by Megan Mulry
Yes, he had started talking to himself. Full conversations about his research, about his obligations on the estate as they prepared for the long winter ahead. He spent two hours every morning with his steward and another hour on horseback overseeing any particular areas that required his attention. He was not nearly as good an equestrian as his sister, but he sat a horse—as he’d lived his life prior to meeting Miss Ashby—with quiet confidence.
At night, he was unable to rein in his wild imaginings. He began to dread nightfall, which, given the season, came earlier and earlier every day. He always took his meals in the lab, hoping to stay in solitude as long as possible. But eventually mental exhaustion would overtake him and the threat of making errors prevented him from working straight through until dawn.
After a fortnight of not seeing a trace of Selina, he was feeling far more temperate. He’d received word from his mother and Nora that they’d be returning to Camburton the following day. He dreaded the small family dinners that would be set for the four of them, Vanessa, Nora, Selina, and Archie. Perhaps it was a sign he should set up house in London.
Impossible. He had all of his work here. And why should he be driven from his own house because of some sex-crazed novelist? He’d done a fine job of ignoring her since they’d returned from London, at least during his waking hours.
He removed his leather apron and left the lab. Walking through the quiet castle had always brought him a deep sense of peace. Seeing his ancestors on the walls, a long line of honorable men and women painted throughout the centuries, had formerly filled him with a feeling of profound belonging. Now he felt he belonged nowhere.
Somewhere on his estate—he knew precisely where, often staring out his window at the small spiral of smoke that rose up from her cottage—Selina was probably warm and happy in her own skin. Or perhaps she was not happy—he experienced a pang of guilt for wishing she suffered even a fraction of what he did—given the strain of their last night at Rockingham, but at least she must have been engaged in her work and able to get on with her life.
He’d made sure she had a basket of food and fresh milk delivered to her each morning. She’d sent a note each day to his steward asking that he relay her gratitude to the marquess.
This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? The protection of a formal relationship? The barricades of centuries of propriety? He entered his bedroom and looked around the perfectly appointed chamber. The fire glowed; the tester bed was turned down; the valet waited to assist him with his clothes.
He was patently miserable.
Apparently misery was a boon to productivity. Selina had never felt so lost or alone, yet the words—the good, subtle words—flew from the end of her quill. It was not the effervescent pas de deux she’d planned to write when she’d first proposed the plot to her publisher. Instead, she’d written to tell her editor that the story had taken on a darker cast. He’d written back immediately to tell her how pleased he was to hear it. The darker the better, Miss Ashby.
On and on she wrote, not giving a care to her appearance or her schedule. Sleeping some days until noon or writing some days straight through the night and then collapsing into bed at noon. Like a dog who misses its master, she’d found a scarf of Bea’s and taken to keeping it nearby—on her desk while she wrote, or wrapped around her hand while she slept. She’d created a calendar, marking off the time until her lover returned. Only twenty-seven days remained. At the current speed of writing, she would be done with her manuscript by then and able to devote her full attention to Beatrix.
She’d been thinking perhaps in future it would be best if she followed Beatrix around the world, traveling with her from place to place while she performed. Obviously, the life of solitude and contemplation she’d thought she was so well suited to was not quite as charming as she’d hoped. Yes, she was productive, but at what cost?
She knew she must have the look of a wild witch in the forest, because the kind maid who delivered her basket of food each morning had lately taken to looking away, as if Miss Ashby couldn’t possibly wish to be seen in her present condition.
“We’ve received word that Lady Camburton and Mrs. White are returning this afternoon, ma’am.” Mary, probably in her twenties, was somehow respectful yet demanding as she kept her eyes downcast. “In case you wish to . . .”
Selina took the basket from her outstretched hands. “In case I wish to make myself presentable, Mary?”
Mary turned bright red. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” She curtseyed again and turned to go.
“No, you’re quite right. Please wait.”
Mary paused and looked at her, then at the ground again.
