“It’s very disorienting,” she admitted, feeling her emotions gushing as if a lock on a canal had been opened, letting the waters rise. “I’ve lost my parents and my home. It was all in the natural course of things, yet now… now…” She paused. She shouldn’t admit such emotional things to a stranger, but she felt as though she had been secreting away words for years, with no one to share them with, except in letters she never sent to Patrick. “I spent years caring for my parents. It consumed all my hours and thoughts. And now that I’m back in London, I feel like I’m on a beach, trying to find the seashell that I once fit in. But it’s gone. Washed away. I’m different, but I don’t know how.” She brushed her hand on her gown. “I’m a costume of broken threads. I’m sorry, I should say—”
“Were they sick for very long?”
Only after she had sat on the bench beside the man, did she think that perhaps she shouldn’t have. But why did it matter now? She didn’t know how much longer she would remain in London anyway, stewing in memories of Patrick, who wasn’t coming back... at least, not for her. Maybe her future rested across the ocean in Holland with her father’s family. She had never been there, but her faithful moon companion would follow her.
“My mother passed quickly, painfully,” she said.
“That must have been hard to watch.”
“Yes. She was so vivacious… like me. Or so they tell me. In the end, I was overwhelmed with sadness, of course, but she wasn’t hurting anymore. My father’s death was much slower. Cancer. I only truly got to know him in his last months.” She paused, remembering reading to him as he rested on a sofa in his study, while brown, twittering finches hopped about the vine growing along the sill. “He was very quiet. My mother’s world was among other people.” She gestured to the guests lingering about the door. “But my father lived in nature and his books. Funny the worlds we inhabit. Am I boring you?” She knew if she’d uttered such things to her aunt or cousins, she would receive only useless blank looks.
“While most dry English sorts bore me to flinders,” he said, “you are an exception and do not. Please continue. Tell me more about your father. He sounds fascinating.”
“He was a naturalist. He was captivated by the smallest detail, the kind most people would rush over.” She turned and looked at the man, whose eyes now glowed with sympathy. She wondered if her musketeer was perhaps a kind, old man, wizened by age. Perhaps that was why she felt so comfortable with him. “Did you know the true miracles are in the smallest of things?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“He saw all the miracles. I’m still learning, but I fear I haven’t my father’s talents for observation.”
“But he showed you where to look.”
Her lips spread into an appreciative smile. “You put it so neatly. I have kept his drawings to remind me. When I finally find a new home, I shall put them on the wall so that I will see them every day, like my mother’s necklace.” She touched the small ruby at her neck. “I want to keep them near me.”
“You have no home?”
“I’m currently staying with my aunt, but…” She shrugged. “I don’t know where I’m going. I live day to day now.”
“I understand.”
Silence crept over the conversation. It was that kind of silence she’d learned from her father. When no words were exchanged, yet meaning filled the void. She instinctively knew this stranger lived day to day as well. She knew he hurt in a way he wasn’t conveying. She couldn’t articulate how she comprehended him. She just felt him.
A cluster of people on the side of the terrace broke into loud laughter, destroying the quiet.
“Might I recommend Madrid as a home?” the musketeer said. “Excellent climate and charming people.”
She shrugged. “Madrid, Timbuktu, Saint Petersburg, Dover.”
“Dover is far too remote. It’s a treacherous half-day trip from London by coach and sled dog.”
“And I understand the roads are strewn with highwaymen, Mongol hordes, and, of course, the famed blood-thirsty pirates.”
“Have you no protector, fair maiden? No hopeless romance? You see, to a musketeer, all romances are conveniently doomed things, because, well, a musketeer must dash off to the next adventure. He can’t be tied down when a quest calls.”
“Once,” she admitted, hearing the brittleness in her own voice. “Long ago.”
“It—it sounds as though you still have emotions for him.” The amusement had left his voice. The question was a serious one.
