by L G Rollins
He reached for a bit of toast and added it to the plate. There were ever so many ways a man could err. He added a bit of jam to the toast. Suppose he used too heavy a hand and drove either Christina or Eleanor to do something rash? Father’s friend had done that, and it very nearly ruined his family. He plopped a scoop of fruit beside the toast. Mother had confided in him that her room was too drafty, but suppose she someday decided to stop confiding in him? What would he do then? Would he even know before things grew dire? Would he know what to do if his tenants all decided to leave? If the crops all spoiled? Would he know how to care for everyone? He’d long since lost count of all the ways he could ruin his family in under six months.
He glanced down at the plate.
Gads, he’d filled it to overflowing. He couldn’t serve his mother this; the rest of the guests would think she ate like a hog. Fredrick pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. It was barely halfway through the morning and he was already blundering.
Blessedly, no one else stood beside the sideboard. Fredrick grabbed a second plate and placed a few of Mother’s favorite items on it off the overflowing plate. Let all the guests think he was a hog, but not his mother. Of course, he would probably be leaving himself open to ridicule when he took so much food and then hardly touched any of it. He’d never been much of a breakfast person.
With a plate in either hand, Fredrick turned around.
Unbidden, his gaze landed on Miss Spencer once more. He did feel sorely guilty over his dealings with her. He searched the table for Mother. Hang it all, she was sitting one chair away from Miss Spencer. The chair on her other side was filled by Lady Andrews.
Fredrick walked over to her and placed the plate with a dainty portion of food in front of Mother. But then he hesitated. If he sat, the only place left for him was between her and Miss Spencer, the latter of whom had not turned around once nor looked at him even fleetingly since he’d walked in. Not that he blamed her. It seemed they’d both come to the same conclusion: all would be best if they avoided and ignored the other.
But Fredrick couldn’t remain standing. He had his own plate of food in his hand, for all to see. It’s not as though he could claim disinterest in eating now. Squaring his jaw, Fredrick sat.
He could have been wrong—he didn’t know Miss Spencer in the least—but he could have sworn he felt waves of resentment rolling off her. Well, he couldn’t blame her for that, either.
Still, he couldn’t say as much during breakfast with the whole household watching. He picked up his fork and scooped up a bit of egg. Mother spoke on about the many gifts Fredrick’s father had given her during Christmas over the years. Across the table, Topper and Lord Forbes spoke in tones too soft for Fredrick to overhear, but he didn’t miss that they frequently glanced his way. His and Miss Spencer’s way, more specifically. A manservant moved up behind Fredrick and held out a cup of ale.
“Coffee, if you please,” he replied, and the manservant moved off. Fredrick had much to see to today with an upset mother and two trouble-causing sisters; he wished to keep his wits about him.
Past Miss Spencer, Lady Emma and her parents laughed at something Christina had said. It seemed everyone at the table was joyfully engaged in conversation. That is, everyone except himself and Miss Spencer. They, alone, were silent.
It was a strange sort of connection; it was as though there was a tentative link between them, their own displeasure at being together somehow uniting them.
The manservant returned with a mug of coffee and placed it on the table. Fredrick thanked the man but couldn’t focus on anything but the beautiful, wary woman at his side. Unity in mutual aversion? What rot. The trip here must have worn him out more than he had originally thought. He leaned over to his left, angling toward Mother and decidedly away from Miss Spencer. They may have to reside in the same house for the next several weeks, but he’d be hanged if that meant he had to talk to her.
After a few minutes of nodding and smiling, however, Fredrick realized he was far too distracted to follow whatever conversation his mother and Lady Andrews were having. It didn’t matter, either way. He was only here until he’d faked enough interested in breakfast to excuse himself and go find Lord Andrews.
Reaching for his coffee, Fredrick continued to feign interest in what his hostess was saying. He gave the cup a slow stir and lifted it to his lips.
The liquid was hot, and . . . Lud!
Fredrick choked on the drink and more than a little trailed down his jacket as he sat up with a jolt.