“I’ve let myself go. Would you help me with my hair and getting dressed later today, in case the marchioness wishes to ask me for dinner?”
“Yes, ma’am. I would be very happy to. Shall I have a bath brought in?” She blushed again, obviously embarrassed that she’d implied Selina was in need of one.
Selina laughed, and it felt raw and unfamiliar. “Yes, Mary. I think I am long overdue for a proper bath. As Napoleon said to Josephine, I must take one after a fortnight whether I need it or not.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to be sayin’—”
“No need to explain a thing. Shall we say five o’clock?”
“Yes, ma’am.” With that, Mary turned and walked down the narrow path that led from the cottage. The late summer flowers had all been deadheaded by the gardeners and the beds had been turned for winter. As usual, Selina simply wanted to cry at the loss of vibrancy—the draining away of life—that seemed to be defining her existence at present. She shut the door, set the basket down on the small kitchen table, and went back to the desk where she worked. Her tea was still warm and her pen nibs were freshly trimmed.
When Mary next appeared at the door, Selina thought perhaps half an hour had passed. “Yes, Mary, did you forget something?” Her mind was presently in a dark dungeon, wet with moss and filled with the sounds of suspicious scuttling creatures and the drip of rank liquids. Her main character had been tossed into the secret prison after he was caught rummaging through the Italian count’s private papers.
“It is five o’clock, ma’am. You said . . .”
Selina looked around confusedly, then saw the six footmen behind Mary carrying an enormous copper tub and large wooden buckets of hot water. “Oh! I didn’t think you meant to carry out a full-sized bath.” She stepped aside and let the footmen enter the cottage.
Mary, despite her youthful appearance, was a born dictator. “Yes. Put it there by the fire,” she ordered two of the men impatiently. “Quit your gawking, Timpton. Pour the water and leave the lady in peace.” The young man in question scowled at Mary, but did as he was told.
Once her minions had left, Mary shut the door behind them with a thud. “Men. Good for hauling things, I suppose, but I’ve yet to discover what else they’re good for. Let’s get you out of those . . .” She gestured vaguely at the motley items Selina had taken to wearing over the past two weeks. Around her shoulders, she had on a blanket-type shawl that usually hung over the back of the sofa. Then she wore a long men’s shirt she’d picked up several years ago; it was cut wide in the shoulders and allowed her plenty of movement when she was working. She had on some loose trousers Nora had given her over the summer: Egyptian cotton with a drawstring waist. On her feet she sported a pair of mismatched socks in desperate need of darning.
She started laughing as she put one hand on her waist and the other on the top of her head, and then pirouetted. “Are you suggesting I am not properly attired for dinner with a marchioness?”
“It’s nice to see you again, Miss Ashby.”
“You too, Mary.”
She removed her near-rags and slid gratefully into the copper tub. “Oh my, this feels delicious.”
Mary brought a small stool to the edge of the tub behind Selina’s head and began working through the mess of her long blonde hair. It was knotted and filthy, and she felt like a sill
y girl for having let herself go in this manner. “I apologize for my raggedy state.”
“No need to apologize to me, ma’am. You are working hard, and there’s nothing shameful about hard work.” Mary spoke as she built up a thick lather against Selina’s scalp. “I admire a woman like you, Miss Ashby, making her own life and living her own way. That’s what I aim to do. Get a little cottage with a small garden and live out my days in peace. I save every farthing I make, and maybe in twenty years or so I will have enough for a modest place.”
“That sounds like a lovely plan.” Selina’s voice was soft with gratitude. She relaxed more deeply into Mary’s care, and hoped she would one day be in a position to help Mary realize her modest dream that much sooner.
After finishing with her hair, Mary scrubbed her back and rinsed it with a pitcher of warm water. Then she handed Selina a bar of soap and a flannel. “I’ll go see to your clothes for tonight.”
