Mr. Macy slowly wiped his mouth, folded his napkin, and set it on the table. “John,” he said in a quiet voice, rising, “a word in private, if you please.”
Mr. Greenham stiffened and drained his glass of wine while Lady Foxmore laughed outright. “I warned him!”
I bent my head, feeling overwhelmed with a keen sense of regret and humiliation. Rare was the occasion that someone of my status attended a dinner in this sphere, but the odds of someone like Mr. Macy paying attention to that person were even more astronomical. All I could think was that Mrs. Windham had spoiled a golden opportunity, one that would never come my way again.
A warm hand came to rest on my shoulder, and I raised my head to find Mr. Macy peering down at me with an encouraging smile. He gave me a slight squeeze before stepping away. Nothing more was necessary. My misery lifted and I found my breath.
“I do hope I am present,” Lady Foxmore said, as Mr. Macy and Mr. Greenham retreated, “when Thomas learns Henry is still disregarding his orders about meeting secretly with Elizabeth. ’Tis no wonder he fears that creature’s daughter becoming the next Lady Auburn.”
“Thomas Auburn?” Mr. Forrester gave her ladyship a dubious look, then indicated Henry’s empty chair. “Wait a moment, are you telling me that was Henry Auburn, as in Lord Thomas Auburn’s elder son?”
Lady Foxmore gave him an affirmative nod.
He pointed at me. “And the vicar discussed was his brother, Edward Auburn?”
Lady Foxmore arched her eyebrows, as if to indicate he was rather slow to only now catch up.
“I don’t know who you are, young lady—” Mr. Forrester gave me a sneering glance as he polished his knife with his napkin—“but I’ll thank you not to spread defamatory rumors about the Auburns. I’ve met the young man in question and can say with conviction he’d never have anything or anyone connected to your father.” He looked at her ladyship. “And as for you, do not smear future MPs. I’ll have you know I have it on the best authority that Master Henry Auburn is planning to marry one Miss Abigail Morris and they will marry by the year’s end. Her father personally brought my attention to the fact three days ago. I congratulated the future bride myself.”
I gasped, feeling bright with shock at the succession of untruths he had just unleashed, but then anger took over. “That is a lie! You are a liar!”
Lady Foxmore laughed too hard to speak. With one hand she clutched her chest, and with the other she waved me to silence. “Cease,” she gasped between breaths. “Cease, child! You forget your manners, though I’m not certain you ever possessed any. Hold your tongue, for the Auburns keep me better informed of matters than you, apparently.”
Two footmen entered, struggling to carry a silver platter holding a roasted pig with an apple in its mouth. It was large enough to feed an assembly. They placed it at the head of the table for Mr. Macy to carve, exaggerating his absence.
“Remove it,” Lady Foxmore ordered, struggling from her chair. “I daresay this charade of a dinner has ended. Give it to the servants; surely they’ll be grateful.”
No one argued with her assessment. Mr. Forrester stood, wiping his hands over his jacket, eyeing the door Mr. Macy and Mr. Greenham had taken while he shuffled toward it.
The rap of her ladyship’s stick interrupted my observation. “You will come with me, Miss Elliston.”
I obeyed and was surprised to find that my legs felt weak as I lifted myself from my chair.
“This way,” Lady Foxmore said.
I followed her to a small door in the back of the room. It led to a narrow, twisting passage, which she deftly navigated.
“I imagine Chance is most anxious to speak with you. You are to remain here.” She tested a door, which opened to reveal a chamber with heavy beams. Stiff leather and horsehair chairs made it appear spartan. Firelight flickered on the swords displayed over one wall. A pair of archaic crossbows hung over the stone mantelpiece.
She stood a long moment, as if reliving a memory, then murmured, “He would leave this room untouched.” She hustled me into the room. “Take that seat there, child.”
I started to protest, but she held up a finger, ordering silence. “We have an agreement, Miss Elliston. Wait here. Touch nothing. I’ll send word where he can find you. You’ll be safe from discovery.”
Without another word she shut the door, and her walking stick tapped down the hall.
