He hopped gracefully out of the coach, then proffered his hand. She maneuvered her skirts over the steps without tripping. Despite the gentle admonishments of Mrs. Eccles, she’d worn trousers and coat during the voyage. But when Captain Eccles informed her they were to dock, she changed into the dress. She hated herself for it. She hated her weakness.
The cause of that weakness dismounted, gave his horse into the care of a waiting servant-a servant wearing, good Lord, black and gold livery-and moved toward them. His gentleman’s clothes suited him, his garments simple although their quality seemed finer even than Mr. Yale’s.
But she didn’t care about that. Just as that morning in the gray of dawn at Exmouth, she met his dispassionate gaze and the nerves in her belly clumped together in a sticky mass.
The door of the mansion swung open and a woman came to the top of the stair. She was beautifully gowned, elegantly coiffed, and-despite fifteen years-perfectly, achingly familiar. The same thoughtful, smiling eyes sparkled with tears now. The same lovely long fingers spread upon her cheeks. The same wide mouth opened in an O of wonder.
“Vi-Viola?” she uttered. “Viola?” she whispered.
Viola nodded, a few times, tiny quick jerks of her head.
Serena flew down the steps, skirts fluttering, and enveloped her in an embrace. She was half a head taller, and fragrant of cinnamon, and Viola buried her nose in Serena’s square shoulder, cinched her arms about her sister’s waist, and squeezed her eyes shut. She had not known what to expect. But somehow, this had not occurred to her. This homecoming. This love. She thought, perhaps, that she was a very poor prophet of her own life.
Serena loosened her hold only enough to draw back and curve her hand around Viola’s cheek.
“I do not know where to begin.” Serena’s eyes, wonderfully mismatched blue and violet and bright with tears, seemed to drink her in. “I would exclaim what a beauty you have become, but you always were a beauty. I would barrage you with a hundred-score questions, but you must be weary from your long journey.” Her arms tightened. “But mostly I will stare in utter bemusement. I cannot believe it is you.”
“It is I.” Viola spoke in barely a whisper. Now, here, beneath the adoring gaze of her sister, her insides jumbled entirely. Only three further words came to her. “I am sorry.”
Serena’s winged brows tilted. “Whatever for?”
“For not coming home before this.”
The smile slipped from her sister’s lips, but her eyes remained soft.
“Oh, Vi, we have a great deal to talk about, you and I.” She laughed a sweet laugh between sorrow and joy, and hugged her again. “Fifteen years of a great deal,” she whispered. She grasped Viola’s hand tightly. “But first, I must give thanks.” She turned to the men standing back somewhat.
“Mr. Yale, it is a pleasure to see you. I hope you will make a lengthy visit.” She spoke with regal grace and curtsied with perfect poise, her elegant gown and honey hair shimmering in the light of the lamp a servant held to dispel the falling dusk. “Thank you for assisting in bringing my sister home today.”
Mr. Yale bowed. “My greatest pleasure, Lady Savege.”
Serena’s fingers slipped from Viola’s. She walked to Jin, extended her hands, and grasped his. She said very softly and somewhat thickly, “How shall I ever begin to thank you?”
Jin’s eyes glittered as Viola had never seen, with a light powerful and entirely at peace. “You need not.”
“In fact, I cannot. There is nothing I could say or give you to compare.”
The corner of his perfect mouth tilted up ever so slightly. “I am justly compensated.” His gaze shifted to Viola.
She could not breathe. His words and gaze always caused the same state inside her rebellious body-thorough lack of functionality. Only this time, it was worse, because shortly, when the earl paid him, he would leave.
“Miss Carlyle, may I escort you in?” Mr. Yale offered his arm.
Serena swirled around. “Oh, no, sir! I will not allow her one moment in another’s company until I have had at least a sennight to myself.” She circled Viola’s waist and drew her toward the stair, bending her head. “My husband is briefly from home but will return within the week, I hope. When I received Jinan’s note from the courier earlier today I sent off a missive to Alex entreating him to speed his journey. He will be so glad to know you. But I beg of you, do not allow anything Mr. Seton told you about him to predispose you one way or the other. You must fashion your own opinion.”
