"Of course she hasn't left you. She has gone to Portsmouth for her sister's confinement. She will return when Anna is recovered from the birth."
"No, Julia," she corrected fiercely. "She will not return to London. She is gone."
I collapsed onto the bed next to her, unbelieving. "Jane? She cannot have left you. She loves you."
"She did once. Perhaps she still does. I like to think so. But she is gone," she repeated.
Portia's fingers were knotted over the letter, creasing it.
"When?"
"I knew she had been troubled by Anna's condition. Jane wanted children so desperately, you see. She was so deeply envious of Anna's happiness. She had begun to wonder if she had done right in living with me. I told her she ought not to go to Portsmouth, but she said she must, it was her duty to help her sister. I offered to come with her, but she refused. She made me come—wanted time to think, she said. We quarrelled that last morning."
I remembered the sharp silences, the tense, wordless moments that had flashed between them, and I realised how utterly stupid I had been. "I thought she was upset at you leaving her," I ventured.
Portia's lovely mouth twisted bitterly. "No. She was upset because she was leaving me. She did not want to, you know. Not really. But she is tired of it all. She is tired of being sneered at by polite society. She is tired of being a laughingstock. She thinks we are a joke, Julia. And she wants babies of her own."
"Where has she gone?"
Portia gave a little laugh that ended on a sob. "She is going to India as soon as it can be arranged."
"India? Good God, why? She has no money. What possible reason can she have for wanting to go there?"
She swallowed hard, then forced the words out through stiff lips. "She is to be married. That is the real reason she's left me, you know. She met him in Portsmouth, some connection of Anna's husband. He is going to India to make his fortune, and she will go with him. She wants children, you see. And she will not have them with me."
I put my arm around her, gathering her close. "Oh, my dearest. I am so sorry."
"We had prospects, I told her. I even offered her Valerius for a stud if she really wanted a child. It did not seem such a terrible notion. He is handsome enough, and we would have been raising my own niece or nephew. She told me not to be vulgar," Portia said. There was no emotion to her words now, just a flat recitation, as though she wanted to get all of the horror of it out and away. "We quarrelled over that. We quarrelled over taking a child from an orphanage or workhouse. I thought it was a noble idea. She told me it was no substitute for having a child of her own. I accused her of being selfish, reminded her that we had enough money to take a hundred orphans to raise if we liked. I think I may have made reference to Oliver Twist."
"Oh, Portia, you didn't."
"Of course I did. I was angry and sarcastic and stupid. I said things she will never forgive, and even if she could, I cannot take away the fact that although I love her more than my own life, I cannot give her the one thing she wants most of all."
I held her as she cried, aching for her as her shoulders shook with violent sobs. She wept noiselessly, stifling her sorrow against the neck of my nightdress. I rocked her as if she were a child, and when she was spent, I dried her tears with my own handkerchief and told her to blow her nose and attend to her face.
"Tell me, how much do you love her?" I asked when she had repaired the worst of the damage with a damp sponge and a powderpuff.
"Enough to follow her to the ends of the earth in a white petticoat," Portia said sadly.
"Careful, dearest. That's what Mary, Queen of Scots, said about Lord Bothwell and look what a nasty end she made."
There was not a flicker of a smile on my sister's face.
"What do you mean to do?" I asked.
She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. She seemed calmer now, resolute. "I must go to Portsmouth. Immediately. Today in fact."
She rose and began to gather her possessions. I stared after her, mouth agape. "Portia, you cannot be serious. You cannot leave, not now."
She collected her books from the little writing desk, tossing them into an untidy heap next to me. "Sort those, will you? I shall want the Scott for the train ride. No Brontë. I've had quite enough of moors to last me a lifetime."
I shoved the books aside and rose. "Portia, listen to me. You cannot just rush to Portsmouth this instant. You don't even know when the train is leaving."