ALONE IN THE CHAMBER, I pressed the tips of my fingers against my brow, feeling sick for Elizabeth. No matter what Mr. Forrester had claimed, I could not, would not, believe that Henry was engaged to someone else. It wasn’t possible. The idea of either Henry or Elizabeth marrying another was positively revolting. I found myself wishing I had ignored her ladyship in the dining room and confronted Mr. Forrester on its impossibility.
Drawing a deep breath, I raised my gaze and viewed the swords flickering in the firelight. For the first time I finally understood why Henry and Elizabeth had furiously plotted to keep Edward and me together. Some things were just meant to be. Had to be.
I tucked a stray curl behind my ear, feeling the stark severity of the space, its dark corners pressing down upon me. Our foursome had been so real, so tangible. How was it possible that tonight I’d denied knowing Edward and then found out that Henry was engaged to another? I half fancied that hundreds of miles away, Edward had looked up from his studies with an acute feeling of pain. For I’d felt the last cords of our relationship strain and snap, as surely as if they were physical.
To distract myself, I stood and paced in front of the fireplace, wondering if this chamber was always so oppressive. Even in daylight, little sun would come through the narrow windows, which had scarcely enough width to peer out. It wasn’t difficult to envision this room was a prison of sorts during Henry VIII’s time.
I deserved such a soulless room, I thought, viewing the ancient weapons. By allowing Lady Foxmore to bring me here, I’d been no wiser than the flighty young Catherine Howard, who’d followed Lady Rochford’s leading. Like her, had I stepped too far outside the perimeters of society? I’d abandoned mourning, and I now waited to meet alone with a gentleman at night.
I frowned, rubbing the chill from my arms. Yet at the same time, I was nothing like the beheaded queen. I was not wed. Let me find refuge from the north, from my humble circumstances, and see if I’d be so foolish as to betray the savior-king who’d offered it.
I crouched before the fire and stretched my hands over the flame. My eyes drifted over the mass of antique weapons above me, catching sight of an axe, pockmarked with rust and iron pockets. I studied its splayed and flattened head. An execution axe.
“I die a queen, but I would rather have died the wife of Culpeper.”
Catherine Howard’s last words drifted through my mind. Daft, Mama had called her, after I’d read the account of her execution. At the time, I thought Mama the most unromantic soul in England, for I fancied I understood the queen’s sentiments. Culpeper had been her Edward, worth dying for.
The fire popped and hissed beneath my fingers and I withdrew my hands from the warmth. But what was love compared to survival? Despite Catherine’s love of Culpeper, had she chosen survival, the orphaned girl might have lived out her days wrapped in fur and jewels—queen of England.
I jabbed the fire, causing the fiery log to crumble. No. I was no Catherine Howard. I wouldn’t die for love either.
Placing my hand over my neck, I gave the axe one last disdaining look, for it was impossible not to feel it had claimed more than one life. It appeared ancient, so antiquated it possibly could have been the same instrument used for—
“Enough,” I whispered, rubbing my heavy eyes.
Determined to think no more upon executions, I rested my head on my folded arms and soaked in the warmth of the fire. My life seemed unstable in that moment, as ready to crumble as the log beneath the fire’s flame. If Mama could abandon me, if men as genuine as Edward and Henry could be proven false, then what was constant?
>
I lowered myself to the floor and leaned against the davenport, wondering how Elizabeth and I missed the clues that Henry and Edward would shrink back.
During my long absence, there was one memory in particular I was wont to reflect upon when I wanted reassurance. I’d recall as many details as I could about the Midsummer Night’s Eve when Mama and Mrs. Windham attended a dinner, never suspecting their daughters had agreed to a tryst in the woods. The air had been crisp; Elizabeth and I stuffed our beds, then hand in hand raced into the night for adventure.
When we arrived at the edge of the woods, Henry jested that we were tempting Robin Goodfellow to flirt with our fates, and that if we weren’t careful, we’d fall in love with the wrong person. Edward’s skeptical look caused Henry and Elizabeth to shriek with laughter. Thereafter, to befool Puck, Henry picked fistfuls of sleeping bluebells, which he thrust in my hands, and Elizabeth wove Edward a crown of twigs, denoting her newfound love for him.
