The Lady’s Secret

by Joanna Chambers

  “If I think of you at all, it is as Harland.”

  Nathan frowned. If I think of you at all?

  “That is not my name, it is my title. It is not what I would have you call me.” When she said nothing, he said it again, more firmly. “Say it. Say Nathan.”

  She shrugged, her eyes going to the window again. “All right. Nathan.”

  “Look at me.”

  She obeyed, watching him warily. “Nathan,” she said again, more slowly.

  He held her troubled gaze until at last she looked away, flushing.

  “Short for Nathaniel?” she asked.

  He even liked the sound of that little-used longer name, the way the syllables rolled off her lips. “Yes.”

  Another knock came then, disturbing the strange spell between them. The footmen again, with the bath this time. Nathan sent them into the dressing room with it and over the next few minutes they returned several times with kettles of water. When it was done and they were gone, Nathan walked to the dressing room door and waved Georgy in.

  “Your bath awaits,” he said. “You need not worry about interruptions. I only take very small liberties.”

  She stared at him in surprise for a moment.

  “For me?” she said.

  “For you.”

  She moved then, going into the dressing room and staring down into the steaming tub. He closed the door on her silent back. Half a minute later the door opened again and her tousled head emerged.

  “Thank you,” she said. Merely that, and then the door clicked shut again.

  Chapter 17

  The library at Camberley was Nathan’s favourite room. He often dined here when he was alone. As well as the desk he used for estate business, there was a round table he used for meetings with his steward and tenant farmers. It was useful too for small informal dinners.

  Georgy sat at the table, fidgeting with her white napkin. Although he had asked for a simple supper, when the food arrived, it was plain that Mrs. Lowe had arranged to serve a full dinner, albeit one that she would consider paltry by her usual standards. Two footmen were needed to bring the food in, each bearing a large tray. They entered wearing identical wooden expressions and began to array the dishes on the table.

  Georgy rose and began to assist them. Nathan almost stopped her until he realised that would be a gaffe.

  “Sit down,” he said, once the footmen had removed themselves.

  She gave him an odd look. “I may as well serve up.” She reached for a salver.

  “I said sit down, there’s a good chap.”

  She raised her brows but did as she was told, watching as he stepped forward and lifted the lids from the dishes, sniffing appreciatively at the scents that rose up with the steam. He glanced at Georgy, who was also peering at the contents of the dishes with keen interest, and smiled. Most of the ladies of his own class considered it gauche to show interest in their dinner.

  A roasted chicken, already carved, occupied the largest dish. It was smothered in a rich gravy and surrounded by sage dumplings. Another dish held potatoes roasted in goose fat, another parsnip gratin. An apple pudding sent up a heavenly aroma.

  Nathan lifted a plate and began to serve.

  “Since there are only the two of us,” he said, “I will do the honours.”

  She frowned, not liking this.

  “Have you ever been served dinner by an earl?”

  “No,” she said. Then added dryly, “It is a great honour.”

  Nathan added one last dumpling to her plate as a reward for her cheek, and placed her dinner before her. “Ah, well, we must make the most of this momentous occasion, then. Allow me to pour you a glass of wine.”

  He lifted the decanter at his left hand and trickled wine into her glass. He watched as she raised the glass to examine its contents.

  “I’ve not drunk much wine before,” she said, peering inside.

  “Try it. That’s a lovely one. I bought several cases a few years ago, and it’s just coming into its own.”

  She frowned and took a tiny sip. “Oh!” she said, eyes widening.

  “Do you like it?”

  She didn’t answer immediately but took another mouthful, a bigger one this time. “It has so much flavour,” she said at last. “It’s dark and—bright, all at once. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes.” He smiled, pleased but not entirely surprised by her acuity. He’d come to value her opinion in matters of taste. She had an instinctive appreciation for good, well-made things. He was looking forward to showing her the orrery. What would she make of it? He felt sure she’d be as excited about it as he was.

