Mary smiled. Whatever had happened to him, she was grateful. There was openness in his smile that hadn’t been there in her dream, a relief in his expressions that belied his knowledge he could do as he pleased. “No, nothing at all.”
Steele looked on with a sneer. It was positively revolting, the way Mary looked at Hartwell. It wasn’t that she looked upon that monstrous face with licentious thoughts. Mary was far too sweet for that sort of thing. But she definitely looked upon Hartwell-cum-Quasimodo favorably, which was, in fact, how she had once looked upon Steele.
And that, Steele thought, glancing at the mantle mirror to study his reflection, was an indication of madness if he ever saw one. Better to help Mary rid herself of such temptations, such as they were, than to watch her succumb to them.
“Miss Trentwood,” Steele said.
“Yes?” Mary said, not noticing he had dropped to his knee before her because she was still smiling at Hartwell. Steele cleared his throat and waited.
“Yes, what is it, Jasper? Oh.” Mary’s expression fell when she directed her attention at him.
That wasn’t entirely the reaction Steele had in mind, but at least she gave him a reaction, which was better than Hartwell’s bored curiosity.
“What the devil are you doing on the floor?” Hartwell asked.
“I’d thank you to stay out of this,” Steele said, his voice tight. “This is between Miss Trentwood and me.”
“Well,” Hartwell said, backing away with his hands in the air and a mocking smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, “who am I to get in the way of such things?” He stopped and tapped his finger against his chin. “But then, you certainly picked an odd time to have a private moment with Mary, what with me standing right here.”
Mary’s head swiveled from one to the other. “What are you two going on about now?”
“I believe,” Hartwell said, “I am getting in the way of this man’s proposal to you.”
Steele reddened.
“Proposal to do what?” she said.
Steele’s stomach dropped. He grabbed her hand, the one he had released not five minutes earlier, and brought it to his lips. “Dear Miss Trentwood,” he said in impassioned tones, “your friend is quite right.”
“Friend?” Hartwell interjected.
“Right about what?” Mary said. “I believe I must have hit my head very hard at Wayland’s for I can’t make out what either of you is talking about. Do be gentlemen and make sense!”
“I am asking you to marry me,” Steele ground out.
At the door of the parlor, Mrs. Durham squealed and threw up her hands in jubilation, knocking a tray of snacks from Pomeroy’s hands as he appeared at her side. “Why Marianne, it’s what you’ve always wanted!” She stormed into the room, barreling past Steele to take Mary into her arms. “I’m so very happy for you. Of course I give my permission in lieu of your dearly departed father, and oh, do not mind the gossips for thinking you so very callous at marrying so soon after his death for who am I to step in the way of true love?”
Mary gasped in Mrs. Durham’s arms, fighting her way out. “Pardon me, madam, but I’ve not replied!”
“Indeed, she hasn’t,” Hartwell said.
“I’ll thank you to stay out of my family’s affairs,” Mrs. Durham said, waving her hand at Hartwell.
Steele, still on his knees, inched forward to be closer to Mary. “Dearest Miss Trentwood,” he began.
“For heaven’s sake, Jasper, you just proposed to me, oughtn’t you call me by my Christian name? Really, sometimes you are so old-fashioned,” Mary said, rubbing her temples. She kept glancing over at an open-mouthed Pomeroy, silent and leaning against the parlor doorjamb.
“Why Miss Trent—Mary,” Steele said, amending himself mid-sentence beneath her suppressive glare. “I can’t imagine what, or who, would make you say such things to me. Am I not allowed to afford you the respectful niceties I think you deserve?”
Snorting, Hartwell backed to the corner of the room farthest from the doorway, also rubbing his temples. The man looked like a beast, and so it was only fitting that he sounded like one.
“What’s the matter—disappointed I had the wherewithal to ask her first?” Steele said, rounding on Hartwell.
