by Gina Conkle
***
As the clock struck midnight…
Sitting comfortably at her white desk, Lydia chewed her thumbnail. The plan, bolder than brass, scared her. A few deep breaths for courage, and she opened the drawer of her writing desk. But easing the drawer open gave her a surprise.
Someone else had gone through this drawer.
She hadn’t noticed earlier in her haste to be done with the letters, but her three sketches of Edward were not in the correct order. Someone had looked at her simple lead-stick sketches. That had to be what had happened, since the sketches were tucked in the back of the drawer.
“The countess,” she said, hissing that woman’s name.
How invading, leaving her bare in a most personal way. But she paused, glancing at the adjoining door, and admitted the lady’s methods weren’t so far off from her own. Instead, Lydia was drawn into what she held in her hands.
She loved these sketches. Tenderness filled her from this late-night viewing. Her favorite, a close view of Edward’s face, embodied the way he looked the day she untied his queue outside the art gallery. He had shown her Jonathan’s portrait, and revealed that Miss Mayhew was not a woman of any romantic consequence.
No. He revealed much more than that.
Her fingers skimmed the lead pencil sketch, showing equally the planes of his face. The fierce fire in his eyes leapt off the page, the same as when he had proclaimed staunch loyalty to his friends. She grinned at how those sculpted lips had frowned this evening when she chased him away after so short a time of discussion. She had covert work to finish.
With that, the sketches went back into the drawer. Lydia retrieved two letters hidden away inside, written a few hours ago. So nervous was she then that she’d failed to notice the sketches out of order. She set one letter atop a pile of papers, and the other on an identical stack of sheaves and illustrations. A third stack, sketches and diagrams, made a neat pile already atop her desk.
Heart thumping as loud as a drum, she walked to the fireplace, and tossed that third pile into the flames.
Hot yellow and orange flames curled the white sheaves, turning them to gray dust. The shock of what she’d done washed over her. So final. A stall tactic to be sure, and wouldn’t do near the damage of those letters atop the desk. But what was burned was gone forever. Emboldened, Lydia grabbed the remaining papers, cracked open her door, and sped along the vermillion path, down the stairs to Edward’s study.
Reaching his study, she shut the door behind her with a click. She leaned back, grateful to have the heavy walnut hold her up until her breath calmed. She’d come this far…
She went to the drawer where he kept his seal and blotting wax, and moved methodically through her steps, disembodied from what she was doing. Across the mahogany surface, her hands folded letters inside the packets. Those same hands melted wax to the right spot. But when Lydia held Edward’s seal over the formless red wax, she paused, loosening her grip on that ancient token of good faith. Her stomach quivered and roiled.
Words of Wickersham’s vicar echoed in her head, when he recounted an Old Testament story last fall: Jezebel had used Ahab’s seal.
Twenty
Whatever deceives men seems to produce a magical enchantment.
—Plato
“Change brings discomfort, even if it’s for the better.” Edward tapped his lead stick on the Sanford Shipping’s account book.
He halfheartedly listened to his mother’s commentary and responded, though his head was filled with numbers: numbers to calculate in their accounts, numbers of days ’til he left England, and number of days until his self-imposed one-month edict was done. All three numbers pressed down on him, demanding their due.
Beside the account book rested the special license. That document’s arrival had initiated this latest flow of conversation with the countess, whose presence in his study was for no particular reason that he could tell. One trait he shared in common with his mother: neither did anything without a purpose. For the countess, conversation, whether social chatter or deep dialogue, always served an end. As he tallied this final column, she was blessedly silent.
He scratched a number in the book and looked up across his desk. “And speaking of change, you’ve sung a different tune about Lydia this past week.”
Straightening her sleeve, the countess smoothed the lace and silk, banishing creases and wrinkles. “She’s adapted rather quickly to her lessons, but she’s not fit to be a countess.”
“I don’t care.”
The countess tilted forward in her chair and touched the edge of his desk. “Bear in mind, I do like her.”