She scoured herself nearly raw, soaping and rubbing away the residue of the past two weeks that lingered on her body. When she stepped out of the tub, Mary wrapped her in a large towel and guided her to a seat near the fire. “Now, while your hair dries, I’ll see to your hands.”
She looked down and realized her fingertips were stained, her nails chipped, and her knuckles rough and dry. “Oh. Thank you.” She extended her hands and let the maid rub them with oil and file the nails. She let herself be taken care of. It felt like the epitome of luxury, to be touched in this nonemotional way, to be tended to. “I am very grateful for you, Mary.” Her eyes were moist with pending tears.
Mary patted the back of her hand where she was massaging in some oil. “Oh, it’s nothing to be upset about. You’ve been very busy, and now you will look beautiful in no time. Lady Camburton and Mrs. White have returned and sent word that you are expected in the drawing room at eight o’clock. You won’t have a hair out of place when you see everyone.”
If Selina wasn’t mistaken, Mary scowled.
“Will there be someone other than the ladies in the drawing room, Mary?”
Mary blushed in embarrassment, but still looked mildly angry. “I believe the marquess will be forced to leave his laboratory to greet his mother, yes. And the ladies have also returned with another gentleman from London.”
Selina’s heart—damnable heart that didn’t care about heartless men who accused her of flirting with every songbird—began to beat faster at the mere mention of Archie. There was no point in worrying what Mary thought. They were going to be together for the next two hours at least—making Selina presentable—so she might as well wring some gossip out of the maid. “The marquess has been very busy with his research, is that it?”
Mary shook her head but kept her gaze focused on Selina’s hands. “Research is one word for it. He’s been hiding out if you ask me.”
“Well, I am asking you. Isn’t that his normal routine? To work long hours in his laboratory?”
Mary slipped a thick flannel glove onto one hand to help the oil soak in, and began work on the other hand. “Yes, he usually works in the laboratory.”
“So, what’s different?”
She sighed. “It’s not for me to say, but he is behaving very strangely. He’s taken to running around the castle late at night.”
“Out on the grounds?” For some reason the idea of Archie running around Camburton Park like a wild werewolf made her smile despite herself.
“Yes, there too, but mostly down the long halls and up the stairs and all around. It’s very odd.”
Selina laughed. “Aristocrats are very odd, haven’t you heard?”
“Of course, the marquess can run around naked and it’s certainly not for me to say whether it’s odd or not. I’m only remarking upon it because he was so much . . . happier this summer when you two would go on walks and that sort of thing.”
“Mary!” Selina pretended to chastise her for her familiarity. “What sort of thing are you suggesting?”
Mary turned red as a beet. “I’m not suggesting . . . I was only . . .” She was practically blubbering.
“I’m only teasing. I know he and I were on much better terms this summer. And I must confess I’m rather pleased he’s as rattled as I am after our . . . quarrel.”
Exhaling with exaggerated relief, Mary continued, “I knew it. I haven’t been gossiping with the other servants, but it’s quite obvious he’s very rattled. So maybe if you could, perhaps, be friends again? It’s just awfully grim lately over in the castle.”
“So if I were to . . . rekindle my friendship with him, it would be an act of mercy on behalf of his retainers?”
Mary smiled as she put on the other flannel glove. “Yes. It would be very charitable of you to be thinking of others. Very considerate. Now let me see to your hair.”
Archie’s valet was no longer hiding his displeasure.
“If you do not finish the experiment now, my lord, you will be late to greet the marchioness and Mrs. White.”
“They don’t mind when I’m late.”
“I do,” the valet mumbled.
Archie stared into the microscope a moment longer. “Fine.” He pulled away from his workbench and removed his apron, handing it to Reynolds. “Only because it will be such a trial for you. When hundreds of children die of the wrong variolation, that will be on your head.”
“Lord Camburton—”
He smiled, and it felt like his face was cracking—he was that far out of practice. “I’m not serious. Let us go. I could do with a proper washing—I’m as ripe as old cheese.”
