by Shana Galen
Nash knew this. He could smell the charred wood when he passed that way. He made a point never to pass that way.
“The roof leaks in a dozen places. Furniture is broken and overturned. The paint is peeling, and I’ve seen more cobwebs than in a crypt in Paris.”
“Let me go.” Nash struggled against Rowden’s hold.
“I haven’t seen any rats, but that’s probably because there’s no food to be had. How Mrs. Brown even warmed this meal in that wreck of a kitchen is beyond me.” He shoved Nash back, releasing him. “Any sane person who comes here will consider it uninhabitable. They will consider you mad, and that is your funeral.”
Nash stood still, heaving with rage, his hand in his pocket on the pistol.
“So if you want to hit me for hiring laborers to make repairs to, in effect, save you from yourself, then go ahead. Hit me.” He moved closer, close enough that Nash could not miss if he struck.
Nash pulled the pistol free and pointed it at Rowden. “I could kill you.”
“No doubt.” Rowden did not sound frightened, only tired. “No doubt you want to kill me right now, but I am not your enemy, Nash. I’ve never been your enemy. If you want me to go, you don’t have to shoot me. Say the word, and I’ll leave. I’ll go back to London, tell Draven I did my best, but that you were determined to ruin yourself. And you can start packing tonight because you’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
Nash held the pistol steady, the barrel aimed directly at Rowden’s heart. It would take just a flick of his finger, a small muscle jerk, to fire the pistol and end Rowden’s haranguing. The pistol might misfire, of course. It rarely did, but there was always that possibility. Rowden didn’t move, though. He wasn’t even breathing heavily. “You don’t think I’ll do it,” Nash said. “You aren’t even frightened.”
Rowden made a dismissive sound. “You were beside me in the war, Nash. You’ve seen what I’ve seen, done what I’ve done. You think my own death scares me?” The question hung in the air like the smoke of a cigar. “Death doesn’t scare me, and it doesn’t scare you. It’s life that scares you. Dying is easy. We can both die tonight. Pull that trigger, and I fall. Turn the pistol on yourself, and we’re both gone.”
The words had appeal. No more pain. No more regret. No more lying in bed, unable to sleep because he couldn’t stop thinking of the way a soldier or a woman or a little boy had jerked and fallen to the ground when he’d pulled that trigger. “I don’t want to see them anymore,” Nash said. “I don’t want to hear their cries, see the blood.”
Rowden sighed. “I know. But there’s no way around it. You live with what you’ve done, we all do. You want to die? I don’t think you’re a coward. None of us will blame you for it. We’ve all thought about ending it. Well, maybe not Rafe. He thinks far too highly of himself.”
Nash smiled despite himself. He lowered the pistol. Rowden clapped him on the shoulder. “The men arrive at first light in the morning. Don’t shoot them.”
Nash put the pistol in his pocket. He was making no promises.
“And Nash?” Rowden said.
“What?”
“Point that pistol at me again, and I’ll break your nose. Consider this a warning.” Pain slammed into Nash’s cheek as Rowden’s fist connected with his face. Nash went down, his hand going to his face. He swore but Rowden was already walking away. Nash lay on the floor, knowing his cheek would be tender and probably bruised in the morning. Rowden could have knocked him unconscious, and he would have deserved that and worse. But Rowden wouldn’t do him any favors, that was clear as the day Nash couldn’t see any longer.
There was only a dark future stretching like an empty maw ahead of him, and he had to decide, every day, if he wanted to fight his way through it.
Six
Pru was sorry she had ever asked Mrs. Northgate for assistance. The woman had very firm ideas about what a dress should look like—in particular, what a dress Pru wore should look like—and she was relentless in her vision. Pru had never had a dress with ribbons or flounces or any of the other fripperies other girls had. She always wore plain, serviceable dresses. That was what she had planned to make this time.
“That sort of pattern does not suit you at all,” Mrs. Northgate said when Pru described her vision.
“But that’s the sort of dress I am wearing right now,” Pru pointed out.
