He inclined his head again, and maintained the angle long enough that it might pass for a private observation of grace, in case that was the tradition in this house. When he looked up, Mr. Barrow’s eyes were on him, icy blue, crevassed at the outer corners, and lit with the keen expectancy of a young boy waiting for a puppet-show to begin.
You knew all the right things to say, the widow had said. Well, with a pretty young girl, yes. But how did one make conversation with a man of Mr. Barrow’s age and station? He glanced about him for ideas. “What do you do there, with the needle and cloth?” He nodded toward the heap of abandoned work.
“Mending.” The man reached for a bit of it and turned it over to show him. “Here’s a shirt that’s grown a hole in one sleeve. I’m putting a patch on.”
“You do that yourself?” The moment it was said, he heard the stupidity of it. Of course the man did his own mending. With no wife and no servants, who else was to do it? “I mean, I’m sure I shouldn’t know where to begin.” He crumbled off one corner of the cheese and took a bite. It tasted faintly of chalk. No, not so faintly. He set the rest down, and tried his best to chew and swallow what was already in his mouth without tasting any more.
“You begin by threading the needle, and for me that’s the difficult part. Eyes not so good as they once were. After that, it’s just a matter of getting the patch to lie straight.” Mr. Barrow’s fingers, knobby about the knuckles and not inclined to lie straight themselves, pressed the patch smooth and he poked the needle up from inside the sleeve. He reached for his bread and bit off a piece. “Sorry the food isn’t better,” he said after swallowing.
“Oh, I’m not very hungry.” He could feel shamed color rising in his face. Had he been that obvious, with the cheese? “I have supper yet to eat and I don’t want to fill up.”
“Not a practiced liar, are you?” Mr. Barrow was smiling, eyes on his needle. “You want to pick one excuse: you’re not hungry, or you need to save your appetite. The two don’t mix.”
“I’m sorry.” He groped for a neater balance of truth and tact. “I suppose cheese must be a matter of particular partiality. One grows up eating a certain kind, and no other region’s can taste quite right after that.”
“Now, that’s a bit better.” The man’s smile creased deeper into his cheeks. “But you’d best marry a girl you won’t ever need to lie to.” He jabbed at the cheese on his own plate. “This is vile stuff. I know. I grew up on a dairy farm.”
“Did you? Was that here in Sussex?” He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. Here, maybe, was the way to make conversation with a person of advanced years: not by thinking of any right things to say, but by drawing out the person’s life story and accumulated wisdom; by asking the questions one might have asked one’s own grandparents, had they been hale enough to survive to such an age.
Mr. Barrow made the task easy. With glowing animation he recounted tales of life in Sussex, a half-century ago, and threw in his decided opinions on the modern manufacture of cheese and butter, and, for that matter, bread and tea, with all the rubbish nowadays added to stretch product and profit.
Theo listened. He’d expected the life-story bits to be compelling, of course, but even the business about cheese was interesting, more interesting than it had any right to be, and what was more, it sounded like just the sort of thing that would interest Mrs. Russell.
He might carelessly drop such pearls of learning in their next sitting-room conversation, and see if her face would light with studious bliss. Or whisper them to her in bed, in hopes she’d look at him as a woman looked at a man who knew all the best ways to surprise her.
Or he might simply bring her here to call, and sit back while she and the old man spoke of such matters as she seemed to enjoy. She would make thoughtful, measured replies, and Mr. Barrow would perhaps be impressed by this example of modern womanhood, with her serious bearing and her devotion to bettering her estate.
A prideful wave of pleasure flushed through him at the thought. Fool. What had he to be proud of? What had he to do in the scene but sit back in a corner, idle as always, and watch two worthy people come to esteem one another? And still, pleasure warmed him as the time limit for a polite call came and went, pleasure simmered in him as shadows crept across the kitchen floor, and prideful pleasure chased along as he finally legged it back to the house, so late he had no time to even dress for supper.
