Sharon Sobel (6 page)

“I received only one brief note from Maxwell, and he said very little. I suppose he does not want me to know where he is and what danger he might be facing.”

James Cosgrove nodded thoughtfully. “He ought remember you are a grown lady and understand something of his business abroad. Some knowledge is a good thing.”

“Are you friends with Lord Wentworth as well, Mr. Cosgrove?”

Camille laughed nervously. “Of course, Lady Claire. How could it be otherwise? Jamie has known us all our lives and is a frequent guest at Brookside Cottage.”

And yet both her companions were somewhat on edge, Claire thought. And the use of Mr. Cosgrove’s first name was somewhat unusual in business dealings.

“I think I should enjoy a country ball, Mr. Cosgrove,” Claire said. “Lady Camille is accustomed to managing without my help but in this case I shall require hers. I only hope I manage to find a partner or two. Dare I request a set of you, Mr. Cosgrove? As a mature widow, I am allowed to be forward in this regard.”

“Of course I will introduce you to all the guests, Lady Claire,” said Camille. “And Jamie would take great pleasure in dancing with you.”

Lady Camille spoke as one who was confident that what she asked of a man would not be refused.

***

The daylight was waning when Claire stepped out, by herself, from Brookside Cottage, desiring some air and time for reflection. When she arrived some weeks ago, she imagined her biggest challenge was bringing society to a deprived young woman, so that she could confidently bring that young woman to society. She worried about which books to bring, and which gowns to wear. But now she wondered who suffered the greater deprivation.

Indeed, Camille Brooks was a lady crippled by the loss of her parents and her eyesight. And yet she somehow managed to see a great deal. She certainly saw enough to know she had a young man who adored her and hung on her every word.

And at the same time she, Claire, lived in an elegant town house in Eton Square and had enough gowns for every day of the month. But she had no one who looked at her the way James Cosgrove looked at Camille.

This evening, weary from another long walk into Middlebury, Claire and Camille ate an early dinner, after which Claire read from a curious book called
Northanger Abbey
. It was written by a lady, to be sure, and yet Catherine Morland, the heroine, did not fare very well in it, for she was rather silly. If this is what ladies thought of other ladies, what hope was there for men to believe otherwise? They discussed this briefly, with Camille sounding a good deal more optimistic about the situation than Claire. Which was, perhaps, as expected.

Camille dismissed her guest while stifling a wide yawn, either from boredom or plain exhaustion, and Claire realized she also needed some time to be by herself. She imagined she had little time before darkness descended and pulled on her dark wool shawl before slipping through the garden door. The damp air smelled of tangy rosemary and mint, and the moss on the ancient stones was a thick carpet beneath her slippers. Such pleasures were not to be had in an evening in London, and Claire wished she were a girl again to dance upon the fertile soil. Instead, she was a rather proper widow and could not risk having an audience.

She looked down the path towards the brook, where a small animal stealthily crossed into the shelter of a clump of tansy. And she glanced up towards the meadow, on the hill, and cried out in alarm.

Through the trees, the silhouettes of two great towers and a crenellated parapet were all aflame, glowing fiercely against the darkening sky. Claire turned quickly to run back and call out the staff, but then decided to better assess the danger. So she turned again and started to run up the hill towards the blazing building and sky. But when she did so, with somewhat more clearness of thought, she realized she did not see a building in flames, but one burnished by the setting sun. It was, all at once, a terrible and glorious vision.

This was Brook Hall, then, a place where no one went, and no one wanted to remember. Even at this distance, Claire could see it was a grand place and built to command a view over all the countryside, including Brookside Cottage, its modest little child. The residents of the Cottage might avoid speaking of their ancestral home, but they could hardly avoid seeing it, particularly on a night such as this when the sun burst through its planes and angles. Her heart still thumping in her chest, Claire saw with greater clarity how the roof was gone and the sun broke through portals that no longer framed glass panels.

