Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (48 page)

My hand still trembling, I dipped my pen. After breakfast, I had declared my intention to work on correspondences. Isaac requested I remain with him by working in the library. I glanced at him sleeping on the couch, understanding why he’d chosen this chamber. It took him less than five minutes to fall asleep.

Mr. Forrester, who also refused to leave my side, sat playing solitaire in the room. Above his eye, his goose egg was turning purple, searing his forehead. As if sensing my gaze, he sneered at me.

“You know that I’m near exposing you, don’t you?” He flipped over the king of spades. “When I finally expose you, will Macy be angry enough to punish you?”

I rolled my eyes and wrote:
Lord Pierson accepts with pleasure the invitation of—

Then, unable to take his faulty logic, I said, “If you were to expose me, don’t you think you’d be the one punished?”

Baroness Hamely for dinner on Sunday, tenth of February—

“Someday you are going to regret having met me.” He finished a suit.

“I can assure you, I already do.”

“Not like you will.”

I dipped my pen and held it over the pot until the drips of ink stopped, then wrote,
at seven o’clock.

“Who was here last night?” Mr. Forrester pulled an ace from the pile and set it aside. “Which one of his curs beats a dog?”

I bit the top of the pen, suddenly reminded of last night. Though determined not to cry, my face twisted. My vision blurred too much to bother finishing my reply, so I looped the nib several times on a fresh piece of paper—the expensive, pound-a-sheet, for-royalty-only paper.

“You forget I saw you at Eastbourne.” Mr. Forrester sat back and crossed his legs as he shifted tactics. “You can fool your father and Isaac into thinking you fear him, but I watched the pair of you together.”

I held the melting spoon over the candle, prepared to seal my scribble, wanting to conceal that he’d rattled me.

Mr. Forrester’s chair creaked. “My manservant said that the very first night you met Macy, you spent the entire night with him. Is that true?”

I looked at Isaac. Even in his sleep he looked refined—no parted mouth, no jerks of movement, just the steady rise and fall of his chest. My skirts rustled as I went to him and gently tapped on his arm. He stirred and sat. “Are you finished?”

I folded my arms over the edge of his couch. “He won’t stop asking me questions about Macy.”

Isaac snapped his head in Forrester’s direction. “What is wrong with you?”

“Don’t be fooled.” Mr. Forrester resumed his game of solitaire. “She played Reverend Auburn the same way, and betrayed him in the end.”

Fresh pain seared me as I again saw Edward’s face.

Isaac was on his feet, quivering. “You are speaking of my intended. You may be a guest of Lord Pierson, but if you open your fat, stupid mouth again, I’ll box you. I swear it!” He knelt and gathered me to him. “Sweetheart, sit with me and I’ll read while we wait for your father.”

I settled on the settee, mournfully recalling how Edward had once dragged Mr. Forrester out of a room by the collar for insulting me.

Forrester shook his head in pity as Isaac selected the poems we’d been reading together in the evenings. I leaned closer to him, no longer caring about keeping Isaac distant. What did it matter now? Let Forrester see Isaac’s protectiveness of me.

Isaac must have also wished for Forrester to understand his steadfastness, for he spread a blanket over me, then pressed a kiss into my hair. He opened one arm, an invitation to rest against him, which I accepted. Soon his soothing tones filled the room, and I closed my eyes.

The poem he read spoke of a freshly mounded grave under a lazuline, cloudless sky. In his lulling tone, mossy gravestones were described under gnarled rowan trees. It mingled with my dreams, so that a warm breeze caressed my cheek, carrying the fragrance of new dirt. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I stretched over a grave, refusing to be comforted, refusing to leave.

A door slammed, and with a gasp, I sat forward and blinked, surprised to find myself in the library. The imagery of the grave had been so realistic, the breeze so true, I felt disoriented.

“Did you dream?” Isaac asked.

Before I could answer, my father, followed by James, stumbled into the chamber.