“You would be far more threatening, my good man, if you weren’t still on your knees, which you are. I keep telling you, it’s all about the performance.” Hartwell shook his head in a pitying fashion that Steele tried, and failed, to ignore.
His jaw jutting out, Steele said, “I’ll not rise to my feet until I’ve an answer from Miss Trentwood.”
All four of them—Steele, Hartwell, Mrs. Durham, and Pomeroy—looked to Mary. She shrank back from their silence.
“Miss Trentwood?” Steele said. He strove to make his voice soft, sweet, cajoling. “My dearest Mary, is it too late for me? Am I no longer the happy recipient of your affection?”
Mary started. “My affection?”
Nodding, Steele inched closer. His knees were beginning to ache, and he was fairly certain he was ruining his pants. Would linen hold up against rubbing one’s entire body weight against the floor? He wasn’t certain; he’d never been in such a position before.
Amazing how he had never truly thought to propose to a woman, yet here he was, waiting on baited breath for Mary’s response. He was fairly certain he liked her. She was pretty and clever, and both were gainful for a solicitor’s wife. She had kept a house together through her father’s illness and death with dignity, though in reduced circumstances, which spoke to her domestic common sense.
And the happenings of earlier today? The unexpected dramatics and unfortunate connections to the very blackmailing woman sitting beside Mary, beaming at him with encouragement and glee? Well, that could be taken care of easily enough.
Or so Steele hoped.
“I have been told by a number of persons that you have waited for me, and I am appalled to know it. I never would have wished such torture upon anyone, the sort of waiting you must have done.
“To be alone, taking care of your father, hoping I would write. To suffer through his funeral, hoping I would call... however improper as you are in the very depths of mourning.”
Steele inched closer when he caught sight of Mary swallowing against the tears gathering in her eyes. “I will do whatever you wish, my dear,” he murmured, “I shall never make you wait again.”
A tear ran down Mary’s cheek, and she brushed it away impatiently. “I need to think.”
Mary bolted from the room, chased by Mrs. Durham’s shout that she ought to answer Steele.
Steele looked at Hartwell, who had leaned his head against the wall, wincing.
“Well played,” Hartwell said. “You might be a barrister yet.”
***
TWENTY-NINE
Mary locked herself in her bedroom. She leaned against the door, her hands clasping the doorknob behind her as if she was afraid it would turn of its own accord. Unbelievable.
“Well, that’s one way to put it,” Trentwood said. He lounged against the vanity table, his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms crossed over his chest.
Mary met his scrutinizing gaze. “What do you think?”
“About what?” he asked, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of accepting the dolt, even after all that nonsense?” When Mary shifted her weight, Trentwood scoffed. “You’re confused, Mary, that’s what you are.”
“Yes,” she shot back, “I am. I thought that’s why you’re here. To help me through my confusion.”
“Oh, no,” he said, “you’ll not pin this on me, young miss. I can’t help it if you decide to choose one path over another.”
Mary wrung her hands together. “How am I to know which path is the correct one?”
“What’s correct? How can one be correct about such things?”
“I don’t know! There ought to be some sort of correctness somewhere, oughtn’t there be?” Mary studied Trentwood from the corner of her e
ye. “But then,” she muttered, “there is something so very incorrect about a father haunting his daughter and possessing the men in her life.”
A bark of laughter burst from Trentwood. “Don’t make it sound so bad, Mary! I only possessed Hartwell, and he’s none worse for the wear.”
“None worse for the wear,” Mary repeated in a heated tone, pointing at Trentwood, “except now he suffers migraines when you’re near! Don’t you see, Father, how you’re affecting us?”
“Us?”
Mary flushed. She heard the suspicion beneath the simple word. So many implications by such a short syllable. Us. What did she mean by it? Certainly not that she thought of herself with Hartwell as a unit, as an “us.” That would be silly. She had only just met him. No, “us” was the only noun that properly defined them, they who were both living, versus he, Trentwood, who was not.
“Yes, us. Those of us who happen to lack the ability to walk through walls and dreams and bodies.”
