Fortunately, Father Michael appeared in the midafternoon, with an impish smile. “The afflicted doesn’t seem to need comforting, but I’m not too sure about you, Tom.”
Tommy laughed, the first time since last night. “Well, Father, I’m not fond of people trying to kill me little coz.”
I laughed, and so did the priest, at Tommy’s burlesqued Irish accent and the reference to me as “little.”
“I’m not fond of it, either.” He sat down in the chair beside Tommy’s. “Cousin Andrew sends his thanks, and word that Arden confessed. He’s charged with murder and, of course, attempted murder for Miss Ella. I’m sorry to say I will have a hard time offering a prayer for that young man’s soul.”
“I’m glad it’s not my job,” Tommy said, rummaging a plate of cookies off a bookshelf. “I’ll call for some proper tea. That orange-blossom stuff she’s drinking isn’t meant for men.”
“Nor me.” I sighed. “Mrs. Grazich seems to think I am rehearsing for The Lady of the Camellias.”
Then Mrs. G, who appeared with pink cheeks and an all-too-easy-to-read smile, remedied the tea situation, at least for the gentlemen. She also brought Father Michael his very own plate of cookies—of course, nicer than ours. We settled in to chew it all over.
“So it was blackmail, then?” Tommy asked.
“Essentially.” I nodded. “I’m guessing he saw her with the necklace at some point, perhaps even found it among her things, and decided he deserved some of the pie.”
“Nasty,” Father Michael put in.
“Nasty, for certain. Because he didn’t just want her money. He wanted her. Whether for the financial and social benefits of marrying into the aristocracy, or just the fun of forcing her to marry him, and tormenting her for life, I don’t know.” I put down my teacup. “I suspect both.”
The boys nodded grimly. They did, too.
I could not suppress a shudder. With the new insight into relations between the sexes provided by my shocking—and undeniably wonderful—first kiss, I found it utterly sickening to think about even a small intimacy, never mind marriage and what it probably entailed, with a man I did not want.
“Then it was really a broken love affair, too?” asked Father Michael. “That does make people—especially men—do horrible things sometimes.”
“That’s true, but it wasn’t quite the usual romantic rivalry.” I added more sugar to the evil orange-blossom brew, which I’d kept because I didn’t want to hurt Mrs. G’s feelings, took another sip, then shook my head. “He was upset that she wasn’t interested in him because she loved something else.”
“Something? Not someone?”
Tommy smiled. “You, of all people, should be familiar with the idea. She felt called to do something other than be a wife and mother.”
Father Michael looked a little puzzled. “She was called to the religious life?”
“No, the artist’s life,” I explained. “I know men would like to believe that all women consider marriage and family their highest calling, but some of us have gifts we need to follow.”
“I put it badly, Father,” Tommy said. “I only meant that she saw her gift as a calling and wanted to use it.”
“Like Miss Ella here does?”
I shrugged. “That’s about right. I figure God gave me my gifts for a reason, and I should use them. I wouldn’t be shocked if she saw it much the same way.”
“She did.”
We all turned to the door, where Gilbert Saint Aubyn was standing, holding a bouquet of lilacs, and looking awfully tentative for a duke.
“Alba gu bràth!” Montezuma called.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” I said, doing my best to ignore the blush creeping across my cheeks. “Please join us for tea.”
“That’s very kind, but if you’re busy—”
“Sit down already,” Tommy told him, laughing. “It’s all family here. Well, except for Father Michael. He’s probably not actually related to us, but close enough.”
Saint Aubyn smiled. “That sounds almost like something you would hear in a London drawing room, where everyone may be related as well.”
“We are more similar than different,” Father Michael observed with a significant smile. “I have a hard time convincing my superiors of this, but out on the ground where God’s work is done, differences matter very little.”
“No one in this house is what one expects, are they?” Saint Aubyn asked me, his eyes lingering perhaps longer on my face than they should.
