“And—I beg your pardon if this is presumptuous—do you not find that unsatisfactory now, after your adventures?”
“Not at all.” But doubt crept into her thoughts. She was not entirely sure that was what she wanted, to pass her time paying calls and sewing and reading. And yet she could not think what else she might do. There were so many Extraordinary Speakers in England, finding commercial or private employment for her talent would be difficult, and she had no desire to return to the War Office, as enjoyable as her service had been. She had not realized how dull home was until Mr. Pakenham had implied it.
She drew in a calming breath. “And you, Mr. Pakenham. It is your turn to speak. You are new to our neighborhood, are you not?”
Mr. Pakenham laughed. “My turn to be interrogated, you mean? Very well. I have taken a house in the neighborhood—Seven Pines. Do you know the place?”
“Yes, it used to belong to the Haverhills. I did not know they were gone.”
“I believe they moved to London. My good fortune, as it permits me to become acquainted with you.”
Bess was not close enough to make out his expression, but she could hear the humor in his voice, tinged with a deeper meaning. “You flatter me, Mr. Pakenham.”
“Not at all. I enjoy our conversation. I hope it is not entirely unpleasant to you.”
“It has gone on for perhaps five minutes,” Bess said with a smile. “That is hardly enough time to draw a conclusion.”
“My good fortune again, to have you all to myself for the space of two dances. I intend to make myself pleasing to you, so when we part, you will think of me generously.”
It had been many weeks since any man had spoken so warmly to her. “Then tell me more of yourself,” she said, “as I find that very pleasing indeed.”
She found Mr. Pakenham’s stream of conversation better than a beacon to keep her aligned with him, and answered his conversational sallies cheerfully. She learned he had a good estate, but no talent, and spoke of her own talent in response to his questions, which sounded genuinely interested. He was pleasant, and charming, and Bess felt her spirits, depressed by her encounter with Lord Cofferey, lift.
At the end of their dances, Mr. Pakenham offered her his arm. “I realize your eyesight is poor, but it seems not to interfere greatly with your activities,” he said as he escorted her back to where Mama sat conversing with Mrs. Hainsworth.
“My eyesight began failing when I was nine,” Bess said, “and has been this poor for several years. I have learned to adapt.”
“And your eyes may not be Shaped to restore your vision?”
“The fault is in the nerves, not the eyes, and I have spoken with many Extraordinary Shapers who tell me they cannot be repaired. They are reluctant to experiment on me for fear I may lose what little vision I have. It is not something that distresses me.” It had distressed her, once upon a time, but she was older and more practical now.
“Still, I admire your abilities.”
“I decided long ago there was no point in feeling sorry for myself. Without my spectacles, I can see no farther than a foot’s distance, but my eyesight will not worsen, the doctors tell me. And I am still capable of reading, which is a great pleasure.”
Mr. Pakenham released her arm and bowed. “Miss Hanley, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance. I hope we may meet again soon.”
“Likewise, Mr. Pakenham.”
When he was nothing but a distant blur, Mama said, “Oh, my dear, Mr. Pakenham is most gentlemanly, is he not? And five thousand a year, unless I miss my guess!”
“Mama,” Bess said, “I hardly think Mr. Pakenham’s wealth is of interest to me.”
“Well, it should be. You ought to be thinking of the future.”
Bess laughed. “Two dances is not a promise of the future, Mama.” She took a seat next to her and closed her eyes. The head-ache, which had waned as she danced, returned, slightly worse than before, but not enough to signify.
She listened idly to her mother’s chatter to Mrs. Hainsworth, then directed her attention to the other voices in the room. It was a game she sometimes played, identifying who was present by voice alone. Lady Barnes’s deep, commanding voice, deeper than some of the men’s, was an obvious one, as was the high twitter of her younger daughter, only just out this past summer. Mr. Escot had a northern accent that set him apart from the Devonshire folk.