She studied him. Who was he? His gaze was as mesmerizing as the moon above them. She knew it was reckless to admit her secrets to a stranger. But were they truly secrets if they burned to be known?
“I fear my Theseus has abandoned me,” she confessed. “He has sailed away. My heart hurts, and no Dionysus awaits on the horizon to comfort me. Perhaps I should—”
“My wife died.” His words spilled out, broken and raw.
She seized his hands. “I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t draw away but tightened his hold on her fingers. His palm was both soft and rough—not what she’d expected from an older man. The warmth of his clasp radiated through her. She hadn’t touched many men, only Patrick and her father. The musketeer’s touch reminded her of neither. It was kinder, lighter—the touch of a sympathetic friend.
A woman’s voice broke the silence. “Lord Exmore, there you—oh my, am I interrupting something? I do hope so.” She gave a light, tinkling laugh.
Annalise gasped. Exmore! The man holding her hand was Exmore!
The musketeer—Exmore—bolted up from the bench, concealing Annalise behind him. “What do you want?” he rudely responded to the woman. A hardness had entered his voice. It was the voice she remembered from years ago. Annalise began to shiver. What had she done?
“Oh, I shan’t get in the way of your seduction du jour.” The woman disappeared in waves of blue silk, her laughter trailing behind her.
Exmore slowly turned. Dizzying heat rushed to Annalise’s head.
“I’m sorry, Miss Van Der Keer. I—”
“Wait!” The realization burst in her mind. “You knew it was me! You knew! H-how long have you known?”
He released a breath and raked his hands through his hair. “Since you entered the ballroom with your aunt.”
She glanced down. Her hands were shaking. She felt violated. He had been playing with her. He’d pretended to be so sympathetic, but a true sympathetic, kind person wouldn’t carry out such mean trickery. She was humiliated thinking about all she had confided to him… about her father, about Patrick…
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
“Get—get away from me.” She bolted for the door.
Forgive? As if he had accidentally stepped on her toe or bumped into her, instead of ripping her beating heart from her chest. She didn’t give her forgiveness so lightly. To Hades with London and Exmore. She just wanted to get away from London and all its heartbreak as fast as she could. There was nothing for her here… not anymore. She had been stupid to come back.
All the inhabitants of the refreshment room looked up when she entered. Their gazes felt like a splash of cold water on her face. News of her presence had pervaded the party. Everyone knew that beneath the stupid costume was Annalise Van Der Keer, the silly girl who’d disgraced herself chasing after Patrick Hume. She could see the malicious laughter trembling on the guests’ lips. She glanced back at the terrace, where Satan waited. She was cornered. She swallowed, raised her head, and walked across the room, ignoring the whispers.
The ball continued until two. Annalise thankfully didn’t spy Exmore again. She spent the rest of the masquerade wandering from room to room, pretending to look busy. All the while, she planned. It would take several weeks to arrange for a stay at a relative’s home in Holland. Tomorrow, she would write the letters. Upon receiving a positive response, she would buy a ticket on a boat and tell Mrs. Bailey that she didn’t require her employment. Dear, loyal Mrs
. Bailey would be miserable away from her motherland. It was time Annalise truly grew up and left her memories of Patrick behind. He wasn’t coming back. He was gone forever. Her love for him was like having an amputated limb—she had to go on living despite the pain, scars, and missing part.
After Mrs. Bailey removed Annalise’s hideous costume and left her alone to sleep, Annalise opened her portfolio and drew out her last letter to Patrick. She turned the letter, writing across it.
Dear Patrick,
Sadly, our correspondence must end. I will always love you. But you do not love me, and I need to let go of the fantasy that someday you will again. Good-bye.
She read over her words as the ink dried. No! She wadded up the letter and then stopped and pressed it out. Why couldn’t she let go of him? Why had she chased his memory to London when he clearly didn’t love her? What was wrong with her?
