by Ella Edon
“I wonder what he wants to do, to help.”
She still had no idea, but she knew she trusted him to think of something. She sat down heavily at her dressing-table, feeling sad. Something treacherous inside her told her that her Papa was simply worried that any scandal would dent her value as somebody to marry off.
“You know he would never marry you off advantageously for himself. If he would, he’d have married you off to Carrington by now.”
She shook her head, annoyed at herself. But the treacherous whispers – the ones that had once told her that her Papa cared more for her dead mother than for her, that his interest in her was purely her mother’s memory – told her otherwise.
“He’s only caring about you because of how it might show him up.”
She reached for her hairbrush, straightening her tangles with a firm hand. She knew it was stupid – nobody could be sweeter or more demonstrative than her Papa always was! But the doubts had been there since she’d overheard Aunt Melior’s friends talking.
“…he cares so for that scrap of a girl of his! Unnatural.”
“Of course, he does!” another had replied. “Because she’s the image of her mother, Lady Mowbray.”
She looked at her own face sadly now. Wide eyes, the clear blue of china, stared back at her. Her pale hair was curly, which was at least fashionable, and her chin was soft with the barest hint of a cleft. Did she look like her mama?
The thought gave her an idea. She stood and went up to the gallery. There, at the end, with a great wrought silver candlestick on the wall beside it, was a painting of Mama.
She had spent hours up here as a child, sneaking up in the evenings. She remembered curling up on the window-seat, in summer, when the light streamed in from the sunset onto the painting until well past nine o’ clock. She could hear the drawing-room downstairs, where her father’s guests talked and laughed and drank. She used to watch her Mama on the wall, imagine talking to her. It had been her comfort until she found her father there one evening.
Sneaking in, she’d seen him by the portrait. He’d lit the candles, and he was standing by the frame, head bowed. He looked like a monk, his shoulders slumped, lips moving in penitence. She’d sneaked out again without saying a word.
It was the last time she’d visited her mother like that.
His private grief had made it somehow his, as if by mourning her mama, she usurped him in his grieving.
Now, she walked softly into the gallery. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the painting closest to it. She stood by the window and looked up at that soft, gentle face.
Her mother, at age twenty-five – about the age she’d been when she bore Emilia – looked down at her. Big soft eyes, melting with gentle care, looked down at her. The eyes were greener than Emilia’s, the artist capturing that glowing golden tone.
Her hair was curling, very like Emilia’s, though perhaps a little rosier and a little less brown-tinged. Her skin was pale and soft, her mouth just lifted at the corner, in an enigmatic, wise smile.
“Mama?” Emilia whispered. “What should I do?”
She sat down on the window-sill, in just the place where she’d sat all through her childhood. The window – big and half-circular – looked out over the streets of Kensington, the view from their high townhouse stretching all the way down towards the distant silver of the river. She sat with her back to it, her focus entirely on the portrait.
Mama, if you were here, and I could ask your counsel, what would you say?
She waited, the way she always had, for some sense of guidance. It didn’t seem to come. She swallowed hard.
“This is silly,” she said. “That’s a painting, and you’re not ten years old anymore.”
She stood and turned to the end of the gallery.
As she walked along the Oriental carpet in the center, past portraits of ancestors that watched her with remote eyes, she heard footsteps in the hallway.
“Milady!” June said, her face a picture of concern. “Oh! Thank Heavens I thought to look here! I was worried you’d gone out.”
“What is it, June?” Emilia’s heart felt as if it was enclosed in a fist of ice. It was her father. Something had happened. He’d had an argument with Croxley and had a relapse. He’d sought out Carrington and been attacked. He was ill…
“It’s your prisoner,” June said swiftly. “He’s been asking to see you.”
Chapter Nine
Of Cages and Freedom
The fire was burning low in the grate. Luke, sitting on the velvet-covered chair, watched and listened to the way the embers hissed and red light danced between the charcoals in the grate. It was something to distract him.
“I cannot bear a moment longer of this.” He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. He was starting to feel more than frustrated now. He was actually frightened. Would he really spend his whole life trapped in this attic?
“It’s going to drive me mad.”
He stretched his legs toward the fire, feeling the frustration of his inactivity. Usually, he was an active man – not obsessed with sport or croquet like some of his friends, but he loved a brisk walk or a long ride in the countryside. There was a knock at the door and he shot to his feet, his heart soaring with a kind of desperation.
“Yes? What is it?”
The maid appeared round the door. He was starting to dread the sight of her, not so much because of her, but because she could bring no news, no word of release.
“I was told to ask what you would prefer for supper: halibut or carp?” she asked.