Reynolds grunted in a way that was respectful but in no way disagreed with his less-than-pleasant assessment of his toilette.
As he bathed, he realized he was paying attention to his appearance for the first time in weeks. Reynolds sighed his appreciation and muttered a few disrespectful it’s-about-times and well-that’s-betters. After being Archie’s father’s valet, Reynolds had stayed on and had been dressing and tending to Archie for the past twenty years. The servant fussed with his neck cloth, ensuring the folds were immaculate. He pinned it with one of the finest emeralds.
“Is it a special occasion, Reynolds?” Archie kept his chin high so the man had room to work on the linen.
“There you are.” Reynolds finished with the pin, stood back a pace, appeared to be pleased with his handiwork, then picked up the fabric brush and ran a few quick strokes down Archie’s back to make sure the superfine nap was looking its best. “Seeing your mother after several weeks should be a special occasion, should it not?”
Perhaps Reynolds’s voice should have given Archie a clue that something was amiss, but he was tired and hoping the evening would pass in the usual way. A relaxing supper in the small dining room, Vanessa, Nora, and Archie sharing details and observations of the past few weeks, a glass of port in the library, and a good night’s sleep.
Alas.
When he entered the drawing room, it almost felt like a foreign place. He had not been in the main parts of the castle for many days—weeks even—except to sprint through its corridors like a madman, and he observed the splendid decoration with new appreciation.
“Archie!” Nora saw him first and crossed the room to hug him. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, my dear boy. Town is so loud and busy.” She studied him and narrowed her eyes. “We will talk tomorrow. A long talk, yes?”
“Yes, Nora. I would like that very much.”
She held his hands in hers for a few moments longer. “So would I.”
He realized he was not merely being polite. He very much wanted to speak to Nora about what had transpired with Miss Ashby. Nora had always understood him in ways no one else did.
“Cambury!”
He turned and saw Christopher Joseph standing near the fireplace.
“Oh, yes!” Nora exclaimed. “Look who we found in London, and we simply forced him to come for a visit. You are so awful about going to town and seeing everyone, Archie. So we’ve brought town to you.”
He sm
iled at his friend. They shook hands, and Christopher leaned in. “Are you married yet?”
Damn him and his blunt nature. “No. Highly unlikely outcome to that hypothesis, I’m afraid.”
“Afraid?” Christopher raised a single eyebrow and took a sip of his whisky. “I can’t imagine why.”
Vanessa was speaking to someone and finished her thought before she leapt from the couch to greet her son. It was beginning to feel like a house party, and all he wanted to do was stare into a microscope.
“Archie!” Vanessa’s high voice spread through the room, embracing him as much as her arms did when she hugged him close.
“Mother, how are you?”
She stepped back and looked at him from head to toe. “You are tired. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I am. I’ve been working long hours as I get closer to understanding the final piece of this puzzle.”
“There will always be one more piece, you know that.”
“I know. But I’ve wanted to keep busy.”
“You always do. At least you haven’t been alone at Camburton.”
He was about to reply that he had never been so alone in his entire life when a vision in emerald-green velvet rose from behind the tall back of the wing chair a few feet in front of where he was standing. Apparently Selina had been enjoying a few weeks of pampered leisure, from the look of her perfectly coiffed blonde hair and her immaculate ivory skin.
“Miss Ashby.” He bowed formally.
“Lord Camburton.” She curtseyed just as formally.
“What’s all this?” Vanessa asked on a laugh. “We are all like family here, are we not? No titles, I beg of you.”
There was a slight pause that Vanessa likely missed. He was fairly certain Nora picked up on the subtle tension, but she smoothed things over in her usual way.
“Of course we are,” she said gently. “Archie, I would love a glass of sherry, and I believe Selina would like one as well.”
Selina looked at Nora, not at him. “Yes, please.”
“Allow me.” He walked over to the table that had been stocked with a small selection of spirits and poured drinks for the ladies.