by Darcy Burke
Ivy’s brow knitted. “Anything. Of course.”
“I’d like to become a companion. Like you.”
Ivy’s eyes rounded again, and her mouth formed an O for the briefest of moments before she recovered her composure. “I’m not sure I understand. I’ve known you over five years, and you’ve been committed to finding a husband. With the help of Lady Satterfield and Nora, you’re closer now than ever before.”
Nora. She was Lady Satterfield’s stepdaughter-in-law and the reason the countess had sponsored Aquilla in the first place. The duchess—who’d asked them to call her Nora—had been Lady Satterfield’s ward five years ago. The countess had first hired her as a companion and quickly decided that Nora deserved a second chance at having a Season. Nora had weathered a scandal nine years prior, but that hadn’t stopped her from enjoying a triumphant return and subsequently marrying the Duke of Kendal, Lady Satterfield’s stepson.
When Aquilla’s parents refused to fund any more seasons, Nora had wanted to give Aquilla the same opportunity. Instead of Nora sponsoring her however, Lady Satterfield had eagerly offered to take her in at the start of the Season. If not for her, Aquilla would be at Henlow House suffering the cold, antagonistic atmosphere engendered by her parents.
“Yes, and that would be lovely if I actually wanted to marry. However, I do not.”
This time, Ivy actually gaped at her. “You don’t? But you’ve always said—”
Another wave of guilt assaulted Aquilla. “Yes, I’ve led everyone to believe—including you and Lucy—that I wanted to marry. And I did. Once. But not for some time.”
Ivy studied her a moment, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I’ve often wondered why you’ve been unsuccessful for so long. You possess all the attributes that would entice a man to marry.”
Aquilla arched a brow at her. “Perhaps, but I also possess a penchant for talking, and generally behaving like a…scatterbrain.”
Ivy’s mouth opened once more, and she lifted her hand to cover it in awe. After a moment, she dropped her hand to her lap. “It was all an act.”
Pride briefly swelled through Aquilla until it was swallowed once more with the familiar guilt, though it wasn’t quite as strong as before. “Not at first. Those first couple of seasons, I really was a disaster. I was nervous and anxious and so desperate.” She laughed, recalling how awkward she’d felt and behaved. “Once I realized I didn’t want to marry, I relaxed. But then a few gentlemen seemed interested, so I decided I’d best resume acting like a blockhead if I wanted to stave off their advances.”
“How diabolical.” The admiration in Ivy’s tone gave Aquilla another burst of pride. “That sounds like something I would do. If it were necessary. Thankfully, it is not, due to my station.” As a companion. Aquilla and Lucy had sometimes wondered from what station Ivy had originated, but she’d never identified her family. Indeed, she’d spoken of them only with extreme distaste and only very rarely. It was, quite clearly, a subject she disliked. Since Aquilla felt similarly about her own family, she’d never pressed and would certainly never judge.
“That is precisely why I would like to become a companion,” Aquilla said. “That way, I can avoid the Marriage Mart entirely.”
Ivy tipped her head to the side, her green gaze scrutinizing Aquilla thoughtfully. “May I ask why you changed your mind about marriage? If you don’t wish to say, I shan’t trouble you about it.”
Aquilla considered sharing the entire truth, but to do so would expose intimate details about her family, and she didn’t wish to do that. Also, discussing it made her uncomfortable, and there were memories she preferred to leave buried and nearly forgotten.
“Suffice it to say I prefer to be independent. I’ve yet to make the acquaintance of any gentleman who didn’t make me want to run screaming in the other direction.” For some reason, the image of Lord Sutton rose in her mind, and she realized she’d failed to put on her “act” for him. He’d rescued her from the rain, and in her vulnerability, she’d behaved normally. Or maybe it had been because he’d been kind and courteous and helpful. It didn’t really matter since she’d likely never interact with him again.
“Unsurprising,” Ivy murmured. “I won’t pretend this makes me unhappy. As you know, I find marriage to be a vastly overrated estate.”
