‘I cannot begin to be kind to her if I do not exercise my cruelty beforehand.’ Lydia paused. ‘Why on earth has she come to us? I understand her apology, but cannot see why such spectacular revelations were gifted to us and not others.’
‘She is Rebecca Westbrook. London’s most famous shrew.’ Catherine’s smile was sad. ‘I doubt her friends, if she has any, would listen to her without censure.’
‘Oh, no.’ Lydia folded her arms. ‘Now you have me feeling sorry for the poor creature.’
There was a short, thoughtful silence. Elsie, one hand under her chin as she mused, spoke quietly. ‘Peterson is a fine valet. A fine person, according to Marcus. He is a good marriage prospect for anyone. Surely, something can be done.’
‘Do you speak to your staff about such matters?’
‘No. I have already had the most dreadful problems with the maids, given their knowledge of my birth. They were determined not to take orders from someone of similar parentage to themselves. If anything, Peterson has been one of the kindest—but I hardly have enough rapport with him to ensure a happy ending to this particular story, and neither do either of you.’
‘And I imagine we’d all be seen as dreadfully nosy. Conniving, even.’ Catherine paused. ‘I certainly wouldn’t wish a dowager duchess to poke her nose into my affairs of the heart.’
‘We have all quite freely poked our noses into one another’s affairs of the heart.’
‘Yes, but we are friends.’ Elsie paused, a slightly anxious note entering her voice. ‘Aren’t we?’
Catherine and Lydia looked at her with expressions of identical shock. ‘Of course!’
‘Good.’ Elsie looked down at her teacup. ‘Sometimes it—it does well to check.’
‘Do you think us less friendly because of your background?’ Lydia’s eyes were wide. ‘Oh, Elsie, you cannot think such a thing!’
‘I don’t.’ Elsie paused. ‘Or rather, I don’t believe I do. But my doubts are not the focus of this conversation.’
‘Your doubts are sillier than jesters, and deserve even less attention.’
‘Marcus was ever-so surprised, this morning. Peterson asked for leave—the first time that he’s ever asked, instead of simply taking whatever leave was offered. He is going to Truro, to visit family.’ Elsie looked at Catherine and Lydia with wide eyes. ‘Marcus gave it to him, of course—but do you think it is for this reason? A broken heart?’
‘I highly doubt it is for anything else.’ Catherine rolled her eyes. ‘They appear to have each made a most devastating impression upon the other.’
‘I suppose it’s rather romantic. Each one mourning the other.’ Lydia sighed, more softly this time. ‘It would be a pity if we did nothing.’
‘Then we shall do something small. Perhaps one or two small things.’ Catherine rose, smoothing down her skirts. ‘Beginning with going and eating seed-cake in the company of Miss Westbrook, and trying to catch more glimpses of the rather pleasant girl hidden beneath the stridency and moral condemnation. Then, perhaps, we may be able to convince her to go to Truro.’
Eslie nodded. ‘To find Peterson?’
‘Yes.’ Catherine paused. ‘We can but hope.’
Truro was exactly as splendid as Peterson remembered. He walked solemnly along the sea-scented streets, wishing he had the heart to enjoy the more rustic pleasures of the town. Whenever he came here he was always melancholy—visiting Helen, bringing Helen back to the hospital, begging Helen not to leave again…
… this particular time felt worse than all of the others. Not because Helen was worse; the nurses had been happy to allow him a visit. But this time, he was the weaker part instead of the strong, steadfast brother.
Helen had people around her. Friends—people who had suffered like her, who could help her through her darker moments. Peterson, despite the large list of men he frequently laughed and joked with, couldn’t imagine telling any of them about Rebecca.
Rebecca. Even thinking the name hurt. As he rounded the corner of the street that led to the Temperance Hospital, small pink flowers waving gently in the salt-laden breeze, Peterson wondered if he would ever be able to view Rebecca Westbrook with indifference.
At least the hospital looked untouched by time and trouble. The nurses kept the place in perfect order—an order that Peterson knew his sister had to hunger for, even if she wouldn’t admit it. A neatness, a predictability, that could curb her need for chaos.