By the time we arrived at our destination, their gaiety had dressed us in sticks, ferns, leaves, and wildflowers. Edward gave me a private glance and our minds were one. We had not fooled Puck, but rather he’d ushered us into his courts with welcome and overseen that we were bedecked as one of his folks. A rare honor indeed.
As sparks from our small fire floated into the night and blended into the starry canopy, Edward bowed and extended his hand. I nimbly curtsied.
A sound, like that of stone scraping against stone, caused us both to pause. The fire expired and the forest became black. Edward paled, backing away.
I already knew what was happening, for I had dreamed it a hundred times. Tears thickened my throat as I heard the crackle of flames. I turned, crying, expecting to see Mama across the vast pit. Only this time she had managed to cross the expanse. Her maggot-eaten face, still wrapped in her gauzy shroud, hovered before mine. She held out her hands, wailing in agony.
I sat up from my sleep, my feet sliding over the polished floor as birch trees dissolved into walls and windows. All at once, I realized Mama’s dream wails were actually my own. With a sob, I covered my mouth.
Never before in my dreams had Mama crossed the chasm. I closed my eyes, trying to erase the image. Though I’d sworn I would never cry or mourn for her again, tears came unbidden.
No longer did the swords flicker in the firelight. The chamber was dark. While I’d slept, the candles had burned down to the wick. The light produced from the ruby embers behind me cast a hellish hue over the Turkish carpet.
To my great embarrassment, the door creaked open, sending light through the room.
“Miss Elliston?” Reynolds stepped in from the hall. “Are you all right?”
I gave him no answer, but signalled for privacy.
It was easy to see he was uncertain what to do. He started toward me but stiffened at the sound of rushing feet.
“What the dickens is going on in here?” Mr. Macy demanded, entering the room. “Who was that screaming?”
I turned away to wipe my eyes and nose on the sleeve of my dress.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Macy, sir; only Miss Elliston—”
Before I knew what was happening, a pair of hands braced my shoulders and turned me. I attempted to rise, but his hands on my shoulders kept me from more than sitting. Mr. Macy’s gaze probed every inch of my face. Under his scrutiny, memory of Mama faded as I grew conscious of my wrinkled dress and tearstained eyes. He exhaled, relieved. Barely audible, he asked, “Are you all right?”
My voice lodged in my throat, but I managed a slight nod.
His features became forbidding as he looked over his shoulder. “Might I ask why it is that one of my guests—this guest in particular—is here alone and unguarded?”
The silence that followed was pregnant with discomfort.
“I don’t know, sir,” Reynolds finally said. “I only just found her myself.”
“What do you mean you only just found her?” He gnashed his teeth at his valet. “Did I not assign you to tend to her after dinner? What is she doing here?”
“I hardly know myself, sir. She’d already left the table by the time I arriv—”
“Quiet.” Mr. Macy’s gaze lingered on the room before he returned his attention to me. He tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear and then cradled my face. He bent his head near mine and kept his voice private. “Of all the rooms in the estate, Miss Elliston, why did you choose this one?”
I’d been unable to recover my wits before Reynolds, but now, like forcing the final dress into a trunk and then latching it, I managed to quell my confusion and panic. As I became conscious of Mr. Macy’s hands on my cheeks, they grew inflamed.
“Her ladyship brought me here.” My voice sounded more wan than I liked. “Did she forget to tell you where I was?”
It was difficult to see his expression in the murk, but I gathered from the tension in his arm that he was displeased. He dipped his head, whether to think or to recover his temper, I knew not. “Reynolds, do not fail me again. You may leave now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“John—” Mr. Macy looked over his shoulder—“go find Adelia and make it abundantly clear I am not amused. Tell her no more games. I mean it.”
Mr. Greenham bowed. “And when I finish?”
“Retire for the evening.” Mr. Macy’s eyes met mine as he brushed his thumb along my jawline. To my chagrin, as he viewed my mouth his eyes lit with amusement. It did not occur to me until later that it was because he read the desire that spread through me as a fire burns a page. “I’ve waited a long time to have Julia alone.”
My stomach hollowed at his words, yet at the same time they also thrilled me.
