by Nicole Byrd
Louisa managed a grin. “I doubt that Society will be seeking me out any time soon. But I shall remember what you have said, Gemma, and I will try. Thank you.”
She held out her arms, and Gemma hugged her. For a moment, they both, perhaps, took comfort in their unexpected, but growing friendship.
And Louisa looked much better, though her cheeks were still mottled, and her eyelids swollen. She released Gemma and glanced into the looking glass over her dressing table. “I shall have to use a whole bushel of cucumbers,” she suggested, her tone glum, “if I do not wish the household to see that I am upset.”
Gemma laughed. “You will manage it,” she predicted. “And we shall think of something to do tomorrow that will make us feel better.”
Not until she had said good night and headed back for her own room did Gemma have a lowering thought of her own.
Lord Gabriel was in town, at last. He would read her note, and he would answer it—how?
Tomorrow, she might find out.
Eight
They both rose early. Gemma found Louisa already at the table when she went down for breakfast, and if Louisa’s eyelids were somewhat swollen, the condition was hardly noticeable. Louisa had been gazing dolefully into her tea cup, but she looked up and smiled when Gemma came into the dining room. “I hope you slept well,” she said.
She was trying for her usual cheerful tone, Gemma thought, admiring her friend’s effort. And she herself could hardly do less, even though she had had a restless night, wondering when her brother—when Lord Gabriel—would open her note and what he would reply to it.
“Tolerably,” she lied. “A lovely morning.”
“Oh, yes,” Louisa agreed. “The sun is out, and the birds are a-wing. It’s much too nice a day to stay abed.”
Which was a lie, too, Gemma suspected, though a polite enough one. The truth was, they were both too anxious to sleep fashionably late. Miss Pomshack had not yet appeared from her bedchamber. And when Louisa reached for a slice of toast, Gemma saw ink stains on her friend’s fingers.
Louisa saw the direction of her glance. “I sent a note to Lady Gabriel,” she admitted. “Asking if she might be willing to sponsor me to a few events and introduce me to the Ton. We do have a connection, in a way, and she’s by nature a gracious woman, so I am hopeful—” She paused and bit her lip for a moment.
Gemma hoped so, too. Louisa did not deserve another unkind rejection. And as for herself, she had her own hopes.
So they chatted a little over the meal, but Gemma saw Louisa start and glance up at every sound in the street. She knew that they were both listening for a tap on the door, a message returned in the post or by hand, carried by a servant, or even Lady Gabriel herself, if they were really fortunate, coming to call. And as for going out and missing a message or a visit, Gemma knew that neither of them considered such a thing.
When Louisa pushed back from the table—she had as little appetite as Gemma, judging by the food left on her plate—Gemma put down her napkin and followed her friend into the drawing room. Gemma picked up a handkerchief she was hemming, and Louisa flipped through a fashion periodical, but both still listened for a knock at the door.
The morning seemed to last forever, though the porcelain clock on the mantel inexorably ticked away the minutes. Gemma had stabbed her finger three times before there were—at last—sounds at the front door.
Sitting very still, Gemma heard the murmur of voices. She glanced over to see that Louisa had jumped to her feet and had gone very pale. Neither of them said a word, and in a moment it was easy to make out the thud of the door shutting. Gemma strained to hear more chatter, but apparently no one had come in. Then footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Smelters appeared. He held a note on a silver salver.
Gemma held her breath, but it was Louisa he approached. “A letter for you, miss.”
“Thank you.” Louisa flashed a look of apology toward Gemma. As soon as the footman had gone out, she ripped open the note and scanned its contents.
Gemma did not have to ask what Lady Gabriel’s answer was. Seeing Louisa’s expression cloud, she felt a wave of regret for her friend.
Louisa sat down heavily. “She says she would be happy to see me again, but at present she is going out very little, and she does not feel she would be very helpful as a sponsor.”
“I am sorry,” Gemma said.
