The silence that followed was slightly mutinous, and the conversation that eventually began seemed a little cloudier than before. Brenda attempted to feign interest in the matters that were being discussed, half-sure that the others were simply pretending too, before deciding with a short sigh that she was no longer being a good friend.
‘I shall take my leave, dears. I am being complicated, and complicated people cannot drink tea and be cheerful for any length of time.’ She looked apologetically at Matilda, who smiled softly. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Not at all.’ Ellen’s tone was equal parts knowing and sympathetic. ‘Take a turn on the lawn. Read something delicious. Distract yourself.’
Brenda nodded gratefully, silently thanking the Lord that she had decided female friends were worth the trouble. ‘Thank you. I shall.’
As Brenda left the room, the door shutting, the group of women leaned towards one another. Exclamations tripped over a number of tongues, giving the rather grand room something of a festive air.
‘Destiny! How perfectly marvellous.’ Poppy sighed again, the sound thick with longing. ‘It was destiny that drew Henry and I together.’
‘It was most certainly not.’ Matilda laughed. ‘It was my incredible talent for feigning a broken ankle, and you know it.’
‘You may have greased the wheels of destiny, yes, but how could you have disorganised the inn so perfectly? How could you have forced the coach driver to abandon us?’ Poppy’s satisfied smile could have melted butter. ‘Destiny, my dear. Destiny.’
‘I rather believe it was destiny that led me to Victor.’ Isabella smiled, her eyes full of a memory that other women could not see, but could not fail to appreciate. ‘I must have known from the first.’
‘I consider my union with my husband utterly free of destiny.’ Ellen nodded. ‘And I consider all of you as foolish as geese.’
‘Nonsense. Your former mistress could have gone to the pleasure-house on any other day, at any other time—but she went that day, and that time, when my brother was unexpectedly present.’ Poppy nodded. ‘That, Ellen, is pure and unadulterated destiny.’
‘I see I am to be given no quarter.’ Ellen’s sly smile suggested she was nowhere near as put out as her words suggested. ‘Well then, Matilda? Are you to play the part of destiny where our newest friend is concerned?’
‘Of course I am going to plan something. I am going to plan any number of things, and deploy them as and when I deem it necessarily.’ Matilda rested one hand on her chin, looking at Ellen, Poppy and Isabella with a touch of melancholy. ‘I am only saddened by the fact that I can discuss none of my plans with Selby. He is normally the fellow architect in my schemes.’
‘I do not see why he cannot be consulted.’ Isabella looked quizzical. ‘If anything, it would give any plan even more chance of success.’
‘Very likely.’ Matilda’s slow smile was very feline indeed. ‘But Selby is such a dreadful know-it-all in every other situation. I am determined, absolutely determined, to keep him in the dark.’
As the next morning dawned, the sun bright and insolently cheerful as it shone on the stones of Harding’s estate, Brenda felt even more turbulent than she had the previous day. Now that she had revealed secrets, given up a piece of her heart for close inspection, she could not help but feel that something larger and more complex had been put into motion.
Matilda, of course, had to be suspected immediately. Brenda watched her friend like a hawk as they sipped morning coffee, then ate their rolls, then began to speak of how the day would unfold. She felt sure that something would happen at breakfast, then sure that something would happen while answering letters, then sure that something would happen during the morning walk of the grounds… but as luncheon approached, with no plot uncovered or scheme foiled, Brenda began to wonder if she had simply imagined the pertinent interest of her closest friends.
Selby, to her trembling surprise, had been present for every one of the morning’s activities. In a large, chattering group of friends it had been easy to avoid him; Brenda had certainly done so, feeling a pleasant amount of moral superiority throughout. Unfortunately, even if superiority had been enough to sustain her in her younger years, it now felt very thin against the profound, bone-deep awareness of James Selby that fluttered in Brenda’s chest like a trapped bird.
How had she never noticed the man with such intensity before? How did no-one openly stare at him, the way he walked, the way he managed to be the centre of attention and utterly overlooked at the same time? His very presence was confounding, ferocious, almost violent… and, Brenda had to admit, pleasant. Horribly, horribly pleasant.
