by Emily Bryan
She tilted her head at him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, quite.” He decided he also liked the way the furrow of concern in her forehead made her sharp brows appear even haughtier. “Why is it I always feel as if you’re looking down at me?”
She started a little at the sudden change of subject. “I’m sure I couldn’t say. I don’t mean to give the impression.”
He lifted a hand to very briefly trace a brow with the pad of his thumb. “They’re always lifted, as if you’re mildly intrigued, but mostly just annoyed.”
Even in the dim candlelight he could see a blush rise to her cheeks. “I’m not annoyed…Perhaps it is my height.”
“Your height,” he repeated on a chuckle. “I must admit, that logic fails me.”
“Well, when one looks up to a great height, one’s brows tend to raise.”
“I hardly think I qualify as a great height.”
She used her finger to push up her spectacles. “The principle remains unchanged.”
He frowned down at her; her brows had lifted higher when she’d adjusted her spectacles. “It’s your spectacles, isn’t it? They’re too small.”
“They’re not.”
“They are.” He reached up and slid them off.
“What are you doing?” She grasped for them but he held them out of reach. “Give them back.”
“You see? Your brows have lowered.”
They lowered even farther. “Because I’m squinting.”
“No. Well, yes, you are a little,” he conceded. “But that’s not it. You’re not trying to see above the bottom wire. Why are you wearing ill-fitting spectacles?”
“They’re perfectly adequate.”
“For another woman, perhaps. Not you. Why don’t you procure a pair that fits?”
“I shall, when I want them.”
He was quiet a moment before he said softly, “If you’d rather not discuss it, you need only say so.”
Patience glanced to where the sound of laughter drifted from the open doors of the parlor. Someone could step into the hallway and interrupt them at any minute, and she wasn’t sure if she hoped or feared that would happen. With an uneasy tightness squeezing at her chest—a tightness she recognized as humiliation—she swallowed hard, bent her head to stare at a spot on the floor, and decided if she couldn’t tell William the whole truth of her circumstances, she could at least find the courage to tell him this one part.
“I…I haven’t the funds for it.”
She looked up long enough to see him nod slightly. “I see. Is your father ungenerous? Or have you no head for money?”
“I’ve a fine head for money,” she replied, feeling a little indignant at the implication. A silly time for indignation, perhaps, but it was preferable to embarrassment. “There simply isn’t any available. My father and I are…we are dependent on the generosity of the Meldrin family.”
“Ah.” He dipped his head in an effort to catch her eyes. “Your circumstances are hardly unique, Patience.”
“No, but I haven’t been entirely truthful about them, have I?”
His lips twisted. “Very few in the ton are honest about their circumstances.”
“That hardly excuses my behavior.”
“Your behavior?” This time, it was his brows that lifted. “Have you claimed to have a dowry that doesn’t exist?”
“No, of course not.”
“Have you told anyone that your father is flush?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then I fail to see the cause of your guilt.”
“I wear these gowns,” she replied, plucking at her silk sleeve. “And these fine gloves and lovely jewelry. I go from dinner parties to balls and the opera as if I belong and—”
He reached out to gently still her fidgeting hands. “Of course you belong.”
“I don’t,” she said quietly. “I truly don’t. I am the daughter of a commoner. These gowns are Caroline’s castoffs. Only the fact we’ve been on the Continent keeps them from being recognized as such. I’ve very little education in skills appropriate for a lady. I play no instruments. I’ve no talent for art. I speak no more than a word or two of French. I haven’t the faintest idea how to manage a household with staff. I—”
“You sing,” he interrupted. “You told me you’ve a passable singing voice.”
“Only by luck.” She found herself staring at the floor again. “I’ve never received instruction.”
“Patience, look at me.” He tilted her chin up with his knuckle. “You belong and for better reasons than most in the ton can claim. You’re an intelligent, charming, loyal, kindhearted woman—”
“You haven’t known me long enough to know I’m kindhearted,” she interrupted.
“I didn’t need long,” he said gently. “You spend your evenings in libraries and the backs of parlors rather than out dancing as you’d prefer, just so your friend won’t have to sit alone.”
“I owe her. My father and I—”
“No, you owe Mr. Meldrin.”
“And Mrs. Meldrin. I’d not be able to go out into society without embarrassing myself if not for her. She tutored me extensively.”
He was quiet for a moment before saying, “It’s rather important to you, to be out in society.”
He didn’t phrase it as a question, or even a guess, and so she didn’t offer a direct answer. Instead she wandered over to a portrait of a past Mr. Meldrin and stared at it without seeing it at all.
“All my life,” she began quietly, “I stayed at home, stayed inside while the world outside worked and played and…lived. I wanted a chance to do the same. The Meldrins gave me that.”
She heard him step up behind her, and knew that to anyone looking out from the parlor, they would appear to be simply discussing the portrait. “How did you come to know the Meldrins?”
“Years ago, my father and Mr. Meldrin met through a mutual acquaintance in The Royal Society. They shared a love of all things pertaining to magnetism, and Mr. Meldrin, who is quite a bit younger than my father, looked to my father as a mentor for a number of years. He often came to visit us in Kent.”