She wanted to see the place, to meet the ghosts lingering there, and try to understand how fate, and one small boy, had caused such devastating destruction. But tonight was not the night to do so, as her morbid curiosity would best be satisfied in the light of day.

So she again turned her back on Brook Hall, and walked towards the sound of rushing water so she might follow the path along the river. Even if darkness descended sooner than she expected, she would still be able to find her way along the path; in fact, she might better appreciate Camille’s challenges to walk where she could not see.

The woods closed around her like an umbrella, and she heard the cries of night creatures calling to one another. Her foot kicked a pebble, which went tumbling into the water with a splash while all else went still. The river was closer than she thought and she hoped she would not tumble in as well. With her shawl and heavy gown, she was more likely to turn up downriver like a sad Ophelia than manage to pull herself out of the water.

Her toe hit another stone, though one more resistant, and Claire uttered a word no lady should ever say. Through the dark, she thought she heard something that might have been a laugh, and then coming right at her was a large beast.

She cried out again, and the beast grabbed her elbows and shook her.

“Release me, sir,” she said in a voice worthy of a dowager countess. It had the desired effect because he unhanded her at once and stepped back.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, in a voice that sounded as if he had not used it in a while. He cleared his throat. “Do you not know this is a dangerous place at night?”

“I might ask the same of you,” said Claire. “I am a guest of the family and have every right to walk here, which I assume you do not.”

The lowering sun, emerging through the trees, suddenly cast him in a narrow shaft of dimming light. It was enough to make out some of his features and not be particularly reassured by any of them. A dark hat sat low on his forehead, shading his eyes. An untidy and curly beard obscured the lower half of his face and part of his shirt. As to that, very little showed through the baggy jacket he wore, secured around his waist by a length of twine.

She ought to be terrified.

“I am on my way to Brookside Cottage myself,” he said.

“Are you expected?” Claire asked. Nothing had been mentioned of this. And surely it was not possible that a reclusive blind girl should have two lovers courting her at the same time?

“I am not,” he said. Of course not. Camille would have no business with a forest man or hermit or whomever was this stranger.

“Then let me direct you, sir,” Claire said, a bit too eagerly. She would do much good by sending this man away, and then escaping in the opposite direction. “You wish to walk that way, up the hill awhile. You cannot miss it.”

“I thought Brookside Cottage was only just behind you,” he said reasonably.

Claire frowned. Was it really that close?

“Oh, no,” she said. “That is the home of the steward. And he is not at home just now. Trust me when I say you must go up the hill. Go before it is dark.”

“It is dark enough now. Would you like me to accompany you and see you home safe?”

Worse and worse. Claire wondered what she could possibly say to make him go away.

“Thank you, but no. I . . . I am meeting a gentleman in these woods.”

She knew he stared down at her, but she could not read his expression.

“And I am not the gentleman you seek?” he asked.

She laughed. Though it was not in her nature to be cruel, she was now fearful and a little desperate. “No, you are not, sir.”

“More’s the pity,” he murmured. “Well, I know when I am not wanted around, so will make my way to Brookside Cottage. Up the hill, did you say?”

“I did.”

“Good evening to you, ma’am,” he said and bowed very graciously. He turned away and started to walk away from her. Claire waited until he was just out of sight, and then raced back to Brookside Cottage, losing a slipper along the way. Throwing open the door and slamming it behind her, gasping for breath as she held it closed, she suddenly realized she might know the stranger after all.

And, even worse, he might indeed be the gentleman she sought.

Chapter 3

Even before Claire opened her eyes the next morning, she considered the possibility that the events of the night before might be a cursed nightmare, prompted by an overactive imagination. After all, the great house on the hill could never truly be ignored, not while it still stood as an ominous pile of stone and tragic memory. And truly, with such a staff as the Marquis Wentworth commanded, it was highly unlikely a rough stranger could venture around the property unnoticed and unhindered. And yet, he could be a thief or a murderer. He could have come to Brookside Cottage to kill them all in their sleep.