She shrugged and tossed a pair of stockings at me. "Bundle those. It doesn't matter when the train is leaving. There is bound to be one today sometime. Wherever it goes, I will go. Any station is bigger than the one in Lesser Howlett. There will be connections elsewhere. I do not care where I am bound, so long as I am moving. I will take Valerius with me. I will send him back directly I've arrived, I promise."
I knotted the stockings together and dropped them onto her books. "Portia, you promised Brisbane you would organise his household. You've hardly begun."
She flapped a hand at me. "That was just a stratagem to bring the two of you together. Now you're here, the rest is up to you."
"Stratagem? You never intended to put the house to rights?"
"God, no. I loathe doing that sort of thing."
"But—but you are brilliant at it!"
She shrugged and yanked two shawls from the bedpost where she had flung them earlier. "I am rather good at speaking German. That does not mean I enjoy it. I offered because I knew you would never be able to resist the chance to play the coquette and thrust yourself at Brisbane."
I folded my arms over my chest. "That is quite possibly the most hurtful thing you have ever said to me. I am not thrusting myself at Brisbane."
She tucked the shawls under her chin and began to fold them haphazardly. "Yes, you are, and you would be no sister of mine if you didn't."
She took my hands in hers and I could not tell whose were the colder.
"Julia, you do not need me. You have come here because you know in your heart he loves you. This is your chance to have what you always wanted. Seize it, and do not let him go. He is confused and wounded and I think he has more secrets than the Sphinx itself, but he is a good man. And I believe he loves you in ways you cannot possibly fathom. Stay, and make him see you. I cannot give up Jane without a fight, and you must not give up Brisbane." She lifted her chin. "We are Marches, and our motto is Audeo. I dare. Dare to take the life you want in your own two hands and do not let it go, do you hear me?"
She was weeping now, and my own eyes filled as she clasped me to her. "Go," I told her, drying my eyes on her sleeve. "Go and give Jane my love. Oh," I said, suddenly thinking of Portia's little maid. "You must tell Minna. She'll not be packed."
Portia shook her head. "She is quite happy here, and I've no time to wait. I mean to fill a portmanteau, and she can send my trunk along when she has had time to pack it. You can bring Minna with you when you return to London. I will take Morag instead."
I agreed and we hastily packed Portia's things, enlisting Minna to bring a few odds and ends while Morag complained bitterly about the high-handedness of some people, ordering her back to town just when she was happily settled in the country.
"Do shut up," I hissed at her. "You do not fool me. I see that gleam in your eye. You would rather cut off your left arm than stay here another minute. Mind you take better care of Lady Bettiscombe than you do me," I finished, thrusting Portia's muddied boots at her. "Scrape these down and wrap them in brown paper." She stalked off to do as she was bid while Minna scurried about, trembling but excited at the news she was to stay behind.
There was a spirited discussion over the custody of Mr. Pugglesworth, but as I refused to keep the revolting animal, Portia had no choice but to tuck him under her arm as she left. She had sent Minna to ask Godwin to arrange for transportation, and by the time she and Morag and Valerius were ready to leave, packed and swathed in a travelling veil, a farm cart borrowed from a neighbour was standing at the end of
the drive. Valerius appeared, pale and unshaven, yawning broadly as he collected Portia's portmanteau along with his own. He raised a hand to me in farewell, and I blew him a kiss. His expression was sober, and I knew he would feel as wretched as I. Jane had been a sort of sister to him as well. Portia did not turn, but I leaned from the casement and watched until she was out of sight.
She had left it to me to make her excuses to the rest of the household, and I did not relish the task. I met with Brisbane first. He had just emerged from his room when I descended.
"Portia is gone," I told him without preamble.
"Without sorting my linen cupboard?" he asked with a touch of asperity.
"Don't, I beg you. I am quite miserable enough."
Instantly, he moved to me, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "What is the trouble?"
"Jane has left her. She means to marry and go out to India."
Brisbane said nothing, then gave a low sigh, his hand tightening upon my shoulder. "Odd, really. I would have counted them the happiest couple of my acquaintance."
