“If I may, Mrs. Auburn, I have a favor to ask of you. I have a letter I’d like for you to hand deliver to Isaac for me.”
“I’m not certain—”
“No, no! It must be you.” He tapped one nostril. “Trust me, I have an instinct for reading others. Besides, if I send it through the post, your father is certain to pester him about its contents. And I want the boy to make up his own mind on this, by george! No unfair influences.” He pulled out a small square of paper that had been folded to the size of one’s palm. It was sealed with a wafer that bore Greenley’s signature. “Will you deliver this for me?”
It was an unfair position to be placed in.
Edward’s and my souls both sprang from the same empyrean region. We were aerolites, and our personalities were clustered with fragments that none outside of ourselves knew how to extract, melt, or shape. While I might not have been capable of following every nuance of Edward’s reasoning, I certainly understood its rhyme and cadence. Like it or not, Isaac had offended Edward’s sense of chivalry past endurance.
And this road I had no map to.
I eyed the cream square, pondering my choices. Edward might not give a whit whether or not I remained acquainted with Isaac. Yet it was entirely possible he would consider it the height of disloyalty.
“Take it already!” Colonel Greenley urged. “I daresay you’re worried you’ll lose it, what with having your head so crowded with the dainty morsels that fill the feminine mind. But don’t allow that to stop you. I’ve always been one to give the weaker sex credit for their faculties. How else should they manage to keep a host of recipes in their heads or track all the ins and outs of everyone’s business?”
I was not offended, as one might suppose. I was too astounded by the strange rush of contradictions coming from Colonel Greenley. Besides, I sensed his motives. He meant to compliment where he insulted. Who was I to criticize the clumsy delivery? Half of what I said seemed to insult my listeners.
But as to accepting the paper, I frowned. It was impossible to explain the complexities hanging in the balance of the decision Colonel Greenley expected me to make. To Colonel Greenley, this was just a small favor, a letter exchanging hands. But I doubted he could even conceive that there were others who operated on vastly different principles. Greenley would only laugh and assure me that he had a better handle on the situation than I did, and it was fine.
Nevertheless, I had an idea of what the note contained, and even though I knew without doubt that Isaac would refuse the request, I agreed with Colonel Greenley. My father didn’t need to know of this correspondence. Furthermore, if I could shield Isaac from a personal interview with Colonel Greenley on this matter, it was the least I could do.
In a flash my mind was made. I would take the paper. It would be easy enough to slip it to Isaac. There was no telling how long we were to live at my father’s. And besides, the sooner we were past this awkward stage, the better.
“I’ll ensure that it reaches him,” I promised. With any luck, the job could be managed without Edward even learning it had happened.
AFTER MY INTERVIEW with Greenley, I found Edward sitting beneath the ancient oak we’d discovered that first morning we arrived at Maplecroft six months ago. Massive branches corkscrewed and twisted in every direction above him, another colossal Cetus.
A hollow sensation filled my limbs as I eyed the massive branches, dismayed by their resemblance to the painted sea monster. Why I should see that book as an evil portent, I couldn’t say. But I did. Forcing aside all thoughts of it, I picked up my skirts and plowed through the dead leaves, acorns, and moss.
Though my approach was as loud as a downpour on a tin roof, Edward kept his pensive gaze on the ground. His shoulders hunched forward as unknown thoughts preyed on his mind.
I settled on my knees before him.
He lifted his hazel eyes to me, looking tormented. “I’m sorry, Juls. That wasn’t gentlemanly to leave you alone with Colonel Greenley, especially as I know nothing about his character. It’s just . . .” His voice grew husky.
Unable to resist, I curved my hand over his cheek, then tucked a flaxen curl behind his ear.
He looked away. “I don’t know. . . . It’s just . . .” He turned back, his mouth pulled downward before his bottom lip trembled. “I’ve made such a mess of it. I hate being reminded of how much . . .” He shook his head, unwilling to voice his pain. He took a breath. His thoughts apparently shifted another direction. “There were nights I had to tell myself over and over that I would not quit, I would not leave you alone there; it would make me the worst coward ever born amongst men if I gave in to the physical hardship of vagrant living. And then to learn that . . .” He covered his mouth as if to sever the words before he could speak them.