Claire opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. But there was the other possibility, of course, the one that occurred to her even as she madly rushed to escape from him. The stranger certainly looked disreputable, but he did not sound so. In fact, his voice, once his throat cleared, was both cultured and well modulated; in short, it was the voice of a gentleman. One with whom she had spoken before, if however briefly.

But still, the whole episode remained the stuff of dreams. Why would a marquis return to his estate under cover of twilight and dressed as a woodsman? Where was his horse, his manservant? Why did he not announce his arrival at the Cottage or introduce himself to an unescorted young lady on his property? The man might sound like a gentleman but he was no such thing.

Clearly, then, it was all a nightmare.

Claire grimaced as she pulled herself up and sat on the edge of her bed. Her feet ached as if she had trod on hot cinders, and the look of her left foot somewhat confirmed that. One toenail was torn and scabbed with dried blood, and the flesh was greenish, as if stained by fresh grass.

Oh, dear God. It was not a nightmare. If everything she recalled actually happened, then the events of last night were real enough, and the nightmare was just beginning.

***

She heard them before she walked through the door into the breakfast room. Camille’s laughter wafted out into the hallway, and the deeper tones of a man’s voice punctuated her high-pitched little giggles, perhaps prompting them. Claire hesitated, wondering if he recounted his meeting with a very silly woman the night before, and if they now enjoyed so much amusement at her expense. Perhaps she could quietly return to her bed and request breakfast in her chamber.

“Good morning, Lady Glastonbury,” Mr. Clark, the butler, said. “You will be very happy to know the Master has returned earlier than expected, surprising us all.”

“How very delightful,” said Claire, smiling like a fool. “Indeed, Alice informed me of the marquis’ return when greeting me this morning. I understand he arrived quite late last night.”

“Not very late, but Lady Camille was already abed.”

Claire nodded her head towards the breakfast room. “It sounds as if they are enjoying his homecoming, and I should not disturb them. If you would be so good as to ask Lucy or Maria to bring my breakfast to my chamber, I will allow them their privacy.”

“Most assuredly, you will not disturb my lord and his sister. Indeed, his lordship specifically said he is most anxious to meet you.”

“So I fear.”

“Excuse me, my lady? I am somewhat deaf in my left ear and did not hear your words,” Mr. Clark said, leaning forward.

“Perhaps it is just as well,” replied Claire. “I shall join them, then, though I have very little that might amuse them.”

Mr. Clark looked solemn, though he could not possibly be as dispirited as Claire felt at the moment. He nodded and walked on, leaving Claire quite on her own. She took a deep breath and opened the door of the breakfast room.

The butler was wrong about the intimacy of the marquis’ homecoming, for the brother and sister were becoming reacquainted in a way that warranted no intruders.

Lady Camille sat next to Lord Wentworth, smiling up at him. Her long, thin fingers were on his face, exploring his unruly beard, and apparently finding it quite ridiculous.

“You must cut it off at once, Maxwell,” Camille said, giggling. “Someone will mistake you for a sheepdog. Or worse, a furry lap robe.”

“Nay, I have it on the best authority it makes me appear rather rakish. I nearly made a lady swoon when she saw me.”

“If that is so—and I really do not believe you—then she swooned for thinking you were a pirate or some other disreputable sort. Did you meet her onboard ship?” Camille asked.

“I met her on English soil. On a woodland path, in fact.”

Camille’s fingers remained poised over her brother’s beard. Claire could not see her face, but guessed what she was thinking.

“Then she thought you a hermit, and only swooned when you spoke to her, for I understand they are silent fellows.”

Lord Wentworth seemed to study his sister’s sightless eyes, perhaps contemplating her scars or the long-ago circumstances that brought them to this point.

“How do you know I spoke to her?” he asked softly.

Camille once again caught his beard and playfully tugged. “Because I doubt any lady brave enough to venture alone on a woodland path would let you walk within ten feet of her without grilling you as to your identity, your reason to be traveling the same route, and your intentions for the immediate future.”