Then her brother Edmund said something, very nearby, about a horse he intended to buy, and she glanced in his direction and smiled. She loved all three of her brothers, but Edmund, closest in age to her, was also closest in friendship. She wished he were not quite so wild, but she had not the heart to reprimand him when he was also so full of life and high spirits.
Another man’s laugh followed Edmund’s last sally. Bess’s lips tightened as she observed a splash of bright copper hair in that direction. Lord Ravenscroft. He was, if anything, more of a wild spirit than Edmund, which accounted for why they were such good friends. Bess knew no real harm of the viscount, heir to the Earl of Waymark, but her parents believed he encouraged Edmund’s worst habits, and Bess wished Edmund would find someone more steady who might encourage his best habits instead.
Lord Ravenscroft’s laugh rang out again, almost comically shrill as if he were in liquor. Bess stood. “I will walk about the room, Mama,” she said.
“Take care, Bess,” Mama said.
Bess made her way past seated and standing guests, around the swirl of bright and dark colors that was the dance. This one, she might have danced with ease, and she wondered that no one had claimed her for it. Ordinarily, she never sat out a dance. Perhaps her popularity had waned in the years she was absent, or possibly her usual partners were leery of inviting the grief-stricken fiancée of a dead hero to dance.
Someone loomed up in front of her unexpectedly, and she bumped into a tall, solid form. She stepped back, mortified. “I beg your pardon—I did not see you.”
“I wonder that you can see anything with those spectacles,” a deep voice said. “They seem rather more suited to a bright summer morning than a dimly-lit, drafty ballroom.”
“Mr. Addison,” Bess said. “How are you this evening?”
“As well as ever,” Mr. Addison said. He was close enough for Bess to tell he had his attention on some other part of the room. He was handsome in a dark, brooding way despite his stiff demeanor. “You do not dance?”
“Not at the moment. Unless you intend to ask me?” Bess said mischievously.
Mr. Addison glanced at her, then looked away again. “My apologies, but you know I do not dance.”
“I am aware, sir,” Bess said. Mr. Addison had been her father’s neighbor for twelve years, and in all that time Bess had never known him to dance even once, not even when politeness demanded it. Bess judged him shy rather than arrogant, so she was not offended, though she sometimes, as now, could not resist teasing him a little.
Mr. Addison shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Did you enjoy your time in India?” he asked.
“As much as anyone might. But I am happy to be home.” She really ought to leave him to his solitude, but she was in an impish mood, and this was the most he had ever said to her at one of these gatherings.
“Understandable. We are all, naturally, pleased to have you back.”
“Thank you. Will you remain in the country long, or are you London-bound?”
He glanced at her again and said, “I have not yet decided. What of you?”
For Mr. Addison, this counted as truly garrulous. “I am not certain either,” Bess said. “There is so much to do in the city, and yet I have been home such a short time…you see my dilemma.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Addison bowed and added, “If you will excuse me, Miss Hanley.”
Bess curtseyed, choosing not to take offense at his abruptness. “Of course, Mr. Addison.” She almost felt sorry for him, and wondered why he continued to attend gatherings at which there would be dancing if he disliked the activity so much.
She made her way along the wall, well away from the dancers, until she found a seat in a quiet corner. Her head-ache had faded once again, and she felt at peace. Honoria, she Spoke, how goes your evening?
There was a pause, then Honoria said, Dreadfully dull. I am quite eager for the wedding to be here and gone, and myself and Mr. Clendennan on our wedding journey.
A journey sounds lovely. The realization surprised Bess. As she had told Mr. Addison, she had been away for many years; surely she should be content at home. But home contained so many reminders of John, it was difficult for her to overcome her grief. Again guilt struck her, this time guilt that she should want to overcome her grief, as if letting go of it meant letting go of her memories of her dear friend. Where do you intend to go? she asked Honoria.
The Lake District. Mr. Clendennan is quite the romantic, and loves the beauties of nature. The connection shivered with Honoria’s laugh, which in reality was rather horse-like and completely at odds with her extraordinary beauty. I am less convinced, but I am willing to take the chance.
