Miss Murdock, without further ado, tossed the letter into the fireplace where it caught flame, said to everyone and no one, “Forgive me, I should not let my—my disappointment at being unable to make my arrangements with any degree of firmness tonight as I had planned disrupt our evening.”
“Of course, Miss Murdock. We quite understand,” Andrew told her.
“Indeed, we do,” Lady Lydia, who had come in just a moment behind the Duchess and had caught the most part of Miss Murdock's small scene agreed. “St. James is in no way ever to be relied upon, and I can quite sympathize with how you are feeling, having felt equally as frustrated myself in the past with him. He utterly refuses to take into account any one but himself!”
“I still am certain—” Andrew began but Miss Murdock cut him off.
“I—I don't wish to speak any more about it now,” she pronounced. “Please, can we just go in to dinner, I really must be more tired than I thought to be reacting in such a—such a foolish manner.”
“Yes, I'm sure you are still tired,” the Duchess agreed. “Ashton, if all is in readiness?”
He bowed, his face impassive, and yet still managing to convey a warm sympathy, “Yes, milady.”
The Dowager made a motion to get up and Andrew helped her from her seat and they went in to dinner. Miss Murdock ate as well as she had ever eaten, but somehow despite Andrew's occasional admiring look, she felt extremely silly with her new hair style and her new dress, and where before she had wanted to go home to escape greater difficulty with the duke, now she found herself positively longing for home, her weak, comical father, and her oh-so brown, unassuming dresses.
St. James had ordered a closed carriage to be hired, plain and black, with a pair of black horses to match. The Queen's secretary had asked him to use discretion and the commonplace envelope that his summons had been delivered in showed that they had evidently been following their own advice. So now, as the carriage was drawn up to the front of his house with one of his own grooms at the reins, St. James stepped out of the door and down the wide granite steps to alight into the carriage.
It was not his usual mode of transportation, himself much preferring to drive the racing curricle, as he had the day before, despite however good or bad the weather may be, or riding astride. But as he was out-fitted in the outlandish attire that Effington had deemed appropriate for his visit, it was perhaps best that he was not concerned with any detail other than trying to keep from wrinkling his turquoise coat. He looked down at himself with disgust as the carriage door was closed behind him. Yellow pantaloons and shirt! God help him, at least Tyler was not here to see him, for there was no way, he would wager, that man could have restrained from laughing outright.
St. James had rained a great deal of insults upon Effington's head as that man had fulfilled his duty in dressing milord, but for once, he could not provoke Effington in the least. He had gone about his purpose in an unflappable manner and had answered St. James' ongoing abuse with, “Yes, milord. No, milord. You have my deepest sympathies, milord.”
To which St. James had answered, “Yes, I can see that I have, Effington,” and had at last said no more, merely gritted his teeth and endured as best he could being dressed in a manner he despised as being unmanfully vain and damningly restrictive in any natural movement. How was he to even bloody walk in boots that had heels nearly as high as any woman's slipper? He asked this of Effington, half begging to at least be allowed a more practical choice of footwear, but the valet, face shining with pride in the result of his efforts, said with certainty, “But you carry it off so well, milord! And I must say, your only lacking in attributes is your height, and you see now how easily that has been remedied?”
“I have never been so short that I could not thoroughly thrash someone who has annoyed me, Effington,” St. James returned. “And I put you on notice that you are annoying me!”
Effington, who had appeared to be taking as much pleasure from his lordship's discomfort as from the effect he had created, only smiled with smugness and replied, “And when have I not, milord? Now mind that you do not muddy your boots for I have taken an hour to shine them this afternoon.”
“Bloody nurse maid,” St. James muttered beneath his breath, but now as he sat in the carriage, he did glance down at them to be sure that they were not sullied in any way. Then a movement from outside his window caught his eye as the carriage jolted into motion, and he banged his cane, a before now useless accessory that Effington had insisted upon, on the roof of the carriage, commanding it to stop.
“You, lad,” he opened the door to call to the messenger boy he had hired that day, for it had been he that St. James had caught sight of, watching the duke's preparation to leave with a look of longing from the mew to the side of the house. “Care to be a footman tonight?”
The boy came forward eagerly, gray eyes shining in anticipation. “You mean it, m'lord?” he asked. “What am I need do?”
“Just ride on the back there, you'll see the platform and the holds, and when I arrive at our destination, you're to jump down smartly and open the door for me, and see that I in all my feebleness do not trip and land upon my face when I alight from the carriage,” St. James told him.
“Coo, I can do that, m'lord!” the lad said, and without waiting for further instruction, he went to where St. James had indicated. The coach dropped down a small bit as his gangly figure climbed to stand up behind. St. James tapped the roof again, and the carriage resumed moving. He sat back, and oddly, instead of studying upon his strange summons to Buckingham, he wondered what Miss Murdock's reaction had been to his not coming this evening. He imagined her with her hair pulled back in its prim bun, the soft loops of it coming down like an arrow from her forehead to cover her ears, and her plain brown dress that whispered with reticence when she walked. For all of her unobtrusiveness she had somehow managed to become a focal point to him for the past near forty-eight hours. The lingering of hummingbird wings, perhaps, that quietly and efficiently held one captivated at their delicate strength of rhythm, moving so quickly that one could barely discern them and yet one was keenly aware of them all the same.