Good heavens, was she such a harpy? Camille would have her brother believe their houseguest was both formidable and thoroughly annoying.

Claire must have made some small sound, for brother and sister turned to where she stood at the door. Camille’s expression was one of pure pleasure, and there seemed nothing to suggest she truly bought her own description of her friend. And in one brief moment of recognition, Claire realized Lord Wentworth did not buy his sister’s description, either.

He studied her with an intensity that suggested there was much more between them than a few hurried words in the woodlands could possibly allow. His gaze caught hers, making her suddenly aware of how she must look in her well-fitted blue day dress with its deep V neckline, and its barely concealing lace. Through the mass of his ridiculous beard, she saw his lips were slightly parted, as if he could not bring forth the words of common courtesy and greeting. And though Camille sat at his side, and one of the servants refreshed the tray of breads on the sideboard, it seemed there was no one else in the whole wide world but the two of them, confronting each other in the well-ordered propriety of a breakfast room, but with no greater reason than if they still stood in the woods, wondering about the identity of the other.

“It is Lady Claire, is it not?” Camille asked quietly. “But of course it is, for I would know your footsteps anywhere. It sounds as if you are favoring one foot, however.”

“I am. I should have heeded your advice about wearing sturdy shoes when walking about the property. Instead, I foolishly wore my slippers, and lost one along the path,” Claire said.

Lord Wentworth finally remembered his manners and rose from his seat. “I am sorry to hear you had a mishap on my land. I will replace the slipper for you if the gardeners do not find it.”

“Both the mishap—if such it was—and the slipper are trivial, my lord.” Claire decided to stop right there before she said something about the nature of mishaps and the more serious consequences that could occur. And in any case, they had not yet been introduced in this setting. She looked at Camille, who somehow read her mind.

“Lady Claire, allow me to present my brother, Maxwell Brooks, the Marquis Wentworth. Maxwell, this is my dearest friend, Lady Claire.”

“The Dowager Countess of Glastonbury, as I recall. Indeed, we have met before, if only briefly.” He came around the side of the long table as he spoke and reached for her hand in greeting.

Claire gave it unwillingly, so unsure was she that she scarcely recognized herself. But she recognized him well enough, even through his facial hair.

“Yes, it was so brief I would scarcely imagine I might recognize you again, especially as your appearance is so dramatically altered,” she said, but in fact it was not. She recalled with perfect clarity how tall he was and how he somehow managed to seem both lean and strong. She remembered those eyes that were so dark she could scarcely distinguish the pupils, and now wondered if Camille’s had looked like this once.

“Ah, yes, it is something I am not used to myself. After traveling for some time without having the convenience of a looking glass, I am now startled to see my own reflection and wonder at whom I am gazing. Certainly, the fellow looks rather rough and disreputable. But I will not have the time to get accustomed to him, for my beard shall be gone by day’s end.” He fingered his facial hair appreciatively.

“Oh, no, Maxwell! I quite enjoy it,” said Camille.

It was not for Claire to voice any opinion on the matter, nor ask where a marquis might wander and have no access to a basic tool of civilized society.

“But I will not enjoy it when a sparrow decides to nest within it, or when I trip over it when ascending the stairs.” The marquis ignored his sister’s laughter and offered his arm to Claire. “And what do you think, Lady Claire?”

“I think I might very well enjoy it, particularly if you become father to a clutch of fledgling birds.”

“It is not in my plans to become father to anything or anyone, but I do see your point. And I am grateful you did not think a fall on my face would be more amusing,” he said. “But come, now, we are keeping you from your breakfast and you must be hungry after your adventure in the woods.”

Camille waited until Claire was served her accustomed breakfast of kippers, toast and unsweetened tea before she spoke again.

