Hugging herself, Miri padded along, feet sinking into plush carpeting. Someone must’ve paid a small fortune for that. Funny how she could feel her feet but not her head. It was probably somewhere nearby, floating about like a giant soap bubble. If it popped, would she disappear?
That’s right … Roland had disappeared. He floated somewhere too. She had to find him, tether him to her wrist on a very long string, and then all would be right with the world. Or … maybe not. He might yank her around. Take that great string and spin, orbiting her in an endless circle. Round and round and—
Her stomach seized, and she doubled over, moaning.
Then she floated again. Her whole body, not only her head. She landed somewhere warm, and strength embraced her.
“Dobbins, go now!”
The words rumbled beneath her ear, an earthquake of sorts. Too loud for worms. Too deep for crickets. It didn’t smell like dirt, more like … sandalwood. She pressed her face against this soft ground and felt … nothing. Her soap bubble had caught on a gust of wind, taking her on a wild ride. She held on tight—
But bubbles were notoriously slippery. It would be easier to just let go.
Should she?
40
A scritching noise, like metal drapery rings forced along a rod, jarred into the abyss where Miri huddled in a ball. She startled, tightening further, then slowly uncurled, loosening one joint at a time. After being cold and cramped for so long, stretching felt wonderful.
“Awake then, are ye?”
Miri’s eyes popped open. Bright sunshine assaulted her, and she squinted.
The silhouette of a woman grew in size, taking on features as she bent over the bed. Judging from the crinkles at her eyes and pucker marks near her lips, she had many years tucked beneath her mobcap. Hair the color of a bleached mainsail framed her pinked cheeks, and her mouth pulled into an agreeable line. All in all, a safe-to-share-your-secrets-with kind of face—but one completely unfamiliar.
“Quite the scare you’ve given me, dear.”
Did she know this woman well enough for such an endearment? The woman’s voice, while sweet, did not ring any former-acquaintance bells. Miri searched her memory. Did she know the woman at all?
“And you fairly frightened the life out of m’lord.”
Miri nibbled her lower lip. Who was “m’lord,” and why would a chit of a woman like herself frighten him? The woman must be mad. That’s it. Just one more lunatic in the asylum.
“Now then, shall I plump you up and get you some broth?”
Plumping brought to mind a fattened goose before the slaughter, or beating the lumps out of a cushion. But the mention of broth rippled a hunger pang through her tummy. “Yes …” Her voice came out like water through a seldom-used pipe. “Yes, please.”
The woman’s smile widened. “That’s the spirit!”
She thrust a strong arm beneath Miri’s shoulders and lifted. With her other hand, she scooched up the pillows and settled Miri against them. If that was plumping, Miri rather liked it. She sank against the soft backdrop.
“There. Comfortable?”
“Yes, but …” Miri’s brow tightened. The woman’s question confused on more levels than one. Why she’d care about her comfort was anyone’s guess. Bare necessity topped the list at Sheltering Arms—not comfort.
Unless she wasn’t at the asylum anymore.
Shifting, she gazed past the woman’s concerned face. Sunlight bounced off a crystal chandelier, polka-dotting the walls with bits of rainbows. Miri blinked. Hopefully that explained it and she wasn’t in for a doozy of a headache.
Two overstuffed chairs and an upholstered settee lounged in front of a bay window. Against one wall stood an enormous wardrobe, and near it, a full-length looking glass on a frame. Gracing the other wall were a glossy writing desk and a washstand. In stolen moments, she’d read of such fine places in novels. Was this some kind of fantasy, then? A snippet of something she’d gotten lodged in her mind? Then again, mayhap she’d died and gone to heaven. Or—
Perhaps she’d gone as skippity-nippy loony as Roland. She stiffened. “Where am I?”
“There, now. Don’t fret.” The woman smoothed her fingertips along Miri’s brow. “You’re safe at Westford Manor.”
“Westford Manor.” Repeating the name didn’t help. It sounded pleasant enough but was completely foreign on her tongue. How had she gotten here? And why? Miri drew up the blankets to her chin. “Whose house is this?”