What in the blazes?
All the table was watching him. He shook his hand and felt droplets of coffee spray his cheek. Pulling out his handkerchief he pressed it to his mouth even as he glared at his coffee mug. What was in there? Coffee, yes, but something else, to be sure. The flavor was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He set the mug down and stood. The room was silent.
Pepper. That’s what it was. A huge amount of pepper had been added to his coffee. Fredrick glanced about, his gaze, as it had many times already that morning, landing on Miss Spencer. She still was not looking at him. Nonetheless, he detected a nearly hidden, smug smile pulling at the corner of her lips.
What a troublesome woman. Fredrick drew himself up and addressed the room at large. “How clumsy of me.” He bowed shallowly, trying to calm the tightness of his throat and a loud cough. “Please excuse me.” At least now he had a perfectly sound reason to leave the breakfast room.
He rounded the table and reached the door in only a few long strides. He couldn’t help but glance back though, just before passing through.
Miss Spencer was finally looking at him. And yes, that was most certainly a smile across her face. It would seem that his refusal to Baker’s plan had been quite the blessing.
He may not know her well, but he now knew Miss Spencer to be a very vexing woman, indeed.
Chapter Five
Helena slowly sat atop the wide and luxurious bed. The room about her was dark, with only a bit of space around the fireplace and a much smaller pool about the candle in her hand lit by a soft fire’s glow. Holding the cream-colored candle in both her hands, Helena focused on the cold floor beneath her feet and the comforting softness on which she sat.
Nighttime was always the hardest.
During the day, she could smile joyfully, she could laugh, she could even think up a bit of wit now and then. She could go so far as to even convince herself that all was well.
But, inevitably night fell. The sun disappeared and heavy darkness encompassed even the best lit parlors and card tables. Eventually, she always had to retire to her bedchamber, where she was alone. Dreadfully alone.
In the silence and the blackness, there were no distractions, no company to draw her attention, nothing to hide behind.
There was only the truth.
And the truth was, Helena was horribly afraid.
She’d always struggled to fall asleep, even as a young girl. Of course, then it was far more simple worries that kept her up: would her head cold clear in time to go ice skating on Christmas day? Would her father return from his most recent trip whole and healthy? Would Emma find the courage to perform at the next musicale?
Now, however, the worries had deepened, intensifying into near panic. Suppose she was unable to attain an offer of marriage? Suppose the scandal of earlier that year followed her the rest of her life? Suppose she was destined to always fall asleep alone?
Helena shook her head. She firmly believed that fretting over an issue never did anyone any good. Still, that didn’t entail it was easy to brush off her concerns come night.
Her day had proven particularly trying, which didn’t help matters. Though most of the guests were polite when she was present, she’d noticed more than one conversation end abruptly when she entered a room. Several of the ladies sat down to cards that afternoon, only to feign fatigue once she showed interest in joining. Topper had been attentive and kind, but all other gentlemen had seemed less
than eager to be seen beside her when everyone had dressed warmly for a quick turn about the snow-covered gardens.
Slowly, Helena sat the candle down on the table beside her bed and slipped between the bedclothes. Emma had insisted she had a plan which would make everything right. The idea both comforted and alarmed Helena; it was sweet of her to worry, but what could she possibly do for Helena? Placing pepper in Lord Chapman’s coffee that morning had been most diverting. Truly as satisfying as Emma had predicted. But as the day had worn on—and worn on her—even the memory of his shocked expression could not lighten her mood.
She would simply close her eyes and allow herself to drift into oblivion. Or perhaps distract herself with memories of the Royal Menagerie. She could still clearly recall the mesmerizing sound of monkeys chattering, the awe-inspiring chills she felt at hearing the lion roar, the thrill of being stared down by the glassy black eyes of the leopard.
Once the morning light peeked through the curtains of her room, she would find her positivity again. She would laugh and smile at eligible bachelors. Helena squeezed her eyes shut. This would pass. She needn’t worry. Certainly someday, she would meet a gentleman who would come up to scratch; there were several very fine gentlemen in attendance this Christmas.