Chapter Seven
MR. KEENE shifted in his chair. He folded and unfolded his hands on the tabletop, making her wish she could give him some papers to straighten. “I’m sorry, I tell you frankly, to come on this errand,” he said, and Martha knew what subject he would have to introduce.
“You mustn’t apologize for doing what duty demands. I expect Mr. James Russell wishes to know whether the prospect of a direct heir has yet been ruled out?”
So miserable he looked, bowing, a shaft of afternoon sunlight glancing off the bald part of his head. Shame on Mr. James Russell for tasking him with this mortifying inquiry. Shame on her as well, of course, for cooking up the circumstance into which he must inquire.
Three weeks and two days now since Mr. Russell’s passing. She lowered her eyes and brought her voice down too. “I cannot say beyond a doubt, and of course things are tenuous in the early weeks. But I should have expected to know by now if there were no such prospect.”
“I see.” She stole a look at him. He straightened, as though grasping for fortitude. “Then I must proceed to the next part of my commission, and prepare you for the likelihood of a visit by Mr. James Russell himself.”
A tiny cold convulsion went through her. Suddenly she had no breath with which to make a reply.
“I’m sorry.” He took off his spectacles and set to polishing them with a cloth from his pocket, probably that he might have somewhere other to look than at her. “I fear he’s heard tales of … how a man in his situation might be cheated of his due. He speaks of protecting his interests.” His brow creased. “I’ll do my utmost, I promise, to convince him of what your character is, but without his having met you I fear he is prey to these wild sorts of speculation in forming his suppositions of what you might—”
“When?” That word, at least, she could manage.
“When did I hear from him?”
She swallowed. “When will he come?”
“Not immediately.” He folded his polishing cloth, put it back in his pocket, replaced his spectacles. “His business concerns will keep him in Derbyshire through the month. I’ll do my best to dissuade him altogether, as I said, and if he remains resolved, I shall know, and tell you, when he sets out for Sussex.” His mouth twisted as though it were full of foul medicine. “He asks me to monitor your actions meanwhile, and report to him.” He examined his own hands for a moment, and then looked up. “Your husband had some objections, I believe, to his brother. Were you aware?”
She shook her head. That the brothers had not been close was of course hinted at by Mr. James Russell’s absence from both the wedding and the funeral, but never had Mr. Russell mentioned any reasons, and never had she asked.
He gave a quick nod, and appeared to confer with himself over whether to say more. “He had concerns, as I understand, in regard to Mr. James Russell’s character, and great hopes of being able to leave Seton Park to a proper heir. I assure you he would never countenance such insult as his brother now makes to you.”
“Did he ever tell you the nature of his concerns? What doubts he had of Mr. James Russell?” Barely breathing, she watched for his response.
Again he took an interest in his hands. “I only gather he thought him unfit to take charge of the estate.” The tips of his ears went pink as he said it.
He knew. Just as Sheridan had known, and all the servants had known, and Mr. Russell had known. Everyone knew what infamy had been in this house—what infamy threatened to infest it again—and no one had troubled to tell her a thing.
The long-case clock chimed. Mr. Mirkwoo
d would arrive in an hour. They must be more than ever careful, now Mr. Keene had been told to keep watch of her.
“I appreciate your telling me so much.” He was a good man, the little solicitor. He deserved better than to be a sort of shuttlecock, batted back and forth between Mr. James Russell’s villainy and her own scheming deception. “I know your professional bond is to the Russell family and not to me. I’m grateful for the personal kindness, and the respect for Mr. Russell’s memory, that must have led you to grant me such consideration.”
“It’s no more than I would want someone to do for my own wife, if she were in your place,” he said, his eyes averted and his voice uncharacteristically gruff. She’d embarrassed him, on top of everything else. So she only thanked him again, and said nothing more.
A WEEK AND a half have gone by since I addressed the women servants.” She sat at her dressing table while Sheridan unpinned her hair. Mr. Mirkwood would arrive in minutes, and she would go down a back hallway from her own rooms to the east wing to meet him.