With a scowl, Trentwood turned his back to her to stare out the window. “There’s that damned morbid humor again.”
“Forgive me, Father, if I attempt to make light,” Mary said, her voice dripping with disdain. She ran her finger along her high-necked collar. Was it getting warmer? She swallowed and touched her temple to find it wet with sweat. She needed to get out of these clothes and into her dishabille at once if she didn’t want to faint again. She stepped behind her changing screen.
“Forgive me, Father, if I make the best of a very unnatural situation. You must admit,” she said, dropping her skirts and stepping out of the circle of fabric, “it was this morbid humor that kept you smiling during your last days. Or have you forgotten?”
He remained silent, staring out the window.
With deft movements, Mary unbuttoned her blouse and sighed in relief as the pressure in her neck abated. She hesitated a moment before unhooking the top half of her corset. It was a bit embarrassing to be undressing in the presence of her father.
A wonder, these new corsets that didn’t require the help of a maid’s nimble fingers. A shame that Mary now required such modern clothing in order to maintain propriety. She finished unhooking the remainder of her corset. A part of her cautioned against it; after all, she might have to face Hartwell or Steele again, and it simply wouldn’t do to be without proper support.
Then her stomach lurched and she felt her forehead break out into a fresh sweat. Her hands began to shake, and Mary gave up the thought of dressing again. She had no need to return downstairs.
What she wanted, truly, was a deep sleep. Perhaps she would dream of Steele’s proposition. Perhaps her dream self would know her feelings better than her awakened self. Or, at least, trust her feelings better.
Clad only in her chemise, stockings, and lovely lace dishabille that was loose and frilly and oh so very comfortable while still maintaining the absolute limit of decency, Mary stepped from behind her changing screen and met Trentwood at the window.
“What are you staring at?” she murmured.
He jerked his chin in the direction of the family plot. The dirt above his grave hadn’t leveled out yet. The white cross made from the local limestone hadn’t yet tarnished to a sickly yellow covered by green lichen the way the other grave markers had. The peaceful plot beside his that belonged to the late Mrs. Trentwood was flat, with hints of green poking through the dirt.
Mary’s mouth went dry.
“I haven’t been since the burial, you know,” Trentwood mused.
Her brows arching, Mary said, “Really? Where do you go when you’re not, that is, when I don’t see you?”
Chuckling, Trentwood said, “Still afraid I’m just a figment of your imagination, eh?”
“Really, Father.”
“I walk.”
Mary frowned. There weren’t many places Trentwood had walked when alive, and she couldn’t imagine he would find new haunts—pardoning the pun, of course—when dead. “You aren’t...”
“I keep thinking perhaps if I wait long enough, she’ll appear.”
Mary closed her eyes against the sudden pressure in her throat. No. He wasn’t going to talk about her. Not like this. Not now.
“It was her favorite walk, you’ll remember,” Trentwood said. “And she did... well... we found her at the bottom of the steps and I keep thinking, maybe, just maybe, that she might be there. At dusk. When the setting sun hits the rose bushes just right.”
Mary shook her head, backing away from him. This was much too much. She didn’t want to be his grieving soundboard again. She had hardly been able to stand it when he was alive. Now that she had no idea when or if he would ever leave her in his current state, the thought of listening to him pine after her mother for the rest of her earthly-bound days made her lungs hurt.
Her lungs more than hurt. Mary doubled over. Her hand flailed. She made contact with the bedpost, which she used as a makeshift cane as she gasped for air. The world was closing in on her. Turning black. She blinked, her eyes dizzy. The floor was falling away. She fell to her knees, grasping for the solid wood beneath her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t get enough air. What is happening to me?
Breathe, Marianne, you must breathe. Her mother’s voice.
This had happened before, once when Mary was younger, she remembered. What had she done? How had she battled the hysteria? Her mother had been with her.
Her mother had pulled her to the ground, demeaning though it was, commanding her to breathe.
