Tapestry

by Fiona McIntosh

  They stared at each other and Jane felt momentarily frozen beneath his gaze, helpless against whatever power he held over her. She knew it was coming, should have pulled away, or made some movement to break the spell. But she did none of those; instead, she welcomed the tender kiss when it came. Soft and soothing, it made her feel safe, but as Julius lingered, his ardour intensified, became more searching. Although Jane tried desperately not to return the emotion, she could barely believe it when she saw flashes of intense light burn and burst like bubbles behind her closed eyelids. That had never happened to her before with anyone. Was this what was meant when someone said they had seen stars?

  But just as she thought this, he pulled away, and she felt his parting as a sorrow. ‘Heaven forgive me,’ he said, his voice momentarily broken as he gathered up his feelings and neatly locked them away. ‘That was utterly indiscreet of me.’

  ‘I found it comforting,’ she said, to placate his dismay, and disguise the truth of her own feelings.

  He relaxed, sighing as he moved away from her. ‘I am clearly in a weak frame of mind to take such advantage of you.’

  It was only a kiss! A few seconds! She’d experienced worse on a New Year’s Eve at the disco, when every bloke decided there was a free pass to a slobber and grope just because they’d counted backward from ten!

  ‘I … I wish it were not so painful for you,’ she stammered, ignoring the voice — Winifred’s, perhaps — that told her Julius’s kiss, although brief, had been as intimate as any act of love between two people.

  ‘To what are you referring?’ He frowned.

  ‘The memory of your wife.’

  He shook his head. ‘On the contrary, I welcome the pain attached to the memory of my wife,’ he admitted in a rueful tone. ‘It reminds me that I’m alive … for there are occasions when it seems otherwise.’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ she admitted.

  His brow knitted. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Right now,’ she confessed, ‘I am confused, fearful and charged with …’ She was going to say adrenaline, but knew it would be an alien word for him to hear and for Winifred to utter. ‘… with fury that my husband’s life is under threat.’

  ‘Indeed; I have a friend under the same threat. But a man who picks up a weapon and raises his standard against the ruler has surely already agreed to risk forfeiting his life, whether it is on the battlefield or later in a court of law?’

  She closed her mouth on whatever was about to fly out of it, because of course Jane heard only truth in his words. But Winifred’s ire was up, weak though she was — mainly because Jane had allowed Winifred to be unfaithful.

  Jane took a slow breath, overrode Winifred. ‘You are right, of course, Julius. But that does not stop me from desperately wanting to help him to safety. Given what you have shared with me, I am sure you understand my desire to protect him.’

  He surprised her by gripping her arm. ‘But what do you believe you are going to achieve by rushing to London like this? Risking your own life? What do you think a gentlewoman of your standing can accomplish at the palace or in Parliament?’

  She looked to where his hand held her. ‘What do I think a woman can achieve?’ She paused, then looked up and gave him a tight smile. ‘Absolutely anything a man can.’ And she saw the surprise flash in his dark gaze, and felt his grip loosen as he gave a soft groan of anguish.

  ‘Your love is surely fierce, My Lady. Again I ask your forgiveness for my behaviour.’

  ‘We shall not mention it again.’

  He stared at her from the other end of the mantelpiece, but it might as well have been from the other end of the world. The gulf between them was wide now. ‘Can we pretend it did not occur?’

  Jane was not sure how he wanted her to respond. Would he be sad if she said yes, or would he be angry if she said no? ‘We can try.’

  ‘What do you plan to do in London?’

  ‘Anything it takes to secure his release.’

  He nodded. ‘You are a brave woman, Winifred Maxwell … and your husband is the luckiest of men.’ He released her from his gaze. ‘Once again, I am in your debt. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ she whispered and watched him disappear through the door and up the stairs, already feeling the loss of his presence keenly.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jane did not get back to sleep, instead counting off the hours in her mind until she heard the first peep of the earliest bird. She was the first person dressed and downstairs into the darkly panelled dining room and had first pick of the morning meal, which today was hearty and appetising.

  She knew the food would keep Winifred’s fragility at bay, so she ate the warmed rolls spread thickly with butter and fruit conserve, and decided she would try the hot drink of chocolate, which turned out to be frothy and extremely tasty, if a tad gritty; the depth of flavour told Jane it was made with melted chocolate. The serving girl held out the sugar bowl to her as though it contained gold. She didn’t let Jane touch the sugarloaf, but clipped off a chunk from the cone and dropped it into Jane’s mug.

  Jane bided her time, looking around the room at the pictures hung on the walls of country scenes depicting farmworkers ploughing fields or building haystacks. There was a study of children fishing in the river and a few still lifes. The perspective was way off in most, but she felt comforted looking at these simple glimpses of ordinary life. The candles in the room were lit, because dawn was yet to break fully across the purple-inked sky, and they guttered now as more people created draughts with their arrival.

  Mrs Bailey bustled in, kissing her precious dog and demanding a saucer of fresh milk for it. Jane grimaced and swallowed the last of her warmed chocolate.

  ‘Oh, good morning, Miss Granger. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I did, thank you, Mrs Bailey. And you?’

