Until I can be there,
Your loving grandson,
Dante
St. James laughed to himself as he put his signature to the letter. His grandmother would be most enraged to find him thwarting her wishes but he would wager Miss Murdock would be even angrier when she was conveyed his warm sentiments.
The damnedable part of it was she had been on his mind for all of the day. This was understandable, he reminded himself, as she was a most important part of his plan. What was not understandable to him was the way he remembered her: her accusing glare as she turned from reading her newspaper in the inn's parlor to find him partaking with abandon of the available brandy. And the degree of shocked discovery in her eyes when he had held her hands to his chest a good many drinks later.
Perhaps a look of discovery that had mirrored his own.
A discovery, at any rate, that he had no time for, nor wish for, and that he had no desire for Miss Murdock to feel either. But it did so amuse him, he conceded, to provoke her just a little more in his letter, and to sit, now idle, at his desk, and spend a brief moment imagining her cheeks flushing in her plain face and her solemn eyes trying very hard to hide in their brownness as though she could become invisible to him. And his attention.
For if nothing else, Miss Murdock did have his attention.
St. James reread the final line of his letter. If it did not disquiet her so for him to fluster her, would he take such a perverse pleasure in doing so? No. He thought not. But it amused him, and inspired some strange sympathy in him as well. A sympathy for what, he really could not name, other than, perhaps, it had to do with the way she was forced to reexamine how she thought about herself. And that was nearly a shame, for she had seemed to have it all sorted out quite neatly and now he was forcing her to reevaluate who she was and where her place was in the world. Although he was of the opinion that her place in the world would be better as a result of his interference than what she had, was it really for him to say what it was she sought for and would be happy with?
If she were happy being as she had been: a near spinster caring for her father in lamentable circumstances, did he have any right, whatever his motives, to take that from her?
St. James shook his head, and a ruthless part of his mind overrode this bit of rare second-guessing, for he understood only too well what having things taken from you was all about. If Miss Murdock were to mourn what she had before, he could only try to assuage that grief as best he could, but he would not be able to wipe it away entirely, however this turned out. This he would regret. But this he would live with as he had so many regrets before this.
He rose from behind his desk, found the boy he had employed waiting in the doorway. “There you are, laddie. You may take these to the same address as before. This one is for Tyler, whom you have met. This one you are to deliver to the butler of the house.”
“Aye, m'lord,” the boy said. He was cleaner now, his face scrubbed, his hair slicked back and he had on some clothing which did not fit him well but which were at least clean and decent. “I'm to get new clothes, m'lord, they tell me,” he confided, looking uncertain whether to be happy or disgusted.
“T'is a great shame, I know,” St. James said with uncharacteristic gentleness. “But if you wish to work here, you can not look like a street urchin.”
The boy nodded. “Aye, m'lord. I ken that. It's just—you shan't have someone beat me should I gets them dirty, should you?”
St. James shook his head. “No. You shall have several sets of clothes, and you shall change them every day and the maids will clean the dirty set while you wear the clean set.”
“Every day, m'lord?” the boy asked. “And will I have to wash every day, too?”
“It is generally recommended, yes.”
“Coo, m'lord! Lucky you're payin' me 'n' all, for I wouldn't take a bath that often elsewise, I wouldn't.”
“Yes, it is a great bother, isn't it? Now, lad, you may return home to your mother each night if you wish, or if she wishes, or you may have a room here and see her on your days off. You will let Applegate know which you choose, shall you?”
“Aye. I will, m'lord. A room all to meself, m'lord?”
St. James thought about the disruption of staff hierarchy for a moment, then allowed, “Yes. A small one, mind you. But it will have your own bed and your own dresser for your things. Will that be suitable for you?”
The boy nodded. “T'is all a boy could ask for in the world, m'lord.
Me mother will be very happy.”
“Good. That will be all, lad.”
The boy took the envelopes before leaving the room. St. James nearly stopped him, deciding that maybe he should at least know the boy's name. But he let the boy go on. He needn't a name. St. James already knew enough names. He went to the sideboard and bypassing the gentler liquors, reached for the decanter of whiskey in the back and poured himself a very stiff one.
In the silence of the study, he made a toast that only he heard. “To vengeance and death. Whether another's or my own.” Then he drank in a single, continuous swallowing, feeling the alcohol burn down his throat and into his stomach. Then in a rare, out of control movement, he slammed the small, elegant glass into the fireplace, shattering it with finality.
Chapter Twelve
Miss Murdock sat with fortitude as the hairdresser drew his brush through her hair and exclaimed something in muttered French.
The Duchess was seated in Miss Murdock's dressing room with them, her old, frail hands crossed and resting on the head of her cane in a picture of perfect patience. Lady Lydia was there also, but she flounced in her place upon the chaise lounge, and was bent upon giving the Duchess's hairdresser frequent and contradictory instructions on how to go about his business. Miss Murdock had the impression that his muttering was as much directed at that Lady as at her troublesome hair. Her new lady's maid, Jeannie, was also in attendance, standing to one side and providing pins, ribbons, combs and the hot iron when asked for them, and picking them from the floor in silence when the frustrated hairdresser threw them down in exasperation.
