I was relieved to see Alana hungrily consume dainty spoonfuls of her split pea soup. However, observing my sister as I was, I also couldn’t help but notice Gage, who was seated to her left, and the way he seemed to be noting my every movement. It was not overtly done. Gage would never have been so gauche as to stare openly at a person across the dinner table. All the same, I knew where his focus lay, and it was disconcerting.
The fact that Michael periodically sent anxious looks in my direction only made matters worse. Did he regret our not being able to finish our conversation in the drawing room? And just what exactly had he been about to confide?
I could not stop my mind from going over the clues that had been dropped in my hearing. As far as I could tell, everything still pointed to Philip’s supposition that his aunt’s displeasure with Michael and Caroline’s engagement had to do with Michael’s refusal to petition the Court of Chancery for the title. But, then, why the sadness in Michael’s eyes? William had been missing for almost a decade. Was Michael only now beginning to accept that his brother would never return, that he was, in fact, dead?
And why was Lady Hollingsworth so intent on antagonizing the Dalmays? Surely such a display of disdain was not the way to win them over to her way of thinking.
After three courses, I was no closer to uncovering what was going on than I was before, and infinitely more aggravated.
“Lady Darby does not seem to be enjoying herself. Perhaps we should pursue a different topic of conversation,” I was jolted from my introspection to hear Lord Damien say.
“Why ever shouldn’t she be?” Miss Remmington insisted. “We’re merely discussing the merits of city life compared to country life. I daresay she’s experienced both.”
“Yes, but the last few weeks she spent in London were not the happiest.”
I stiffened at his oblique reference to Sir Anthony’s death and the subsequent charges brought against me for unnatural behavior.
Miss Remmington forked a bite of delicate, flaky cod and swirled it in its mustard cream sauce. “Well, I’m not the one who brought up such an insensitive subject. You are.”
“Yes, but you are the one who caused it by mentioning London at all.” Damien’s brow was lowered in a ferocious frown. “She was bound to think of it.”
“Please,” I interrupted before their argument could become even louder and more embarrassing, for me, if no one else. “Lord Damien, it’s quite all right.” I shifted my gaze to Miss Remmington, who was watching me curiously. “I do miss London sometimes,” I admitted. “Especially the museums,” I added with a tiny smile. “But, by and large, I find I prefer the country. The air and light are so much better, you see.” I did not add the fact that there was also less society, and people’s sharp tongues and penetrating stares, to contend with, though from the sharpening of Miss Remmington’s eyes I was certain she was aware of this.
However, she did not question me on it. “I had forgotten that Laura said you were an artist.”
“And quite a good one,” Damien declared, determined not to be left out of the conversation. “Mother says her portraits will soon be all the rage. Everyone will want to be painted by the notorious Lady Darby.” Damien’s eyes widened and a blush reddened his cheeks as he belatedly realized what he had said. “Well, that is . . .”
“Really? The notorious Lady Darby?” Miss Remmington pressed, a smirk stretching her face.
I felt a tightness in my chest at his words, but held no rancor toward the young man, for I knew he was only repeating something his mother had said. And in an attempt to show up the vexing Miss Remmington he had uttered the epithet without thinking.
Miss Remmington, on the other hand, was taking advantage of the opportunity to cause trouble by plaguing Damien for his faux pas. I knew her type, unfortunately. She thrived on conflict. The bigger the reaction she got out of you, the more it pleased her. And the more likely she was to continue goading you. The swiftest way to beat her at her own game was to refuse to engage, be it with anger or discomfiture.
“I’m sure he meant no harm,” Laura murmured, trying to smooth over the awkwardness that had once again descended.
“Of course not,” I replied, not wanting everyone to make more of it than it was. I refused to become a target for Miss Remmington. “And, in any case, there’s no harm in speaking the truth. After all, I suppose I am rather notorious,” I added, forcing the jest past my lips. Almost everyone seated at the table smiled.