People sat taking tea on the lawns in front of the hospital’s rose-covered facade. Peterson looked at each group, some couples, some families with children, his heart briefly full of gratitude for those who sought to keep links with people who, for reason of illness, injury or unsound mind, chose the peace of staying at the Temperance.
‘Mr. Peterson.’ An elderly nurse, her deeply-lined face full of cheerful symmetry, hailed Peterson with a waving hand. ‘How lovely to see you.’
Peterson approached, taking off his hat and bowing. ‘I know I haven’t been here often enough.’
‘It is not my place to say.’ The nurse’s smile was gentle enough to obscure any hint of rebuke. ‘And you sister is very well indeed. All the better for the lovely young visitor you sent.’
Peterson’s smile faded. ‘I—I sent no… ’
‘I’m sorry?’ The nurse tilted her head, confused. ‘I don’t believe I—’
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
‘I’m sorry.’ Peterson held up a hand, thinking rapidly. ‘I misspoke. Miss… Miss Westbrook.’
‘Yes. Exactly.’ The nurse smiled, evidently pleased that there had been no misunderstanding. ‘Come through. They’re taking tea in the walled garden.’
He wasn’t ready. How could he ever be ready for such an unexpected clash of circumstances? Peterson forced himself to breathe calmly, following the nurse instead of running ahead, as they made their way through the low, crooked door.
Sudden shadows, mustiness—then light again. A soft, golden light that streamed into the inner garden, a small patch of daisy-dotted green, where two women sat in smiling conversation.
Peterson blinked. The scene in front of him was almost unimaginable. Helen, smiling as she sipped her tea, listened to Rebecca as she laughingly explained something, gloved hands making patterns in the air.
They could be any two women making the acquaintance of one another. Forming a tentative friendship, smiling as they sat amidst the sun-dappled greenery.
‘Do you wish to join them, Mr. Peterson?’ The nurse smiled expectantly.
‘No.’ Peterson couldn’t imagine trespassing upon the fragile peace she saw. ‘But—but I wish to speak to Miss Westbrook for a moment.’
‘It is almost time to listen to Mr. Holden play the violin. Shall I take Helen to the morning room, and you shall follow after with Miss Westbrook?’
‘Yes.’ Peterson made sure he was standing in shadow, half-hidden by the garden wall. ‘Do not tell Helen I am here yet.’
Ignoring the nurse’s slightly confused look, he watched her walk over to the table. Helen smiled, nodding gently as she took the nurse’s arm. Rebecca rose, evidently intending to accompany them, but sat down with a furrowed brow as the nurse murmured a near-inaudible explanation.
Peterson counted to twenty as his sister walked away, leaning on the nurse’s arm. Only when he deemed it safe did he step out from behind the wall, the wam green light of the garden filling him.
The colour drained from Rebecca’s face. She rose, her teacup falling to the table with a clatter.
‘You probably consider this a great overstepping of my bounds. I can do nothing but apologise.’ A high blush had rushed to her cheeks, making her look like a wilting flower as she stood before him. ‘But… but you seemed so worried about her. In your speech, and—and when we spoke to one another at your house.’ A long, painful pause. ‘I simply wished to assure you that she was well, and happy, and aware of how far she had come, how much she had worked—I was going to write you a letter
, a very long letter indeed, pretending to be one of the nurses.’
He couldn’t bear it anymore. Peterson crossed the garden with a harsh, low sigh, gathering Rebecca into her arms as she gasped. Holding her hard enough to hurt, burying his face in her hair, he breathed in the scent of her as she spoke to him.
‘I don’t know what it is about you, Mr. Peterson. You make me do things that I would never normally do.’
‘I’m a terrible influence on moral women. I make them do terrible things.’
‘I cannot, under any circumstances, call myself moral.’
‘Call yourself mine.’
‘I already do.’ Rebecca’s whisper filled his heart. ‘Is that wrong?’
‘Probably.’ Peterson smiled, stroking his thumb along her jawline. ‘But it hasn’t stopped you before.’