I gave a little sound, half sob and half laugh. I covered his hand with my own. "That is the difficulty. They were happy. They are so well-suited to one another, and yet Jane wanted something more. She has left Portia in order to have a family."
His gaze was hard upon mine. "Can you blame her?"
"What do you mean?"
"Only that Jane has never known a proper family of her own."
"She has known Portia!" I countered hotly. "Portia has been everything to her, has given her all that she has to give."
"And perhaps it was not enough," he said quietly. His expression was so grave, I felt my heart thump painfully in my chest.
"I wonder, Brisbane, are you talking about Jane and Portia, or do you speak of something else entirely?"
The little muscle in his jaw that twitched whenever he was impatient jumped. "I am simply endeavouring to point out that no matter how much one wishes for something, no matter how desperately one might love someone, there are no guarantees."
I stared at him, taking in the coiled tension of his stand, the shadows under his eyes. "What happened in Edinburgh?"
He dropped his hand from my shoulder. "Julia, this is not the time—"
"I think it is. You were reconciled to my presence here before you left. I think you were even happy to see me, in spite of the circumstances. But you came back changed and I would know why. What happened in Edinburgh?"
"I was shot at," he told me flatly. "A ring of counterfeiters, passing false notes on the Bank of Scotland. Their leader was a son of a bosom friend of the Prince of Wales. I was asked to retrieve him and return him to his family so they can deal with him privately. He did not come quietly."
I felt cold, from my head to my feet, a sweeping cold that almost stilled my breath. "You are unharmed?" I could scarcely force the words through stiffened lips.
"I am. The bullet grazed my coat," he said, pointing to a tidy little scar at the collar that had been neatly mended. My eyes filled with hot tears.
"If that bullet had been a hairsbreadth to the left," I said, unable to finish the thought. The bullet had passed within a shadow of his throat.
"I know," he told me. "Believe me, when the tailor was stitching my coat, all I could think of was how lucky I had been. How many times I have been lucky," he said, his voice trailing off.
I thought of the bullet that had torn through his shoulder when he had saved the life of one dear to me in Trafalgar Square, and I shuddered.
He reached for my hands and held them fast in his own. "Julia, I have spent the better part of my life seeking adventure and having very little care if I woke the next day or not. I have lived freely and with no one to whom I must be beholden or accountable, no one to consider if I died." I thought of his devoted manservant Monk, and knew that Brisbane was wrong. Monk loved him like a son, and had anything befallen Brisbane, Monk would have mourned him like a lost child.
Brisbane continued. "I have led a selfish life, and I have enjoyed it. I cannot imagine a life without my work, and I cannot imagine a life without you, and yet I cannot reconcile the two." My heart, which had given a joyous leap in the middle of his speech, faltered now as I realised what he was trying to say.
"I never thought to ask you to give up your work," I began.
"But how can I ask you to sit idly by and wait for me to return when every time I kiss you goodbye might be the last?"
"Oh, don't!" I told him, fully enraged. "How dare you blame your cowardice upon me?"
His lips went white, as did the tiny crescent moon scar high upon his cheekbone. "I beg your pardon?"
"Cowardice," I said distinctly. "You hide behind this pretence of fine feeling because you will not declare yourself directly and this gives you a perfect excuse, does it not? Spare poor Julia the horror of being widowed a second time. Put her up on the shelf and keep her out of harm's way whilst you amuse yourself with your dashing adventures."
He opened his mouth to speak, but I stepped forward, tipping my head up to rail at him. "I am quite disappointed that you have revealed yourself to be so thoroughly conventional in your philosophy. Have I not proven myself a capable partner?" I demanded. "Have I not stood, side by side, with you, facing peril with equal courage? If you thought for a moment that I would be the meek, quiet, obedient sort of woman who would sit quietly at home mending your socks while you get to venture out into the world on your daring escapades, you have sorely mistaken me."