Forrester jumped to his feet and, like a child anxious to tell on his siblings, pointed a finger at us.

My father held up his hand, grimacing. “No one speaks.” He winced at the sound of his voice, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Isaac, dress; join me for lunch. Afterwards you’re coming with me. I . . . won’t be able to talk and need you to.”

Isaac rose. “Sir, if you’re in that much pain, what difference does one day make? We could all use a day of rest.”

My father looked angered but couldn’t respond. His face had grown ashen again, and he gripped either side of his head. Desperate to help him, I tugged Isaac’s sleeve.

“Fetch Lord Pierson laudanum,” Isaac directed James in a hushed tone. “Make no noise as you leave.”

“No.” My father rocked, holding his head. He sagged against the doorframe. “Go . . . go to our physician and get morphine. Tell him I need syringes with it.”

A slight hitch in Isaac’s breathing was the only suggestion of his dismay. “Sir, allow me to escort you to your chamber.”

“No. I need to be there this afternoon. You’re not ready to debate them alone. Take me to the dining chamber.”

Isaac approached, but while my father winced in pain, Isaac mouthed the words
laudanum only
to James before bracing my father’s arm.

They staggered into the dining chamber, where my father demanded the clock be stopped, the fire screened, the drapes drawn, and all lights extinguished.

My father clutched Isaac’s arm like a feeble child. I scrambled to take his other side, but Isaac shook his head, telling me to keep a distance. My father stumbled as he sat, swatting his hand before his face, seeing insects I could not.

James brought a bottle of laudanum and gently set it before
my father. I eyed the liquid, feeling ill. Though I no longer believed Mama had killed herself with the drug, I hadn’t seen such an amount since the night of her death. Instead of being angry his instructions weren’t followed, my father poured and swallowed more than I would have thought safe.

James did a magnificent job of soundlessly setting the table. Even Forrester sat unusually quiet, studying my father with concern.

Nausea rose through me, so that I had to cup my hands over my mouth to keep from breathing the pungent smell of the haunch of venison. Why, I wondered, did my father get these headaches? He looked near death. Whenever I glanced at Isaac, however, it wasn’t my father he fixed his concern upon. His gaze rested on me.

All at once, cold air and light lashed through the chamber. “Sir!” Miss Moray stood in the doorway. She held her head high, her gaze scathing. Behind her, Mrs. King, the London housekeeper, labored for breath.

Isaac and I were on our feet and out the door, pulling them from the threshold. Gently shutting the door, Isaac angrily whispered, “What on earth merits disturbing our lunch in such a manner?”

Miss Moray swallowed her surprise that we chose to eat our meal in such grotesque fashion. “I beg your pardon, sir, but the citrines we leased for Miss Pierson’s opera costume last night are all missing. I’ve just discovered it.”

Isaac rubbed his brow. “Are you certain you looked everywhere?”

Miss Moray stiffened. “I checked four times, sir.”

Isaac’s expression was pained as he looked at the ceiling. “All right. Lock up the servants’ hall and search their rooms. Locate me when the jewels are found.”

Mrs. King dipped. “And if they’re not located?”

Isaac ran his fingers through his waxed hair. “If it comes to that, I’ll question the staff myself. You’re dismissed.”

Miss Moray eyed me with displeasure as they left, as if believing I’d stolen them. I scowled at her, not caring a whit what she thought.

“Prepare for this evening,” Isaac said after they were gone. “For once, I’m not looking forward to your father recovering from his headache. He’s not going to take well your hitting Forrester with a book nor the missing jewels.”

“Why didn’t you call for the physician?” I demanded. “He’s had more laudanum than is good for him.”

“The last thing we’re going to do is call in a physician!”

“How can you not? How can you do nothing?”

As if counting silently, Isaac shut his eyes. When he reopened them, he was his composed self. “Is he not a father to me as well?” He pressed his lips, then said, “If I call your father’s physician, he’ll only treat it with a supply of morphine.”

He grew solemn and gave me a look that asked if I understood.

“And?”

