Andrea Kane

by Music Box

  Tenderness relaxed Bryce’s frown as he pictured a small Gaby, fiercely guarding her baby birds and gifting them with “Für Elise.” “Then what?”

  “I sat with them for some time, until my shivering became severe. As I said, it was terribly cold, and I was wearing nothing but a nightgown. I knew I needed to go inside, not only to avoid catching influenza but also to avoid discovery. There were still a few servants about, like Whitshire’s head gardener, Dowell, and two or three stable hands. Each time one of them passed by, I hid in the grassy hollow beneath the oak. But I couldn’t stay there forever, nor could I stop the sound of my chattering teeth. Eventually someone would have spied me and alerted my parents to my whereabouts. And I so hated to upset them—again.” Gaby gave a sad little shrug. “As you heard Mr. Averley say earlier, my disappearances were not uncommon. And they worried my parents terribly.”

  “Why didn’t you go back to bed?” Bryce asked, puzzled by her behavior yet altogether grateful for its outcome.

  “Because I wanted to check on the robins again later that night, to make sure they hadn’t been harmed by the cold. So I crept into the shed and curled up in a pile of blankets. I waited until I couldn’t hear any more footsteps or voices. Then I opened the music box and let it play. I must have fallen asleep. When I awakened, the entire room was in flames. I fought my way out—I remember thinking over and over again that I didn’t want to die. But once I escaped, realized where the flames were headed”—a choked sob—“I wished I could change my mind. I tried to get to the servants’ quarters, but the fire was like a blazing wall. I called out Mama’s and Papa’s names, and I fought so hard to get through that wall. But I couldn’t … I couldn’t.

  “I don’t remember anything else until I opened my eyes and found myself clasped in Mrs. Darcey’s arms. I was on the ground, and everything smelled funny—smoky and sweet all at once—I’ll never forget that smell. Nor will I forget how brown and barren everything looked. I knew something was very wrong. At first I thought it was that my music box was gone. But when I asked Mrs. Darcey for it, she gave it to me. She was crying, and then she began rocking me back and forth in her arms. All of a sudden I remembered. I started crying, kicking to free myself, and begging for my parents. But even as I did, I knew they were gone, that I’d never see them again. I knew.”

  Gaby’s whole body was shaking with painful sobs. “Aunt Hermione took me away that very night. She never even let me go back inside—not that there was anything for me to go to. And she didn’t bring me to the main manor. Afterward I realized it was because her brother would never have permitted it.” Gaby turned her face into Bryce’s shirt. “You know the rest.”

  “Yes, I know the rest.” Bryce’s chest was so tight he could scarcely speak. “And that’s what you were seeing tonight, when you were looking out the music hall windows? You were reliving the fire?”

  A tremulous nod. “I don’t know how much of Whitshire’s servants’ wing you could make out in the darkness. But that’s the section of the estate that’s visible from the music hall windows. It’s been rebuilt, of course. Only the stables remain unchanged; they were untouched by the flames. But I wasn’t seeing the wing as it is now; I was seeing it the way it was then—the night Mama and Papa died.”

  Bryce had never felt such a fierce need to absorb someone else’s pain as he did at that moment. He closed his eyes, his palm warm against Gaby’s neck. He could feel the pounding of her heart, the anguished shivers of memory still trembling through her as she rested her forehead against him, absorbing whatever fragments of strength and compassion he had to offer.

  “Thank you,” she whispered after a time. “Thank you for listening.” She eased away from him, her eyes huge and emotion-filled. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to talk about what happened. You’re very insightful.”

  “I spoke from experience, not insight. And I’m glad I could help.”

  “You did more than help. You warmed away the pain.” Gaby’s fingertips brushed his jaw. “Just as a magnificent symphony would.”

  An odd emotion constricted Bryce’s throat—one that had little to do with compassion.

  Abruptly he looked about the room, realizing for the first time in too many minutes how inappropriate this whole situation was.