“A week and a half, to be sure.” The maid’s voice soothed as surely as her hands, letting down and loosening the plaits.
“Do you know that none of them has approached me for help in finding a new situation?”
“Indeed.” She sounded thoroughly unsurprised.
“Nor does Mrs. Kearney report that anyone has notified her of an intent to leave.”
“Everybody’s waiting.” Sheridan met her eyes in the mirror as she took up the hairbrush. “They all think it might be a fine thing to go on here under your charge.”
“I’m … touched … to hear of their faith in me.” Through a suddenly tightening throat she said the words. “But Mr. James Russell’s visit puts a new complexion on things. To feign pregnancy—if that should prove necessary—and acquire a baby will be next to impossible under his watch. And his mere presence in the house might be a threat to the servants. I shall tell everyone to give strong consideration to leaving.”
“I’ve considered already, and I don’t mean to go.” With skittish bravado the girl spoke, ducking her head and glancing up from under her lashes. “You’ve borne so much with Mr. Mirkwood. I can’t think it was for nothing. I’ll wait until the end of the month at least.” She drew the brush to the very ends of Martha’s hair. “Now you’d best be off to the blue rooms.”
SOMETHING PREOCCUPIED her today. He could feel it in her skin, everywhere they touched. He could feel it in the weight of her hands on his back. He could see it in the lines of her face, even as she closed her eyes to give him privacy for that last, most undignified capitulation.
“Is something the matter?” he said afterward, lying on his side to face her. She lay on her back as usual, propped on the pillow, gaze somewhere distant.
Her eyes came to his and she gave a quick shake of her head. “Only I’ve had some estate business on my mind. Forgive me. I make you a poor hostess.”
“Nothing to forgive.” He touched his knuckles to her arm. “I could distract you from your cares.”
“No, thank you.” A smile flickered over her lips and was gone. Still, she’d smiled, and that was a start.
“In small ways, I mean.” Yes. Why shouldn’t he? “I can help you dress, and plait your hair while you read. I brought something by Humphry Davy today. You’ve heard of him? Everyone in London attends his lectures, even fashionable people. I have a book of his lecture notes. You might read from it, and try out your oratory style.”
She eyed him with that half-disbelieving look that queens must have used on the court jester, once upon a time. But if she was finding him preposterous, well, that was so much attention drawn away from her heavier concerns. Court jesters served a purpose, after all.
“You’ll dress yourself first, I hope.” She glanced down his body. “I have no taste for anything exotic.”
“Naturally I will.” He pivoted away from her to go after his clothes, and also to hide the triumph that must be suffusing his every facial feature. He would make her forget her troubles, in the ways that suited her best.
And so he was attentive to her modesty, and her strict sensibilities, as he laced the corset and tied the petticoats and sat her in the low-backed chair at the dressing-table, book open before her, to fasten the hooks of her gown. But halfway through the fastening he stopped. He’d parted her hair and put it forward of her shoulders on either side to be clear of the hooks. The gown fell open to the left and right, baring a triangle of skin above the corset. Pale, smooth skin with an elegant ridge of backbone down the middle. Perhaps there were more effective ways to distract her than merely dressing her hair.
He hesitated, fingers playing at the next open hook. She might be angry, and rebuke him. But she might not. He glanced in the mirror at her downcast eyes. Then, fluid as grain poured from a bushel, he sank to his knees and pressed his lips to her spine.
He might as well have prodded her with a hot iron. “What are you doing?” she said, her voice dashing to the upper end of its register. Distracted, beyond any doubt.
“I’m unhooking your gown. Don’t panic.” He eased the black bombazine down just past her shoulders. “And while you read, I intend to kiss along your backbone, from the top of your chemise to the nape of your neck. That is the whole of my plan.” He touched his mouth to the place where the parting in her hair began, for illustration.
“It’s a poor plan.” Over her shoulder, he could see her face in the mirror, tight-lipped and severe. “You’d do better to plait my hair. You’re liable to work yourself into a state.”