Yes, St. James thought, there was an essence to Miss Murdock that was barely discernible, but that was engagingly evident. He wondered if Miss Murdock were even aware of it? Or if the very charm of it was that she was not and dismissed the notion of it out of hand as having no place in her practical outlook on life.
If one wished someone to quit drinking, one threw that person's flask away.
If only it were that easy, St. James pondered.
If one wanted to live, one made the decision to live.
An option not open to him.
If there was a heretonow not evident bitterness in this thought, he did not entertain it. It was only that he had the suspicion that he was at last stirring his foe, and hence he now felt that the past many years of his quest had been only so much exercise. In possibly a very short time, he would engage in the true conflict. He had always been aware that his opponent had very much the advantage on him and that there may in fact be little that he could do before he became enough of a threat to receive his own speedy dispatch. It was part of the puzzle that this person had apparently never sought to dispatch him in the years since his parents' murders, but with St. James resolutely digging about, whatever had stayed the murderer would no doubt stay him no longer.
But it was oh so satisfying to find that he had finally found the proper means of disturbing his enemy, and to know that even at this moment, said enemy must be feeling, for once, hunted himself.
In the midst of these dark, nearly unconscious thoughts, the carriage entered the gates at Buckingham Palace, where it was stopped by two beefeaters as the occupant's business was made known and acknowledged as expected. Then it moved forward up the long drive, but instead of going to the circle in front of the main entrance, took another road on around the long, overpowering length of the building, then down one side of it to a smaller, but
still impressive entrance. There it stopped, being met by yet another beefeater, whose only recognition of their presence was to stand from parade rest to full attention at their arrival. The messenger boy did not disappoint St. James, but perceiving they were at their final destination, jumped down as before instructed and opened the carriage door for him. St. James alighted out by the small step of the carriage, his yellow shirt and pantaloons glowing in the jealous light of the moon and twin torches that lit the entrance way. His turquoise coat was shadowed to inky purple and his highly polished boots reflected like deep, dark mirrors. The boy bowed in inspired respectfulness, and as he rose from it, he looked up at the duke and said, “Thank you, m'lord!”
“I thought you may enjoy this,” St. James returned. “Now mind you stay with the carriage and the groom. I don't think they take kindly to street urchins running willy-nilly about the grounds.”
Then he stepped forward and the tall doors were opened to him by a butler that made his own Applegate seem like some clumsy oaf in comparison. He was led but a short way down the long hallway, shown into a rather intimate small chamber where a fire was built up in the fireplace. It was an elegant room, but it had neither the opulence nor style of the social rooms he had prior seen of the palace when being there for the occasional function years earlier. The butler directed him further into the room to a chair by the fire. There was one other chair there, well-upholstered but not otherwise remarkable and it was occupied by a woman of no great beauty. Her nose was rather long, her jowls rather fleshy, and her hair was dark brown streaked with gray and worn in a bun, remarkably, not unlike the one Miss Murdock wore. She was in her mid forties and she made no apparent artifice in concealing it. There was a matronly, comfortable look to her, and an air of one who speaks plainly and expects the same in return.
St. James sketched a deep and humble bow. “Your Majesty,” he intoned.
“St. James,” the Queen acknowledged. “I am glad that you were available. Will you be seated?”
St. James took the proffered seat, which was close enough to Queen Victoria that they could converse without effort. The butler offered him a cup of tea, which he accepted and the Queen joined him. They sat in silence for a moment, each sipping their tea and the fireplace snapping when the mood suited it.
“I had heard from my intimates,” the Queen began, “that you were in the habit of dressing extremely plainly, much to their disappointment. I must count myself honored, I suppose, that you have put some effort into your apparel this night.”
St. James smiled. “It only goes to show, Your Highness, that I am willing to sacrifice even my dignity for the crown's sake.”
She did not laugh, but she did smile at this light sally. “Or,” she went on, “perhaps you have taken to dressing appropriately to better impress your new fiancé.”
St. James did not quite choke on his tea, although he felt very close to it. Instead, he paused with the cup to his lips for a long, deliberate moment and then took a small sip before replacing the cup on his saucer. His eyelids half-hooded over his gold eyes and when he at last answered, his words were measured and thoughtful. “I pity those who believe that you have become such a recluse that you are not properly aware of the activities of the realm, Your Majesty, for I can see that they are grossly mistaken.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes penetrating. “They are mistaken. I could tell them that since Prince Albert's death I have been more devoted than ever before to seeing that things are done in a proper and respectable manner. It is the mistake my uncle made before me, you know. He did not realize that the only way we now have of leading is to earn the respect of the people, lords and commons alike. If the people are behind the throne, the prime minister dare not wander too far from our edicts. If they are not behind the throne, then the prime minister can and will go counter to the crown's policies.”
