Dear Impostor (49 page)

          The mystery was resolved in a moment. When
Gabriel set the plump woman with the graying fair hair back on her feet, he
turned to Psyche. “This is Mrs. Parslip, who was my nurse, and later became
under-housekeeper. Mrs. P, this is Miss Hill, my–um–fiancée.”

          “How do, Miss. My felicitations to you both. But
I’m housekeeper, now,” Mrs. Parslip corrected him.

          “I can’t believe you stayed,” Gabriel said. “With
my father such a difficult master to please–”

          ”Oh, he discharges me about once a week,” the
woman said, shrugging. “But I take no notice of his ranting. My family is all
dead, you see, and I’ve nowhere else I really want to go. Besides, I’m the only
one who knows how to make plum pudding just the way he likes it. So I stay.”

          “He’s lucky to have you, I’m sure.” Psyche
held out her hand.

          The housekeeper made a dignified curtsy, then
touched Psyche’s fingers, her own smile wide. “Such a lovely girl, my dear,
even if I say it, who shouldn’t.”

          Gabriel grinned. Psyche was so pleased to see
him reunited with someone who cared for him that she could have hugged the
little woman, too.

          “Thank you. You must tell me all about Gabriel
as a boy,” she suggested.

          Gabriel made a face. “Not the story about the
chimney sweep,” he urged. “And not the one in which I overturn a whole bowlful
of jelly on the kitchen floor.”

          “But that’s the best one.” Mrs. P. chuckled. Her
wide hazel eyes swept over his face, and she patted his arm. “I see you’ve had
your share of difficult times.”

          “Is it so obvious?” Gabriel asked, raising his
brows. But the subtle withdrawal did not deter the servant who had known him since
childhood.

          “Ah, it’s written on your face, my dear. Your
eyes never used to be so guarded. But I can see that beneath the handsome face
still beats a kind heart. A fine man you’ve grown into, Master Gabriel. I
always knew you would. I just wish your mother could have lived to see you
return.”

          Gabriel’s smile faded. “Yes.” Abruptly, he
changed the subject. “Perhaps you can help us, Mrs. P. We had to leave London suddenly, just as we were in the midst of a costume ball.”

          “So that’s the reason you look like some
deceitful Romany,” Mrs. Parslip said, her tone composed. “Still up to mischief,
are you, Master Gabriel?”

          “Um, not exactly. But we could certainly use a
change of clothes. If there are any of my old clothes left, I would make do
with them, and for Miss Hill, perhaps a gown of my mother’s?”

          The housekeeper looked Psyche up and down. “Umm,
yes. I had the garb safely put away with herbs to ward off the moths. It would
have to be let out a bit there, and taken in a bit here, but I think I can
manage. I’ll see what I can find, and a pair of razors for you, too; such a
grubby lad he looks, and he never was one for soiled linen,” she confided to
Psyche. “You come along to your chambers now; if you’re late to dinner, you
know your father will shout.”

          She sounded exactly as if she were speaking to
a schoolboy, as if Gabriel were still in short pants and just out of the
nursery, going down for his first grown-up dinner. Psyche smiled; she was
thrilled at the thought of a suitable gown and the opportunity to dress
properly for the evening meal. It would be bad enough, having to sit at the
table with that brute of a man who had–probably–sired Gabriel. They seemed
opposites in every respect. Were the man’s suspicions correct? Affairs among
the Ton were common enough, and she knew nothing of Gabriel’s mother. Or was
the elder Sinclair a victim of his own dour imaginings?

          They followed the housekeeper obediently up
the main stairs and into a quiet wing of unoccupied rooms; two bedchambers had
been opened, hastily by the look of it, and a maid was still fluffing pillows
in the room which Psyche entered. She hesitated in the doorway, and, without
meaning to eavesdrop, heard the housekeeper speak quietly to Gabriel.

          “She tried to change his mind, you know,
Master Gabriel. She begged him to let you stay.”