“Mr. Seton told me nothing of Lord Savege, in fact.”
Serena chuckled. “That is very much like Jinan, of course.” She looked over her shoulder. “Gentlemen, do come in and allow Mr. Button to provide you with refreshment in the drawing room while the servants see to everything.”
Servants were seeing to everything indeed, a veritable army of footmen in black with gold piping carrying luggage or simply standing at duty as Serena led Viola across the three-story entry hall to a sweeping staircase. The floor was tiled with gray and white marble, the stairs carpeted in Oriental luxury, the banister gleaming wood, all lit with dozens of candles. On the wall of the balconied landing above, a portrait hung of Viola’s sister. With an infant.
She stared. In the picture Serena wore an opulent gown of gold, diamonds hanging on her neck and ears and in her hair. She cradled in her arms a tiny child garbed in white. The mother’s gaze rested on her sleeping babe with quiet tenderness.
“Oh, don’t look at that silly thing. Alex insisted. He is an overly proud papa. But I loathed every moment of the sitting, and Maria did as well. She fussed throughout.”
“You have a daughter,” Viola whispered.
Serena squeezed her waist. “Your niece.”
“You named her Maria.”
“After Mama.” She took Viola’s hand. “Now come. Mrs. Tubbs has made up for you the very best chamber, and tea and a hot hip bath both await. Then dinner once you are dressed, if you are able. I cannot complain, but I haven’t a notion as to why Jinan insisted you make that entire journey in a single day. It is sixty miles to Exmouth, if only that, and over hills. You must be exhausted.”
“Not very,” she barely managed. Her eyes were wide as a child’s. The corridor went on and on, turning corners and going up and down stairs before Serena finally halted before a beautifully fashioned oaken door.
The chamber within was not quite as large as the April Storm’s quarterdeck, but nearly if one counted the adjacent dressing room. Partially paneled in warm wood, the walls painted a delicate shade of rose, and appointed in soft gold and ivory fabrics with a sumptuous curtained bed and a delicate gilt-edged dressing table and sparkling mirror, it seemed a fairyland. Like the fairylands Serena had so loved to dream about as a girl.
“Is this your bedchamber?” Viola uttered.
“No, silly. It is yours. There is your bath, and a maid will be here momentarily to assist, although I would like to remain while you settle in, if you will allow me.”
Viola turned back toward the corridor. “I think Jane is-”
Serena took her arm and drew her again into the room, closing the door behind them.
“Mrs. Tubbs-that is my housekeeper, a very excellent person-will see that your maid has dinner and ample rest before she returns to your service tomorrow. For tonight my own maid will be yours.” Her brow puckered. “Will that suit you? I am terribly sorry. I should have asked first, but I assumed that after your long journey…” She bit her lower lip, an action so thoroughly familiar, as though from a dream, but in fact from memory. “Viola?”
“Hm?”
“You are unwell, of course.” Serena’s voice wobbled. “Exhausted, no doubt.” She crossed to the dressing table where a silver tray with a delicate porcelain pot and cups were arranged about a plate of sugar-coated biscuits. “You must have a spot of tea. It will put you to rights, I am certain. Oh, dear.” The china clinked in her hands. “My nerves are a disaster. You would think I have never b
efore reunited with my sister whom all except me presumed dead for a decade and a half.” She turned her face away, the cup and pot suspended. Her shoulders shook.
“Oh, Ser.” Viola’s eyes overflowed.
Serena turned her head, her cheeks streaked with tears. She set down the dishes, and they walked to each other and enfolded each other in their arms. They remained like that for a very long time.
Serena sent their apologies to the gentlemen, and ordered a light supper to be delivered to Viola’s chamber instead. Viola bathed, changed into her usual shirt and drawers, and saw quite clearly Serena’s thoughts on her lovely face. That she had always been able to read her elder sister’s thoughts even when they were children did not dissipate the twisting in her stomach.
“You don’t like my nightclothes.”
“Nightclothes? Oh, I am relieved.” Serena’s mouth tipped up. “I thought perhaps you intended to go about the house like that. It would scandalize the servants, you know.” She giggled.
