by Jane Ashford
The duchess laughed again, but added, “I believe unsaid words pile up and push people farther and farther apart. Until, eventually, they become a wall. The forms of life may look the same, but inside all is…distance.”
It was a chilling thought. “What you’re suggesting sounds rather difficult,” Verity commented.
“Oh yes.” The duchess raised one eyebrow, just like Lord Robert.
“So I must talk openly, and endure whatever I hear in return. Without saying anything unforgiveable.”
“I wouldn’t choose the word endure.” The duchess shook her head. “We all say silly things when we’re angry or wounded. A good marriage includes quite a few apologies and a large helping of forgiveness.”
“You argue with the duke?”
“Of course. Does this surprise you?”
“You seem so well suited.”
“We’re strong-willed people with marked moods and opinions. Why would we always agree?”
Verity took this in with considerable relief.
“I want to say again how kind you were to play for me, for us all,” the duchess added.
Verity wondered at the abrupt change in tone until a deeper voice said, “Allow me to add my thanks.” The duke stood in the doorway. “It was such a kindness. And hard work, I know.” He came in and sat on the other side of the bed, taking the duchess’s hand.
“I was happy to help.” Verity noticed that the duchess looked tired. She’d taken up a good deal of her time. And the air of the room was different now that her husband was present. “I should go,” Verity said, rising. The duke and duchess’s farewells were warm, but they didn’t urge her to stay.
* * *
“I’m rather curious to attend a ton party,” said Verity’s father as the family walked into a crowded reception room on Friday evening. “It’s been years since I did so, and not often then.”
Verity looked around the busy chamber and felt only impatience. Did all adventures have these sagging, frustrating parts where nothing seemed to happen? To ask the question was to confirm it, she supposed. Their lack of progress was just maddening. She almost felt she’d rather be dangling from a crumbling cliff face or fighting crocodiles.
Olivia joined them. “There’s to be another phrenology exhibition tonight,” she said. “I suppose Herr Grossmann’s appointments have fallen off, and he’s here to drum up more business.”
“Indeed,” replied Verity’s father. “I’m curious to see this fellow. You wrote me about him, Molly.”
Verity’s mother nodded. “He had a session with Mr. Rochford at one of our first outings, didn’t he, Verity? It seems so long ago now.”
Excessive politeness had fallen back over the Sinclair household like an outmoded cloak. It made Verity want to race around the room like a maddened cat, clawing draperies and knocking over vases.
“What do you think of Herr Grossmann’s system?” Olivia asked.
Verity’s father made a face. “Phrenology is like saying our lives are written in the palms of our hands, or that a person is hot-tempered if she has red hair.”
Verity resisted raising a hand to her hair.
“There he is,” her mother added.
They all turned to see Herr Grossmann coming in. The plump German gentleman wore his customary frock coat and narrow trousers, his beard bushy below shrewd blue eyes. His gangly young assistant was with him. Michael, Verity recalled. The lad’s black hair and pale skin was a marked contrast to his employer. Herr Grossmann offered the crowd a bow and moved on. “He’s to set up in one of the side parlors,” Olivia said. “We should go and watch. We may not see Herr Grossmann again.”
“Why not?” asked Verity.
“The fad for phrenology is fading. Which is too bad. It gives one so many opportunities for raillery.”
The four of them followed others into the parlor. As before, Herr Grossmann’s cranial diagram sat on an easel. A scatter of gilt chairs stood before it. Verity looked at the image of a man’s bare head in profile, and the sections marked out hope, combativeness, self-esteem, parental love, acquisitiveness, benevolence. Herr Grossmann positioned himself beside the single chair next to it. Michael went to stand at the side with his notepad and pencil.
“Oh yes,” said Olivia. She darted away.
In a moment she was back with Charles Wrentham, tugging at his arm. She practically dragged him to the chair. His protests were quiet, but obvious.
