Mask of Nobility

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  He licked his lips. “Yes.”

  “Did you have rheumatic fever when you were a child, Rhys? Do you remember being ill?” She held her breath, waiting for the answer. The heavy book she had put aside had told her why Mortenson was eager to know. Rheumatic fever weakened a person’s heart, to the point where bad shocks like Rhys had suffered could kill them. It explained to Anna why Sharla’s mother-in-law had dropped dead, last year, when presented with the facts of her son’s marriage.

  Rhys frowned. “No…” he breathed. “Never ill.” His voice wavered.

  Anna’s relief was so great, she sank onto the bed next to him, her knees buckling. “You are quite sure?” she whispered.

  “Yes. Mother proud of me. Robust, she said.” Rhys lifted his hand, moving it as if it weighed heavily. He pressed his fingers to her cheek. “Don’t.”

  She realized she was crying after all.

  The bedroom door opened and Mortenson sailed in, his big bag in his hand. “What’s this? What’s this?” he demanded. “You shouldn’t be here, your Highness. You’ll put too much stress on his heart and upset him. Out you go! Out! Out!”

  Anna rose to her feet. “I was just…”

  Mortenson dropped his bag, his expression grave. “Do you not understand, your Highness, how emotional upsets can impede your husband’s recovery?”

  “I wasn’t upsetting him!”

  Mortenson squeezed her shoulder, his expression kinder. “You’re distraught yourself, your Highness. A man of any empathy, and that includes your husband, will naturally feel a corresponding worry. For now, your duty must be to withhold from him all worry, all concerns, any hint of responsibilities and duties. Hysterical relatives, children, even concerned friends…their greatest kindness would be to leave him alone. Do you understand?”

  Anna wiped her cheeks with her knuckles. “I’ve sent for our sons and daughters…” Although, with Sadie in America, it might be weeks before she saw them once more. Even Bronwen was in Yorkshire, at least two days away.

  “You must be firm with them, when they come,” Mortenson said. “Rhys must not be excited in any way. Not for a good long while yet. Now…out you go, your Highness. I would tend my patient, if you please.”

  Anna moved out of the room, her mind turning, working hard, for the first time since Rhys had fallen.

  * * * * *

  Tor stayed by the window, out of the way of the family, as they tripped over each other and argued.

  Baumgärtner sat in the big wing chair that was usually Jasper’s seat, his cane between his knees and his hands resting on the silver knob. He did not move. Instead, his eyes followed the members of the family about the room. Often, they settled on Tor himself.

  Tor knew the man was assessing his appearance and surmising a great deal from it. He did not care. Not now.

  Bronwen was part of the little scene in front of the fireplace. She clung to the high mantelshelf, holding herself up, as she argued with Lilly and Jasper and the oldest child, Seth, clung to Lilly’s skirt, his eyes big.

  “The next train to London isn’t until tomorrow,” Bronwen pointed out. “I could rent a hack to get to York and catch the night train.”

  “A carriage to York would cost a small fortune!” Lilly replied, aghast at such waste.

  “I don’t care!” Bronwen shot back. “I want to see my father!”

  Jasper held up his hand, in a calming motion. “Not even if you left this instant, would you make York in time for the night train. That leaves tomorrow’s train as the soonest, which you can catch if you leave here tomorrow at dawn.”

  The despair in Bronwen’s eyes made Tor want to pull her into his arms and hold her, yet he could not.

  He curled his fist and squeezed it, instead. He willed himself to look away from her.

  The window he stood at looked upon the back yard. He watched as the same hack as this morning rolled into the yard and the same young boy jumped from the driver’s bench and dug in his pouch.

  “I believe there is another telegraph arriving,” he said.

  He didn’t speak loudly, although he might as well have shouted, for the effect was the same. Everyone gasped and looked at him, with varying degrees of horror building in their faces.

  Even Baumgärtner swiveled on his chair to glance around the high sides at him.