“What?” Mr. Greenham lowered his voice. “Alone? Here?”
Mr. Macy slowly looked over his shoulder. “Is there a problem, John?”
“No, but we agreed that—”
“Then leave.”
Mr. Greenham’s mouth clamped shut, but he turned his gaze on me. He looked so feral that I half believed that should every servant in Eastbourne spontaneously attack us with knifes and pokers, he could have vanquished them bare-handed. In a sort of spasm, Mr. Greenham jerked his head, then retreated into the dark hall. Mr. Macy likewise watched him, only with an expression that better suited a hawk.
Once the sound of the slap of his boots faded, Mr. Macy angled his head and studied me. “May I ask—” his voice was as beguiling as his appearance—“what message of yours Lady Foxmore failed to deliver? Were you waiting for me?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but a new kind of shyness seized me. I pleaded with my eyes not to be questioned.
He laughed as his gaze darted over the gloomy hall and darkened chamber. “And alone, too? You are either very brave or very foolish to follow her bidding. Tell me, are you very nervous?”
“Ought I to be?”
“Yes, with a chaperone as notorious as Adelia and no gentleman present to defend your honor.” His nostrils flared slightly as if he were a starved man savoring a meal he was about to devour. Mr. Macy’s gaze dropped to my mouth and then ran along my neck. When his eyes returned to mine, my stomach twisted with a new sensation, one of which I knew Edward would not approve.
Mr. Macy leaned forward, as though to kiss me. “You made a very foolish mistake, being caught alone in the dead of night, with a man, inviting his glances. Clearly your mother neglected to teach you the finer points of propriety.” His voice grew jagged as his gaze moved along my collarbone. He picked up a lock of my hair and breathed in its scent. “What would you do, little one, if I were in no mood to correct her mistakes?”
Fisting my skirt, I watched him, wide-eyed.
With a chuckle, he released my curl. “Lucky for you, I am a man of restraint. Besides, it would be counterproductive, considering I brought you here to offer you my full assistance.”
“Assistance?” My voice came out weak, my heart still pounding against my stays. “I don’t understand.”
His brows kn
it. “You must admit the odds are not in your favor at the moment and growing worse. It’s nothing short of a miracle you’ve made it this far.” My confusion must have been apparent, for Mr. Macy’s face crumpled. “You mean no one’s told you?”
“Told me what?”
He ran his fingers through his hair, glancing at the clock before his hand moved to his chin, which now shadowed a day’s growth. He shook his head as though in disbelief. When he spoke, it was slow and thoughtful. “Forgive me in advance, Miss Elliston, but this may be a rather trying night for you. We haven’t much time to act, and it appears you lack important knowledge.” He stood with fluid movement and offered his hand. “The documents are in my study. Will you come?”
Mr. Macy paused before a small door and pulled out a key ring. He gave me a nod of encouragement as the key twisted in the lock.
Inside, a merry blaze illuminated an intimate cedar-panelled room. Before the hearth, two worn leather couches faced each other. On my right stood a massive desk strewn with papers, some of which spilled over onto the floor. Scattered ash and the scent of cigars suggested a negligent smoker. Behind the far couch, a tray was set with liquors in sparkling decanters. Mr. Macy ushered me into the chamber, then relocked the door.
I folded my arms and drew them close as he locked his keys in a drawer.
“Cold?” Mr. Macy shook off his silk banyan, then held it in the air for me to slide my arms through. It was the first time in my memory someone had acted as though my well-being meant more to him than his own.
As I slid my hand over the raised embroidery and silk, he navigated his way around the papers near the desk. Nothing in my entire wardrobe was so costly. To the backdrop of decanters chinking against each other, I lifted the square collar about my face and breathed in his scent—cigars, brandy, and sandalwood. I hadn’t realized I’d shut my eyes until he asked, “Brandy?”
I opened my eyes and found him watching me with pleasure. “For me?”
With a disarming smile, he turned over a glass. “So, they’ve not permitted you the drink of gentlemen, eh? Here, try it.” He sauntered to me and pressed a full tumbler into my hands. “You’ll find no such restrictions on you in my house.”
Born of Persuasion Page 15