But suppose not one of them cared for her?
Helena’s stomach clenched up in an anxious twist.
She set her jaw and tried to focus on relaxing her legs and arms. She was drifting on a cloud . . . not a worry or a care . . . nothing weighing her down . . .
Excepting there was a very real chance she would not be welcomed at very many assemblies next Season. Every year after that, she’d be invited less and less often to outings and gatherings. When society turned their collective backs on someone, it could be most condemning.
She groaned and rolled onto her side. So much for being light as a cloud.
With a grunt, Helena sat up. This was ridiculous. Lying back down, she placed her pillow atop her head instead of beneath it, blocking out the last, lingering bits of light in the room.
She would sleep.
She was determined.
Her worries and fears could go and hang themselves for all she cared.
Though the minutes stretched, eventually she did succumb to the elusive call of sleep. But her fears did not leave her at the threshold between consciousness and oblivion.
Helena stood with a bright red shawl wrapped about her shoulders. Slowly she turned about. She was in a dark maze with tall hedges for walls and a path overgrown with knee-high grass. Though she could see no more than a few feet in front of her, she could sense the vastness of the maze, the intricate way the path weaved around and around itself.
She walked forward, immediately coming upon her first decision. Right or straight? Stars hung in the night sky above her, as did a large yellow moon, but none of the celestial orbs gave her any indication which way she should choose. Helena chose to turn right. She had to lift her legs rather high just to get them through the tall grass.
Someone screamed; that sounded like Emma. Helena twisted about, her skirt catching in the grass and refusing to turn with her. It tightened about her thighs, nearly tripping her.
A dark shadow slipped over the path she’d just crossed. A cold wind tripped down her spine. Even as she watched, the shadow grew, filling the path.
It reached out.
It lunged for her—
Helena sat up in bed.
The bedposts were the only things standing over her, the blankets the only things around her legs. She breathed heavily and slowly closed her eyes, tipping her head back.
It had only been another nightmare. Stupid dreams. She’d thought she’d grown out of them. Helena ran a few fingers over her forehead. Her hand was shaking.
She glanced over at the small candle, burning much lower now. She should have extinguished it before falling asleep earlier, but now she was grateful she hadn’t thought to do so. The light was small, but it brought a bit of comfort.
Willing her breath to calm, she searched about for her pillow and found it on the floor. It must have tumbled off the bed when she awoke with a start. Helena picked it up, fluffed it, and then placed the pillow back where it belonged. Resting back against its softness, she kept her gaze trained on the flickering candlelight. When she was very young and one of her nightmares struck, she would slip into bed with her father. They’d always been close. Never once had Father been upset at Helena for waking him up in the middle of the night. Instead, he’d always allowed Helena some space beside him.
But now Father was gone, resting beside his wife, beside Helena’s dear mother. He would never again be there to comfort her. The pulsing pain of loss filled Helena’s chest, poignant and strong. She hadn’t cried over her parents for weeks, yet suddenly, her eyes burned and tears fell down her cheeks.
Helena blinked, the sight of the candle still blurred. All she could do was watch the tiny bit of light and grieve for the joyful times that she feared may never come again.
Chapter Six
Fredrick’s attention was split.
On the one hand, Christina and Eleanor were standing near the back of the room, engaged in an animated, if quite hushed, conversation with Lady Emma. They’d had no previous connection with Lady Emma, so why his sisters were suddenly so rapt by what she had to say, he could not fathom. It bothered him. Something about the way they huddled close, their shoulders nearly touching, clearly indicated they did not want to be disturbed. It could only portend trouble. Fredrick fidgeted in his seat; no doubt, whatever trouble his sisters were involved in, he would be left to remedy.
He would have to speak with them later. For now, he truly ought to be paying more attention to Miss Wynn on the pianoforte. After all, Lady Andrews had insisted he not disappear immediately after dinner tonight, as he’d done these past few evenings.
