by Jo Goodman
“From Bode’s perspective there is,” Tuck said. “He believes your engagement is quite real. I think you can appreciate that he’s uncomfortable with you marrying his brother while keeping so much from him.”
“He made an excellent point,” Newt said, “about your long friendship with his brother. Isn’t it reasonable to suppose that over the years you should have shared at least some of this with Bram?”
“Reasonable to whom? Has everyone but me forgotten that Bram tends to act first and apologize later? I might as well place an announcement in the Chronicle as share a confidence with him. The nature of my friendship with Bram does not extend to telling him anything I don’t wish at least ten other people to know. How could you not understand that?”
“I think I do, but maybe I’m finally understanding something else.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe Bram’s your friend because you know you can’t tell him the important things. That’s as good an excuse as any to keep what’s bothering you all tucked up inside. When I think about it that way, lots of things make sense to me. Like why you’d start denying your nightmares and why you’d want to pretend that you don’t remember any part of them. Bram wouldn’t know what to make of all that unpleasantness, so you figured you wouldn’t have any. I bet he hardly ever asks a hard question anyway, and that’s what makes you so easy in his company. That sound about right?”
Comfort stared at Newt. She felt the ache of tears at the back of her eyes and a solid lump forming in her throat. She didn’t try to speak.
Tuck glanced sideways at his friend. “Never thought much of your carpentry skills, but you hit that nail square. Hard to believe we’re only seeing it now.” He reached in his pocket and removed a handkerchief. He rose briefly to pass it to Comfort. “What happened the last time you forgot yourself and trusted Bram?”
She squeezed the handkerchief in her fist. That worked as well as pressing it to her eyes. “You know what happened. He announced we were engaged.”
“So he did. Seems to me like you need to set that right. First with him and then with Bode. Bram can tell Alexandra the truth himself. That’s not for you to do.”
“I promised him,” she said dully. “Eight weeks.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Tuck. “You’re deceiving people, Comfort. You deceived us. Bode. Alexandra. Everyone at that party. Could be that you’re deceiving yourself.”
She pressed her lips hard together. If she said something now, there’d be no mistaking the quaver in her voice.
“Could be,” Tuck went on more softly than before, “that your head knows better than your heart and maybe you should start listening to it.”
Chapter Seven
Sleep did not come easily. She hadn’t expected that it would. She tried it with the window open and the window closed, the covers off and on, the pillow pounded flat and pushed plump. There was no position that was comfortable, no activity that was sufficiently tiring. She counted backward from one hundred by threes. She named all the states in order of their admission to the Union. She stared at the clock on her mantelpiece and watched time crawl.
At three o’clock sleep overtook her. At three twenty she was awake again, or nearly so. It wasn’t thirst that drove her from the bed. It was Bode. More correctly, it was Bode’s kiss. Comfort stood beside her bed with the back of her hand pressed to her lips and imagined she could still feel the warmth of his mouth. Half expecting that he would emerge from the mound of rumpled sheets and quilts that she’d kicked to the foot of the bed, she took a step backward and bumped against the nightstand hard enough to make it wobble.
It was the act of steadying the table and centering the oil lamp that brought her to full wakefulness. She needed a moment to orient herself, and when she did, when she realized why she was standing beside her bed and no longer lying in it, she simply shook her head at the absurdity of her response. It made no sense that she would bolt from Bode in her dream when she had done nothing so sensible in reality.
She released a long, slightly shaky breath that she meant to be self-mocking laughter, and she could only sigh when it didn’t touch any of the right notes.
Barefoot, she padded quietly to the bathing room, where she soaked a cloth in cool water and pressed it to her flushed cheeks and forehead. When she was finished, she stared at her reflection in the mirror above the washbasin and wondered what she was supposed to make of it all. “How did things become complicated?” she whispered. Except for an accusing, faintly contemptuous smile, her mirrored self had no answer.
Comfort took her robe from a hook behind the door and found her slippers under the bed. After putting them on, she removed the oil lamp from the night table and carried it to light her way through the house. As much as she would have liked a cup of warm milk, she liked her aloneness more. Entering the kitchen, even at this time of night, would have disturbed one of the servants, and talking to anyone just now was more effort than she wanted to make.
Comfort’s intention was not to wander aimlessly through the house like some wraith. She had a destination in mind when she left her room, and she chose her route so she would arrive quickly and with the least chance of being surprised by a servant or her Uncle Newt, who sometimes did haunt the hallways when he couldn’t sleep.
Slipping inside the conservatory, she closed the door and leaned against it. The air was pleasantly humid, and she embraced it like a second skin. The heavy scent of rich, dark soil made her nostrils flare as she breathed deeply. The room was crowded with delicate orchids and lush, green foliage, and where her lamp could not penetrate the thickest fronds and ferns, deep and unwelcoming shadows discouraged exploration.
Comfort set her lamp down just inside the door and walked under the umbrella of the darkest shadows without any hesitation in her step. She’d taken the path so many times that her feet knew the way even when the shadows made her eyes doubt the course. Occasionally the feathery fingers of an exotic plant would brush her cheek or the back of her hand. She felt as if she were being greeted by friends.
