by Jo Goodman
“You have nothing to fear, Mr. Gardner. As you pointed out, you are your mother’s problem. Sir Arthur is mine. It occurs to me that Lady Gardner has hit upon an elegant solution. I must needs find my uncle a wife.”
“I did not imagine that I would come to feel a surge of sympathy for Sir Arthur, but there you have it. The man is deserving of my pity.”
“Confess. You are relieved that I have no designs upon your future.”
“True. That is why Sir Arthur also has my gratitude. You may plot his likely marriage prospects to your heart’s content. It will be a pleasant diversion for you, I think.”
Emma laughed. “I believe you think I am in earnest.”
“You aren’t?” he asked cautiously.
“Of course not. Have I not made it clear that my uncle is deserving of respect? Unless Sir Arthur decides that he is in want of a wife, I will not be advancing marriage as a solution to any problem, not when it occurs that a paramour will do as well.”
Restell still could not divine how serious she was, but he remained hopeful regarding the paramour. “Perhaps you will speak to my mother. She is not the free thinker you are.”
Emma merely smiled in response and encouraged him to make of it what he would. It was difficult to conceive of a place more fraught with danger than that bit of space existing between a mother and her son. Emma had sense enough not to wedge herself in it.
Lost in thought, she was unaware of the passage of time. It might have been seconds or as long as a minute or more. When she collected herself, she realized that there had been a shift in the bent of Restell’s mind. He appeared infinitely more grave now than he had in her uncle’s company.
“What is it, Mr. Gardner? There is something you wish to say?” She posed her question with considerable calm, but felt her heart begin to pound.
Restell did not answer immediately. “I am undecided,” he said finally. “I believe it will cause you distress.”
Emma’s breath hitched once. She curled her fingernails into the heart of her palms and felt the dampness. In spite of this, she said, “I am no hothouse flower. You shouldn’t treat me as one.”
“You fainted in my library.”
“I didn’t break.”
“Very well.” He slipped one hand inside his frock coat.
“Pray, have done with it.” Her eyes followed his hand and her voice was already sharper than she’d meant it to be. “You led me to believe you would tell me what Marisol said. Is that what you think will distress me?”
“It is actually something I mean to show you. I showed it to your cousin as well.” Restell withdrew a handkerchief from his inside pocket. The green-and-white-striped Barcelona silk lay neatly folded in the palm of his hand. He saw immediately that it was unnecessary to ask if she recognized it.
Emma Hathaway was already clawing at her throat.
Chapter 5
Restell moved quickly to prevent Emmalyn from injuring herself. He put himself on the seat beside her and grasped her wrists. Her strength surprised him. She did not seem to be aware of his presence or of her own resistance. Her lips parted as she gulped air. Believing she meant to scream, Restell was not prepared when her head snapped forward and she sunk her teeth into the ball of his left hand. It was no delicate, pinching nibble. There was real menace to the bite, and it threatened to take a considerable portion of his flesh if he simply tried to pull away.
Restell pushed his hand into the bite. Releasing one of her wrists, he used the side of his free hand to apply firm, insistent pressure against the underside of her nose. This pushed Emma’s head securely against the leather squabs and kept it there. She tried to avoid the discomfort of his touch. He rubbed the side of his hand back and forth until he felt her jaw begin to relax. Grimacing with pain, he nevertheless resisted the urge to yank his hand away until her mouth opened wider.
“Miss Hathaway,” he said tightly between his own clenched teeth. She was unresponsive to his entreaty. “Emmalyn.” He pressed harder and felt her jaw yield another fraction. “Emma. I’m not going to hurt you.” He doubted she heard him, or if she did, that she believed him. He had reason to know that his hand against her nose, while not causing pain, was considerably uncomfortable. If he pushed even a little bit harder, he could force a break.
“Emma.” He said her name more softly this time, closer to her ear, and he felt her teeth part that final, infinitesimal fraction he needed. He pulled his hand away quickly, wincing as he nursed it for a moment against his chest. He glanced down and saw blood beading on his skin. The Barcelona silk handkerchief was within reach, but Restell ignored it in favor of using his own handkerchief to bind the wound. He wrapped it quickly while Emma pushed herself more deeply into the corner of the carriage. She looked patently terrified, but she was no longer trying to claw at her own throat.
“Do you know where we are, Emma?”
She didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes darted around the carriage, first to the opposite bench, then the window, and finally back to him. “In the park,” she whispered. “This is your carriage, and we’re in the park.”
“That’s right. Do you know my name?”
“Mr. Gardner.”
“That will do,” he said.
Emma glanced at the hand he was cradling to his chest. “Did I do that?”
He nodded. “There is some doubt in your mind?”
“I am still hoping I will wake up.”
“You are awake, Emma.”
She turned away and stared out the window. “You understand that I wish I weren’t.”
“I understand.”
The sky was completely overcast now, and Emma thought how perfectly it complemented her mood. She shivered slightly as the tops of the trees bowed to the wind and the carriage swayed.
“You are cold?” Restell asked.
Emma shook her head. Her shawl had slipped down her arms and now lay mostly wrapped about her waist. She didn’t try to raise it. “It occurs that I am becoming quite mad.”