  ‘Oh, I can sleep anywhere, dear, although Mr Bailey did his utmost to keep me from my slumber with his incessant snoring.’

  Jane smiled weakly and was about to make an excuse to leave when Mrs Bailey reached for her arm.

  ‘Have you seen Lord Sackville this morning?’

  ‘Er … no, no, I haven’t,’ she stammered, angry at herself for the thrill of guilt and feeling that she was in some way lying. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing important. It’s just that we have a son trying to make his way as a merchant and we rather hoped that Lord Sackville might offer him some advice, as he is such a successful businessman and property owner. Our James is living in London now and mayhap the two of them might meet.’

  ‘I see,’ Jane replied, smiling encouragingly even though she held little hope of success for Mrs Bailey.

  ‘He is just such an intolerably unfriendly sort, though. It is very difficult to know how to approach such a subject with a man who offers one no welcome for conversation, no easy opening for discussion of any sort.’

  ‘Yes, he can be prickly,’ Jane agreed, more for something to say as she planned her escape from Mrs Bailey.

  ‘I am glad to have caught you alone though, Miss Granger.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Jane replied, flicking her gaze back to the plump woman, for the first time noticing the clumps of powder in her wig. What on earth did she and her husband use?

  Starch, came the answer from Winifred’s memory. Or cypress powder for some; it adds a pleasant scent. Jane blinked. There was little that was pleasant about Mrs Bailey’s stale-looking wig.

  ‘Well, you seem to get on rather well with him,’ Mrs Bailey answered.

  Jane hadn’t paid attention and ran the woman’s words back in her mind. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Well, you and Lord Sackville seem to be on cordial terms.’

  Jane instantly sensed where this conversation was headed. ‘We are strangers, Mrs Bailey, simply being pleasant to one another while we share such confined space.’

  The woman wagged a sausage-like finger in front of her. ‘Strangers, mayhap, but he likes you, Miss Granger. I’ve seen the way he watches you w
ith that hungry look in that imperious face of his.’

  Jane felt as if her belly had flipped over. ‘What fiction! I mean really, Mrs Bailey, I do think you’re sorely mistaken.’

  ‘Nay, I’ve seen enough of the world to know a man who wishes to make love to a woman.’

  Jane began gathering up her scarf and gloves as a way of deflecting attention. ‘That’s scandalous, Mrs Bailey,’ she contradicted as politely as she could. She nearly said she was married, but that would have opened up an alarming new conversation. ‘I am promised to someone I love most dearly and I would not encourage any man to seek my affections. Besides, whatever you think you may have noticed, I can assure you I have not. Lord Sackville has been attentive and courteous, but only to the level of politeness that I would expect from any gentleman. He has not made any improper advances to —’

  ‘Oh, my dear, nor am I suggesting he has or even will,’ Mrs Bailey huffed, looking taken aback by the accusation. She shrugged. ‘I did not know you were promised. I suspected that a single woman with your obvious attributes would hardly fail to catch the eye of one of the north’s most eligible and, I might add, pursued bachelors. But Julius Sackville is glacial, to put it mildly, when it comes to the fairer sex. If they didn’t know of his passion for his departed wife, many might believe him to be a frequenter of molly houses.’ At Jane’s shocked expression — for she needed no explanation of what a molly house was — the woman gave an indulgent chuckle. ‘Of course, we know better. He neither looks the part, nor acts the dandy. Frankly, my dear, he doesn’t seem to partake of an interest in anyone, male or female, and yet he pays you attention and care.’

  ‘Mrs Bailey,’ Jane began in a slightly haughty tone, ‘Lord Sackville happened upon Miss Evans and me at Newcastle and took pity upon us as we travelled alone in winter. He simply offered to ensure that seats awaited us on the coach to London.’ She made sure to soften her tone. ‘That truly is as far as his interest and our friendship extends,’ she lied, trying not to remember how close he had stood to her only hours earlier. If she’d so much as given a flicker of a smile, or fluttered her eyelids, or simply regarded him differently, Jane was sure he would have risked going further. Her throat constricted just remembering that moment of resistance on both their parts and being grateful for the hesitation. ‘He has been a true gentleman,’ she said, ignoring the memory of that deep, delicious and frustrating kiss that ensured no sleep came to her through the night.

  ‘Indeed — although are you not just a little intrigued by him?’

  ‘No. I am concerned only with reaching London and my place of employ,’ she lied, desperate to get away. She began to stand. ‘Now, if you’ll —’

  ‘You know most people believe he murdered his wife.’

  Jane sat down again, stunned. ‘What?’

  Mrs Bailey’s chins wobbled. She pressed a finger to her lips as food was placed before her, but she regarded Jane with a mischievous look. ‘Put the saucer on the floor for Chester,’ she said, pointing. The girl glanced at Jane, who threw her a sympathetic glance, but the servant obliged, clearly used to the idiosyncrasies of wealthier guests.

  When the girl had left them, Mrs Bailey began tucking into her warmed rolls with cheese and marmalade. She was taking coffee with her breakfast and, though trying to be polite, Jane had to look down as Mrs Bailey spoke enthusiastically with her mouth full. The older woman took this for acquiescence and pressed on with her gossipy chatter.

