Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  She nodded. Gabriel bent, laying the rose he had plucked from the garden in front of his mother’s headstone. Then he straightened and took a deep breath.

  “I hope she did not believe the gossip. I never had the chance to explain–”

  Psyche drew a breath and held it; would he at last explain the scandal which had sent him away from his home?

  Chapter 20

  “Her name was Sylvia Fowley, but all who knew her intimately called her Sylvie,” Gabriel said, his voice very quiet. He continued to stare down at the mound of earth, not meeting Psyche’s gaze. “She was a woman of two and thirty when I met her, petite and dainty as a butterfly, with soft brown hair and big brown eyes. I was visiting a friend from school–I took any excuse not to return home during the school holidays, as my grandfather had died by then–and she was his aunt by marriage. She seemed to enjoy my company at once, did not dismiss me as too young, danced with me at the Christmas ball, smiled into my eyes and touched my cheek . . . I was captivated; no woman had ever treated me so. She whispered to me after the dance, invited me to her room after everyone was asleep; she and her husband had separate chambers, of course.”

  Psyche nodded and held her tongue, afraid to break the flow of confidences. She thought of a young and innocent Gabriel, a schoolboy entranced by an older woman, and her heart ached for the disillusion that must be coming.

  “I was totally infatuated. I tiptoed down the hall at midnight, my heart in my throat, my body aching with new yearnings, and she was waiting. During our time together, she taught me about love-making, and fashion, and other worldly pursuits, and I was an eager pupil. I thought I would love her forever, but I did not expect her to remember me past that holiday. But she did; she wrote to me at school, she traveled to be near me, and made sure to have me invited back for more visits. Our trysts continued, even though her husband was becoming suspicious. After some months, she told me he had threatened her, and she suggested that we run away together. She was prepared to seek a divorce.”

  Psyche raised her brows. How could a mature woman expect a schoolboy to defy convention, as well as all his family? They would have been outcasts in Society.

  “But what I had first taken for charming wiles became shrewd manipulation. Through her sulky tears and fits of temper, she had begun to order my every thought, my speech, my clothing, my habits. She wanted to choose my friends, and she wanted me to leave University . . .”

  Gabriel took a deep breath, then went on. “I loved my years at university, it was a way to get away from home, for one thing, after my grandfather’s death, but I truly enjoyed the books and the tutors and the gentle atmosphere of learning. I had friends there; my tutors approved of my work. And I began to feel increasingly overwhelmed by Sylvie’s love, which appeared to have no boundaries. She was like a sweet-smelling flower which grows in a seemingly limpid vine, until the vine begins to twine around you, constricting your very breath.”

  He put one hand to his face, then lowered it. “So I gathered my courage and told her that I thought it best, for both of us, that we not invite the scandal of a divorce and the censure of society that would have fallen more heavily upon her. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps I should have been true to her, but–”

  ”Gabriel, how old were you?” Psyche interrupted at last, unable to bear the regret and self condemnation she heard in his words.

  “I was sixteen when we first–when we met,” he answered. “Just past seventeen when I suggested that we part. That interview was horrendous. She wept and screamed at me; she said I had ruined her, taken her honor. She flung a gold pin at me—one of many little fashionable gifts she had chosen for me, but this–she said–was special. This trinket was engraved with our entwined initials. She had engraved her own as S.S., as if we were already married. While she broke china and tossed cushions about the room, she ranted hysterically; I had never seen this side of her. Finally, she told me to leave, and I did.” Gabriel swallowed hard.

  “I did not know–had not enough experience in the world to comprehend–that she was much more unstable than I had suspected. That night, she drank a whole bottle of laudanum, and she died the next day.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Psyche put her hand again on his arm. She felt the shuddering breath that he drew, the way his whole body trembled at the memories.

  “I learned before I left that she had had other young lovers—a collection, if you will. But it was I who broke her.”

  Psyche shook her head emphatically. “It was not your fault; you were only a boy.”