St. James nodded once but he did not speak. The Queen hardly needed his stamp of approval on her thoughts.
“But I digress. You did not directly acknowledge that you are engaged.”
“I am not officially engaged, if that is what you mean, Your Highness.”
“But you are engaged all the same?”
St. James paused for a moment, and his face must have shown how unsettled he was with this conversation, and the possible reasons behind it, for the Queen raised a brow before he could answer. “I am being rather blunt, I am afraid. And prying, you may believe.”
St. James raised a brow in return. “I admit that I am. . . shocked at your knowledge.”
That did bring a laugh from her, a very short one. “Do not doubt that if it is possible that I know then it is possible that there may be others that know. Prepare yourself well, St. James.”
He did not answer, and if his silence was taken as impertinent he could not help it for he could not think of anything to say that would not further reveal his position.
Of an impulse, Queen Victoria reached out her hand and touched his arm. “I had great respect for your father, St. James. If it is true that you are to marry, there is work that he had started that needs to be carried on. We recently had a great victory in China that allows us to send in Christian Missionaries, but I fear that the complete legalization of the opium trade there can be looked upon as nothing but a defeat, despite our monopoly upon it and the profits it brings to our country.”
St. James was mystified, for he had no idea what work his father had done for the crown. He only sipped again from his tea, and kept his face unreadable.
“I have hesitated to approach you,” the Queen continued, “for, candidly, I was not sure if you could leave go the trail of vengeance you had set for yourself so many years ago in order to give the tasks I have for you your full attention. I wish to know if it is true that you are to marry this daughter of a Squire,” and she smiled as though this amused her very much. “I wish to know if at last the trail is too cold for even you to pursue.”
St. James answered with care, “I am going to marry this daughter of a Squire. But I beg Your Highness for just a short time longer before asking for my assistance on the matters you have referred to. If you can grant me that short time, I will deem it an honor to perform any task you hand me, especially any that my father may have left. . . unfinished.”
She sat back in her seat a degree. This time it was she that took a long moment to answer, and when she did she spoke with as much care, her words as veiled as his own had been. “Then it shall be as you ask. However, in preparation for your impending duties, I will have certain documents made available to you, so that you may review them, and gain some idea as to what your father had worked on before you.”
For just a second, St. James' eyes flickered to meet hers squarely, flaming up like twin candles. “I would be very interested to know how my father served the crown before me, Your Highness, and how I will function in serving the crown in his stead.”
“I believe you shall be. Perhaps. . . these documents will be
useful to you as well.”
“And if they are useful to me. . . ?”
The Queen gave a grim smile. “Then I am sure that your
conclusions will be useful to the crown also. We will speak again, St.
James. It has been a pleasure seeing you again.”
St. James placed his now empty tea cup and saucer aside, rose from the chair. He bowed again before the Queen. “And it has been an honor and a pleasure seeing you also, Your Highness.”
Then the butler was there once again, seeming to come from the darkness like a shadow to escort him, and St. James was at the door when Queen Victoria said, “St. James?”
He turned. “Your Highness?”
“You may give Miss Murdock my congratulations, as I extend them to you also.”
St. James gave a single taut smile. “I will, Your Highness. Thank you.”
Then he walked from the room, his mind turning and stretching in all sorts of new directions. Two things took precedence in his mind: He
r unexplained knowledge of his coming marriage. And the promise of his father's files.
When he reached the coach, the lad opened the door for him as smartly as if he had been doing it all his life. St. James held the door. “Lad, tell the driver that we will be going to my grandmother's house.”
“Aye, m'lord!”
“And what is your bloody name?”
A single look of startled gray eyes. “Steven, sir. Me name is Steven.”
“Very well, Steven. Carry on.” St. James pulled out his pocket watch, glanced at it. It was nigh on midnight and he cursed the lateness of the hour, but as usual, he was not to be denied.
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday Morning
Miss Murdock awakened in the wee small hours of the morning and she was not sure why. The room flummoxed her for a moment and then it took on the vague familiarity of the room she had spent the night before in. She was at the Dowager Duchess of St. James' home. With this realization, she let out a long sigh, turned in her bed to face the windows where a gentle beam of light came in between the drawn curtains: a combination of silver moon from above and gold street lamp flame from below. An unnatural shadow moved beyond the small opening and Miss Murdock sat up with the sharpness of one drenched with cold water. A little involuntary gasp left her lips.
She sat for a moment in the midst of her bed, her heart pounding, and she studied the window. The shadow moved again and there was the slightest of tappings on the pane. The very gentleness of the tapping was somehow as reassuring as it was terrifying. She did not light a lamp but instead fumbled for her robe on the chair beside her bed in the dark, struggled into it and climbed from beneath her covers. She tiptoed to the window, went not to the revealing middle gap in the curtains but to one side of it and cautiously pulled the curtain back a miniscule amount.
A boy was outside her window, causing her heart to do a quick flutter. He was perched precariously on the slight ledge that separated the first and second floor and even as she watched with apprehension, he tightened his grip on the outside of her sill with one hand and made a motion of questioning with his other to someone below.
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 21