“You’re the one who said we need to adjust expectations for the coming new century.”
He gave me the full force of that smile, and handed me the lilacs. “I’m told your admirers always bring roses . . . and I noticed that you seem to wear this color whenever you’re out of your boy’s outfit.”
“Oh.” I took a deep breath of the scent, which was, of course, my favorite.
“Someone said you like lilacs, by the dooryard or not.”
The Whitman poem. “You are the only one who knows that.” And the only one I’ve kissed.
“Good.” He smiled, looking almost relieved, and I knew he understood. “I’m glad you like them.”
“They’re lovely.”
“Not all that is lovely here.” He permitted himself an appreciative glance at my (what else) lilac-colored tea gown, the standard feminine confection of lace and ribbons and chiffon for resting about the house. I have heard they are also a favorite among ladies planning midday assignations, but it’s obviously never been an issue.
“Alba gu bràth!” repeated Montezuma, who clearly hadn’t been getting enough attention, as he swooped down to the shelf to nibble on the children’s daisies.
“Montezuma!” I snapped. “I don’t know if it’s safe for you to eat those.”
Montezuma, his goal accomplished, swept back to his perch. “Love the birdie!”
“Yes,” said Saint Aubyn with a laugh, “love the birdie.”
I swear they smiled at each other. I just shook my head.
“You look to be recovering well, Miss Shane,” the duke began, apparently attempting ordinary conversation, even though his eyes were twinkling with amusement.
“I’m fine.” I smiled back at him. “Doctor ordered me to rest my nerves for a day or two. I’m not even sure what that means.”
“It means stay out of trouble long enough for us to catch up,” Tommy interposed as Father Michael nodded his agreement.
“I second that,” Saint Aubyn said, taking the chair beside my chaise. “It is not, of course, my place to advise, but you may wish to stick to singing instead of detective work in the future.”
“Amazing. Something on which we all agree,” I observed. “Singing is quite enough for me.”
“Good.” His Grace looked contemplatively at me for a moment, and I had the distinct impression he was deciding to move past the backstage incident. “It might have been quite enough for Frances also.”
“How so?”
“I finally read that letter in her things. The one she never sent.” He looked down at the flowers for a moment. “She explained why she ran off. It’s exactly as you said. She had a gift and wanted to use it, somewhere other than the family drawing room.”
“ ‘Don’t hide your light under a bushel.’” Father Michael would have a biblical reference.
“Yes. But not what a gently-brought-up lady is supposed to do.” Saint Aubyn nodded to me. “Since you couldn’t afford such niceties, you just set out and built a career. And brilliantly. She might have learned a lot from you.”
“If she’d let herself.” I smiled a little at the memory of her overacting. “She was too busy trying to take the limelight.”
He laughed, clearly enjoying the memory of his cousin. “That was our Frances. Always had to be the center of attention.”
“She would have grown out of it, if she had the chance. We all do.”
He took a breath. “What a waste.”
I nodded. A waste in so man
y ways. If she had been able to look past her disdain for me and ask for help, or if I had been able to look past my dislike for her and ask that next question, she might have come out of this alive, and with a career. The thought of Frances, and any number of others who never got the chance to grow and change, kept us all quiet for a few measures.
“But at least we stopped him.” Tommy finally broke the silence. “He won’t hurt another woman.”
“Do they still hang them here?”
“Usually the electric chair, but the same basic idea,” Tommy said, nodding at the priest. “Father Michael’s been known to plead for clemency on occasion.”
“Only God should take a life.” From Father Michael, it sounded like a declaration of principle, not a line from the catechism.
“I agree.” Saint Aubyn studied him as if weighing something. And then: “May I ask you to watch the clemency case and contact me when necessary?”
“Uh, absolutely.” Father Michael was as surprised as the rest of us.
“Capital punishment, whatever the means, is unworthy of a civilized society. Sooner or later, we will realize that.” His gaze turned back to me. “Shattering more expectations, Miss Shane?”