  “I must bear the blame,” Gabriel argued, his tone dogged. “I kept that gold pin until Barrett’s hired killers stole it from my bags. It was a reminder to me that I should never give anyone or anything too much control. That other women might want me for my charm, my so-called pleasing looks, but they would never be allowed to touch my soul, nor would they want to. I was marked for life, my reputation ruined forever, and I should never be allowed to ruin yet another woman’s life, as my youthful adoration had destroyed Sylvie’s, as my very existence had troubled my mother’s, destroying any trust her husband had had in her.”

  Psyche stood mute, shaken by the depth of his guilt and pain.

  “And my father–when he heard they were saying that Sylvie’s death was because of me, that I had as much as murdered a delicate, overly-nervous lady of good breeding–he told me to get out, that I was not fit, had never been fit, to bear the name of Sinclair. So I left.”

  “You cannot blame yourself!” Psyche insisted. “Sylvia was a grown woman with much more experience than you; she sought the affair, and she sought to control you. You did not even have a father to ask for advice as to how to proceed, only one who turned on you and railed at you without listening to your account of what had ensued.”

  Gabriel’s eyes were shadowed still with the pain he had lived with too long. Psyche longed to kiss his brow and soothe his hurts. She held one hand lightly to his cheek, ignoring the slight prickling of dark stubble against her palm. “You must forgive yourself, my dear. Whatever blame you may wrongly assign to yourself, the lady is at peace now.”

  He looked down at her, his expression hard to read. “You do not hate me, now that you know my history?”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. Gabriel pulled her to him, pursuing the embrace with the fervor of a near-drowned man who has found a safe rock on which to stand. When at last the kiss ended, leaving her a little breathless, he whispered into her hair. “I could not bear to tell the story. I have told no one since the day I left this house, and soon after, departed England’s shores. My father had convinced me that Sylvie’s family might demand my arrest, though I think now that would not have happened. They only wanted to cover up the sad circumstance of her death.”

  He had been an exile for no reason, Psyche thought, stunned at the revelation. His father’s brutal anger and his own guilt had driven Gabriel away from every friend, every chance of aid. For years, he had fought his battles unaided, carried on his solitary struggle merely to survive.

  But he had survived, he had prevailed, and the years of contention had burnished him like gilded steel. “You are stronger and wiser because of your pain, because of your journeys,” she told him. “But, Gabriel, I think it is time now to stop running.”

  He held her close to him, and she leaned her cheek against his chest. Perhaps he did not wish her to see the expression on his face; he was too accustomed to fighting all his battles alone. That feeling she understood. But would he ever lower his guard and truly let her in? Still, he had taken a big step today, sharing the story of his boyhood transgression.

  They stood in close embrace for long minutes, till Gabriel reluctantly raised his head and loosened his grip. “It will be dinner time, soon,” he told her. “They keep early hours here, and you will wish to wash up a little.”

  Psyche looked down at the grass-stained linen costume which revealed several rents and tears after their earlier flight through the woods. She
could do with a lot more than soap and water, but without baggage, there seemed no hope of more. She would not complain; Gabriel had enough to deal with in this house of brutal memories. Accepting the hand he held out to her, they turned back toward the big house. They had almost reached the side door from which they had emerged when a small, stout woman of middle years suddenly hurried out of the door.

  “Master Gabriel!” she exclaimed, beaming. “It is you!”

  Gabriel released Psyche’s hand and took two long strides to swoop up the round little woman, lifting her into a bear hug.

  Psyche smiled. She did not know who this woman was, but she was the first person who seemed happy at Gabriel’s return, and so Psyche knew that she would like her, whatever her title or name.

  The mystery was resolved in a moment. When Gabriel set the plump woman with the graying fair hair back on her feet, he turned to Psyche. “This is Mrs. Parslip, who was my nurse, and later became under-housekeeper. Mrs. P, this is Miss Hill, my–um–fiancée.”

  “How do, Miss. My felicitations to you both. But I’m housekeeper, now,” Mrs. Parslip corrected him.

  “I can’t believe you stayed,” Gabriel said. “With my father such a difficult master to please–”

  ”Oh, he discharges me about once a week,” the woman said, shrugging. “But I take no notice of his ranting. My family is all dead, you see, and I’ve nowhere else I really want to go. Besides, I’m the only one who knows how to make plum pudding just the way he likes it. So I stay.”

