Madeline glanced over her shoulder. "I’ve heard about the dresses. I didn’t know about the elbows."
"Oh, yes. Your father was beside himself. He was not a young man anymore, even then." She smiled, thinking the earl had been about her own age now—thirty-six— but she’d thought him very old indeed. "I burst into tears when I looked at the dresses—it’s hard for you to imagine it, but the disaster might have ruined us. My mother had died shortly before and I was working morning till night trying to make enough for us to eat."
So, so long ago, but Juliette remembered every detail with a clarity made sharp by sweetness. That accidental meeting had changed her life. "He was quite handsome, and he was contrite at the mistake— and without vanity, I think I can say that at fourteen I was an extraordinary beauty, although I did not know it truly until the earl became so besotted."
Ordinarily, she stopped the story there, moving lightly over the intervening months when the earl had seduced her, given her more money than she’d seen in her life, fed her until her skin smoothed and her body filled out. Her father looked the other way, seeing a way out of their poverty, but it had not sat well with him, a God-fearing Christian man.
"I found myself with child," she said quietly, pulling the brush through Madeline’s dark tresses, willing her not to turn around until she could finish. "As did the earl’s wife. He cared for us both, tending to her needs as well as mine. He established rooms for me, and a midwife, and a girl to come in and help. I was to be his mistress, you see, and I was quite willing."
"His mistress, and pregnant," Madeline repeated.
"Yes." Over and over she brushed, watching candlelight shimmer in Madeline’s hair. "And each of us gave birth to a child, mine a little sooner than hers. We both had daughters with a lot of hair."
Madeline turned, her expression very sober.
Juliette met her gaze. "The countess of Whitethorn died in childbed. Her baby lived only hours."
"You are my mother?" Madeline asked and touched her eye.
"Yes." Juliette swallowed. "You must understand how deeply the earl and I loved. It was a risk, but we both knew it was worth taking. His wife and daughter were buried together, but all thought the babe was well. He fetched you and gave you to the wet nurse. Within months, I, too, lived at Whitethorn, as wife— not mistress."
Madeline closed her eyes and swayed forward to put her head against Juliette’s bony shoulder. "You are my mother."
Juliette clasped her close, smelling in with gratitude the scent of her thick hair. "Yes." After a moment, she asked, "Do you mind?"
"No."
A vast, enveloping weariness filled Juliette, mingled with relief. Her whole body began to tremble with the effort of holding herself upright, and she gently released Madeline. "I must rest again," she said. "Perhaps tomorrow I’ll feel well enough to go abroad with you."
Madeline rose. She tucked the quilts closely around Juliette, and pressed a kiss to her brow. "’Night, Mama," she whispered.
Juliette, her heart unburdened, slept.
Chapter Nineteen
Our passions are most like to floods and streams,
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb.
~ Sir Walter Ralegh
Lucien, having no choice, let his rooms go. He would have let the servants Delwin and Harriet Green go, too, but they cornered him on his last day in the apartment.
It was a dark, hot day, humid and oppressive. Lucien thought, looking over the unmoving treetops, the day fit his mood. The oppressive stillness without reflected the dead silence within. Even when he was drunk, his music did not stir.
He could not remember a summer that had been so dark and wet and gloomy as this one. He’d hoped August would be better, but it showed no signs of improvement yet.
His neck prickled with perspiration and he scratched at it irritably, packing his favored books— things he’d not allow another soul to transport for him—into wooden boxes. There were pages and pages of music here, written by friends and by great masters and some even by Lucien himself as a youth. Carefully, he sheaved it together, wrapping it in a layer of fabric before putting it away in the boxes. The music itself meant nothing, but there was some sentimental value in the pages, in the days he’d spent in Vienna. They had been, after all, the only days in his life that he ever felt happy or whole or as if he belonged somewhere.