* * *
Nothing could blot out what happened. The smoke and noise in the gaming hell hurt Exmore’s head. He couldn’t seem to add up his cards or remember what card led. Alcohol didn’t bring the sweet numbing sensation he craved for his self-loathing. Having lost ten pounds, he gave up and ambled home, hoping the cold air would clear his mind. He carried on a logical argument in his head as he wove through the streets
He had tricked Annalise. Why did he follow her to the terrace? Because he had to solve the mystery: Had she truly changed?
Yet, why did he keep talking once he had determined that her temperament had indeed calmed? Why did he ask her intimate questions when he had known he was violating her trust?
He looked up. The swollen moon was directly above him.
Because she made him happy. For the moments that he was with her, he felt lifted above the despondency that followed him. He hadn’t thought the conversation would go very far. He hadn’t thought he would have to admit who he was. He had wanted only to keep her near him. He could tell she hadn’t known happiness in a long while. She hadn’t appeared to know that Patrick was returning. She was simply lost, as he had been after Cassandra died—unsure of who he was and the world he inhabited. She had wanted to talk, and he had been the wrong gentleman at the right place and time. Like him, she was surrounded by people, yet she was painfully alone. He wanted to make her happy too.
Of course, he had ended up making her feel worse. Damn him.
He was sober by the time he entered his home. He kept his eyes averted from his wife’s portrait as he climbed the staircase to his chamber. He lit the candle on his writing desk and sank into the chair. He drew out a clean sheet of stationery from the drawer, dipped his pen, and wrote.
Miss Van Der Keer…
Chapter Five
* * *
Annalise had written and dispatched three letters to Dutch relatives by luncheon. She kept her plans to herself for now because Phoebe and her mother were bubbling with excitement from the masquerade. They subjected Mr. Sommerville to a detailed recounting of every costume and every dance partner.
“Enough, good wife!” he bellowed. “What have I done to deserve this torment?” He glanced down the table. “You are mercifully quiet, Annalise. Are you not in boughs over the masquerade too?”
Annalise jumped at the sound of her name. She had been staring out the window, wondering about the flora and fauna of Holland. They had tulips, of course, but she wondered what she might find that wasn’t in England.
“Ah, she’s daydreaming,” her uncle said. “One night in London, and she’s already ridiculously in love. Maybe this one will stay around, and I can pop her off. I need to start ridding myself of my female problem. It’s an infestation I have on my hands.”
His wife laughed.
“I was thinking about botany,” Annalise said flatly.
“Turning into a bluestocking, are you?” he quipped. “I suppose the ball must have bored you.”
“I had a wonderful time,” she lied. Aunt Sally and Phoebe had been too caught up in their excitement to have noticed the ripple Annalise’s presence had caused at the masquerade. Annalise decided it was best to remain silent about the problem since she would be leaving soon enough.
“Sadly, Annalise’s new gown won’t be ready in time for tonight’s ball at the Danvers’. She’ll have to wear an old one,” Aunt Sally said.
Lud, another ball? It didn’t matter what she wore there. She was only going to linger in the corner, trying to be as invisible as possible. This would be her battle plan until she could retreat to the Continent.
“Oh dear, whatever shall we do?” Mr. Sommerville adopted his falsetto tone again. He dabbed his face with his linen. “Annalise must wear rags. I feel a faint coming on.” His family laughed merrily. Annalise managed only a stiff smile. Thankfully, her uncle’s tirade was cut short when the manservant entered, holding a package and several letters.
“Pardon, sir.” He bowed. “A letter has arrived in the post from your solicitor. You had asked that I inform you as soon as it arrived, sir.”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Sommerville rose, signaling the end of luncheon, and took the letters from the servant. “I shall be in the library seeing to important business,” he said. “Should you require my audience for some trifling matter, my door will be locked.” He walked out.
“Come, Annalise, you must help me with a darling new hairdressing for tonight,” Phoebe said, coming to her feet.
