Born of Persuasion (23 page)

At first, like a pebble thrown into a pond and spiralling downwards but not hitting the bottom, his words made no sense. Then, as meaning penetrated, the tumbler slipped from my fingers and splashed its remaining contents over the couch and floor.

“Forgive me.” Mr. Macy slid to the floor and crouched near me, removing his silk handkerchief. “Perhaps I should not
have been so blunt. It is my habit to be direct, and I forget not everyone shares my tastes.”

My fingers trembled as I clutched his sleeve. “Y-you . . . how could you know such a thing?”

“I know a great many things about your guardian,” he replied with distaste, sweeping a pool of brandy from the couch to the rug.

Why tears rose at this juncture I cannot say, but my vision blurred. “But why would he wish me harm? I’ve done nothing to him! I don’t even know who he is.”

“You don’t know—?” Mr. Macy dropped the sopping linen and turned to me, his face incredulous. “What? How can you not know his identity?”

My throat was too tight to speak as I struggled against the urge to cry.

“Forgive me. I’ve frightened you.” He enfolded my trembling hands between his. “Had I known you were ignorant of this fact, I would have broken it to you differently. Forgive me. I assumed that since you knew about your guardian, you knew your peril. Didn’t your mother tell you there was a dangerous man associated with your family?”

I wanted to defame the notion, yet before I could, I realized Mama had told me by the way her face paled with each letter, the way her breathing halted each time hooves approached.

“Here.” Mr. Macy reached behind himself and brought forth the decanter. He poured me more brandy. “Take a sip; it will steady you. It’s all right. You’re perfectly safe, I can assure you. He hasn’t even an idea of your current whereabouts.”

I obeyed, glad for the burn in my throat. It took several gulps before I shook my head, disagreeing. “I told him. I wrote and told him I was coming here.”

“Please, Miss Elliston. Be calm.” Mr. Macy gave my hands a squeeze before retreating to the other couch. “You have nothing to fear.” He took up the brown folder and pulled out one of the
papers. “Here, see for yourself, though you may think me without scruples.”

He held in his hand a folded sheet that was the same grain and texture as Am Meer’s stationery. Familiar ink splatters, from where I’d carelessly moved the pen, confirmed its origins.

“That’s my post,” I exclaimed, holding out my hand. “But how?”

Mr. Macy handed it to me and sat back, crossing one leg over the other. “More than one of your guardian’s servants is loyal to me. I’ve been intercepting all correspondence involving you since your mother’s death.”

As I stared at the missive, I felt as a sailor must the first time aboard ship, trying to find balance in a new world. To interfere with someone’s private business was unheard of. I did not have to lift my eyes to know Mr. Macy was carefully evaluating my response.

Rather than address him, I shook open the missive and reread its contents:

Dear Sir or Madam,

I obediently remain in the care of Mrs. Windham while she travels to Bedfordshire to visit a Mr. Chance Macy in his home, Eastbourne. The good lady departs on the morrow, leaving me no time to wait for your permission. I trust it is your desire I remain with my appointed chaperone. Should you disapprove, I shall immediately return home.

Your humble servant,

Julia Elliston

“I don’t understand,” I said, refolding the note. “Why are you—were you—intercepting his mail? How is it that you are involved?”

His voice smiled for him. “Perhaps now is not the best time for that discussion.”

I found my courage and met his eyes. “I demand to know.”

“You demand?” One dark brow rose, as if to suggest I should not insist on more than I could handle. His voice smoldered. “You’ve already had one blow tonight. Are you certain you’re ready to handle more?”

Completely uncertain, I nodded.

He picked up the brown folder and with a flick of his wrist, he presented Mama’s stationery. “Be forewarned, the contents may shock you. Apparently there are a great many things your mother neglected to mention.”

I eyed the black mourning band, which edged the paper with dread. The note had been penned after my father’s death. My head cleared despite the heat of the fire and the effect of the brandy.

Ignoring the puzzled look that crossed Mr. Macy’s face, I snatched up the page. My fingers trembled so much, I could scarcely open it. When I managed, I sought out the date. Thankfully she’d added it: January.