He rubbed his brow. “I’ve sworn to your father never to disclose more. I’ve also sworn to never allow him near morphine again. Do you understand? Or do I need to break troth with him, lest I lose your trust next?”

I rubbed my neck, once more wondering about Isaac’s unspoken childhood, but to show him I was finished, I nodded.

“Trust me,” he said, gathering my arm. “Tomorrow, he won’t even remember today. That much is a mercy. I’m going to accompany him to his club tonight. Will you be all right staying home alone?”

I gave a reluctant nod. “So long as Forrester’s gone too.”

I sat that night cross-legged on the library floor, cradling Edward’s mementos. The pitiable items seemed laughable without their meanings attached. A dog-eared, stained Bible
filled with notes scrawled in sloppy penmanship. A withered oak leaf found tucked in Psalms. The only item of value was the timepiece, but even that carried a curse. Each morning it represented Isaac’s broken heart, and now it represented mine.

Nevertheless, I lovingly touched each one, knowing the time had come to tuck them into a hatbox, stored for a future day when the pain subsided. But that, too, was unacceptable. Becoming a person who could open this box without heartache would be the third and final betrayal of Edward.

I suddenly wanted reasons and answers. Why had any of this happened to me? Was I being punished because William had raised me with false ideas? Because I’d scorned the vicar in my village? Because I’d believed Mr. Macy’s lies?

I did not cry out again to God. I already had his answer—my story was different and he wanted me to entrust myself to him. But I didn’t care what he was doing, as he hadn’t bothered to consult me before planning it.

All at once the door slammed open, and a dark form stepped up to the threshold. It is one thing to wander into the slough of despond, mourning one’s role in the universe, but it is quite another to have Eramus Calvin disturb the elegy.

I rose, frowning. Before I could inform him that Isaac and my father were out, he stumbled into the chamber. One side of his face was scraped, and patches of blood smeared his cheek. He held his rib cage, wincing. “Fetch your father.”

“Are you injured?”

“Your father, you daft idiot! Get. Your. Father!”

“He’s not home.”

To my amazement, Eramus’s face grew monstrous with rage. He stormed to the mantel and retrieved the fire poker, which he beat mercilessly against the tiled hearth. Breathing heavily, he turned toward me with a look of murder. My blood ran cold.

“Now what!” he screamed and again struck the poker on the floor.

This time, he was so close I could smell the whiskey lacing his breath. I froze, recalling a string of terrors from my childhood when William was similarly volatile.

Eramus advanced. “He dared to cut my allowance, while he lavishes a fortune on a queer-gotten daughter! He gives Isaac everything and me nothing! Northfield is rather poor compensation for losing an heiress—”

He seized and crushed my finger. Pain sparked through me like wildfire. All thought and reason departed as I sank to the floor.

“We’re going upstairs, Cousin, and this time you’re going to find me something more valuable than
semiprecious
stones in exchange for my silence. Do you understand?”

I nodded, realizing that Eramus had taken the citrines. The idea of him sneaking about my bedchamber horrified me, but when I recalled James’s story that morning about the stable dog, my eyes widened with fear and my breath came in hard pants.

“Not a sound!” Eramus warned. He snatched my wrist and tightened his hold, dragging me to the hearth, where he jabbed the poker into the hot coals. “So long as you stay quiet,” he said, turning the poker, “there will be no need to hurt you.”

I glanced at the door. Sober, there wasn’t a chance of Eramus risking my father’s wrath. But inebriated?

“Hullo. What’s this?” Eramus bent and picked up Edward’s Bible and watch. He pocketed the timepiece, but with an indifferent toss, he threw the Bible to the flames.

I shrieked and went after it. It had already caught fire, but I pulled it out and beat the flames with my skirt. When I finished, the pages were singed and the cover blackened.

“Rogue,” I screamed, hugging the book to me.

“I said quiet!” Eramus shouted,then threw the watch on the carpet before him. As if testing me, he lifted his foot to crush it.