  Jasper strode to the window and looked down just as the boy stepped into the service entrance of the house. “He’s right,” he said.

  Lilly picked up Bronwen’s hand and squeezed it.

  Bronwen was a statue, motionless and white.

  Jasper gave a soft curse, under his breath. “I can’t wait for Warrick to get here,” he muttered and strode to the door and opened it.

  They listened as Jasper stepped across the slate in the front hall. Then nothing, for a long moment, while the room was still. No one spoke.

  Jasper’s boots grinding on the slate once more heralded his return. He stepped into the room, holding the wire. He held it out to Bronwen.

  Her hand shook as she read it aloud.

  “Rhys out of danger. Doctor says do not come. Stay in Yorkshire. Letter to follow. A.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Lilly breathed. “He’ll live!”

  Bronwen dropped onto the ottoman and put her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook.

  Tor realized he had taken a step toward her when Baumgärtner looked at him sharply, his eyes narrowed. He made himself stay still, again. It took more discipline than he thought to stand and watch Bronwen’s distress.

  Jasper, though, was free to move. He lifted Bronwen to her feet and held her, patting her back and soothing her. “When the doctor says you can, I’ll drive you to London myself to see him,” he promised her.

  “We both will,” Lilly said, putting her arms around Bronwen too.

  Even little Seth picked up her hem and held it.

  Tor could not stand by a moment longer. He seethed with an aching need to do something.

  He stalked from the room and from Baumgärtner’s inspection…and away from Bronwen.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sun was setting on the long, exhausting day, when Bronwen next saw Tor. She had not noticed him leave the drawing room after the arrival of the second telegram. The little silver-haired man that Jasper had introduced to her as Baumgärtner had also disappeared when she next looked around her with any interest.

  Warrick had served a late afternoon tea in the drawing room for no one showed any interest in moving into the dining room. They took their tea and scones on their laps and speculated about what might have happened to Rhys, for the promised letters would take days to reach Bronwen.

  It was a useless, exhausting exercise, for nothing would be known for sure until the letters arrived. Bronwen curled up on the corner of the big sofa, her knees to her chest and her arms about her knees. She felt chilled. She clung to the hope imparted by the second telegram. Her father was out of danger.

  When Baumgärtner returned to the drawing room, the polite little smile was missing. He nodded at Jasper. “Can word be sent to the hotel in town? The carriage should come at once.”

  “Now?” Jasper asked, startled.

  “His Highness prefers to not linger while the family are dealing with personal upsets, as you are.”

  “I’ll have Warrick see to it,” Jasper murmured, moving over to the bellpull and tugging on it.

  Bronwen put her feet on the floor, as a tight band of pressure built in her chest. Tor was leaving. Tonight.

  He could not leave! There was so much they had yet to say. To do.

  Baumgärtner, though, settled on the front edge of the wing chair once more and put his hands on top of the cane, waiting. The posture, the readiness, told her that Tor really was leaving.

  It took another hour for Tor to appear. He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

  Bronwen sat up, her heart pattering hard, for Tor was a stranger to her.

  He wore the suit she had first seen
him in, now cleaned and pressed. The elegant lines of the black suit were a far cry from the rough woolen tweed he had been wearing only yesterday. His hair was brushed back neatly, his collar and cuffs white and stiff and finished with gold pins. His silk cravat, with the dull green fleck in it that matched his waistcoat, glowed in the mild red sunset light coming through the windows. His chin was shaved clean, removing the blond stubble he had delighted in rubbing against her flesh to make her writhe. His shoes gleamed.

  Jasper got to his feet, putting aside the general medical text Bronwen had recommended to him. Lilly rose, too. Baumgärtner stayed where he was.

  Tor looked at each of them in turn, except for Bronwen.

  Her heart picked up speed.

  “With your permission, Jasper, I would have a last word with Miss Bronwen,” Tor said.

  Jasper nodded. “Why don’t you use the library?”

  Finally, Tor looked at her. “Bronwen?”

