In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  Jeannie interrupted her quiet, sick dismay. “Oh, miss, this apple green morning gown will be just the thing for this morning, do you not think so? If you are ready, I will help you dress now.”

  Miss Murdock threw back the blankets that still covered her legs and said with rather less enthusiasm than Jeannie was obviously expecting. “I suppose so, Jeannie.”

  Jeannie helped her to bathe and dress. The green gown was becoming on her, Miss Murdock noticed. It had a high collar and many buttons down the front of it that matched the material and the crinoline fluffed it out from her small waist to fall in a graceful, subdued bell of material that, when Miss Murdock slipped into the matching slippers, fell to just above the floor.

  Jeannie, after a quick search through the boxes that she had not yet unpacked, made an exclamation of satisfaction upon finding a matching green ribbon, and she tied Miss Murdock's hair up into a graceful, thick knot on top of the back of her head. It was not as elegant as the hairstyle of the night before, Jeannie pointed out, but it was appropriate for morning wear, and she was sure Alphonse would be back this evening to do miss's hair again for going to Almack's and Jeannie would no doubt be instructed on how to do it properly from then on.

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Murdock said, wondering just what Jeannie was to do when she returned home, for she could not afford to take her with her, and here the lady's maid was taking so many pains to learn how to do everything in the way Miss Murdock needed it done.

  “Is there a problem, miss?” Jeannie asked.

  “Yes, many, but nothing you have done, Jeannie, I assure you,” Miss Murdock hurried to reassure her. “I look quite splendid if I do say so myself, and it is all because of you, and the Duchess of course, and . .” but she trailed off for she could not mention the duke as being party to this. Oh, how was she to walk out on him after this expense, and indeed, how was she to not?

  She turned to go out and downstairs, leaving Jeannie to her efficient sorting and stowing. Ashton met her at the bottom of the stairs, informed her that the Duchess had not yet come below but that Earl Larrimer was in the drawing room if she wished to join him and that Ashton would inform them when breakfast was being served. “And may I add, Miss, that you are looking very bright indeed this morning,” he added in his sober way.

  “Why, thank you, Ashton,” she was surprised into saying. She looked down at her new dress as she added, “I feel like such an imposter.”

  “Tsk, miss, you look exactly as you are. A young lady, bright and healthy and vivid. Now where is there any sham in that?”

  She smiled, something inside of her relaxing with his words. “Thank you, Ashton. You always know precisely the right thing to say.” He moved to open the door to the drawing room for her and she moved on into the room. Ashton spared an extra moment to watch her go before once again closing the door behind her and withdrawing to his post of over-seeing all that went on in his domain.

  Andrew was there, as Ashton had said, and he looked up from his cup of coffee at Miss Murdock's entrance. As they were alone, he said with quiet pleasure, “Lizzie, I am so glad to see you up and well this morning.”

  “And you also, Andrew,” she smiled in return. “Has your mother not come down yet?”

  “No. She has a deplorable habit of being late each morning. I think that it takes her a little longer each year to achieve the degree of lacing that makes her figure still fashionable at her age.”

  Miss Murdock giggled. “That is quite indelicate of you, Andrew,” she admonished. “And I for one, can only hope to look half as beautiful as your mother when I am at her age, or indeed, even at my age.”

  “She would be happy to hear you say so, for she is still quite vain you know.”

  “So I have come to understand, but as it is really quite harmless, she deserves our indulgence, does she not? Am I to understand you will be at Almacks tonight?”

  “Indeed, yes,” he replied. “And for once I am not positively dreading it for I think it shall be very amusing to see you launched this evening.”

  “Launched and sunk, I fear,” Miss Murdock returned and settled herself onto the sofa.

  “Nonsense! I think you shall do splendidly. You may not be the most beautiful, but I wager you will be the most memorable. It will not go unnoticed.”

