by Darcy Burke
Methodically moving from one closed door to the next, Caroline keenly listened for any suspicious movements, until she arrived at the last door leading into the bedchamber of her youngest sister, Mary.
A flurry of anxious, hushed voices met her ears.
Caroline threw open the door, hoping for an element of surprise and whisked into the shadow-ridden bedchamber.
Candles flickered in response to her entrance, shifting light and shadows across the length of the hardwood floor and the bed.
Anne, Elizabeth and Victoria, who were gathered at the foot of Mary’s bed, all in nightgowns and ruffled nightcaps, froze and turned in unison to gawk at Caroline.
Their similar green-blue eyes appeared dark against the dull light of the candle. Guilt was deeply etched into every single one of those freckled faces.
Caroline set her hands on her hips. “Out with it. Where is it? Who has it?”
Anne, who was newly thirteen and a bit too proud of it, snapped an accusatory forefinger toward Mary.
Caroline lifted an inquisitive brow. “Mary? Did you take my coin?”
Mary lay regally outstretched atop her bombazine coverlet. She didn’t respond.
It appeared another funeral was in progress. One of only several dozen to have taken place since the passing of their father.
Those slender arms had been serenely crossed at the wrists over her chest, her eyes peacefully shut in complete submission. Mary didn’t even appear to be breathing, but then again, Mary had practiced the art of dying far too often for Caroline to be concerned.
“Little Miss Morbid has it,” Anne retorted, dropping her hand back to her side. “She claims it’s the only way to summon Charon. Whoever that is.”
“Charon?” Caroline glanced toward Mary in exasperation. “As in the Greek deity who escorts dead souls into the pits of Hades on a boat?”
Mary sat up from her burial position, shoving her golden chestnut braid back over the shoulder of her bombazine gown and spit something soundly into her hand. The gold sovereign Caroline had been looking for promptly appeared in Mary’s cupped hand, glistening with an unsavory amount of wetness.
Caroline wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I hope you washed it.”
Mary glared at them from beneath thin, furrowed brows. “Why is everyone always congregating in my room? There are ten other bedchambers in this house. No wonder Charon never visits! Because it’s not like any of you are dead. You have to be dead or have a coin in your mouth so you can pay him and get on the boat. Or he won’t come. Don’t you know anything about Greek mythology? Get a coin or leave.”
Anne slowly shook her head, wobbling her floppy-rimmed nightcap. “I’m beginning to think she is deranged. Is there an asylum we can drop her off at?”
Caroline glared at Anne. Anne seemed to forget it was Mary who had found their dead father. And it was Mary who had clung to that dead body until one of the footmen had dashed outside to follow her screams. “Stop teasing her. It’s all you ever do.”
Mary regally set her small chin. “Yes. Stop teasing me. Because I will have you know, Anne, that Charon is real. If God can exist in our realm, why can’t Charon exist in our realm?” She notably quieted her voice. “It’s the only way I’ll ever get a chance to see Papa again without actually dying. So if you think that is deranged, I’m more than fine with it.” Mary wedged the sovereign back into her mouth and settled herself back onto the bed. Crossing her arms once again, at the center of her chest, she closed her eyes.
Anne lowered her gaze, as if finally knowing she had overstepped her bounds and murmured, “I’m sorry. I’m going to bed.” She turned, walking out the open door with bare feet.
Victoria and Elizabeth quietly turned and also left the room.
There were so many times Caroline still missed Bath. She missed her long walks with her grandfather, which had always been so beautifully quiet and peaceful.
Unlike her life now.
With a sigh, she made her way toward Mary. It was achingly obvious, despite their time of mourning being over, she showed no signs of wanting to rejoin the living. It was like the girl was still trying to understand what had happened.
Pausing beside her sister, Caroline reached over the bed and smoothed a gloved hand over her sister’s forehead. “I miss Papa too,” she whispered. “We all do. But you ought to be comforted knowing that he lived a very long life. Most men never see a breath past seventy. Yet he did.”
Mary pinched her eyes more tightly shut, scrunching her features.
Caroline leaned in closer, stroking that cheek. “Do you think Papa would have approved of you acting like this?”
Mary continued to remain perfectly still except for the rapid breathing through that little freckled nose and the rise of her flat chest beneath her crossed arms.
“Mary.” Caroline leaned in as close as the bed and her gown would allow. “You know full well what that coin means to me. Why would you take it without asking?”
Except for an exaggerated, closed-eyed pout, Mary still didn’t respond.
Fortunately, Caroline knew a thing or two about mythology. “You need an obolós made out of silver if you plan on summoning Charon. A British sovereign will only offend the undead chap.” She wasn’t even going to mention that if he did exist, one really had to be dead in order to meet him.
Mary’s eyes popped wide open. She jerked her braided head toward Caroline, her green-blue eyes staring up at her. “So he won’t be coming? At all?”
Who was she to ruin the imaginings of a child still in mourning? “Do you want to keep it and see if he comes?”
Mary rolled the coin aside in her mouth, clicking it against her teeth. “Can I?”
The sound of that coin clicking against teeth made Caroline instinctively shudder. “Yes. You can. But only for this one night. And you are charged to take very good care of it. And above all, don’t do anything half-witted like…swallow it and die.”
