by A. G. Howard
She met my gaze, a lovely pink coloring her damp cheeks. She looked terrified, as if she feared I would level her life to ashes.
“Enya.” I took her hand in mine. “I love you like a sister. Your secret is safe with me.”
Her eyes filled with fresh tears. “He thinks I am a child.”
I stroked her hand, not knowing what to say.
“But with your mother gone,” Enya continued, “and were you to leave as well … I hoped he might turn to me, lean on me. He may never come to love me, but, to be needed would be salve enough to ease the burn.”
No sooner had she spoken than she shot to her feet and clambered for the chamber door. She unlocked the latch and Miss Abbot entered with a pitcher of water. The older maid’s face turned sour the moment she looked at me.
I stretched my arms over my head as if just waking, letting the brush dangle from my hair for effect. I padded to the glass doors, watching in the reflection as Miss Abbot spoke to Enya then left.
My maid found my merino-wool mourning gown and laid it out on the bed before digging through the trunks in search of my crinoline. Without the cage beneath my gown, the skirt length would trip me. That was precisely why I had slipped the contraption from the luggage before we left. By leaving it on my bed at home, I had successfully limited my daily options to my princess panel and walking mourning gowns. Though less posh and elaborate, they were form-fitting and easy to move about in. I had decided if I was to be forced into this trip, I could at least be comfortable in my misery.
“Wicked girl,” Hawk said with a smug grin, joining me at the curtains.
Silently, I watched Enya’s busy reflection in the glass, lost in her confession.
Hawk shook his head. “It would appear we aren’t the only ones ensnared in cupid’s insidious barbed web.”
Yet it’s just as impossible a romance. She’s too young for him. Too young to know her own heart.
“She’s older than you, China Rose.” Hawk smiled sympathetically. “And you know your heart well enough. Besides, she was the age you are now when she first met your uncle. And he’s a mere eight years her senior.”
Neither of us said what we were both thinking: it was the same age difference as between me and Lord Thornton. In our society, women often married men twelve or more years their senior and had families.
Enya’s reflection moved to another trunk. Pinpricks of nausea rushed through my stomach. Not because I was about to be scolded severely for leaving behind my crinoline, but because I didn’t want either of my loved ones to get hurt.
Uncle is still grieving Mama. What if Enya is confused? He’s been her father figure for so long. What if she’s mistaking feelings of gratitude for something more?
“I suspect he was never a father figure in her eyes.” Hawk glanced out at the snow-dusted courtyard—rich with vine-covered arbors, flowing streams, pebbled pathways, and yellowed grassy slopes.
I lifted a gauzy drape to hide myself beneath it, following his line of sight through a block of clear glass in the midst of the tinted ones.
“Love is inside each of us … a dormant seed.” Hawk’s voice resonated within me. “Once it has been planted, whether in the soils or the fallows”—he pointed to a stony path in the distance where winter heath burst through the rocks to dot the snow with splashes of purple—“it will take root and either flourish to something beautiful and dramatic, or grow dormant, content in its stasis. But there’s no right or wrong season for it to bloom.”
His poeticism didn’t surprise me. I’d already seen his knack for emotive sentiments and dramatic visuals on every page of his tragic childhood journal.
What amazed me was that although his colorblindness kept him from fully appreciating the beauty within the scene outside—the way the frosted ground contrasted yet complemented the flower’s vivid stir to life—he still retained that spark of wisdom.
Didn’t Uncle’s heart—so giving, so loyal and kind—merit a keeper, someone that would fill his colorless days with happiness and life? A blossoming young woman, with eyes only for him? Were they to marry, he could one day be a father in truth.
The right thing to do was allow nature to take its course.
Hawk grinned and his attention settled on my hair. “Speaking of nature, it appears a rare breed of bristle bird has taken up residence in your tangles.”
I snorted and tried once more to wrestle the brush free. With a mischievous glint in his eye, Hawk twirled the drapes, winding me within the thin fabric. I laughed so hard, I forgot anyone else was in the room until my ghost shushed me.
