“He believes he started the fire and killed our parents.”
“So it is said, and it is a terrible thing,” Claire said. She did not know what else she could add to this, so she picked up her cold toast and dipped it into her tea. For the past few weeks, Camille seemed to be diverted from the horror that defined her life and her brother’s, but now that he returned to Brook Cottage, she wondered if the nightmare would be revisited again and again. And yet, each time a nightmare returned, there was something else to be seen and understood. Camille herself seemed to say as much just now.
“Why do you say ‘believe’? Is it not certain what happened?”
Camille shrugged her slim shoulders. “How can it be? Maxwell did not see the fire begin, for he was asleep as any child should be at midnight. He only wonders if he neglected to see to the cinders in the library fireplace, as he promised to do before he went to bed.”
“Did the fire start in the library?”
“No one knows.”
“Were there other people awake?”
“Most certainly. And several of them died as well.”
“So they cannot bear witness. What do you think happened?”
Camille considered this for several moments, though she surely went over the events of that night through all these years since. “I do not know; I only know I do not blame my brother. If he had not come for me, and dragged me out of my chamber, I would have been dead along with the others.”
“I was too hard on him, Camille. He has endured so much, and I dared to doubt his instincts and decisions,” Claire said, knowing that this small parcel of guilt would now forever be hers.
Camille laughed as joyfully as she did when Claire first entered the room sometime before.
“He will forgive you; I am sure he already has. In fact, I am now even more certain there is nothing to forgive.”
Claire pushed back from her seat. “How on earth can you say such a thing? I was dreadful to him.”
“Not so very dreadful,” Camille said, brushing invisible crumbs off her bodice. “After all, he did not ask you to leave. He cannot abide strangers in this house, and certainly not those who defy his wishes. And yet, here you are, and very likely to stay, so I believe he can abide you.”
As a point of consolation, it was very, very slight.
***
Late in the afternoon, after Claire and Camille spent some time fastening new ribbons and nosegays to several serviceable bonnets they discovered in the back of Camille’s armoire, Mr. Cosgrove came to call on Lord Wentworth, to welcome him home. Camille promptly lost interest in her flowery creation and left Claire to her bows and pins and scissors and wandered out into the hallway with none of her usual sureness of step. Claire watched her as she reached out for the touchstones of chairs and table until she reached the open door, and wondered if she regretted the things she said at the breakfast table.
Perhaps it was time for her to leave, Claire mused. What seemed like a pleasurable prospect only weeks before, a challenge that would thoroughly engage her interests and talents, was now a family drama in which she played no part. Even if she succeeded in presenting Lady Camille to London society, what lasting benefit would result? Camille might or might not make a match in her first season, and if she did not, she was destined to return to Brook Cottage and wear comfortable clothing and read edifying tomes. Claire would return to her life, such as it was. And Wentworth would be quite satisfied that his judgment was correct, as he seemed to think it always.
Claire picked up the hat Camille worked on so diligently. One ribbon was blue, one was green, and the nosegay was quite off-center. And yet the result was utterly charming and quite unusual. So it was with the girl herself; would she not find a man who could comfortably overlook her limitations because of her natural charm and curious ways of looking at things?
But of course she was not looking at anything. Her fingers explored what she could not see and the most generous of her acquaintances gave her leave to a certain intimacy. Claire thought about the scene she interrupted this morning, when Camille’s hands were upon her brother’s face, and he allowed both her pleasure and her path of discovery.
It was pleasurable for him as well. If the simple intimacy of touch could provide such satisfaction between family members, what joys could be had between husband and wife? Claire mourned for what she had never known, for she never dared to put her fingers on her own husband’s face. Glastonbury would have brushed them off, annoyed and impatient.
Laughter in the hallway intruded upon her solitude, so Claire thought it an excellent time to escape the room, the cottage, and her own unbidden thoughts. Large, French-styled doors opened onto a broad veranda and a prospect of such natural beauty that Claire’s deepest regret was that her young friend would never see it. She struggled for a moment with the latch, and moved quickly outdoors just as the laughter grew louder.
The sun was low in the sky yet strong enough to make Claire realize she ought to have taken one of the bonnets to shade her face. But she knew where she would find the comfort of shade and quiet, if she did not meet a stranger on the way.
Keeping close to the long drive, she set off through the wild meadow on her way to the woods. She paused to pick flowers that were new and exotic to her, though she guessed that here they were as common as dust. She was certain some of them grew on the slope above the Serpentine, but she never really examined them before. They really were elegant little things, like Camille herself.
Wentworth was undoubtedly right. His sister was a lovely blossom here at Brookside Cottage, entirely free to grow in beauty and grace, without the artifice of society’s manners. She could live out her life surrounded by those who loved her and understood her needs.
As Claire entered the shade of the woods, something small and furry scattered out of her path. Birds cried out at her intrusion into their sanctuary, and, here and there, acorns dropped onto the leafy ground. The brook, not yet visible, beckoned with its irresistible music, and Claire followed it like a woman in a trance.