At the heart of the conservatory was a circle clearing. Benches surrounded a sundial whose pattern had been laid into the green-veined marble floor. Above the clearing was a large glass cupola that, day or night, was a window to the sky.
Comfort chose a bench and sat. She leaned back and tilted her face upward. She never tired of this view, never felt as deserving of her name as when she spied on heaven. It wasn’t possible to look up from here and not think of the first time she remembered staring up at the stars. Tuck had been beside her then; Newt hovered nearby. For a long time no one spoke. She’d liked that, liked it still when they sat together and none of them had a need to fill the silence. Those moments had no expectations attached to them, no demands.
What happened earlier when she’d been summoned to the study was different. There, silence was awkward and unforgiving. It yawned as widely as a gulf and required a bridge of such proportions to cross it that none of them could manage that feat of engineering.
Was Tuck right? she wondered. There was no question that she’d allowed herself to be made party to a deception. She accepted that she’d wronged Alexandra and Bode most particularly and had done almost as badly by every other guest that night. It was not as easy to know about the matter of self-deception. What did anyone ever discover by peeling back the layers of that onion except more tears and more onion?
Then there was all that Newt had said. I bet he hardly ever asks a hard question anyway, and that’s what makes you so easy in his company. Certainly Newt believed that her friendship with Bram was something less than she’d always supposed it to be. How was she to know if he’d truly hit the nail square when every part of her recoiled at the notion?
It was not often that Tucker and Newton stated their expectations so clearly. They didn’t ask her to end the fraud that was her engagement. They didn’t try to persuade her. They told her to set it right.
Comfort blinked. She’d been staring at the
stars for so long that they had begun to pulse, or maybe it was that her eyes were watering from contemplating that onion. She pressed a thumb and forefinger to the corner of her eyebrows and held them there. Calm came upon her slowly, and the urge to weep passed.
She would send a note round to Bram in the morning and call on him after she left the bank. He wouldn’t be expecting her visit to have a serious nature, and if it were anything else she meant to discuss, she might have given him a hint. This was different. He could be persuasive in any circumstance, but lying on his back in bed, his leg splinted from ankle to hip, he was likely going to try to engage her pity as well. Knowing that gave her some small advantage. She wasn’t going to toss it away by warning him what to expect when she arrived.
Perhaps, depending on how Bram accepted her decision, she would suggest that they tell Alexandra together. It didn’t matter if Bram mistook her offer as a gesture of support, or more likely, that she was prepared to share the responsibility equally; being at his side when he told his mother the truth was the surest way she had of knowing that it was done, and done fairly. She also wanted to hear Alexandra explain how they should proceed with a public declaration. Bram’s mother knew something about holding herself above personal scandal.
That left Bode. Comfort tried to imagine what she would say to him and could not. Likewise, his reaction to whatever she might eventually say was also outside her imagination. She could tell him what she’d done easily enough. That was not the problem. It was the explanation for it that twisted her tongue.
Does my brother know that you’re in love with him?
She wished he’d never put the question to her. She tried to recall if there’d been a hint of amusement in his tone. It seemed that there had. If there was concern, then it had been the pitying kind. Because she’d agreed to support Bram’s lie, she’d been trapped into making an admission she would have rather avoided.
What would Bode make of it now, assuming he remembered the exchange at all? She smiled, but the shape of it held more derision than humor. It seemed he remembered everything, and in light of the kiss they’d shared, it was just as likely that he’d ask her about it.
No man had ever kissed her as Bode had. None of the men who had proposed to her had done more than press the back of her gloved hand to their lips. She had been shown more in the way of physical affection from her cat. Thistle, at least, sometimes nuzzled her under the chin. Bram was more demonstrative, but always in a familial way, a brother to his sister. He bussed her cheek, occasionally her forehead, and was fond of using his forefinger to tap the tip of her nose when she’d amused him. Afraid of what he might glimpse in her face, she was careful never to turn her head into any of his kisses.
She hadn’t shown that caution with Bode, but then what he would have seen in her eyes was curiosity, not affection, and certainly not love. Curiosity, she now believed, made for an extraordinarily satisfying kiss, and judging by the dream she’d had, it would be equally satisfying upon repetition.
If she were inclined to repeat it. Which she was not.
Comfort pressed her fingertips to her lips. At least she didn’t think so. But then that was the nature of self-deception.
Samuel Travers straightened the covers all around Bram except where the winch, weights, and crank interfered with his efforts. The contraption that kept Bram’s leg raised off the bed reminded Sam of a ship’s windlass, and he supposed the comparison was close enough. Bram’s splinted leg hung in the air as still and heavy as an anchor hoisted up from the sea.
“Careful,” Bram said when Sam inserted an extra pillow behind his back. “I swear, Sam, I’ll pay you fifty dollars in gold to cut me loose of this thing.”
“You don’t have fifty dollars. Gold or paper. And I wouldn’t do it if you did. I’m more afraid of your mother than I’m bothered by your sour looks.”