  “I would much rather go unnoticed entirely,” she bemoaned. “You can not know how much I am truly dreading this. The only bright point, and you must forgive me for saying this as I know you admire him very much, is that your cousin can not possibly be there for I have had it on the good word of my maid that he is barred from Almacks.”

  “Indeed, he is. But I have always thought it was rather because they were tired of his snubbing them and thought it was more seemly to thus snub him back.”

  “Oh,” Miss Murdock replied.

  “Yes. He has never set foot in the place to my knowledge, and the ladies in charge did not take kindly to that. A voucher, Miss Murdock, is not much unlike a royal summons. It is all right to miss one or two events of the season, but to bypass the entire season, and year after year, well it is quite unforgivable. Especially if they suspect that your only pressing business is to sit at a table in a gaming hell, gambling your inheritance away instead of going about the proper business of courting and marrying beneath their helpful eyes in preparation to passing your inheritance along as is accepted.”

  “But I thought St. James spent all of his time. . . on that matter we previously discussed,” she protested.

  “Oh, do not get me wrong, the fact that he spent so much time in unsavory places I am sure was a means to an end, but you can hardly expect the ladies of society to know of that. To their way of understanding, he is a rake, through and through, of the most unrepentant sort. And although I think all ladies secretly love a rake, there are still limits which even they will not put up with being crossed, and I am afraid St. James has passed well beyond all those limits in one manner or another. Not that he has ever much cared.”

  “Well, then, Andrew,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye, “it is up to you to save the Larrimer name from utter ruin and toe the line.”

  He shook his head in mock despair. “It is, I have come to realize. I could strangle him for that.” And they both laughed.

  The door opened then, and the banging of a cane announced to them that it was the Duchess even before she struggled through on the arm of Ashton. “Here, you two,” she said, her voice tart. “Must I forever find you both closeted together and sharing in some unseemly mirth? Go on, the both of you,” she said with more indulgence, “do not let the presence of an old lady interrupt what ever amusement you have dreamed up.”

  “We are merely discussing your other grandson, grandmother,” Andrew enlightened her, “and it is an extremely difficult task to find much to be amused about there.”

  “Indeed,” she returned and settled herself in her customary chair. “Thank you, Ashton. I, however, have had a missive from him already this morning, and I have found very much cause to be amused in it,” she confided, her eyes merry. “Very much!”

  Miss Murdock felt the blood drain from her face and was thankful that Andrew was quick to respond, saving her the necessity of doing so. “From how lightened your spirits are, I would say that must be true,” Andrew observed. “Do you care to share?”

  “No. I think I shall not,” the old lady replied. “For you will find out yourselves in due time and I think it adds to my pleasure to wait for that moment. Ah, I think it shall be a grand day. Miss Murdock, may I say that you are looking very fine indeed this morning?”

  “Thank you, ma'am. As are you, I must say,” Miss Murdock returned, distracted. “I am glad to see that St. James has somehow found a way to wheedle his way back into your good graces.”

  “Oh, he has,” the Duchess replied. “Quite a feat when his missive contained but two short lines, would you not say? And what is all the more pleasant to me is knowing that he did not send it because he thought it would make
me happy, but because, for once, he had no one else to turn to that could help him on this matter. And I will see to it! Oh, yes, I shall see to it quite enthusiastically.”

  Ashton tapped on the door at the end of these words, and then putting his head in, bowed and said, “Breakfast, milady.”

  “Thank you, Ashton. Andrew, would you be so kind?”

  Andrew jumped up to assist her. “Of course,” he told her.

  “And where is your mother?” the Duchess asked before starting the task of getting up from her chair.

  “She is late again, as usual,” her grandson replied.

  “Probably has broken a lace again,” the Duchess observed.