“I’m truly sorry,” Damien began earnestly, leaning forward to see past Miss Remmington, but I cut him off before he could continue.
“Damien, it’s quite all right,” I assured him with a tight smile, feeling my own cheeks begin to heat in embarrassment. If the boy didn’t cease protesting, he would expose the anxiety beneath my veneer of careful indifference.
“Yes, if I were Lady Darby, I would actually begin to capitalize on that sobriquet,” Gage said. He flashed me an encouraging smile before nodding to the table. “I have had more than one acquaintance inquire as to whether she would be accepting portrait commissions again. They seemed quite eager to hear that she would.”
I couldn’t withhold my surprise, at both the fact that people had actually been asking after me and the fact that they had asked Gage, of all people.
“I, too, received more than one inquiry,” Lady Hollingsworth reluctantly admitted.
“Well, then, that is excellent news.” Philip smiled warmly at me over his wineglass. “For I’m sure she won’t mind me telling you that she plans to take on new commissions once we settle in Edinburgh.”
I fought against the urge to squirm as the others expressed their delight at the news. I was excited to begin painting the likenesses of real persons again, instead of the imagined subjects I had been portraying since I had tired of depicting my sister and her family months ago, but I was not accustomed to so much praise or attention. The works I had created since the scandal and my self-imposed banishment from London had been sold anonymously, and though they fetched higher-than-expected profits, I rarely encountered the buyers, and then usually with my secret identity still intact.
“Oh, then you must take me on as your first commission,” Lady Caroline declared. Her face flushed a fetching shade of pink as everyone turned to look at her. “That is, I remember that you painted Lady Cromarty’s wedding portrait. Your sister was kind enough to show it to me while we were at Gairloch Castle.”
I nodded. The portrait hung in the master bedchamber.
“Well, it was ever so lovely. And . . .” Her cheeks reddened deeper, nearly matching her skin tone to the cherry-red ribbon laced through the neckline of her gown, as she glanced down the table toward her fiancé. “I wondered if . . . you might be willing to paint mine.”
Complete silence fell over the table as Caroline innocently broached the topic of which everyone was thinking, but no one dared speak. Eyes darted around the table, as if uncertain how the others would react and whether anyone would actually pursue the matter. As much as I wanted to demand that they explain what exactly had everyone so on edge, I knew that now was not the time. A confrontation at the dinner table could only end in heartache, at Michael’s and Caroline’s expense. I simply couldn’t open them up to public ridicule like that.
So, instead, I adopted a bright smile and addressed Caroline. “I would be honored.”
Her gaze flew back to mine from where it had been pinned on her mother. “Truly?”
“Of course.”
Her joy and excitement were so evident in her shining eyes and dazzling smile that I couldn’t help but respond in kind.
“If there is a wedding,” Lady Hollingsworth muttered crisply.
The happiness faded from Caroline’s face like the sun disappearing behind a cloud, and it was clear to me, if nothing else was, how very much Philip’s cousin wanted to marry Michael.
I wanted
to reach down the table and pinch the marchioness. Two months ago, Lady Hollingsworth had tried to match her daughter with a horse-mad brute who had ended up compromising one of the other young ladies at my sister’s house party. I had been as unconvinced then that the marchioness had her daughter’s best interests at heart as I was now.
After Lady Hollingsworth’s rude comment, the conversation could easily have dissolved into bickering and infighting. I was almost more shocked when no one snapped back at the marchioness than that she had behaved so impolitely in the first place, priggish as she was. She was plainly beyond overset if she was willing to break the very rules she clung so tightly to.
Everyone seemed inordinately determined to remain civil, and though I supposed this could have stemmed solely from the same desire I felt to spare Michael’s and Caroline’s feelings, I sensed there was something else holding everyone back, even Miss Remmington. What it could be, I didn’t know, but it cast a different light on the glances that Gage and Michael, and even my sister, continued to send my way. I couldn’t tell whether they were merely uneasy about my continued state of ignorance or if they were afraid of my reaction once the truth was known. But why should my response matter?
