Eve Silver (19 page)

Mrs. Bolifer stared at her for a protracted moment.

“The notion is rather unsettling,” she mimicked. Then to Emma's overwhelming astonishment, the woman threw back her head and laughed, loud and full, no restraint to her mirth. And then as she settled back, the housekeeper pulled a small tin from the pocket of her voluminous black dress. She held the tin in her palm, and used the tip of her thumb to flip the lid off, with amazing dexterity. “Lemon drop?”

“No, thank you.” Emma eyed the sweet with revulsion. Never again would she regard anything with a lemony scent or taste in quite the same way as she had in the past.

Placing the open tin on the table, Mrs. Bolifer helped herself, tucked the candy in her cheek, and spoke around it.

“I was burned in a fire,” she said matter-of-factly, answering a question Emma had not dared to ask. “My man was dead from the smoke. I only thank God he didn't live long enough to burn. My arm was charred blacker than coal, and the pain was worse than any I ever thought could be. No wonder there are fires in hell. Don't think there is a worse pain a body could suffer.” Mrs. Bolifer fell silent for a moment, her eyes focused on some distant vision of the past. “Except, maybe, the pain of loneliness.”

“How terrible for you,” Emma whispered, reaching over to place her hand over Mrs. Bolifer's, intent on offering comfort. Her own unsettled stomach seemed a paltry discomfort in the face of the other woman's suffering. To be burned in a fire, and lose her husband that self same night….

“No wonder then,” she murmured. At the housekeeper's blank look, Emma explained, “The night I first arrived at Manorbrier, you warned me never to leave a candle unattended. And most of the house was dark. The whole thing was a bit unsettling, but now it makes perfect sense.”

“Hmm. Does it now?” Pulling her hand away from Emma's gentle grasp, Mrs. Bolifer stood and crossed to the hearth. She took one of the miniatures from the mantelpiece. After gazing at the picture for a long moment, she then moved to Emma's side and held it out for the younger woman's inspection.

“My husband,” she said, a wealth of emotion buried in those two simple words. Pain, loss, and heartbreak, softened only slightly by the intervening years. Mrs. Bolifer's marriage had been a love match, Emma realized with surprise.

 “He buried it under the rose bushes.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emma breathed, disoriented by the housekeeper’s disjointed statement.

 “I could not bear the thought of my arm being tossed out like refuse. And I do love roses.”

“Your arm is buried under the rose bushes?” Emma glanced at the window, appalled. She walked beside those bushes almost every day.

“Not here,” Mrs. Bolifer snapped. “Under
my
rose bushes. I had a small cottage on the outskirts of London. My daughter’s husband rebuilt it after the fire. She lives there now, with him.”

Emma had always imagined Mrs. Bolifer to be a lost soul, alone in the world, trapped in Lord Anthony's employ.

“Were you in Lord Anthony's employ before the fire?” she asked.

“No. No. I never knew Lord Anthony before that day. But his offer of a position is what kept me sane. Gave me a purpose where I had none.” She paused. “My daughter was married by then, with a little one on the way. And her husband is a decent sort but not fond of my company.” Mrs. Bolifer jerked her chin toward the miniature that remained on the mantel. “So there you have it.”

Gave me purpose where I had none
. As he had done for Emma, offering her a home, a place, a child to love. She saw it now, the glittering thread of good that wove through his actions. He took those scarred by life and loss, and he offered them hope. “And Griggs? And Cookie?” she asked. “Did he give them purpose where they had none?”

“Aye.”

“Where are Cookie’s scars?” Emma asked softly, barely daring to ask, but certain she wished to know. They were there. Hidden where none could see.

“In her heart. Her son died.”

“Ohhh… Oh, how terrible.” Emma felt the salt sting of tears prick her eyes. Poor Cookie.

“He died and she wanted to be with him, tried to be with him. Thought no child should be separated from his parent.”

Emma stared at her, and then growing certainty made her flinch. Had Cookie tried to take her own life, to follow her child to the hereafter? She could not make her lips form the question, and so she sat in unhappy silence.