  “He’s lucky to have you, I’m sure.” Psyche held out her hand.

  The housekeeper made a dignified curtsy, then touched Psyche’s fingers, her own smile wide. “Such a lovely girl, my dear, even if I say it, who shouldn’t.”

  Gabriel grinned. Psyche was so pleased to see him reunited with someone who cared for him that she could have hugged the little woman, too.

  “Thank you. You must tell me all about Gabriel as a boy,” she suggested.

  Gabriel made a face. “Not the story about the chimney sweep,” he urged. “And not the one in which I overturn a whole bowlful of jelly on the kitchen floor.”

  “But that’s the best one.” Mrs. P. chuckled. Her wide hazel eyes swept over his face, and she patted his arm. “I see you’ve had your share of difficult times.”

  “Is it so obvious?” Gabriel asked, raising his brows. But the subtle withdrawal did not deter the servant who had known him since childhood.

  “Ah, it’s written on your face, my dear. Your eyes never used to be so guarded. But I can see that beneath the handsome face still beats a kind heart. A fine man you’ve grown into, Master Gabriel. I always knew you would. I just wish your mother could have lived to see you return.”

  Gabriel’s smile faded. “Yes.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Perhaps you can help us, Mrs. P. We had to leave London suddenly, just as we were in the midst of a costume ball.”

  “So that’s the reason you look like some deceitful Romany,” Mrs. Parslip said, her tone composed. “Still up to mischief, are you, Master Gabriel?”

  “Um, not exactly. But we could certainly use a change of clothes. If there are any of my old clothes left, I would make do with them, and for Miss Hill, perhaps a gown of my mother’s?”

  The housekeeper looked Psyche up and down. “Umm, yes. I had the garb safely put away with herbs to ward off the moths. It would have to be let out a bit there, and taken in a bit here, but I think I can manage. I’ll see what I can find, and a pair of razors for you, too; such a grubby lad he looks, and he never was one for soiled linen,” she confided to Psyche. “You come along to your chambers now; if you’re late to dinner, you know your father will shout.”

  She sounded exactly as if she were speaking to a schoolboy, as if Gabriel were still in short pants and just out of the nursery, going down for his first grown-up dinner. Psyche smiled; she was thrilled at the thought of a suitable gown and the opportunity to dress properly for the evening meal. It would be bad enough, having to sit at the table with that brute of a man who had–probably–sired Gabriel. They seemed opposites in every respect. Were the man’s suspicions correct? Affairs among the Ton were common enough, and she knew nothing of Gabriel’s mother. Or was the elder Sinclair a victim of his own dour imaginings?

  They followed the housekeeper obediently up the main stairs and into a quiet wing of unoccupied rooms; two bedchambers had been opened, hastily by the look of it, and a maid was still fluffing pillows in the room which Psyche entered. She hesitated in the doorway, and, without meaning to eavesdrop, heard the housekeeper speak quietly to Gabriel.

  “She tried to change his mind, you know, Master Gabriel. She begged him to let you stay.”

  “My mother? But she never appeared. When he told me to leave the house, I waited for her to come, but she never left her room.”

  In Psyche’s chamber, the maid turned and blushed in confusion. “I–it’s all ready, Miss, and there’s warm water in the jug and towels on the chest. Can I help you with anything?”

  “No, thank you,” Psyche said. The maid curtsied and departed, and Psyche shut the door, though she longed to hear the rest of the conversation in the next room.

  Gabriel saw Psyche disappear into the bedroom, but he hardly noticed; he was stunned by the revelation. All this time, he had thought–

  The housekeeper continued to speak, and she watched him anxiously.

  “He shouted her down; they had a terrible quarrel–I never heard her scream at him so, not before, nor after. But he won out, of course. He was always stronger. Before you ever got in that day, he took her by the shoulders and marched up to her bedroom, bellowed at her to compose herself; she was pale with weeping, poor lady. And then in the hall, he told her maid to give her a double dose of laudanum; your mother didn’t realize what she was drinking.” The housekeeper’s voice was sad.