  The three of them went in to breakfast and although she tried to relax, Miss Murdock was, she admitted to herself, a bundle of nerves. But she ate with good appetite, all the same, finding oddly enough, that being roused by St. James in the middle of the night to drive around in his carriage had made her quite hungry.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Somewhat earlier that morning, St. James was awake, and lay in bed, the sheet covering his naked chest, his gold eyes studying the soft wavering of the sheers at his window. He liked the window open a crack, even on the coldest of nights, and he liked his curtains left drawn back, for he did not like his room in tomb darkness.

  He ordered his thoughts, much easier when one was not hung over, he was discovering, and decided that he had three things to pursue that day. Two of which he was not even certain how to begin to pursue. The third, he concluded, had a clear course of action, which in an unexpected way appealed to him very much.

  It was always good to be unpredictable, and this course of action he was settling upon was quite unforeseeable to anyone who may be in the position of caring to try and guess his next move. Yes, it had the advantage of being out of character, and of giving the appearance that St. James' mind was quite taken up with a different endeavor than the one of trying to find the murderer of his parents. In reality, it may bring him closer to that discovery than pursuit of his other two more puzzling, but at first glance, more promising leads.

  After all, his unexpected interest in Miss Murdock and marriage had brought him the other two leads already, and as he had only been at this endeavor for three days now, it would be very foolish, indeed, to drop it.

  It was with this thought in mind that he was interrupted by Effington arriving in his bedchamber and voicing with some surprise that his lordship was already awake. His critical eye took in first the dropped clothing his lordship had worn the night before, as St. James had come in so late that even Effington had dozed at his post. He clucked in disapproval, began to pick up the splendid attire of the night before.

  “Leave that for now, Effington,” St. James requested, causing the valet to drop the clothing with disgruntlement into a chair, “and fetch me some paper and a pen from my writing table.”

  “Certainly, milord,” Effington responded as St. James stretched in the bed.

  “And pour me a drink, and bring it to me,” St. James could not resist adding.

  “It is not yet even nine the clock in the morning, milord,” Effington advised even as he poured the drink in a short, disapproving motion. He brought it all the same, guessing that his lordship would not heed his words. Then he stopped in mid-stride, his eyebrows going up in a rare revelation of surprise as he stared at the duke. The duke's face, to be precise.

  “Is there something the matter, Effington?” St. James asked.

  “Er, no, milord,” Effington replied. “It is just, you must have had some sort of accident last night, for your face is quite red and welted.”

  Thus saying, he handed the drink to his lordship, who sat up in bed, the sheet falling to the loosened laces of his under attire.

  St. James took the drink, sipped from it, a sherry, the lightest drink that the valet could find that could still be classified as a 'drink', and he smiled at this little bit of attempted censorship.

  Effington was studying his lordship's face with interest from this closer vantage. “Funny thing, milord,” he commented in his most reproachful voice, “this injury seems to be in the exact shape of a hand. Almost as if you had been slapped.”

  To which St. James said, “How very interesting. By the by, Effing-ton, I am awaiting on that paper and pen.”

  “Of course, milord,” Effington said, unhappy at having to be reminded. Still quite distracted by his lordship's odd injury, he retrieved a bottle of ink from the desk, several pieces of paper, and a sharpened quill.

  St. James took these items, said in an exasperated voice, “And something to write upon, Effington, unless you care to kneel on the floor and let me use your back.”

  “I do not find that funny, milord,” Effington returned with an irritated frown. He returned to the secretary to pick up a large book, a racing annual put out the year before, and handed it to his employer.

  St. James, oblivious to the curiosity that was eating his valet alive, put aside his drink, settled the paper on the book, uncapped the ink bottle and paused before writing.

  Has it really come to this? he asked himself. And then, with an unexpected grin, began to write:

  Dearest Grandmother,

  I need your help. I wish to attend Almacks tonight and shall need vouchers.

  Your loving grandson,

  St. J

  He folded it and let it lay for a moment, on the off chance that he should decide that this unexpected turn of events was not to his liking, but as he only felt a great deal of titillation to think of the expression on Miss Murdock's face when he arrived, he decided that no, this was precisely what he wished to do. Effington handed him an envelope. St. James scrawled an address, put the missive inside and sealed the envelope with a drop of red wax that Effington lit and held out for him. St. James placed his signet into the wax, marking it as his.

