by Ella Edon
If she’s not interested in talking to me, she might as well have let me know from the start.
He felt a bilious twist in his gut, envious and annoyed with himself for being so.
He spotted his friend Luke nearby, his pale hair and blue eyes marking him out from the rest. He was also on the edge of the group, seeming contented just to sit and listen. He went to join him.
“Ah, Cutler. There you are. Having a good time?” Luke asked with a grin.
“As much as I thought I would,” Cutler said lightly.
Luke laughed. “That’s not exactly what I’d hoped to hear, though probably quite true. Do you want to tell me about it?”
Cutler looked at his feet, feeling uncomfortable. “It’s not anything I can point to,” he said. “I just find I hate crowds nowadays.”
Ever since Salamanca, a group of more than eight people had felt uncomfortable to him. Loud noises and rapid movements were excruciating.
To his surprise, Luke nodded understandingly. “I am sure, old boy,” he nodded. “If it’s too much, we can move out to the drawing-room? You wouldn’t be the first to want a quieter place to talk. I can barely hear myself think in here!”
Cutler shrugged. Suddenly, the thought of being face-to-face with Raymonde in a crowd was deeply uncomfortable. He wanted a chance to talk to her alone.
“I don’t want to put anybody out,” he said quickly. “I think I’d be best-advised to go.”
“Do you have to?” Luke looked upset. “I mean, of course, if you wish, but… We’d be sorry to see you go.”
“That’s kind of you,” Cutler murmured. He was touched, he had to admit.
“Nonsense,” Lady Westmore said briskly, appearing at Luke’s side. She wore ribbons in her hair, a dress in white showing her shoulders, the sleeves banded and stylish. She grinned. “It’s no kindness at all to host such interesting guests. Now, come and join us in the drawing-room, if you will. There’s a group playing whist up there, but there’s no reason to worry about disturbing them.”
“Um…” Cutler felt awkward. What could he say? On the one hand, he longed to be in bed, where at least he wouldn’t do more damage to his already tenuous interactions with society. On the other hand, he longed to stay a bit longer. He wanted a chance to talk to Lady Raymonde again. That was worth every second of discomfort he might feel.
“Um, thank you, Lady Westmore,” he said softly. “I’ll come up right away.”
The sound of talking came from the drawing-room: the whist-party she’d mentioned. He paused in the doorway, wanting to ask Lady Westmore something.
“Is it too loud in here?” Lady Westmore asked kindly. “I can always move this lot to the parlor. Major Radley isn’t too fussy, as long as he has cards.” She made an odd face, and Cutler gained the impression she wasn’t wholly-impressed with card players.
“Not at all, My Lady,” he said, bowing in acknowledgement. “I would be happy to spend awhile here. Do you think any other members of the party might come up here?”
There. He’d said it. He hadn’t quite the courage to ask if Lady Raymonde would be there.
“Well, I suppose they might do. I know Lord Hendersley is the sort who’d feel more at home up here. And Lady Loughton. And of course, Lady Raymonde usually joins us up here… She’s not one for crowds, either.”
“I see.”
Cutler found that his heart was thumping loudly. He looked away, feeling his face flush. What would Lady Westmore think of him, if she knew about his interest in her friend?
“Well, then.” Lady Westmore smiled. “If you like, we can find the decanters. Luke has them up here somewhere. I think we have brandy, and there’s got to be something else for those who don’t care for the stuff.” She grinned at him and headed off in the direction of the side-table.
Cutler was left alone and walked to the window by the end of the room.
He heard footsteps in the doorway and turned around, hoping it was her.
“Ah! Lady Westmore! You look ravishing, my dear!” a man’s voice said, and an elderly gentleman came in, bowing extravagantly to Lady Westmore. Cutler felt disappointed, but then he stared over their heads to the person waiting behind them in the hallway.
Lady Raymonde caught his eye. Her face stiffened. He felt his heart thud, feeling dismayed. Why was she so afraid of him? He tensed as he saw her turn away again.
“Wait,” he whispered. He found himself walking swiftly to the door. He walked around the older couple and out into the hallway. He saw her at the far end of the corridor.
“Lady Raymonde?” he called out, feeling stupid. “Wait. Please? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not afraid, Lieutenant.”
Those dark eyes drowned him. Oddly, there was no anger there, despite the snap of her voice. She sounded more upset than anything else.
“I know you aren’t,” he said softly. “Even though I have a sense that you’ve had reason to be in the past.”
She looked surprised, with her brow raised. He felt the touch of that surprise and it made him glow inside.
“I don’t know why you say that,” she said. Her voice sounded tight in her throat. She looked away over his shoulder. Her hands twisted the opposite fingers, around and around in agitation.
“I saw you that day in the woods. I know how brave you are.” He paused. “And I have seen that you are sometimes…less comfortable than you might seem. Yet, you come out into society and talk and laugh, in spite of all of it.”