Restell had to strain to hear her. It was even more difficult to know if she was speaking primarily to herself or to him.
“You might well think I am a candidate for an asylum,” she said. “It is done, you know, to put people such as I have become in places like that. I am no longer certain that I would make any argument against it.”
“Now, there you are wrong,” he said. “You would make the argument.”
Emma discovered that she had not entirely abandoned her sense of humor. Glancing back at Restell, she let him see by her wry smile that his rejoinder had hit the mark.
“You are not mad,” Restell told her. “Nor are you becoming so. Not in the least.”
“It seems as if I am.” Emma turned to face him again. She stared at his hand before raising her eyes to his. “I have never bitten anyone. That is the sort of thing lunatics do.”
“Do they? I hadn’t realized.”
“Will you allow me to look at it?”
“It is nothing.”
“Please.” She extended her hand to take his.
Restell noted that while Emma appeared the very model of patience, she was not prepared to back down. Her hand remained outstretched, while her eyes practically dared him to decline. Refusing her began to feel rather childish.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting his injured hand. She cupped it in her palm and began to unwrap the handkerchief. The bloodstains gave her pause, but she set her jaw and kept going until she could observe the wound and not merely the evidence of it. Her teeth marks were still imprinted in his flesh. A bit of blood welled to the surface as she unintentionally squeezed his hand. Instantly, she eased her hold and dabbed at the blood, apologizing for hurting him yet again.
“I took no notice,” he said.
“You are kind to say so,” Emma told him, “but I have seen that you take notice of everything.” She ran her index finger lightly over the imprint of her teeth in his hand. “Have you a physician to examine this? Dr.
Bettany, perhaps?”
Restell shook his head. “Hobbes will treat it. He was attached to Wellington’s mounted regiments. He knows something about what must be done for bites.”
“You are speaking of a horse bite. I shouldn’t wonder that this is different.”
“Primarily in the location of the bite, I expect. Hobbes informs me that horses tend to nip at the flank.”
Emma flushed. For all that he expressed it delicately, she knew he was speaking of a man’s arse. “This is easier to bandage, I imagine.”
Restell chuckled softly. “I imagine.”
She rewrapped his hand with considerably more care than he had shown and tied the handkerchief off neatly to keep it in place. “You should have used the Barcelona silk,” she said, daring to glance at it lying on the opposite bench. Her throat tightened so that she finished in a more husky timbre. “It appears as if it’s already stained.”
Restell removed his hand from hers. “May I?” he asked, indicating the discarded handkerchief.
Emma signaled her permission with a short nod and at the same time placed more space between them. She watched him warily as he picked up the handkerchief and unfolded it to its full length. She saw the green-and-white-striped silk was flecked and streaked with something that was dark brown in some places and nearly black in others. “The stain,” she said. “It’s blood, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
“I don’t know. Hobbes found this in the mews behind Madame Chabrier’s. It was wedged under one of the steps leading from her establishment. I believe that accounts for its relatively clean condition and the fact no ragpicker stumbled upon it.” He waited to see if she would offer anything. When she didn’t, he went on. “Your cousin told me this handkerchief is like one she purchased to accent an older straw bonnet. You were wearing that bonnet when you went to the milliner’s, weren’t you?”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“And this adorned it?”
She nodded. “One like it, yes. It replaced a ribbon.”
“I think we can dismiss the notion that this silk is merely like the one Miss Vega purchased and trust our intuition that it is the very same.” Restell watched as Emma’s right hand lifted slowly to her throat. In spite of the injury she had inflicted, he was prepared to intervene again. It proved to be unnecessary. Emma only cupped her throat and swallowed hard. “Did your assailant use this on you?” Restell asked. “Is that what you’re remembering?”
“There is no memory.”
“There is,” he said gently. “Mayhap it is not one you can bring to your mind’s eye, but I know you feel the power of it. It’s there when you lift your hand to your throat. I think you feel this around your neck.”
“No.” Emma shook her head vehemently. “It is only that my throat is so tight of a sudden.”
He ignored her denial. “And you want quite desperately to pull it away. You have already marked your skin with your fingernails.”
“I couldn’t breathe. It is difficult even now.”
“It is difficult because you know the feeling of being strangled, of trying frantically to slip your fingers under this piece of silk so that you might draw another breath. That is the memory you cannot bear to put before you but which has its own stranglehold.”
“You cannot know that,” she said. Even to her own ears, the hoarseness of her voice seemed to play her false. She made her protest as a matter of form, not because she was convinced any longer that it was true. “No one can know that, not when I don’t.”
With a quickness that suggested a familiarity with sleight of hand, Restell balled up the handkerchief and tucked it out of sight. “Enough, Emma,” he said quietly. “It is enough.”
She nodded slowly and allowed her hand to fall back into her lap. She stared at it for a long moment before she spoke. “You were right to bring me here. I should not like Marisol or my uncle to witness these petty dramas. I believe they…” She hesitated, then went on. “They would be frightened.” Another moment of unease seized her. “As I am.”