  He served himself and while they ate, he quizzed her about what she thought of the flavour of the wine. Fruit, but not fruit, she said. Spice. Then he tutored her—how to swirl it and watch the speed of its descent against the side of the glass, how to hold it to the light and check its clarity, how to smell it, to inhale its bouquet before even taking a sip, how to roll it over her tongue to get every little nuance of its character. She listened intently, copying his movements, peering into the depths of her glass, scenting and sipping with a concentrated expression he found charming. She was clever and curious and he loved watching comprehension bloom on her expressive face. He poured her another glass, then another.

  The wine loosened her inhibitions. She began to chat freely, her usual effort at maintaining the master-servant relationship abandoned. After the meal, they pushed the plates aside and lounged in their chairs.

  “I remember watching my mother and father drinking wine together, when I was small,” she said in a dreamy way. Nathan’s ears pricked up. He had been finding it difficult to get a sense of her origins. She didn’t speak in the cut-glass tones of the women of his own class, nor did she have any regional aspect to her accent. Not that he recognised anyway. Her voice was pleasing—very pleasing—but neutral. Her movements gave no clues either. She was brisk and capable in the way of women who worked, yet graceful, with an elegant, upright posture one simply didn’t see in women of the serving classes who were trained not to draw attention to themselves. This casual reference to parents—parents who drank wine, certainly no workingman’s inclination—drew his attention.

  “We’d sneak downstairs, my brother and I, after they put us to bed at night. They’d be in the drawing room, sitting together—maybe Mama would be on Papa’s lap.” She laughed softly. “And they’d be sipping wine. I always thought they looked—oh, impossibly elegant!” Her eyes had gone wistful as she spoke, but then she seemed to come back to herself and fell silent, her gaze directed into her empty glass.

  “Are they still alive, your parents?”

  She shook her head. “My father died when I was still quite small, my mother a few years ago.”

  She looked sad and he wished, surprising himself, that he could touch her, merely to give her comfort.

  Instead, he said, “It’s hard to lose a parent, especially when you’re so young.” When she said nothing in response, he asked, “What are your favourite memories of them?”

  She smiled then, though it was still a sad sort of smile.

  “Christmas,” she said. “It was lovely because we always saw a lot of Papa. Although we lived in the heart of London, Papa always brought a great pile of greenery to decorate the house with—holly and mistletoe and ivy. He probably got it at one of the markets but he used to tell me he’d gone into a deep dark forest for it, and, of course, I believed him.” Her eyes warmed at the memory. “He hung the mistletoe in the hallway, so that any guests were caught under it. Though mostly it was him and Mama I saw under there.”

  Nathan smiled at the picture she painted, even as his mind picked over the information she’d divulged.

  “If he saw me watching them, Papa would grab me and swing me up and say ‘A three-of-us-kiss then, Georgy.’ And we’d all put our lips together, going—Mmmmm.” She closed her eyes and made her mouth into a pout, demonstrating the kiss.

  She was very temptin
g to him in that moment, and more than that. Endearing.

  “They sound like lovely parents.”

  “They were. Affectionate and loving. Indulgent. Not in the least bit strict. And Christmas was such fun. They’d take us skating on the Serpentine and then afterwards we’d buy chestnuts and roast them over the fire at home. Papa would peel them and we’d eat them together. There always seemed to be people coming round to wish us a Merry Christmas and play games and drink hot cider and sing round the pianoforte.” She broke off, a little breathless. “Goodness, listen to me! I’m rabbiting on and on about myself. How dull for you.” Her eyes darted away from his. She was worried she was giving too much away, he realised. And she was, becoming positively loquacious, describing a life that was surprisingly well-to-do.

  “On the contrary—it’s fascinating. It sounds so different from my own Christmases.”

  “How so?”

  Her relief at turning the conversation to his life was palpable.

