Night of a Thousand Stars

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I turned the first over in my hands. Silent in the Grave was incised in gilt letters and a slender piece of striped silk served as a bookmark. I opened to the first page and read the first line. “To say that I met Nicholas Brisbane over my husband’s dead body is not entirely accurate. Edward, it should be noted, was still twitching upon the floor.” I slipped down to sit on the carpet, the books tumbled in my lap, and began to read.

  I did not move until it was time for tea, and only then because Father joined me. He beckoned me to the table by the fire, giving a nod of his silvery-white head to the book in my hands.

  “I see you’ve discovered Julia’s memoirs.”

  I shook my head, clearing out the cobwebs. I had spent the whole day wandering the fog-bound streets of Victorian London with my aunt, striding over windy Yorkshire moors and climbing the foothills of the Himalayas. I took a plate from him and sipped at my tea.

  “I can’t believe I never knew she did all those things.”

  His smile was gentle. “It’s never been a secret.”

  “Yes, I always knew she went sleuthing with Uncle Brisbane but I had no idea the dangers they faced. And you—”

  I broke off, giving him a hard look.

  He burst out laughing. “There’s no need to look so accusing, child. Yes, I did my fair share of detective work, as well.”

  “I can’t believe Aunt Julia almost killed you once with her experiments with explosives.”

  “Once?” His eyes were wide. “Keep reading.”

  He urged sandwiches and cakes on me, and I ate heartily, suddenly ravenous after missing luncheon entirely.

  “That’s what I want,” I told him.

  He had been staring into the fire, wool-gathering, and my voice roused him. He blinked a few times and looked up from the fire. “What, child?”

  “I want what Aunt Julia has. I want a purpose. I want work that makes me feel useful. I don’t just want to arrange flowers and bring up babies. Oh, that’s all right for other girls, but it isn’t right for me. I want something different.”

  “Perhaps you always have,” he offered mildly.

  “I think I have,” I replied slowly. “I’ve always been so different from the others and I never understood why. My half-sisters and -brothers, my schoolmates. Don’t mistake me—I’ve had jolly enough times, and I’ve had friends,” I told him, pulling a face. “I was even head girl one year. But as long as I can remember, I’ve had the oddest sense that it was just so much play-acting, that it wasn’t my real life at all. Does that sound mad?”

  “Mad as a March hare,” he said, his lips twitching. He nodded to the mantelpiece, where a painting hung, a family crest. Our family crest. It was a grand-looking affair with plenty of scarlet and gold and a pair of rabbits to hold it up. “Family lore maintains the old saying about March hares is down to us, that it isn’t about rabbits at all. It refers to our eccentricity, the wildness in our blood. And the saying is a tribute to the fact that we do as we dare. As do you,” he finished mildly.

  I started. “What do you mean by that?”

  A wry smile played over his lips. “I know more of your exploits than you think, child.”

  “Exploits! I haven’t done anything so very interesting,” I protested.

  He gave me a sceptical look. “Poppy, give me some credit. I mayn’t have been a very devoted father, but neither have I been a disinterested one. Every school you’ve been to, every holiday you’ve taken, I’ve had reports.”

  “What sort of reports?” I demanded.

  “The sort any father would want. I had little opportunity to ascertain your character myself, so I made my own inquiries. I learnt you were healthy and being brought up quite properly, if dully. Araminta has proven herself a thoroughly unimaginative but unobjectionable mother. At first, I thought it best, given the sort of family we come from. I thought a chance at normality might be the best thing for you. But the more I came to discover of you, the more I came to believe you were one of us. They do say that blood will always tell, Poppy.”

  I gave him a look of grudging admiration. “I’m torn. I don’t know whether to be outraged that you spied upon me or flattered that you cared enough to do it.”

  His smile was wistful. “I always cared, child. I cared enough to give you a chance at an ordinary life. And if you think that wasn’t a sacrifice of my own heart’s blood, then you’re not half as clever as I think you are.”

  His eyes were oddly bright and I looked away for a moment. I looked back when he had cleared his throat and recovered himself. “I’m surprised you found me clever from my school reports. The mistresses were far more eloquent on the subject of my behaviour.”

  “No, your marks were frightful except in languages. Looking solely at those I might have been forgiven for thinking you were slightly backwards. It was those reports of your behaviour that intrigued me, particularly the modest acts of theft and arson.”

  “But those were necessary!” I protested. “I broke into the science master’s room to free the rabbits he’d bought for dissection. And the fire was only a very small one. I knew if the music mistress saw her desk on fire, she’d reveal where she’d hidden the money they accused the kitchen maid of stealing.”

  He clucked his tongue. “Impetuous. Instinctive. Audacious. These are March traits, child. We’ve been living by them for the past six hundred years. There have been epic poems written about our oddities, and more than one king of England has had cause to be grateful for them. And now you are one of us.”