On the other side of my curtained fog stood not only Enya, but Lord Thornton and Uncle Owen as well, all three staring. And there I was, wrapped up like a demented caterpillar. I strained my arms within the curtains, unable to budge.
I said the first thing that came to my mind to save face. “Enya was showing me how to dust using the curtains …” I wriggled my backside from one panel to the other—letting the drapes swipe the glass clean.
Both Uncle and the viscount gawked in stunned wonder. A slight tremor played at the corner of the viscount’s mouth. Whether an amused smirk or a disgusted convulsion, I couldn’t be sure.
“I-I don’t understand …” Hawk translated Uncle’s words since I couldn’t read his lips for the hazy film over my eyes.
Enya tapped her foot. “Ladies often discuss cleaning tips first thing in the morn. We’re too busy the rest of the day to prattle about such things. If it bothers you, then perchance you should knock next time before opening the door of a lady’s room, whether it be ajar or no. It is highly improper for either of you to be looking upon us in our bed gowns.”
Uncle’s face reddened as if he’d just noticed Enya’s sparse attire. She shooed the duo out, shutting the door behind them.
The instant she freed me of the curtains, I hugged her, tighter than ever before. At last, I had my dear friend back, and a flesh and bone accomplice. I knew she would be loyal, no matter how eccentric any request or scheme, as long as I kept her secret.
And who better to honor silence, than a deaf girl?
Chapter 17
It is a bold mouse that nestles in the cat's ear.
English Proverb
While Enya prepared me for breakfast, Hawk sat quietly, running his fingertip along my dress where it waited on the bed.
My lady’s maid pinned a peak of glossy gold curls atop my head, then allowed the rest of my hair to cascade along my nape in straight tendrils. Hawk whistled at the finished product.
When it came time for me to change, he strolled to the double doors, keeping his back turned. But as Enya laced up my corset, I watched him intently trace my hazy reflection in the glass with his fingertip. I wondered if he felt as I did … if this unmet need to touch one another swarmed in his stomach like a thousand humming birds aflutter.
After finding out about my missing crinoline, Miss Abbot brought five petticoats, borrowed from the ample supply the viscount kept on hand for his servants.
I was forced to step into each one so the fullness would fill out my merino gown and my hems wouldn’t trip me up. I had escaped wearing a cage, only to be imprisoned beneath ten pounds of extra weight.
The maids stood back and smiled, pleased with their ingenuity. Out of spite, I dragged my veiled mourning hat from my trunk and shoved it atop my shimmering hair, crushing Enya’s painstaking curls.
Unfazed, she agreed that I should cover my face, since the brush had left a bruise on my cheek the size of a trampled cherry.
All the while Hawk stood beside the glass doors—chuckling at the spectacle.
A simmering bouquet of spicy and salty aromas greeted us when we stepped into the grand dining hall. Uncle stood at the hearth with the viscount—cane propped against the bricks—deep in conversation. Lord Thornton clashed as always: a purple frock coat paired with a yellow and red plaid vest over trousers of black. His black cravat, secured with a sapphire pin, topped off the outfit. How he
managed to still look dignified remained a mystery in itself.
The room, however, was perfectly arranged. Crimson velvet hangings draped the walls. The molding and pilasters held a tinge of gray, adding a sober, masculine tone. A sage green upholstered the table chairs, pulled from the design of the paisley Turkish carpet beneath our feet—a combination of all three colors.
So fascinating: that this man’s instincts for decorating a home didn’t transfer to his own apparel or his staff’s uniforms. The servants hustled about, each of them suited in a maelstrom of reds, greens, and oranges, like bloodied pumpkins.
The sun shone through picture windows located on the north and east walls, softened to bluish warmth by translucent draperies, the same color gray as Hawk’s eyes. There were no heavy drapes anywhere in the room. Perhaps the viscount preferred light to darkness … a contradiction to his shadowy and elusive reputation.
“Dare not let your guard down.” Hawk’s voice took on a gruff tone. “You should ask him what is located above your balcony porch.”