  ‘Yes, murdered,’ she continued in a murmur.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Nor should you, for it has not been proven, but the rumour exists, and where there is smoke, there is fire, they say.’

  ‘They do,’ Jane agreed, angry with Mrs Bailey for happily fanning that smoke.

  ‘She was some dark Italian beauty — I myself never met her, but the marriage was something of a scandal, for she was a commoner, not even connected to a good family. Her name was Madolina and her detractors said it suited her because of her illness.’

  ‘Her illness?’

  Mrs Bailey looked delighted by Jane’s interest. ‘Indeed, my dear. They say she was mad. It was a contrary sickness that struck as it chose, creating periods of irrational behaviour. Her times of lucidity, as I gathered, became fewer and shorter until she was fully lost to the delusions of her mind.’

  ‘How sad,’ Jane said, recalling Julius’s mention of his wife’s temper.

  ‘People say he loved his wife desperately, but could no longer bear her “absences”, as he called them, and pressed a silken cushion to her face as she slept in one of her drug-induced stupors until she breathed no more. It was an act of love. So romantic,’ she sighed.

  ‘But as you admit, this is nothing more than hearsay,’ Jane challenged, as Mr Bailey arrived amid a lot of yawning and grumbling about the early hour. ‘Excuse me, I must prepare for our departure,’ she said, and hurried away before another word could be exchanged.

  She greeted Cecilia, who was just arriving downstairs.

  ‘You were up early?’ her friend queried.

  Jane forced a smile. ‘Yes, I had an excellent sleep,’ she lied, ‘and rose before even the birds could. I am just overseeing the loading of our bags.’

  Cecilia nodded. ‘You have eaten?’

  ‘Yes, and I counsel you to hurry before the Baileys consume all that remains,’ Jane jested.

  It still felt like the middle of the night when she stepped out into the courtyard, but lanterns gave a thin illumination as the coachmen harnessed the horses, which were stamping and complaining at the early hour. Their breathing steamed in great wafts and the men’s voices sounded overly loud, bouncing off the cobbles and stone walls in the early stillness of the frigidly cold day that was promised.

  ‘Good morning,’ said a familiar voice, and she turned to see Julius just behind her.

  She gave a small nod, aware of the excitement of seeing him again thrilling through her. She stamped her feet to cover it. ‘Hello again. I was told this morning, on good authority, that you murdered your wife.’ She said it with a note of levity, wondering how he might react.

  He barely flinched, although she sensed humour desperately wanting to twitch at the corners of his mouth as he looked at the men throwing the passengers’ luggage up to be stowed on top of the coach. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that rumour too.’ He gave a low sigh. ‘I rather like how dangerous it makes me sound.’ He shot her a glance and now they both smiled; she enjoyed the conspiratorial sensation it provoked.

  ‘I do too,’ she admitted. ‘We should arrive in Lincoln this evening, am I right?’ She sniffed, reaching for Anne’s handkerchief.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I think I shall miss you, Lord Sackville,’ she said, careful to betray no familiarity in public.

  ‘And I you, Miss Granger,’ he said, following suit, and she missed hearing him utter her first name. ‘You have been the single aspect that has made the journey tolerable.’

  ‘Where will you stay in London?’

  ‘At my club in Chesterfield Street. And you?’

  Jane thought of the Arts Club that she never went to with Will. ‘I have a friend who owns a boarding house.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Um … Duke Street.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He didn’t pursue it, both of them realising they were making polite conversation. He nodded toward the carriage. ‘I think it looks ready for us.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘But are we ready for it, Miss Granger?’

  There was a subtext in his words, but Jane had to ignore it if she were not to make a fool of herself.

  She smiled. ‘Another day … that’s all we must endure.’

  They heard voices and immediately parted. Jane did not want to be seen talking softly with Julius to fuel the fires of Mrs Bailey’s idle gossip, and she sensed he had the identical thought.

  Once again the passengers loaded themselves into the cramped space. This time Jane chose to sit as far a
way from Julius Sackville as she could, finding herself opposite Charles and Eugenie Leadbetter. As usual, his nose was buried in a book, which suited Jane. She noted that Cecilia had found herself opposite Julius at the other end of the carriage, but no number of smiles or polite exchanges would entice him into discussion beyond single-syllable answers. And he soon adopted his preferred positions of closed eyes, or nose all but touching the window glass as he studied the scenery that flashed past.

  And that was how it remained for most of the journey. Even the youngster dozed. Everyone was bored or lost in private thoughts, and a dull stillness settled over the travellers, broken only by the slowing of the horses at certain times when the snow became especially thick.

  ‘Where are we, exactly?’ Mrs Bailey finally wondered into the silence.

  ‘Approaching Grantham.’ They were the first words Julius Sackville had uttered since wishing Cecilia Evans good day and agreeing with her polite enquiry that he had indeed slept just fine.

  And with that the carriage lurched to a sudden bone-shuddering halt, flinging everyone around until their now-familiar space was untidy with flailing arms, wigs askew, legs shooting out to bruise other shins and cranky shouts of pain.