by Cheryl Bolen
“Nothing is too extreme to protect you,” he said, unblinking.
Indifferent. Uncaring.
She swallowed hard, any pretense of normalcy gone. “I’m sorry for what I said. Please don’t pull away from me, Tris. I love you.”
“Good night,” he said again and turned to enter the room.
Although she certainly hadn’t expected to hear those three words echoed back at her, neither had she expected them to be ignored entirely. “Wait,” she said, grabbing his wrist.
She’d been fighting it all along, but she knew what she had to do. She’d thought of little else for the past few hours.
He glanced dispassionately down to her hand. “Yes?”
His skin felt warm, but his arm felt tense. She grasped him tighter. “I’m not going to do the last interview. I’m not going to talk to Maude.”
He blinked at her. “Why?”
“It’s the only way I can prove I my love. Prove that I’ll stay with you even if we remain in disgrace for the rest of our lives. I don’t care about society, Tris—I don’t need their parties or their approval. I never have. I’ve been doing this for you and for my sisters. But my sisters will cope. You’re my husband, and you’re more important. My loyalty to you comes first.”
She couldn’t think of anything else to say. So she waited. He looked down again to where her fingers gripped his arm, and she released him and waited some more.
“All right,” he said at last. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll sleep quite soundly tonight.” Then he stepped into the room and closed the door—without even so much as a kiss.
While she stood there, stunned, Vincent walked up, as if on cue, and slid a key into the lock. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“I’m fine,” she said woodenly. “I believe I shall go make some sweets.”
“Now?” Vincent asked in surprise. His gaze went to her bare feet.
“Now,” she said, belting her wrapper more tightly.
She refused to spend another night on the floor outside her husband’s room.
“Well.” He seemed at a loss. “The ovens will be cold. Let me accompany you downstairs and light them for you.”
She fetched her new recipe book before following him down the gaslit staircase, flipping pages as they crossed the great hall to the back passage.
“Lemon puffs,” she decided. According to some long-dead cousin or aunt, they were supposed to turn a sour person sweet. Heaven knew, given Tris’s current attitude, she could use all the help she could get.
In the kitchen, she gathered eggs, sugar, and lemons while Vincent started the brick ovens. Just as she began separating the first yolk from the white, Mrs. Pawley walked in. “What’s going on here?” she asked through a yawn.
The cook’s round body was covered by a voluminous white nightgown and her feet were as bare as Alexandra’s. Dressed as always like a perfect gentleman, Vincent answered with great dignity. “We’re making lemon puffs.”
“We?” Alexandra and Mrs. Pawley said together.
“We,” he confirmed, reaching for a lemon.
Mrs. Pawley went to a cabinet and took out a bottle of sherry and three glasses. When she filled Alexandra’s to the brim, Alexandra didn’t protest. Instead she took a generous sip and felt the rich wine warm her all the way down her throat and into her stomach.
She hadn’t realized she’d been so cold.
She pushed up her sleeves and cracked another egg.
Grating sugar, Mrs. Pawley eyed a bruise on her arm. “You had a rough day, from what I’ve heard. Are you up to this, my lady?”
“Oh, quite. I’m halfway healed already.” She took another sip, deciding the sherry must be healing her even faster. “Tomorrow I’m sure to be good as new.”
Two kitchen maids wandered in, also wearing plain nightgowns. “What’s going on here?” one of them asked.
“Come in,” Alexandra said brightly. “We’re making lemon puffs.” She took another sip. “However did you know we were in here?”
“They sleep right down the corridor,” Mrs. Pawley said, fetching another bottle of sherry and two more glasses.
There was much beating to do of the egg whites, in order to make them nice and stiff. And after that, they were supposed to be rubbed together with sugar for half an hour. Alexandra appreciated all the help. She was a bit sore for such strenuous work, and while the others had their turns, she could relax and drink more sherry.
