Monica’s mouth was half-open when Lord Haywood Sinnet, brother to the duke, emerged from behind the shrubbery. “Hiding, are we?” he said in a tone of supercilious glee, like a teacher catching their charge doing something illicit. “There are search parties out, you know.”
“There are?” Marie gasped.
“Yes, Miss Patton. Your mother searches. You, too, Miss Burrows. Your father looks absolutely livid. You are safe for now, I believe, Lady Wemmick.”
“We better go!” Marie cried.
Monica yawned and rose lazily from the flowerbed against which she’d been leaning. “Fine, yes, let’s go,” she said.
“Wait a moment,” Lyla said, as the two made to race back toward the estate. “I will come, too.”
“Oh, but wait a moment,” Lord Sinnet said. “I wish to talk with you, Lady Wemmick.”
“I really must go—”
“It will take but a moment.”
Monica and Marie had disappeared. It was like they had vanished into the warm June air. For some reason, Lyla felt uncomfortable around this man. She had met him once before, at another party, and when they had danced, his breath had reeked of something ungodly. His clothes, though fine, were slightly disordered, as though he’d slept in them. And his eyes were shot with lightning bolts of blood. He walked slowly into the garden, blocking her.
“My lady,” he said. “I have not forgotten our dance.”
“Yes, my lord.”
She could think of nothing else to say.
“You are so timid, like a tiny little stick. Yes, an utter stick. I wonder if you would snap. Would you?”
“That is a strange thing to say, my—”
And then the fresh, new hope that had lived in her for the longest time was quashed. After it was all done, she would envision those three laughing girls and call them idiots. What did they know about the world?
*****
Lord Wemmick,
I see no other course of action other than that of marriage. Both our families have been shamed by this. I will not talk of love. I fear there is little of that. I only talk of reality. And the reality is that the only way we can save any kind of face is if your daughter and I marry. Please reply forthwith.
Thornton Sinnet, Duke of Wellcopse.
Monica sighed and placed the letter in the drawer of her bedroom, where she kept it most of the time, except when she wanted to bring it out and make real what seemed like a disastrous dream.
It had been six months since the ball where it had all gone wrong. Since months since His Grace’s brother had died in the most scandalous way possible. And the whole country thought she was a murderess, that she had gotten away with a crime against God. Marie and Monica no longer wrote even though she was now technically a duchess. Even a title that grand could not completely cleanse her.
Her husband—ha! Never had a title been so ill-fitting!
He had not spoken to her since the marriage when it had been necessary to be seen speaking to one another, and then he had spoken with a distance that made it seem like she was not even there, that she was simply watching the events transpire. That was how she felt since that afternoon in the garden with that man; as though she was watching everything.
Christmas had passed two days ago without ceremony, and now there was little for Lyla to do but skulk through Wellcopse Castle to the library, where she spent most of her time. Homer did not judge her. She slumped down in her usual chair and bent over the old tome. His Grace had a momentous library, full of dust and books and low candlelight, and he had permitted her to use it. His actual words had been: “Go where you will.” And then he had turned away from her, as though even the sight of her was an offence to him.
She read for a time and then looked up at the sound of footsteps. Perhaps it was Tammy, the one maidservant who was either oblivious of her past or did not care about it. But it was not Tammy. It was His Grace, her husband. He was a handsome man, with strong features and wide shoulders. His eyes were thankfully not the same colour as his younger brother’s. His were blue, like a summer sky. LordSinnet’s had been brown, like winter mud.
His Grace walked into the library slowly, as though afraid he might disturb its equilibrium. Lyla had never seen him in here. He normally stayed as far away from her as possible. They ate in different rooms, they slept in different rooms, they did everything in different rooms. The Duke and Duchess Sinnet were simply people who shared a house. No marital bond apart from the official title existed between them. They had not consummated their marriage. Lyla was glad of that. She couldn’t take that, not after — but those thoughts were best left undisturbed.
“My lady,” His Grace said, and walked to the desk, looking down at her. “The hour grows late.”
“Does it?” Lyla said. “I hadn’t noticed. What is the time, Your Grace?”
“It is six o’clock.”
“Hmm.”
The silence hung in the air like an un-crossable breach. Lyla regarded the man who was her husband in name, and her husband regarded her. She tried not to think of his dead brother – the brother she had apparently murdered – but it was difficult. It was not that they looked alike. It was that she knew she was here because of that day. He found a chair, pulled it over to the desk, and sat.
“My lady,” he said, looking anywhere but into her eyes. “I believe we have existed apart for long enough. I do not know if I was mourning, if I was simply confused, but I realized today that I have made a mistake. I have not even asked for your side of the story. In truth, this whole ordeal has made me miserable. So, I am here to ask you to tell me, please, what happened that afternoon. Why did my brother die?”
Shutters closed in Lyla’s mind. Undisturbed memories formed membranes. Her mind crumpled in upon itself and blocked any of it from emerging. “I do not know,” she said stiffly.
“How can you not know?”
“I do not know!” she cried, rising. “Oh, Your Grace, I cannot speak of it! I do not know! I do not know!”
