, frightened, very frightened. A waking nightmare?
He traced the door knob. Maybe tonight she would tell him she'd run off with a rake for over a month then changed her mind when Barrington arrived late.
From all the evidence, Amora's behavior and Cynthia's testimony, that had to be what happened. A sigh fled his lung's empty soul. What else had she not told him?
Wanton Intimacy?
A child borne of lust? Or another one lost?
No more staring at the wood like a witless fool. Answers were in the bedchamber. He shoved open her door.
"Barrington?" Amora bounced up from the floor. "I didn't expect you. You never visit when you are unhappy with me."
His old gut twisted again at the loneliness in her voice. His heart slumped bringing his shoulders too. "I wanted to see if you were well."
"I am." Her foot pattered near a candle set on the ground. What was she planning? To burn the house down?
No, she wasn't crazed. And the woman had never done anything out of spite. Not even throw food.
Waxy smoke filled his nostrils as he bent, picked up the candle, and set it on the bed table. "You don't need to be fearful or uneasy. I'm not mad any more, but is there more I need...to do?" The words, more I need to know, stung his tongue but he just couldn't offer them. He needed to take her away some place remote and safe. Somewhere he could absorb the whole of the sordid affair and figure out how to fix their marriage.
She counted her fingers. "I'll be better for the Dowager's ball. You'll be able to depend upon me, but let me be tonight. I need to be alone."
He'd forgotten about his patroness's event. He rubbed his brow. "You do know we can disagree without you looking as if everything were ruined between us."
"I suppose I am to be as accommodating with the things you do wrong." She pushed at her brow. "I just need to sleep. Good night, Barrington."
"You truly want me to leave? That is so unlike you. You usually need me to be about."
A loud sniff sounded. She mated her fingers together. "I realize now why you have to be alone."
The fear in her eyes had disappeared. It was replaced by something he couldn't determine. It felt lonely and dry. His own throat clogged. He had to look away. "Good night. Think no more of the beefsteaks. Thank you again for the kindness of it."
He popped outside and fled to the safety of his study. Something was changing between them. She was too upset to say, and tonight he lacked the strength to inquire.
How could he ask what else she'd hid from him? Did she only marry him to cover her shame?
James came through the door. His gray livery bore perfect creases, amazing after scraping up the Norton's meal. "Is everything well?"
"As well…" Barrington ran a hand through his hair. "See if Mrs. Gretling needs anything."
"Sir, I think…" The man buttoned his lips.
Sinking into his well-worn chair, Barrington waved. "Go ahead. Say your peace."
"You're not fine. Neither is Mrs. Norton."
But what could be done? Barrington swiped at his spectacles. "All incidents are to be forgotten. Make sure my evening coat is pressed. The dowager's ball is tomorrow."
"And Mrs. Norton? You will have her accompany you to an event she takes no pleasure in?"
"My wife should be at my side. It's part of the gift of marriage. For better or worse." This must be the worse part. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture, James."
His man yanked out the Bible hidden under the stacks of paper. "When was the last time you sought direction for anything?"
The book splashed open. Creased pages, dog-eared sections lay before him on the clear part of his desk. A few months ago, reading and worshiping started his routine. Now it just reminded him of loss, of failing Amora.
As if just touching the delicate leaves would singe his skin, he leaned back as far from the Bible as possible. "You shepherd me from
appointment to appointment. You know my schedule. I've been very busy."
"The missus. She has a haunted look in her eyes, just like the injured militia I tended to coming back from the war. Something dark torments her."
Guilt over her faithlessness. Over a month gone with a rake. His heart ached as if it had just happened, but this wound was five years ago, in the past. He pushed at his brow. "She's never been to war."
"Not your war, but something just as dark." James dipped his head. "Something evil."
"Well, you've said what you needed to say." Barrington reached into his desk for a quill and a bottle of ink. After jotting down a set of instructions, he offered the cut of foolscap. "Take this note to my solicitor early in the morning. I need him to have Miss Miller followed. She's afoot in something truly evil happening now. At least I can protect her."