“Then you moved away,” William prompted softly.
“Yes, and my father grew…ill. We lost touch for a long time.”
“But not forever.”
“I sought out Mr. Meldrin in London.” He’d been kind to her as a child, often bringing her a special treat of candy when he came to visit her father in his workshop. Later, he’d substituted coins for the candy. Out of funds, evicted once again, and with nowhere to turn but the poorhouse, she’d called on him with the hope he’d not outgrown his generosity. “I went to ask for a loan.”
“He offered something else.”
“Yes, he took us in…I’ll never be able to repay him for that, and I’ll not ask for more.”
William nodded and she expected words of understanding from him, but instead he stepped around her to brush the back of his knuckles along her cheek, his expression unreadable. “You’re a beautiful woman, Patience.”
“I…” Flustered, she attempted to make light of the compliment. “Without my spectacles, you mean.”
With exquisite gentleness, he slid her spectacles back into place. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he repeated.
“I…thank you.”
He took her hand, and after glancing down the hall at the parlor doors, drew her into the shadow of a small alcove. Before she could even think to utter a word of protest as she should have, or encouragement as she would have, he pulled her into his arms and covered her mouth with his.
The kiss was brief. She only had time to register the taste of him, and the way her skin came alive at the feel of his lips moving across hers, and then he was pulling away from her, and pulling them both back into the hall.
“My apologies,” he said hoarsely. “I should not have done that.”
She could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears. “I don’t
mind kissing you.”
“I’m not apologizing for the kiss, Patience. I’m apologizing for being careless with your reputation.”
“Oh.” Though she knew he was right, it somehow seemed terribly wrong to be receiving an apology in that moment. “I…it’s all right. I could have—”
“Patience!” The sound of Caroline calling her name made her take a guilty step back from William. Silly of her, really. She wasn’t standing improperly close—not now, at any rate—and Caroline would have been the last person to notice and comment if she had been. The girl simply didn’t pay attention to those sorts of things.
True to form, Caroline strode quickly down the hall and came to a stop before them, a little breathless and clearly oblivious to the fact that she’d interrupted a private conversation. “Patience, I’ve been looking for you. Your father is asking for you.”
“My father?”
Caroline nodded. “He is…quite insistent.”
“Insistent.” Patience blinked to clear her head. And then she heard it—the distant pounding from upstairs. She hadn’t noticed it over the sound of her own heartbeat. “Oh, dear.”
She turned to William. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
He caught her arm gently before she could leave. “Patience. Your father is still unwell?”
“Yes. I have—”
“He seemed fit enough at Lord Welsing’s ball.”
“His illness is unpredictable.” She pulled away. “I have to go.”
For the first time since coming to live with the Meldrins, Patience had the fervent wish that the family weren’t quite so well off. Their town house may not have been unusually large by ton standards, but for a young woman trying to reach a father in the midst of a madman’s rant, the house seemed perfectly enormous.
She and Caroline moved as swiftly as their skirts, and the possibility of any wandering guests seeing them, allowed, which wasn’t nearly as quickly as Patience would have preferred.
“What’s happened, Caroline?”
“I don’t know for certain. It was only minutes ago. The footmen say he came out of his room, livid about the party downstairs. They’ve locked him in again, but not before he ran down the back steps, went down the side hall, and then…then plowed directly into Mr. Seager. He’s a little put out over the matter.”
“Who, Mr. Seager or my father?”
“Both, I imagine.”
“Oh, blast. What the devil was Mr. Seager doing in the side hall?”
“He said he was looking for an absent partygoer.”
Patience glanced at her friend as they hurried up the stairs. “Where were you, Caroline?”
“I’d gone to my room to fix my hair.” Caroline swallowed audibly. “I may have stayed longer than strictly necessary. I’m sorry, Patience.”
Patience shook her head and took the last step. “This isn’t your fault.”
They reached her father’s room to find three footmen, the housekeeper, Mr. Seager, and several maids standing outside the door. Their argument nearly drowned out the sound of her father pounding on the door. Nearly.
Patience pushed her way to the front of the melee. “Mr. Seager. If you would step aside, please.”
The young man jabbed a finger at the door. “That man accosted me.”
“He didn’t mean you any harm, I’m sure.”
“He’s mad. He very nearly killed me.”
Mrs. Keesnip, the housekeeper, snorted derisively. “Sir Franklin Byerly, hurt you? The man’s seventy years of age and harmless as a new babe.”
“Harmless…” Mr. Seager’s eyes shot to Patience. “Byerly? That…that man is a relative of yours?”
“Mr. Seager, please—” She broke off at the sound of Mr. Meldrin’s voice sounding from behind her.
“I’ll handle this, Patience.” He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “See to your father.”
Patience felt her heart sink further as Mr. Meldrin and Caroline steered a stammering Mr. Seager down the hall. Unless Mr. Meldrin could convince Mr. Seager to keep quiet, her secret would be out before the night was over and all the talk by morning. And included in the gossip would be the Meldrins.