Hawk had sworn he’d heard shuffling sounds in my ceiling throughout the night, and suspected there was a fourth floor attic apartment. I was unconvinced. It hadn’t looked as if there was a fourth level when we first arrived and viewed the townhouse from the outside.
“Juliet …” Having wandered toward a sideboard of dishes at the south end of the room, Hawk pointed to a glass paneled humidor. “This is it! The one from the memory I had at the tavern.”
My mouth gaped. Miss Abbot walked by with a tray in hand. I lifted my veil to ask of the humidor’s history.
“His Lordship won it in a game of chance.”
I quickly dropped my veil again as the viscount noticed me and strode over with that fluid gait, as if the cane and his body were one. With a cordial nod, he led me to the table, pulling out chairs for everyone. Place settings—marked with polished silverware, linen napkins, and bone china plates and teacups—lined one quarter of the table, leaving the remainder a shrine to silver tureens, berry-colored doilies, and swan-shaped crystal bowls filled with food: devilled kidneys, sausage and mashed potatoes, egg soufflé, baked apples, cinnamon fritters, and pink grapefruit glazed with sugar.
Enya and Uncle found places across from me. I sat on the right-hand of Lord Thornton’s spot at the table’s head.
I kept my veil pulled down. I needed to remain hidden, to be exempt from conversation, so I might work out a plan. Somehow, I had to question the viscount about the humidor. I also wanted to learn what he knew of his brother’s death. I’d have to be alone with him to broach such subjects.
“I forbid it.” Hawk’s words floated from the sideboard where he still studied the humidor. “Remember the rumors we heard? You yourself saw him at my graveside in a rage. And his fascination with the grotesque. He is emotionally unpredictable. You shouldn’t be alone with him at any time.”
The logic of his concerns iced the blood in my veins. I still didn’t know how many secrets the viscount kept—where his father was, how many innocent maidens he’d spoiled, and why he kept a secret room in his dungeon filled with gruesome and violent objects.
But I was here to get answers. I could read faces, measure how a person’s words contrasted their expression with something as small as an eye twitch or a wrinkled brow. If asked him questions outright and caught him off-guard, I’d catch him in any lies.
We could talk somewhere in the open, where there would be servants aplenty in the background. Lord Thornton had promised to show me the winter gardens, so I might see Mama’s birds safe in their new habitat. Uncle would insist on chaperoning, but Enya could distract him somehow. She would leap at the chance to spend time with the man she loved.
I glanced over at my ghost for his opinion, but he was oblivious.
“There’s a sealed envelope,” he muttered to himself. “There, beneath the cigars. It appears to be from a legal office.” He attempted to slide his fingertips through the humidor’s glass panels, cursing when he failed.
My heart pinched for him and the frustration he faced each day.
The servants filled our plates and the viscount took his seat at the head, his leg brushing my skirts. Just as I lifted my veil to sample a cinnamon fritter, the viscount—putting on a show of speaking to Uncle—raised my skirt hems with his foot beneath the table. The pressure was soft as it brushed my stocking. He must’ve taken off his boot for more intimate contact.
I gasped. All eyes turned to me. Lord Thornton looked on in bold, wide-eyed innocence, all while he continued to caress my leg.
My face flamed.
Hawk, still preoccupied with the humidor, was oblivious. I nudged Lord Thornton’s foot away with my toe and shot my attention to Enya. She watched her spoon make a line through her baked apples—every bit as distracted as my ghost.
Before I could even sip my tea, the viscount’s foot found me again, rubbing my shin. Jaw clenched, I sat my tea cup on my saucer, drew back my boot, and shoved the leg of his chair with such force it tipped over.
Sprawled on the floor, Lord Thornton stared up at me, having the nerve to appear shocked. Uncle leapt from his seat to help our host stand, handing him his cane. Enya, aghast, sat like a statue. Hawk loitered at my side, curious as to what happened, but I couldn’t answer. For as the viscount dusted off his trousers with a linen napkin, I noticed he still wore both boots upon his feet. Not only that, but the stroking continued beneath my skirt and petticoats.
