Engraved (A Private Collection)
Page 10
Apparently Adam’s affair with another woman meant nothing. Did she have no tears to shed? No paroxysm of anger and hurt to release?
No. She was unmoved, schooled by her aunt to expect all this, to turn a blind eye to her husband’s dalliances. The girl’s calm face only increased Lina’s own rage. Would the girl not care who he slept with? Didn’t she love him?
How could that wretched, squirrel-faced girl not be in love with Adam Blackwood?
How could any woman not be?
Lina knew that if she was in that girl’s place, she would not sit by and let some other woman have him.
She wouldn’t give in the way women were supposed to.
She wouldn’t bear it.
“So you will not come to the ball, Mrs. Phillips, for the sake of all concerned. Better stay in and not put yourself through the gauntlet of rumor any further. Once Mr. Blackwood gets his fascination for that old house out of his system, he and my niece will return to London. Then perhaps you can find someone to marry you and save your reputation, before you’re too old to have children. Perhaps you could move away and go where you aren’t known. I will advise Mr. Blackwood to provide you with a small parting gift to help you on your way.”
She snapped out, “Thank you for your concern regarding my future.”
In a rustle of stiff silk and muslin, Lady Cheswick stood abruptly, urging her niece up and out of the parlor. Lina, moving as if pulled by a puppeteer’s strings, followed her.
In the doorway, her niece out of ear shot, the old woman turned around and said firmly, “I shall be straightforward with you, Mrs. Phillips. If you attend the May ball and cause a deliberate scandal for my niece by parading about before her friends and guests from London, the wedding will be called off. Adam Blackwood wants to get his hands on my niece’s fortune and has spent six months trying to persuade me he’s a reformed man, ready to settle down. He wants to put the past behind him and erase the stain of his father’s infamous behavior. He is still young enough to rise above all that, and he has a fine career ahead of him, with the right people at his side. But all his hard work will be for naught if you selfishly ruin it for him, won’t it?”
Lina gave no reply. Hands folded before her, she watched Lady Cheswick sweep around again, the feathers in her bonnet stroking the door frame. A few moments later she heard the front door close behind them.
Finally, she breathed.
* * * *
The village was in a great state of excitement about the May ball at The Grange. Adam Blackwood extended an open invitation, and no soul wished to be left out, even those who previously claimed the young man to be “just like his villainous father”. The work he put in on the old house and the rehiring of staff from among those villagers most in need of an income did much to improve his image. And, of course, there was that dangerous charm which should never be underestimated. He had more of it than even his father, Evangeline thought restlessly, staring down from her bedroom window, watching him canter across the common. He wore no jacket, just a waistcoat and shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It seemed to be his uniform these days.
Today he had no Miss Hawkesworth and her gimlet-eyed aunt with him, whereas they were usually trailing after the man, trying to keep up with him. The ladies were not staying at The Grange but had taken the grandest rooms at the Carbury Hotel. Peering around her curtain, Evangeline watched him stop and talk with the tavern keeper. She heard his laughter, let out in a shameless gush. Adam wasn’t afraid to laugh, not afraid to show what he felt. Unusual in a man.
Evangeline was very glad Miss Hawkesworth was not staying in his house.
Angry at herself for that remarkably possessive and unjustified thought, she turned briskly away from the window and the blood-red sunset.
She’d decided not to attend the ball tonight, determined to stay in with a good book, and she had some old stockings to sew together for dusters. Besides, she was too old for balls. There were a thousand reasons she could come up with not to go. It wasn’t anything to do with Lady Cheswick, she reassured herself. She was no coward, afraid of a few fancy society folk from London. She simply didn’t care to go.
The gas lamps were not yet lit. Her reflection in the mirror was merely a silhouette framed by the extraordinary light of the melting sky. She was no longer a person with a face, just a black, still figure. Evangeline Phillips was no more.
The front door bell rang.
Surely he wouldn’t come there again. He should be at The Grange preparing for tonight.
She listened, unmoving, staring at her dark shape in the mirror. Through her window the sun bled, like a heart pierced by an arrow. There were no sounds from outside. The villagers were all in their houses, dressing for the ball, putting on their best faces, gossiping about Adam Blackwood and his squirrel-faced fiancée. No, she chided herself, don’t think that, his rich, prettyish, very young fiancée.
Footsteps in the hall clopped gracelessly, slovenly across the stone. “Ma’am! Are you up there?”
Somehow she made her legs move to the door. Her hands opened it. “What is it, Mary?” Please don’t let it be him again. Please.
Over the last week and a half he’d visited five times, always unexpected, always on some spurious excuse. On two of those occasions his fiancée accompanied him and made stiffly polite attempts at awkward conversation. On the other three occasions he managed to come alone. She didn’t know whether Miss Hawkesworth knew, but the entire village did. Evangeline saw the curious glances and frowns throw her way at the post office and the village shop. He was on his best behavior when he came alone, but even so it was wrong. Not that Adam Blackwood cared about the rules of propriety. He seemed to enjoy teasing her, sitting in her parlor, sipping tea, taking little opportunities to touch her, casually remarking on how well she looked, his black eyes raking over her, deliberate and thorough.