Before long, three housemaids and two footmen had joined them, and it was quite a while before her turn came to beat the eggs. In fact, she was so busy sipping sherry that she missed her turn twice. When they weren’t occupied beating eggs, the servants took turns telling jokes. Alexandra thought they were quite the funniest jokes she’d ever heard, and when she told one or two herself, everyone laughed even when she stumbled over the words.
She rather suspected they laughed mostly because she was their mistress, but their support cheered her all the same.
By the time the lemon puffs came out of the oven, shiny and white as snow, five bottles had been emptied and the kitchen rang with laughter. “You must serve these to my husband first thing in the morning,” Alexandra told Mrs. Pawley as she peeled the finished puffs off the brown paper on which they had baked.
“Our fine master cannot abide sweets in the morning,” the cook pronounced with formal reserve. Then she dissolved into laughter that brought tears rolling down her plump cheeks. Everyone else laughed, too. One of the footmen—Alexandra couldn’t remember his name—even snorted once or twice.
“For luncheon, then,” Alexandra instructed. Noticing no scullery maids had joined them, she waved a hand magnanimously—or rather, flung it somewhat flamboyantly. “You may leave this mess until morning,” she trilled as Vincent grabbed her to stop the momentum from tipping her over.
She quite liked her new servants, she thought as she giggled her way up to bed, Vincent close behind in case she should fall. She’d never had so much fun in the kitchen at Cainewood Castle.
The lemon puffs had better turn Tris from sour to sweet, because she wasn’t going to be leaving Hawkridge Hall anytime soon.
Chapter 54
The next day, Alexandra was not good as new. To the contrary, her head ached abominably, her stomach felt queasy, and her body was stiff and more sore than yesterday. She didn’t know whether Tris was served the lemon puffs with luncheon, since she couldn’t seem to force herself out of bed. Even the daylight seemed to make her hurt.
Peggy came in from time to time, clucking and leaving Alexandra cup after cup of strong, hot tea. Alexandra wasn’t certain whether the clucking indicated sympathy or disapproval, and she didn’t really care. As long as Peggy left the drapes closed tight and the gaslights off, she could ignore her. She ignored the tea as well for the first few hours, but after a while she started sipping it, and after a few cups, she started feeling slightly better.
By late afternoon, she finally felt well enough to dress and rejoin the world. Since her battered body didn’t want to move, she allowed Peggy to help her, enduring still more clucking. At long last, she stiffly made her way downstairs, going straight to the main parlor and the new pianoforte.
It was magnificent. She walked around it reverently, trailing a hand along the fine, polished mahogany. Finally, she stopped in front and hit middle C. The single note sounded so rich it sent a tingle down her spine.
She sat down to play, choosing Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14, long one of her favorite pieces of music. “Quasi una fantasia,” he’d called it…”Like a fantasy.”
Indeed, only a few notes into the first movement, she lost herself in the fantasy. Her beautiful new pianoforte sounded like a dream. The minuet and trio that made up the second movement flowed effortlessly from her fingertips, and when she reached the stormy final movement, exhilaration seemed to carry off her burdens. All the pain and heartache she’d been carrying poured out of her and into the performance, leaving her with a sense of pe
ace as the last note faded away.
She heard applause. “Brava,” Tris called from the doorway.
She turned to him with a tentative smile. “You’re not scandalized? Most of the older people of my acquaintance find Beethoven’s style too passionate and therefore unfit for young, impressionable ladies.”
“Do you think me that old?” he wondered aloud.
“When we were younger, six years seemed like a vast age difference.”
He nodded slowly, as though he were remembering, too. “You played the piece wonderfully,” he said, “scandalous or not.”
“It’s a wonderful instrument.” She wouldn’t feign modesty, because she’d played better on it than she ever had. “I thank you for it.”
“I didn’t buy it to bribe you,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
The two words hung between them. “Shall we go in to dinner?” he finally asked.