  “What is it?” Gaby asked, her head tilted quizzically. “What’s wrong?”

  Bryce eased her back against the pillows, then rose swiftly to his feet. “I apologize for this less than proper situation,” he said, more disconcerted than sorry. “I’m not in the habit of visiting women in their bedchambers or of taking advantage of their distress by holding them in so intimate a manner, much less when they’re clad in their nightgowns.”

  To his amazement, Gaby began to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just survived a devastating experience, thanks to you. I walked in my sleep, relived the worst nightmare of my life, and, in the process, cut my feet to ribbons. You rescued me, awakened me, and nursed my wounds. You carried me to my bed so I wouldn’t have to walk, soothed me when I cried, and did it all silently and alone so as not to alert Aunt Hermione and risk upsetting her. You then persuaded me to give voice to memories I’d buried inside me for years and which desperately needed to be said. And now you’re apologizing for being in my room, sitting on my bed, and catching a glimpse of me in a nightgown?”

  Bryce’s lips curved. “I see your point.”

  “Do you?” Gaby sat up, raising her knees and wrapping her arms about them, regarding Bryce with that innocent wisdom of hers. “I think not. And while I welcome this unexpected humor for helping to make an otherwise unbearable situation bearable, I have to wonder—do you ever challenge protocol?”

  “Pardon me?” Bryce was thrown completely off-balance by the unexpected question.

  Gaby dashed away her tears. “I asked if you ever challenge protocol.”

  “I heard you. What I meant was, what exactly does your question mean?”

  “Precisely what it sounds like it means. I realize you’re a man who prides himself on his principles and on his clearheaded, pragmatic approach to life. Nevertheless, surely this was not the only time your feelings have ever compelled you to do something that would otherwise be considered improper.”

  Bryce considered the question. “Actually, until I came to Nevon Manor, I was a fairly stable, predictable fellow.”

  “What about Miss Talbot?”

  “What about her?”

  “Don’t you ever behave unpredictably around her?”

  “No.”

  Gaby looked amused. “No? What about when you’re alone together? Surely there are times then when your heart rules your head. I can only imagine how extraordinary a feeling that must be.” She leaned forward. “I know this question is truly improper and certainly none of my business to ask, but given how frank you’ve been with me about everything else, I’m going to risk offending you and blurt it out nonetheless. Where do you and Miss Talbot go for privacy? Not specifically, of course, but in general—you know, unoccupied anterooms that you slip away to during grand balls, moonlit parks that you stroll through only to lose yourselves among the trees, that sort of thing. Or is there perhaps a specific spot—a quiet embankment along the Thames, for example—where lovers can be alone. I’ve always wondered about that with regard to courting. Your world is much more vast than mine, so I’m sure you can answer me. Where is it permissible for a man and a woman to express their affection for each other?”

  Bryce’s jaw had dropped, and it took him a full moment to recover. “I don’t believe this,” he muttered.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Gabrielle.” Bryce sank back down into the chair, reminding himself that he might someday be called upon to oversee this young woman’s future. “I don’t know where you get your ideas, but I’d better set you straight right now. It’s never proper for a woman … that is, it’s wrong for a well-bred young lady to express affection—real affectio
n …” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair.

  “You’re referring to passion?” Gaby supplied helpfully.

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of passion?”

  “I’m not a dolt, Bryce. I have eyes and ears. I read. I ask questions. I see glances exchanged right here at Nevon Manor—blushes, heated looks, flirtatious smiles. I’ve even seen animals mate. I know what intimacy is all about. What I don’t know is where people display it. Oh, I have a pretty good idea where the residents of Nevon Manor go, but our family is hardly typical of the rest of the world.”

  “Damn.” Bryce exhaled sharply, praying that Hermione would live forever. The very thought of being guardian to Gabrielle was beginning to send chills down his spine. “First of all, the mating of animals has little to do with the passions of human beings. Second, I’m not the one you should be addressing this type of question to— Who?” he interrupted himself. “Who have you seen those romantic interactions between? And where is it you think they … go … to be affectionate with each other?”