But tonight he didn’t come in.
“Mr. Blackwood left something for you, ma’am.”
Coming down the stairs, she breathed slowly, one hand to her heart where it was hurting. “A gift?”
Mary handed her a box and a card, one word scrawled across it. Her name.
Cautiously she opened the box and took out the contents.
It was the ugly skeleton clock in the glass dome.
Apparently he thought because she didn’t have a clock in the house she needed one. And of all clocks, he gave her that horrid thing.
She wanted to hurl it at the wall. She wanted to run after him and scream that he didn’t know what she needed at all. That he must stop coming there, making people talk, making her wily maid suspect.
In the end she did neither.
Instead, she took the clock up to her bedroom, set it on the dresser, turned up the gas lamps and stared at it.
A clock, a damned clock. She raged inside, getting hotter by the thought. What sort of parting gift was that for a woman to whom he had once made passionate love? When people retired they were given clocks.
“I will advise Mr. Blackwood to provide you with a small parting gift to help you on your way.”
She supposed it could have been worse. He could have taken her out and shot her like an old horse past its prime.
A clock. Now she began to perspire, the heat of her fury rolling off her in a fine mist. The cogwheels whirred and clicked, smug inside their glass case, knowing she couldn’t get at them. They fit inside one another like sharp teeth, forming grin after grin. The brass balls spun one way and then the other, going nowhere. Always, just before they switched direction, there was a slight pause, and if she stared hard enough, long enough, it was possible to imagine they were about to stop completely, frozen. But then they swung again, laughing at her.
She paced before it, trying to control the flurry of emotions. Like sparks from a bonfire, they flew in all directions, spitting and hissing, vanishing before she could capture them.
“Mary!” She stormed out onto the landing.
“Ma’am?” For on
ce the maid came on her first call.
“Send a message to Mr. Carbury at once. I don’t care who goes with it. Tell him I changed my mind. I will go to the ball tonight and I’ll be ready in one hour.”
* * * *
It was a shock to find that the gown still fit her after more than ten years, but since it had been so long since she last took it out for an airing, it was the nearest thing she had to new. The woman inside it today was no longer the cautious, bewildered creature she had been the first time she wore it. And the gown sensed those changes. It clung to her curves, hoisting her in and up in all the right places; the silk, far too fancy for East Lofton, caressed her like a lover. The décolletage was very low, her high breasts framed by a thin ruffle of lace, elegant and expensively trimmed with tiny pearls. Velvet-covered buttons, dyed to match the scarlet silk, ran down the front of her bodice and although at first glance they looked merely decorative, closer examination proved them functional. It was a gown a woman could get out of without the aid of another pair of hands. As a young bride, when she first had it made, she thought only of efficiency, not liking to be fussed over by the coldly distant servants that were sent to tend her and follow her every move. But her husband, Lord Boswell, declared the gown “sluttish” and she, anxious to please, not yet daring to express her own opinions, put it away in shame. Now she sent her blessings to every saint in Christendom for not letting her cut it up for lavender sachets, as once planned.
Once the gown had been too grand for her, it wore her. Tonight it wouldn’t dare try.
Next came her hair. She paused, glancing again at Randolph’s ugly clock, then at her reflection in the mirror above it. She’d not yet brushed her hair out and it was still damp from a hasty washing in the scullery. As it dried it would curl. Her body heat would do the work of the sun. In that moment her skin felt hot enough to roast chestnuts with so much fury smoldering inside.
She made a swift decision to leave it improperly loose down her back.
Let them all talk. Let them all look at her. What did she care what they thought? Evangeline Phillips was no more.
Here was Lina.
These village folk, all so ready to gossip about her, called her a witch. Tonight, that’s what she would give them.
Chapter Nine
He felt her before he saw her. The air in the ballroom changed, and it wasn’t a subtle motion. A low murmur swept the crowd. He had his back to the door, reaching for a glass of champagne from the footman’s tray, when he felt her cool hands around his face, her soft, playful laughter tickling the back of his neck.
“Guess who?” she whispered.
The glass almost knocked out of his hand, he cursed.
She was there. She came after all, despite her note telling him she would not.
Regrouping, apologizing to the footman for the champagne on his shoes, he turned to find her, his gaze quickly searching and discarding among the guests.
A blur of red stood out like a drop of fresh blood on the polished ballroom floor and then his eyes focused.
Almost every head turned to watch her entrance, but they were all aware of her a full minute after he’d felt her hands on his face and heard her sensuous whispers.
She stared directly at him. For once she was bold, not hiding, not fearful of her own expression giving her away.
He should remain aloof and look past her, as she had done so many painful times to him, dismissive and callous. But he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop his eyes from admiring her. She wore nothing on her head, no flimsy decoration of flowers or feathers, just let her hair flow. That alone was enough to cause palpitations among his more fragile guests. It curled languidly down her back, a breeze occasionally lifting a lock or two.