"Yes, sir." James tucked the folded paper into his jacket. He lingered a moment, then pulled a silver tray from behind his back. A single piece of stationery lay on it. "This was spared."
The fragrance of burnt wood filtered from the page. Bringing it near, the lines of gray and black became clear. It was a sketch of a nightingale. A little smudged, edged with gravy, but beautiful. Barrington's heart pounded hard. "You found this? Where?"
"On the floor next to your seat. I think Mrs. Norton made it for you."
She'd started to sketch again. This would be the first time he'd seen anything of Amora's since he left to fight in the Peninsula. The hollow feeling in Barrington's chest deepened. His being late and her awakening in the dark gave her nightmares. Would it make her avoid the arts again?
"Goodnight." James lumbered through the threshold and shut the door.
Barrington exhaled. He opened a drawer and rummaged inside until he found the original sketch. The beautiful drawing she made for him, memorializing their first kiss.
He held the two images side by side. The new one favored the older one, but felt more somber. The eyes of the bird were vacant, with large soulless pupils. A difference of years. A difference in attitudes.
Barrington pounded his skull, anger at himself boiled over. Stewing over Cynthia's testimony about Gerald and Amora's two months away, he wasn't ready to come home. He chose to go with Hessing to discuss the law. All to avoid being where he was needed, where he should've been.
The sketches floated down from his palm, landing on the open Bible. He'd let Amora down, just like the night of the miscarriage.
And again God was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Seven: No, Not Ready to Party
Amora paced inside her bedchamber. The Dowager Clanville's ball. How would she and Barrington endure it?
The satin of her slippers puckered about her toes as she spun and headed back to the window. The ride to the dowager's house might last an hour. What would she say? Another sorry just seemed tired, like wasted air. Well, maybe it would be his turn to say those words. Would he admit to an affair with Cynthia?
And if he did, what would she do? If she were her mother, Henutsen Tomàs, he'd be shot clean through. Amora rubbed her temples remembering her mother's temper and her accuracy with weapons.
She shook herself, hopefully forcing reason to rattle and show itself within her head. Cynthia's perfume didn't mean an affair, just that he'd seen her. Knowing the singer, she'd find ways to hang on to him just to leave her scent like a skunk.
Amora would make amends by being a perfect wife at this ball. The music and the gentle candlelight, dancing with Barrington…these things should keep her spirits high. James said to seek the light. A well lit ballroom could be the answer.
She folded her arms and slumped against the window. That wasn't what the good man-of-all-work meant.
Seeking light. Why? The Anglican's god hadn't forgiven her. Crying out against Him for taking Papa equaled an abduction. Not telling Barrington before they married equaled the loss of their child. When would her debts be canceled?
Sunday church service would be at the end of the week. Maybe those candles lighting the pews would work. Could Barrington's god offer a truce and not take anything else away?
Better yet, maybe Barrington will forget to go, like last week. It seemed as if he'd been finding ways to miss church. She wondered why.
Maybe she should seek out her mother's gods. Didn't nature take care of her, even feed her in evil's clutches? That would be Geb's domain, since he was god of the earth. Mother said his idols were wise and caring. Surely better to her than Papa's and Barrington's god. And Geb loved his goddess wife.
The knock at her door made her jump.
She steadied her hand along her simple pearl necklace and strengthened her voice. "Come in."
Barrington sauntered inside, elegant as ever in his fine onyx coat and white stockings. He stopped and gazed at her.
Hopefully, she looked well. She was wearing his favorite of her summer dresses, a light blue gown with plenty of lace on its bodice, and beading on the neckline.
"You look lovely." His hand went to his neck.
Why did he already don his hat? "When did you get home? I didn't see you arrive."
His gaze lowered. He picked at lint on his sleeve. "I've been here for a couple hours. I've been thinking about tonight. I don't want you unhappy or under strain."
"I'm sorry about last night." The s word grated her nerves.
He stepped close, bent and gave her a peck on the cheek. "You don't like these crowded events, so you don't have to go."
What? She hugged his waist, gripping him tightly. Joy warmed her insides. "We are staying in. Oh, Barrington. This is wonderful."