She felt like screaming, and crying, and washing her hands of the whole horrible mess. Instead she took a deep breath and held her hand out to the housekeeper. “The key please, Mrs. Keesnip.”
Her father kicked at the door. “Devil take it, where’s my key?”
“Calm yourself.” She jingled the housekeeper’s immense key ring. “I’ve the key right—”
“Why do you have it? I’m the one locked in the room.” He resumed his pounding on the door. “Why the devil am I locked in this room?”
Patience stepped up and pounded right back. “Sir Franklin Byerly, you will take four steps back from the door or I shall instruct the footman to swallow the key!”
She heard a grumble and a shuffle. The outline of his shoes disappeared from the space between the door and the floor. With a heavy sigh of both relief and misery, she turned the key in the lock and let herself in.
She found him standing in the center of his room, his arms folded across his chest and his face set in a childish pout. “There’s a party. Why am I not at the party?”
Frustrated, she tossed the key on a side table. “You don’t like parties.”
He seemed to consider that a moment before shaking his head. “Everyone likes parties.”
“No, not everyone. You…” Oh, what did it matter? She wasn’t going to convince him of anything. She threw her hands up and searched for a way around the argument. “It’s…it’s a rehearsal…for your birthday party. It’s to be a surprise.”
He uncrossed his arms. “Is it my birthday?”
Not for months and months. “It will be. And you shall have a grand—”
“Who’s ever heard of a party rehearsal?”
“It’s a new fashion. The very latest.”
“Is it? How odd.” In an instant, his features went from baffled to delighted. “How marvelous. Is the rehearsal going well?”
“Like clockwork, although I suspect the guests would be very disappointed to learn you’ve been sneaking about trying to catch a glimpse of the surprise rather than sleeping.”
“Sleeping, yes. It is late, isn’t it?” He glanced at the locked metal box where she kept the laudanum and scowled a bit. “Shall I take my medicine?”
She shook her head. The laudanum was only useful as a last resort to calm him down—it certainly wasn’t effective in making him more lucid—and since he appeared to be calming down well enough on his own, she saw no reason for further sedation. “Not if you let Simmons dress you for bed without complaint.”
“Who’s Simmons?”
“The nice footman waiting outside the door.”
“Ah.” He made an inviting motion with his hand. “Bring him in. Bring him in, then. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner it will be tomorrow.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And tomorrow is my birthday.”
“Well…” Oh, there was no point in arguing with him. It wasn’t as if he would wake up tomorrow and be disappointed. “I’ll just go fetch Simmons.”
She ushered in the footman, then wandered about the room tidying up while Simmons patiently readied Sir Franklin for bed. It took a bit of doing, but eventually, her father was cozily tucked up in bed with his compass in hand and the very beginnings of exhaustion tugging at his face.
Patience took the seat next to the bed and toed off her shoes. She watched him fiddle with his compass for a minute before leaning forward to gently brush away a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes. She wished he’d sit still long enough for a decent trim. “Would you like me to fetch you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps?”
“Tea,” he repeated slowly. He went very still all of a sudden, and then turned clear blue eyes up to hers. “You’re a good girl, Patience.” He reached up to take her hand in his. “A good daughter. Have I told you that?”
>
She squeezed his hand as a pain swelled in her chest and tears burned at the back of her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “You haven’t.” He’d never told her that. Not once had he said anything close to it.
In the past, before his infirmity had become apparent, she’d often felt wounded by his lack of open affection, and what sometimes even amounted to a failure to acknowledge her very existence.
That he should choose to acknowledge and praise her now was almost cruel.
She wasn’t a good girl, and she certainly wasn’t being a good daughter. Since the night of Lord Welsing’s ball, she’d allowed the staff to keep, even lock, her father in his room in the evenings so she could enjoy herself without worrying what trouble he might get into while she was out. She’d left him isolated and alone while she flirted and danced and indulged in dreams of a future that included her happiness, but not necessarily his.
She’d been horribly selfish.
“A good girl,” her father repeated. And then as quickly as his moment of lucidity had arrived, it was gone. His eyes clouded again and he released her hand to tap at the compass. “Goes ‘round,” he murmured.
“Yes.” She sniffled and pulled away. “Yes, it goes around. You were very clever to discover it.”
And she was very late in discovering her conscience. Closing her eyes, she let out a long shaky breath and sorted through her options. Perhaps, with a little bit of luck, she could still make a few things right.
But to do so, she needed to speak with the Meldrins, and then, though it would break her heart, she needed to say good-bye to William.
“Things will be better now, Papa. I promise.”
Chapter Eight
William waited impatiently in the small study off the hall. No doubt it made him look a pathetic fool to be pacing about the little room while guests were gathered in the front parlor. But he couldn’t bring himself to rejoin the festivities. Worry for Patience ate at him. She’d looked so stricken, so panicked as she’d pulled away. How was he to go about making frivolous conversation after seeing her like that?
It had taken every ounce of his will not to follow her and Caroline into the family wing of the house. Only the knowledge that he’d be escorted right back out again had kept him from trying. If Patience had wished for his assistance, she’d have asked for it.