Today there was no sign of the tightly bound widow tortured by her own corset. The crimson gown was an interesting choice of color for a woman who usually went out of her way to hide her charms under drudge browns and greys. It ought to be illegal, he mused darkly. If he had any say in it, that gown would be outlawed. His heart skipped, urging him to rush forward, but he curbed his boyish enthusiasm and waited.
She wasn’t alone. As he watched, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with graying temples came to her side, having apparently disposed of their coats. And Lina turned to smile at her partner, dipping her head and stroking him with her eyes in the manner of a scandalous coquette.
Adam Blackwood was outraged.
He tried to quell it. Tossing back the contents of his glass, he looked for the footman with the tray but found Matilda Hawkesworth swishing across the ball room floor with her aunt in tow. He grabbed her gloved hand without another thought, handed his empty glass to the protesting Lady Cheswick, and whirled his fiancée out onto the floor for their first waltz.
Matilda began chattering in her usual fashion about everything and nothing. He hoped it would dull his mind, but it didn’t. Among the crowd he saw Lina dancing with her companion. Her cheeks were already colored by the brisk night air, the pretty pink tone also spread to her bosom, which was very enticingly displayed above a low neckline. Crimson silk strained to contain her full breasts, while they heaved with every breath she took. A girlish ruffle of ivory lace framed the splendid offering, and he was distracted for a moment, thinking of cherry-tipped buns nestled on white doilies. Hmmm. He was vastly hungry tonight. Tiny velvet buttons dyed to match her gown ran the length of her bodice. Adam rarely paid much attention to a lady’s garments, but he took swift note of their placement and function with great interest. They were not merely decoration it seemed, but with a few flicks of his fingers, her magnificent bosom would be set free, her nipples easily accessible.
His mouth watered.
As he and his partner swept by, narrowly missing her, she glanced over at him, her eyes wide, unblinking, her lips pertly clenched. She pretended not to see him. The sight of another man’s hand placed at her waist tore into him like a butcher’s hook.
“Adam! Are you listening to me? I said this ballroom will surely fit two hundred.”
“Two hundred what?” He was still watching Lina as she spun in her partner’s arms, graceful, elegant. It was as if her feet barely touched the floor.
“Wedding guests, silly!”
He forced his attention back to Matilda. “That many?” He’d left the wedding preparations entirely to her, having no interest in anything but getting it done. And he planned to invite no one but his brothers.
“Of course! One must invite all the important people.”
“And who are they?”
“Titles, darling, old wealth and aristocracy. You do want to belong, don’t you?”
“Belong?” he muttered distantly, watching Lina moving further away.
“To be accepted by society,” Matilda purred, her small hand patting his shoulder as they made a jolting turn, enabling him to keep Lina in his sights. “My aunt says you’ll never be fully accepted if you don’t make an effort. These are the people who will help your career, bring you commissions. It’s all well and good to have money, Adam, but with your reputation and all those things people say about your father…”
He stopped dancing and looked down at her. “What things are they saying about my father?”
“Well.” She flushed. “That he came from nothing and made money in some unsavory ways.”
“Unsavory?”
“Not only that he purchased failing businesses and sold them off at a profit, but that he caused the businesses to fail in the first place, driving the owners out.”
“Bad management causes business to fail,” he replied, his voice brittle. “My father did those men a favor by buying them out. When they saw how he made a success where they couldn’t, they resented it, accused him of underhand scheming.” He paused, gathering his temper. “If you’re going to report rumors, at least know what you’re talking about first.”
She pouted, her eyes suddenly darker, less vacant than usual. “There’s no need to take that tone.”
“And there are other matters in addition to his suspect business methods,” Matilda continued. “Mr. Carbury, the hotel owner, told my aunt all about the orgies Randolph Blackwood used to have here in this house.”
He laughed curtly. “Orgies?” He was surprised she even knew that word, but perhaps her aunt had filled her in on the meaning. There was nothing worse than a bitter, vindictive hypocrite.
“He entertained loose women in this house…and those who practiced witchcraft.”
Adam knew his father had an interest in the occult, but that was nothing unusual. He collected interests, and women, like a magpie collected shiny objects. His gaze strayed wantonly across the room again, looking for that blot of crimson. “Did he?”
“Oh yes. They all danced naked.” She shivered, lowering her voice as the music came to an end. “Around bonfires on the lawn.”
“Mr. Carbury told you all this?”
“Some we heard from him, but there are others in the village with stories to tell. Didn’t you know? Your father was quite insane at the end. Probably,” she added crisply, “because of all that consorting with the supernatural.”
Looking at her, he suddenly couldn’t see her features anymore. Her face was a pale, round shape with no definition. Only her spiteful voice remained clear.
“And that whore over there with the bosoms in the red dress, the one you’ve been sleeping with, was one of his favorites.”