Chapter Eighteen

G enevieve leaned over Rory’s shoulder to read the letter. He smelled of amber, and that aroma mixed with the scents of old books and ink in the library made her want to linger close to him even longer. She wished she could drag her husband—she still couldn’t quite believe this man with the face of an angel was her husband—back to the couch so they might continue what they had started. She loved when he kissed her and touched her. He seemed to enjoy it too. If his scolding this morning was to be believed, he had wanted her in his bed when he came awake this morning. She could only imagine what delicious mischief they might have engaged in.

There was always tonight…

Rory shifted so she might better see the scrap of paper. His friend’s penmanship left something to be desired. Either that, or he’d written the letter without much light. The paper was thin, and the ink smudged, but she’d had a lot of practice reading poor penmanship. The letter opened by saying he hoped Rory had received at least one of his letters. Apparently, he had sent half a dozen.

Rory looked up at her. “I’ve only received two, and the first was dated several months ago.”

“Look here. He says he is living at a tavern called the Silver Unicorn in Seven Dills—he must mean Seven Dials .”

“Now he tells me,” Rory said. “I might have gone to see him when I was in Town if he’d said where he was before, but perhaps he was forced to relocate and has only now settled.”

They read on in silence for a moment, Genevieve thinking the letter sounded perfectly fine until Lord Kingston—rather, the former Lord Kingston—mentioned that he thought the witch’s sister had come to the tavern and left a counter-spell for him. Ah, this was the daft part of the letter, then—the part where the men seemed to truly believe they had been cursed by a witch.

“He must have sent the counter-spell in another letter I didn’t receive,” Rory said. “He says he will copy it out again.” He turned the letter over, and Genevieve squinted to make out the next lines. The paper was so thin that the ink from the front had bled onto the back.

Rory held the letter up then down then looked at her. “I can’t make this out.”

“I can. Shall I read it to you?”

“Please.”

She took the letter from him and read,

“Procure petal of flower, dash of dust of thefae.

Combine now in this goblet, please if youmay.

Hear me now, great goddess of good andlight.

Take mercy on these children. Ease theirplight.

Lose they may all they holddear,

But open a path to clean thesmear.

“I see why he thinks that is a counter-spell from the witch’s sister. The last line of the letter is a plea for you to write him back and his signature,” she said.

Rory took the letter from her and studied the spell. “She must have taken pity on us—the witch’s sister, that is. We were just stupid children, not that our age excuses our actions. But a curse that destroyed our lives seems rather harsh. She could have marched to the school and reported us to the headmaster. He’d have beaten us badly enough that the three of us would have had to stand for our lessons for a week. She might have ordered the headmaster to request compensation from our parents.”

“Would the headmaster have written to them? Wouldn’t that mean he’d have to acknowledge you were off the school grounds in the middle of the night, and he’d had no idea? I think it unlikely the woman whose livelihood you ruined would never have received compensation. I don’t think that’s why she cursed you, though.” Having dealt with many unruly children, Genevieve could sympathize with wanting to curse them. She’d certainly muttered uncomplimentary phrases any number of times. “If I had to guess, I’d say she was angry and lashed out in the moment. Her sister, probably more levelheaded, tried to mitigate the damage.”

Rory looked at her, and Genevieve closed her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not saying I believe any of this, but if I did, that would be my assumption.”

Rory rose, too much the gentleman to sit while she stood. He paced to the window and looked out on the last of the lilacs. Their blooms littered the grounds as fall began to take hold in earnest. Summer had certainly released her grip on this part of Devon as late as possible.

“You used the word mitigate ,” Rory said. “I would have used absolve .”

“Because she says, open a path to clear the smear ?”

“Exactly. There’s a way to undo the damage of the curse. A path.”

Genevieve studied him, his broad shoulders and straight back. Did he understand what he implied? Perhaps not fully. “Rory,” she said quietly, “even the counter-spell refers to your losing all you hold dear.”

He didn’t move away from the window, but his shoulders slumped slightly. “It can only be my wife and son.”

She didn’t argue, though she was not at all convinced a curse could cause an accident that would kill a mother and her child. “How could any counter-spell undo that damage? Even if I believed in witches, I don’t believe any human is powerful enough to bring someone back from the dead.” She had wrapped her hands around the back of his chair and dug in hard to keep her from saying what was truly on her mind—would he rather still be married to Harriet?

She didn’t need to ask the question. Of course he would rather his first wife was alive. Of course he wanted his son to live. He’d only married Genevieve because he needed a mother for Frances. She had deduced that Rory’s marriage to Harriet had been troubled, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t loved her. He’d married very young for a man, especially a privileged son of a duke. Perhaps he’d done it for the wealth Harriet had brought to the union.

She dismissed the idea almost as soon as she entertained it. She didn’t know Rory well, but she knew him well enough to know he wasn’t the sort of man to marry for money. If he’d married young, it was because he had loved the woman.

And now he began to see a path to bring Harriet back.

Genevieve wouldn’t stand in his way, of course. She might have told him so if she hadn’t come to her senses and realized she was becoming just as mad as Rory and his friends. How could she stand in the way of his reuniting with his wife when she had been dead the better part of a year?

Rory turned to face her then, and she saw the grief he seemed to always keep hidden written plain on his face. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m thinking too literally. No one can come back from the dead.” He made an effort to school his expression into the one he usually wore—one full of confidence she now suspected was false. “King mentions the spell was a fragment. The rest of it must explain more clearly. I should write back to him and see if he’s found the rest.”

“Of course.” She moved away from his chair so he might sit and return to his work. He didn’t look at her now, and though she was standing close enough to once again catch the scent of amber, the intimacy between them earlier had fled. He seemed a stranger, and a cold one at that.