  “Have the messenger boy I hired run this around immediately, Effington,” he bade.

  “Yes, milord.” He paused for an expectant moment, obviously waiting for some sort of explanation of his lordship's strange injury, but St. James only looked at him with negligent gold eyes. Effington gave a very slight sigh, drew himself up and said with more authority than he would have dared yesterday (but of course, yesterday, the duke could not have been aware of Effington's true worth, but after the splendid outfit Effington had prepared for him last night, now he undoubtedly was), “You rest there, milord, and I shall help you dress upon my return, which will only be above a minute,” he warned.

  St. James watched him go, laughing to himself. The race was on, for he had no doubt that Effington would go as quickly as was dignified about his task. St. James threw back the covers, pulled plain tanned breeches from his drawer and a white cotton shirt with lace at cuffs and cravat, one of many that he owned. He was into both, although he had left his shirt open, riding boots upon his feet, and was setting out his razor by a fresh bowl of water from his pitcher to shave when Effington returned. “Milord!” he exclaimed, aggrieved. Then he held out his hand. “Hand me that razor!”

  “And have you slit my throat, Effington? I think not,” St. James said as he put his chin up and, staring into the looking glass, the red hand-print on his cheek obscenely noticeable, ran the first stroke up the column of his throat.

  “I swear I shall wrestle you for it, milord,” Effington threatened, at the very end of his patience. “It is my rightful duty, as is dressing you, and you utterly refuse to do as is expected of you! Now give me that razor, or I shall resign immediately.”

  St. James glanced at him from the mirror, his gold eyes dancing. “Oh, you can not do that, Effington. However shall I dress properly for Almacks tonight?”

  “Almacks?” Effington whispered in uncertain hope. “Buckingham Palace last night and Almacks tonight?”

  St. James turned, handed him the razor. “Quite, Effington. A rare boon for you, and one I would have wagered would never happen. Now if you promise not to slit my throat over my miscond
uct of dressing myself as every other able man, I shall allow you to shave me.”

  Effington sniffed. “You are only frightened that I shall best you in the wrestling, milord,” he paused before adding in a snide tone, “as you so evidently lost last night.”

  St. James chuckled. “You had better hand over my drink, Effing-ton, for I was bested by a female last night and am threatened by my valet this morning. It is a sorry state, indeed, for me to be in.”

  Effington positioned his lordship's head before beginning and observed, “You seem uncommonly happy about it, if I dare say so, milord.”

  “Do I?” his lordship asked, staying Effington's hand that was poised with the razor and meeting his valet's eyes in the mirror. “That is the damnedest thing I have ever heard you say.” He released Effington's hand. “Get on with it, Effington, and some silence would be appreciated. Can't take this incessant chitchat of yours so early in the morning.”

  “Yes, milord,” Effington replied, feeling as usual that just when he was beginning to finally understand his employer, he said or did something that made him understand him even less. But his movements were sprightly, all the same, as he shaved the duke, humming and dabbing with a towel at any water or shaving soap that dribbled from his lordship's neck to his narrow, steel cage chest. In his mind danced a single word: Almacks.

  When the duke was at last presentable, he bypassed breakfast and went instead to the stables to order a mount. Then he rode out alone with quite another matter than Almacks on his mind altogether.

  He arrived some fifteen minutes later at the London home of Lord Tempton, and upon dismounting, bade the groom that came out to hold the horse in readiness there, as he should not be long, and asked the butler upon his entrance if young Ryan Tempton was yet in residence.

  “Indeed he is, milord Duke,” the butler eyed the duke's red hand-printed countenance with disapproval, “but I do not know if he has come below stairs yet.”

  “Well, rouse him if you must. I would like his opinion on something to day.”