  “It wasn’t that Christmas was awful,” he began. “More that it was a time for duty and alms giving, that sort of thing. My father was very aware of his position. My mother and sister would deliver baskets round the village and we would go to all the church services. And on Christmas Day, the most important families in the county would come for dinner. It wasn’t so much of a family occasion for us. We didn’t have mistletoe or chestnuts. Or party games—good Lord, the thought of my father playing a party game!” He laughed out loud at the thought, then glanced at Georgy and caught a look of pity on her face. “It wasn’t bad,” he added. “It just wasn’t so much fun as your Christmases, I expect. My father felt that Christmas was a time for charity, a time to remind us children how fortunate we were and what our duties were to the less fortunate.”

  Good God, he thought—he sounded as priggish as his father now!

  “He sounds as though he was very moral,” Georgy said, a hint of doubt in her voice. “A very good sort of man.” That note of doubt bothered him though, and Nathan found himself searching his memory for something more, something better. Suddenly it struck him, an old and powerful memory.

  “Of course, when I was very small, the mummers used to come,” he said, a smile beginning to grow.

  “The mummers? Actors, you mean?”

  “Sort of. They were gypsies really. The only year I really remember was when I was five years old. They did a very strange play—about St. George and the Dragon, although there was also a part that was about the Battle of Bunker Hill.” He laughed, raking his memory for more. “It was very chaotic. Lots of pretend fighting and very old songs. And all the parts played by men.” She was smiling now, her lips parted, eyes dancing, enjoying his story. He searched for more. “Oh—and there was the Lord of Misrule!”

  “The Lord of Misrule?”

  “All the villagers used to come up to Camberley to watch the play. The mummers would pick out a boy to be the Lord of Misrule and that year it was Abel Jackson—he’s the blacksmith in the village now, but back then he would have been about eight. The mummers carried him over to my father’s chair on their shoulders. My father was turfed out of his chair—that was the tradition—and Abel took his place. My poor father was the butt of every joke and then afterwards he had to serve out the wassail punch to everyone.”

  “Did he take it in good part?”

  “Actually, yes.” Even to his own ears he sounded surprised. Strangely, his recollection of his father that day was of him laughing uproariously, a memory that didn’t fit at all with his image of his stiff-rumped parent. It made him feel oddly wistful.

  “That was the last year they came, though. I’m not sure why—” Nathan broke off. Quite suddenly it came to him. The next year was the year Charlie had died. It had happened in the summer and his parents had gone into a state of inconsolable grief. He himself had been sent off to school.

  That Christmas, the mummers hadn’t come. Nor any other Christmas after that.

  “Nathan?”

  Georgy was looking at him questioningly. Strangely, he wanted to tell her, wanted to share the unexpected shaft of understanding that he’d just experienced.

  “I just remembered that the next year was the first Christmas after my brother died.”

  “How old was he?” she asked, eyes softening with sympathy.

  “Twelve. I was eight.”

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Vividly. My mother was devastated.” He didn’t intend to say another word but when he glanced at her and saw how intently she watched him, somehow he found himself going on. “On the third or fourth day after it happened, I put some of his clothes on, then went to see her in her bedchamber. I thought—in my childishness—it would help. That I could be him for her.”

  The sympathy in her eyes was unbearable. He looked away.

  “It didn’t?”

  “No. She told me I’d never be able to replace him, then she practically tore the clothes off me and called for my nurse to take me out of her sight.”

  She looked horrified and touched his hand. “I’m sure she didn’t know what she was doing. She’d have been grief-stricken.”

  “I know,” he said, although he wasn’t sure he believed any such thing. “It turned out, you see, that the clothes were to be his burial clothes. She’d laid them out for him and I’d gone into his chamber and found them.”

  “Oh Nathan—” she said, her voice sorrowful. Her hand rested over his, light and warm. Comforting. A lump formed in his throat and he fought hard to bring himself under control. He hadn’t consciously thought of the dark days after Charlie’s death for years and suddenly he wished very much that he hadn’t confided those childhood memories. He couldn’t imagine what sudden madness had made him decide to do so.