Very daring of you. The musicians struck up a new song. With luck, this quiet corner would not be so quiet as to dissuade would-be partners. Excuse me, Honoria, I hope to dance soon.
Enjoy yourself, Bess. The connection vanished.
Bess sat up straighter. Perhaps she should move toward the dancers, so potential partners might see her. She did not relish the idea of sitting out most of the dances simply because others believed she wanted solitude.
Someone Spoke into her mind without warning, startling her. This is the most dreadful evening I have endured in many weeks.
It was no one whose Voice she knew.
Chapter 2
In which Bess receives an unexpected but welcome invitation
I beg your pardon! Bess responded, tilting her head back to indicate she was Speaking with someone so no one would interrupt. Who are you?
You heard that? the Voice said. He—she felt certain it was a he—sounded utterly startled, more startled even than Bess had been.
Of course I heard that. What I do not understand is how you were able to address me. You are not one of my reticulum.
The Voice went silent.
You must be somewhere in this room, to make a connection with someone not in your reticulum, Bess went on, and that also means you must be an Extraordinary. I ask again, who are you? I know of no Extraordinary Speakers in this neighborhood.
The silence continued. I must insist you tell me your identity, Bess persisted.
Finally, the Voice said, My identity is my own affair. What I do not understand is how you were able to hear me. I choose not to Speak to anyone.
How odd. Why not?
Answer me. How did you hear my Speech? The strong Voice reverberated in Bess’s mind.
Did you not know that an Extraordinary Speaker is capable of sending his Speech into the minds of anyone, Speaker or not? Your stray thought had behind it such feeling that I was capable of intercepting it. You must be new to your talent—but there are no children present, and I cannot believe you, whoever you are, manifested so late in life. She opened her eyes and scanned the room, but saw nothing but colored blurs, as usual. Tell me your name.
I have kept this secret for years. I do not intend to reveal it to you, whoever you are.
I am Miss Hanley. And you are somewhere in this room.
A sense of amusement filled her, the Speech equivalent of a laugh. Miss Hanley? You are nearly blind. It is unlikely you can identify me.
Then give me a name I may call you by. Why she was being so insistent, she did not know, except that here was a mystery, and she did not know she was bored until it presented itself. How unfortunate that a Speaker’s Voice had nothing in common with his physical voice, or she would know him already.
The Voice went silent again for a few moments. You may call me…Mr. Quinn.
She knew of no one by that name, but she already knew it would be a false one. Mr. Quinn. Why so secretive?
Are you always this persistent, Miss Hanley?
Not always. Now, certainly.
I do not care for this talent and its implications, nor that I might develop a reticulum full of distasteful Voices. I would be rid of it if I could. And if I am truly an Extraordinary, it makes this talent even more detestable.
Mr. Quinn’s vehemence startled Bess. She loved her talent and could not imagine detesting it enough to wish to lose it. Nothing requires you to make connections with Voices you do not like.
You are naïve to believe so.
Bess drew in an outraged breath. I have more experience with a reticulum than you, sir. Do not call me naïve.
You are insulted? My apologies. I can only say that my experience is contrary to yours. When one is surrounded by Speakers one dislikes, one’s desire to add them to one’s reticulum vanishes.
That was unexpected. She could imagine no circumstances in which someone might be entirely surrounded by unpleasant Voices. You intrigue me, Mr. Quinn.
That was not my intent. I do not know why I permitted myself to be drawn into this conversation.
His Voice sounded rather petulant, and Bess smiled. Mental Speech has an attraction, an emotional draw that fills a Speaker with the desire to continue. It is an intimacy only Speakers understand. Have you truly never Spoken to anyone before this evening?
No. I believed myself successfully isolated. I have no wish to be known as a Speaker, Extraordinary or otherwise.
Then you are known as someone with no talent. Which of the guests might Mr. Quinn be? She wished she had paid more attention to the arrivals, to know which of them were men of no talent. Mr. Pakenham, for one, and Mr. Addison…her brother Edmund, but surely he would not play such a trick on her? And his friend, Lord Ravenscroft…were there no others?