The housekeeper glanced up, then down. “Enough of idle chat, now,” she muttered and then briskly flipped open the journal she had been working on earlier, her actions signaling the end of the interview. Emma eased to her feet, feeling more confused than when she had first arrived. The conversation with the housekeeper had answered little, and given rise to a slew of fresh questions and concerns.

o0o

Nicky was asleep. Emma sat at his bedside, her own eyelids drooping. The child had chattered endlessly about ice cream and ponies before exhaustion overtook him at last. Placing a kiss on his forehead, she then rose and went into her own adjoining chamber, the one she had moved to at Lord Anthony’s behest.

Leaving the door between the two rooms slightly ajar, she walked softly across the carpeted floor, her fingers trailing along the heavy curtains of the large canopied bed. She glanced at the night-table, and paused to retrieve the diary that sat, forgotten, on the polished surface. She had tossed it there the day she discovered it, and had yet to find the time to read it. No. That was untrue. She had not wished to look at the diary for it brought to mind unsettling emotions and thoughts of the other things she had discovered that afternoon—the sweet ache of desire to be found in Anthony’s arms, the yearning fueled by his kiss.

Her mouth felt dry. She could hear his voice, his sensual baritone, stroking her, promising untold delights.
I want to thrust myself inside you, my tongue in your mouth, my body pushed deep inside yours
. She could think of naught else. Her wayward imaginings burgeoned and grew until she closed her eyes and gave in to her longing. She could almost taste him, feel the wet thrust of his tongue, twining with hers, teasing her until she was molten and burning with dark passion. A gnawing hunger tugged at her breasts, and low in her belly, and there, between her thighs.

The temptation to hurry from her chamber and seek him out was nearly overwhelming.

 A soft cry escaped her and she paced forward, back, until, resolutely, she yanked her thoughts from places they should not wander and focused on the small leather journal in her hand. Mild curiosity teased her, and she welcomed it, anything to relieve the mad yearning that chewed at her insides. She carried the diary to the low window seat and sank down onto the cushioned surface. After removing her boots, she tucked her stockinged feet underneath her.

She opened the diary to the first entry and ran her finger over the delicate, feminine script. She recognized her cousin Delia’s flowery hand from the letters that she had posted with regularity to the aunts.

I am ever so happy
, Emma read.
I have met the man I shall marry. And like a princess in a fairy story, I shall live happily ever after
. Pity tugged at Emma’s heart. There had been no happy ending for her cousin, only an early death.

I met L.S. and am quite enamored of him. But, alas, he is a simple country doctor, without title or vast means. A shame that our association can have no future for I sense in him my kindred spirit, my true mate. Instead, I have decided to marry Lord P.
Emma's brow furrowed in confusion. Lord P.? Who was Lord P.? She read on, her curiosity piqued. The pages spread before her an endless catalogue of balls and soirees, and tidbits of nasty gossip that illustrated how sad and shallow Delia's life must have been for her to find her only joy in the misfortunes of others.

Miss C. was caught kissing Lord Q. in the garden
, Delia wrote.
Lord L. wore a stained cravat and the ladies laughed behind their fans. The Dowager Countess of S. passed wind at the opera.
And at the end of each description of each ball, Delia listed the initial of a lord she had decided to marry. It seemed the same lord was never listed twice.

Emma was stunned by this insight into Delia's character. The aunts had always led her to believe that Lord Anthony had swept into Delia's life, convincing her to be his bride before she could lend thought to her decision. The implication was that Delia, a sheltered and naive girl, had been given no opportunity to consider any other suit. The aunts had presented Lord Anthony as a jaded monster who plied Delia with false promises to gain her hand. But clearly, by Delia's own written admission, this was not the case.

The musicale was enchanting. I met Lord A. He is terribly handsome, terribly enamored of me already, and rumored to be rich as Croeseus though he is a younger son. I think I shall marry Lord A. I mean it this time, dearest diary, my only confidant. Lord A. is the man I shall marry, for he is the wealthiest of the lot
.

There was a shift in tone and content after that statement. The fervor of Delia's writing and thoughts no longer reflected her earlier frivolity but, instead, depicted a single-minded purposefulness. She had become the hunter, and Anthony the hunted, though Emma guessed he had not known it at the time. According to Delia's recitation, she had been extremely careful to allow her prey the impression that in truth he pursued her. It was difficult for Emma to imagine that Anthony had ever been the young man that Delia described, a man who would easily fall under the spell of fluttering lashes and pouting lips.