I turned on my heel and left him then, gaping after me like a landed carp. It was a very small consolation.
* * *
I made an effort to settle my temper and made my way to the kitchen. Lady Allenby was still at table, finishing the remains of her breakfast, when I appeared. To my surprise, Hilda was with her, absently cutting a piece of ham for her mother.
"My hands are rather worse today," Lady Allenby said by way of explanation.
I expressed my sympathy and gave her the broadest sketch of why Portia had fled without so much as a farewell, telling her only that there was a family difficulty and she was wanted and that Valerius would return after he accompanied her safely to Portsmouth.
"But if the difficulty is a family one, should you not be there as well?" Hilda asked, her tone cool. She thickly buttered a piece of toast, oblivious to her mother's reproving frown.
"Not at all," I said smoothly. "The business concerns a cousin of her late husband, Lord Bettiscombe." That much was true at least.
Lady Allenby redirected the conversation quickly. "How lovely that you were able to stay behind. The moorland is quite beautiful in spring, you know. It is a shame to miss a single day of it."
"I have heard, and I am happy to be staying as well," I replied. Mrs. Butters laid a plate before me, steaming eggs and sausages and a clever little savoury pudding full of cheese and herbs. I lifted my fork just as Hilda shot me a smiling look. Doubtless she was remembering the scene she had overlooked the previous afternoon, Brisbane embracing me, then shouting at me to go home. She would not have heard his words, but how many of his gestures would she have interpreted correctly? I returned the smile and stabbed viciously at the pudding.
The rest of breakfast was consumed in silence, the only sound the click of cutlery on the plain china plates and the gentle hiss of the pan simmering on the hob.
I rose when Lady Allenby did and left by the kitchen door, intending to take a walk on the moor. Just as I reached the gate, I heard Hilda's voice behind me.
"Is it not enough that you have designs on Brisbane? Must you drive Mr. Valerius away as well?" she demanded.
I turned on my heel to find her staring at me, her hands balled into fists at her sides, her pale complexion splotched unbecomingly with red.
"I do beg your pardon?" I said with icy calm.
She moved nearer, but I stood my ground. "You should have gone with them. No one wants you here. You should have gone with your sister and left Mr. Valerius. He is the only
one of you worth speaking to."
"I assure you, Miss Hilda, the arrangements were not of my making. I am terribly sorry you have been inconvenienced."
The tips of her nostrils had gone white with anger. "Do not patronise me. I will not be talked down to, as though I were an imbecile like Jetty. My blood is quite as good as yours, my lady," she said, larding the last word with sarcasm. "My ancestors were kings in this land when yours were still wiping the boots of a bastard in Normandy."
I sighed and folded my arms over my chest. "Hilda, this is tiresome. You are far too old for childish insults, insults I don't even think you believe. And you are far too sensible to put any credence in that Saxon royalty nonsense."
She gaped at me, clearly torn. In the end, her sound common sense won out. "Oh, very well, it is ludicrous. I would burn that stupid tapestry if I could. No one cares about such things anymore. I've tried to tell Mama that. She won't listen, and neither will Ailith. But I had to say something," she added, giving me a defiant glare. "I've nothing else to fight you with."
"Good heavens, why should you want to fight me at all? I should think you would far rather prefer a little civil conversation."
"With you?" She made no attempt to disguise the scorn in her voice. "I can assure you we have no point of commonality."
"Nonsense. We are both ladies, gently born. We are both in this remote place. We might talk of anything, the people here, the landscape, or the books," I said, feeling a sudden surge of inspiration.
She eyed me warily, as a whipped dog will do to a hand raised to it, even in friendship. "What books?"
"The ones you had in your room. The Egyptology books. You would be quite mad for the ones in your brother's study, I'm sure. Did you know he has the entire set of the Description de l'Égypte? It is in remarkably good condition."
If I had thought her angry before, it was nothing compared to her rage now. She could scarcely speak, and when she did, her voice was rough.
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