All Dressed in White EPB

by Michaels, Charis

  Joseph said, “It occurs to me that there’s no pianoforte at the Boyds’.”

  She shook her head. “They are artists, not musicians, I’m afraid.”

  “You should have one. Actually, I am in possession of one. A pianoforte. It’s at my home. If the Boyds will allow it, I shall have it sent over.”

  “You have a house?” she asked. Of course, the politer question would have been, You have a pianoforte? But good lord. He has a house?

  “Indeed, I do,” he said.

  He gestured to the piano bench and raised his eyebrows. She scooted to the side to make room and he settled beside her. He smelled like brandy.

  “The house is in Blackheath,” he said. “A small Georgian mansionette, I believe it’s called. Mostly empty, except for a bed and a card table. And a pianoforte.”

  “But you don’t play,” she said.

  “No. I don’t.”

  Before Tessa could stop herself, she said, “Is the pianoforte for me?”

  “Yes.”

  She wanted to ask when he bought it. She wanted to ask when he bought the house, and did he love it, and did he love London?

  Would he consider leaving the house or the city for a place like Hartlepool on the North Sea?

  Was he aware that when she said she wanted to move to Hartlepool, what she really wanted was for him to move there with her, or somewhere else they chose together?

  The questions piled, one on top of the other, like the rising notes of a sonata, and Tessa tried to sift through them, to light upon the most innocuous one, but each one seemed more pointed and telling and demanding than the last. And she was not ready to hear him say no.

  Not yet, she thought.

  And so she let the questions accumulate, let them build into a very high, teetering pile, and then she raised her hands to the keys, and she played them all away.

  Joseph had left his discussion with Falcondale in curiously good spirits. He’d thought he might tell Trevor everything, consider the older man’s opinion, and then try again to mesh his Plan for the Future with his ever-evolving knowledge of Tessa and Christian and their plans.

  Instead, he’d told Trevor everything and walked away . . . invigorated. Propelled. Incited. Trevor had surprised him with advice that, only in hindsight, seemed predictable.

  Stop playing the bloody coward, be a man, make some overture to her. A real overture. And suffer or enjoy the consequences, come what may.

  “Don’t take the tedious, unnecessary journey I took, Joe,” Trevor had said. “Don’t wait until she falls from a balcony and nearly dies to admit that you require her. You do require her, don’t you? I’ve not misread your ravenous looks or generalized misery?”

  Joseph had drummed his fingers on the table and not answered. “But Piety’s affections for you were never in doubt,” Joseph had countered. “Tessa has given me no certainty. She may want nothing from me—well, nothing save a cottage in County Durham.”

  Trevor had simply shaken his head. He waited.

  Joseph had gone on, “It would be impossible to overstate my devastation when she confessed the reason for our marriage. All those weeks, I’d been completely take in. Her affection had seemed as authentic as my regard for you, or your love for Piety. As a result, I can’t trust any suggestion that she might still want me. And let’s not forget that she’s just asked me to move her to the bloody North Sea.”

  “Coward,” Trevor had said. He’d raised his glass in a mock toast.

  Joseph had rolled his eyes.

  “So what if she might not still want you?” Trevor had sighed. “And by the way, if you go in seeking this milquetoast level of interest—‘any suggestion,’ for God’s sake—I hope she rejects you on the spot. Bloody hell, Joe. Spare me the flaccid, head-bowed side shuffle. As if Piety and I have not been beating girls from your path since you were a boy. Rarely have I known you to be without some young woman swooning over you.”

  Joseph had considered this. Flaccid? Head-bowed side shuffle?

  “Would you like to know what I think?” Trevor had asked.

  “No, but I feel sure that you will tell me.”

  “I think you’re suffering from your first-ever rejection. Or potential rejection. By a woman, that is. And not just any woman, a gentleman’s daughter who you thought you didn’t deserve from the start.”

  “Perhaps I do not deserve her.”