I frowned down at my plate and pushed my food around with my fork, having lost all appetite. I could only hope someone would take it upon themselves to remedy the situation following dinner and tell me just what exactly was going on.
After Lady Hollingsworth’s rude outburst, no one seemed eager to talk, except for the lady herself, who, whether out of nerves or anger, proceeded to yammer on about her family and her connections, boring us with her stories. By the time the dessert course was served, I had ceased to really listen, let alone take part in the discussion. Everyone appeared resigned to silence except Michael and Laura, who as hosts seemed to feel responsible for the steady decline of the evening.
“Lady Darby,” Michael proclaimed, pulling me from my solemn reverie. I glanced up to find him smiling at me determinedly while Lady Hollingsworth scowled at the interruption. “I understand your husband, Sir Anthony, served as a surgeon for the army during the war with France,” he said in what I thought was a particularly adept attempt to redirect the conversation from what I believed had last been a rather mind-numbing description from Lady Hollingsworth of her sister’s encounter with an incompetent medical man who was supposed to treat her goiter.
“Why, yes. Early in the war,” I replied, unwilling to expound, even to prevent Lady Hollingsworth from speaking. Sir Anthony’s disparagement of His Majesty’s troops was not worthy of being repeated, no matter the urgency of our current predicament. Especially to a family who, for all intents and purposes, had lost their eldest brother to the war. In any case, my late husband would not have wished to discuss any part of his medical career prior to the surgery he performed to remove a cyst from the then prince regent’s scalp, for which he had received his baronetcy. And I had no wish to discuss it at all.
Prior to receiving his baronetcy, Sir Anthony had not been a lofty enough personage even to walk through the front door of a nobleman’s residence, as everyone knew surgeons entered through the back door like a servant. Only physicians, who were often gentlemen themselves, were allotted that privilege. As a surgeon, even an anatomist, Sir Anthony had not ranked high enough to merit that respect, let alone to marry the granddaughter of a baron, even if he had been friends with Father. His baronetcy had changed all that, and my life, forever. I was not inclined to feel grateful to King George IV for the honor he paid to my late husband.
I could feel Gage’s sharp gaze on me, as if he could read my thoughts. For the first time, I found myself wishing I hadn’t shared so much of my past with him during our investigative partnership two months prior. At the time it had been a necessary evil and brought me surprising comfort when he did not reject me after I allowed him to know so much about me. No one outside my family had been privy to such details. But now it made me feel vulnerable, as if he could probe inside my mind for the truth. Particularly since he would not return the compliment, and instead insisted on remaining as tight-lipped as ever about his past.
I refused to meet his gaze, even though I could feel him silently urging me to.
Michael shifted in his seat at the head of the table. “Will mentioned he’d met Sir Anthony once.” He smiled tightly, but with good humor. “Said he was a bit of a tyrant, but skilled at his profession. Patched up his friend, but not without a great deal of grousing.”
From the looks of the others’ startled reactions, I wasn’t the only one surprised to hear him mention his brother in such a casual manner.
“He told you he met Sir Anthony?” I asked in confusion.
Michael nodded.
A tingling sensation began at the base of my neck and I felt Gage’s eyes intent on my face, but I would not look away from Michael. Somehow knowing that what he said next would change everything. “When he returned from the war?” I pressed for clarification.
He hesitated, and I held my breath waiting for him to speak, as did everyone at the table. He sensed the mood shift, and I could see him consider not saying anything further. My muscles tightened in protest, wanting to force the answer from his lips. Then his gaze met mine warily.
“No. A few weeks ago.”
The blood drained from my face. “You spoke to . . . William . . .” I swallowed “. . . a few weeks ago?”