He snorted rudely at that shocking admission and tossed the lead stick onto the open book.
Her mouth pursed, and she pressed on with her agenda, something at which the countess was very skilled. “But it’s not too late. Why not let me assist you in finding more suitable young ladies? I could—”
“Stop.” He raised both hands, disliking the direction this interview was going. “We have been over this too many times. I refuse to dance attendance on empty-headed chits.”
“But, Edward,” she pleaded, “I’ll carefully preselect ladies of the highest quality, those amenable to marriage to one of your stature.”
His short bark of laughter was barely suppressed ire. His mother never knew when to quit. He rose from the chair, restless and wary, sauntered to the widow. A long-suffering sigh came from behind him when he leaned a shoulder on the window frame. He folded his arms across his chest and crossed one boot toe to the floor in front of the other as he drank in the scene before him.
Outside was warmth and bluster, pleasant and pastoral. Pure Lydia. She wore one of her old dresses, something dark brown and practical, with a high neckline. She was flying a kite with John, the stable master’s son, and the tail of the kite swirled and trailed through the grass. Its diamond shape twirled low, and woman and boy ran, laughing as they tried to capture the wind. Lydia tugged on the line just before the kite dropped to the ground, saving its flight.
Both enthusiasts cheered their success. The lad slowly unwound the string, letting the kite dance and soar higher and higher. Lydia was like that with him: she unwound him in places he didn’t even expect were coiled and tight. So lost was he in his reverie, Edward failed to hear his mother’s approach. Her silk skirts rustled as she inched closer to him.
“She still has a rather bracing walk.” The words came as judgment, but one corner of her mouth tilted up as she delivered what was close to a tender proclamation.
Edward faced his mother—his beautiful mother—who reflected on the same scene as he. Emotional nuance was new to him, a gift from Lydia, but the truth of his situation—no, his life—blew across him as surely as the wind blew winter clouds away outside.
“What bothers you more?” he asked. “That I’m marrying Lydia? Or that you think I’m forced to marry Lydia because no one else will have me? Scarred beast that I am?”
Her eyes spread wide, but she flinched as if someone had hit her.
“Edward, that’s not true. There are many women who’d have you. You simply have to put yourself in the position to meet them, take the time to court them.” The skin around her blue eyes strained, creating tiny wrinkles.
“You didn’t answer me, but that alone gives me your answer,” he said, shrugging that off. “No matter.”
The countess tipped her head against the chilled pane and said nothing.
“You mean for me to go back into Society. The very same Society I despised even when I wasn’t scarred,” he groused as mocking bitterness tinged his voice. “The assemblage of garrulous bloviates. Couldn’t stand them when my face was intact. Like them even less now that it’s not.”
“Oh, Edward.” She reached for his forearm, but her hand hovered, not making contact. “It’s not good to hide away from people, however flawed we all are.” Then she raised her hand, and the backs of her fingers stroked his smooth, unscarred cheek. “You were so handsome. Your brot
her was dashing, but you were always so, so much more…” Her lips pinched into a painful line. “My beautiful boy.”
A teardrop sparkled from her lower lashes, a well-cut crystal that liquefied and slid over her cheek. That the countess still harbored pain over his injuries, injuries earned from a younger man’s rash decisions, caused an ache within him. Wasn’t it a boyish need to always have the praise and adoration of one’s mother? No matter, he was a man now. The responsibilities of these past three years had molded him into who he had become. Yet another dawning crept in, truth that failed to bother him. Edward gripped her fingers in a gentle vise but kept her hand aloft between them.
“That’s what bothers you,” he said, viewing his mother in a clearer light. “You hate the fact that I’m scarred, probably more than I do.”
Her sharp intake of breath must’ve been like a knife to her, so pained and broken was her visage. She stepped back and dabbed her knuckles to new tears forming.