I folded my hands in my lap, preparing for his umbrage. Early I’d formed an opinion about Edward’s intense dislike of Isaac. While the average soul might have mislabelled the emotion shredding Edward as common jealousy, I didn’t think there was anything common about it, for even God experiences jealousy.
Edward’s feelings, I believed, weren’t wrong—but rather his conclusions were.
It wasn’t Isaac he detested.
It was me. Or more concretely, my disloyalty.
The very fact that I’d been betrothed to Isaac last week signified that on some level I’d given up on Edward. I’d stopped looking, stopped resisting, stopped believing we were meant to be. Subconsciously, I believed, Edward found it easier to abhor Isaac than to correctly assign the blame to me.
I shut my eyes, knowing what I needed to do. On the carriage ride to Maplecroft, I’d sworn that I was no Abraham. Nor was I. But if required to sacrifice that which I loved most in order to save the person I loved most—that I could do. To leave Edward here was past my endurance. He needed to know. Let him despise me, but I could at least set him free to walk in truth.
“It wasn’t Isaac who betrayed us, Ed.” I fastened my gaze on an acorn that rested in the shadowed vale of brittle leaves. “We both know it was I who gave up on us.”
I waited, hearing the distant caw of a rook and the gentle rustle of dried leaves. Yet I couldn’t lift my head.
Now that I’d lacerated this festering pain, more thoughts poured forth like an oozing sore. I acknowledged that I was the very worst of traitresses. I’d failed Edward, broken Isaac’s heart, betrayed my father. And there was still what I felt about Macy—that twisted, serpentine emotion.
Thus, I waited for Edward to speak, willing to accept whatever well-deserved anger he unleashed.
Had Edward been a different sort of soul, my time with him might have become a living nightmare. My false guilt could have made me easy prey to someone more vengeful.
“I saw you in London, Juls,” Edward finally said. “I watched from alleys and crowded streets as you disembarked from carriages, dressed like some silly doll, and I witnessed the unhappiness plaguing your eyes. I was in the shadows outside your opera box. I witnessed you being pushed and prodded. I was there when Lord Dalry asked—” Edward’s vocal cords grew so harsh, they closed on themselves.
I finally looked up and found his gaze was still downcast. His right hand clutched one of the twisted roots arching from the fallen leaves, his knuckles turning white.
“He had the nerve,” Edward managed through gnashed teeth, “to ask whether you’d rather face a few busybodies—people who thrive on picking apart one’s dress, hair, and speech, as if those have anything to do with one’s true merit—or if you’d rather go home and face your father’s wrath. He used the anger of the man to whose care—” Edward released the root and thumped his chest—“I entrusted you. There are nights I still wake in a cold sweat, wishing I’d obeyed my instinct to pound Lord Dalry’s nose to a bloody pulp right there. They took the girl I loved and had spent years coaxing to speak, to go near sunflowers, to embrace friendship, and they pressured you to reduce your value to the equivalent of some prized racehorse, to become an overdressed symb
ol of their status. And I am infuriated because ultimately it’s my fault.”
I stared, saying nothing. This was the first time Edward had revealed weaknesses to me. I knew not to be alarmed by what he said. Because he needed to be heard. He needed freedom to scrape off and expel these choking thoughts.
He shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. “I watched as you tried to save them at the opera house at cost to us, Juls. Your soul contains fire that theirs lack. But you owe them nothing. You were suffocating, and either they didn’t care or they refused to see it. How badly I wanted to tell you that I wasn’t angry. Every time I saw you after that night, it was clear that you thought you’d lost me. You still woodenly played your part at Lord Dalry’s side. But your eyes, they were vacant.”
I bit my lip. Too well did I remember those hours.
He leaned back against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes, spent, like a sick man whose fever has left him, allowing him to finally sleep. “You’re not the one who betrayed us. Shun the very thought.”