Louisa was making a brave attempt not to cry. “If my aunt Marianne was not traveling abroad—” She shook her head as her voice failed. “It does no good to repine. I suppose I will think of something.” But her lip trembled, and she said, “I believe I will lie down for a while, if you would excuse me, Gemma. I have a bit of a headache.”
Suspecting that her friend wanted to be alone, Gemma nodded. “Of course. I will tell Miss Pomshack that you do not wish to be disturbed, even for one of her famous tisanes.”
“Thank you,” Louisa said fervently, then she hurried out of the room.
Oh, dear. Louisa had lost her best hope of a sponsor, and Gemma—Lord Gabriel had not even bothered to answer her letter. Had he read it, yet?
Presently Miss Pomshack appeared, coming from the dining room. She tsk-tsked over her employer’s ill health, and wondered aloud if London had been such a desirable destination, after all.
“It does not appear to have been good for poor Miss Crookshank’s constitution,” she noted as she sat down with her embroidery.
Gemma made a noncommital answer and went back to her own sewing, trying not to jump at every sound outside the window. Every time a carriage rolled past the house, or footfalls could be heard on the paving stones, she stiffened, hoping that another note—with a more favorable reply—might come to the house.
But by the time Smelters came to the door to offer them a light luncheon, there had still been no word.
Gemma went in with Miss Pomshack and sat at the table, but she eyed the sliced ham and mustard sauce with no appetite, despite her scanty breakfast. She wanted to scream. Why did she not hear something? How could he ignore her request for an audience over such an important matter?
Miss Pomshack was dipping her spoon into her bowl of soup. “Are you not hungry, Miss Smith?”
“No, not really,” Gemma said. In fact, the smells made her feel a little nauseated. “I believe I have a headache coming on, too.”
“Oh dear, I do hope it’s not something contagious?” the older lady said, pausing with her spoon halfway to her lips.
“I’m sure you will maintain your usual good health,” Gemma assured her, thinking, and your usual good appetite! But it was not the other lady’s fault that Gemma’s stomach was knotted with anxiety. “I believe I will lie down awhile, too. Please excuse me.”
She slipped out of the room while Miss Pomshack was still offering homemade remedies. But in the hallway, Gemma hesitated.
What she really wanted—She turned toward the outer door. She had to go and see him face-to-face! She could not simply wait here, not knowing. Nor did she want anyone to know if she were rejected. She checked her first impulse to rush out the door alone. Walking down London streets without a companion would not reflect well on her sense of propriety, and she did not wish Lord Gabriel to think ill of her before she even had a chance to plead her case. She went upstairs to find Lily.
“I am going to pay a visit to a distant connection,” she told the maid. “If you would not mind a walk—”
“Of course, miss,” the girl said, her expression curious.
Gemma got her shawl and paused long enough to glance anxiously in the looking glass at her faded muslin gown. This was not the dress she had planned to wear for her first meeting with her brother, but she was too impatient to change. Besides, she could not pretend to be wealthy or fashionable when she was not. Perhaps it was just as well that he saw her as she really was. If he rejected her because of her less-than-stylish appearance, they would never have had a chance of a relationship, anyhow.
She asked Lily for directions to t
he square in which Lord Gabriel and his wife resided. Then they set off at a brisk pace, and after a short walk, reached their destination. The Sinclair home was located in a handsome square with a small park in the middle and expansive dwellings built on every side.
The house was of brick, very handsome, and bigger than the one Louisa had rented. It seemed to broadcast the prosperity and social prominence of its inhabitants. Gemma felt a wave of nervousness. And what if Lord and Lady Gabriel had just sat down for a meal themselves? It would be an awkward time to call. She should have considered that before she set out.
She almost turned back, but by this time they were standing at the doorstep, and she simply could not walk away. If she withdrew now, Gemma thought, she might never have the courage to return.
So she lifted her hand and took firm hold of the brass knocker.