Mary spread her palms flat on the floor, her knees scraping against the hard wood. Solid. Dependable. Steady. She sobbed air. Tears streamed down her face as her hair fell from its careful coif. She needed to breathe. In. And out. And again. And slower. And deeper. And she felt the rush of a cool breeze against her forehead and she sighed.
When she came to, Mary was curled up in a ball on the floor beside her bedpost. She shuddered as she righted herself.
“I’m not the best influence on you, am I?” Trentwood said, his tone awed and dismayed.
Her dishabille was probably ruined from the sweat pouring from her body, but Mary didn’t care. She leaned against the bedpost, her legs sprawled in front of her. She looked up at Trentwood. “I daresay you’re not.”
“You were panicking. Hysterical. What did I say?”
It didn’t really matter, Mary realized, what Trentwood did or said. The fact was he had a growing influence on her sanity. She was losing her mind. She knew it now, after so many attacks in one day. She had never heard her mother’s voice before, in all the years since her death. She looked into Trentwood’s terrified expression. She had to do it, to drive him away, to give herself a chance at normalcy, sanity.
“I think I’m going to marry Jasper, Father.”
Eyes narrowed, he warned, “You do that and you will never see me again.”
She nodded. “I know.”
***
Thirty
It wasn’t until after dinner that Steele gathered the courage to say the words to Hartwell that had been burning his tongue at the table. Hartwell had never seen the man be so quiet, and though he hadn’t known Steele more than a day at most, silent was not one of the adjectives that belonged to him.
“Why didn’t you challenge me?”
They were walking from the dining room to the library, the room in which Mrs. Durham had announced she never set foot. It was the perfect room for their little chat for that very reason.
Hartwell couldn’t help but smile, both at Steele’s question, and at the fact that without speaking of it, both of them had moved toward the library immediately after the last plate was cleared from the table. Neither wanted to be cornered by Mrs. Durham, but Steele most especially, given his impending relation-by-marriage to the woman. At least, that’s how Hartwell would have felt.
“Challenge you? When would I have had the need to challenge you?” Hartwell opened the library door, waving Steele inside with a large, disarming smile.
“You seem t
o forget I’m a man, Hartwell, and such charms don’t work on me,” Steele said between stiff lips.
“I suppose it depends on the effects one wishes to have on one’s audience,” Hartwell replied, his tone musing. He shut the door behind him and threw himself onto one of the stuffed chairs. The library looked infinitely better since he had first laid eyes on it. Mary had spent more time than he thought in this room, tidying the books and darning the furniture. Handy little thing, she was.
“I don’t catch your meaning.”
“Sit man, you’ll get uncomfortable leering over me like that.”
“I prefer to stand. What sort of effects might one have on one’s audience?”
Hartwell shrugged. “One can smile and hope it charms and disarms, of course, in the form of temporary stupidity due to a sort of immediate attraction. I can only assume that’s what you mean by saying you’re a man, and such charms won’t work on you.”
Steele nodded, but barely.
“And then there’s the sort of disarming that comes from trying to get a man’s back up on purpose. I call that my knowing smile.” Hartwell demonstrated, smiling at Steele with his teeth, keeping a warning glint in his eye. “I know that by doing this, I’m bound to annoy you, set you on your guard, and thereby disarm you.”
“What? You?” Steele scoffed, stopped, and turned red. “Dammit, Hartwell!”
“So what was it I’m meant to challenge you for?”
If Steele had his gloves in hand, he probably would have thrown them to the floor, he seemed so apoplectic in his anger. “For Miss Trentwood’s hand!”
Hartwell felt his spine tighten and his eyes narrow. He inhaled slowly. He had to remain calm. It was cool, sound logic that would help him through this, not emotion, not whatever it was that fueled Steele’s desperation. “Why would I do that?”
Eyes bulging, his careful moustache bristling free of its wax, Steele said, “Because you want her more than I do.”
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