Luke rolled his eyes. “I don’t care!” He knew it was rude: he would never normally talk to a servant like that. He saw her eyes widen in surprise.
“Sorry,” he said instantly, hating himself even worse.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “But what should I tell the mistress?”
“I don’t know,” he groaned. “Halibut. What the Deuce! I don’t mind. Just tell me when I can leave this place.”
“I can’t help you, sir.”
“I know,” he sighed. “I know.”
The door closed behind June, leaving him alone.
“Dash all of it!” he swore.
Throwing himself back onto the divan, he looked out of the window in some dismay. It was getting dark out there already: how many days had he been stuck here now?
He watched the sunlight on the horizon. Pale green now, it was already turning the strange, limpid blue of summer dusk. He could hear the distant sounds of the street: coaches rolling over cobbles, somewhere some people talking to each other. It was easily the quietest area of town, here in Kensington. Again, he marveled at the irony of it all: here he was, trapped in paradise.
The door opened, causing him to jump. He must have been half-asleep, he realized. He found himself looking into a sweetly familiar face.
“Milady!” Dragging a hand swiftly through his hair – who knew how wild and disheveled he must look right now? He jumped to his feet.
“Lord Westmore.” She dropped a swift curtsey. He bobbed a quick bow, feeling vaguely ridiculous. Why stand on ceremony with each other? He already had spent more time alone with her than he ever did with Lady Stella Longfield, or any other woman he’d met before.
“You have something to tell me?” he inquired. Simply looking at her, he could tell that something must be deeply wrong. She was blinking, her eyes red-rimmed. He swallowed hard, realizing she had recently been crying. She must have been.
“I came to tell you I have to let you go – but before I do, you must swear to tell nobody what has been done.”
“I don’t need to swear,” he said swiftly. “Of course, I won’t tell. I am an honorable man.”
“Swear to tell nobody,” she demanded, voice quavering. “Or I shan’t be able to release you.”
“Why, by Perdition’s name, should I do anything of the sort?” he asked. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Then why won�
��t you swear?” she challenged.
“Oh, for…” He closed his eyes, all the frustration he’d felt in the last three days suddenly overwhelming him. “You have kept me prisoner with no explanation. Taunted me with no promise of release. Made me guess and scheme and go half-crazy these last three days. And you want me to swear? Why should I?” He opened his eyes.
Emilia stared at him. “Because…because…oh! Don’t bother,” she said. To his horror, she started crying, hot tears falling, scalding hot, down her cheeks. “I don’t have the right to your silence. You can humiliate me, destroy me…why should you not? But I swear, if you harm my father, I will…I’ll…”
He stood, feeling utterly helpless as she sobbed, face hidden in her hands, shoulders heaving. Her blonde hair was loose about her shoulders, the curls catching the firelight and the last of evening. He closed his eyes, heart aching in sympathy for a sorrow he couldn’t well understand.
“What is it?” he asked softly, as her sobbing reached a temporary halt.
“You…you won’t…tell, but I know you think terribly of us now and it’s all my fault. All my stupid, idiotic fault.”
“No!” Luke went to her and reached out to her shoulder, laying a gentle touch on the sleeve of her dress. She tensed and went abruptly still. He let his hand fall.
“I’m such a fool,” she whispered mournfully. She still held her hands to her eyes, shoulders shaking. The gown she wore had a wide neck and it showed the pale softness of her skin. He had to fight the urge to touch it.
“You are not a fool,” he said softly, when she’d cried as much as she could. “You are a brave, courageous woman. I cannot imagine another who would have dared to do what you did, or who would have the command and force of personality to even achieve it.”
She smiled up at him, wet-eyed. “I suppose that’s true?”
“As true as anything is,” he assured her. He looked out of the window onto the sunset city. It was getting dark more swiftly now, the rooftops outlined in gold against a sky in reddish black. “You know, let’s go out onto the terrace. I could do with some air, and it’s not possible for me to go out unaccompanied.”
She grinned at him with some irony. “Now you know how we women feel.”
“True, true.” He laughed. It was something he had never actually considered before. He made a mental note to think about it more often.
She raised a brow at him, but turned the key in the lock and led the way out of the study.
“There’s a terrace next door,” she said. “On the anteroom. We can use that one. It’s safer than going downstairs.”
“Safer?”
“Papa is down there and he might have guests.”
“I see.” He nodded. Was she afraid of her father? Was this what this was all about?
He followed her into the hallway and then into a tiny room and then – joy – out onto the terrace. He went to the rail and leaned on it, drinking in great gulps of fresh air. After a moment, she came and leaned on the rails beside him.
