Learning to Waltz (9 page)

“Sorry.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “The devil of it is, I cannot stay away. I feel responsible for the boy, and—” He raked a hand through his hair and nodded toward the door. “But that woman could make things very uncomfortable indeed for Mrs. Moore. Are there more like her?”

Amanda lifted one eyebrow. “It’s an English village, Evan. But between us, I think we can paint quite a rosy picture of propriety for Mrs. Hepplewhite and her kind.” She propped her chin on one hand. “Now, let me think…”

In the drizzly dusk, they set out down the lane to visit Mrs. Moore. Amanda sat ensconced in Latimer’s best carriage, and Evan rode Lookout alongside. She laughed through the open window, mischief in her face.

“I always wanted to be an actress,” she said. “This big old carriage, and four horses, and the men in livery—it’s hilarious for just a mile.”

“Coachman’s enjoying it as much as you are,” Evan replied.

“Oh yes. Poor chap, he never gets to drive this contraption anymore.”

As they approached the junction with the high street, Amanda giggled again and put up the window. Evan dropped behind and slipped through the side gate into Mrs. Moore’s yard. He led Lookout into the shed as the coach lumbered around the corner, harness jangling. He made the horse comfortable as quickly as he could and emerged again into the evening. The carriage, standing in front of the cottage, hid him from the street.

He opened the kitchen door but recoiled on the threshold.
What the hell?
Were those
ghosts
cavorting in the murk? They looked like…

His hand reached out and touched the coarse, damp cloth of a cheap bedsheet. It was just laundry, a profusion of towels and bed linens hung to dry on lines strung across the room. He breathed again and began weaving his way through the maze.

He heard Molly come in. She screeched in fright when she saw him step around the other edge of a sheet and clapped a hand over her mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” Evan said. “Did Miss Latimer not tell you I would be here?”

“Aye, but—” She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I put her in the parlor, sir, is that right? She says I’m to see her out in twenty minutes.” A cricket chirped somewhere near the hearth and Molly jumped. “Oh, sir, I’m so scared. It’s been so quiet, like—like the house is just waitin’ for death to come.”

The bedroom door was ajar, the room beyond lit only by the fire and what light still filtered through two small windows. He tapped as he entered.

Mrs. Moore sat against the headboard, one hand cupping Julian’s cheek and the other slack in her lap. She looked dull, limp, spiritless—neat, as usual, but as though she had spent not one unnecessary minute on her appearance. Her shoes lay on the floor by the bed, her hair was pulled back very simply, and she had on the same plain gray gown she’d worn the previous day.

She gazed directly into his face for some seconds. She said nothing, showed no surprise, no annoyance, nothing at all. Then she returned to her contemplation of Julian’s still form. A slight wheeze as he breathed through dry, cracked lips was the only thing to tell the boy was alive. Evan saw no movement, no perceptible rise and fall of the bedclothes, no fevered muttering as in the past few days.

Half of him wanted to turn around and walk out again, ride back to Latimer’s, collect Grady and his horses, and drive off somewhere. Most anywhere would do. His other half—the better half, he supposed—made him walk quietly to the side of the bed and lay his hand on the boy’s burning forehead. Why should he care so much about a child he’d known so briefly? A child unrelated to him, whom he had never seen healthy or happy?

Perhaps that was why. “How is he?”

“He’s dying.”

Just that bald statement in a voice like iron, hard and cold. Evan looked sharply at her, but her face was turned from him. Her callousness was appalling, unnatural. Could this be the same woman who’d come running into the inn a week ago with mud past her knees and panic in her eyes?

He jerked upright and strode angrily about the small room. He wanted to throw something. Surely any woman should demonstrate some emotion when saying such words of her own child! Had he misjudged her so grossly? He was angry with himself, furious with her, and enraged that God could think of stealing this child Evan thought he had saved and delivered into his mother’s care six short days ago.

He turned back to the bed to find her eyeing him warily, like a cornered fox facing the baying hounds. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You take it mighty calmly, ma’am.”

Color rushed to her face, suddenly twisted with passion. She thrust forward, her free hand clenched into a fist that dug into her thigh. Julian whimpered, and Evan could see the effort she made to relax. “No doubt I should be wailing and tearing out my hair. Perhaps I should throw myself into the river. But will you permit me to wait until he’s actually dead?”

It was little more than a whisper for Julian’s sake, yet it throbbed with defiance and sarcasm. And something else bled into her voice.
Terror
.

Evan’s anger evaporated, and he moved to her side. He touched his fingers lightly to her cheek. “I’m sorry. I think you must be the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

She gazed up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. A tremor in her voice sounded almost like laughter. “No, no, surely you have that wrong.”

He resumed his pacing about the room, fidgeting with one thing and then another. “I don’t mean that you feel less than anyone else. But you don’t run from your difficulties, you just stare them in the face and keep going.” He glanced into the mirror above her dressing table and quickly away again. “I, on the other hand, have made a practice of avoiding anything I don’t want to think about.”

“Believe me, I’ve done my share of running away.” The hard edge was back in her voice. She looked down and said, more softly, “And you haven’t run from us.”

“Leaving you all alone in this crisis? I think not!” Yet he had thought about it.

For shame.

Mrs. Moore shook her head. “It’s a crisis for me, of course. It need not be for you. We have absolutely no claim on you.”

Evan picked up her little perfume bottle and cupped it in his palm. “But you do. There is a very sweet attraction at the center of this crisis. I can’t seem to think about anything else.” He kept his voice light, his eyes on the bottle.
God, my timing is atrocious.