  “Likely you did not,” Trevor had said. “But not for the reason you think. You see yourself as a servant and her as a lady, and you believe, ‘She only chose me because she was disgraced.’ The truth of it is, none of us deserves these women. Certainly, I don’t deserve Piety, and I’m a bloody earl. And you don’t deserve Tessa, despite being so much more than a servant. Please tell me the money and effort I’ve devoted to your education has earned this, at least. That you are fully aware that you are so much more.”

  Joseph had refused to comment. He’d taken a drink.

  “Very good then,” said Trevor. “Unless Tessa St. Croix harbors some predisposition for chronic lying—”

  “It’s not that,” Joseph had said harshly, cutting him off. “It was never that.”

  The earl had leaned back in his chair, raised his eyebrow, and taken another slow sip. “Well, then. There’s an inspired answer for you. If you believe this, then what in God’s name are you waiting for?”

  What are you waiting for? Joseph asked himself now as he watched Tessa lose herself in the swirling eddies of a Bach aria, eyes closed, shoulders drawn. She played like a woman walling herself in, note by note. It was beautiful, emotional, and moving, but different from the abandon with which she had played at Berymede.

  He chuckled now, thinking of Trevor’s view of his romantic exploits.

  “Excuse me?”

  The piano clunked to a halt, and Joseph and Tessa spun on the bench.

  Piety stood in the doorway, tugging on leather gloves. Trevor leaned casually on the doorjamb beside her, tapping his hat in his hand.

  “I hate to interrupt,” called Piety, “but, Joseph, we’ve an appointment and must dash out, just for a bit. Beckett is with his French tutor, and we’re meant to meet with the man at the end of the lesson. Another conflict of interest, I’m afraid.”

  Beckett Rheese was Piety and Trevor’s third son, the wild one, the one with a heart for the open sea and little else.

  Tessa rushed to stand, but Joseph grabbed her wrist and held her still. “Not old Monsieur Chapelle?” asked Joseph.

  “Monsieur Chapelle has passed on, I’m afraid,” said Trevor. “Done in by your refusal to memorize Amphitryon in the original French, no doubt.”

  “I beg you,” said Piety, “please stay and enjoy the pianoforte. It is a thrill to hear music in the house. And when we return, we will take supper together. I insist. I shall send a note to Jocelyn and the duke to join us.”

  “We will,” Joseph said, glancing at Tessa. She shrugged as if the decisions were his. He added, “If you really don’t mind.”

  “Excellent,” said Trevor, fitting his hat on his head. “It’s all settled then. Make yourselves at home. I know Beckett will want to see you.”

  And then they were gone. Tessa and Joseph sat in tense silence, listening to Piety’s voice trail down the landing and the stairwell. Seconds later, the front door opened and closed.

  “We cannot simply loiter in their empty house when they’ve gone,” Tessa whispered.

  “Did you know, this was my house, too,” he said. “Once upon a time.”

  She glanced around. “It was?”

  He nodded. “Piety gave you the grand tour, I’m sure, but I’m doubtful she showed you my favorite room. Would you like to see it?”

  She looked at the beautifully upholstered sofas, the vibrant rugs, the lonely harp. “Alright.”

  Joseph slid from the bench and held out his hand. She plunked out two or three more chords, like someone taking a few more bites before she left the table. She took his hand, her expression p
art anticipation and part hope—and ever so slightly shy. He felt a jolt of desire and possessiveness so strong, he almost pushed her back against the music room wall.

  Instead, he cleared his throat and embarked on the long series of stairwells that led to the cellar kitchens.

  “To properly introduce this favorite room, I must first tell you a story.” He tucked her arm beneath his.

  “I should like that,” she said.

  “I’ve told you that my mother was in the employ of the earl’s late mother?”

  She nodded, watching him with rapt attention.

  “My mother,” he went on, “was already a widow when I was a baby, and she raised me in the servants’ quarters of the small manor house in which the earl—before he was made earl—lived with his mother, Lady Blanche.

