Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  “Ah, dinner,” Mrs. P said, sighing with relief that all was ready. “And you look lovely, Miss, if I do say so.”

  Psyche smoothed one straying strand of hair and then smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Parslip. You have been an enormous help.”

  The servant returned her smile. Moved by impulse, Psyche bent to kiss the woman’s cheek. “And thank you for your loyalty to Gabriel,” she almost whispered. “It is balm to his troubled soul, you know.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes glistened, and she blinked hard. “I stayed because of that, because he might someday come back,” she confessed, very low. “Poor boy. I’m glad he has a good lady, a strong lady this time, to love him. I will be happy to see him settled with a family of his own.”

  It was Psyche’s turn to blink. If only she could be sure . . . But the housekeeper’s tone was approving. Psyche smiled again and cast aside her doubts.

  “Now, mustn’t be late to dinner,” the servant warned.

  Psyche turned obediently toward the door. She still wore her gold-colored sandals, but otherwise, she felt much more prepared to venture into mixed company.

  Gabriel waited for her in the hallway. He wore a dark evening coat, white waistcoat and tan pantaloons, and sported a neatly tied white neckcloth. He was clean shaven and looked much more his usual immaculate self. If there was a suspicious puffiness about his eyes, one would have had to look very closely to detect it. And there was something else, something almost intangible, yet evident in his eyes and bearing. His effortless charm had returned, but it seemed milder and lacked some of his usual cynical edge. Dare she believe that the new softer light in his lapis eyes might signal the beginning of healing?

  “Very nice,” she murmured.

  He grimaced. “If I lift my arms too much, I think my coat will rip,” he warned her. “It seems I have widened a bit since my university days.”

  She laughed. He had more muscle, no doubt, but having seen him naked, she would attest to the fact that his torso boasted not an ounce of extra fat.

  “You look lovely,” he told her. “The blue becomes you; your eyes are the color of a still lake at twilight.”

  She smiled and took his arm; he almost made her forget the ordeal that was ahead of them. Together, they headed toward the big staircase; downstairs lay the dining room and his tartar of a father.

  As they descended, Psyche could almost feel the temperature falling. Gabriel’s body grew more tense with each step; beneath her hand, his arm might have been carved from the same granite that composed the big mansion. As they slowly made their way down, she glanced at the portraits that hung along the stairwell, old pictures of generations of Sinclairs. One small copper nameplate caught her eye, and she gasped.

  “The Marquis of Gillingham? He is a relative?”

  ”Great-great-grandfather, that one,” Gabriel observed, his tone wry. “Was rumored to have locked his wife into her room so many times the poor lady went mad.”

  “Good heavens. But does that mean that your father–”

  ”Is a Marquis. Yes, I’m afraid so,” Gabriel said. “But I have an older brother, you know, who is very much like my sire and also disapproves of me, so the title is of little matter to me.”

  He had mentioned a brother earlier, she remembered. “Is your brother–”

  “Oh, he’s the image of my father.”

  “Poor man,” she said before she thought.

  Gabriel laughed and wrapped his arm around her in a quick embrace.

  “Why is he not here?”

  “He is like my father in temperament as well as appearance. They fight like mad dogs when they are together. There is a smaller estate in the next county; my brother spends his time there.”

  He had a brother, and a father who was a marquis. And she made him a fictitious marquis. The audacity of such a trick of fate took her breath away. But there was not time to comment on the incredible irony of it because now they had reached the ground floor. They walked into the main hall just as Gabriel’s father emerged from his study. The big man glared at them.

  “Come along then, if you’re determined to stay; won’t have my dinner getting cold.”

  Gabriel simply nodded. Psyche thought the older man looked disappointed. Did he still expect his younger son to quail, as the boy might have done? She felt intense indignation at the many cruelties that Gabriel had had to endure.

  They all walked in silence into the dining room. She felt the reaction in Gabriel, the way his muscles clenched beneath her hand, but knew it was too subtle for his father to detect. How many bad memories did this house hold for its younger son?

  This room was dark and gloomy, with thick draperies pulled across the tall windows, and the chandelier only half lit. Did this surly old man enjoy the darkness? It certainly suited his personality.

  The table was of black wood, with thick Jacobean legs and heavy carving. The sideboard was massive and groaned with food. All this for one man? The kitchen staff had had little time to add dishes in deference to the unexpected guests.

  But perhaps they had made an effort. The elder Sinclair frowned at the bounty. “Wasting my blunt on a scoundrel?” he demanded. “Can’t think what they are about; I should fire the lot of them.”

  Psyche bit her lip, pushing back her angry reply only with great effort.

  But Gabriel was no longer a small boy, cowed with fear of his intimidating father. “Perhaps they have some sense of what guests are due,” he said, his tone cool. “Scoundrels or not.”

  The footmen served the first course. Psyche was aware of how empty she was; she had tasted no food since the day before, and much had happened since they had left London. Even with her hollow belly, however, she found it hard to swallow; the tension at the table was intense. The food itself was only mediocre; her cook would have chopped of her own fingers before serving such thin sauces and over-done roast beef. The jellies were watery, and the horseradish sauce had lumps. Only the puddings were superb, perhaps Mrs. P’s contribution. But the head cook seemed to lack her skill. In this house, with this master, with no mistress to guide the staff, Mrs. Parslip must fight a losing battle; Psyche was not surprised to find the service and the meal below par.