She wondered if he would find her alone. She wondered if he would write her a letter, imploring her to come to him. A thousand possibilities rose and fell in her mind as the day wore on, dulling her awareness, distracting her terribly—which meant, as Brenda climbed into the attic, she had no sense of a trap being sprung.
Matilda had laughingly suggested a tour of the attic over breakfast; the idea had been seized upon by all, the space entered as a united group by means of a rickety ladder, and much sneezing. Isabella, Ellen, Poppy and Brenda held parasols over their heads to prevent dust falling onto their clothes, exclaiming at spider webs and marvelling at the sheer size of the room, while the gentlemen listened to Harding give a potted history of the house.
‘I wish I could tell you more. I really do.’ Harding’s self-effacing smile seemed to light the gloom. ‘But my wife is the true historian.’
‘I have developed a love for nosing through the library of this venerable place.’ Matilda smiled dreamily as she looked at her husband, who looked at her with such gentleness that Brenda wanted to kick something. ‘My dear husband’s great-grandfather was something of an engineer. He delighted in building corridors that led to nowhere, hidden passages—the strangest kinds of optical tricks. But this attic is said to be the crown jewel of his artistry.’
‘Really?’ Brenda looked around the vast space, unable to conceal a note of doubt in her voice. ‘Forgive me, Matilda, but it looks quite simple in terms of its construction.’
‘You are right. It does.’ This time it was Harding who had spoken, his usual cautious tone hiding a note of unexpected humour. ‘But somewhere in this room—a fact which truly delights my wife—there is some mechanism, some trick, which takes one from the attic to the second bedroom. I have examined the room several times, and have failed to see how it is done. As for why—’
‘My dear.’ Matilda’s smile was not that of a duchess. ‘I believe we can all guess at why such a mechanism exists. Your great-grandfather had a housekeeper he was very fond of, no? Who among us does not enjoy the thrill of the chase?’
The ladies, Brenda among them, could not resist slightly embarrassed giggles. The gentlemen, to a man, briefly pretended that they were somewhere else entirely.
‘And now, dear friends, you have seen every inch of this glorious house.’ Matilda beamed. ‘Now before we all succumb to whatever historical vapours are clinging to the centuries of objects here, we shall make our way to the gardens for a cold but refreshing walk.’
‘A capital idea.’ Poppy moved happily to the ladder, assisted by Grancourt and followed by Isabella and Ellen. ‘Shall we look a the second flush in the rose garden?’
‘Of course!’ Matilda happily began ushering her guests down the ladder. ‘But I believe I have dropped my handkerchief—could someone retrieve it?’ She pointed to the offending handkerchief, lying oddly far from the group. ‘Please?’
‘Of course. I am closest.’ Brenda shivered at the low purr of Selby’s voice; how had she never realised how commanding the man could sound? ‘I shall retrieve it.’
‘Thank you.’ Now Matilda herself was half-way down the ladder; had the rest of the guests really already descended? Brenda, a sudden suspicion flowering in her breast, moved over to the ladder as Selby went to retrieve the handkerchief.
‘You…’ She looked at her friend, keeping
her voice low. ‘You are not going to do what I think you are going to do, are you?’
‘I cannot imagine what you mean.’ Matilda’s smile was far too innocent.
‘Then let me down.’ Brenda didn’t know whether to step on the ladder or not; it had seemed unbearably rickety as they had entered. ‘Let me down now.’
‘I shall return in half an hour.’ Matilda’s smile grew wider. ‘Thank me later, dear.’
‘I shall not thank you! I shall do anything but!’ Brenda’s voice rose to a shocked whisper. ‘I tell you, Matilda, if you… if you…’
‘Miss Hartwell?’ Selby’s voice came from the heart of the attic. ‘What has happened?’
‘I…’ Brenda turned, unable to form even the simplest words. In the same moment, the entrance to the attic was firmly, decisively shut.
This was intolerable.
Brenda turned to determinedly face the corner. Matilda’s knowing voice, not to mention her expressive eyes, had turned what had already been an embarrassing discovery into something that made her want to dissolve into ashes and dust.