Not like London. He shook his head. If one wanted to laze around and drink and play cards, London was a fair-enough place to light. Lucien’s trouble had always been a higher than usual level of energy, and it drove him mad to be idle. He could only sit long enough to play cards if he’d had enough exercise the rest of the day. He liked the robust feeling walking gave him, and riding his horse. He had, much to his surprise, also enjoyed the work in the gardens at Whitethorn. It was a satisfying activity—something you could see at the end of a day.
And now it seemed he would have his chance to learn how the world lived, for he would not, as he’d always imagined, be the next earl of Monthart, but only henceforth Lucien Esher, modest holder of a handful of properties in outflung areas of England, and a little land in Russia that was willed to him through his mother. He also owned outright a small house with a walled garden, Rosewood, on the outskirts of the city, that he’d purchased for his liaison with Lady Heath so many years ago. The lot of it would give him a few hundred pounds a year; enough to live comfortably but not richly—not as a lord.
Delwin crept into the room about three. "Would ye like some tea, milord?"
Wryly, Lucien smiled. "Were you thinking of brewing the paper here?" His supplies had dwindled rapidly, and the first rents would not come in till September. Until then, he’d be hard pressed even to buy food—all the more reason, he supposed, to find some way back into society. For a few weeks, he could let the countesses and ladies of London feed him. If he could find one to invite him, the rest would quickly forgive him.
And too, he’d heard Madeline and the countess were in town, making preparations for the wedding. The wedding. He lifted his head and focused on the trees standing at attention beyond his window, breathing carefully and slowly until the knot in his lungs broke up and moved away. He just wanted another single glimpse of Madeline before she married. One glimpse.
He’d forgotten Delwin until the servant spoke. "Er, no sir, we brought some tea from home," Delwin said. "And Harriet baked some cookies, too. She didn’t want ye going out on such a dank day without something in yer stomach."
Lucien straightened, and rested his hands on his hips, taking the man’s measure. Delwin was in his late fifties, still tall and relatively trim. He’d have the Englishman’s jowls in another few years, but just now, the flesh was merely soft. Behind him, his wife of thirty-odd years poked her head around the corner, eyes open and curious. "Well," Lucien said. "Brought it from home, hmm?"
"Yes sir."
"Well," he said again, and waved at Harriet. "Bring it in then, but only if you’ll both share it with me."
"Yes, milord. We’d like a word with ye."
Too surprised to make a protest, Lucien sat down with the pair and listened to their plea. They’d been out to Rosewood twice to cart his belongings, and he’d noticed then their murmurings as they tromped off into the wooded glade that led to the meadows and ponds, and examined the two-story stable. He had a hunch he knew what they were about to say. "I’ll tell you honestly I’ve no blunt to keep you on. ’Tis a sorry fact, but my father’s cut me off and I haven’t a farthing without him."
"Beggin’ yer pardon, milord, but ye do," Delwin said. "Have a farthing, that is."
"Pardon me?"
Delwin nodded at his wife, and she placed a box on the table, and lifted its lid. Within was a sizeable pile of coins. Gaping, Lucien asked, "Where did it come from?"
"It’s yours, milord. You dropped it here and there, out of your purse at night, most like, and in your shoe—" he glanced at his wife. "We allus figured the shoes were gambling winnings ye hadn�
�t wanted to claim. Sometimes, there was a fair piece o’ change in there."
Lucien laughed at the acuity of this observation. And he’d simply forgotten it most of the time. It seemed decadent to him, now that his circumstances were so reduced, that he could ever have been so careless. He swore, wiping a hand over his face.
"Weren’t just you, neither," Delwin confessed. "Yer friends and the, er, ladies left a bit here and there, too. We’ve just been scooping it up and saving it all this time, to use in case of emergency or suchlike. I reckon there’s a few hundred pounds."
Lucien narrowed his eyes and touched the pile of coins. "No one gave it to you and bade you give it to me?" He would hate it if someone pitied him to that degree.
Delwin frowned. "I tell ye it’s as I’ve just said. Ye dropped it all over the place when ye were in yer cups. We just collected it proper."