More accurately, Ivy found men to be vastly overrated. Aquilla had expected her support and wasn’t disappointed. “Indeed.”
Ivy smiled as she reached over and took Aquilla’s hand. Her fingers were still cool from being out in the storm. “I’d be happy to help you become a companion. Perhaps one of Lady Dunn’s friends is in want, and then we’ll be able to continue our friendship.”
Aquilla would like that. She didn’t particularly want to move to some far-off place. “I do hope to find employment here in Town.”
Ivy’s smile faded. “Are your parents in support of this, or does that even matter?”
Given that Ivy never spoke of her family, it had always appeared to Aquilla that Ivy was on her own, which wasn’t the case with Aquilla. She had parents and brothers and could likely lead a life of dependent spinsterhood. But she didn’t want that, especially not with her family. She supposed her younger brother, Ralph, who’d married last year would take her in, but she didn’t wish to move to Ireland.
To answer Ivy’s question as to whether her parents would support her decision…she wasn’t sure. But since they were no longer interested in funding Seasons to find a husband, she couldn’t imagine they’d be opposed. She was a worthless disappointment to them anyway.
Aquilla squeezed Ivy’s hand before releasing it. “They will be relieved, I think.” She smoothed her hand over her knee. “Tell me what I must do.”
Ivy straightened, assuming a businesslike posture and pursing her lips briefly. “I have a few contacts. Let me make some inquiries. What of Lady Satterfield? What does she say about this?”
The full force of Aquilla’s guilt scalded her, making her cheeks burn.
“She doesn’t know,” Ivy said quietly.
“Not yet. I feel terrible for accepting her offer for this Season.” Yet she’d leapt upon it immediately. The alternative—returning to Henslow House—made her shudder inwardly. She’d come to Town to visit with Lucy, who’d lived with her grandmother, but had been about to return to her parents’ home since they’d told her she wouldn’t be having a Season this year. When Lady Satterfield had offered her sponsorship, Aquilla’s parents’ response had been to tell her she’d better make the most of it and that it would be a further embarrassment if the countess went to all of this trouble and Aquilla still emerged without a husband. Yes, she felt terrible about deceiving Lady Satterfield, but it was preferable to being at home.
“She’s an exceedingly kind person,” Ivy said. “Tell her the truth, and she will understand.”
The truth. The version she’d told Ivy or the actual truth?
Aquilla wasn’t sure she could do the latter, even if she wanted to. “I’ll talk to her, but in the meantime, please keep this between us.”
“Of course. Just let me know when you’d like to proceed.” The edge of her mouth ticked up in a half smile. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in you going to the Overton ball tomorrow night.”
Blast, Aquilla had completely forgotten about that. Lady Satterfield had been looking forward to that for weeks. She couldn’t possibly tell her about her change of plans until afterward. But she would—right after.
She laughed softly. “There’s never been any point to any of this. Not really.”
Ivy nodded. “Truer words have never been said.”
Chapter Four
What was left of the door to George’s sitting room hung haphazardly from the frame. Voices spilled into the corridor, but they were faint enough so that they were likely coming from George’s bedchamber, which was beyond the sitting room.
Ned stepped over the threshold and surveyed the disarray left over after last night’s “siege.” George h
ad pushed a settee, two chairs, a pair of tables, and a small desk up against the door to keep the “invaders” out. They’d had to chop through the door and climb over the barricade to get inside. They being Ned and Dr. Paget, with the assistance of two footmen who regularly helped with George.
After speeding on horseback from London, Ned had arrived to a scene of chaos: George shouting from his sitting room where he’d declared “war” on the invading force (that of course didn’t exist) and Dr. Paget trying to soothe him (unsuccessfully) from the corridor.
Ned had immediately stepped into the situation, talking to George through the door. It had taken him a moment to recognize Ned’s voice, but after that, he’d begun to calm. Even so, they hadn’t been able to convince him to open the door for a good quarter hour, after which he’d finally agreed to let Ned’s “battalion” come to “rescue” him.