“Nonsense,” said Olivia. “Here, Herr Grossmann. Your first subject of the evening.” She gave Mr. Wrentham a shove. He almost tripped. Staggering, he grabbed the back of the chair.
“Very good,” said the German. He grasped Mr. Wrentham’s elbow and executed a neat twist to seat him. Before the young man could protest further, Grossmann had his fingers in his hair. Mr. Wrentham’s jaw tightened.
“I’ve heard Mr. Wrentham is a dab hand with a sword,” said Olivia.
“Olivia!” Verity hissed.
“Hmm,” said Herr Grossmann, shifting his fingertips. “I find a marked tendency toward combativeness.”
Verity wondered. It seemed that a truly combative man would have fought Olivia off. Or, if he wouldn’t contend with a woman, he’d have repulsed the phrenologist.
“The bump of firmness is pronounced,” the German continued. He addressed his audience. “This can indicate stubbornness, or it may simply signal a tenacious temperament.” His assistant scribbled in his notebook.
“This gentleman is somewhat lacking in eventuality,” Herr Grossmann continued. “That is the area of the factual memory. It can also be referred to as the historical faculty.”
“Ha!” said a female voice behind Verity. She turned to find that Frances Reynolds had entered behind her. “He can’t remember what really happened, you mean.”
Verity thought that Charles Wrentham growled. She wasn’t close enough to be certain. As Miss Reynolds moved away, Verity felt a pang of guilt. She’d known Olivia was going too far with those two. She’d done nothing to stop Olivia, and now they were all very nearly in the soup. Perhaps she deserved it. But Miss Reynolds didn’t. And then Verity had an idea.
The Duke of Langford appeared at her side, and Verity suppressed a start. “Good evening,” he said. “What do you think of this system?” He indicated Herr Grossmann.
Verity stole shamelessly from her father. “It’s rather like palm reading, isn’t it? I don’t think it’s so easy to discover people’s characters.”
“I’ve observed that good palm readers are experts at a kind of Socratic dialogue.”
Verity had once felt, talking to the duchess, that she was being evaluated. She had that sense again now. “They ask the questions that give them the information they need to…prognosticate?”
“Exactly.” He looked approving.
“I can see how that would work. But Herr Grossmann doesn’t ask questions.”
“No. I wonder if he has spies?”
“Spies?”
“I haven’t paid much attention to the craze for having one’s skull examined,” the duke went on. “But I suppose a clever man could gather information and gossip in advance, and use them to formulate his findings.”
“He prefers that his clients make appointments,” Verity observed. She looked at Michael. Might he be more than a passive recorder? And bribe taker, of course. “But he didn’t know who would present themselves tonight.”
“True. And research would take him only so far. Beyond that, we remain mysteries to each other.”
Verity looked up at him, curious. “Even after many years of…close acquaintanceship?”
He met her gaze. The duke’s blue eyes were so like Randolph’s in shape and color, and yet so different in their depths. “The mathematicians have a word,” he replied. “Asymptotic. It describes a thing that approaches another, closer and closer, but ne
ver finally reaches it.”
“Asymptotic,” repeated Verity.
“People are like that, I think. We may understand a great deal about someone, but never all. There are always surprises.”
This sounded right, Verity thought. As this man so often did. “Which is the fun of life,” she concluded.
He smiled at her, and Verity’s breath caught. The Duke of Langford’s wholehearted smile was blindingly charming. It subsumed the smiles of all his handsome sons, and surpassed them. “You’re very welcome to our family, you know,” he said. “And we will make sure you get to join us.”
Verity found she couldn’t speak. She coughed to remind her throat of its proper function. “Th-thank you.”
Olivia appeared at Verity’s side. “Will you try Herr Grossmann, Your Grace? He’s ready for another…subject.”
“I believe you almost said victim, Miss Townsend.”
“I would never be so clumsy.”
“Wouldn’t you? Ah, there’s Conyingham. If you young ladies will excuse me.” He gave them an exquisite half bow and walked away.