“How can you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s true.” He nodded, allowing her to collect herself a moment. Then he pressed on as gently as he could. “All my life you’ve thrived on the appearance of things. I pity you your world of empty vanity, but I love you all the same, Mother. I made my peace with what happened to me. Now you must make yours.”
The countess wrapped her arms about herself, and her shoulders drooped. She touched her mouth where the beginnings of a small, bitter smile was forming.
“You must think me so very awful.”
Edward glanced out the window in time to catch John passing the kite’s handle over to Lydia. Her hair, most of it fallen loose from its pins, whipped about her head, but she accepted the proffered honor of kite-flier, and both followed the diamond shape high above.
“Embracing truth is a kind of freedom. Don’t you think?” He glanced back at his mother, who sniffed and dabbed a handkerchief to her face. “I understand the framework from which you’ve established your world, your environment.”
“Heavens.” She sniffed. “You sound like you’ve made me into one of your scientific studies.” She stared out the window, but not at the scene beyond, rather, he noticed she was checking her own reflection in the glass before facing him again. “You sounded just like your father right then, you know.”
Edward’s arms went lax, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “What do you mean?”
The countess dabbed her eyes and tipped her head in a doting way. “At first he was all science. Work at night. Sleep all day, since astronomy was his field. Dinner was transition time. The only time to see him. But yes, I soon changed that.” Her head raised a proud notch. “Someone had to make him aware of his responsibilities elsewhere, duties to the estate, and yes, to attend me. I make no apology for demanding such. No marriage would survive otherwise.”
Was his mother about to give him advice? Spread marital wisdom his way? He stiffened at the idea, but her eyes, older and sadder-looking, kept him quiet. Handkerchief clutched in one hand, the countess spread her arms wide.
“Take a look around you. Someone had to look to all this. You may denigrate my concerns, but you have an excellent place in this world. Growing up, those tutors of yours didn’t visit based solely on your brilliance, you know. Nothing here happened by accident. I helped build the Greenwich name in Society. Yes”—she arched her dark gold eyebrows, and her hands dropped to her sides—“the same Society you castigate so freely.”
The strange push and pull of truth tugged at him, weighing down like a gentle burden on his frame. His mother showed more depth in this single meeting than he could remember seeing in her in a long time, perhaps because he made his judgments and was never willing to look again. But time and circumstances changed people, wearing them down the same way water worked over stone.
With all sincerity, Edward tipped his head in a small salute. “Your talents have never been fully appreciated.”
Her lips wobbled as if another flood of tearful emotions was about to erupt. Both turned to the window, taking in the boy and Lydia enjoying the sunny, windy day. At that moment, Lydia turned and caught sight of them in the window. Fingers splayed wide, she smiled and waved her arm emphatically at them. Then she pointed at Edward, and beckoned him outside to join her. She exuded cheer, so full of life.
His mother sighed, a sound of relief and tiredness mingled together. “Life is a series of choices, great and small. Choose wisely.”
Edward waved back to Lydia. “I already have.”
***
Lydia waited awhile for Edward to show. When he didn’t, she handed the kite’s wooden handle back to John and walked briskly around to the back of the great house, expecting to find him somewhere inside. She trotted up the back steps, more than ready to get back to her long-neglected painting, when she heard her name on the wind.
“Miss, Miss Montgomery. This away,” Huxtable yelled to her, both hands cupped around his mouth. The gardener waved her over to the greenhouse. He cupped his hands and called out once more, followed by a frantic gesturing of his hands. “Come quick, miss!”
She sprinted full speed through the grass, down the hill to the greenhouse, imagining every sort of trouble. Her shoes pounded the ground. Chill wind snapped her cheeks. Lydia stopped short of the door, her heart thumping hard.
“What’s wrong? Is it Edward?” She rubbed her side where a cramp pinched from her sprint.
Huxtable gave himself a good-natured slap to the head. “Sorry I gave ye such a fright. Hisself is fine as usual.” He set his pipe between his thin lips and finished, “We didn’t want ye to miss this. Come quick.”