“I know, and I think we should burn it.”
“I can’t burn all my dresses,” Pru said, reasonably. “I won’t have anything to wear.”
“You will have this one to wear.” Mrs. Northgate held up the fabric. “Now, that vicar of yours will probably not like this, but we need a lower neckline.”
“A low neckline?” Pru’s eyes widened.
“Not low. Lower. And ruffles and a ribbon at the bodice. Your bosom is small, but we can make it look more substantial with some additions and padding.”
“But won’t that mean people are looking at my bosom?”
“That’s the point, my girl. Pay attention.”
She went on to describe a narrow skirt and tight sleeves. Apparently, these features would show off her trim waist and give the illusion of lush hips. After an hour or so, Pru stopped arguing and simply did as Mrs. Northgate told her. By the third afternoon, when she arrived, Miss Northgate and Miss Mary simply called, “Grandmama, that girl is here again!” and told her to go up to the boudoir.
They’d reached the part of the process where Pru was sewing the pieces of the gown together. Mrs. Northgate said her eyes were too poor to do much sewing these days, but she saw every misplaced stitch Pru made. She also insisted on showing Pru how to sew ruffles and flounces, and Pru heartily wished she had never been shown as they were time consuming and detailed. She could hardly complain, though. Not only was Mrs. Northgate gracious—if that was a word that could ever be applied to Mrs. Northgate—enough to direct Pru’s efforts, she had also given her a bit of ribbon and lace to add to the dress.
Not to mention, she liked coming to the Northgate house much more than sweeping clean floors at the vicarage or being shooed out of the kitchen by Mrs. Blimkin. The sewing was really not so bad once she found a rhythm. Mrs. Northgate often did not mind if Pru chattered on, but on this day Pru had been there several hours and had run out of things to say. She was sewing quietly, allowing her mind to run where it might. Often it went back to that day in the informal gardens at Wentmore when she had met Mr. Pope. She wondered how he was faring. The Northgates’ son, George Northgate, had reported to his grandmother that the work on the house was coming along fairly well. George had been sent to offer the laborers cider and apples at a price during the midday break and at the end of the workday. He did not report having seen Mr. Pope, but he had told his grandmother everyone kept a watchful eye out as they expected he might emerge from the house at any moment and shoot them all dead.
Pru thought perhaps George Northgate feared that, but she imagined the laborers were too busy to think much about anything other than their work. She should know after all these days of laboring at sewing. But it did rankle that even the son of the well-to-do Northgate family had found a means to earn extra coin, while she still wore boots with holes.
If only she knew how to hammer or patch roofs. Perhaps she could help the housekeeper—was there a housekeeper?—put the inside of the house to rights. But then she would be taking work away from the daughter of a family who probably needed it. She would have done the chore for free if it meant she could see the inside of Wentmore or have another chance at a peek at the peacock. But traipsing through gardens and singing songs and sewing ruffles would be of no use to Mr. Pope.
And then Pru knew what would. She stabbed her finger with her needle and yelped in pain.
“I told you to be more careful!” Mrs. Northgate had a handkerchief at the ready, handing it to Pru before a drop of the blood welling on her finger could fall on the fabric.
Pru wrapped her finger. “Thank you. I wasn’t paying attention.”
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“I should say not.”
“It’s just that I had the most wonderful idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.”
“Fewer ideas and more concentrating on the task at hand, Miss Howard.”
Pru stood and began to pace the room. Her thoughts were coming fast now, and she felt the need to move in order to keep up with them.
“Do sit down, Miss Howard. All this activity makes me dizzy.”
“I apologize, ma’am. I am simply too excited to sew at the moment.”
Mrs. Northgate watched Pru walk across the carpet and back again before she finally sighed and gave in. “What is this about? What notion has entered your head now?”
Pru paused right in front of Mrs. Northgate and leaned down, which caused the older woman to rear back slightly. “I know how to help Mr. Pope!”
“Do remember yourself, Miss Howard!”