She paused, index finger resting lightly on the last word of the page. Not only was the written description of Anthony so one-dimensional as to make it laughable, but there was something else missing from the story. Emma tapped her nail slowly on the paper then stopped abruptly as the answer came to her.

Strangely, Delia forbore to mention the proposal, the first kiss, what it felt like to be held in Anthony's arms. Emma knew from her own experience in Anthony’s embrace—her own taste of his lips—that were she given to keeping a journal, she would have devoted boundless prose to those thoughts and the feelings engendered by his touch.

Frowning, she skimmed the pages that itemized the contents of Anthony’s London house, Delia’s shopping trips, and the agonies of being forced to choose between the pink gown or the blue. And then the tone of the diary changed once more.

I have no wish to go to Wales. I have no desire to see Manorbrier. Anthony has ever doted on me, acquiescing to my every demand, save for the one where I asked him to give up that horrible surgery in the East End, where he ministers to the poor. That one small request he denied me. And now he has turned against me altogether. I have begged him to let me finish the season, but he is adamant, tyrannical, even cruel. And all because I made one small choice that he disapproved of.

All right. Perhaps he has his point. Perhaps the choice was partly his to make, but he never would have agreed with me, never would have let me finish the deed. Sometimes I think I hate him
.

Emma was as much startled at the emotion evinced by the written words as she was by the content of the statements. So lacking had the diary been in all but the most superficial information regarding Delia's thoughts and feelings toward Lord Anthony that her sudden vehemence was made more extraordinary in contrast. And to what deed did Delia refer? What choice had she made that angered Anthony so?

I hate Manorbrier. Anthony locks himself away for hours, even days, in that horrible crumbling tower, and I am left to my own devices. There is no pleasure to be taken in good society. The village, Bosherton, with its peasants and farmers has no fine shops. I am bored, bored, bored. I cannot say why we are even here. The village has no need of Anthony, as they already have a doctor. Though I must say that I have begun to become reacquainted with Dr. Smythe, and a kinder and more solicitous man could not be imagined. It seems that he knew Anthony from London, but when I suggested to my husband that we might invite his friend to supper, he became irate. He stormed and scolded, his voice thunderous before he stalked away from our dinner of larded pheasant. I am afraid of his moods. They have become more frequent since we came to this horrible place.

Afraid of Anthony? Emma could not fathom it. Even in the face of his icy rage the night she had inadvertently worn Delia’s gown, she had never felt truly afraid. Nay, she had been certain that he would never harm her.

Leafing ahead, Emma scanned the dates at the tops of the pages. Weeks and, toward the end, even months, passed without an entry.

I have not seen Anthony in days. He locked himself in the tower, and when I ordered Griggs to unlock the door, he refused me. Imagine the gall. A servant refusing the mistress entry. But that is the sad truth of it. I am not mistress of Manorbrier. Instead, I think I am prisoner here. Though no iron bars span the windows, and no jailer locks me in at night, I am not free to go. The other day I went walking and upon pausing to study a hyacinth I caught sight of the housekeeper, that horrible one-armed creature, following me at a distance. She saw me look at her and all she did was smile. I must find a way to leave the manor without her notice.

 My only friend here is Dr. Smythe, who remains steadfast in his support. He is my confidante and I bare my soul to him when we meet.

But I must be careful of Griggs. Like the housekeeper, he, too, is my husband's minion. Only the cook, simple being that she is, is kind to me.

And now that I have come to a most terrible realization, the danger to me increases. I cannot write the words, for to see them on paper would make them too real, and that I cannot bear to face. Not yet. Not until I must. I shall tell Dr. Smythe—Leonard—first. He will advise me, as he always does now.

What terrible realization could Delia mean? Emma flipped the page, anxious to read on, and was disappointed to find that the next entry held no answers, instead embarking on a minutely detailed description of Delia's visit to her aunts, Hortense and Cecilia. There was a lengthy diatribe against the weather, and an even more verbose attack on the quality of Anthony's coach and four.