Here was a spot she had not passed before, and Claire wondered if there was a reason Camille avoided it. It seemed designed for an idyllic interlude, but it was hard to tell if nature had been improved upon or if the setting was the result of natural happenstance. A large tree trunk was poised over the running water, with indentations that might have been carved for two tired wanderers. The trunk was supported by a boulder midstream, allowing it to be elevated just high enough so that if a lady removed her stockings and slippers, she might cool her feet in the running water. It was a fine place for friends to sit and talk, or for lovers to . . . to do whatever it was that lovers liked to do. Claire was not entirely sure of it.
It was also a fine place to sit by one’s self and contemplate one’s problems, such as whether one ought to come between a young lady and her brother, or transplant a meadow flower to Hyde Park, or wonder if it would be quite splendid to dance with Maxwell Brooks. Claire slipped off her shoes and, after making certain she had no audience, lifted her dress so she might roll down her stockings. Her bare feet were soothed by the springy moss of the embankment, and she held onto a low branch as she made her way across the trunk to the seat that was further out over the water. Within moments, she sat, enthroned in her own glorious kingdom.
The cool water running between her toes was populated by small schools of fish that paused to nibble before moving downstream. Claire laughed out loud and turned her face into the breeze as she pulled off a few strategically placed hairpins. There was no one to see her or hear her and she need not answer to anyone’s ideas of propriety.
Perhaps she and Adelaide Brooks had gotten it all wrong and she was to learn something from Camille instead of the other way around. And so she closed her eyes and started to see the world through new sensations of sound and sense.
She may have fa
llen asleep, for she had no idea how long she sat this way. And yet, when she heard him come towards her, first on the crackling leaves and then nearly noiselessly on the soft moss, and when she felt his weight on her tree trunk, she was not at all surprised. She was, indeed, learning to be more like Camille, a lady who could sense the movement of a hare five yards off.
“Do you not have a guest to entertain?” she asked, her face still uplifted.
“And have you not learned that strangers still walk these woods and might take advantage of innocent young things?”
Claire opened her eyes. “I am a widow, my lord, and hardly innocent. And you and I have spoken before.”
Wentworth laughed. “So we had, albeit very briefly. But I recall I was very rude to you, a lady whose friends wanted nothing more than to see partnered on the dance floor.”
“I have never had to beg for partners, my lord, and certainly not with a man who does not appreciate the honor he is offered.”
“I suppose it is also an honor that a fine widow of quality should decide to take my sister under her wing?” he asked.
“You do not sound convinced of it, but I assure you I do not offer my assistance to everyone.”
“Oh, certainly not, my lady. In fact, it is quite the opposite. When confronted with a poor wanderer in the woods, you purposely sent him in the wrong direction.”
“Would you prefer that I direct the man to your sister’s door? Why, he might be a beggar, a robber, even a mur—”
“Yes?” he asked softly.
“One who would do her harm.”
“I see. But I am neither a beggar nor a thief. And I knew very well that you and I met before. I recognized you in a moment, though I had no idea how you came to be on my land.”
“But I did not recognize you.” Claire finally opened her eyes, and turned towards him. He sat very close to her, though he faced the opposite direction. “I thought you said you were to remove your beard today.”
He fingered it and nodded. “The day is not yet over, and I have been busy with many things. Besides, do you not think it makes me look rather heroic?”
“It makes you look like a pirate. Or a blacksmith. Certainly not a gentleman,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“It is an excellent disguise, then.”
“Aside from frightening poor widows in the woods, of what use is your disguise?” Claire regretted her question at once. It was not for her to ask what he did in Portugal, or how he made his way back to England.
“A disguise could hide many things, my lady. Sometimes it is a pleasant thing to pass through society without anyone knowing who you are or what you have done.”
The conversation had taken a queer turn, but perhaps she asked for it. Claire remembered Cheviot’s words about Wentworth’s considerable scars, and the evidence of them she had seen for herself. Beneath his dreadful beard and fine clothes, he hid the features that would mark him forever. For the second time in their short acquaintance, she allowed her eyes to run down the length of his long body, until she spied his bare feet dangling in the brook.
“Oh!” she said. “You have taken off your boots!”
She was both surprised because she had not heard him do so, and unnerved because the scene had become appallingly intimate.
“Would I ruin a perfectly good pair of Hessians just to enjoy a few stolen moments with you in the woods?” he asked, wistfully. And then, with somewhat more conviction: “No, do not answer that. I think I would risk a good deal more.”
Claire twisted in her seat, so her left shoulder nearly touched his right. Here was a man who rebuffed her once, frightened her only last night, and made it clear he did not want her in his home. And yet here was also a man who adored his sister and gave her constant companionship and the easy joy of familiarity. Not for the first time, Claire envied her blind friend.
She looked into Wentworth’s dark eyes, seeing the reflections of the sunlit leaves around them, and put out her hand to his odious beard, just as Camille did that morning.