  A secret smile. “I’ve seen several people. You’ll see it for yourself when you’ve been here long enough. For one, Goodsmith is dreadfully infatuated with Marion. She’s that warmhearted maid who’s a bit unsteady on her feet. Marion is sweet and amusing, and she’s willing to listen to Goodsmith’s stories for hours on end. Why, on some afternoons when the carriage has been polished until it gleams and there are no other chores for either of them to do, Goodsmith and Marion disappear for an hour or more, and very little of that time, I suspect, is devoted to Goodsmith’s storytelling. The carriage house,” Gaby added, “is delightfully deserted at that time.

  “Then there’s Wilson, who can scarcely take his eyes off Ruth, that refreshing young serving girl with the enchanting smile. Oh, I know she’s somewhat dizzy, and often seems a bit vague, but she’s not bothered by the fact that Wilson’s best friend is his shovel. So it all evens out.” Gaby leaned forward conspiratorially. “Whenever Ruth takes a stroll in the garden, Wilson stops what he’s doing to stare at her with a lopsided grin and a besotted expression. Occasionally he joins her, at which point they make their way around to the far side of the stables, supposedly, according to Wilson, to inspect the shrubs he planted there, shrubs I have yet to notice. Afterward he sighs for an hour as he ambles about the garden doing not a stitch of work. Why, he doesn’t even address his shovel during that time. And there are”—a reflective pause—“others at Nevon Manor who are deeply taken by each other.”

  “Others,” Bryce repeated woodenly. “And do you know where these others meet, as well?”

  Gaby grinned, her first broad grin all night. “Of course. What I don’t know is the procedure for those outside Nevon Manor.”

  “Nor should you,” Bryce returned, making a mental note to speak to Hermione first thing tomorrow about this inappropriate exposure of Gabrielle’s, however limited, to the romantic interludes of the staff. “No proper young lady needs that kind of information.”

  “Isn’t Miss Talbot a proper young lady?”

  “Of course.”

  “I see.” Gaby cocked her head quizzically. “So the two of you are never alone?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nor were you ever alone with any of the other women you courted?”

  “Never.”

  Gaby’s face fell. “Then you know as little as I do about passion.”

  “No. Yes. I mean—that’s not what we were discussing.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Passion. We were discussing the appropriate mode of behavior for well-bred young women.”

  A glimmer of understanding lit Gaby’s eyes. “As opposed to ill-bred young women.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What about men? Are they divided into similar categories?”

  Bryce wondered why he’d ever found arguing at court difficult. He also wondered when in God’s name Hermione had intended to teach Gaby what the world was about, given she was to be brought out next Season. “No. Men are not subjected to the same rules of conduct as women are.”

  “I see.” Gaby rested her chin atop her knees, digesting this new information.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  Bryce nearly sagged with relief. “Good. Then we can drop the subject.”

  “You’re telling me you escort well-bred women about Town, but it’s courtesans you visit when you want to express affection.”

  Bryce’s relief vanished. “Gabrielle, I—”

  “That’s all right, Bryce. I asked.” Gaby shook her head in baffled amazement. “Although I can’t understand such absurd rules. Wouldn’t you rather be intimate with the woman you love than with a stranger?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Bryce managed. “As for love, you and I have already held this conversation. You know my opinion on the subject.”

  “Yes. You don’t believe in love, only in compassion. And, as I told you, I’m hoping our family can change your mind.” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Let me ask you something else.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “You said I was the first person with whom you’d shared the truth about your lineage, that you don’t turn to Miss Talbot for such things. What do you turn to Miss Talbot for? Exactly what do the two of you share? Not physical intimacy, not emotional intimacy. What, then, is left?”

  “Many things.” Frowning, Bryce stared at the toes of his shoes. “We share a number of interests: theater, sailing, the opera. We share a circle of mutual friends. We share similar outlooks, goals, priorities.”