“M’lord Trenton’s, of course.” The woman’s eyes narrowed with concern. “You’re looking a bit pale, dear. Perhaps you ought to lay back down.”
“No.” Miri drew a big breath, suddenly light-headed. Heaven, madness, or fantasy, she wanted to remain bolstered up in this fine, faery-tale room.
The woman angled her head. “You are certain?”
“Yes …” Her strength drained, swirling down into the mattress, the pull of it irresistible. “I’ll just … rest …”
“I thought as much.” The woman’s voice faded.
As did the room.
When it came back into view, blue-grey light filtered through the windows. Shadows stretched into odd shapes, none resembling a mobcapped woman—at least not on the wardrobe side of the room. Fighting with a tangled sheet, Miri kicked it back and rolled over.
Then gasped.
In a chair at her bedside sat a man, head tipped back, eyes closed. Stubble darkened his jaw, the skin beneath pallid, as if he’d wallowed in an ashbin. Color deepened in half circles beneath his closed lashes. Either the dusky light granted him no favors, or he’d not slept in a very long time. His white shirt was unfastened at the collar, his loose hair brushing its edge. Dark hair, rumpled from an endless amount of being raked back, over and over, just like Ethan used to—
Her breath caught, trapped in a net of recognition and longing. Impossible. Sudden empathy for Roland welled, for she could not deny the madness that must be skewing her perception. What a bittersweet way to lose the last of her sanity. She sighed, giving in to the horridly wonderful vision.
The man’s head snapped forward, then turned. When their gazes met, something quivered in a deep part of her—a place she’d been saving all her life.
“Miri?” His voice had aged a thousand years since she’d last heard it. “Are you …”—his throat bobbed—“well?”
She reached, desiring to wipe away the lines that troubled his brow. That, and to see if she dreamed. “Are you real?”
He captured her hand in both of his and squeezed. “Very real, my love.”
A warm smile spread across his face, and he eased from chair to bed. He sat so close, she rolled nearer to him from the sag in the mattress. Her fever must be back. She was burning up.
His hand trembled as he brought her fingers to his lips. As he kissed the top of each one, a hot trail burned along her arm, running straight to her heart. This was real. And if not, she’d choose to live here anyway.
Closing his eyes, he whispered against her fingertips. “Thank You, God.”
Miri swallowed, shaken by the depth of emotion radiating out from him. “Indeed.”
He lowered her hand and pressed her palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. A steady beat pumped hard beneath his shirt. The connection brought tears to her eyes, and she soaked in his strength, his presence. She could bathe in this moment. Dive into that brown-eyed gaze and never surface again.
But too many questions held her back. “How did you know where to find me?”
His jaw tensed. A corded muscle stood out on his neck. She’d seen that look on Roland too many times not to read it as anger. Even though this was Ethan, her dearest beloved, she shrank into the pillows.
“Witherskim informed me,” he ground out.
Witherskim? Would she never be finished with the man? She frowned, searching her memory for missing pieces. How could Witherskim have told him anything when Ethan hadn’t been there during the inquiry? “How did you … they took y
ou away. They called you a murderer.”
He smirked. “They called you mad.”
“They lied!” She shifted, trying to rise. That accusation had violated her one too many times. “You’ve got to believe me. I—”
“Shhh.” He crooked a finger and ran his knuckle along her cheek. His touch soothed in ways she couldn’t begin to understand. “Of course you are not mad. Neither am I a murderer, love.” He trailed his finger down to her chin, then over her lips.
She shivered.
“And we shall never listen to them again, shall we?” he asked.
“Yes … I mean, no.” Who could think with the gentle stroke he ran all around her face?
“All is well, then.” He leaned closer.
She breathed in his scent—sandalwood, earthy, masculine—the smell of warmth and safety. Inches from her, he paused, gazing at her with a yearning that both frightened and thrilled.
“Miri.” Her name, his soul, entwined in that one husky word.