Olivia watched him go. “You know those tiresome old men who leer at one and say, ‘If only I were thirty years younger’?”
“Yes?” replied Verity.
“Well, if only he was.”
Verity laughed.
They walked together back into the main room. Verity saw Emma deep in conversation with her future husband. They looked happy, and quite unaware of the crowd surrounding them. Then she noticed Frances Reynolds standing against the wall not far away. She was pretending not to look at Charles Wrentham, talking fiercely with a group of friends on the opposite side of the room. The duchess’s advice came back to Verity like a branch of candles carried into a dark room. If there’d ever been a pair who needed some plain speaking, it was these two.
Verity searched the busy room. Where was Randolph? She needed Randolph. She finally had a plan.
“Where are you going?” Olivia asked.
“To fix things,” Verity replied as she walked away.
Twenty-one
Half an hour later, following his fiancée’s explicit instructions, Randolph caught up with Charles Wrentham in another of the reception rooms. He was moving toward the front door, which wouldn’t do. “Heard you had your head examined,” Randolph said.
Wrentham snorted. “The fellow’s a charlatan. Eventuality. What sort of tripe is that?”
“I need to speak to you,” said Randolph.
“I’m sorry, it’s not convenient.” Wrentham lowered his voice. “I’m not going to talk any more about the duel. I told you. I’m carrying through. There’s no other choice.” He sounded more resigned than pugnacious.
“Not about that,” said Randolph. “Something else. Just a few minutes of conversation.” He herded Wrentham toward the designated location.
“No. I don’t wish to be rude, but I’m leaving. I have an urgent appointment with a bottle of brandy.”
“It will still be there if you’re a few minutes late,” replied Randolph dryly. He didn’t understand what Miss Reynolds saw in this young man. But then he didn’t know her either. And they’d looked all lovey-dovey when they acted together in the play at Salbridge, he remembered.
“Let me be!” exclaimed Wrentham.
They’d reached a corridor, and there was no one nearby to hear. What was more interesting was that Randolph had caught a despairing note in his companion’s tone. Mr. Wrentham was not happy. Why? Randolph steered him left rather than right toward the front entry as he asked, “Is something wrong?”
The younger man bared his teeth and shook a fist. Then his shoulders slumped and his expression shifted from anger into tragedy. “Nothing whatsoever. Except that I can’t do anything right,” he said. “Everything I try goes ludicrously wrong!”
With a light touch on Wrentham’s shoulder, Randolph guided him into the small back parlor that was his goal. Fortunately, it was empty. Still.
“I made a fool of myself over cards at Salbridge,” Wrentham continued, seeming not to notice his surroundings. His words came faster, a spate suddenly released. “And now here in London I don’t send flowers when I should have. And whose bouquet was it, anyway? I have my suspicions there! Then I’m accused of not turning up for meetings I know nothing about. As if I’d ever leave a lady standing alone. Well, I ask you!”
He looked at Randolph, dark eyes snapping. “’Course you wouldn’t,” Randolph replied.
“You can damn well be sure I wouldn’t! And then I’m twitted with being timid and dull. Wouldn’t dare ride my horse backward through the park, would I? Well, I showed her! Only it wasn’t her, seemingly. If I ever get my hands on the person who sent that message…but that’s nothing to the news that she’d been taken in by Rochford, of all men.”
He clenched his fists again. Randolph could see that it was no use suggesting this idea was as false as the others he’d listed. Wrentham wasn’t listening.
“Lured her with a pack of lies, I expect. Or threw her into a hack and dragged her to his house.” He nodded as if this idea was more appealing to him. “I wanted to kill him. I shall kill him! He may be a very devil with a rapier, but I’m not so bad myself. Well, you can attest to that.”
He glared again. Randolph bit back comments on Wrentham’s wild fencing style. Rochford could carve the young man up like a Sunday roast, if he decided to be an idiot.
Wrentham fell onto a sofa, sullen. “And then I’ll flee to France and never see my home again and everyone will be sorry.”