Before Annalise could answer, the servant thrust the package before her. “For you, miss.”
Annalise slowly took it, noticing the frank. Her belly tightened.
“Ooh, what could it be?” Phoebe asked.
Annalise quickly turned the package, hiding the frank.
“Is it from a dance partner?” Phoebe continued. “I wondered that we should receive no flowers this morning. But maybe because it was a masquerade, our partners won’t send any because they aren’t to know it was you.”
“I suppose,” Annalise said casually, hoping to conceal her racing heart.
“Come then, open it!” Phoebe said.
“It’s from a friend from home.” Annalise changed the subject. “Flowers in your hair would be lovely. Don’t you think, Shelley?”
“Yes!” Shelley grinned to be included with the older girls.
“Then I shall dress both my cousins’ hair?” This was met with great approval, and the mystery of the package was quickly forgotten.
Minutes later, Annalise tossed the package onto her bed in her chamber. “There is nothing I want to hear from you,” she told the package as though it were Exmore himself. She turned to leave and help her cousins but stopped and groaned. “Very well.”
It was best to get these vile things over with. She recklessly tore the paper away and then gasped. Below was an illustration by Visser—the koala she had not chosen that day in the shop. How had he known? Had he been there? But she didn’t remember anyone being in the shop but herself and the clerk before her cousins arrived.
She removed the illustration from the trappings of paper, and a folded letter fell onto her lap. She set the illustration carefully on the mattress and then opened the letter to reveal neat, unadorned script.
Miss Van Der Keer:
Please accept my apologies. I betrayed your kind trust, and for that I am deeply sorry. I must own that I knew you had returned to London after I spied you in the print shop. You did not see me in the back behind a statue because you were enraptured by the illustrations of Visser. I hope you will accept the gift of the illustration you left behind that day in order to purchase “silly slippers.”
I should have made my identity known to you at the ball, and pardon if I am presumptuous, but it seemed as if you wanted to talk, that you hadn’t had someone to speak to for a long while. Had you known my identity, I fear you would have remained silent. I found our conversation delightful and regret its abrupt ending. Please know that all your words I keep in confidence, as I have your call to my home years ago. How our lives have changed since that time. I have nothing but the kindest w
ishes for you. I apologize if I upset you, and I give you my word that I will kindly stay away from you for the remainder of your time in London. God bless you.
Exmore.
She drew in her breath and reread the letter. She was struck by Exmore’s kindness, as she had been when she had known him only as a musketeer. He had been a villain for so long in her mind, it was hard to think of him in any other role. Had what she thought was betrayal of her trust merely been confused compassion? Should she write him back of her forgiveness?
Did she forgive him?
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
And hadn’t she not been entirely without fault the night she called, unchaperoned and unkempt, to his home? Theirs was a tangled mess of emotions and history, and she would rather avoid him and the memories he kicked up.
She studied the koala, and suddenly, an image of her father cradled in her arms, laboring for breath as he died, filled her mind. She had squandered most of their lives together, assuming he was dull and boring. It hadn’t been until the end that she truly knew him. Exmore had lost someone too. She remembered the pain in his voice. My wife died. Who was she to judge? She was foolishly holding on to Patrick, a man who didn’t love her. Exmore had told her as much that evening long ago, but she had refused to believe him because the truth hurt too much. No, she had never learned to love more wisely, as he had said she would. Her heart was as stupid as ever.
Yes, perhaps she could forgive.
She crossed to her desk, drew out a piece of paper, and dipped her pen. What to say? A large blob of ink dripped onto the page. Again, that old anger she had nursed for Exmore returned afresh. She hastily scribbled.
What do you want from me? Why couldn’t you leave me alone?
Her door opened, and Phoebe popped her head in. “Are you coming to help us with my hair for the ball or not?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Annalise turned the page over and rose from the chair. She needed a little more time to think about forgiveness before she wrote any more.
Marquesses at the Masquerade Page 17