  “From the time I was old enough to work, I was also in service to the household. Trevor’s father had been a second son, and his older brother held the title. Trevor’s father died in a hunting accident when Trevor was young, and he was left alone with his mother, who was feeble and given to ill health. It’s fair to say that sickly Lady Blanche and her son were largely forgotten in the hierarchy of the Falcondale earldom. We lived in a small manor house in the countryside. Trevor’s education was paid for by his uncle and the household was given a small stipend, but that was all.

  “The staff was small and informal, all Trevor could afford, but this suited his lifelong aversion to intrusiveness or fussing. He is private and largely self-sufficient. That said, my mother was instrumental in caring for his mother, and Trevor had a fondness for me. He eschewed the idea of a valet, but my mother did his washing and mending and I tended to his attire in as much as he required it. I kept his room tidy, I tended his fire, I cleaned his boots. He taught me to care for his horse and tack.”

  They reached the ground floor and Tessa looked around, expecting perhaps to be led through any number of wide, heavily molded doorways, but Joseph opened a small door and tugged her down a narrow set of stone steps.

  “Trevor was not lying when he said he was an architect,” Joseph went on. “He studied architecture in school, and before university, he spent hours in his library, pouring over books. When I showed an interest in his sketches, he began to teach me basic mathematics, world history, physics. By the time I was eight or nine, my life was divided evenly between working as Trevor’s general manservant and learning as his pupil.”

  They reached a cramped landing, and two footmen crowded past, mumbling a respectful, “Hello, Mr. Chance,” as they passed. Joseph crowded Tessa against the wall, making room. When the servants were gone, he took her hand and led her down a dim corridor.

  “When I was ten or so, doctors advised Trevor to leave England and take his ailing mother to Greece because of the climate and sea air. Trevor had just finished university and was keen to travel, so he thought, why not? He moved us all to Athens.”

  He sighed heavily. “Our time in Greece is a whole different story, but in short, Trevor became the sort of . . . right-hand man to a fiefdom of unsavory characters, slumlords, men who owned tenement flats all over the city. He was originally hired to shore up the slums, but eventually he rose through the ranks and advised the chief slumlord in all of his various holdings and interests.

  “And while Trevor served the slumlord, I served Trevor. This was a rather . . . dark period of our lives, the both of us. Trevor’s mother was very ill, and he detested the work he did for this man, but we became too embroiled to see a clear way out.

  “During the years in Athens, I was neither servant nor student. I was more like . . . steward, sword bearer—”

  “Sword bearer?” said Tessa.

  “Actually, Trevor prefers a matched pair of Scottish sgian-dubh daggers.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Joking? No. Showing off? Perhaps just a little.” He winked at her. “Athens is where I learned to fight, learned to speak Greek, learned all kinds of nefarious things that can still come in handy in dark pleasure gardens or far-flung ports to this day.”

  “But you did not stay there forever. You’ve said you attended university in England. When did you leave Greece?” Tessa asked, transfixed.

  “We left when Trevor’s uncle died unexpectedly and he was made earl. The slumlord was dazzled by the title and simply let us go. Lady Blanche was dead by this time, my mother too, and we made our way home. I was Trevor’s only family and he was mine. He inherited the townhome next to this very house, and we moved in and plotted the next stage of our lives. Trevor was finally free of the burden of caring for Lady Blanche, and he wanted nothing more than to travel. I wanted to work as his servant and travel with him. But then . . .”

  They came to a small room at the end of the corridor. There was a step. The wooden planks of the floor gave way to stone. A door to the garden glowed with daylight at the end of the little room, and heavy winter coats hung from hooks along both wall. Boots lined the floor. Joseph stepped down.

  “But then what?” demanded Tessa.

  “Then a certain American heiress moved next door, into this very house, and Trevor became . . . distracted. And he is still happily distracted to this day. But that, too, is a story for another time.