She looked up into his eyes and he felt the strangest sensation sweep across him. It felt like she was brushing away the veils that concealed him: the military officer, the rough-and-ready schoolboy, the stoic child. She was seeing through to the small boy who curled up beside the table in his father’s study, too shocked and frightened to cry.
He shook himself, not sure whether or not to trust the feeling.
“I am not brave, Lieutenant Wingate,” she said. Her voice was low and deep. “I am sure you know that. Whatever my past might have held.”
“Yes, you are,” he said firmly. “You were. You are still.”
She looked into his eyes and he saw a flicker of surprise and recognition. Then she turned around and walked out.
“Goodnight, Lieutenant.” All that was left, lingering on the air behind her, was the faintest trace of her perfume, dark and spicy and as confusing as her words.
Cutler shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall, feeling confused. All he knew was that her opinion meant more to him than anything else did, and he had no idea why.
You should understand – you of all people. Hurts take time to heal. Springing a reference to her past on her is not fair.
He sighed and followed her steps down the stairs, then turned right and went to his bedchamber. She had enough for one day, and it was probably best if he were not to bother her. He needed his own company, and time to think.
Chapter Eight
Time to Think
Cutler woke up, the touch of the gray morning light warm on his eyelids. He rolled over and groaned, trying to see what it said on the clock on the mantel opposite the bed. He had taken an age to go to sleep, the questions about Lady Raymonde and her sudden change of mood going around and around his head, tormenting him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling impossibly weary. It was too early to wake up, but there was no remedy for it – he was awake now. He knew himself better than to expect himself to go back to sleep. He stood and rang the bell to summon Arthur to help him dress, rolling his shoulders, which were stiffly sore.
“Sir?” Arthur called through the door. “Are you in there?”
Cutler sighed again and opened the door. “No, Arthur, it’s a burglar. That’s why he’s calling you – so you can turn him over to the authorities.” He fixed his valet with an ironic stare.
Arthur grinned. “Jolly good, sir! I reckon the scoundrel can imitate your voice to a tee, he can! But I’ll fetch the Watch directly and hand
him over, what say you?” He went over to the side-table, fussing with the collection of things there. The clink and rattle of bottles and boxes were enough to wear on anyone’s nerves.
Cutler breathed deeply. “I say it’s too early to be clever, Arthur.”
Arthur gave him a big smile. “Good thing, then, that I’m as thick as a plank, sir, eh! It’s never too early for that, nor too late.”
This time, even Cutler managed to find his sense of humor. He bit back a grin. “No, Arthur, it never is – that’s a welcome talent at any time.”
Arthur frowned. “I’m not sure as I take that as complimentary, sir.”
They both laughed.
A thought occurred to him as he reached for his tea, moving it to the bigger table where he kept his hairbrush and other toiletries. It was half an hour past seven, which was perfectly good time for joining the ride Luke had planned. Luke was just the fellow he needed; as he was the only person who could help him understand Lady Raymonde, as he knew her so well.
If he wanted to understand her any better, Luke was the perfect helper.
She was so upset by what I said yesterday. Too upset. Did I have to be so damnably insensitive?
“I say, Arthur…could you put out my riding things, please?”
“Of course, sir.” Arthur nodded. “It’s the ride today, isn’t it? I reckon Lord Westmore is still asleep, though.”
“He probably is,” Cutler agreed, reaching for his tea.
Cutler waited until Arthur had gone to fetch his clothes before shrugging out of his night-shirt. A long garment, it hid from view all but his legs. He was usually less reserved, but this morning he felt oddly vulnerable. He pulled on his shirt hurriedly. This morning he felt a need to be protective of his emotional vulnerability.
When he was half-dressed, Arthur came back in again, with riding-coat and boots.
“Arthur?” Cutler asked. “What do you think of me? As a human being, I mean.”
“You’re a human, sir?” Arthur quipped. “Sorry, sir,” he added, seeing Cutler’s shoulders sag. “I mean, you’re a great sort, sir.”
“Thanks, Arthur,” Cutler said. He remained unconvinced. “I mean…is there a reason not to trust me?”
As he said it, images of his father, lying at his desk, still and unmistakably not alive, came to him. He shivered. Was there anything he could have done? Was his father’s demise somehow his fault? It was a question that had haunted him. Raymonde’s standoffish manner with him was starting to eat into his own insecurities.
He looked up again, to find his valet looking upset.
“Sir? Why would you say that? I mean…trusting you is something that is natural.”
Cutler felt something in his heart shift. He sniffed, embarrassed by how deeply he was affected. He reached for his handkerchief, turning away. “I see,” he said. “Thank you, Arthur.”
Not one to be so easily fooled by his play of coolness, Arthur cleared his throat. “Sir, there’s nobody like you. You saved Private Emms’s life when there was no reason for it. You could have got yourself killed. I remember that, clear as if it happened yesterday. No, sir – there’s no doubting you.”