His gnarled hands held the door open for her, and once inside the balmy warmth, Lydia unclasped her cloak. Her wind-chapped hands went back to rubbing the nagging ache at her side. Huxtable moved down a central path through the middle of the greenhouse. His fast footsteps crunched on gravel, and she followed that noise into thicker greenery. Midway through the path, Huxtable turned and grinned around his twitching pipe. He jabbed his thumb at an open space off the path.
“Here.” He wheezed a quick chuckle and touched his cap before disappearing.
Edward stood amidst juvenile butterflies floating about, and some spread brand-new wings, damp and sluggish, as they clung to stick-thin branches. Their pastel colors fluttered against vibrant green leaves. One landed on his shoulder, and another flitted closer to his forearm, where it settled on his wrist. With care, he raised his wrist for her closer inspection of the pale green butterfly.
“May I introduce Callophrys rubi, or green hairstreak, if you prefer the King’s English,” he said, and right then a pale blue butterfly with a smattering of black dots found sanctuary on his arm. “And here is Celastrina argiolus, sweetly known as holly blue.”
“They’re so pretty.”
“Stand still, and they’ll come to you. Dozens of them newly emerged from their chrysalides,” he whispered in his cultured voice as he rattled off the strange word.
She chuckled low at his scientific talk. She stretched out her arms, and one green hairstreak flitted in front of her nose to flutter, drop, and settle on her arm. “When you say chrysalee…or whatever, you mean their cocoon?” she asked, matching his whisper. “They’ve just hatched?”
Another type, bold orange, with eye spots on its wings, landed on her arm. Edward’s warm breath touched her forehead.
“That orange one is the peacock, Inachis Io. And yes, hatched, emerged, whichever you prefer.”
The closeness of their confined space and the lovely insects drifting into flight above their heads made a dreamlike haze. A bird chirped a song and flew overhead, its wings flapping the loudest sound in their peaceful paradise. A single green hairstreak lingered on Edward’s arm. The body was fuzzy and white. The wings changed from a subtle pale green to a richer light blue-green shade closer to the body.
“I should like to paint this one, if I can remember all the subtle colors and textures. So lovely.”
&n
bsp; “This one reminds me of your eyes on certain days,” he murmured close to her ear. “And I would like that butterfly painting to remind me of your eyes.”
When you’re gone.
She pulled away, couldn’t help it really from the unspoken words that hung between them. That vertical line pronounced itself between Edward’s eyes.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” He spoke in normal tones. The butterflies abandoned him.
“Why not?” She concentrated on the one butterfly, a beautiful jewel, on her arm. “You’re not one to avoid facts.”
The tender butterfly left its perch on her forearm. She followed the halo of young butterflies over their heads. Sun shot through greenery. Everywhere new flowers flared in a profusion of pinks and yellows, exotic oranges, scarlets and reds. Birds chirped their songs so busy at building nests. Outside, English weather gave its last winter shout with bone-chilling gusts. Inside? Paradise, and Edward was its architect. He set his hand on her elbow, guiding her to another path.
“Amazing. I’m mesmerized by color and sound,” she said, whisper-soft, still taken by the brilliant kaleidoscope before her. Your greenhouse looks more alive than ever.”
“Spring. It has that effect on species of all stripes. But if you want to paint the butterflies, better hurry. Those three you just saw will not stay. They like to venture to other places.”
“Sounds like you,” she said.
Their footsteps crunched a slow cadence on gravel. Edward’s hand slipped lower to her waist.
“I know, but I’m not gone yet.”
Gone was the intractable scientist, determined to explore the outer world’s scientific treasures. Edward sounded…different. She looked askance at him and found a randy grin on his face. It might have been the effect of their small slice of Eden, or it could’ve been the age-old rhythm of man and woman, but Lydia’s body hummed to his tune.
“I haven’t checked the calendar, Edward, but we’re nearly at the end of your month-long edict, aren’t we?”
“Next week is the end of the waiting period.”