  “By this time, my knowledge on many subjects had exceeded Trevor’s and he had begun to hire tutors for me. Some met with me in Trevor’s office, others I met in laboratories or libraries or museums. I was particularly interested in commerce and the economy of England, the way trade was managed between countries. Despite our joke about my French tutor, I had a proclivity for languages. I was a ravenous student. I relished learning. I knew the money Trevor spent on tutors was rare and indulgent, I knew my time away from household duties was unheard of, but I could not bring myself to refuse the next session or lesson or master. And that . . .”

  He reached out and handed her into the small room. “. . . brings me to this. My favorite room in the house.”

  Tessa looked around, taking in the coats and the boots, the brushes, buckets, and umbrellas. “But isn’t it a . . . boot room?”

  “Yes,” said Joseph, “the boot room. That door leads to the stables. Around the corner is the scullery. Just there are the kitchens.”

  He watched Tessa’s face as she looked thoughtfully around the small room. Despite her own elevated upbringing, he doubted she would disparage the modesty of the room, but she was clearly confused.

  He would tell her why—he’d brought her here for the sole purpose of telling her—but he was touched by her reticence. Since his return, she’d been so very careful about saying and doing everything right; she was determined to make no misstep. It endeared her to him. Everything about her felt so very dear.

  A servant laughed in a distant corridor, and Joseph used his foot to close the gallery door. They were alone in the small musky room.

  “Am I . . . meant to ask?” she said finally, looking up. “Why is the boot room your favorite?”

  “This is the room,” Joseph said, “where I ceased being a servant and became a full-fledged, abovestairs member of this household.” He glanced around. A pair of shiny black Hessians were propped neatly on an inverted shelf. Two muddy pairs of work boots sat beside it. There was a broom. Umbrellas. A stack of sodden broadsheets.

  Tessa stared at the humble objects and waited.

  Joseph took a deep breath. “One day, about a year after Piety and Trevor were married, Trevor and I returned from a session with my humanities tutor. It was spitting rain, one of those days when you can’t distinguish the falling rain from the splashing mud. Trevor was out on an errand, so instead of my walking home, he came to fetch me in the carriage.

  “My tutor, Mr. Coates, followed me out in the downpour to make sure Trevor was shown a short treatise I had written for an assignment. It was an editorial on the state of education in Britain at the time, and it drew on my research of state-provided schooling in countries around the world. It was very idealized, I’m sure, but Mr. Coates had liked it
enough to submit it to some political journals he favored, and we’d heard that an editor or two were considering publication.

  “As we rode home, Trevor read the piece, but he said nothing—which was not out of the ordinary. Unless the subject was architecture, Piety was more likely to take an interest in my studies than Trevor. He cared only that I convened my sessions and that I was prepared. In this instance, however, he read every word. The ensuing silence was . . . unnerving.

  “He finished reading the piece, concealed it in its leather cover and retied the string. Then, silently, he turned to look out the window. I remember thinking, ‘He hates it. It presumes too much. He finds me ungrateful because I propose schooling for all children, despite the effort he’s made to have me tutored in private. He’s bored. He thinks my writing is weak. He believes editorials are a waste of time.’ Every defeatist thought entered my mind, and I was, quite literally, crushed.

  “When finally we reached Henrietta Place, Trevor called for the carriage to bypass the front door in favor of the stable. We did this on rainy days if Piety was not with us, because it allowed us to enter the house by this room, rather than tracking mud in through the front door. So the carriage finally came to a stop just there . . .” Joseph pointed out the door window “. . . and we splashed through the alley.

  “And I’ll never forget, Trevor tucked the leather cover and my paper inside his greatcoat to protect it from the rain. And I thought, ‘He wants it dry to throw it in the fire.’”

  “So fatalistic,” Tessa said.

  Joseph raised his eyebrows. “I’ve developed a much thicker skin.”

  “Yes, I know all about your thick skin,” said Tessa, and she raised an eyebrow.

  For half a beat, Joseph lost track of the story. He cocked his head. The atmosphere in the room, the energy in the air, had changed. They hadn’t touched, but something passed between them. A wave, a current. He longed to follow it with his hands.

  “Right,” he said slowly, eyeing her.