Andrew, quite comically and unpredictably, had stationed himself outside of her bedchambers and paced the hallway as he waited for the grand undertaking of trying to turn Miss Murdock into, if not quite an incomparable, then at least someone memorable.
And Miss Murdock, seated with apparent meekness, was in turns despairing at the pointlessness of it and amused to such a degree that intermittent giggles escaped her.
“That will not do, Alphonse,” the Duchess commented over Lady Lydia's unhelpful directions. “That is nearly as prim as the bun she wore.”
Miss Murdock bore the hard pulls on her hair as he ripped out all the combs and pins he had just spent the previous half the hour putting in. They rained down like a shower onto the floor and Jeannie again bent to retrieve and order them. Miss Murdock gurgled another laugh, trying to stifle her amusement into her hands. For her troubles she received a glare in the mirror from the hairdresser. “She does not have the proper respect for what I am trying to do!” he exclaimed in his thick accent to the Duchess. “How am I to work miracles when she only sneers and laughs at my efforts?”
“Forgive me!” Miss Murdock begged him, even as she tried to control her amusement at the pained expression on his face. “I am not sneering. It is just that—it is so very hopeless, you know!” and she covered her face with her hands and gave herself over to the silent shaking of it.
“What do you want from me?!” Alphonse demanded of the Duchess. “This style too prim! That style too elaborate! Bah! I have gone through every mode that is currently in fashion and you like none of them!” He threw his hands out in a mixture of defeat and disdain. “Mon Dui, but it is too much to ask of any man.”
“Something fashionable,” Lady Lydia exclaimed. “As I have been
saying all this time.”
The hairdresser spared her a murderous look.
“Something simple,” the Duc
hess countered. “Look at her, please,
Alphonse, and tell me what you see.”
“Certainly, madam,” Alphonse said with simmering dignity. He turned to look at Miss Murdock who uncovered her face and returned his gaze with her solemn eyes, only a corner of her small mouth twitching.
Alphonse obviously had begun his study of his project only to humor the duchess but his frustrated features lightened and he made a thoughtful noise and put one finger beneath his chin. “Ah,” he said at last. “Yes. Simple. Straightforward. A little severe, I think, but as you said, not prim. Nothing on her forehead, I think, for we do not wish to take any attention away from her eyes. You know, of course, madam, that she is much too, how do you say it, sun browned?”
“Yes, Alphonse. I know,” the Duchess returned, her initial enjoyment at this frequent observation fast turning into tedium. “But you begin to see, I hope, that anything currently in fashion is not going to suit Miss Murdock?” Her words turned more acerbic, “For if it would suit her, we would not need you, then, would we, Alphonse? Any other hairdresser in town is quite capable of turning out what every one else is wearing.”
He gave her an injured look, but said, “Of course, you are right, madam. This is an assignment that only Alphonse can do.” He held out his hand to Jeannie. “Brush!” He brushed Miss Murdock's hair back from her forehead and high onto the crown of her head. “Combs!” he commanded, holding the thick length of her hair there and passing his other hand over for Jeannie to fill. He fitted the combs so tightly that Miss Murdock felt that he were jamming them into her very skull. Then he removed his hold. Her hair was pulled back from her face to a point just above and beyond her ears, from where it flowed in a heavy cascade down her back. Alphonse nodded in determination. “Hot iron!”
He curled innumerable ringlets down her back, until her hair was a mass of shining, dancing curls. The effect, when he at last called finish with a flourish, sweat standing out on his brow, and Miss Murdock was allowed to turn and see herself in the mirror, was such a subtle and yet such a total transformation that she could only stare at herself.
The solemnity of her eyes was still evident, but the curls added such a mischievous aura about her that her eyes seemed to twinkle with it, like a well-hidden joke that only she was privy to and found enjoyment in. Her features were small and delicate, as they had always been, but now they were immediately, and somewhat entrancingly, she dared add to herself, noticeable. Her arched brows were exposed so that her every thought, nearly, was expressed in their slight raising or lowering. The high collar of her red and white dress (which as she was not to be delivered of any other until the following morning, she was still wearing) seemed an enchanting and appropriate setting for the sudden flirtatiousness of her new look, and for many moments, Miss Murdock could only stand and, in truth, look at herself in wonder.
She had the sudden vision of half-hooded gold eyes opening from some lazy, languid, drunken half-slumber, and nostrils quivering at her unexpected nearness.
“Turn, child, so we may see the full effect,” the Dowager commanded her. Miss Murdock did so, her hands trembling a little and a flush warming her face. The Duchess appraised her, her faded eyes studying her with ever growing satisfaction. “Yes,” she said at last. “That is how it should be. I am sure Dante will be very surprised when he arrives tonight.”
Jeannie said, “You look very well, miss. It is a stunning success, if I may say so.”
Alphonse drew himself up to his full, not very impressive height with each of these praisings. “It shall be,” he announced, “all the rage in a fortnight, I have no doubt.”