“Tell us about your walk in our woods, Claire, and how you managed to lose a slipper. It sounds like the consequence of some adventure,” she said. “I have walked there all my life and do not recall anything more extraordinary than a dog strayed from a Gypsy caravan.”

“And then you decided to keep him in the house, and the real adventure began,” her brother said affectionately.

“But I want to know about Claire’s,” Camille insisted.

“It was nothing, really. Now that I think upon it, I may have imagined the whole thing, for it could only be a dream wherein a gentleman accosts a lady who is unknown to him, and does not reassure her for her safety,” said Claire.

“In our wood?” Camille asked, smiling. “How extraordinary.” She first faced her brother and then her friend, and somehow seemed to see it all.

“Did he not offer to see you home?” Wentworth asked, reaching for the honey.

“Only a fool would accept such an offer from a man who might be a murderer or a thief or even . . . a hermit.”

“You were wise to behave as you did,” Wentworth said without a note of irony. “Now, do tell me what circumstances brought you to us, Lady Claire. And what have you and Camille found to occupy yourselves in our quiet neighborhood?”

Claire glanced at Camille, who seemed particularly interested in a block of sugar.

“Did you not receive a correspondence from your cousin, Mrs. Adelaide Brooks? Or from your sister?” Claire asked, looking for support from her friend. But Camille found a second block of sugar, which must have been equally fascinating to the first. “I am here to read to Lady Camille.”

“My cousin and sister surely believed I would be gone from Brookside Cottage for many months to have summoned you for this task. It has always fallen on me to be my sister’s eyes, and read what she cannot. I believe we were in the midst of the letter
E
in Ephraim Chambers’s
Cyclopaedia,
when we were interrupted by my unexpected business. Have the two of you continued to plow your way through it? The references are at times particularly obscure, and I should like to know what you think of his work.”

“We have saved the honor of completing the reading of Mr. Chambers’s work for your return, my lord. Lady Camille and I are engaged in reading of another sort.”

“Burke’s
A Vindication of Natural Society
, perhaps? Something by Mr. Pope?” Wentworth leaned back in his seat, and, with his unruly beard, looked liked one of the elderly sages he seemed to favor.

“I am sure their works are remarkably edifying, but we have selected reading of another sort,” Claire repeated, bracing herself for his reaction, and Camille’s defense.

“Poetry, then. We have many volumes of poetry in my library.”

“We are reading novels, my lord.” Claire paused to bite into her toast and took her time swallowing. “And when we are tired of novels, we read articles from ladies’ magazines and the fashion pages.”

The room was so quiet that the sound of Claire’s next bite of toast was inordinately loud.

“I see,” said Wentworth at last. “There is no harm in light amusement, as a dessert to the more satisfying meal. Surely you do not solely subsist on such sugary bites?”

“We do, my lord, and seem to be managing quite well. In fact, we do not miss the taste of bland meat and potatoes.”

Camille made a sputtering sound, and Claire realized she could barely control her laughter. She smiled, but sobered immediately upon seeing Wentworth’s expression.

“And to what purpose are the two of you feasting on desserts only?”

“Why, when Lady Camille makes her long overdue entrance into society, she must be prepared to speak knowledgeably about many things, but I doubt if Chambers’s
Cyclopaedia
is among them. I also believe she will be well served if her garments reflect the fashion of the current century, and not something she might have discovered in a trunk in the attic.”

“So this is your plan, hatched conveniently upon my departure. No wonder my cousin was so vague about her intentions and her introduction.” Wentworth rose and with his heavy beard had the look of a vengeful deity. “My sister is not going to London for any reason, to be whispered about behind her back and ignored by those in her company. You do not understand how cruel society can be, how intolerant of anyone who is different, who deserves pity instead of condemnation.”

Claire stood, well prepared for his reluctance, but startled at his vehemence.

“You are wrong, Lord Wentworth! I understand it better than most. My past marriage has always been the source of some speculation, even by those who know me well, and I am very accustomed to hushed conversation as soon as I enter a room.”