She walked to the other end of the room and pretended to look up and down a bookcase. His Grace watched her with steady eyes and then sighed. “Do you not think it would be better,” he said, “if you told me? I am the one who saved you from the gallows. Accidental, I said, both publically and privately. Accidental, but how can you explain the state of his dress—and yours? Was there anything—dishonorable happening? You will note I have not touched you.”
Lyla closed her eyes and thought of birds and clouds and grass and leaves and wind and anything that was not him. She thought of a rabbit bouncing across a forest, leaping over a felled tree, and tumbling down a hole. She thought of a moth in a lantern, flowing winged shadows against a stone wall. All of this: to stop the memories, the blasted memories, from surfacing. How could he ask this of her? She felt like she was at the trial all over again.
“It is not what you think,” was all she was able to say.
“I think?” His Grace said. He leaned his forearms upon the desk and sighed. “I do not know what to think. The whole country knows of this escapade. The Sinnets are shamed just as much as the Wemmicks by the whole thing. Do you know what they say? They say my brother and you were having an affair! An affair! I hear your mother can barely eat. And my sister has fled to Wales, where she shuts herself up and won’t talk to anybody. My lady, I implore you, all we ask for is the truth.”
What happens when the truth is worse than your fiction? What happens when the truth will destroy you instead of heal you? What happens if the truth you desperately want to hear is the last thing you should be hearing?
“Did you love your brother, Your Grace?” Lyla said.
His Grace paused, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. His voice was without inflection. “He was a rascal. We never got on as brothers are meant to do. I know that is a dreadful thing to say, but it is the truth. There, I have told you my truth. Now you can tell me yours.”
“I cannot,” Lyla countered. “I – I am a g
ood person, Your Grace.”
The declaration came as though from a great mist. She did not believe it; she did not believe that she was a good person. How could she be, after what had happened to her? Why would such a bad thing happen to a good person? And why would society shun a good person? No, the only way to explain this was that she was wicked, and so a wicked thing had happened to her. But for some reason she herself did not understand, she wanted His Grace to disagree with this opinion of her. She wanted him to think she was a good person. Perhaps then she could regain a piece of herself.
“Are you?” His Grace said. Again, his voice was without emotion. “How am I to know that, my lady, when you will not talk to me? How am I to know a single thing about you?”
It is too painful!
Lyla stayed silent.
How can I speak of demons which haunt me?
His Grace rose.
Just leave me to my fate!
He made for the door.
Yes, just let me suffer alone! Let me try to blot the memories which stab into me each night!
He was about to leave when he stopped and looked at her across the candlelight. “Join me for supper, on the morrow,” he said. “Perhaps it is time we spent a little time together. Perhaps then you will feel comfortable around me.”
I will never feel comfortable again.
*****
She donned a dinner dress and joined His Grace in the main dining hall for supper. It was the first time she had entered this room. Much of the castle was unknown to her. Her world had turned from one of wide open fields and infinite expectations to three or four rooms in a small piece of the castle. Her heart beat with anxiety as she followed Tammy through the hallways to the dining room. “Many thanks, Y’r Grace,” Tammy was saying, “for not objec’ing overly to the business with the supper last night. I am truly sorry,Y’r Grace, that something like that happened, and I promise it won’t be happenin’ again.”
“It is fine,” Lyla said. She was not really listening to the girl. She was young and fresh and full of life. Life poured from her eyes like streams, and her step was bouncy. She had brought Lyla’s supper ten minutes late. It was no disaster, and Lyla really wished the girl would be quiet. Thankfully, she said nothing more as she opened the dining room doors and stared at the ground. Lyla muttered a thank you and walked on unsteady feet toward the table.
His Grace was already seated at the far end. He did not stand when she entered. He simply gazed at her as one gazes at an exhibition with which one is unfamiliar. She was about to sit at the other end of the long table when the footman proffered her a seat beside His Grace. Clearly, His Grace had ordered that this be her seat. (The footman never would have acted alone.) Lyla walked to and collapsed into the seat. Cups of wine were poured, and in silence, they drank.
“I am glad you came,” His Grace said.
I did not have much of a choice.
Lyla inclined her head. Words seemed tiresome and exhausting things of late.
“I feared you would not come,” His Grace persisted.
Lyla inclined her head again.
“Is your throat sore? Are you ill?”
“Ill?” Lyla said.
A small smile touched His Grace’s lips. “I was jesting with you,” he said. “Ill, I said, because you were not ... Ah, perhaps I am not as funny as my ballroom compatriots would have me believe with their raucous laughter.”
“So many lies are told in ballrooms,” Lyla muttered. “I fear you may be correct.”
As soon as the words had escaped her lips, she knew they were a mistake. But His Grace did not behave in a shocked or aghast way. He merely tipped his head forward, as though to say: Well said. She nodded, a tiny fragment of forgotten confidence and self-assurance sparking briefly to life within her—before being extinguished by the weight of inescapable memories. They drank some more wine, and Lyla’s head began to feel fuzzy, as though the room were trifold before her. She set the cup down and continued on water instead.