Lord Gabriel Sinclair had also risen early. He woke as the first rays of sunlight peeked around the edges of the draperies that covered the windows in their bedchamber. Lying very still, he turned only his head to check on Psyche. She was asleep at last, her pale hair sweetly disordered and her breathing even. He knew she had had a difficult night. When she finally did slip into sleep, she had cried out, and shortly afterward had wakened with tears on her cheeks.
He had encircled her with his arms, kissed her wet face tenderly, and held her until she slept again. He didn’t ask about her tears; he knew their source.
She had been resting very ill the last few months, he thought. Sometimes her beautiful blue eyes had dark circles beneath them, and her skin too wan, with a pallor unlike its usual healthy glow. It made his heart hurt to see her spirits so low.
He watched her for a while, then, afraid that even his gaze might disturb her, eased himself out of bed, lingering only to kiss the top of her head with a touch so light that his breath barely ruffled the fine hairs. Then he tiptoed into his dressing room and already had his nightshirt off and his trousers half buttoned when his valet appeared.
“My lord,” Swindon said, his tone reproachful though he kept his voice low. “You should have rang for me.”
“I managed to dress myself for years without help,” Gabriel told him, smiling slightly to lighten his rebuke. “In those years, in fact, I was lucky to have a spare shirt to put on. I think I still remember how.”
The servant didn’t answer, but his dignified expression still managed to express his doubt. He helped his master finish robing for the day, then went away to make sure that tea was brewing and breakfast laid out.
Gabriel went downstairs. The house seemed very quiet. He almost regretted that he had allowed Psyche’s younger sister, Circe, with her governess and a male servant, to travel to Bristol for two weeks in order to take special lessons with a renowned French painter. Perhaps having Circe with them when they first returned to London would have lifted her sister’s spirits. There would have been art shows and exhibits to attend, museums to examine for offerings that had been added while they were in the country. But Circe had been eager for the opportunity since the artist was only in England for a short time, and Psyche had insisted that she go.
He sat down at the table in lonely splendor and helped himself to beefsteak and pickled herring. But he pushed his plate away after a few bites. In the name of all that was holy, if only he could do something! What kind of a man was he, to be unable to give Psyche what she wanted, what they both wanted?
He stood up, and when a footman hurried forward, shook his head. “Nothing else. I shall be in the library.”
Gabriel went to the big room on the ground floor. His desk was piled with papers that needed attending to. But he found it hard to concentrate on accounts of investment earnings or stock reports or his man of business’s description of a piece of property he had been considering making a bid on. Psyche was unhappy, and what else mattered besides that?
He paced up and down in front of the fireplace, then forced himself to come back and sit behind his desk. Whenever Psyche came down, he must look as usual and not add to her distress with his own.
So he was skimming a list of figures when one of the footmen came to the door. “Beg pardon, milord.”
“Yes?” Gabriel didn’t look up.
“There is a young lady . . .”
“Tell her Lady Gabriel is not at home to visitors today,” Gabriel directed, wondering that it had not already been done. Their servants were better trained than this. “And on no account is my wife to be disturbed.”
The footman cleared his throat. “No, indeed, milord. But she doesn’t want to see Lady Gabriel, milord. She wishes—most fervently—to see you.”
This time Gabriel put down the document and stared at him. The man’s face was a bit flushed, but he held his ground.
The young lady must have been insistent, indeed, Gabriel thought, feeling a flicker of amusement for the first time.
“Very well, show her in,” he said, then as the footman disappeared, realized he had not asked the visitor’s name. Not that it mattered. This was most likely a solicitation for alms for the charity ward or a new roof for the parish poorhouse. It could hardly be a social call.
He stood when the young woman appeared in the doorway. She had dark hair—he could see a strand peeking from beneath her plain straw bonnet—and was dressed in an unremarkable but respectable faded muslin gown, with a plain shawl thrown over her shoulders. Definitely, someone doing good works, Gabriel thought. Her face seemed familiar for a moment, but yet, when he gave her a harder look, he was sure he had not seen her before. He bowed when she made a brief curtsy, then motioned to a chair and waited for her to perch on its edge before he sat again himself.