His mouth touched her brow, light yet entirely intimate. A meeting of more than flesh and blood. Her heart beat erratically, and she felt a tremor shake through him. If his lips moved lower, what kind of passion would be unleashed?
Which is exactly what he must’ve realized, for he shot to his feet, chest heaving. “I should let you rest.”
He strode to the door and disappeared before she could answer. Prudent reaction. A sensible, chivalrous, wise bit of behavior.
But one she would mourn for the rest of the night.
Air. Cold or frigid, ideally. Ethan rubbed a knot at the back of his neck as he descended the stairs and headed toward the front entrance. Here he was, running away again. Apparently some things would never change. A smile twitched his lips. But this time, oh how different the cause. Yes, a long walk in the cool of evening ought to calm the parts of him Miri had stirred.
“Excuse me, m’lord.” Off to the side, Dobbins stood near the sitting room door, light shining merrily behind him. “This cannot be put off any longer.”
Ethan frowned. “Are we expecting guests?”
“No, sir.” The butler folded his hands together, then as suddenly unclasped them. A small thing, really, but completely out of character. Something was wrong.
A crazy, horrible thought niggled at the back of Ethan’s mind. In bringing Miri here, had he brought typhus along as well? “Are you well, Dobbins?”
“Quite, m’lord.” His hands disappeared behind his back, and he shifted his weight.
Old liar. He’d never seen the fellow so unsettled. “Very well.” Ethan swept past him into the sitting room. “What is it?”
Ethan stationed himself at the mantle, eye-level with a carved wooden box. His desire for opium was pretty much nonexistent, thank God, but the urge to light up one of the cheroots in that box made him rethink where he stood.
“I’ve been trying to have an audience with you ever since you arrived. Rather unsuccessfully, I might add.” Dobbins lifted a decanter, lamplight turning the liquid into a burnt honey glow. “Brandy, sir?”
Would this entire night be one snare after another? He licked his lips, swallowing this new temptation as well. “No, thank you.”
“You might need it.” The butler lifted the stopper and poured.
Two glasses.
Alarm shot through him. “What on God’s green earth is this all about, man?”
Dobbins delivered his drink. When he handed it off, the glass shook. He said nothing of it as he looked up into Ethan’s face. “You’ve been so preoccupied with your lady, sir, that I’ve taken the liberty to deflect most household matters. You are required to journey to Bainbridge tomorrow, however. That’s one bit of business I cannot attend to. And what I have to tell you cannot keep until your return.”
The butler doubled back and collected the other glass. Then lifted it to his lips.
The breach of protocol was stunning—and grounds for dismissal. Ethan slugged back one swallow, let the drink burn down his throat, then set the glass on the mantle. He crossed to a chair, sat with elbows on knees, and leaned forward. “This is more than Bainbridge. Have at it.”
A hint of a smile lit the butler’s face. “You are not at all like your father, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The butler smiled in full, then drained his glass and returned it to the tray. Straightening his jacket, he neared the settee but did not sit.
“You might as well take a seat, Dobbins.” Ethan smirked. “As long as you’re collecting them, what’s one more liberty?”
Dobbins gave a somber shake of the head. “Thank you, but no. I shall not indulge beyond your limits. I fear what I have to say might very well see me packing this night.”
Ethan’s brow shot up. His thoughts flitted about, a swarm of mayflies that would not land. “Your gravity is unprecedented, Dobbins.”
The man sighed, looking years beyond his age. “The topic I wish to discuss will not be welcome.”
“Which is?”
“About your father, sir.”
Any leftover amorous feelings stirred by Miri fled—the mention of his father accomplishing much more than a walk in the evening air ever could. “Go on.”
“I think I may say, sir, it is no secret that bad blood ran between you and my former master.” Dobbins drew in a large breath. “And I know why.”
Ethan scrubbed his face. He wasn’t even sure he knew the reason why. “What are you talking about?”
“Your father, God rest his soul, did not … could not … dote upon you—”
“Dote!” Ethan leaned back, folding his arms. “The man could hardly stand to look upon me.”