She could feel Selby’s eyes on her. Taking a deep breath, folding her arms, Brenda spoke as quietly and seriously as possible.
‘You needn’t look at me like that.’
‘I am not looking at you.’
‘Do not lie to me.’ Brenda shook her head, a hysterical bubble of laughter in her throat. ‘I know you are looking at me. You are looking, and smiling, and choosing something from your basket of atrocious things to say.’
‘With perception like that, you should have been working for the Crown alongside me.’
‘Quite a compliment.’ A very nice compliment, if Brenda were honest with herself—not to mention sincere. She deliberately avoided looking at Selby, his figure resting on the edge of her vision. ‘Nevertheless, my perception informs me that you are about to be insufferable.’
‘Not at all.’ There was a small, meaningful pause. ‘Of course, you must allow me to point out that once again, through no fault of our own, destiny has—’
‘This is not destiny. This is Matilda.’ Brenda turned, unable to keep her back to Selby. The seriousness in his face, the unguarded expression in his eyes, all combined to make an uncomfortably powerful impression. ‘I was foolish enough to speak to her the other day, and now she has concocted some sort of scheme.’
‘Yes.’ Selby smiled. ‘That is exactly like Matilda.’
‘It is.’ Brenda looked carefully at him, suddenly struck by a new and terrifying stab of what she realised was jealousy.
How could she be jealous? She had wasted so many of her tender years on petty jealousies. Clearing her throat, alert to the sudden awareness on Selby’s face, she struck a deliberately casual tone.
‘She is a particular friend to you, of course. Matilda. You have a sort of—understanding.’
‘A brotherhood.’ The change in Selby’s voice, an edge of what Brenda realised was surprise, only increased the tumult in her breast. ‘That is what she calls it. And she is like a brother to me.’
The Brenda of previous years would have considered such a defence heartily ridiculous. The Brenda standing in the attic was wiser, yes, but when something so outlandish was said…
‘Like a brother to you.’ She paused, not daring to look directly into Selby’s eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ Selby’s tone was emphatic; there was a rawness there, a depth that answered a question Brenda didn’t know she had been asking. ‘A brother, and a brother only.’
The attic was suddenly too small, despite the space that surrounded them. Brenda breathed in the silent, dusty air, the sense of something unstoppable reaching to bind her, pin her to the moment, as Selby stepped forward.
‘Miss Hartwell.’ All traces of humour had vanished from his voice. ‘We are alone, unobserved, in a place that is by all accounts infamous for its romantic associations. It appears that destiny is calling to us.’ His eyes burned. ‘You said last night that destiny could be surrendered to, for a little while…’
‘The circumstances are not exact.’ Brenda’s voice shook. ‘Matilda spoke of a chase. I am certainly not going to be chased, and neither are you, so we must forget any ideas we have of surrender—’
The attic entrance jerked upward once, then twice, as if something small but powerful was throwing itself against it. As Brenda and Selby quickly stepped away from one another, the air filled with the sound of excited barking.
‘Winston?’ Brenda looked quizzically at the puppy as it scrabbled up the ladder and into the attic, bouncing against an ancient ottoman as it yapped with joy. ‘I thought he was sleeping in the morning room!’
‘I thought he was terrorising my valet.’ Selby reached down to stroke Winston as the puppy began jumping at his breeches. ‘Apparently he is a very productive animal.’
‘An animal who should not, under any circumstances, be up here in the attic.’ Brenda reached down to seize Winston, who nimbly jumped away with a short bark. ‘Oh, Lord, Winston, am I going to have to… to chase you…’
She looked at Selby. Selby’s expression, complete with raised eyebrow, seemed to confirm the import of what she had just said.
‘A chase, Miss Hartwell?’ Selby looked down at Winston, who barked again, before looking at Brenda with an utterly unrepentant smile. ‘How unusual. How coincidental. How very like—’
‘Destiny.’ Brenda reached out desperately to Winston, watching helplessly as the puppy sprang away. ‘I… oh, Lord—’
With another yap from Winston, the chase was firmly in progress. For a puppy that had seemed so very impulsive and stupid when wiggling in Selby’s fist, Winston was very decisive when running away; he bounded around boxes and leapt over furniture, yapping in delight as Brenda began to follow him. After a few panicked moments of attempting to catch the creature, it became clear that she was the only one attempting such a rescue—Selby was hanging back, watching, with what looked like a smile on his face.