Viola cracked a laugh. Then she remembered her state of undress when Jin had visited her cabin seeking the sextant, and her amusement disintegrated.
“Forgive me, sister.” Serena came to her and touched her on the cheek, a gesture of feminine intimacy their mother used to make that Viola had never forgotten. “I haven’t any notion of how you have been living. I fear I will be very stupid about it all.” Little creases appeared between her brows, her gaze traveling over Viola’s face. “Jinan says you have been at sea for some time.”
Viola put her palm up to her face. “I am very brown, I know.”
“No. I mean to say, you are not brown. But your skin always glowed so beautifully like this when we were girls.”
“So did yours.”
“Not like yours. You were so full of life. Are you still full of life after all these years?”
Viola blinked. “I-I expect so.”
Serena grasped her hands, but Viola could not withhold it any longer.
“Ser, why didn’t you reply to my letters?”
Her sister’s eyes went wide. “What letters?”
“The letters I wrote in those first years.”
She shook her golden head. “There were no letters. I received nothing.”
Viola’s stomach lurched. “No letters?”
Serena gripped her fingers tighter. “You wrote to me?” she whispered.
Viola’s throat seemed filled with pitch. “She must not have mailed them.”
“She?”
“My aunt. I lived with her and her children. I took care of them.” She fought for breath, but Serena cradled her hands to her cheek.
“Vi,” she whispered, “tell me everything. From the beginning.”
She began with Fionn, comparing her story to Serena’s. Her father had learned the truth of it; everyone thought her dead except Serena, the dreaming girl prone to invent stories of fairies and knights in shining armor and to whom no one listened. But their mother waited on the cliff side all night in the rain. A fortnight later, without ever mentioning Fionn, she died of fever taken that night.
Serena told her of the baron’s second wife, now gone, and the daughters she had left behind-sixteen-year-old Diantha and little Faith-who still lived at Glenhaven Hall. Charity, the eldest of Serena’s stepsisters, had married, and Serena’s stepbrother, Sir Tracy Lucas, held an estate in Essex. Clearly Serena cherished her three stepsiblings and her half sister Faith, but as she related her tale she grasped Viola’s hands even tighter.
In turn, Viola narrated her story, including Aidan’s part in it. In the safety of her sister’s affectionate interest she again felt the comfort of his affection that had borne her through the worst times when Fionn fell ill and slowly slipped away.
“You care very much for Mr. Castle, don’t you?” Serena asked softly.
“I do.” For she did. It was silly to cast away their past together in blame or disappointment when she had never really pressed him to wed. Instead she had pursued her life aboard ship single-mindedly.
“Where is he now?”
“Didn’t Mr. Seton tell you?”
“I have barely seen him to tell me anything.”
“Mr. Castle traveled with us from the West Indies to Exmouth. He has gone to Dorset to be reunited with his family after many years. He said he wished to make a visit here, if you wouldn’t mind it.”
Serena set down her teacup and grasped Viola’s hand. “Of course I won’t.” She squeezed her fingers. “Vi, what do you say to delaying meeting our father and stepsisters for several days while you and I have a holiday here together? Before Alex returns. Only the two of us.”
“What of Mr. Yale and Mr. Seton?”
“Mr. Yale will be perfectly happy entertaining himself, and Jinan will likely be leaving tomorrow anyway. He never remains long here, or anywhere I daresay.” She smiled conspiratorially. “We shall have the house nearly to ourselves.”
Viola’s belly felt hollow. But the warmth in her sister’s gaze filled some of the emptiness.
“That sounds wonderful.”
She slept that night on the divan. There was nothing to be done about it; the bed was simply too large, too soft, and too motionless, and she could not get comfortable. To spare her sister’s feelings, in the morning she mussed up the bed linens, and while her maid fussed with her hair she sat on the laced-scalloped pillow to make it appear used. Jane’s lips remained pursed throughout.
“I have a sore… back,” Viola mumbled.
“Of course, miss.” Jane twitched a few more strands of hair into place.
“Ouch!”
“You don’t think Her Ladyship fidgets about while her maid is fixing her hair, do you?”
Viola glared into the mirror. “Aren’t you supposed to be a servant? My servant? Did you speak like this to Mr. Seton when he hired you? Did he get references?”