Cutler blinked. A scene played through his mind; something he’d utterly forgotten about. He remembered the sand, the sound of gunfire, the smell of burning gunpowder. He recalled running at a tall, strong shape in the haze and throwing them both bodily to the ground. The sound of gunfire whistled overhead and he lay, choking and coughing, with the other man’s body beside his own. The gunfire sounds passed overhead and moved to their right, marching away.
He had saved Private Emms that day.
“Thanks, Arthur,” he murmured.
“Not at all, sir,” Arthur said. He looked carefully neutral, as if he was fighting not to betray whatever it was that he felt.
Cutler cleared his throat. “I reckon I’d best get outside.” He paused. “Do you have time to shave me?” he asked Arthur, absently brushing his own hair. It had grown a bit these last few days.
“I’ll shave you, sir. It’s still an hour before Lord Westmore will set out on his ride. I’m sure he’s still asleep.”
“Good.” Cutler nodded wearily. He sat down and let Arthur begin the process of shaving him. The ritual was calming and reassuring, and he found his mind wandering back to the ball the night before and Lady Raymonde, leaning on the rail beside him.
Her words had touched him deeply. It had seemed, for a moment or two, as if they looked at each other and saw beyond the veil society put over one and into the soul beneath. He sighed. That was all preposterously unlikely, wasn’t it?
Love like that – of the sort that made you see each other clearly, that made it easy to be weak before one another – that was the stuff of stories, wasn’t it?
“Not too cold, sir?” Arthur asked, cutting through his thoughts.
“Not at all,” Cutler murmured, as his man nodded in agreement. He felt the cold touch of the razor on his skin and closed his eyes, letting Arthur do his work.
I’d trust Arthur with absolutely anything.
As it was, Arthur could simply slip with the blade, killing him outright. Somehow, Cutler always knew he never would. He was his friend, and he trusted him.
The thought brought his mind back to Lady Raymonde. That was one person whose trust he kept on betraying. Even when he meant the opposite.
Arthur’s hand faltered, making it clear that he’d made some sudden movement. He made himself stay still.
“Sorry, Arthur,” he murmured as his man rinsed the blade. “I’m out of sorts.”
“Not to worry, sir,” Arthur murmured back. “You need some of Doctor Wexley’s salts?”
“Not at all,” Cutler said. He felt somewhat upset. As if there was a salt or a salve for everything! Nothing could reach into his heart and cure the tatters that were there. Not smelling-salts, not tonics, and certainly not brandy. He’d tried them all.
“All done, sir,” Arthur said quietly. He untied the kerchief from around Cutler’s neck and fastened his cravat again, seeming to sense that Cutler was not in a mood for being amusing. “Breakfast’s still being sent up, if you’re keen on breaking your fast before the ride.”
“I am.” Cutler nodded. He stood and headed downstairs to the breakfast-room.
In the hallway outside, he could hear the sound of conversation and smell the scents of tea, toast and cologne. For whatever reason, the combination unnerved him. He waited there, searching for a sense of inner calm.
“…and we’ll take a ride later, I think, Luke,” Lady Westmore was saying. “I reckon it’s too early for me! I have a yearning to curl up and rest.”
He heard Luke’s gentle reply. “Of course, my dearest. I think we’ll be taking the long way past the lake. I reckon we’ll be back by midday.”
“Good. I’ll tell Mrs. Hume to have luncheon ready by then.”
Cutler listened to their soft voices and felt his nerves relax somewhat. He wondered if Lady Raymonde was in there. He hung back. He didn’t belong in high society, and she was a Duke’s daughter. What he thought he was doing, he had no idea. He took a deep breath, found his courage and went in.
“Ah! Cutler! Good morning,” Luke greeted him informally. He held out a hand, indicating the open places around the table. Cutler tensed.
Opposite the one open place, her teacup held to her lips, looking down into the tray of delicacies in front of her, sat Lady Raymonde. He took a deep breath.
“Good morning Lord and Lady Westmore.” He inclined his head politely to both of them. “Lady Raymonde. Lord Grayton.”
He murmured the last two names while he drew out his own seat. He knew he was being less than polite, but somehow, he couldn’t quite make himself look Lady Raymonde in the eye. He still had no idea what she thought of him; if she was vexed with him from the previous night.
“I hope you plan to join us for the ride today?” Luke asked, reaching for a slice of toast. “It’ll be a sorry sort of thing i
f Lord Grayton and I are the only riders!”
“I want to go, yes.” Cutler nodded. He reached for a slice of toast, buttering it. Dash it! His hands refused to stay steady. He took a deep breath.
“Did you sleep well?” Lord Grayton asked. Cutler groaned inwardly and turned to face the gentleman.
“Not particularly, no,” Cutler said baldly.
Lord Grayton’s eyes bulged slightly, as if he had never been addressed so directly in his life before. Cutler would have found it amusing had he not felt already so soured against the upper class that morning.
“I always find that’s so,” Luke said, smoothing the odd look Lord Grayton shot him. “I feel so overwrought after a ball. So full of energy! I find a posset can help sometimes.” He smiled fondly at Lady Westmore, who nodded.