  I gave a little shiver as if a goose had walked over my grave. “Rather a lot to live up to.”

  He shrugged. “I should think you would find that consoling. You have an ancestor who eloped with her footman, another who rode his horse into Parliament, a great-grandmother who used to dance with a scooped-out pumpkin on her head because she found it cool and refreshing. And those are the ones I can talk about in polite company,” he added with a twinkle. “Don’t be put off by your legacy, Poppy. Embrace it. Follow your own star, wherever it leads, child.”

  “Follow my own star,” I said slowly. “Yes, I think I will.”

  The only question was, where?

  * * *

  The next day I had my answer. I had gone to the pantry to try yet again to help George with the washing up, determinedly cheerful in the face of his resistance.

  “You will come to like me,” I promised him.

  “I have my doubts,” he replied shortly. I put out a hand to wipe a glass, and he flicked the glass cloth sharply at my fingers. “Leave that be.”

  “I could read to you while you work,” I offered. I picked up the book he had stashed on a shelf in the pantry—Northanger Abbey.

  I sighed. “It’s not Austen’s best, you know.”

  He snatched the book from my hand. “It’s Austen and that’s good enough for me.”

  He replaced the book lovingly on the shelf, and I took it down again. “Very well. I apologise. But why do you like it so much? Don’t you find Catherine Morland appallingly naïve?”

  “It seems to be a common failing in young ladies,” he said, giving me a dark look.

  I burst out laughing. “Oh, George. You do say the nicest things.” I flipped to where he had carefully marked his place. He had almost reached the end of the first chapter. I cleared my throat and read aloud. “‘But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.’”

  I looked up, giving George a thoughtful look. “Do you suppose that’s true, George? Do you think when a young lady is supposed to be a heroine, her hero will appear?”

  “Certainly,” he said, polishing an invisible spot from one of the glasses. “If Miss Austen says it, it must be true. But not all young ladies are
meant to be heroines,” he added pointedly.

  “That’s very hurtful, George,” I told him. I turned back to the book. I read the next paragraph, then slowed as I came to these words, “‘...if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.’” I looked up again. “‘She must seek them abroad,’” I repeated slowly.

  George kept on with his polishing, but he flicked me a glance. “An excellent idea. You should go abroad.”

  I smiled in spite of him. “Why are you so eager to get rid of me, George? Surely it’s not that much extra work to scrape a few more carrots for dinner. And I’ve seen Masterman doing heaps of things for you, so it’s clearly just me you don’t like. Why can’t we be friends?”

  I turned up the smile, giving him my most winsome look. He turned and put down the glass, folding the cloth carefully.

  “I’ll not have you hurt him,” he said plainly.

  I blinked. “George, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’ll not have you hurt Mr. Plum.”

  I felt my throat tighten with anger. “The very idea! I have no intention of hurting Father at all. I can’t believe you would even suggest such a thing.”

  “I don’t say as you would mean to do it,” he allowed. “But things happen. He’ll get used to you if you stay on here. And then you’ll go away and it will break his heart. I don’t think he could stand that again.”

  My anger ebbed. I had not considered what a wrench it must have been for him when Mother took me away. “You’ve been a good friend to him, George.”

  George scowled. “I’m his manservant, and don’t be forgetting that, for I’m not. But I’ll not have him hurt again. His heart isn’t what it was. He has spells with it. Not serious,” he said, noticing my start of alarm. “But he needs calm and we’ve had that here. That was when he moved down to the country and left London for good. He keeps regular hours here and paints. And there’s no more detective work.”

  “Detective work? George, what are you talking about?”

  “Your father’s work in London. He was part of your uncle’s private inquiry agency. Among other things.”

  I blinked. “But that was decades ago! Uncle Brisbane and Aunt Julia gave that all up well before I was born.”

  George snorted. “Publicly, they did. But privately, they carried on just as they had. And your father was a part of it. They did government work, and if it weren’t for them, we’d have had a war with Germany twenty years earlier than we did.”

  “George, are you seriously asking me to believe that my family were involved in some sort of global espionage?”

  He shrugged. “You haven’t read all of your auntie’s memoirs yet, have you? Believe what you like, miss. It matters nought to me. But the work was demanding. They had friends killed, and your father had a close shave or two, I don’t mind telling you. That’s how he met me, in fact, and no, I’ll not tell you the story, but I will say your father saved my life, he did, and I’ll serve him until the end of mine. But all of that is behind him. He’s got a pleasant way down here, just his painting and his garden. He’s right old, miss, and he’s not got many years left. I mean to see they’re peaceful ones.”

  “Of course,” I said automatically. There was a pang in my heart when he said Father hadn’t many years left, and I thought of how drastically my little drama must have upset Father’s routine. “I’ll do everything I can to make certain he’s not upset,” I promised. “And I will find something to do with myself. I won’t make him regret having me here. You have my word, George.”