  She nodded.

  Tor turned and left.

  Bronwen hurried after him, her stomach cramping and her heart slamming against her chest. She thought she would have to chase him all the way to the library, yet he stood just beyond the door to the drawing room, waiting for her.

  Then she understood. The distance, the coolness, had been for Baumgärtner’s sake.

  She reached for his hand.

  Tor pulled it out of her reach and shook his head.

  Fear bloomed, large and dark. Bronwen swallowed.

  “The library at least has a door we can close,” Tor said. He moved across the hall, then turned and waited for her to walk by his side.

  Bronwen followed him through the wide corridor to the big library door and stepped inside. Warrick always kept the fire burning until the late evening, in case she chose to use the library at night. It was crackling and popping now, for someone had just laid fresh logs on the embers.

  It was the only sound in the room, except for the closing of the door.

  Bronwen couldn’t make herself move beyond the door. Her legs would not cooperate.

  Tor, though, moved over to the leather tucked armchair and perched on the arm, as he had done on his first day at Northallerton.

  The return of that stiff, upright man explained to Bronwen more thoroughly than any book could that Tor—the Tor she knew—had in all ways but physical left her already.

  Only, her heart would not let her accept that.

  “Bronwen…”

  “Is there nothing for us?” she asked. “No hope at all?”

  “I must return to my duties. Silkeborg needs me.”

  “I need you.”

  Tor swallowed. Where his hands gripped his arms, his knuckles showed white. Only, his expression was distant. Regal. “There is no hope for us,” he said, his voice soft. “There never was. You must have known. You did know. You know everything.”

  I know I love you. The words hovered on her lips. Pride made her force them back.

  There was one last chance for her. She had wrestled with it for the last hour, while waiting for Tor to return to the drawing room. “Jasper’s mother and your father—”

  “No.” He snapped the word.

  Bronwen recoiled, astonished at the anger in his voice.

  Tor got to his feet. “I know what is in your mind. I will not have that life—that ignoble, ignored life—I would not wish that upon you, not even if it gives me what I want.”

  Her eyes pricked, heralding tears. She hated crying and she would die if her tears fell where Tor could see them. Bronwen blinked hard. “Then you do not care enough to keep me even as your mistress?”

  Tor swore, making her step back another inch or two. He could only have learned that word from the local farmers. She had never heard him curse before.

  He came toward her, moving slowly, as if he fought for every step. “What I feel, however I might care, has nothing to do with this,” he said, his voice low. “It cannot influence my decision. Do you understand? There are greater forces at work here, that drive me back to Denmark. Tell me you understand that.”

  “Of course I do.” Bronwen hesitated. “Do you care, then? Even a little?”

  His chest rose and fell. “Don’t ask me that.”

  “Then you will give me nothing to keep from this,” she said bitterly.

  “God help me,” Tor breathed. “You don’t understand. You, who knows everything and sees all…now you do not understand.”

  Bronwen shook her head. “No, I don’t!” she cried. “Tell me the truth, Tor! Tell me this was something more than a…a distraction!”

  “No!” He clenched his fists, breathing hard. “To say anything at all…don’t you see? It would not be a kindness.”

  Bronwen let out a shuddering breath. “Your father loved Jasper’s mother. He told her so, over and over again, until she died.”

  “And that is all of him she had,” Tor shot back. “Empty words.” He shook his head. “Look at us, Bronwen. Really look, I mean. See the distance that is already between us.”

  She didn’t have to look to know what he meant. She had sensed the difference as soon as he had walked back into the drawing room in his fine suit and elegant appointments.

  Bronwen wore one of her oldest muslin dresses, with stains about the hem from walking across muddy fields. The cloth was thin from too many washings and the green sprigs faded.

  It wasn’t just clothes that separated them, though. They were from two different worlds.