“Yes, well, that was because …” The butler wiped a gloved hand across his forehead. “You were a constant reminder of his infidelity. A regret he took with him to his grave.”
Ethan’s jaw dropped. A million questions shattered his existence. Just like that. Poof. No more Ethan Goodwin.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, sir. He loved m’lady Trenton, loved her like a saint, for so she was. It was simply one terrible indiscretion, fueled by too much excess, as you know he was wont to do.”
“An indiscretion that resulted in … me?” Voiced aloud, it sounded even more absurd. He shook his head to clear it.
“Yes.”
That one word landed like a cannonball, sending out a ripple that touched every memory he owned. How could he begin to view the past through these spectacles? Who was he? He lifted his head and peered at Dobbins. “Why?”
Dobbins’s brow wrinkled. “Not quite the question I was expecting from you. Why what, sir?”
“Why did he keep me, raising me along with Richard? Why even admit to my birth? Why not simply dispose of the woman who bore me? Send her away? Pay her off?” He cringed at the suggestion, a cruel blow to any woman. Despicable conduct, to be sure, but more common than a halfpenny.
“Because of m’lady Trenton.”
“My—” The name mother died on his lips. She wasn’t. She never had been. The woman he’d assumed as his own flesh no longer belonged to him. Just one more grievance pitched on top of a lifelong pile of injustices. He raked a hand through his hair. “Then who was my mother? What happened to her? Where is she now?”
“Your real mother”—was that a quiver in Dobbins’s voice?—“died in childbirth. It was m’lady Trenton who insisted you remain here, sired as her and your father’s own.”
Ethan searched the old butler’s face. Was he making this up? Was this all some kind of trickery? For what means?
Dobbins did not so much as flinch beneath his gaze, and gaze at him he did, for a very long time, scouring every line for movement, for truth. “Why was I not told this before?”
The butler’s mouth pressed tight, his lips disappearing for an instant. “Your father made me and m’lady swear to secrecy. It was his one condition for keeping you on. He would not have m’lady’s name besmirched by flaunting his tryst in public. Now that he’s gone, now that they’re
both gone, I felt it your right to know, sir. And rest assured, the secret dies with me.”
The information pummeled him, beating him into a shape he could not recognize. He rose on shaky legs. One more question, and he’d burst out of here. Walk and walk. Lose himself in the night air—whoever he was. “How do you know all this? Why would my father reveal such personal information to you?”
Dobbins’s jaw worked for some time, and Ethan stared at it in dreaded anticipation.
“The woman, your mother, was a scullery maid in this household.” Dobbins’s voice softened. “My sister.”
41
Miri pressed her forehead against the bedchamber’s windowpane. Yesterday had been the first she’d truly felt her old self, and now that she regained strength, boredom reduced her to watching raindrops squiggle down the glass. Fat, steady droplets wept from a grey afternoon sky. If she listened really hard, she could hear Roland’s stern voice in the roll of thunder.
“Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop, woman!”
Her sigh fogged the glass. Would she ever hear his voice again?
Did she really want to?
Conflicted, she turned away, pressing her fingers to the cool spot on her brow—the same spot Ethan’s lips had warmed well over a week ago, now. Where was he? Why had he not been to see her? She walked a fine line between hurt and anger. Next time she saw him, she’d either slap him in the face or run into his arms.
She paced the length of the rug, as useless a pursuit as when she’d questioned the young maid about Ethan. The girl, Anna, didn’t know him. Nor much of anything else, for that matter. She was newly hired and, while she liked to talk, was not well versed in the ways of Westford Manor.
A light knock rapped on the door an instant before the girl appeared. How come when she thought of Ethan, he didn’t pop in as magically?
“Oh, miss!” Anna rushed in, hands wringing. Her apron strings flew behind her like streamers as she dashed across the room. “There you are.”
Miri furrowed her brow. “Where did you think I’d be?”
“There’s no time. Come.” She pulled out a cushioned stool next to the vanity, almost tipping it over. “Let me see what I can do about your hair.”
Michelle Griep Page 28