I crushed the letter against my chest, nearly crying with relief. It was months after the initial missive that set her strange behavior into motion.

Mr. Macy looked so perplexed, I explained. “Mama was corresponding with someone whom she feared. When I saw her letter, for a moment, I thought it was you.”

His mouth slanted downwards. “Are you this rash in all your judgments? You only gave the post a fleeting glance. There couldn’t have been time to read the contents. How can you be certain? You’ve not even seen my stationery to compare with the post she received.”

I ignored him, returning my attention to what Mama had written. I’d observed her each time she received mail. The letters that frightened her, she would always read quickly, then fly to her writing desk and scribble a reply. One of those posts would have been ink-smeared or evidenced tearstains. This
letter was nothing like that. Each word, each perfect letter, seemed labored over.

My dear Mr. Macy,

My amazement to receive a correspondence from you could not have been more complete. The contents of your letter were even more astonishing. Indeed, I do remember you, though I was under the assumption you had no contact with society. You must sympathize with my great shock when you wrote of your partiality for my only daughter. I offer no objections to the match if she feels inclined toward it. Only grant me this: she is young and I have recently lost my husband. Give me time to prepare her. I plan to visit friends in Gloucestershire soon. When I return, introductions will be made on your behalf.

Mrs. L. Elliston

“But it makes no sense,” I finally whispered, too embarrassed to address the fact that Mr. Macy at some point had asked for my hand. “She swore I’d never marry.”

“Perhaps she had good reason for wishing you safely wed.” Mr. Macy lifted the letter from my fingers and refolded it. “She was in the same danger you now face, which leads me to the primary reason I wished to meet tonight. I need to make further inquiries into her death. I’ve spent months trying to learn the cause. Her apothecary claims she died of a broken heart, pining after your father.” His laugh was bitter. “Anyone acquainted with your father knows the absurdity of that statement.”

I lowered my gaze. Memory of finding her corpse was still too raw for discussion. It was the fuel on which my nightmares burned. I shook my head.

Mr. Macy’s tone lowered. “Please. If I’m to properly safeguard you, I must know.”

Though I shut my eyes, memory enshrouded me like a slow,
creeping fog, and I knew if I couldn’t force back the thoughts, things would spin far beyond my control.

He gently lifted my chin. “It’s evident you’re keeping back something.”

A tear formed and trickled down my cheek as memory trumped reticence. Once more I saw myself gasping awake, saw the moonlight streaming through the windows as I silently raced toward Mama’s room.

“Tell me,” Mr. Macy persisted.

It was as though a weight crushed my chest, making it difficult to breathe. Then all at once my body took a ragged breath of its own accord. Tears streamed down my face as I confessed the very thing I’d so solemnly sworn to the apothecary never to reveal. “She killed herself.”

“That, I can assure you, is not possible.”

“I found her body.” My nose ran as more tears spilled. “I know she did.”

“Sweetheart.” He slid from his couch and knelt at my feet. “Take my word on this: your guardian wanted her death too badly for her to have obliged him that easily. Tell me how you found her.”

“I woke in the middle of the night—”

“What woke you?”

“I don’t know.” I pressed the back of my hand against my nose, ashamed of my appearance. “I just remember being alarmed and needing to see her.”

“Was it a noise, perhaps?”

“I don’t know. I don’t. I just awoke. When I reached her room—” My throat constricted as I envisioned my hand on her door, pushing it open. “The chamber was so . . . so . . . cold, and her body—” my words came out serrated—“her body, her face, was all twisted, grotesque.”

“Wait. Shh. Take a deep breath. Good. Why was her chamber cold? Was there no fire?”

“No, it was colder than that.” I blinked up at him in surprise, visualizing her curtains billowing like graceful dancers over her body. “I think . . . the windows were open.”

“Did you look outside?” He leaned forward, sounding hopeful.

“No.” The realization made me nauseous. “But why were her windows open? She believed night air—”

“What happened after you entered the chamber?”