“Yes,” Michael replied calmly as everyone else observed our exchange with avid interest. “In fact, I spoke with him just today.”
I wavered in my chair and slammed my hands down flat on either side of my plate to steady myself. It was so difficult to breathe, I wondered if my corset was too tight. Lord Keswick reached out to cradle my elbow, helping me remain upright.
“Perhaps this conversation should wait until later,” Gage argued, half rising from his chair, at the same time that Philip demanded, “Your brother is here?”
Michael’s gaze passed from Caroline, who was clutching her napkin to her chest, to Philip, and then to me. “Yes. He’s upstairs.”
Pandemonium broke loose.
Lady Hollingsworth shrieked and threw down her serviette. “You’ve allowed that madman into this house! While we’re visiting!” She shrieked again before almost toppling from her chair, which necessitated Lord Keswick to release my elbow so that he might attend to the marchioness.
Lord Damien turned to argue with Miss Remmington, insisting somehow she was to blame, while Laura tried to calm him. Caroline was weeping into her napkin, while Philip rounded the table to stand behind his wife. He clutched her shoulders and demanded an explanation from Michael, who had also risen from his chair, along with Gage, who urged the men to remain calm. Alana sat with a hand pressed to her mouth, as if she didn’t know what to say.
My eyes lifted to the ceiling, as if I could see past the layers of wood and plaster to the floors above to verify the truth of Michael’s statement. Will was here? And . . . alive? I could scarcely comprehend it. Could it really be true?
Ignoring the shouts and accusations swirling around me, I sought out Michael’s face. “Will is alive?”
Michael halted midsentence in whatever he was telling Philip and turned to stare at me.
“Will is alive,” I repeated, stronger this time. Some of the others looked up at me. “But I thought . . . that is . . .” I shook my head, as if I could clear away the confusion. “I thought . . .” I swallowed again, feeling sudden anger well up inside me. “This isn’t some kind of terrible jest?”
His eyes widened. “No! Of course not.” Then his gaze turned gentle, seeming to realize that, whatever the others had been told about the matter when William disappeared, my fifteen-year-old self had not been given the truth. And neither had anyone seen fit to inform me since my arrival at Dalmay House. “Kiera, I understand you must have been led to believe otherwise, but . . . Will is very much alive. An
d he has been for the last decade.” As I watched, his face seemed to age before my eyes, draining of all light and happiness. “Our father had him put away. Locked in a lunatic asylum.”
CHAPTER SIX
Ten years after the fact, I could not remember exactly what, if anything, I’d been told had happened to William Dalmay, or if I’d just been allowed to believe what I wished, for he’d simply been there one day and then gone the next. But in that moment I knew that whatever lie I’d been told, or told myself, would have been a far kinder fate than his reality.
I felt sick, in stomach and at heart. It was true that the man I remembered had been damaged somehow, scarred by his experiences, but he certainly had not been beyond reason, or in any way violent or dangerous to those around him. He had simply been trapped in his own private hell, and some days, as I had witnessed, had been harder than others for him to break free of it. To discover now that he had returned home to the bosom of his family only to be locked away in another kind of hell—one where there was even less hope of escaping—chilled me to the core.
I knew what lunatic asylums were like. Black holes of filth and degradation where the unfortunates were, at the very best, drugged and left to rot, but more likely tortured until they turned into the very beasts they were alleged to be. Sir Anthony had taken me to tour one about a year into our marriage, dangling the threat of incarceration when my cooperation in sketching his dissections had wavered. And upon his death, his colleagues had threatened to have me thrown into one when they learned the truth about who had completed the drawings for Sir Anthony’s anatomy textbook, and accused me of unnatural tendencies and desecrating bodies. Even after my husband’s death and the dismissal of the charges against me, the threat had never actually vanished, and neither had my nightmares that I might one day find myself caged inside such a place. Locked inside a cell where people could pay a penny to stare at me and laugh.
Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) Page 5