Pru stepped back, choosing to clasp her hands together rather than jump up and down as she wanted. “Yes, Mrs. Northgate.”
The older woman removed the spectacles she wore to criticize—er, correct—Pru and cleaned them on a small cloth. “Mr. Pope?” She held up a hand before Pru could explain. “Do not tell me. I know the name.” There was a long pause. “Are you speaking of the Earl of Beaufort’s son?”
“Yes!”
“The youngest? The one who lives at Wentmore?”
“The sharpshooter, yes.” Pru sat on the edge of her chair. “He was blinded in the war.”
Mrs. Northgate harrumphed. “From what I hear, his aim is still better than most who have perfect vision. You had better stay away from him. Now, pick up your sewing and finish that ruffle.”
“But I can’t stay away from him,” Pru objected. “I want to help him.”
Mrs. Northgate perched her spectacles on the tip of her nose. “Why?”
“Why? Why does anyone help anyone else?” The words were out before Pru realized who she had directed them to.
But Mrs. Northgate did not hesitate. “To feel better about themselves, I should imagine. Either that or because they feel sorry for the person in need. Mr. Pope will appreciate neither sentiment, I assure you.”
“Is that why you are helping me?” Pru asked, gesturing to the sewing laid out on the table between them. “You feel sorry for me?”
“Feel sorry for you? Ha!” Mrs. Northgate laughed, and Pru thought it might have been the first time she had ever seen the other woman laugh. Her usually serious expression seemed to crack as her smile widened. Then her mouth opened, the lines at her eyes crinkled, and she gave another full-throated laugh. “I should think not. If there is anyone to pity, it would be me. You are a trial, Miss Howard.”
“So you often tell me. Does this mean,” she asked in a small voice, “you want everyone to pity you?” That possibility was even worse than the first option in Pru’s opinion.
“Not at all. You amuse me, Miss Howard. That is the first reason.” Mrs. Northgate leaned over the table conspiratorially. “And the second is that it annoys my daughter-in-law and grandchildren.” She laughed again, and Pru just shook her head. Mrs. Northgate seemed to like nothing better than provoking others. It was a trait Pru had to admit, reluctantly, she admired.
“But I rather doubt you are helping Mr. Pope to annoy anyone. Neither can he be very amusing,” Mrs. Northgate observed.
“Oh, but he can be amusing,” Pru objected. Mrs. Northgate’s brows shot up. “Not amusing in the traditional sense, but he is interesting to talk to. And then there is the peacock.”
“The peacock!”
“Yes. The last time I was at Wentmore I spotted a peacock. Mr. Pope said there used to be several peacocks and peahens too.”
Mrs. Northgate nodded. “I remember those birds. The earl was a fool for bringing them here.”
“You saw them? How many were there? What did the house used to look like?”
“Too many questions! How is it you intend to help Mr. Pope? Why do you even think he needs your help? Did he ask for it?”
“No, but he doesn’t know he needs my help. He probably doesn’t even realize I can be of help. He may not even know Ecriture Nocturne exists.”
“Ecriture Nocturne?”
“It means—”
“I speak French. It means night writing.”
“Yes. I learned it in France. We were in Paris for some months just after the war. My parents had gone to the countryside for their missionary work but found the populace less than receptive to the idea of Protestant conversion from the English.”
“I can imagine.”
“While we were in Paris, we heard of a man named Charles Barbier. He developed a system of symbols that he thought might be used by the military for nighttime communication. But he had taught several blind people the system as well, and it allowed them to write and even read.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you. Do you have a sheet of parchment?”
Mrs. Northgate pointed to the small desk on the other side of the room. Pru rose and gathered parchment, pen, and ink. She drew a six by five matrix and labeled it with numbers along the top and side and then characters in the middle. “Do you see how the letter N is located at the number 5 on this axis and the letter 3 on this axis?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Northgate peered over the table at the diagram.
“We would represent it with five dots in this column and three in this column. If the person reading the dots has memorized the location of the letters and sounds on the diagram, then he would know five dots and three dots is the letter N.”
“I don’t understand.”