“I had but one motive for inviting you to take a turn in the park,” Restell said, “and that was to see a measure of color in your cheeks. I wasn’t certain that I would show you the handkerchief. There was no compelling reason to put it before you now. It might have easily waited until tomorrow. I must return for the drawing of Mr. Kincaid, remember?”
“Yes, of course. And for the village sketches…with your bank draft, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
Silence settled between them. Emma did not find it the least discomforting, nor was she disturbed by the roll and rumble of distant thunder. She was loath to raise the unpleasantness surrounding the Barcelona silk, but neither would the subject be dismissed from her mind.
“I understand you might have waited another day to show me the handkerchief,” she said. “But I am less certain why you waited so long already. You said Hobbes found it. I recall that you sent him to Madame Chabrier’s the very same day we met.”
“True. He did not find it on that occasion. One of the shop girls spied him in the course of his investigation, and Madame Chabrier called upon the Charlies to run him off. As he tells it, he led them on a merry chase and escaped cleanly, but the incident forced him to bide his time until he could return. He only found the handkerchief two evenings ago. So, you see, I did not wait long to inquire about it.”
“You said it was wedged under a step.”
“Yes. Hobbes was fortunate to find it. That is his estimation, not mine. I believe it was diligence and thoroughness, not luck, that provided this outcome. Of course, had there been an immediate inquiry, it is likely that it would have been discovered. Hobbes was hampered by the fact he believed it was prudent to return to the milliner’s only at night.”
“Under a step seems an odd place to find it,” she said. “Do you think it was put there of a purpose?”
“It occurred to me.”
“Do you think I put it there?”
“It seems likely. When you are not biting me, I am reminded that you have great presence of mind. At some point your assailant stopped trying to strangle you and put the handkerchief aside. It is not unreasonable to assume you shoved it under the step to provide evidence of your abduction. Marisol knew where you had gone, so surely you would have believed that she would send someone to look for you.”
“She did, didn’t she?”
“Yes. She says she sent Mr. Charters.”
“But—”
He held up his hand, indicating she should hear him out. “Do not imagine for a moment that she told him the true reason you had gone to the milliner’s, and do not further imagine that she mentioned anything about sending you. She simply reported that you went to Madame Chabrier’s and had not returned. It was after Charters came back without you that Marisol finally went to her father. Charters volunteered to supervise a discreet search. What experience he has in such matters is unknown to me. I do not think I would be wrong in suggesting it is very little as nothing came of his early inquiries.”
“I did not realize so much had been done on my behalf. Marisol has never mentioned that Mr. Charters was involved.”
“She explained to me that she wanted to be sensible of your feelings. She said you would be embarrassed in her fiancé’s company and feel some obligation toward him. Is she right?”
“She is. Did I not tell you that occasionally she hits the nail squarely?” Emma did not ask him to explain the small sound he made at the back of his throat. It might have been agreement, but there was every chance that it was skepticism.
“Have you ever inquired about your uncle’s response to your disappearance?”
“I think you already know it wasn’t encouraged. He was obviously relieved to have me back. In those first days I was not anxious to speak to anyone.”
Restell had no doubt that Sir Arthur and Marisol had found any number of ways to discourage Emma from discussing the de
tails of her abduction, even once she was prepared to talk. “You heard me tell your uncle that I must speak to Mr. Charters.”
She nodded.
“Do you wish to be present when I make my visit?”
“You would permit it?”
“Yes. I do not mind if you bite him.”
Emma glanced at his injured hand again. “You are taking it rather well, I think. Have you had a great deal of experience to draw upon?”
“Hannah was a biter,” he said.
“Hannah?”
“My youngest sister. She captured my thumb regularly to teethe upon. Usually it did not hurt overmuch, but on occasion she sank those tiny pearls deep. I still have a scar on my calf. Her penchant for flesh made it necessary to acquire some way of dislodging her from my person. I discovered quickly enough that pulling away was not only considerably painful, but that it also allowed her to keep some portion of my anatomy between her teeth. I was moved to call her Shylock for the pound of flesh she was wont to extract.”
“Shylock. Oh, but that was very bad of you.”
“That is what Father said, but he was laughing behind his paper as he said it. Mother was less amused.” He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, not at all. It was over very fast.”
“You will understand that it seemed less so to me.”
Emma tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. It made her realize her bonnet was askew, a consequence, she was sure, of their tussle. She chided him for not telling her. “I am not vain, Mr. Gardner, but I do not like to appear foolish.”
“I thought the tilt of it was charming.”
She tugged on the ribbons and situated the bonnet on her head at the proper angle. “When do you imagine you will see Mr. Charters?”
“On the morrow. He is in town, so there should be no impediment.”
“You are assuming he will have no other engagements.”
“I am depending upon Sir Arthur and Marisol to make sure he does not.” The first fat droplets of rain splattered themselves against the carriage windows. “We are arrived safely, Emma.” He pointed to his left as the carriage slowed to a stop in front of her home. “Give me one moment, and I will see you to your door.” He swept up his hat and placed it on his head, then turned just as the driver appeared. The door was flung open and the step pulled out. Restell jumped down and held out his hand. He was heartened when she didn’t hesitate to reach for him.