The furniture remained in the barricade, though it had been pushed back from the door. They’d wanted to make sure George was feeling more himself before they made too much noise.
Ned walked around it and approached the door to George’s bedchamber, which stood ajar. Inside, George was just climbing into bed while Dr. Paget looked on.
“Ned!” George’s eyes lit as he caught sight of Ned. “Come in, please.”
Ned pushed the door open and stepped into the dim bedchamber. The draperies on three of the four windows remained closed, while the fourth was only partially open. It was a gray, dreary day, so the light that made its way into the room was milky and poor. But it was enough to see, and George loathed brightness.
Ned smiled as he moved toward the bed. “Good afternoon. You’ve finished luncheon?”
“Just.” George curled his lip and stuck his tongue out as he darted a glance at Dr. Paget. “He made me eat the most vile soup.”
Ned glanced toward Dr. Paget, who only shrugged.
A slight, olive-skinned man in his early thirties with thick, dark hair and piercing sable eyes, the doctor was a relatively new addition to their household. George hadn’t liked him at first, but they seemed to be doing much better the past several weeks. Dr. Paget was nothing if not persistent, patient, and compassionate. So far, Ned was pleased with the man’s performance, especially that he was able to get George to eat soup. George sometimes refused to eat anything but sweets and oranges.
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Ned said.
George looked up at him from the bed, his eyes surprisingly lucid, as they hadn’t been since Ned’s arrival last night. “You didn’t taste it.”
Ned chuckled. “Fair enough.”
George yawned. “I’m suddenly quite tired.” He narrowed his eyes toward Dr. Paget. “Is this some sort of sorcery? You suggested I nap, and I’m suddenly eager to do so.”
Dr. Paget held up his hands. “No magic here. I could tell you were sleepy.”
“Harrumph.” George pulled up the covers to his chin and squeezed his eyes closed.
Ned watched George for a moment and resisted the urge to smooth the blond hair back from his widow’s peak.
Dr. Paget made a slight sound, drawing Ned’s attention. The Frenchman inclined his head toward the door and made his way in that direction.
Ned followed him from the room but didn’t close the door to the bedchamber. They moved farther into the sitting room, and Dr. Paget turned.
“He’s doing much better, don’t you agree?” Dr. Paget asked. His English was excellent, without any trace of a French accent. But then he’d fled his homeland when he was just a lad during the Terror.
“Yes.” Ned shook his head. “He had a very clear moment there. I’m not sure what you’re doing, but please continue.”
George was often lucid, but when he had an episode like last night’s, he was typically in a dream world for days. He didn’t recognize people consistently, and he drifted in and out of a state of unawareness in which his eyes were open but he almost seemed asleep. It was unnerving, and Ned worried he might lapse into that condition one day and never recover.
Dr. Paget clasped his hands behind his back and glanced toward the barricade. “That was an exciting affair last night. I’m so glad you arrived and were able to convince him to stand down.”
“I appreciate you sending for me. I’m glad the episode concluded without incident.”
George was mostly harmless. Mostly. Ned had to use that qualifier because George had set the house on fire fifteen years ago, when Ned had been fourteen. It had destroyed part of the east wing, but Ned’s father had repaired it after he’d sent George away.
“Indeed,” Dr. Paget said. “He does miss you while you’re gone.”
Ned was glad that London was less than two hours away so that he could come home as often as necessary, even during the Season. “Do you really think he notices all that much? He seems to lapse into his semiconscious states more and more.”
“I understand your concern, but I do think he’s fully conscious even when it seems he’s not. He’s a very intelligent man. I believe he gets lost in his thoughts.”
Ned nodded. He understood that notion and was frightened by it at the same time. “I sometimes think he won’t find his way back.”
Dr. Paget looked pained for a moment. “There is so much we don’t know about the mind.”
They had only to look at their king—if anything could have been done to cure him, it surely would have.
“All we can do is explore it,” Dr. Paget continued, “like uncharted territory. We’re having good success right now with focusing him on writing poetry and drawing.”