          “My mother? But she never appeared. When he
told me to leave the house, I waited for her to come, but she never left her
room.”

          In Psyche’s chamber, the maid turned and
blushed in confusion. “I–it’s all ready, Miss, and there’s warm water in the
jug and towels on the chest. Can I help you with anything?”

          “No, thank you,” Psyche said. The maid
curtsied and departed, and Psyche shut the door, though she longed to hear the
rest of the conversation in the next room. 

          Gabriel saw Psyche disappear into the bedroom,
but he hardly noticed; he was stunned by the revelation. All this time, he had
thought–

          The housekeeper continued to speak, and she
watched him anxiously.

          “He shouted her down; they had a terrible
quarrel–I never heard her scream at him so, not before, nor after. But he won
out, of course. He was always stronger. Before you ever got in that day, he
took her by the shoulders and marched up to her bedroom, bellowed at her to
compose herself; she was pale with weeping, poor lady. And then in the hall, he
told her maid to give her a double dose of laudanum; your mother didn’t realize
what she was drinking.” The housekeeper’s voice was sad.

          “She was drugged?” Gabriel knew that his voice
was hoarse; he could barely speak.

          “Your poor mother didn’t wake for two days; I
feared she would die. And by then, of course, you were gone. But she never lost
faith in you, Master Gabriel. I promise you that. She spoke of you–to
me–often.”

          “Thank you, Mrs. P,” Gabriel said, his voice
husky. “And thank you for staying, so that she had one friend by her.”

          The housekeeper sighed. “I’ll go now and see
about the clothing. But you should know that your mother cared, Master Gabriel.
You deserve that much.” She curtsied and left the room; the door was still
ajar, and he heard the sound of footsteps retreating.

          Gabriel stood very still; he couldn’t seem to
make his limbs move, and the room was a blur around him. He heard a quiet knock
on his door, and then a familiar voice said, “Gabriel, the poor little maid is
so flustered, she forgot to leave any soap. Is there any here that I
can–Gabriel, what’s wrong?”

          This time, it didn’t even occur to him to hide
the fact that his eyes had flooded with tears. He turned to Psyche blindly and
muttered, “My mother–my mother did try. She did care, after all.”

          He felt himself sway; it was only this silly
weakness in his legs; he would be himself again, soon. But Psyche did not
laugh, offered no ridicule for his frailty.

          “Oh, my love, of course she did,” she said
gently. She pushed a small chair closer and he sank into it. Then she stood by
him and held him against her, his face pressed to her body, and Gabriel wept.

          For a long time they remained thus, with
Gabriel sobbing quietly, his face against her stomach. She stroked his dark
hair gently and offered no intrusive words. Let the poison out, she thought,
release the sadness and the pain–perhaps even the anger–at his mother’s
apparent rejection; let it go. Otherwise, Gabriel might someday end up like the
shadow of a man who lurked in the study, consumed by his own acrimony.

          At last he fell silent, and after another long
minute, drew a shuddering breath. “She was the only one who cared, you see,
after my grandfather’s death, except for Mrs. P., of course. To think that
Mother too was so disgusted with me that she would not even say good-bye–it was
a very great hurt.”

          “I understand,” Psyche said, her voice quiet.

          He straightened; his face was still red, and
his eyes swollen. “I have kept you too long, you will want to wash up, and I
must do the same.” He sounded suddenly formal.

         
Oh, Gabriel
, she thought.
Don’t shut
me out again
.

          But then he smiled at her and said more
softly. “Thank you, Psyche love, my dear Miss Hill.”

          And she felt warmed inside. She touched his
arm lightly and smiled, then returned to her own chamber. She had forgotten the
missing soap. But the little maid was back, still blushing and anxious, with
some rose-scented soap for her.