Soon the food was served. It was a simple meal of goose and potato. They ate for what seemed like an awfully long time, and then His Grace withdrew a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. “Do you mind?” he said.
“Not terribly,” Lyla replied.
Everything was cold. Her words were cold, her gaze was cold, her skin was cold; coldness enveloped her. The memory of that warm June day was iced over. She felt her bones would crack with the coldness of what had happened. And this man was his brother … The thought trailed away into the recesses of a running mind.
His Grace blew puffs of smoke into the air, regarded her, looked away, and then regarded her again. Finally, he leaned forward slightly. “My lady,” he said. “I know you do not want to speak of what happened—”
“You are correct, Your Grace.”
“What I was going to say is that perhaps we could forget about that for a short time. I have a proposal. (Not that kind of proposal; that has been said and is solid and cannot be undone.) No, I have another proposal. Perhaps we should try and see more of one another. I know you have become quite used to your books. I studied much when I was younger. Perhaps I could join you in the library one day?”
“It is your library,” Lyla said.
“It is,” His Grace said. “But it is your sanctuary.”
“Why are you being kind to me, Your Grace? I am a killer, remember. I am a slattern, remember. I am a fallen one; I am the very antithesis of all that is proper and right. You should have distanced yourself from the Wemmicks; you should have burned us. Indeed, I do not know why you made this proposal. I would have been quite happy soaring away from a clifftop, toward rocks that would end it—”
“Enough!” His Grace roared, his voice obliterating her words. “That is quite enough!”
Lyla laughed. It was a reflexive response with absolutely no mirth behind it.
His Grace shook his head. “You must not fall into self-pity. Nothing was ever won or achieved that way. I am trying, here, my lady, to make some kind of relationship between us apart from cohabitants. I am trying to fix whatever this breach is that exists between us. My brother – he is the reason we are together. My lovely brother – he is the reason we are distant and do not talk. Well, blast it, I am saying that we should talk. If only for the sake of our sanity. It is not healthy, being married to a stranger. It can destroy a man and drive a woman to madness.”
He fell back into his chair and took a long suck on his pipe. Lyla closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them. Of late, when she closed her eyes, it appeared in her mind. It appeared stark and brutal, and the feelings came rushing into her chest like parasites. She felt used, even as it was happening, like a pair of socks: a dirty pair of socks which nobody cares a fig for. She was a devilish woman. If she weren’t, why did the Devil come for her? She was a bad woman. She was a dishonest woman. That had to be true, or the fabric of the world was bent out of shape, and there was something disastrously wrong with the way things trotted along. Yes, for things to be sane, she had to be insane; she had to be the wrong parted, not the wronged party.
“Let me tell you something, my lady,” His Grace said. “It is a story, but it is true. When we were young, Haywood and I would go into the woods and hunt rabbits. Oh, we thought we were quite the heroes. Only, Haywood was always jealous of me. It is quite uncomely to admit it, but it is the truth, and it is only the two of us here. Yes, he was quite jealous. You see, I was always quicker and steadier than him, and so I would always return first with my catch, to show Father.
“That was what it came to: showing Father. He was a distant man, but when he saw his boys with rabbits they had caught themselves, he would smile and rub us on the head. But only the first one, you understand. The first one to return with a rabbit got a smile and a rub on the head. The second—nothing. Father was no longer interested.”
His Grace chewed on his pipe and looked meditatively at his cup of wine.
“The first one,” he went on, betw
een puffs of smoke, “and not the second. I was quicker, steadier, and more effective. But Haywood was something else, something that eclipsed my qualities. He was morally oblique. There was a capacity in him to be brutal. One day, after I had slain my rabbit, he produced a rope – I do not know from where he acquired it – waited for me to approach the creature, and then lashed the rope around my body, pinning my arms. He quickly tied me to a nearby tree, and then whisked up the rabbit and sprinted home to show Father. My rabbit!”
His Grace shook his head.
“Why are you telling me this, Your Grace?” Lyla said. For some reason, her hands had started to shake.
“I wanted you to know,” His Grace said, “that I know who Haywood was. And when you are ready to talk about the day at the ball, I will listen. It will push aside doubts in my mind, and may confirm things I secretly think. That is why I have married you, my lady. I suspect that the blame does not lie upon you. But suspect is meaningless without confirmation.”
She knew this was her opportunity, but when she delved into her mind for those memories – for the harsh, stark words that would elucidate those memories – she crunched against an icy wall. Through this icy wall, his eyes gleamed, his tongue pressed against his teeth, his breath plumed. She shivered, though the dining room was warm.
“I cannot,” she stuttered. Her teeth were chattering. “I – cannot. Your Grace, may I be excused?”
“Of course,” His Grace said. “But on the morrow, I shall see you in the library. Do I have your permission?”
“Yes,” Lyla breathed. Suddenly the walls felt close, as though the castle was closing in around her. She needed the warped breathing space of her small bedroom, her dusty library. “Yes,” she repeated, and then stumbled out of the room, wine seeping and sweating out of her pores.
The Duke of Ice Page 11