  Seeking diversion, he glanced at the window behind Georgy’s head.

  “Look, it’s snowing,” he said in a purposeful voice. “I thought it would.”

  She stared at him for a long moment before she turned in her chair, then rose from the table, going to the window. Nathan followed, coming to a halt behind her. Unthinkingly, he raised his hands, ready to cup her shoulders and draw her against him. He checked the impulse, dropping his hands to his sides again, hoping she hadn’t noticed his movements in their reflection.

  It seemed she had not. She was watching the snow, drawing forward to lay her fingertips against the cold glass, her breath steaming a foggy circle on it. Nathan’s gaze shifted between the churning blizzard and her mesmerised reflection.

  “Do you think it will lie?” she murmured.

  “I’m sure it will. It looks as though there’s an inch already and who knows how long the blizzard will last.”

  “First footprints tomorrow, then.”

  “First footprints?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “My brother and I used to vie to be the first one to step into the snow on our steps. You know how it is in London. The snow gets dirty and turns to slush in the blink of an eye. If it snowed overnight, the street snow would already be grubby by the time we got up in the morning but our own front steps were usually still pristine.”

  She grew up in London.

  “So who got there first usually?”

  “Harry, most of the time.” Harry. H. She laughed, quiet but uninhibited. Her jagged edges had been smoothed away by the wine. “But I’m bound to get some first footprints tomorrow. There’ll be acres of virgin snow out there.”

  He couldn’t think of any other woman in his acquaintance who would regard going out in snow as at all desirable.

  “First footprints tomorrow,” he agreed, looking into her eyes and smiling. It started as the sort of smile he always used on women, a practised thing that almost felt spontaneous now, he’d been doing it so long.

  But when she smiled back at him, unguarded in that moment, he suddenly felt his own smile become real. He felt it touch his eyes. It felt irrepressible, a thing he couldn’t put away now that it was out. He searched her face, hardly know
ing what he looked for. It was only when she stepped away from him, a hasty step back, that his smile faltered.

  Good god, he had to get a grip of himself! What was he thinking, first confiding the secrets of his childhood and now mooning after her like a schoolboy? Had he forgotten why he’d brought her here?

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  She smiled carefully. “I’m just a little tired.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Shall we retire?”

  Without waiting for a response, he put his hand to her elbow and began to turn her towards the door. She didn’t resist—as such. She moved with him, but there was a faint reluctance in her that he could feel through his fingers.

  He lifted a branched candlestick from the sideboard.

  “I am tired too,” he said. “Come, let’s to bed.”

  She swallowed, her expression growing wary. But she went with him, out of the room and to the bottom of the staircase, walking ahead of him when he gestured her to precede him. He climbed the stairs behind her, holding the candles aloft, enjoying the sight of her behind as he followed her. God, she was like a peach. He itched to touch her.

  When they reached his bedchamber door, she turned to look at him, her expression uncertain.

  “Nathan…” She paused, her eyes beseeching.

  “Yes?” He smiled, pleased by her use of his name.

  “I’m exceedingly tired.” The words trembled out on a shaky gust of breath.

  “I’m not surprised,” he said, opening the door and following her inside. “I am too.”

  He ushered her into the room, his hand gentle on the small of her back. The tension beneath his fingers seemed almost to thrum. He let his fingers stroke across her back as he took his hand away and moved to the armoire to remove his rings. When he turned back, he opened his arms, taking up the stance he took when he wished his coat removed. She eyed him warily but stepped behind him and helped him off with it, her fingertips brushing his shoulders, sending shivers of awareness up the back of his neck.

  She went to hang the coat and when she turned back to face him he lifted his chin in unspoken command. She stepped back and raised her hands to untie and draw the cravat from his neck. The long length of it whispered against his skin.