He pulled her hands away. The smile on his face disappeared, replaced by a tight line that formed on his lips. "No, I'm still attending. I know how miserable they make you and I don't want you burdened."
He meant to leave without her. She retreated and clasped her arms. "I don't understand. We always go to the Dowager's dinners."
"The woman depends upon me. Between her and my colleagues, the conversation about politics and trials, I won't be able to spend much time with you. Why should you fret when you can be safe at home?"
Pain struck her heart. This was about last night. "I won't throw the dowager's plates." She covered her mouth. That came out too harshly. "I won't bring shame upon you in public. I promise."
"I'm trying to be considerate and still meet our social obligations." He came near and lifted her chin. "Next week, I'm going to free my schedule. We'll travel to Cornwall."
She squinted, staring into his blank gray irises. Could he be serious? No work. No Cynthia. "Cornwall, where we had our wedding trip?"
"Yes. If I can arrange the same rooms, I will."
There were lines under his eyes. He seemed dour, anxious. She couldn't tell what he thought, but something wasn't right.
"Why, now? I've asked for us to go away a dozen times."
He stroked a loose curl from her chignon. "I want you to be relaxed. Perfectly calm and safe, like you were when we wed. Then you'll be able to tell me everything about your disappearance. I have to know. Maybe your nightmares will arrest if you share all the details.
"Everything about the abduction? All that I can remember?"
A brow popped up. He stepped away. "Yes, I need to know it. Once you tell me about the disappearance, we can put it behind us and come back united."
Why did he keep saying disappearance as if she hid as in a child's game? Her limbs shook as anger twisted her insides. She vanished but not by choice. Did Barrington not believe her?
He pulled her into his arms and snuggled her against the damask silk of his waistcoat. The shiny ivory buttons brushed her lips.
"All will be forgiven then, beefsteaks, beaus, everything." He kissed her forehead and pivoted to the door. "Don't wait up."
He left. She sank onto the chair next to her vanity. She should be happy not have to endure the thick crowds of the ball, but her fist closed. Barrington doubted her abduction. He didn't trust her anymore, especially in
public.
Amora leaned her cheek on the cold glass. Three days ago, he held and kissed her, loved her as if they were beginning anew. Now what would she do? How long before he sent her away? Maybe that was what this trip was about? Mama was right. Barrington hated her because of the truth.
Going home to Mama was not something to wish upon an enemy. There was no place for her, and she couldn't be one of those wives who averted their eyes to their husband's dalliances for baubles. Defeated, she closed her eyes.
An hour or so later, Mrs. Gretling sauntered inside. "Ma'am, why ye still here? The master left some time ago. You're not feeling well again?"
Sitting up straight, Amora took a slow breath. Appear normal, that's what Mother would say to do. She pressed at the crease stamped on her cheek by the edge of vanity. "Can you help me out of this gown?"
Her abigail dropped the blankets she carried and folded her arms. "What are ye doing? Ye are his wife. Ye have to maintain a public face or every evil woman will try to stake a claim on Mr. Norton, including the songstress."
"My husband is in control of his actions." So unlike his wife. She tugged at one of the pins holding the tight twists of her curls.
Mrs. Gretling plodded near and pushed the pin back into the thick folds of her hair. "Ye have to go, ma'am."
Amora pressed her temple. She wasn't wanted, marked by incomplete memories past and lies. "He doesn't want me."
She put a hand to her lips. "So sorry..."
"Don't give up. Show him ye will fight for this marriage. Be his wife in private and in public."
"What are you talking about?"
The woman plodded to the closet and yanked out gray and pale gowns. "Ye've given up colors for him. Ye fret about disappointing him. Ye're dancing on eggshells. It's not good."
Mrs. Gretling neared and picked up the lacy shawl from the bed. "Ye have fire, Mrs. Norton. To toss a beefsteak across the room, ye got it."
She took Amora's hands. "It's in yer veins, but ye've been putting it to sleep. Yer mother says you're in line to the Pharaohs. Be your own Moses and free yourself. Maybe if ye let ye self be free, the nightmares wouldn't come anymore."
Unveiling Love Page 8