  “She was drugged?” Gabriel knew that his voice was hoarse; he could barely speak.

  “Your poor mother didn’t wake for two days; I feared she would die. And by then, of course, you were gone. But she never lost faith in you, Master Gabriel. I promise you that. She spoke of you–to me–often.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. P,” Gabriel said, his voice husky. “And thank you for staying, so that she had one friend by her.”

  The housekeeper sighed. “I’ll go now and see about the clothing. But you should know that your mother cared, Master Gabriel. You deserve that much.” She curtsied and left the room; the door was still ajar, and he heard the sound of footsteps retreating.

  Gabriel stood very still; he couldn’t seem to make his limbs move, and the room was a blur around him. He heard a quiet knock on his door, and then a familiar voice said, “Gabriel, the poor little maid is so flustered, she forgot to leave any soap. Is there any here that I can–Gabriel, what’s wrong?”

  This time, it didn’t even occur to him to hide the fact that his eyes had flooded with tears. He turned to Psyche blindly and muttered, “My mother–my mother did try. She did care, after all.”

  He felt himself sway; it was only this silly weakness in his legs; he would be himself again, soon. But Psyche did not laugh, offered no ridicule for his frailty.

  “Oh, my love, of course she did,” she said gently. She pushed a small chair closer and he sank into it. Then she stood by him and held him against her, his face pressed to her body, and Gabriel wept.

  For a long time they remained thus, with Gabriel sobbing quietly, his face against her stomach. She stroked his dark hair gently and offered no intrusive words. Let the poison out, she thought, release the sadness and the pain–perhaps even the anger–at his mother’s apparent rejection; let it go. Otherwise, Gabriel might someday end up like the shadow of a man who lurked in the study, consumed by his own acrimony.

  At last he fell silent, and after another long minute, drew a shuddering breath. “She was the only one who cared, you see, after my grandfather’s death, except for Mrs. P., of course. To think that Mother too was so disgu
sted with me that she would not even say good-bye–it was a very great hurt.”

  “I understand,” Psyche said, her voice quiet.

  He straightened; his face was still red, and his eyes swollen. “I have kept you too long, you will want to wash up, and I must do the same.” He sounded suddenly formal.

  Oh, Gabriel, she thought. Don’t shut me out again.

  But then he smiled at her and said more softly. “Thank you, Psyche love, my dear Miss Hill.”

  And she felt warmed inside. She touched his arm lightly and smiled, then returned to her own chamber. She had forgotten the missing soap. But the little maid was back, still blushing and anxious, with some rose-scented soap for her.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, I’m that flustered–”

  ”It’s fine,” Psyche assured her. “Thank you.” When the servant departed after one more nervous curtsy, Psyche poured the now tepid water into the bowl and pulled off her grass-stained linen costume. It was a relief to wash off some of the grit of the journey and to make herself feel more presentable. She took down her hair and shook it out. Finding an ivory-backed comb and brush on the table, she brushed her hair and tugged at the tangles, removing a stray bit of twig that had clung to the tresses.

  She was feeling much better already when a soft knock at the door made her snatch up a towel and drape it around her before she pulled open the door.

  It was only the plump little housekeeper, her hands full of garments and– thanks be—hairpins! “I have brought my sewing basket, Miss, and we’ll just take a look at this gown and shift.”

  Psyche donned the clean shift, stockings and then the gown. It was a very sober dark blue silk gown, the neckline filled in with a lace fichu, such as older ladies sometimes wore.

  “Ah, you have no need of that.” Mrs. P. removed the bit of lace. The housekeeper touched the soft fabric, muttering to herself and taking measurements with a piece of tape. Then Psyche removed the gown, and Mrs. P took her needle and thread and took in the waist, which was too wide, and made a few more quick alterations. The little servant’s fingers flew as her needle darted in and out; she was amazingly swift. Such was her speed that Psyche was soon back in the gown, with her hair twisted into a neat chignon. She gazed at her reflection in the looking glass above the vanity. The gown was not unbecoming, dark against her pale skin. She heard a loud gong on the lower level.