‘I… I do know know the names of your parents. I do not know your favourite colour, or—or drink, or place to walk on Sunday afternoons.’ Rebecca looked up at him, wide-eyed, expectant. ‘But I would like to learn all of those things. Learn them, and—and learn them in public. With you.’
‘That would mean—’
‘I know.’ Rebecca’s voice quivered. ‘Would you like to?’
‘Does doing it make us both mad?’
‘Yes. I believe so.’ Rebecca laughed. ‘But I have tried very hard to be sane all my life—and I’ve never had so much fun as I have being mad.’
Peterson held her tighter still. ‘Then marry me. Be mad with me. We shall help as many as we can.’
‘Yes. We shall.’ Rebecca’s rapt sigh tickled his ear. ‘When we are not too busy with one another.’
‘Yes.’ Peterson smiled, the moment filling him with light. ‘Correct, as usual.’
‘I love you.’
‘And I love you.’
The rest was silence, and sunlight.
THE END
A Priest’s Perdition
The bride’s dress was exquisite. A dove-grey gown with a white scalloped hem, its puffed sleeves and high waist managing to toe the line between modernity and modesty, it was met with sighing approval by every woman in the church. Even Mary Atterson, who disapproved of wedding gowns as a general rule, couldn’t help but be charmed by her friend Rebecca Westbrook’s display of beauty.
If brides were going to go to the trouble of having a separate gown made for a single day—although it really was the most tremendous extravagance—one like this was perfect for the solemnity of the moment. Rebecca, a practical sort, would no doubt use the dress afterwards for any number of gatherings. Mary smiled at her friend, watching her walk down the aisle, the smell of crushed rose-petals and orange-blossom hanging in the air. A lovely church as well, St. Stephen’s—not her usual church, placed as it was on the outskirts of London near to the couple’s new cottage, but more than worthy of this wedding.
How long will it be before you look at him? The voice in her head wasn’t necessarily malicious, but it certainly cut through any distracted observations of gown hems and flower petals. You will have to look at him at some point.
No, she did not. After perusing the bonnet of each female guest sat in front of her in the pews, Mary turned her attention to the coats and cravats of the men. The groom, John Peterson, had always seemed a rather glowering sort—but faced the vision of Rebecca in grey, even he was smiling as only a happy man could.
Go on. A little to the left. He’s occupied at present—he won’t even see you looking.
Mary repressed a sigh. He always managed to catch her looking at him, however infrequently they met. Even if it was an accidental glance—if such a thing was possible, when it came to him—he always managed to see it.
She could pretend she was looking at the bride. Weddings always made her feel like this, expectant, anxious. Capable of rebelling in ways that she never could in the respectable confines of her daily spinsterhood. If she moved her gaze from John Peterson to Rebecca Westbrook… well, she would have to look for a moment at the man standing between them.
The man in black, the Book of Common Prayer in hand, his white collar visible to all and sundry. Reverend Calcourt. Calcourt, to his friends.
James.
His eyes met hers for a brief, white-hot instant. Biting her lip, her face pale, Mary looked down as quickly as she could.
As always, then. Looks traded in public, however much she tried to avoid looking. Thoughts, memories, that came irresistably to mind however much she prayed for self-control. A past that she had tried to forget, tossing and turning in her plain, uncomfortable bed, whenever her spirits were low and the moon was high.
He hadn’t always been a vicar. He had been another man entirely—a wicked, dangerously enticing rake. And Mary, young and stupid, had fallen into his arms without a thought of what would come.
Betrayal. That was what had come. Licking her wounds, thanking God that her sins hadn’t resulted in permanent consequences, Mary had left him to his new swain without a backward glance.
How long now? Twenty years? Twenty years to forget twice over, to pretend that it had never happened. She had built a staid, moral life—a useful life, if not a glamorous one. She was of great help to the city, much loved by the widows and orphans of her neighbourhood, and the kindest aunt that anyone could wish for.
She wasn’t lonely. She had many friends, and many causes. So why, when she saw James Calcourt in his vicar’s garb, did she feel as if she were splitting at the seams?