  But she needed to eat; who knew what tomorrow would bring? She put another bite of beef into her mouth and chewed deliberately. She felt for Gabriel, who also ate very slowly. How much harder was it for him to endure this icy silence, the heavy animosity that glowered from every glance that the older man threw his way.

  They made it through three interminable courses without speaking, and Psyche could feel the tightness in her shoulders growing. When the last course had been served, and they dabbled with a fruit tart that needed more cinnamon and less sugar, she wondered what on earth she was supposed to do when the dessert was consumed.

  Normally, the ladies at the table would withdraw to the drawing-room and leave the men to their brandy and cigars for a while longer. But Gabriel had said the drawing-room had no fire, and it might even be draped in dust cloths. She supposed she could simply retire straight to her guest chamber. It would be more comfortable than remaining here, though she hated to leave Gabriel alone with this bully of a man.

  The elder Sinclair put down his fork; she heard it clink on the china plate. “So. I have fed you. I think I have done what’s expected of me.”

  “Expected of you?” Gabriel noted, raising one elegant brow. “Since when did you ever do what was expected of you? And how is my brother, by the way?”

  “He is as usual.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” Gabriel took a sip of his wine. “You may send him my felicitations, when next you speak, some year or other.”

  “Ha–at least he has not tarnished the name of Sinclair,” his father barked.

  “As I have? Yes, you did mention that a few hundred times before you threw me out.”

  “I had cause!”

  The servants had left the dining room after passing the last course; now a
footman reappeared in the doorway, his expression nervous. “My lord, do you require more–”

  “Away w’you!” the Marquis roared. The servant slipped out again and shut the door hastily behind him, just in time to avoid the wine goblet that the old man hurled. It struck the wood, shattering with the impact, the shards falling to the floor with a sound of tinkling glass.

  Psyche gasped, then held herself very still; she did not want to attract this despot‘s attention.

  “You have no idea whether there was cause or not.” Gabriel’s voice rose, just a little. ”You had no idea what I did; you listened to rumor and innuendo, and you were not willing to hear my accounting of the affair–of the events that had transpired.”

  The other man made a harsh, mocking sound deep in his throat. He reached for another glass–were his servants familiar with his rages?– and gulped down the wine.

  “Although, I must admit, you never did listen to me, so I really should not have expected anything else.” Gabriel selected a piece of fruit from the fruit bowl; Psyche admired his calm.

  “A pack of whining excuses you would have given me, worse than your mother, you were,” his father snapped back. “Waste of my time. Never were any good, from the time you were whelped.”

  “The first time you told me that, and the next half dozen, I wept,” Gabriel observed. He put down the pear untouched. “But I am no longer a child. I regret to inform you that I really have no interest in your opinions.”

  The older man’s face darkened. “Mock me, will you? Poor manners and bad blood, no doubt about it.”

  “If you disparage your own bloodline, it is your judgment, and I must accept it.” Gabriel’s voice was steady.

  Psyche felt genuine bewilderment. How could the older man feel such enmity for his own offspring? Even if he doubted Gabriel’s paternity, how could anyone hate a small boy who only wanted to be loved and accepted? What kind of small-spirited person would take out his doubts upon a child?

  Gabriel added, “As for my manners, my mother taught me those, and her father. A good thing; I would have fared very ill in the world if I had had only your impressive example to guide me.”

  “Aye, I can see how far you’ve come,” his father snapped. “Come creeping back to your boyhood home dressed in such ridiculous fashion. Become a gypsy, have you? Reading palms and stealing from the back garden?”

  “I hate to disappoint you,” Gabriel said. “I will inform you when I hold that impressive position. In fact, I have not yet made my mark on the world; I suppose the acorn never falls far from the tree.”

  The other man snorted. “Don’t blame your misbegotten weaknesses on me,” he said. “Doubt I had anything to do with your pretty face.”

  Psyche wanted to shout at the man; she held in her instinctive protest with great difficulty, anger bubbling inside her like an overboiling pot.

  Gabriel seemed to grow even colder. “A fortunate thing for us both.”

  “Humph. So what do you want, then?” The other man folded his arms; he seemed disappointed that he had not been able to provoke his son. “If it’s money–”

  ”Never,” Gabriel said, his tone flat. “My purse is not empty. However, I do need your gracious hospitality for one night. The lady and I will stay overnight and be on our way again in the morning.”

  For the first time, the older man turned to glare at Psyche. She stiffened, the leering expression on his face warned her what to expect from his cesspool of a mind.

  “Lady? About as much a lady as your own mother, doubt me. How dare you bring your doxy into my house–I won’t have it–” But this insult he was not allowed to finish.

  Gabriel pushed himself back from the table and took three rapid strides, his long legs covering the distance between them before his father could complete his statement. He took the older man by the throat, pulled him erect and held him as lightly, as dangerously as if he were a striking asp.