Neither his gaze nor his thoughts remained on Miss Wynn for long. Because, on the other hand, Miss Spencer sat alone on the row of seats in front of him, far to his left. She had not been sitting by herself for most of the night; Lady Emma had been by her side. But since her friend had left, Fredrick had a clear line of sight to her.
And she looked terrible.
Had she not slept well the night before? There were dark circles about her eyes and her shoulders slumped slightly. He thought back quickly to breakfast—he hadn’t seen her there—and then on to cards that afternoon. She’d been sitting on the opposite side of the room, so he hadn’t noticed if she was acting worn thin or not. He sincerely hoped she was all right. Theirs may be a complicated past, but he wished her all the best. Miss Spencer’s lips pulled into a tired frown. Fredrick’s stomach tightened at the sight. She certainly did not appear to be enjoying ‘all the best.’
Clapping erupted around him, nearly making Fredrick start. Blast, he’d been so busy woolgathering he’d all but forgotten the performance taking place. Fredrick lifted his hands and clapped as well. Miss Wynn stood and smiled sweetly. She curtsied and then curtsied again at the rigorous applause.
“Miss Spencer,” Lady Andrews called from the other side of the room, “we have not heard you play at all this Christmas. Would you care to indulge us?”
It seemed everyone in the room turned toward her as one. Fredrick kept his gaze down but could not deny his curiosity. How would she react, this woman who’d slipped pepper into his coffee, yet dressed quite plainly?
She was silent for a moment before stating clearly, “Thank you, but no. I cannot claim much talent on the pianoforte.”
He was sorry to hear it; he’d rather have liked to hear her play.
“However,” she continued, “if you have a harp, I wouldn’t mind performing on that instrument.”
“How unfortunate.” Lady Andrews’s words were tight, though she didn’t sound like she was apologizing. “We have the pianoforte and a guitar, but the only harp is currently stored in the attic.” She waved a hand toward the room’s ceiling. “Much too out of the way to
be brought down. No one has bothered to play the instrument in decades.”
“I see,” Miss Spencer said.
“Lady Andrews is right,” Miss Wynn chimed in. “We all want for another song and if you will not, Miss Spencer, then I propose that you choose who shall play next.”
If Miss Spencer was surprised by the strange demand, she did not show it. “You will forgive me, but I do not know those in attendance well enough to know who would suit.” Her eyes flitted quickly over to her friend, Lady Emma, who was still standing in the back beside Fredrick’s sisters.
Fredrick’s gaze followed hers. Lady Emma had her head down, but she looked as though she had grown pale.
“Do you not?” Miss Wynn’s statement sounded increasingly like a challenge. Though her voice grew quiet, no one in the silent room was likely to miss her next statement. “I suppose you do not often associate with those of the haut ton anymore, do you?”
Fredrick eyed the individuals around him. He’d noticed a palpable discomfort the first night both he and Miss Spencer were in the drawing room together, waiting to go into dinner. But after that, he thought everyone as a whole had decided to ignore whatever had happened during the Season. Apparently, he had been wrong.
“Well,” Lady Andrews said, “if you are not so inclined, perhaps . . .” She waved a hand toward Lady Emma.
Before Lady Andrews could say more, Miss Spencer stood suddenly. “If you insist, I could play something simple.”
Miss Wynn smirked while Lady Andrews only stared, clearly surprised.
“Well, all right, then,” she stammered.
Miss Spencer glanced once more at her friend. Fredrick followed suit just in time to catch sight of Lady Emma’s silent “thank you” before Miss Spencer moved to the front and sat at the instrument.
The room stilled as the first few notes filled the air. Most attention was lost, though, after only a few lines. When Miss Spencer had said she was not accomplished, she had not been falsely modest. Soon, those around him began softly spoken conversations. Miss Spencer’s song ended quickly, and the applause was meager compared to what Miss Wynn had received. Nonetheless, Fredrick found it hard to put the performance from his mind. Not during the rest of the night’s various conversations, not as the group dispersed to retire, and not as he climbed the stairs and made his way to his bedchamber.