  He gave me a grudging nod and turned back to his washing up.

  I thought of the ruby ring nestled in my underclothes upstairs and took a deep breath. “I’ll go to London. I have a few things I ought to attend to, and I’ll take Masterman. She’s looking peaky from all this country air.”

  George nodded again, this time with slightly more warmth, and I smiled. “Besides, who knows what will happen? Perhaps I will seek an adventure.”

  Four

  The next morning I dressed carefully in one of my honeymoon travelling ensembles, a beautifully cut suit of salt-and-pepper tweed with an emerald silk shirtwaist. There was a daring green feather in my cloche, and green gloves to match. My feet were neatly shod in high French heels and my stockings were the sheerest silk. I had planned on wearing a plain dark grey affair with very little embellishment, but Masterman had firmly squashed that notion.

  “I think not,” she said with a decisive air. “What if you should run into Mr. Madderley or any of his circle? Do you want them to see you looking like a whipped dog? No, miss. You go up to London with your head held high and wearing something smart.” I didn’t have the will to argue, and as I turned this way and that in front of the mirror, I had to admit, Masterman knew exactly what she was doing.

  “A stylish outfit will do wonders for a girl’s pride,” I murmured.

  Masterman pretended not to hear, but I saw her satisfied expression. She dressed herself in a sober costume of dark blue tweed with a discreet gold watch pinned to her lapel and hurried us off to the tiny train station with five minutes to spare.

  The train made good time, and we stopped first at the bank where Gerald’s family kept their valuables. There was a brief, painful interview with their banker, who took the ring from me as if he were receiving a holy relic and issued a receipt, which he handed to me with just his fingertips.

  “Did you see that?” I fumed to Masterman as we emerged from the bank. “He didn’t even want to touch my hand. It’s as if I were a leper.”

  “What did you expect, miss?” she asked reasonably. “He’s the Madderleys’ banker and you’re the woman who threw over Mr. Gerald.”

  “I suppose,” I grumbled. “It’s still rude.”

  “You’ll be in for worse,” she warned. “So you might as well steel yourself and get it over with.”

  “How would I do that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.

  “Lunch at the Savoy,” was the prompt reply.

  I shuddered. “I’d rather walk naked into a pit of vipers.”

  She gave me one of her inscrutable looks and lifted her shoulders in a small shrug. “As you wish, miss. But the sooner you face them down, the sooner you’ll know what you’re made of.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but I couldn’t. She was right, of course. They were just a pack of society gossips. The only whip they wielded was the lash of disapproval. And what sort of adventuress would I be if I couldn’t stand a little gossip?

  I squared my shoulders. “Very well. But there’s something else I need to do first.”

  * * *

  I had made an airy mention of adventure to George, but I hadn’t understood my real reason for going to London until my feet turned automatically towards the church. I owed Gerald the return of his ring, but that did not matter as much as seeing Sebastian again. I had thought of him ceaselessly since he’d left the cottage, and I couldn’t imagine why.

  Of course there was his kindness, I told myself. And those rather gorgeous dark eyes. And what I suspected might be a spectacular pair of shoulders under his cleric’s garb. And a superbly noble profile, which suited his waving dark hair. The combination was very nearly Byronic. I ticked his attributes off on my fingers. He was cool in a crisis. Most men wouldn’t have had the steely nerve to help me escape from my own wedding, much less to do it with a smile. He’d been terribly understanding when I had prattled on about the troubles I’d had with Gerald in the bedroom. He must have been dreadfully shocked, but he hadn’t made me feel the least bit awful about any of it. And he’d been a perfect sport about letting Gerald punch him without hitting him back and complicating everything. He had been an absolute brick, a thorough hero when I needed him, and I hadn’t even thanked him properly.

  It was only to t
hank him that I wanted to see him, I decided. It was just good manners, after all, and I had been brought up to know what was right even if I didn’t always do it.

  None of which explained why I didn’t tell Masterman where we were going. I just knew I was in no mood for questions, and Masterman’s were invariably uncomfortable ones. I only wanted to see Sebastian and thank him once and for all and that was it, I told myself firmly.

  As we walked to the door of the church where I was to have been married, I turned, giving Masterman a pious look.

  “Masterman, I’d like you to wait in the park just opposite. I wish to step into the church for a bit of private reflection.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Unless you plan to reflect aloud, miss, I would hardly be in your way.”

  “Private,” I repeated gently. She huffed a little but took herself off in the direction of the park.

  I went into the church and crept quietly into a back pew. It was one of the great churches of London, stately and ancient, the stone smelling of incense and time. There was something comforting about the old stone walls, and I felt the strain of the past months ease a little as I sat. The choir was in the stalls, practising something restful, and before I knew it, my chin was bobbing on my chest, my breathing soft and slow.