  “If I speak, if I say anything, then I would condemn you to the same empty life that Jasper’s mother lived,” Tor said. “I would not wish that upon you, Bronwen. I will not be the one to cut short your wonderful freedom and restrict you to a hollow, loveless existence, waiting in hope for a return that will never happen. So I will end this now. Here. You must live your life as fully as you planned.”

  “What if I don’t want that life anymore?” she whispered. Her heart was breaking. She could dispute nothing he said.

  “Find another man who will give you his love,” Tor ground out. “Mine will only destroy you.”

  He walked to the door, moving stiffly.

  Bronwen could not leave it there. She caught at his fist. “Tor…”

  He caught her head in his hands and kissed her.

  Bronwen clung to him, soaking up every last sensation of the deep, wonderful kiss, for she knew it was the last.

  Then, Tor plucked her hands from his jacket and put them by her sides. For a moment, his blue eyes looked into hers.

  Then he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

  Bronwen stood where she was for a long time after he left, her lips still tingling with the touch of his. She didn’t think. She stood, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

  When carriage wheels and horse shoes crunched on the gravel outside, Bronwen stirred.

  She ascended the iron stairs to the second floor, where the high windows were. She pushed the rolling ladder over to the closest window and climbed it. The library cases that stood beneath the window provided a two-foot wide ledge she climbed onto and kneeled to peer at the front of the house.

  There were three carriages standing there. Two of them were broughams, with a pair each. The carriage between them was a grand coach with a coat of arms on the black varnished door and four horses to pull it.

  Warrick’s footmen stood at attention in front of the house, while liveried footmen climbed from the carriages. They even wore wigs.

  One of the liveried footmen helped a woman climb from the big coach. The woman was slender and blonde and wrapped in a blue velvet traveling cloak with white fur trimming. At the front opening of the cloak, silver silk peeped. She wore the same elongated hoops that Sharla was wearing and insisting were the latest in French fashion. The hem of the dress was embroidered with dark gray flourishes and curlicues. There was not a spot of mud or dirt anywhere on her.

  The woman stepped on to the gravel and put the hood back up over her glowing blonde hair. She push
ed her hands into a fur muff and turned her head to examine Northallerton with a critical eye.

  There was a sound of voices from the big front door and light spilled onto the gravel. Warrick came out, carrying the big lamp.

  Then Jasper and Tor emerged onto the gravel in front of the coach.

  The woman pulled her hands from the muff and hurried forward, lifting them toward Tor. Bronwen heard her speak, although the words made no sense. Danish, she reminded herself.

  The woman hurried to Tor and reached up and kissed his cheeks, both of them, still talking, her voice soft as honey.

  Bronwen gripped the iron clasp of the window until it bit into her palm.

  Tor had spoken of the parade of suitable women being presented to him. This was another, except her familiarity with him said she was related. Another cousin, for Tor had no sisters or brothers, except for Jasper.

  The footmen snapped to attention at Tor’s appearance. The one who had helped the lady to the ground stood back with the coach door held open.

  Tor stopped at the door and turned to speak to Jasper. Quiet words that Bronwen could not hear.

  Jasper nodded. Then he stepped back and bowed.

  Of course. Tor was the Archeduke Edvard Christoffer.

  Tor shook his head with an impatient movement. He closed the distance between them and hugged Jasper, in front of everyone.

  Bronwen pressed her fingers to the cold glass, her heart hurting.

  Jasper clapped Tor on the shoulder, then Tor climbed into the coach.

  The woman was helped up into it behind him, then Baumgärtner stepped up with difficulty, his cane working.

  The door was dogged shut and with a cry of command, the three carriages rolled into motion. They turned in a big circle and headed for the road to the village.

  Did he watch the house to glimpse her? Bronwen didn’t know, for she couldn’t see. Her tears blinded her.

  * * * * *

  Lilly waited by the fire until Jasper returned from outside. She held her hand out to him. “Poor Bronwen!” she breathed, as he took it. His hand was cold, telling her the chill of winter was here. She pulled Jasper closer to the fire.