Bram sighed. He’d heard it before. “Go to the window and see if she’s coming.”
Sam pretended to misunderstand. “Your mother?”
“No, damn it, Miss Kennedy.”
“You’re in a mood, aren’t you?” Sam crossed the room to the window and stood in a way that gave him the best angle on the street. His view was still limited. “I don’t see a carriage.”
“She might be walking.”
“There’s no one on the street. No, wait. There’s someone.” He shook his head. “Chinese girl. Looks like she’s going to the Jenner place with her basket. Probably selling shrimp to the cook.”
Bram ordered him back from the window. “Go on. I don’t need you any longer.”
“Feeling better, are you? Must be those drops.” Samuel looked around, made certain everything was in order, and went to the door. “Have a care you don’t take too many. They’ll wither a man’s mind.” He left before Bram put his hands on something to throw. He hadn’t stepped cleanly into the hallway when he saw Miss Kennedy turning the corner. “You go right in,” he told her. “Bram just asked after you.”
Comfort paused on the threshold when she saw the hoist attached to Bram’s leg. Her eyes widened a fraction as she took it in. “I didn’t know,” she said. “When did the doctor do this?”
“First thing this morning. Harrison says it’s to keep my leg from shortening as the bone knits. I didn’t know that could happen, but the way he explained it convinced my mother, and Travers limping in here with that brace on his leg was enough to convince me.” He gestured to the system of weights, chains, and pulleys. “It’s supposed to keep the bone aligned. I have to trust him about that. What I know is that since he put my leg in traction, I’ve had less pain.”
“I’ll have to take you at your word. It looks awful.”
“I know.” He patted the side of his bed. “Come here. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day. Don’t stand on the other side of the room as though you’re afraid. It depresses me.”
Comfort untied the ribbon under her chin and removed her bonnet. She laid it aside and unbuttoned the black jacket she wore over her daffodil yellow dress.
“You look like a bumblebee,” he said. “It’s very becoming.”
“I don’t vaguely understand how that’s possible, but I’ll accept that you think so.” She took off her gloves, laid them beside her bonnet, and crossed to his side. When he put out his hand, she took it in hers and squeezed lightly. “You’re warm. Are you supposed to be?”
“I have no idea. I feel fine.”
Comfort glanced at the bedside table. In addition to a folded newspaper, a book, a carafe of water, and a lamp, there was a small brown bottle with a black stopper. “Laudanum?”
Bram had followed the direction of her gaze. “Yes, and do not lecture me about its proper use.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.” He released her hand. “Will you sit? Did Travers say he would bring tea?”
“Would you like some?”
“No. I meant for you.”
“I don’t want anything, thank you.”
Bram cocked an eyebrow at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. You sound oddly formal.”
“Do I?” She didn’t offer an explanation. “What are you doing to amuse yourself?”
“Planning our wedding.” Her horrified expression made him chuckle. “That’s what I’ve been doing to amuse myself. You rarely disappoint. My mother and Travers are made of sterner stuff. It takes something truly outrageous to move them to a reaction.”
“I’m sure you appreciate the challenge.”
He smiled. “I do. Tell me what you did today, unless there were numbers involved. If that’s the case, make something up.”
“I saw Mr. Donald Winstone today. He came to the bank with his mistress on his arm and inquired about setting up an account for her so she can withdraw funds without alerting his wife. Can you imagine?”
“Oh, I can imagine, but I’m not sure I can believe it.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “You
made it up.”
“Well, everything else was about numbers.”
“Lord, but you’re a breath of fresh air. You have to promise that you’ll visit every day from now on. Otherwise my leg will grow long and it’s my life that will be shortened.”
“Perhaps not every day,” she said. “But more often than once a week, if you’ll want me, that is.”
“Want you? Didn’t I just say that I do?”
Comfort took a steadying breath. “I’ve been thinking, Bram. And I—”
“That will shorten your life.”
“What?”
“Thinking.”
She didn’t smile. “I need to speak to you. It’s important.”
“Very well. In the event it escaped your notice, I’m not going anywhere.”
Comfort realized there was no way she could preface her remarks. He would turn whatever she said back on itself. She thought of something Newton said about Bram not tolerating unpleasantness and knew beyond any doubt that her uncle had spoken the truth. She always allowed Bram to divert her. No longer.
“I can’t cooperate with the pretense of an engagement. It’s wrong, Bram. You were wrong to make the announcement as though it were fact, and I was wrong to go along with you. I told myself I didn’t want to embarrass us or our families, but what would have occurred then is nothing to the embarrassment we face now when the truth becomes known.” She paused just long enough to catch her breath. “Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s done, Bram. All of it’s done.”
He rested his head back, briefly closing his eyes. “What if it wasn’t a pretense?” he said finally. “What if I made the proposal in earnest?”
Comfort offered no reaction except disappointment.
“I’m not trying to amuse myself,” he said.
“Are you certain? It’s not always easy to know with you, but it doesn’t matter this time. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do mean it.”