“I won’t.” Mary scrambled into an upright position and spit out the coin into her hand. “Are you going to ask Lord Caldwell to marry you tonight?”
Caroline tweaked that freckled nose. “A lady usually waits for the gentleman to ask. But if he keeps me waiting, I’ll have no choice, will I?” She smiled, stepped away from the bed and pointed at Mary. “Now get some sleep.” She hurried toward the door.
Mary scrambled across the bed after her. “I know our time of mourning is over, but…why am I the only one still wearing bombazine? I cannot help but feel as though this entire family has already carried on. As if Papa never mattered merely because he moved into a cottage for a year. Did you not love him?”
Caroline froze and slowly turned back to her sister, trying not to let her mind linger on the secret she had kept from all of her sisters about why their father had really moved out to the cottage. Her father had long since redeemed himself in her eyes, which was why she never spoke of it. Because he had moved into that cottage to live simply and prove that he was a man capable of being faithful to the ideals of a husband and a father, separate from the parties and the women. He had to lock himself away in the country and in a cottage to do it, but he had done it.
His last year of life had been his best.
A lone tear unexpectedly trickled its way down her cheek. Caroline swiped it away. Holding her sister’s gaze, Caroline offered in a soft, broken tone, “Of course I loved Papa. Very much.” Too much. She swiped at another tear that had escaped.
Mary plopped back onto her heels and stared her down with a seriousness that went beyond the age of twelve. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Caroline smiled tightly. “I know.”
“Tonight is a very special night for you, yes?”
“Yes. I plan on sharing my first dance with Lord Caldwell.”
Mary jumped off the bed and padded toward her. Embracing her, she whispered, “Be sure not to give him any more than three dances. I hear it isn’t respectable. And you know me. I know all about respecta
ble.”
A choked laugh escaped her. Yes. Leave it to Mary to know all about death and respectability.
Lesson Five
And so the game begins…
-The School of Gallantry
Two hours later
The Whittle House
What was far worse than all the heat, and the smell of fading perfume mingling with the stuffy night air, was being at the mercy of her brother who was annoyingly intent on marrying her off to any man, as long as he was wealthy, titled and ‘respectable.’
Only five men in London met those criteria.
And all of them lived with their mothers.
Which was why Caroline did her best to avoid her brother and said men by staying close to her own mother.
After roaming every corner of the ballroom for almost two hours, wondering if she’d somehow misheard the announcement of Caldwell’s arrival earlier that night, she sighed and decided to abandon all thoughts of sharing a dance with him. Drat him.
A movement within the crowds caught her eye. She paused.
An elegant woman with lightly silvering, rich mahogany hair, garbed in a stunning, alabaster silk and lace gown sashayed toward her. A small, crescent scar graced the upper tip of her arched brow giving her a mysterious, exotic look. Her pale neck was draped with a large, intricately engraved gold locket.
It was like a character had magically stepped forth from the pages of The Arabian Nights’ Entertainment. All the woman needed was a flying carpet and a prince.
The lady inclined her head to Caroline as if they knew each other.
Caroline hesitated but politely inclined her head, in turn.
The countless pearls woven into the woman’s mahogany hair gleamed against the vast candlelight of the ballroom as she promenaded closer. She paused before Caroline with a sumptuous grace only years of practice could perfect.
Snapping open her ostrich fan, the woman leaned in, bringing a delicate scent of verbena and offered from behind the fan, “Forgive the intrusion, Lady Caroline, but Lord Caldwell wishes to meet you out in the nearest alcove, away from the crowds. He hopes you will oblige.”
Caroline felt a rush of heat flooding her face. Though the woman knew her name, she hadn’t even bothered to introduce herself. Caroline glanced toward her mother who was intently watching the couples dance before scanning the crowds surrounding them. Too many faces made it difficult for her to see if Caldwell was, in fact, anywhere nearby.
The woman closed her fan with the roll of satin gloved fingers. “Is there a response you would like me to deliver to him?”
Caroline lowered her chin. Who was this woman to Caldwell that he would entrust her with such a message? And in public? Something told her not to engage it. For all she knew this was how the ton initiated unsuspecting debutantes into the realm of scandal-ridden fame. “I would think any gentleman making such a request of a lady is no gentleman at all. Therefore I will not dignify it with a response.”
That distinguished face became intrigued. “Surely, given your great affection for Lord Caldwell, he has earned far more respect from you than that.”
Caroline’s breath hitched. Who was she? And how did she know about her affection for Caldwell? Not even her brother knew of it. “’Tis obvious I missed our introduction, madam. I am Lady Caroline. And you are?”
“A friend.” Amber eyes intently held hers. With the tip of her fan, she pointed off to their side. “Follow him out in a few minutes when he leaves the room. Only don’t be too obvious. You don’t want anyone to suspect.” Inclining her head, the woman departed.
Several older gentlemen stepped aside for her regal frame, all of them inclining their heads toward her, and with rehearsed respectability only allowed their beady eyes to follow her as she sashayed into the crowds and disappeared.
Caroline glanced in the direction the woman had pointed.