His stern refusal to blame me was like a rock crashing down on a flimsy house of cards. I hated feeling so blameworthy while being exonerated. It strained the very fabric of my body, for Edward didn’t yet understand Isaac, nor had he lived with my father.
“But to be called a rapscallion—” Edward buried his fingers in his curls, dredging up the next layer—“and to have it suggested that I stole you?” He exhibited his hands and slowly fisted them. “I could barely restrain myself. He wasn’t even party to the lie you were forced to live. And to know that tomorrow, tomorrow, we have to go hat in hand and beg succor.”
He shook his head. “It’s so much worse than that, Juls. I live with the knowledge that I have nothing. Absolutely nothing to offer you, outside of an innate knowledge of who you are. And the maddening notion continuously pounds against my brain that if I had truly loved you, I would have left you in Dalry’s hands. There at least you were safe from Macy, your basic needs more than met. Everywhere I go, I’m reminded of his superiority in life and in station.”
This I could alleviate. I threw myself into his arms and was accepted. I rested my head against his chest. “You know on the way to that asinine engagement party, the one that everyone feels the need to bring up, Isaa—Lord Dalry and I fought in the carriage the whole way because I still and only loved you.”
Edward buried his fingers in my hair and bowed his head. “I hope you socked him hard.”
I laughed, unable to envision that. “No, I spent the night on Evelyn Greenley’s arm instead.”
Edward leaned back and rested his head against the gnarled bark. Above him were the carved initials I’d seen months ago: BD + EG. Benjamin Dalry and Evelyn Greenley, I now knew.
“I realize my faith is being tested,” Edward continued. “I have no doubt that I was supposed to collect you. But I keep questioning what is happening now. Why did everything fall the moment we should have been free? I keep wondering if God is forcing us back here because I judged your father, or whether we missed some lesson. I’ve starved, slept on streets, nearly frozen to death, had to accept another man wooing you. No, make that two men! I’m tired of lessons! If I haven’t yet graduated, then let me just fail. I don’t understand what God is doing, and it feels like . . . like . . . we’ve been abandoned. All those sermons about standing firm in trials, and I’m breaking apart. We’re miraculously delivered out of Egypt, against all odds, and three days into the wilderness I’m complaining about thirst. I even know to expect this. Yet it’s an entirely different matter when you’re the one dying of thirst. I want to scream to the heavens that we’re frail and human, and that three days without water in the heat of the desert is too much for anyone. And that it doesn’t make us weak; it makes him negligent!”
His conversation had wandered out of my depth, but I understood enough. He needed support, so I took up his hands, fit my fingers between them, and kissed his knuckles.
Surely by now those familiar with my story must wonder whether I would still have married Edward had I known the consequences that would unfold. Thankfully we are not allowed to see our future in advance. Suffering is bound to occur. It is often the fertile soil in which God plants seedlings of a greater end.
Which one of us, given foreknowledge, would have the strength to pick up our cup and drain it to its dregs?
I pushed my thumbs against the poetry volume, elongating the pages, revealing the concealed painting. With a slight push of my fingers in the other direction I hid it again. The more I viewed the painting, the more filled with misgivings I became.
Why on earth had the painter taken such liberties with the story? The sea monster wasn’t supposed to resemble the ancient oak, but rather a serpent. How could Perseus kill it with a sword instead of a Gorgon’s head? And what made Lady Josephine choose a story where the father opted to sacrifice his daughter to save his kingdom? I could scarcely form that question without feeling waves of resentment.
“This makes the third time I’ve passed you in my new attire,” Jameson’s voice interrupted. “And you’ve yet to comment.”
I jumped from the bench, knocking my knee against one of the trunks piled about me, then quickly dropped the book on the seat I’d occupied, hiding it with my skirts.
Jameson stood clean-shaven, his hair parted and greased into place. He wore black-and-white livery that had been ironed and pressed. His gloved hands brushed off his sleeves. “Well, what do you think? Do I look presentable enough to meet your father?”