Where was Verity? Randolph wondered. Another minute and he’d be telling Wrentham he was acting like a schoolboy. He didn’t think that was what she had in mind.
Verity was in a nearby room. She’d finally tracked down Frances Reynolds, sitting half hidden by a clump of greenery. “There you are,” she said. “Come along.”
“Where?”
“With me.” She took the younger girl’s arm and urged her up and across the room.
“Where?” repeated Miss Reynolds. “What are you doing? We scarcely know each other. Actually, we don’t know each other at all.”
“Something important,” Verity replied. She had to slow several times to acknowledge polite greetings, but at last they reached the door and the corridor outside.
There, Miss Reynolds rebelled. She pulled her arm away and stopped. “I won’t move another inch until you tell me what’s going on,” she said.
Verity admired her spirit, even as she wondered where it had been these last few weeks. “An adventure,” she said.
“An—”
She hadn’t included herself in the plan, Verity realized. That wasn’t right. “And a chance to set things straight. With Mr. Wrentham.” If Miss Reynolds refused the opportunity, she’d have to let her go.
Speculation followed surprise on the girl’s pretty face. She frowned, considered, then gave one nod and followed Verity into the small parlor they’d picked out.
Randolph stood by the door. Mr. Wrentham was sprawled on a sofa looking petulant. He jumped up as they entered and exclaimed, “Miss Reynolds!”
Verity could see why he’d excelled at amateur theatrics. As they’d planned, Randolph moved to shield the entrance and keep everyone else out. Verity took a station in the center of the chamber. “So,” she said.
It was all very well to recommend open and frank discussion, Verity thought. The duchess had made it sound like a calm, rational exchange of views leading to perfect understanding. Or perhaps that’s what Verity had heard. Now she realized that conflicting feelings would pop up. Probably with yelling. This sort of talk most likely required skill or practice, or both. Which she didn’t actually have.
Well, someone had to start. “Right,” she said. “Here’s the thing. Those flowers? Mr. Wrentham didn’t send them. That trick with the horse? Frances had
nothing to do with it.” Verity hoped to avoid naming Olivia. “I’ve discovered they were pranks played on you. Both. As was the missed meeting at the museum. Deplorable, unamusing jokes.”
“Was Callaghan behind them?” demanded Mr. Wrentham.
Verity didn’t know a Callaghan. She avoided distraction. “No.”
“And how did you find out?”
She evaded that question as well. “My point is…you mustn’t let them stand in the way of the strong attachment you obviously feel for each other.”
“That doesn’t explain Rochford,” Mr. Wrentham said. He glowered at Miss Reynolds.
“Who is Rochford?” the latter asked.
“Feigning ignorance won’t help you. Everyone’s heard you went to visit him. At his house. Alone.”
Randolph very much hoped that everyone hadn’t yet heard. He started to object.
Miss Reynolds spoke first. “Well then, everyone has got the wrong end of the stick.” She looked humiliated but resolute. “I don’t know a Rochford, and I have certainly never visited him. As if I would do such a thing! How dare you suggest it?”
“False rumor,” Verity said. “Another prank.”
“Prank!” Wrentham turned on her. “You will tell me who’s behind this…persecution. At once. And by God, I’ll make them eat their filthy, lying—”
“Charles,” said Miss Reynolds.
He looked around. His gaze encountered the girl’s bright-red face. “Oh, the deuce,” he said in a very different tone. “Don’t look like that, Frances. I can’t bear it.”
“Did you hear what Miss Sinclair said? It was a hoax. All these misunderstandings. Someone was playing mean tricks on us.”
“Which they will pay for!”
“Is that the important thing? Is that what you wish to talk to me about?”
Miss Reynolds appeared to have a knack for open discussion, Verity noted.
“Have you nothing else to say to me?” she added, blinking back tears.
“No, Frances, dash it. Don’t cry. You know I love you. Have since the play.”