Ned was pleased to hear it. George was smart and, at times, as witty and charming as he’d been when they were boys. He was still, and always would be, the brother Ned adored.
“Excellent. I’m pleased to hear it,” Ned said.
Dr. Paget gave a slight bow. “When will you be returning to London, my lord?”
“In the morning. I have a few commitments tomorrow. I plan to spend the evening with George. I promised him a game of backgammon.” Their grandfather had taught them the game when they were in the nursery and it had been a favorite all their lives. It reminded Ned of their youth, of happier times. When George had been well.
Dr. Paget grinned. “He’ll like that. He seems to enjoy playing with you.” He looked toward the barricade once more. “I suppose I should have the footman come tidy this up while George is sleeping. We’ll do so as quietly as possible.”
“Thank you. I’m just going to peek in on him before I go,” Ned said.
Dr. Paget inclined his head before departing the sitting room. Ned went back to the bedchamber and crept inside, making his way to the side of the bed. George lay on his back, his eyes closed. This time, Ned brushed the blond hair—a few shades lighter than his own and much thinner—back from George’s forehead.
George’s lids fluttered open, and he squinted up at Ned, but there was no recognition in his eyes. “Who are you?”
Though Ned was used to George not knowing him sometimes, it never failed to carve a tiny hole in his heart. “It’s Ned.”
“Oh, Ned.” George smiled, and his cheeks pulled taut. Little lines fanned out from his blue-gray eyes. “Ned…” His eyes shuttered.
Ned bent down and kissed his brother’s cheek. “Lemon cakes,” he whispered.
George’s eyes remained closed, but his lips curved into a familiar, beloved smile. “Lemon cakes. Yes, Ned. Lemon cakes.”
Those had been their favorite sweet. Cook, who’d passed long ago, had made them twice a week and always ensured Ned and George had the first batch while they were still warm. “Lemon cakes” had been something they’d uttered to each other as a gesture of comfort. A sort of “I love you” for boys who wouldn’t dare say such a thing to each other. It had started at Cook’s funeral. They’d been devastated, holding hands for mutual support, when George had leaned close and murmured, “Lemon cakes. I shall never forget her lemon cakes.”
George’s breathing deepened, and Ned kne
w he’d fallen asleep.
Ned tiptoed from the room and gently closed the door before heading downstairs. On the way to his office, he was intercepted by Aunt Susannah as she emerged from the drawing room. She’d arrived before luncheon, and Ned was glad to have her here. Since he’d lost his mother over a decade ago, she’d filled in for her sister, offering guidance and love when he’d needed them most.
“Goodness, Ned, you look pale. Come and sit with me. You need tea.” She tucked her arm through his and ushered him into the drawing room with the force of a tenacious mother cat that would not be denied.
As he took the wingback chair, she rang for more tea, then claimed a place at the end of the settee. Pivoting toward him, she gazed upon him with motherly concern. “How is George?”
Ned stretched out his legs and took a deep breath to expel the stress from his frame. “Calmer today. He’s sleeping.”
“I’m so relieved. You must be too.”
The butler came in and refreshed the tea. Aunt Susannah poured out, and Ned eagerly took a long, fortifying sip. He set his cup down on the table and leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes momentarily as he waited for what she would say next. He knew there was more coming.
“I wondered if you and Dr. Paget discussed moving George.” This was a conversation they’d had many times and more often of late. He could guess what was coming. “The York Retreat is much different from Bethlehem,” she said.
Ned opened his eyes and looked at his aunt. He knew her heart was in the right place, but she wasn’t responsible for George’s well-being. Ned was. “Yes, it’s different.” Better in so many ways, but after the horrors of Bethlehem, he wasn’t ready to let George out of his care. Not yet, anyway, and maybe not ever. “But I’m still not sending him there.”
She looked mildly beleaguered—like a true mother whose child was making her cross—but only for a moment. “It is, of course, up to you. But I do think you might try it. You could even stay somewhere close by at first—just to be sure. Then you could come home and get on with your life.”