My jaw dropped, for it was the first time I actually believed he really was a servant. “Yes, you’ll do very well. Where did it come from?”
He chuckled with genuine pleasure. “Simmons apparently left orders for someone to do something about me. Ha! As if there’s any helping me. So Eaton passed on one of the footmen’s uniforms.” He bent, lifted his elbows to shoulder height, and flapped them backwards. “It fits rather well without altering, don’t you think?”
London House and my father suddenly felt too real.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and glanced up. The grey light of the approaching dawn could be seen clearly through the windows of the dome above us.
Jameson approached. Instead of stopping before me as I expected, he bent and retrieved the poetry volume from the bench. Before I could demand it back, he fanned the pages and frowned at the painting. “Well, that explains your consternation. What a strange painting. Do all books touched by faerie hands develop another story in the gilt edges?”
“I don’t want to go to London,” I confessed. “Can you talk Edward out of it? Something awful is on the verge of happening. Can’t you feel it?”
Jameson’s eyes softened as if he could guess how distressing this was, but he didn’t take my premonition seriously. “What? And run from the course set before us? Hardly fitting for one of your folk!” He tapped the book’s cover. “I rather liked the look on that fellow’s face. Let’s take a page from this book. After all, there are far worse things to face down than your father!”
“There we disagree, though only slightly.” Edward’s voice sounded from the front entrance. “Are we ready?”
I snatched the volume from Jameson’s hands and spun to greet my husband, tucking it behind my skirts. “Nearly.”
Edward nodded at us before giving private instructions to Eaton, who’d accompanied him as he inspected the carriage. Determination chiselled Edward’s tight jaw and anger molded his brow, giving no hint of the deeper emotions he’d expressed yesterday.
Turning, I clutched the volume tightly against my stomach and hastened to the library to replace it on its shelf.
Already the chamber felt our absence. The hearth was empty and lifeless. I had the sensation that after we left, Mrs. Coleman would attack this room next. Every trace of our presence would be beaten from the carpets, burnished from the brass, and polished from the wood. Someday in the near future, my father would enter, and it would be as if we’d never eaten breakfast here,
jested about faeries. It would be as if none of it had ever happened. I glanced at the overstuffed chair Edward had occupied yesterday and was filled with an unexplainable sadness.
“May I be of assistance?” Eaton’s voice surprised me as he gained my side. His gaze locked on the book as if he remembered it from yesterday.
I hugged it against me, suddenly unwilling for any member of my father’s staff to see it. That my grandmother had unfairly influenced Isaac to seek me out, to fall in love with me, was none of their business.
“No thank you. I’m finished here.”
His gaze stayed fastened on the book.
“Reading material for the carriage,” I finally explained.
“Isn’t that one of Master Isaac’s poetry books?” His hint was clear. It wasn’t mine to take. Select another volume.
Heat crept up my face. “No. It’s mine.”
Eaton frowned, but what could he do? Call me a liar? Demand to see it?
I gave him a nod, then picked up my skirts. Knowing my face was scarlet, I raced back down the hall. Every nerve tingled within me, telling me this book was a bane and not to bring it to London. Yet when I found Eaton’s eyes were still fastened on me as I reached the end of the hall, I refused to leave it behind. Butlers were like trained hounds, able to sniff out anything.
And frankly, Isaac’s heart wasn’t his business.
I shoved it into the receptacle holding my toiletries, sensible that it wasn’t my business either.
SMOKE PAINTED the canvas of London’s skies as we entered the city at sunset. No curtain was drawn across the window, and neither Jameson nor Edward made any attempt to censure me; thus I looked upon the throngs of London freely.
We travelled down streets near the fires of an earthenware factory, which cast an orange glow over the murky sky. We passed between shops that were not frequented by London’s elite. Haggard faces extinguished candles behind windows as they closed down for the night. Rows of signs creaked in the wind as booksellers and grocers let down stalls. Crowds of lower-class citizens were pressed together as they headed home. Oily puddles of urine and waste reflected the dark sky. Though not yet summer, London already smelled worse.
Price of Privilege Page 16