Pru was not deterred. She had plenty of experience teaching this. “Let’s say we want to write the word not. We would write five dots then three dots for N, one dot then two dots for O and four dots then two dots for T.” She turned the paper over and pressed gently on the opposite side, pushing the paper up slightly in the pattern of the dots. “A blind person would read this with their fingers.” She turned the paper and ran her fingers lightly over the raised bumps. “They would read 5-2, 1-2, 4-2 and know the word was not.”
Mrs. Northgate blew out a breath, seeming to consider the paper and the raised bumps. “This is for French,” she said, pointing to the characters of è and é.
“I modified it for English.”
“You modified it! Why on earth would you do that?”
“To teach my sister.”
“You have a blind sister?” Before Pru could answer Mrs. Northgate waved a hand. “Never mind, I do not want to know. I do not want to encourage you in this, Miss Howard. This is all very strange and...unique, but Mr. Pope is quite mad and trying to teach him all of these letters and numbers will simply result in you ruining perfectly good paper.” She crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the fire.
Pru frowned as her work began to smoke and blacken. Mrs. Northgate pushed the sewing across the table. “That ruffle will not finish itself, young lady.”
But Pru ignored the material. “He is not mad. I spoke to him myself on two occasions. He is quite sane.”
“He points a pistol at anyone who comes near and lives in utter squalor.”
“It’s not quite that bad.” She did not mention he had pointed that pistol at her.
“He shot a man!”
“I am certain it was an accident.”
“His father does not take your view of the matter. He is already making arrangements to have Mr. Nash Pope sent away.”
Sent away? But where? Her own parents had considered sending her sister to a home for the blind, but Pru had talked them out of it. One heard stories of abuse in these so-called charitable homes. She had cared for her sister until Anne had learned to be independent.
“His own father would do that to him?” Pru rose, too upset to listen any longer.
“It is for his own good, not to mention the safety of those around him. Where are you going, Miss Howard? I have not given you leave.”
“I have to go, ma�
�am. I am sorry. I will be back tomorrow.”
Pru ran to the door, opened it, and rushed out.
“You had better not be planning to visit Wentmore!” Mrs. Northgate called after her. Pru ignored her and ran down the steps. At the bottom, Miss Northgate and Miss Mary were coming out of a small parlor, their mouths agape. Their mother, Mrs. Northgate, was right behind them.
“I will thank you not to charge down my steps like a stampede of horses,” she said. Pru didn’t dare slow down, though. She raced past them with a hasty apology, grabbed her coat from the rack, opened the door, and dashed out into the late afternoon.
She had no time to waste.
NASH HAD NOT COME OUT of his room since the pounding had begun. He found it all but unbearable. Even when he expected the next blow of hammer striking nail, he flinched. The cacophony reminded him too much of the noise of war, the sound of rifles firing. The dull thud when the ball hit its mark.
Nash closed his eyes and covered his ears. He didn’t know how long he’d been in his room. Rowden would bring him food, force him to eat, then take the empty plate away again. This morning—or was it yesterday?—he had threatened to plunge Nash in a tub of water himself if Nash did not bathe. So Nash had done as he was told and sat with wet hair and a clean but damp shirt while the incessant hammering continued.
And then it stopped. Nash raised his head. He thought it might have stopped some time ago, only the ringing of it sounded in his ears for so long that he was only just noticing it. The quiet was such a welcome respite that he actually rose and stretched. His muscles ached from holding the same position for so long and from the tight way he’d curled himself. This chamber had been his haven for days, but now he wanted out. Surprisingly, he was hungry. He’d come to rely on Rowden bringing him meals. Nash didn’t know what time it was, but it seemed past the time Rowden usually brought him a tray.
Nash didn’t bother with a coat, but he pulled on his boots and left his room in shirt sleeves, his waistcoat open. He’d intended to call out for Rowden, but he heard voices after taking only a few steps. As he neared the staircase that led down to the first floor and the foyer, he recognized the voices—it was Rowden and Miss Howard.