“No and yes, miss.” Her lips looked as small and wrinkly as a raisin.
When Jane completed her ministrations Viola peered at her reflection and nearly laughed. Or wept.
Scrunching up her nose, she snatched out every pin from the tidy coiffure, took up the brush, and tore through her hair. When the mass of waves was once more thoroughly distressed, she bound it in a queue, poked her nose in the air, and passed Jane by to march from her chamber and descend to the breakfast parlor.
She got lost. Along the way three different footmen had to give her directions. She finally arrived a bit dizzy and without any idea of how she had gotten there. But it was a very pretty chamber. Two footmen flanked it and glimmers of sunlight twinkled in through the tall windows.
“Good morning, Miss Carlyle.” Mr. Yale set down his newspaper and rose from the table to bow.
Standing by the window, Jin turned to her and nodded in greeting.
A cloud took up residence in Viola’s head. He did not bow now when they were in an earl’s house, but he had aboard ship? He was a detestable tease, and simply seeing him again after weeks of his absence was like being marooned upon an island, then slaking her thirst on fresh water.
His gaze flickered along her shirt, waistcoat, and breeches, and a ghost of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. She got weak all over. On the outside, except for the weapons sash she’d packed away, she still looked like a sailor. But inside she felt like one of those French cream puffs Serena had pressed on her after dinner the night before. And, oh, God, it felt good to be a cream puff. For so long she had toughened her insides to iron, but she had never truly liked it. It was not in her nature.
It was in her nature, however unfortunately, to fall in love with men who did not love her. He must go away. He simply must. Then she might enjoy this sojourn among the lives of the rich and powerful much better.
“I thought you would have left by now.”
He lifted a brow. “I intend to shortly. I hoped I might take breakfast first.”
She felt shaky. Foolish foolish foolish. “Where are you going?”
Mr. Yale chuckl
ed. “That is rather like asking a shark what he plans to eat for dinner. Mr. Seton ever goes where he will, Miss Carlyle, and none of us is ever the wiser for it. Isn’t that right, my friend?”
Jin moved to the sideboard and took up a cup. “Hoping to track my movements, Yale?” He poured a cup of coffee. “I imagined you finished with that sort of thing.”
“Old habit.” Mr. Yale waved it off. He drew out a chair for her. “May I command one of these fine fellows to make you a selection of delicacies, Miss Carlyle?” He gestured to the footmen.
Viola’s stomach was in knots and a little queasy from all the cream puffs the night before. Rich, sticky cream puffs that could not possibly be good for a stomach accustomed to hardtack and weevil-infested biscuits.
“Tea.” She sat, aware that all four men were watching her. She cleared her throat. “How do you come to know one another, then?”
“An old friend introduced us,” Mr. Yale replied.
“Who?” She stood up to take the teacup and saucer from the footman. Their hands collided, tea sloshed, and her cuff and his white glove turned brown. “Oh! I’m sorry!” She snatched up a napkin and dabbed at his hand.
“It’s nothing, miss,” he mumbled, his cheeks fiery red.
“Oh. I should not have- But I’m so sorry.”
The servant bowed and retired from the room. Mr. Yale moved to the sideboard and poured from the teapot. “Viscount Gray made us known to one another. A serious, responsible fellow, but a good sort nevertheless. And as he allowed me the acquaintance of our seafaring friend here, he has indirectly given me yours, for which I can only be grateful.” He placed a steaming cup beside her, smiling kindly.
“I can’t imagine your flattery is sincere, Mr. Yale,” she mumbled.
“Perfectly sincere, Miss Carlyle,” he rejoined. “It is not every day a man has the good fortune to admire a lovely lady who has done something useful with her life. Your delightful conversation about your ship yesterday positively sped the journey along.”
“Thank you.” She flickered a glance at Jin. He seemed to be staring into his cup. “I must admit I am not even certain of what we conversed, although I liked that story you told about how Lord Savege’s sister met her husband while trapped at an inn in a snowstorm. But… I was tired, I suppose.” Rather distracted, thinking of the man riding behind the carriage and how she might purge her heart of him.
How to Be a Proper Lady Page 20