I will not give you the means to identify me, Mr. Quinn said.
You need not. It is impossible for anyone to possess more than one talent, therefore anyone here who has a talent cannot be yourself.
And I suppose it is useless for me to request that you leave me my privacy?
His words shamed Bess. She had allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. I beg your pardon, sir. You are correct, I have no right to pry. But…I have never known anyone to successfully conceal a Speaker’s talent! You are most unusual. A thought occurred to her. Surely it must be obvious to those around you that you are Speaking to someone.
Again, she felt that silent amusement. I do not strike a Speaker’s attitude, with the head flung back, if that is what you mean.
I meant that—
“Miss Hanley?”
Bess’s head snapped down, and she blinked to moisten her dry eyes. Young Roger Deering stood before her. He held himself stiffly, as if he were the deer his name suggested and might bolt at the least provocation. “I apologize for intruding,” he said, “and I hope I did not interrupt an important communication, but I hoped to ask you for the next two dances.”
Bess managed a smile despite her irritation. The gentleman was young enough that he might not realize what a breach of etiquette he had committed in addressing her while she was Speaking. “I would be pleased to dance with you, Mr. Deering,” she said. She rose and accepted his arm. We will Speak again later, she shot in Mr. Quinn’s direction.
I think we will not, Mr. Quinn said, and there was the decided stillness of a deliberate refusal to Speak.
Bess smiled at Mr. Deering, doing her best to be cheerful despite the mild irritation her conversation with Mr. Quinn had raised in her. “It is good to see you,” she said. “I understand from Edmund you recently purchased a new horse.”
Mr. Deering’s head came up. “I did,” he said with some excitement. “It is—”
A tingling in Bess’s temples distracted her from her partner’s words. Bess, you will simply not believe this, Catherine Tweedy said without preamble. Eugenia Hardwick said that Susan Wentworth told her that Mary Stofford is engaged to Randolph Masterson! Can
you credit it?
Bess’s irritation swelled. I beg your pardon, Catherine, but I must give my attention to my dance partner, she said, and to Mr. Deering said, “My apologies, Mr. Deering, I was addressed unexpectedly. Pray, continue.”
She could not make out Mr. Deering’s expression, but his voice, when he spoke again, was tentative, and Bess wished she had Catherine present to shake her for her typical inopportune timing. She had known Catherine since they were both young Speakers at the Carteret Seminary for Talented Young Ladies and had added her to her reticulum before knowing how shallow and self-centered Catherine was. And now, since it was impossible to remove someone from one’s reticulum, Bess had no choice but to endure Catherine’s gossipy, sometimes malicious Speech and hope she would lose interest in Bess as a conversational partner.
“It sounds like a lovely animal,” she said, though in truth she was not fond of horses, being incapable of riding. But Mr. Deering was kind and had an honest heart, and he was enough younger than she that she felt a sisterly affection for him. After a few minutes in which Catherine said nothing else, Bess relaxed enough to enjoy her partner’s conversation.
She intended to accost Mr. Quinn when she was again free, but it seemed Mr. Deering’s approach had broken some artificial reserve, for she was never again without a partner. The need to concentrate on the steps of the dances, on not tripping into someone, prevented her from Speaking as she moved, as well as her feeling that she should give her partner her full attention.
As the evening wore on, she began to question her motives. Did she have a right to invade Mr. Quinn’s privacy when he so clearly preferred anonymity, simply because she could not bear a mystery? The answer, she was forced to conclude, was “no.” She would be no better than Catherine if she did.
Finally, she politely turned down a request for another dance and found a seat, wishing she dared remove her shoes and massage her aching feet. The room, which had been so comfortable, was now far too hot. She fanned herself with her gloved hand and closed her eyes against the returning head-ache. Perhaps Mama and Father might be willing to leave; it was rather late.
Whispering Twilight Page 2