  “You have just insulted the two women, the two honorable women, who are the most dear to me,” he said, his voice deathly quiet. “If you wish to live to take your next breath, you will swallow those words, and I will not hear their like again.”

  The other man struggled, but Gabriel’s grip seemed like iron. Psyche watched and held her breath as the older man fought for his. His square ugly face turned bluish, and his eyes seemed to pop from his head.

  Psyche began to shake. Surely Gabriel would not murder his own father. She made a noise deep in her throat.

  “Gabriel, you can’t!”

  Chapter 21

  For a long moment, she thought he had not heard. The older man struggled, trying to push Gabriel back, but fifteen years had wrought more changes than simply gray hairs and lines; the father’s strength was no longer equal to that of the son’s

  “No, I will not become the same ilk as he,” Gabriel agreed, his voice husky with emotion. His gasp loosened, and the man in his grasp drew a long shuddering breath.

  Gabriel looked down at his sire. “You can not beat me any longer, Father,” he said. “Now, mind what I said about the lady. She is a lady, you may trust me on that; you have no need to know her name. Because of a complicated plot against us, she is in need of shelter and protection for the night. That you will provide, and what poor excuse for civility you can manage, which I know will not be much.”

  He released the other man, who staggered back into his chair, still gasping for air. It was

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  a moment before he could speak; Psyche heard the fire pop and somewhere, a floorboard creaked.

  She wondered if the servants were listening outside the door.

  “I’ll have you horsewhipped,” Gabriel’s father croaked. “I’ll have you hung!”

  “I will hang only if I actually murder you,” Gabriel said, his voice almost cheerful, as if the assault had released some of the simmering resentment he had harbored for years. “And I would not stoop so low. Nor will you horsewhip me because you no longer have the muscle, nor do any of the browbeaten, mistreated servants whose spirit is so poor that they are willing to stay with you. You will do as I say, and keep your mouth shut.”

  The Marquis made a noise almost like a growl, but Gabriel ignored him. He turned to Psyche and bowed.

  “My lady, may I escort you to your chamber?”

  She was very glad to take his arm. When they reached the guest chamber, Gabriel said, “Lock your door. I do not think you are in any danger, but just–just to be safe.”

  Psyche’s eyes had widened; she nodded. “I will.” When she shut the door, she turned the key as he had instructed, but the room seemed very barren, very cold despite the small fire that flickered on the hearth. How had their parsimonious host agreed to the fire? Perhaps the extra luxury was due to Mrs. Parslip; the housekeeper seemed to have her own mind about how to run the house, Psyche thought, smiling a little.

  But the faint lift of her spirits soon faded; it would be a long night, she thought, pulling back the bedcovers. Tomorrow, she would be more than happy to leave this place. She removed her gown and put on the old-fashioned white nightdress the housekeeper had left for her, then took down her hair, shaking it to release the last of the borrowed pins. Taking the comb from the bureau, she threaded it through her hair slowly. When the golden tresses were as smooth and soft as she could make them, she washed her face in the tepid water from the pitcher. Then she could put it off no longer; she had to climb into the high bed and pull the covers up to her chin.

  She was lonely. Was that what Gabriel’s lovemaking had done to her? Not only did her body yearn for new-found sensations, long for his further instruction, not only did she ache to lay her cheek against his firm chest, but the bed was so empty without his presence that she could almost have wept.

  There was nothing to be done about it; she knew that Gabriel would not come to her in his father’s house; it would seem to confirm his father’s distrust of his character, reinforce the slanderous gossip that the Marquis, the real
Marquis, had chosen to believe too easily and too quickly. What a sad thing to grow up with that bitter man for a father.

  She remembered her own father, her mother, the laughter and the camaraderie that had filled their household. She and Circe had delighted in it and had thought it only normal. But compared to this bleak and unhappy house, Psyche saw for the first time just how richly she had been blessed. What’s more, she had grown to girlhood witnessing the mutual respect and appreciation that her mother and father had held for each other. She had that example to draw from, had seen what a marriage could be between a man and a woman.

  Her father had loved her, believed in her, as had her mother. They had never distrusted her; they had always taken her actions and her statements on faith. She had never had the burning need to prove herself that seemed to have helped form Gabriel’s mind and heart.

  No wonder the neglected house and overgrown property had been such a blow to him. Gabriel had planned to emerge from its new-found acreage like a phoenix from the ashes of its sacrificial fire. He had to prove to his father, and to himself, that he was a man who counted, a man who could be proud of who he was. And until Gabriel learned that, believed it in his heart of hearts, he would never be content, she thought. No woman’s love would hold him, not until he could trust himself.

  Sighing, she shut her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep and thus pass the long hours till dawn. She hoped they would make an early start. The fire burned low, and the air became cooler. She snuggled deeper beneath the blankets and still could not capture the slumber that eluded her.

  So when a faint cry sounded from down the hallway, Psyche heard it at once. She listened, wondering if her ears were playing tricks, then it came again. Psyche pushed back the bedcovers and sat up, her whole body tense. Who had cried out in such alarm?