It was her turn to nod. He placed a hand beneath her elbow to help her rise. It seemed the curative powers of Beethoven were temporary, for all her sore and tender spots had returned.
Including the emotional ones.
If Tris wasn’t dismissive, he wasn’t particularly friendly, either. Their dinner passed in relative—and relatively awkward—silence, the rattle of dishes and clang of cutlery more prominent than conversation. It seemed ages before Hastings placed the bottle of port on the table and left them alone, closing the dining room door behind him.
“None for me,” Alexandra said.
“Hmm.” Tris poured some for himself, a wry smile curving his lips. “Could it be you overdid it in the kitchen last night?”
He’d heard. Well, of course he’d heard. Not only was he the lord of the manor, his own valet had been there as witness.
“I made some lemon puffs,” she said, ignoring his implication.
“Yes, and they’re quite delicious. I had two after luncheon. While you were sleeping off the sherry.”
“I was sleeping off the pain,” she protested. “My body is complaining even more today than yesterday.”
He nodded. “That’s not unusual. You’ll be on the mend by tomorrow, no doubt.” He paused for a long sip, then met her eyes, his own a penetrating gray. “And I will take you to see Maude.”
She couldn’t have heard right. “Pardon?”
“We’ll take the curricle, since I’m certain you won’t feel up to riding.”
Tristan watched the parade of reactions cross her face: disbelief first, followed by relief and then cautious joy. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure.”
“I told you I was giving up. I meant that, Tris. It’s what you wanted.”
He took her measure for a moment and decided she was sincere. But he’d already known that. ”Are you trying to talk me out of it?”
She shook her head emphatically.
“I appreciate your willingness,” he told her. He appreciated it more than she’d ever know. “But I cannot allow you to give up. Not this way.”
Glad to see hope returning to her eyes, Tristan kept his expression carefully neutral. He didn’t want Alexandra to see the dread that had settled over him as he granted her wish. He’d realized he couldn’t let her wonder all her life if her investigation might have succeeded—it would eat at her, the not knowing—but though he’d made the inevitable decision, he couldn’t say if it was the right one.
In fact, he had a horrible feeling that it wasn’t. That this could only result in one or both of them being put in harm’s way. That’s why he would accompany Alexandra on her last interview, much as he hated the idea. He couldn’t let her venture out with only a footman for protection, not when a murderer might be after her.
Of course, he shouldn’t be letting her venture out at all, but it seemed that somehow she’d managed to wrap him around her little finger.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes shining.
He nodded shortly. “Whoever is trying to stop you—if not myself—is obviously part of this household.”
“They were accidents, Tris.”
“Let’s not go over this again, shall we?” He raised a brow to emphasize his point. “In case someone should try to follow us, I don’t want anyone to know where we’re going or what we’re doing.”
“All right,” she agreed slowly.
“We shall say you require fresh air to aid your recovery, so we’re going on a picnic. A honeymoon picnic.”
“I suppose it won’t hurt to be cautious.”
“Have you told anyone about Maude?”
“No. I’ve been languishing in the bedroom since the accident.” When he cocked his head at her, she added, “Maude’s name never came up in the kitchen.”
“How about Ernest?”
“Not with him, either. He doesn’t care to talk much. Besides, we’d only just got underway when the strap on the saddle snapped. I didn’t have time to say anything before, and after…well, on the ride home I didn’t feel much like conversation.”
He supposed she wouldn’t have—she’d have been occupied gritting her teeth against the jarring pain of that ride. “Good. Then no one has any reason to suspect we’ll be doing anything besides enjoying a honeymoon picnic.” He rose, yawning. He hadn’t slept much last night. Having one’s wife offer up the sacrifice of her future happiness tended to disturb one’s equilibrium. “We should both get a good night’s sleep.”
A hesitant smile curved Alexandra’s lips. “Shall I go up and change into another of my new nightgowns? Or do you wish to come along and help me?”