Lady Lydia at last spoke, having been, for once, struck silent. “I am sure it will be,” she said, and if there was a sudden dryness to her voice, Miss Murdock really did not pay attention to it, too intent, still, on the Duchess's words of St. James to be there that night. She had not forgotten that he would come, but somehow it seemed his arrival was now very immediate and the strange giddiness that was coming over her, and the painful shyness, had her feeling more confused with each passing moment.
The Duchess glanced at the time, said in her autocratic manner, “Well, enough of this. It took long enough is all I have to say. But it is near dining time now, shall we go below? Well done, Alphonse.”
“Thank you, madam,” and he clicked his heels as he bowed.
In the hallway, Andrew turned to them when he heard the door open. “Devil take it, but you have been long enough in there! I had nearly decided to go to White's rather than sit about here any—” He stopped at sight of Miss Murdock. Then he strode over, took one of her hands and stared down at her. “Miss Murdock,” he said at last, “you are lovely.”
“I—why thank you,” Miss Murdock stammered. “But really, Earl Larrimer, it is only my hair,” she could not help adding for there was a certain disgruntlement to be felt with discovering that something she had always disdained as rather silly and wasteful of time could in fact be, apparently, so important.
“But what lovely hair it is. And its effect is to make you positively charming,” he returned with boyish admiration.
“I think,” Miss Murdock said as she looked at him, “that a new hair style only has the effect of making a female more susceptible to the flattery she would have dismissed out of hand prior to it.”
To which Andrew burst out laughing. “You may be right, Miss Murdock,” he agreed and returned to the warm friendship they had begun cultivating earlier that day. “But isn't it delicious?” he asked with an impish grin. He held out his arm to her to escort her to dinner and took his grandmother's hand onto his other arm, leaving Lady Lydia to follow behind.
“I believe it is,” Miss Murdock agreed, her eyes twinkling and feeling at last more herself with his easy bantering. “If for no other reason then to see young, silver-tongued rogues such as yourself stretching the limits of credibility even further than I would have first supposed.”
They were laughing as they descended. The duchess snorted at their comments, bade them to go on, as she was slowing them down, and as Ashton came up the stairs to assist her, they relented and did as she bid. Andrew escorted Lizzie into the drawing room where he proclaimed they should first have a glass of sherry before dinner. He poured their glasses and then toasted her, “To the new Miss Murdock, who looks as enchanting and shining as I already knew her to be.”
Miss Murdock gave a wistful smile. “Thank you, Andrew. I shall need practice deflecting such comments as these, if I am to suppose every other young man in town has the deplorable habit of being so flip with his praise, and it is good of you to help prepare me.”
He had just begun to protest when the Duchess came in the room with Ashton and the sudden ill-humor of her mood was immediately noticeable to them. “Blast him!” she was exclaiming to no one in particular. In her hands was a short missive, which she had apparently already read through once and was now perusing again. “I have never known him to be so impertinent. Not to me at least! He has never before dared,” she fumed.
“Grandmother?” Andrew asked, his gaiety leaving him. “Whatever is the trouble?”
Miss Murdock took one look at the wrathful, disappointed countenance of the Duchess, who was standing leaning on her cane despite Ashton indicating her large chair in readiness for her. “Is it St. James, Lady Lenora?” she asked, somehow knowing only he could inspire such anger and hurt in the old lady.
The Dowager turned her eyes to her, and there was such a frown between the faded silver brows that Miss Murdock was at once alarmed and also reminded of St. James' similar habit of glaring doom when crossed. “There is a part in here for you, Miss Murdock,” the Dowager told her, her rage so biting that she did not even soften her tone as she normally did when speaking to her young protégée. “You may as well read it and draw whatever conclusions from it you like. Though I would say his very absence. . .” and she trailed off, at last seating herself in a sad and, for her, rare, defeated manner, “is in itself d
amnedable.”
Miss Murdock took the missive that Ashton held out to her, scanned the lines, . . .comforting to know that my attention has not strayed. . . and in a sudden spasm of extreme rage and, even more upsetting, disappointment that he was in fact, not coming, crumpled the letter in her hand.
“What ever is it?” Andrew asked.
Miss Murdock did not even glance at him. “It is nothing!” she said, her voice a little desperate. “Nothing.”
“Well, it certainly seems to be something,” Andrew pressed.
She looked at him then, said with a little more control, “I expressly wished to speak with him this evening, as I think I had made clear earlier, about my returning home. And he has. . . begged off.”
“But he could not possibly know that this meeting with him held some importance to you, could he?” Andrew defended his cousin, his voice confused. “I mean, he could not know that you suddenly wished to leave.”
“Certainly he could know,” Miss Murdock returned. “In fact, I would not put it past him to have known and deliberately not be coming this evening because of that suspicion.”
“Why,” Andrew replied, taken aback by her cold fury, “that is hardly reasonable to assume—”
“Well, he is hardly reasonable, is he, Earl Larrimer?” Miss Murdock returned with more scorn in her voice than she had intended. She turned to the Duchess, who had been watching her with a renewed interest. “Do you have further need of this, ma'am?” she asked, holding the crumpled letter in her hand.
“No. Not at all.” The Dowager's sniff told her feelings on the subject and the writer of the letter.
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 20