          “I’m sorry, Miss, I’m that flustered–”

          ”It’s fine,” Psyche assured her. “Thank you.” When
the servant departed after one more nervous curtsy, Psyche poured the now tepid
water into the bowl and pulled off her grass-stained linen costume. It was a
relief to wash off some of the grit of the journey and to make herself feel
more presentable. She took down her hair and shook it out. Finding an
ivory-backed comb and brush on the table, she brushed her hair and tugged at
the tangles, removing a stray bit of twig that had clung to the tresses.

          She was feeling much better already when a
soft knock at the door made her snatch up a towel and drape it around her
before she pulled open the door.

          It was only the plump little housekeeper, her
hands full of garments and– thanks be—hairpins! “I have brought my sewing
basket, Miss, and we’ll just take a look at this gown and shift.”

          Psyche donned the clean shift, stockings and
then the gown. It was a very sober dark blue silk gown, the neckline filled in
with a lace fichu, such as older ladies sometimes wore.

          “Ah, you have no need of that.” Mrs. P.
removed the bit of lace. The housekeeper touched the soft fabric, muttering to
herself and taking measurements with a piece of tape. Then Psyche removed the
gown, and Mrs. P took her needle and thread and took in the waist, which was
too wide, and made a few more quick alterations. The little servant’s fingers
flew as her needle darted in and out; she was amazingly swift. Such was her
speed that Psyche was soon back in the gown, with her hair twisted into a neat
chignon. She gazed at her reflection in the looking glass above the vanity. The
gown was not unbecoming, dark against her pale skin. She heard a loud gong on
the lower level.

          “Ah, dinner,” Mrs. P said, sighing with relief
that all was ready. “And you look lovely, Miss, if I do say so.”

          Psyche smoothed one straying strand of hair
and then smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Parslip. You have been an
enormous help.”

          The servant returned her smile. Moved by
impulse, Psyche bent to kiss the woman’s cheek. “And thank you for your loyalty
to Gabriel,” she almost whispered. “It is balm to his troubled soul, you know.”

          The housekeeper’s eyes glistened, and she
blinked hard. “I stayed because of that, because he might someday come back,”
she confessed, very low. “Poor boy. I’m glad he has a good lady, a strong lady
this time, to love him. I will be happy to see him settled with a family of his
own.”

          It was Psyche’s turn to blink. If only she
could be sure . . . But the housekeeper’s tone was approving. Psyche smiled
again and cast aside her doubts.

          “Now, mustn’t be late to dinner,” the servant
warned.

          Psyche turned obediently toward the door. She
still wore her gold-colored sandals, but otherwise, she felt much more prepared
to venture into mixed company.

          Gabriel waited for her in the hallway. He wore
a dark evening coat, white waistcoat and tan pantaloons, and sported a neatly
tied white neckcloth. He was clean shaven and looked much more his usual
immaculate self. If there was a suspicious puffiness about his eyes, one would
have had to look very closely to detect it. And there was something else,
something almost intangible, yet evident in his eyes and bearing. His
effortless charm had returned, but it seemed milder and lacked some of his
usual cynical edge. Dare she believe that the new softer light in his lapis
eyes might signal the beginning of healing?

          “Very nice,” she murmured.

          He grimaced. “If I lift my arms too much, I
think my coat will rip,” he warned her. “It seems I have widened a bit since my
university days.”

          She laughed. He had more muscle, no doubt, but
having seen him naked, she would attest to the fact that his torso boasted not
an ounce of extra fat.

          “You look lovely,” he told her. “The blue
becomes you; your eyes are the color of a still lake at twilight.”

          She smiled and took his arm; he almost made
her forget the ordeal that was ahead of them. Together, they headed toward the
big staircase; downstairs lay the dining room and his tartar of a father.

          As they descended, Psyche could almost feel
the temperature falling. Gabriel’s body grew more tense with each step; beneath
her hand, his arm might have been carved from the same granite that composed
the big mansion. As they slowly made their way down, she glanced at the
portraits that hung along the stairwell, old pictures of generations of
Sinclairs. One small copper nameplate caught her eye, and she gasped.