I jumped up with a screech and a silvery-orange tabby cat shot out from beneath me, fluffy and irate. I slapped my veil away and met the viscount’s eyes, expecting another glimpse of his famous temper.
Instead, he glanced the direction of the runaway feline and then back at me. An infectious stir of white teeth broke through his whiskers.
He threw his head back and laughed.
Enya, Hawk, and Uncle looked on, bewildered, while I broke into laughter, too.
It appeared the dark Lord Thornton had a sense of humor—the one secret I had never expected to uncover.
After breakfast, Enya and I retreated upstairs with Miss Abbot in search of our shawls so we could tour the grounds. I filled Miss Abbot in on the frailty of my flower.
Pointing to the withered petals on the bureau as proof, I claimed the trip had strained it and I planned to gather new soil and find a roomier pot. I insisted no one touch or move it under any circumstances, and that my room would remain locked in our absence.
A pitying glance passed between the two maids and I understood. That was the discussion they’d shared last night as they led me up the stairs. My odd obsession with a flower.
Well, I didn’t care. As long as Hawk was safe, I would bear the stigma of an unbalanced, heart-broken daughter.
I spent the rest of the morning in the company of Enya, Hawk, Uncle, and the viscount, winding around the estate. Hawk walked on one side of me, a foot or so in front of Uncle, clenching his jaw as Lord Thornton offered me his free elbow.
I wrapped my fingers around his velvet sleeve for appearances and kept my veil drawn back so I could witness his architectural genius.
Cats roamed the grounds freely—oftentimes sneaking into the townhouse and castle, which explained the one that earlier violated me. Lord Thornton pointed out that his pets kept the estate vermin-free. Then, as if reading my mind, he assured me the cats were never allowed access to the winter garden, so I needn’t worry for my birds.
Each of the Manor’s three separate buildings connected to one another via tunnels jutting off from their back doors. The viscount’s investors were generous indeed, for no expense had been spared in the construction of these passages. The arched ceilings joined the walls seamlessly, covered with arabesque wallpaper rich in taupe and sienna. A running carpet spanned one end to the other to cushion footfalls, complemented by an occasional plush chair or tufted fainting couch.
Gas lights offered illumination in the evenings. The bulbs remained unlit during the day, as sunshine streamed thro
ugh an abundance of round windows that allowed a breeze inside like portholes on a passenger ship.
For added security, guards stood at each passage’s end.
The front entrances to the townhouse, the castle, and the stables served as the only three outlets into the courtyard. The winter garden’s double doors linked to the castle with no other way in or out.
Before leading us into the garden, the viscount showed us the six floors of the castle. He cupped my arm, supporting me and my heavily layered skirts on the winding staircases in spite of his limp. Each level held a theme and fluttered with activity as carpenters and servants employed last minute tasks.
Upon the ground floor were the boutiques and cafés. We did not stop to look—even at mine and Uncle’s—as the viscount assured us we would have time to arrange our goods within the next few days.
Giant halls, equipped with billiard and card tables, filled the second flight. Upon the third, a grand and glorious ballroom remained under construction, with an antechamber off to the side to serve as a fainting room. We moved on to the fourth floor for a quick glance at the eighty-some guest apartments—each one simple yet elegant with two beds, a wardrobe and bureau.
The fifth level supplied sunrooms for sitting and visiting, along with two libraries and a map gallery with smoking appurtenances for the men. We stopped at the sixth floor where a spiraling staircase led to the star tower. The viscount promised to take us some evening when the stars were out. Refractors and telescopes had been arranged within the open-roofed, walled-in turret, for guests to view the night sky.
Winded, we took the stairs down again, the viscount bypassing the locked dungeon without even a word. I shot a sidelong glance to Hawk and he responded with a concerned frown.
At last, the tour ended. My legs ached from carrying the weight of my petticoats up and down five flights of stairs, and even my enthusiasm to check upon the flowers and see my birds in the garden paled to my weariness.