Stunned to silence, Lucien stared at the money. Was it possible he and his friends could carelessly drop this much money over the course of ten years? With his index finger, he poked the pile, gauging the amount to be more than three hundred pounds.
Incredible they hadn’t even missed it.
He looked at the earnest pair. "Considering all you’ve endured at my hands these many years, I believe you should keep this money yourself."
Harriet gave her husband a beatific smile. It was smug.
"She said you’d say that, milord," Delwin said, "but we ain’t interested in the cash as such. We’d like to come with ye to Rosewood and live in the rooms above the stables. Aren’t many that treats folk the way ye do, and we’ll work for room and board till yer back on your feet."
Shamed by their devotion when he’d been nothing but a drunken lout most of the time they’d known him, Lucien nodded. From the box he grabbed a handful of coins and held them for a moment, gauging what they would buy—meat for poor children for months; gin for a working man for a year; a roof for a family …
Or a single pair of gloves for a society girl like Madeline. With an odd sense of freedom, he smiled. "I think I’m glad to be done with the lot of them," he said, and put the money into Delwin’s hand. "You take this and put it away, and you may come to Rosewood with me."
So it was he went to live at the picturesque but tumbledown cottage of Rosewood. The Greens spent their days cleaning and fixing the stable, while Lucien chopped the wild growth out of the garden, which was, of course, filled with roses. There was one blooming that was the exact vivid shade of the one he’d plucked at Whitethorn—that impossibly intense magenta—that glowed against the gray morning. He touched it to his nose and breathed in the musky sweet smell. At the power of it, he closed his eyes …
And was filled with a sense of Madeline, all around him. Her skin, like the petals of the rose that he rubbed over his mouth. Her hair, smelling of sunshine and earth and roses, her laughter, surprisingly robust. He thought of her struggling with the violin, and thought of her struck dumb in the hall as Juliette and Jonathan made love in the library. He thought of her in a thousand ways, a thousand lights, a thousand moods.
He could not move while the longing washed through him. Under his feet the earth gave out the moist, rich smell of possibility, and he scented dew on grasses and heard the bright twittering of hidden birds—finches and sparrows, tiny and industrious, seeking their breakfasts. Caught in the silence of his soul, with hunger so deep, he knew he had to see her.
Lucien Harrow, late the worst rake in all of London, had fallen in love.
Too late.
* * *
One August morning filled with damp and heat, Madeline peeked in on Juliette. She slept quietly, her breath rasping as she exhaled, the sound rattling in the quiet. Madeline left her alone. Her condition was improving, but Madeline didn’t want to risk tiring her with the exhausting work of fittings and tussling with the dressmaker.
Instead, Madeline took a plump maid with her on her errands, a young girl improbably named Electra. When Madeline asked her about the unusual name, the girl shrugged. "Me mum is a great reader," she said, obviously not indulging the same pastime herself.
For a while Madeline wondered about explaining the myth to the girl, but the task seemed unbearably wearying and she did not.
A light drizzle fell from a very dark sky as they set out for the dressmaker. "We’d best get back early," Madeline commented, eyeing the clouds. "I expect there will be more than just this muzzy rain before much longer."
"I expect yer right, mum."
Perhaps then, Madeline thought, she might be able to find an hour to visit Mr. Redding, with whom she’d been corresponding for several years regarding her experimental plants. He had a great conservatory attached to his house and had extended a standing invitation to her when he heard she was in London— she was welcome to visit. He did his gardening in the early afternoons, if she’d care to come then.
She cared. The thought of going to the conservatory, even for a few hours, held promise of refreshment. A feeling of defeat dogged her days, and she couldn’t understand it. Hadn’t she triumphed? Wasn’t Juliette her real mother? Weren’t the gardens to be saved?
But from some hidden place a voice cried out, LucienLucienLucien. Madeline had given up on silencing it. All day and all night, it chanted there, a small voice crying his name. She had no hope it would ever cease.