A tall, broad-shouldered blond gentleman in full evening attire lingered in the distance.
Her heart skidded. It was Caldwell. He was talking to her brother and a few other men, leaning in to the conversation being offered. Caldwell laughed in response to whatever was being said, the deep sound floating toward her. His rugged face brightened as he rumbled something out, his mouth quirking between words.
She stared longingly at him.
Black, thigh-hugging trousers tapered narrowly down the length of his long, muscled legs toward a pair of polished, black lacquered shoes. His black evening coat was expensive and emphasized his broad shoulders beautifully and his starched white cravat was knotted and arranged meticulously, as always. He looked like a flawless gentlemen who owned the world as opposed to the humble one who she knew struggled to survive.
To those who didn’t truly know him, including her own brother, he exuded a rakish persona. Caldwell had played that role with her for many years until that day in the receiving room three years earlier when he gave her his coin for safekeeping and unveiled a man who struggled to keep his head high. From that moment, she had cherished knowing he had finally shared who he really was.
She swallowed as he excused himself from his conversation with her brother and the group he was with. Glancing toward her, he jerked to a halt and stared.
Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears. Had he truly asked to see her in the alcove?
He smoothed his cravat against his throat and slowly inclined his head toward her, intently holding her gaze with his smoky dark eyes.
Was it possible that he…?
Averting his gaze, he quickly wove his way out of the crowds in the opposite direction from where she stood and disappeared into the corridor outside of the ballroom, into the gallery and beyond.
Toward the direction of the alcoves that were out of sight.
Her heart almost flopped to the floor knowing the message had been authentic, after all. He was waiting for her. Heaven on high.
Rounding a couple in her way, Caroline veered in close to her mother and tried to remain calm. “Might I speak with you for a moment?”
Her mother turned away from the dance floor she was watching, her features brightening at seeing her. “Of course, dear. What is it?”
Caroline lowered her voice. “Caldwell asked that I join him for a small while in one of the alcoves outside of the ballroom. Might I?”
Her mother’s green eyes sharpened as she brought her fan up to her lips, to cover their conversation. “People will talk.”
“I won’t be gone long. Nor will I let anyone see us together. I promise.”
Her mother sighed. “Ten minutes. Anything more and I will hunt you down.”
Caroline gave her mother a gushing smile. “Thank you, Mama.” She bustled past her and everyone else, no longer caring about formalities.
This was her night. She could feel it.
Curving around several couples, she wove toward the very back of the ballroom and out into the vast, candlelit corridor. She paused, spying Caldwell striding toward the end of the corridor. He slipped behind a red velvet curtain leading into one of several secluded alcoves.
It rustled into place as if he had never been.
Glancing around, to ensure no one was watching, and noting that there were no footmen positioned against any of the walls, she hurried down the corridor. Toward the alcove he had disappeared into. She paused one last time to confirm she was indeed alone and let out a breath. Pulling aside the heavy curtain just enough to slip through, she quickly disappeared inside, letting it fall closed, and edged into the small space leading to a row of French windows that reflected the moonless dark night beyond.
Seeing Caldwell leaning against the brocaded wall alone, she veered in close to that tall, muscled body. “And I thought you were avoiding me.”
His lips parted as his startled dark-brown eyes captured hers. “Caroline.”
She grinned, trying not to be too nervous. “Regrettably, I only have ten minutes.”
He stared and rasped, “Ten minutes for what?”
Her gri
n faded and her face now simmered and gave way to prickling heat, knowing full well what he meant. “For conversation,” she blurted. Or a kiss.
“Conversation?” He glanced at the closed curtain, adjusting his coat around his large frame again. “Why are you here?”
She blinked rapidly. “I…because you asked me to be, didn’t you?”
He swung back toward her, searching her eyes. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I did.”
She sensed he was ruffled. “Is something wrong?”
“Why would something be wrong?”
“I don’t know. You’re acting very strange.” She hesitated and knew she had to ask about the lady with the crescent-shaped scar. “Who was the lady you sent over to speak to me? The one with the small scar above her brow. She was very beautiful.”
He shifted his jaw. “Yes. She is. I’ve uh…I’ve known her for some time now.”
“For some reason she didn’t introduce herself. Who is she?”
He adjusted the sleeves on his coat. “A friend of mine.”
Caroline quirked a brow. A friend? He had never mentioned this woman in any of the letters they had exchanged prior to this moment. “And does this friend of yours have a name?”
He shoved both hands into pockets, hooking his thumbs out. “Lady Danbury.”
Caroline paused. She knew that name. Her mother had once mentioned a tragedy relating to the Danbury name. A young boy who had died in his own home. In the Danbury home. Years and years ago. “Didn’t her brother die in some sort of an accident? Wasn’t he young?”
He half-nodded. “Yes. His name was Harris. She never talks about what happened to him, but she uh…she always carries a portrait of him in a locket.”
The locket. The gold locket around her neck. Caroline brought a hand to her throat at the thought of it. “I can’t imagine losing any of my siblings. I don’t think I would be able to survive it.”
“Fortunately for me,” he murmured, “I don’t have any siblings to worry about.”