“Neither. I’ll be sleeping in the Queen’s Bedchamber again. For your safety.” He leaned and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Hearing her disappointed sigh, he raised her chin and met her eyes. “Besides, you’re still entirely too bruised and hurting. When we’ve finished this thing you’ve started, perhaps we’ll both feel better.”
For a long while after he left, Alexandra just sat in the dining room. She’d thought since Tris was being so kind, he’d want to be with her tonight. And she wanted so much to be with him…or even just in the same room with him. She’d take what she could get.
He was right: She was bruised, both inside and out.
On her way from the dining room to the stairs, she nearly collided with Mrs. Pawley.
“My lady! Will we be seeing you in the kitchen tonight?” The cook’s blue eyes danced. “I expect we shall have a great crowd to assist in the sweet making. There are many who are sad to have missed our little impromptu party.”
Alexandra hated to disappoint the staff, but a party was the last thing she felt like tonight.
“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Pawley,” she said, watching the light fade from the older woman’s eyes. “Perhaps another time.”
Chapter 55
“I’m so pleased to see you’re feeling more the thing today,” Peggy said in Alexandra’s dressing room the next day.
“Oh, I truly am.” Alexandra wondered at her maid’s sudden good mood, but she wouldn’t risk ruining it with any questions. “I’m going on a picnic today!” she said brightly instead. “What do you expect I should wear to picnic with my husband?”
“With your husband?” Peggy flipped through a few dresses, then held up a pretty blue frock for Alexandra’s approval. At her nod, the maid started toward the bedroom, slanting a sly glance over her shoulder. “Aren’t the two of you rather estranged?”
Following her, Alexandra sighed, supposing their separate sleeping arrangements had prompted much speculation belowstairs. It was so tempting to tell Peggy the truth about everything, but she’d promised Tris she would stick to their story. “I’m hoping a picnic will help us reconcile,” she said carefully as she dabbed on a little perfume. “And—”
A knock at the door interrupted her.
“Yes?” she called, hurrying into the dress.
Tris poked his head in. “Mrs. Pawley has requested your silver basket to fill with our picnic luncheon.”
A clever ruse to support their story. She fetched the basket and brought it to him. “Please ask Mrs. Pawley to include some lemon puffs,” she said, thinking she needed some sweets to bring to Maude. “I haven’t found a chance to even try them yet.”
“Will do.” He planted a light kiss on her lips, a kiss that unexpectedly turned into more. He pulled away with a foolish grin. ”Are you about ready?”
He hadn’t kissed her for days. Her lips tingling, she wondered whether the kiss had been for show or for real. “Almost.”
He smiled. “I shall wait for you in the curricle,” he said, then walked away.
She slowly closed the door.
“It looks like you’re reconciled already,” Peggy commented as she did up her buttons.
Alexandra blushed. “We’re both trying.” She took a seat at her dressing table so the maid could work on her hair.
“I wish to apologize for being such a crab the past few days,” Peggy said from behind her. “I admired you so for your investigation, and I was disappointed to find myself no longer part of it.” She deftly twisted and pinned. “Do you expect you could ever forgive me?”
“Of course,” Alexandra said. Peggy had been her strongest ally until that first time she went off without her, and she’d missed having a woman here at Hawkridge to confide in. “I collect I haven’t been a very pleasant person myself the last day or two.”
“But you’re the mistress,” Peggy pointed out. “You’re allowed to be a crab.” They both laughed; then Peggy sobered. “I fear for you, though. All the buzz in the servants’ quarters is that someone is after you—perhaps you should be leaving Hawkridge to save your life, not to go on a picnic.”
The woman’s concern was kindly meant, Alexandra knew, if misplaced. “I know tales of danger have been bandied about belowstairs, but I assure you there’s nothing to fear. A few unfortunate accidents do not a plot make. Besides, my investigation is all but over. I have only one person left to interview.”
In the mirror, Peggy looked surprised. “Did you fall from your horse before visiting Lizzy, then?”