“You love the outdoors. I can see that.” She paused, then went on. “I am so, so sorry for what I have done. Can you forgive me?”
He turned to look at her. He’d been acutely conscious of her being beside him for the last ten minutes, smelling her perfume and the scent of her skin. He could feel the warmth of her thigh, so close to his leg, that it was sweet agony to have it there. He could see, without looking, the soft rise of her breasts, in half-silhouette in the evening light.
He smiled. “I don’t think I have anything to forgive. Because of all this, I met you. Why would I regret any of that?”
She looked at the rail. “You flatter me.” Her eyes scalded him. “You don’t mean a word of it.”
“I do,” he insisted softly. “Oh, I do.”
She looked up into his eyes. In this light, her eyes were pale blue, with little flecks of green in them, like water in a stream, or priceless jade from the Orient.
She leaned forward and he bent down. He felt her breath on his chin, her warm, sweet lips so close to his he ached to kiss her.
“Should we watch the sunset?” he asked, swiftly turning away.
She said nothing, but stood beside him, leaning on the rail.
The sunset was something of a misnomer, he thought, for the sun had already set, sending streaks of fire like flares into the sky, over the distant buildings. He could see bell-towers and church-spires and walls and water-towers. He watched as the light settled, blazing and brilliant, on the river.
She leaned closer against the rail. Her elbow gently pressed against his arm. He drew in a breath, the same way he might draw in a breath in a clearing, when a beautiful creature stepped into view. He didn’t wish to disturb her, or frighten her away.
“I used to watch the sunset with my mother, when I was a girl,” she said softly. “It was my favorite part of the day. When she was here – and not at a party or recital, which wasn’t very often – we would sit together in the little boudoir right at the top of the house, and watch it go down. Sometimes my father joined us, but that wasn’t often. Usually, he was working. It was our special time, just the two of us. ‘Ladies time,’ my father called it.”
Luke nodded. She smiled sadly. He didn’t prompt her; he didn’t say anything, in fact. In his experience, it was often better to wait, to let a person talk at their own pace. At length, she carried on.
“I used to love it, even though I missed Father. Later, when she was gone, he kept it up. At least, at first. It was never the same.”
“If I may ask—When did your mother pass away?” he asked.
“I was ten, when it happened.”
“What happened?” It was all too common for women to die younger than men did – childbirth was a risky thing, everyone knew that – but he found it difficult to imagine how a woman her mother’s age must have died so suddenly.
“A sickness,” Emilia said. Her voice was soft, almost light. One would have to know her very well, he thought, to see the depth of sadness written on her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“When she died…” Emilia continued, as if he had not spoken, “Father changed. Went away from me. Locked himself in the study for hours at a time, refused to come out. Refused to eat. We worried for his survival, too, a while.”
“How horrible,” he murmured.
“Not as horrible as what’s happened to him since,” she said. Her voice was almost inaudible now.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Not as sorry as I would be, were anything to happen to him because of what I have done.”
She looked straight into his eye when she said it, and there was no softness there, only a mix of fear and determination.
He swallowed hard, understanding instantly.
“Milady,” he said, very gently. “I swear, here and now, on all that I hold sacred – there are some things, I do – that I will never tell anyone, any form of what has happened here.”
“Thank you.”
Her whole body slumped forward in relief. He looked at her with dismay. How could he have been so unkind? She was desperate. Even he could see it.
He waited while she gathered herself and then cleared his throat.
“Milady, if you ever need any help, please. Find me. Do you have my card?”
“I don’t think I have that honor, no.” She raised a brow at him, wittily. He laughed.
“Here it is,” he said, reaching into his back trouser pocket where, as luck would have it, he had a wallet with some coin and his calling-card. He passed her one.
She studied it, raising her brow at the gold embossing, and the rather florid embellishments his father had insisted on having put on his own, which Luke had never bothered to change.
“You see?” he said lightly. “Now you can come and find me. How could I dare do anything but keep my word?”
“That isn’t funny,” she said, leaning on the rail. “I trust I won’t have to threaten you, to make yo
u behave like a gentleman?”
“I’m sorry. No, it wasn’t. And I promise. I don’t lie about things like that. Not things that matter.”
“Nor do I,” she murmured. “So,” she added, turning to face him, leaning back on the rail. “Tomorrow, by nine of the clock, you will be a free man. You have my word.”
“Thank you, milady. I am glad we are in agreement.”
“We are.”
“Should we shake on it?” he asked. He held out his hand, as he would to his solicitor, or at some other sort of meeting. She took it, and it felt to him like the whole world spun, jolting on its axis. He gripped her small, soft palm in his.