Miracle of miracles, she hadn’t actually said no. He gripped the chair-seat at either side of her, and drifted down some four inches to fix her with a second, softer kiss. “I’ve just been satisfied. Remember? A state is unlikely.” A black, black lie. “Now tell me this: have you thought of your business concerns since I began?” Her face gave him the answer. “Very good, then. Relax. Take a few deep breaths. Read.”
She sat perfectly still, deciding. He set his mouth at the top edge of her chemise and stayed there. He felt her rib cage expand and contract, and then, as she picked up the book, he could feel the words resonate in her body at the same time they came to his ears. “To understand the mode of procuring from a given quantity of land, the greatest possible proportion of such vegetables as are necessary for human food, the food of animals, or for other purposes connected with human wants, is the great desideratum in agriculture. I don’t think you’re paying attention.”
“Of course I am. Desideratum. Can you please relax?” Her shoulders were rigid, and halfway up to her ears. She smelled of lilacs again.
“To obtain this desideratum, it is necessary to study with accuracy …” She put the book down. “Mr. Mirkwood, I think this may be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
But how could it be, when he’d coaxed her so quickly away from her preoccupations and back to her affronted self? “You haven’t given it a fair trial.” Still gripping the chair with one hand, he unpinned his gold watch from his waistcoat with the other, and flicked it open. “Allow me ten minutes.” He reached past her to set the watch on the tabletop. “I’ll stop the very second you tell me it’s time.”
“I cannot read while I’m watching the clock.”
“Then you’re not as accomplished a lady as I supposed. But perhaps you can forgo the reading for these ten minutes. I’m sure I’ll pay better attention afterward anyway.”
She closed her eyes. Through her vibrant muscles he could feel her warring with herself, casting about for some response that wouldn’t be plain surrender. “Five minutes,” she said.
Haggling. He could do that. “Seven.” He flexed his fingers on the chair.
“Six.” One small crease appeared in her forehead.
“Seven and a half.” He breathed the words next to her ear.
Her eyes snapped open, all coffee-colored impatience. “You’re supposed to go lower, to meet me. Six and a half, you should say.”
“Eight,�
�� he murmured into her shoulder. “And I’ll go lower, to meet you, any time you like.” He flicked his tongue across her spine and caught the little shock that went charging up from her tailbone to the base of her skull. When he lifted his head to look in the mirror, her cheeks were red and her chin was down, all fierce attention leveled on his watch.
Eight minutes it was, then. He kissed her, and kissed and kissed and kissed her until he knew that narrow path of skin, and the knobbly scaffolding underneath, the way he knew the lines on his own palm. He knew her scent, and he knew her taste, and he knew which vertebra put a catch in her breath when he brushed it with his lips. He could learn her whole body by mouth, if she would but let him, and distract her all out of her mind.
He tightened his grip on the chair-seat. Her skin had grown warm, and her muscles pliant, and his hands, his intractable hands, were every moment threatening to loose themselves and steal up to settle on her thighs. How well they would fit there, his thumb and middle finger arcing to compass her, his forefinger tracing elegant patterns, his palm discerning the knot of her garter through her layers of dress.
Someone was breathing harder. He was. He did that. And someone was breathing more softly, the slow, languid breaths of a person half-drugged. He glanced up at her reflection and a jagged bolt of desire shot through him. She’d closed her eyes—so much for the watch—and her face was unfurrowed, supple with pleasure, the face of a woman just waiting to be taken.
He could—No. He wouldn’t. She didn’t want that. But the longer he kept at this, the likelier he’d be to forget the fact. To forget himself. He unclenched his hands, one, then the other, from the sides of her chair, and began to fasten her gown.
Her eyes opened, hazy with confusion. She looked down at the watch. She looked up at his reflection. “It hasn’t been eight minutes.” Possibly the sweetest words she’d ever said to him, and absolutely no help at this moment.
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