I just shook my head. “I have none left.”
Saint Aubyn nodded. “Hopes are better than expectations.”
His eyes held mine for much longer than politeness permitted. I wondered what he might be hoping for, and had utterly no idea what I might do about that. If he were my man . . .
“We all live on hope,” I said finally.
“We surely do.” He smiled faintly. “My ship leaves tonight. I wanted to bid you farewell and say thank you.”
“You are very welcome.”
“You gave me and my family a great gift, Miss Shane. We can remember our Frances happily.”
Father Michael nodded to him with a wise smile. “It is sometimes all we get.”
Saint Aubyn returned his smile, then turned to me. “I will not forget your bravery and kindness.”
“We were all just doing what was right, Your Grace.”
“I don’t doubt you see it that way.” He reached in his waistcoat pocket and came out with a tiny flat box. “I know that respectable ladies are not in the habit of accepting gifts of jewelry, but I’m told that in America a charm for your bracelet is considered a memento of friendship, not an insult.”
I took the box. “That, it is.”
He watched me closely, his eyes sparkling, as I opened it and pulled out the polished silver oval, decorated with, of all things, two crossed swords. I turned the charm over: Until we duel again. G.
“Shiny!” Montezuma observed, like all birds, easily distracted by glittery things.
“It’s perfect.” I unclasped my bracelet and threaded the new charm onto the end, where it would do nicely until I could rearrange the charms. “Thank you.”
“Allow me.” He leaned down to clasp the bracelet back on my wrist, and whispered so quickly and carefully that the boys didn’t even notice. “I may yet insist you make an honest man of me.”
Had I not been an iron-willed lady swashbuckler (according to the Herald!), I might well have swooned at the look that accompanied that comment, and the warmth of his fingers lingering on my wrist. As it was, I could feel my eyes widening and the blush deepening as he moved back to his seat.
“It has been a considerable pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss Shane.”
“It has been a great pleasure for me as well.” I was amazed that I could produce a cool and polite tone.
He was silent for a moment, then finally spoke again. “Does your next tour bring you to London?”
“Several months from now. I have San Francisco, and then the New York premiere of The Princes in the Tower first.”
He nodded. “No more dying for love?”
“Not anytime soon. I think I’d rather die for England—and Marie’s daughter’s college fund—for a while.”
“You always seem to have a good cause.” He gave me a warm smile, then glanced away, almost shyly. “Perhaps you would permit me to write you the occasional letter, if your family approves.”
The duke looked to Tommy, very carefully obeying the forms.
My official protector chuckled. “Fine by me. Just no naughty poems, all right?”
Saint Aubyn, smart enough to know a jape when he heard it, shook his head with a wry smile. “Fair enough.”
“I will look forward to your letters.” I meant it far more than the conventional words suggested.
“And I will look forward to your replies, Miss Shane.”
“Since we are going to be correspondents, Your Grace, you may address me as Miss Ella, if you like.”
“I’m afraid I really can’t.”
I dropped my eyes.
“No, I’ve come to think of you as Shane, as if you were a friend, and I can’t revert to such a dainty handle now.”
“I see.” I looked back at him, to see his eyes searching my face. “That’s all right, then, Your Grace.”
“But if you are going to permit me to address you as a friend and colleague, you must do me the same honor.”
“Yes?” I replied uncertainly, since my etiquette books had given me no indication what one calls a friendly duke. Or a duke friend, or whatnot.
“My colleagues in the Lords call me Leith. It will do, unless I can convince you to call me Gil, as my mother and aunts do.”
“If you wish.”
“I do, actually.”
“All right, then . . . Gil.”
“I like the sound of that, Shane.”
We sat there for a moment, taking each other in, and then he nodded to me, and looked to Tommy.
“Right, then. Mr. Hurley, when you and your cousin come to London, may I call on you?”