‘Well?’ Brenda finally turned, staring at him with an exasperated wave of her hands. ‘Are you going to try and chase this foolish creature?’
‘Oh, I am going to chase something.’ Selby bit his lip, looking at her with a gaze that Brenda couldn’t categorise. ‘You, or the dog. I am deciding which.’
‘You… you would not dare.’ Brenda blinked, wondering whether the thrill that rippled through her came from fear or something else. Something deeper. ‘You cannot possibly be thinking of chasing me.’
‘Miss Hartwell.’ Oh, why did the man have to stare so? As if he could read the secrets of her heart, her soul, the basest parts of her? ‘You cannot possibly think that I will not.’
Winston had vanished behind a box. Brenda knew that now was the time to break the odd spell that hung over the attic; time to throw her hands up and walk away.
She also knew, with a stubbornness that shocked her, that she wasn’t going to do anything of the sort.
‘Well, Miss Hartwell?’ Selby’s stance had changed; he was tenser, watchful. As if assessing all the different escape routes that she could take. ‘What do you say?’
‘I say…’ Brenda’s throat was dry; her hands were trembling suddenly as she hid them in her skirts. Forbidden parts of her were quivering, melting. ‘I—I say, Your Grace, that you must catch me before you say anything else.’
Had she actually said that? Had those words passed her lips? Even Selby looked shocked; for a split-second, Brenda wondered if one could simply die of shame. But the feeling tightening her chest wasn’t shame, not at all; it was excitement, pure excitement, sending sweet fire through every one of her extremities.
‘Be careful, Miss Hartwell.’ Selby’s smile was that of a wild creature. ‘I shall take you at your word.’
‘Fine.’ Brenda opened her mouth, as if to say something else—and then, joy bubbling up in her like a spring, she fled.
She had loved running as a child. It had given her such a glorious feeling of freedom; a freedom th
at had been curtailed by restrictive dresses and rest cures and constant objections on the part of her mother, who feared that young Brenda would beat the boys instead of letting them win as polite ladies should. Now, as an adult woman, the feeling was back—the freshness of it, the lightness, tempered with a new, rich emotion that made her stumble slightly in her swiftness.
Laughing, jumping over innumerable boxes and bags and rolls of fabric with a decidedly unladylike athleticism, Brenda let the attic become an obstacle course. An obstacle course that became more exciting, more tinged with the thrilling feeling of danger, as she saw Selby leap into hot pursuit.
‘You shall not catch me, Your Grace!’ She knocked over a large bolt of silk, gasping as it thumped to the floor behind her. ‘I am more agile than you think!’
‘I have spent inordinate amounts of time thinking of your agility, Miss Hartwell.’ Selby barely sounded as if he were out of breath, despite being just behind her. Brenda, beginning to pant, wondered exactly how Selby’s spying career had benefited his physical strength. ‘I have made certain assumptions.’
‘You should avoid assumptions when you consider Miss Brenda Hartwell, Your Grace.’ Brenda made a daring leap over a towering pile of yellowed papers, and cried out with delight as she managed it. ‘She shall surprise you!’
It was glorious to run. It was also, she had to admit, glorious to be chased. Especially being chased by James Selby, forbidden as it was… oh, what would he do if he caught her…
What would she let him do, if he caught her?
What would she beg for him to do?
‘Be careful, Miss Hartwell.’ Selby’s voice was suddenly very close indeed. ‘I bring surprises of my own.’
Brenda cried out again as his hand caught hers.
How had he moved so fast? How had he cleared all of the obstacles she had thrown into his path? Why is was almost… well. Like destiny.
‘You have caught me.’ Brenda stared at Selby, her palm warmly enclosed in his. ‘You have won.’
Private Passions Page 112