  “Isn’t honesty one of your priorities?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Yet Miss Talbot knows nothing about your past, about what shaped you into the man you are.”

  “She knows all that’s important.”

  “I don’t understand you, Bryce,” Gaby murmured. “Unless the newspapers have exaggerated, you’re on the verge of proposing marriage to this woman. Don’t you owe her the truth? Further, don’t you want to give it to her?”

  Bryce’s frown deepened. “I don’t feel I’m being dishonest by relegating my past to the place where it belongs. The details surrounding my birth have no impact on my future, nor would they affect Lucinda’s. So honesty isn’t the issue here. Privacy is. Married or not, I’m entitled to retain some. To my way of thinking, a commitment doesn’t necessitate baring your soul.”

  “In other words, you join your lives but not your hearts, your minds, or your spirits.”

  Silence.

  “You do intend to marry her, don’t you?”

  “The subject has come up.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  Bryce rubbed his palms together. “Marriage is a partnership, Gabrielle, not an exhilarating romp or a magnificent symphony. Lucinda is a lovely, sensible woman. She’s also past twenty. Marriage is the prudent, logical step for us to take.”

  Gaby looked positively incredulous. “How can you speak of marriage with such detachment?”

  “Not detachment—practicality.” Bryce rose. “I think it’s time for you to sleep.”

  “And for you to avoid the subject.”

  “I believe we’ve said all there is to say.”

  “Have we?” Gaby traced the quilted edge of the bedcovers with her forefinger. “If you say so. I happen to disagree.” She tensed as Bryce walked toward the door. “Wait.”

  Bryce turned, on the verge of curtly informing her that their conversation was at an end. Seeing the panicked expression on her face, he changed his mind. “What is it? Are you afraid to go to sleep?”

  “What if it happens again?” she whispered. “What if I sleepwalk?”

  Pressing his lips together, Bryce contemplated that prospect. “Gabrielle, our wisest course of action would be to—”

  “Please don’t suggest telling Aunt Hermione,” she broke in, reading his thoughts. “Please. Bryce, have you seen how weak she is? If she
learned of tonight’s incident, she’d be worried sick. I can’t and won’t do that to her.”

  “Very well.” Bryce leaned back against the closed door, his determination crumpling beneath the pleading look in Gaby’s eyes. “I’ll make a deal with you,” he heard himself say. “I’ll stay in your chambers tonight, serve as your sentry. I’ll pull the armchair over to the door and make it my bed. That way, should you sleepwalk again, try to leave the room, you’ll encounter an immovable object: me. I will then awaken you and send you back to bed. How would that be?”

  Gaby’s slender shoulders sagged with relief. “And you won’t breathe a word to Aunt Hermione?”

  “Not this time. However,” Bryce added firmly, “should this incident recur—tonight or any night—Hermione must be told. For your safety and for my peace of mind. Gaby,” he said in a gentler tone, detecting the fine tension that had reclaimed her, “I won’t be remaining at Nevon Manor forever, at least not at this point in my life. Nor can I leave knowing you might conceivably hurt yourself—a distinct possibility, should the sleepwalking recur without Hermione having been alerted and given the chance to take the necessary precautions. I know you worry about her; so do I. But remember, she might be physically weak, but emotionally she’s strong. She’d be able to take in her stride what’s happened, as well as to understand its cause.”

  “You don’t think it’s over, do you?” Gaby asked in a small, frightened voice. “You think I’ll sleepwalk again.”

  “Not necessarily, no.” Bryce shook his head. “I’m trained to consider every angle of a situation, and that’s what I’m doing. But that doesn’t mean I expect the sleepwalking to continue. It’s quite possible, now that you’ve put your first visit to Whitshire behind you and spoken of the night of the fire for the first time, that you’ve quieted your ghosts enough for you to sleep peacefully and undisturbed by memories.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she murmured.