I just stared at Gil, stunned. We all knew what this was. Far more than the careful request to exchange correspondence, this was an absolutely clear indication of intent. It was nothing less than the formal opening of a courtship: “My intentions are indeed entirely honorable.”
Tommy grinned at me, then nodded gravely. “We would be delighted.”
“And you, Shane?” Gil turned to me, his eyes searching my face.
“Delighted, indeed.” I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding, then smiled at him.
“Glad to hear it.” He took my hand then, and very carefully brought it up to his lips. For a second, I could hardly breathe, and I had the distinct impression he was feeling the same thing.
Oh, my. I understood now. The incident backstage had nothing to do with greasepaint and adrenaline, or atmospheric disturbance, and a great deal to do with the two of us. It was the first time in my life I realized that chaperones might be a practical matter and not simply an antiquated form. If Tommy and the good father hadn’t been there, someone’s virtue could have been in considerable peril . . . and I do not mean mine.
“Until London, then.” I finally managed in a tiny thread of voice.
“Till London.” Gil’s voice was almost as strangled as my own as he gently let go of my hand, his fingers lingering for a few final seconds on mine before he turned and bowed to Tommy and Father Michael.
As he walked out, I ran my fingers over the charm and slowly pulled my breathing back under control. I was sad to see him go, of course, but almost relieved at the idea of being able to resume my normal existence without all of this confusion. Truly. I had months between now and London to sort out what all of this meant, and what I intended to do about it.
It was only after he was gone that I realized the lion guardians of my virtue were snickering like naughty little boys.
“Heller and the duke, sitting in a tree . . .” Tommy had started a singsong, but broke off laughing.
“Would you ever like me to post the banns, Miss Ella?” asked the father.
“ ‘Heller and the duke, sitting in a tree,’ ” sang Montezuma, because he had to get in his word.
“Shut u
p!” I tossed a pillow at the boys, and I was laughing, too. “All’s well that ends, gentlemen. And, of course, the great irony here is that the Juliets were never the problem. It was always the tenors.”
Tommy laughed. “Maybe we’ll just stick to baritones from now on.”
“But I love an Irish tenor.” Father Michael cleared his throat and started singing: I’ve been a wild rover for many a year . . .
Montezuma, of course, joined in, as Tommy laughed.
“And that, Father, is why you are working for God, and not us.” I shook my head, and shot a glare at Montezuma. “Let’s just enjoy our tea.”
“Love the birdie!”
Epilogue
The Post from London
A packet of mail was waiting in my dressing room on our second night in San Francisco. Xerxes was a winner: General Shane leading the troops to excellent reviews and much praise for reviving a bit of Handel history. If I was ridiculously pleased to see the thick cream-colored envelope with the crest and Leith House on it, it was nobody’s business, but my own. The first letter had arrived weeks before we left the City, and they came regularly. Like the others, tonight’s epistle was in bold hand in midnight-blue ink, as always opening almost, but not quite, formally with My Dear Shane. It was mostly comprised of the sort of interesting and amusing tales from daily life you’d share with any faraway friend, with none of the sort of sweet talk one might expect from a man who was, after all, planning to formally pay court. But, as always, there was that last paragraph. This time:
I find that I am spending an inordinate amount of time these days trying to determine if your eyes are greenish blue, or bluish green.
And wishing I might settle the question in person. I wonder if you may be given to any similar concerns. Please advise.
Yours with much esteem,
G
My reply, also to pattern, was much the same. Since I was on tour, I could send him a cheerful and colorful travel report of my days in San Francisco and vicinity. I also included greetings from Tommy and Montezuma, both of whom were greatly enjoying the city: Tommy for the scenery, Montezuma for the grapes. Entirely friendly and appropriate, with no hint that I might be looking forward to the said courtship. I could, for goodness’ sakes, have sent almost the same letter to Preston or Hetty, and indeed many of the same stories were in my latest missives to them. But I, too, allowed for just a tiny hint of something else at the end:
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