It was thick and curly, not at all as tangled as she guessed it would be. She ran her fingers to his hairline, where she knew his scars marked his skin, and dared to wind a soft tendril around her thumb. Throughout, he said nothing, but sat quietly under her examination, his eyes never leaving her face. Emboldened, her hand moved to his aquiline nose and to his eyelids and forehead, before good sense returned and she started to pull her hand away.
But when he finally parted his lips to speak, she quickly put her finger there, silencing him.
“There. Now I see you as your sister sees you,” she said.
“But you are not my sister,” Wentworth reminded her, pulled her hand away and held it over their heads. He closed the very small distance between their lips, and kissed her.
Chapter 4
There had been other women in his life, of course, but his experience neither so vast nor his partners so accommodating that he could consider himself a master in the arts of lovemaking. And yet here was a lady, once married and still very popular in society, who made him feel absolutely sure of himself, in command of his impulses and desires. She was sweet and pliable against him, open to new sensation and pleasure. Sitting on a rough log in the woods, their bare feet brushing against each other while they remained otherwise fully clothed, they might have been children again, exploring simple sensuous joys about which they had heard but had not hitherto known.
Claire sighed and parted her lips, allowing him access. Her free hand moved up his jacket sleeve to his cravat, and then to the slim sliver of exposed flesh between the stiff linen and his beard. One finger lingered on the raised scar that still delivered him prickly pain when he rubbed it or when he thought too hard about its cause.
He pulled away, leaving her lovely hands in the air, like hovering birds.
“This is a mistake, Lady Glastonbury,” he said, clearing his throat. “It should not have happened, and it must not happen again.”
She seduced him, of course. He realized that now. She wanted her way in his household, and she resorted to the tactics used by all women to get precisely what they wished. And yet, the look of surprise and even pain on her face gave her the look of an innocent, a lady completely without guile.
“Why?” she asked, simply.
“Because you are a guest in my house and I am responsible for your welfare,” he said, knowing he sounded like a pompous ass.
“I am here at your sister’s invitation, and had no expectation of meeting you during my sojourn at Brookside Cottage. And you had no idea I was here. Are you responsible for that of which you are ignorant?” Her argument was so sensible, he again wondered if he was being trapped into doing something he did not wish.
“I cannot afford to be ignorant of anything that happens to my family and in my household,” he said. “It is a lesson I have learned at an early age and by sad experience.”
There it was, as always. This realization of his fate, obscured by growing passion only a moment ago, remained as worrisome a scar as the one Lady Glastonbury trifled with at his neckline. It might fade for a brief period but it would always return to give him the most acute pain. Like all dreadful scars, it would be his burden for the rest of his life.
“None of us remain unscarred,” she said, once again surprising him. How did she know what he thought and what he felt?
He reached for her hand before it dropped into her lap and spread her fingers between his. Her skin was soft and warm, and he already knew its sweet scent was akin to lilacs, but he looked for other things.
“I am not speaking of the little nicks and bruises that reveal how we have weathered.” He traced a little white line along her middle finger. “I speak of great, irrevocable damage from which one could never recover. One who is marked by such scars can never be wholly a part of society, fo
r that is his punishment.”
“You speak like some ancient, vengeful deity, who makes broad pronouncements for mortal men to follow and obey, no matter how little sense they make. But you cannot scare me, my lord. Even if I were to allow that you somehow did something for which you should be forever punished, your sister did nothing to deserve such isolation. Why must she remain your hostage?”
“She is not my hostage,” he said, frustrated. “She can come and go as she pleases.”
“Indeed, I think she can. She has demonstrated remarkable capability and skills for making her way through each day’s business, expected and otherwise. Why, then, will you not allow her freedom?”
He pushed his way off the damned log, onto the damned moss, and picked up his damned boots. He quickly stifled his retort to the meddling temptress watching him with mild interest from her seat over the meandering brook. His damned meandering brook, in fact. As it was his tree trunk, his woods, his home and his sister.
“So you can offer her your version of freedom, to mingle among the censorious, cruel and downright insensitive members of London society? My sister needs a protector, Lady Glastonbury, and not one who has shared a few ladies’ novels with her, or who has helped pick out some new dresses. She requires someone who understands her needs and frailties, and will not laugh when she walks right into a closed door.”
“I have never laughed at Lady Camille, my lord.”
“But your friends will. Or can you guarantee that they will be utterly kind and helpful, and introduce her to their noble sons with the greatest hope that a blind lady will become a new daughter? The mother of a future earl or duke? You cannot, Lady Glastonbury. Nor can you guarantee that they will not whisper about the blind lady’s brother, who killed their parents and forever harmed his sister.”
He watched, horrified, as Lady Glastonbury curled her legs beneath her so she could rise to her feet, standing in the hollow of the tree trunk where she had been seated moments before. Beneath her, the brook bubbled along at a shallow depth of ten inches or so. Above her was a single frail branch that was the only thing she might grasp if she lost her balance. If she fell, she would surely break an arm or leg, or both. And this also would be on his head.
Sharon Sobel Page 7