Deborah’s face burned, and she ducked her head. He
must
mean his concern for Julian—that was natural enough under the circumstances. He had no earthly reason to like
her
.
She had shown him the worst she had to offer, had been rude and hostile despite his extraordinary service.

Even if he loved her to madness—she winced with the pain and longing attached to the thought—what would their options be? She could not marry him. Nor did she believe
this
man would offer the sort of relationship Doctor Overley had in mind. And of course she would not accept such an offer, however tempting it might be coming from Mr. Haverfield. Evidently it was not morality but merely distaste for the man himself that made her shrink from the doctor’s advances. That was a lowering thought. A giggle rose from somewhere inside, and she quashed it. It must be exhaustion, or perhaps hysteria.

Mr. Haverfield stoked the fire and lit the candles on the dressing table, and then turned the big upholstered chair to face the bed. He sat down, elbows on his knees and hands clasped under his chin. “Tell me, ma’am, what you’ve run from.”

Deborah stared at him. Did he want her life story? Which sad, ugly part of it, exactly? Maybe the part where she abandoned her mother to a monster?

“There’s a hint of something in your voice—the southwest, perhaps?”

“I grew up in Devon, sir. You’d not know the place.”

“You might be surprised. I’ve explored a great many of England’s out-of-the-way places.”

He couldn’t possibly want to hear about this. But she was so tired. It was much easier to answer his question than to frame one of her own. “My father’s property, such as it is, lies in Lydford.”

“Ah yes, I’ve been to Lydford.” He sat back in the chair. “Passed through with a friend a few years ago. There is some fascinating history, and of course the gorge is fabulous. But you would know that better than I.”

Deborah snorted. “Yes, all that ‘fascinating history.’ Prisons and coffins and thievery. As for the gorge, I saw it only once, and that just from the top—we hadn’t time to make the descent.” Even Matilda had not dared push Deborah’s father too far.

His eyebrows rose questioningly. “It’s a steep climb, but an easy day’s outing. Surely the young people thereabouts must make it the object of pleasure excursions.”

She looked down and stroked an errant wisp of Julian’s hair into place. “I wouldn’t know.”

He paused. “When were you last at home?”

Home?
“I left when I was seventeen and have never been tempted to return.”

“But you still have family there?”

“When last I heard, yes.” The most recent letter had come more than a year ago. Her mother’s hand was shakier, but nothing else had changed much. Young Robert had been sent down from university—Deborah’s father was never mentioned. As long as
he
lived, she would never consider revisiting Lydford.

The questions kept coming, increasingly uncomfortable as he probed for details. Deborah provided the shortest possible reply to each one, hoping he would give up. But he was patient, and persistent, and seemed interested in her answers. What did he think about them? About her?

It didn’t matter. Her eyes stung with fatigue. She closed them, leaning her head against the headboard, and pretended she was talking to herself.

It was easier once Aunt Matilda entered the story. “I was her charity project, I think. She was determined to remove me from… from Lydford.”

“Your parents didn’t want you to go?”

“My mother did.” And Mama’s penance had been a beating that left her dizzy and badly bruised. She’d been allowed only the briefest of farewells to her only child that day they left. Maybe it had been easier that way.

“Where did you go?”

“To Plymouth. I found it daunting. So busy and important.” Her heart beat faster just thinking about it. “I was giddy with excitement when we left Lydford, but it didn’t last long.” All the noise, the people, sailors, and shops lined up along every street. And the sea, wondrous and frightening, the tumult of the harbor.

“Where did you stay?”

She laughed a little, without humor. “I’ve forgotten the name, thank heavens. My aunt said the money was better spent on clothes.” The inconceivable amount of one hundred fifty pounds to buy gowns, bonnets, slippers, gloves, ribbons—a profusion of luxury to a girl who had never owned more than three drab and ill-fitting dresses at one time. “We attended services at St. Andrew’s and must have seen every concert and play in town.” All from the cheapest possible seats.

He leaned forward again in the chair, his eyes bright with interest. “How exciting. Had you never seen such things before?”

“Never. And I’m afraid all I really cared about were the assemblies.” Though they were frightening too. All those men, tantalizing yet intimidating in uniforms of one sort or another. She’d expected that one of them would fall in love with her, but why would anyone fall in love with a mouse? “After some months, we moved on to Dawlish.”

“Ah! That is a place I’ve not seen. What is it like?”

She shrugged. “Modest, though the setting is pretty. The assemblies were small but quite genteel.”

“And that’s where you met Mr. Moore?”

“Yes.” She rubbed her eyes. “I expect it was all a mistake. Hartley was down from Oxford with his mother, who’d been ill. He was handsome and very attentive. I was flattered.” And oh, so naïve. “My aunt caught him kissing me, or there would have been no marriage. I don’t know how she persuaded him—though she did offer a bit of a dowry.” She shook her head. “It should never have happened.”

Deborah opened her eyes and looked around the room in a daze. How utterly bizarre that she should be sitting on her bed discussing private things with a near-stranger over the still form of her dying child. But perhaps it was not so fantastic. Time and reality seemed suspended by the situation, the three of them isolated in a soap bubble where such concepts were mere theoretical constructs with no practical application. Here, in this room, her customary barriers were like the surface of that bubble, transparent and ephemeral. Without Julian, meaningless, like everything else in this insignificant life she led.