As the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the dressmaker’s, Madeline saw from the corner of her eye a man who looked remarkably like Lucien. Her heart jumped and she turned her head quickly, peering into the milling crowd on the street, the men in their top hats, the women in their cloaks. A sea of umbrellas moved in the gray mist, obscuring faces. Madeline peered anxiously at them for a moment, but the man she thought had been Lucien did not appear.
Only her foolish imagination.
With a sense of loss, she allowed Electra to lead her into the shop. The last group of dresses was to be fitted today. At least there was that comfort—she needn’t be burdened with the task anymore.
As they were about to enter the shop, Madeline spied in the glass the reflection of a tall figure on a horse; a man with black hair pulled into a queue, his limbs lean and long, his face—
She whirled, but the man was gone. "Are ye feeling all right, milady?" Frowning, Madeline turned. "Yes, I’m fine." They went in. The dressmaker bustled over, exclaiming happily about the gowns. Madeline was led into a curtained alcove where two young girls stripped her of her day dress and settled a soft green baize over her body. The color lit her complexion, and the fabric felt pleasant against her skin. It fit exactly right, not too low at the bust, skimming her waist, clasping her arms. Examining herself, Madeline said, "This will do nicely, but you must remove these flowers." In illustration, she tugged at the silk flowers festooning the bodice and waist.
"But Madame will—"
Madeline had heard this before. She waved it away. "Madame may put flowers on other women’s dresses. Not on mine."
She didn’t miss the repressed smile one of the girls gave the other. Was she one of those horrendously bossy and difficult customers who’d so embarrassed her as a child when she’d tagged behind Juliette on fittings? No. What she’d not understood as a child was the great expense of such gowns. She had every right to see they were made to her exact specifications.
Beyond the curtain was a small stir, but Madeline paid it little mind as the girls carefully lifted the dress over her head and hung it up. One reached for Madeline’s wedding gown, a glorious creation of silk and beadwork, almost too fragile to be borne. If there were fairies, Madeline thought, allowing them to settle the gown around her, this was surely what they wore. Delicate beadwork edged the bodice, embracing her breasts with an elegantly seductive hand. Silk swathed her waist and tumbled over her legs. It was in the new style, not a saque or braced with panniers, but more closely fit.
It was more beautiful than anything Madeline had ever seen. As the girls tied the laces, Madeline touched the beadwork over her body, taking a strange p
leasure in the cool glass beads over her warm flesh.
An alarmed voice from beyond made Madeline lift her head curiously. "Sir!" cried Madame. "My lord! You must not go in there—"
Something hot and expectant whispered over Madeline’s heart and she turned. One of the girls dropped a scissors and she stooped to pick it up; a shoulder of the dress fell down Madeline’s arm.
"Sir, I really must insist—"
The curtain was flung aside. Lucien stood there, holding the fabric parted like a conquering captain. He wore a black cloak and dark breeches, and his hair was damp from the rain. His boots were muddy. Madeline stared at him, her heart pounding, and curled her fingers into her palms so she would not reach for him.
He stared at her, and there had never been such a burning in his eyes. They seemed to glow with some unholy light, the color a blue so vivid it almost pulsed. He had not shaved in a few days, and the grim shadow of a beard added to his rakish look. Hollows marked his eyes and the space below his cheekbones, and Madeline thought wildly that he was dying.
LucienLucienLucien said the voice. Madeline backed up a step.
"My God," he said, dropping the curtain to move toward her. With one hand, he touched her ear, and with the other he reached for her. She jerked away, but not quickly enough; his palm fell on her bared shoulder and the stunning pleasure, the weight and heat and size of his hand on her skin, nearly made her swoon.
Unable to speak, pinned to the spot with his loose grasp of her shoulder, Madeline stared at him. Her hands were curled at her sides, tight enough to hurt her wrists. He drank her in with his eyes—there was no other word for it—his gaze washed over her face, over her breasts, her hair and hands, with a devouring intensity Madeline had never known. Her breath came quickly.
"You are light itself, like the moon," he said, and gently touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "So uncommonly beautiful one cannot even find the words to express it."
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