It wasn’t anger at his chosen vocation. Any man was allowed to remake himself, just as she had remade herself. It wasn’t disgust, it wasn’t revulsion, it wasn’t hatred. It was… oh, it was…
… it was something that couldn’t be thought through, not properly, sitting in a church. Especially when said thought came accompanied by other thoughts, all of them treacherous.
His hair is blonder now. His eyes are darker. There are wrinkles at the corners of them; lines of thought. Of reflection.
Did he think of her? Did he reflect?
Did he remember?
Now was not the time to think of James Calcourt. Now was the time to concentrate on Rebecca Westbrook, soon to become Rebecca Peterson, and the happiness that surely awaited her.
Calcourt’s eyes met hers again. It was as if he had sought her gaze this time; a potent, endless stare. A look that seemed to promise something—something Mary knew she shouldn’t want, but did.
Enough. She looked away, breaking what flickered between them. She thought she heard a break in Calcourt’s voice as he picked up the book, beginning to read the sacred words.
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…’
The ceremony passed in the blink of an eye. Mary had nothing and no-one to blame but her own turbulent soul for her lack of true presence at the proceedings. She had smiled when she was supposed to smile, clasped Rebecca’s hands with real happiness for the life that awaited her, and blinked as the rice and rose petals were thrown on the happy bride and groom as they exited the church. Now, in the capacious morning room of Lady Isabel Farrow—a useful friend for Rebecca to have, especially when it came to wedding festivities—she watched the assembled guests laugh and dance with the weary air of an outcast.
She had never been entirely comfortable with grand spaces, preferring the objects and furnishings she kept around her in her home. Modest, but charming—not designed to impress a sense of power upon unsuspecting guests. But Rebecca seemed happy beyond measure at the surroundings, whirling and laughing with her new husband as the lively violins played, and Mary couldn’t help but smile as she watched her.
‘My dear Miss Atterson, I can’t believe you are drinking elderflower cordial while everyone else has champagne.’ Mr. Tager, a man who Mary had always considered a most ingratiating specimen, raised an eyebrow in an unpleasantly forward manner. ‘Allow me to find you something more convivial to drink.’
‘I am more than comfortable with my cordial, sir, but I thank you.’
‘Nonsense!’ For a ma
n who had only ever spoken to her at gatherings such as this, his familiarity was irritating in the extreme. ‘I shall find you a glass of champagne before this dance is out.’
Had she done something to invite such unwanted attention? Mary fixed the gentleman with her coldest stare, wondering what on earth had given him the impression that she wished to be spoken to in such a manner. Perhaps she looked more vulnerable than usual, given the circumstances—how loathsome Mr. Tager was, deciding weakness was a good opportunity to press his intentions. ‘I would sincerely prefer that you did not.’
‘Oh, Miss Atterson!’ Mr. Tager laughed as if they were sharing a joke; Mary stiffened, attempting to step away from him whilst maintaining her polite facade. ‘After all our years of meeting in such joyous circumstances, I feel I have something of a right to encourage your… encourage your…’
His voice faded. Mary half-turned, curious to see what had stopped the man’s tongue.
‘Mr. Tager.’ Calcourt’s voice cut through the tension, the most welcome of knives. ‘I believe Mrs. Tager is searching for you. Little Felicity has stolen away with a jar of jam, and it has finished all over her dress.’
‘Well, I—oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Mr. Tager struggled to conceal his annoyance in front of the tall, black-clad figure of the priest. Calcourt had never managed to shrink down into the posture and plainness required for men of the cloth—at least, not in Mary’s opinion. He still towered over almost everyone he spoke to, as if he were made on a larger scale to other mortals. ‘That child is quite the most irritating creature to ever have lived.’
Casting a baleful glance at Calcourt, for all the world as if the vicar had thrown jam over the child himself, Mr. Tager moved away. Mary took a determined sip of her cordial, determined not to turn around.
She couldn’t look at him. It was the first time he had approached her like this, so boldly, in all the years that they had known one another as adults. If she gripped her glass like a vice, counting the couples as they moved and smiled through the steps of the boisterous dance, she would manage to remember who she was.
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 28