If she was collecting money, she must be new to it, Gabriel thought. She looked very ill at ease.
“Lord Gabriel, I apologize for disturbing you, but the matter is so urgent—” She had a pleasant voice, not shrill or overly loud, and she spoke in an educated tone.
“How may I help you?” he asked courteously, pulling open a desk drawer as he spoke, ready to take out of his cash box a suitable sum and send the poor girl on her way.
“You have not read my note?”
He looked at her in polite inquiry. “It was regarding—”
She licked her lips. “Surely, you must recall. I have recently received a letter that indicates that I am—that we are—that I am your sister, my lord,” she said in a desperate rush of words.
Gabriel stiffened. He knew he was frowning, but he couldn’t help it. The room seemed suddenly cold. He tried to think what to say.
“I do not—” Then he checked his first response. Why deny it? Yes, he had opened that letter, glanced at the first paragraph and then consigned its remarkable bunch of tomfoolery to the wastebasket. He had judged it some ill-conceived form of blackmail—in which case they had picked the wrong man!—or else a woman of the streets with some fantastic scheme for ill-gotten gain.
He had lived among blackguards and scoundrels for enough years to have heard every type of poppycock, or so he would have said. Having an unknown relative turn up, eager for money, was not unheard of, and generally any claim to kinship turned out to be totally untrue. He was hardly so green as to be taken in by such outrageous lies.
But this did not look at all like the type of woman he would have expected to have penned that letter. He cleared his throat and spoke again, keeping his tone low. If he shouted at her, he thought the girl would swoon. She was pale enough as it was, and it obviously took all her courage just to sit there and face him. She clutched her reticule as if it were a lifeline and she a drowning sailor.
She was either a much-more practiced actress than he had seen lately on any stage, or perhaps someone else was using her as a tool to enact this ruse. Or her wits were addled. But in any case, he could not encourage this delusion. He tried to speak gently.
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, madam,” he told her. “I have no sister.”
“Oh, I was hoping—” She paused to take a deep breath. “
I was hoping our—my—your mother might have already told you.”
“My mother?” Gabriel felt it more and more likely the girl was deranged. “I could not have heard from my mother, madam.” He knew his tone sounded flat.
The girl gazed at him anxiously. “I am unmarried,” she explained.
He narrowed his eyes. “What does that have to do with the matter?”
“Only that you called me madam,” she explained. “If no one has informed you of my situation, then I understand you must be shocked at the news, sir—that is, my lord. I regret to have to tell you in such a way. But it is so important to me—I must know. She has invited me to meet her, to be reunited with the family—my family!—and I have waited my whole life for this. You must understand!”
Her voice rose a little, and Gabriel winced. He hoped he could get her out of the house before she became hysterical. He did not wish for Psyche to be wakened in such a manner or alarmed without cause.
“I cannot—”
“But she told me you would help arrange a meeting!”
“My mother could not have done so.”
“I have explained this badly,” the girl said. She put one hand to her face. She was quite pretty, he thought absently. “Perhaps you should read the letter she sent me.”
“Indeed, I think I should,” Gabriel agreed, wondering if the paper the young woman withdrew from her reticule, unfolding it as tenderly as if it were her last hope of salvation, would be as unbalanced as her strange request.
But as he scanned the letter, Gabriel knew that his frown deepened. He read it once, then again more slowly. “This letter was written almost twenty years ago? Why did you wait so long?”
“As I told you in my letter, I have just received it.” She watched him with anxious blue eyes.
“You realize this is an incredible story,” Gabriel said, his tone gruff.
She blinked but faced him with her chin up. “Yes, I know that it must sound very strange. But if you could just speak to your mother, I am sure that she would tell you that this is indeed her letter and that she does wish to meet me.”