I pictured the milky liquid spreading over the floor. I had slipped and landed on Mama’s corpse. I had screamed and screamed, seemingly unable to escape her. For in my panic, my own hands and feet kept sliding over the medicine.

What I was reliving must have been evident on my face, for in the next moment, I found myself wrapped in Mr. Macy’s arms. “Shh. Wait until you’ve caught your breath,” he whispered, his warmth bleeding into my hair.

I nodded, crying, burying my face against his warm chest. He rocked me, allowing me time to compose myself. When the clock chimed three, however, he placed distance between us.

He stroked my hair. “I am truly sorry to put you through this, but I need to know. What happened next?”

“I slipped on her medicine.”

“Medicine?”

“The laudanum she used to kill herself.”

“What?” He drew back. “How can that be?”

“The doctor dropped off a bottle the day before. She complained of headaches.”

“How big was it?”

I showed him the approximate size with my fingers.

“Julia, sweetheart, are you aware how much laudanum one must consume to kill oneself?”

I did not answer him but just wiped away tears.

He pointed at a filled decanter. “She would have to consume a portion at least equal to a third of my Scotch. How much had
spilled on the floor?” I eyed the whiskey as he lowered his voice. “Do you know how long it would have taken her to die from a laudanum overdose?”

Unconscious thoughts that had only crept about in my dreams began to seep outward. “No.”

“She would have grown sleepy and died peacefully in her bed. Not dropped to the floor with contorted . . . Who is this so-called doctor? Surely he must have known.”

“Sarah mopped up the elixir before he arrived. I-I know Mama was placed in her bed . . . I . . .” The thought Mr. Macy was suggesting finally formed. “Someone murdered Mama.”

It was too terrible to consider. Yet I knew it. I recalled the snatches of the months leading up to Mama’s death—they all proclaimed this truth. Had I known? I allowed my hands to fall empty to my lap. Yes, I decided, on some unconscious level, I had always known. How else could I explain my constant nightmare?

Horrified, I looked to Mr. Macy.

“I should have acted sooner,” he soothed, lifting strands of hair from my face. “Offered her sanctuary here, perhaps. At least I have you under my protection now. I shall not fail again.”

I felt too emotionally spent to even inquire what he meant.

His lips pursed as concern etched his brow. “Perhaps I’ve allowed you to ingest more brandy and knowledge than you were ready to handle. If I take you back to your chambers, do you think you could sleep? It would be your best remedy. We can continue our discussion later.”

I struggled to my feet, dully nodding, ready to be alone.

He steadied me as I tottered too far to one side. “I know you’re overwhelmed, but pay mind. I’ll not be here tomorrow. There are matters requiring my attention. There is a man in my house, one not to be trusted. You met him at dinner. Robert Forrester. Avoid him. Do you understand?”

I nodded, rubbing my eyes.

“Aside from those in Adelia’s village, few people know your whereabouts. We must hope your guardian also remains ignorant. Which is why we cannot risk causing a sensation by letting it be known I’ve finally become enamored, or your location would be learned far sooner. I propose we act normally and slowly introduce an attachment between us.” His voice took on a teasing tone. “At least I pray you have no objections to my request to court you. After all, I can’t exactly ask your guardian.”

I nodded, scarcely hearing him. I spied my empty glass and realized I’d consumed more spirits than I originally thought.

“You can depend upon Reynolds with your life, as well as John.”

I rubbed my eyes, trying to focus, but all my sluggish thoughts streamed in one direction—someone had murdered Mama, someone intent on harming me.

“You are very quiet. What are you thinking?”

I clutched his arm to keep my balance and found him watching me with concern. My condition led me to answer more truthfully than I would have liked. “Your conversation flows too rapidly from one extreme to the other. I can hardly keep pace.”

He chuckled and cupped my elbow. “I think, my dear, when you’ve sobered, you’ll see I was not the river of emotion, but the solid ground that kept you channelled.”

I clung to his arm, too exhausted to make out whether or not his statement pleased me. Thankfully the study was in the same ancient section of the house where I’d been placed. Within a few turns, I recognized the hall that contained my bedchamber. Reynolds stood outside my door.