“I will see you at dinner,” he said. Genevieve curtseyed and returned outside to find Frances still playing with Admiral. She suggested they gather the fallen lilac buds and make crowns, and that occupied much of the afternoon. But just as she was beginning to think about dinner and anticipating seeing Rory again, his coachman brought his carriage around, and she spotted the conveyance bumping along the drive and away from the house.

“Where has Papa gone?” Frances asked.

“I don’t know.” Genevieve frowned then smiled at Frances when she caught the little girl watching her. “Should we go inside and wash our face and hands before dinner?”

“No! I want to stay outside.”

Genevieve gave her a look, and Frances dropped her head and stared at the ground. “I mean, yes, Miss Genevieve.” She looked up again. “We never did decide what I should call you.”

“Why don’t we discuss it over dinner? It looks like you and I will dine together.” She raised a finger before Frances could object. “And don’t try to think of more ways to keep me from taking you inside. I see what you’re about, Miss Lumlee.”

Frances smiled and then ran ahead on the path. Genevieve took one last look at the lane Rory’s carriage had taken, then followed.

When she went inside, Gables handed her a folded slip of paper. She read it while Frances splashed water in the basin behind the Chinese screen in her room. The letter said only that Rory was sorry to miss dinner and would return late. Genevieve felt an acute sense of disappointment but managed to smile and enjoy her dinner with Frances. She tucked the girl in and almost retired to her former bedchamber, but remembered she was now Lady Emory and walked to her new chamber.

Molly was there to help her undress and change, and when Genevieve was ready for bed, she picked up a book and decided to read. She was tired but determined to see Rory when he returned. When her clock chimed ten, she rose from her chair and tiptoed to the door adjoining their chambers. She hadn’t heard the carriage return, but Rory must be back now. She put her hand to the door handle, but nothing happened. The door was locked.

Genevieve tapped on the door, waited, tapped again. No one answered. She donned her robe then, seeing the torn tie, found a wrapper instead and made her way downstairs to the library. The house was dark, and the library empty. Genevieve went back to her chamber and, feeling like an idiot now, tapped on the adjoining door again. She could hear movement inside, but Rory didn’t come to the door.

Genevieve went back to bed and lay awake for a long time, wondering if she’d done something wrong and hoping Rory might open the door and climb into bed beside her. Finally, she fell asleep, convinced she was making too much of it all and everything would be fine in the morning.

But everything was not fine that morning, or that day, or the one after that. Rory was definitely avoiding her. She saw him, but he kept their interactions formal and public. When she tried to speak to him alone in the library, Gables barred her passage. Chaffer seemed to always be in Rory’s bedchamber. Genevieve found it increasingly difficult to believe she hadn’t done something, but she was mystified as to what that might be.

At least Rory wasn’t shutting his daughter out. Genevieve had spent several hours with Mrs. Mann and the cook, discussing household changes she wanted to make, and when she returned, she found Rory had taught Frances chess and the two were playing. The next day, he took her to the stables, where a pony waited for her. The rest of the day was spent giving the girl riding lessons.

Finally, five days after their marriage, Genevieve and Frances were playing hide-and-seek. Frances was seeking, and Genevieve hid in the upstairs closet. She immediately realized her mistake. This was the closet where she’d first kissed Rory. She had been trying the past few days not to think about him, but now she couldn’t help but remember the night they’d spent together. For a few hours she’d thought their marriage might be more than a formality so Frances might have a mother and Rory wouldn’t have to worry about the child any longer. But now he spent more time with his daughter than ever, and no time with Genevieve.

Well, she needn’t have worried about marriage usurping her independence. She could practically pretend she wasn’t married at all.

She heard footsteps along the corridor and tensed for discovery, but the footsteps were too heavy to be Frances. Genevieve eased the door open a sliver and spotted Rory coming down the corridor, a moment away from passing the closet. He was looking at a paper in his hand and not paying attention to where he was walking. Before she could change her mind, she reached out, grasped his arm, and tugged him inside, closing the closet door behind him.

“What the devil?” he said.

Genevieve couldn’t believe her attack had actually worked. If he had been paying attention, he would have resisted, but he’d been inside the closet before he knew what was happening. “Shh!” Genevieve said, positioning herself against the door. “Frances is seeking me, and I don’t want to be caught.”

Rory stiffened, seeming to realize he was inside the closet with Genevieve…his wife. “I’m not playing.”

“I don’t need you to play. I want to speak to you.”

“We can speak outside of the closet.” He tried to move her aside, but she stood firmly in front of the door.

“No, we can’t. You have been avoiding me, and I want to know why,” she whispered.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Ha! Not too busy to buy Frances a pony or teach her chess. Did I do something wrong? Tell me, and I won’t do it again.”

He sighed. “Genevieve, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

He was lying. He had to be, because something had changed from the day after their wedding until now. “I was too forward, wasn’t I? Too wanton.”

“No. Genevieve—”

Silence.

That silence said it all, and her belly tightened. She’d considered every possible reason for the sudden distance between them, and it seemed the worst was true. “You realized you made a mistake marrying me. You should have married someone of your own station.”

“No.” He slid his hands up her arms and back down again. “No, that’s not it.”

“Someone prettier, then? Or more demure?”

“No.” He cupped her face with his hands. “You’re beautiful, and I don’t like demure.”

“Then what is it? Why don’t you want me anymore?”

“Genevieve.” His voice was full of anguish, and the depth of it surprised her. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers. “I do want you. I want you so badly that every time I see you it hurts not to touch you.”

Genevieve’s breath caught and her heart stumbled. “I want you too.” She wrapped her arms about his neck. “Rory—”

But his mouth was on hers, cutting off her words. He yanked her against him, lifting her so she was off the ground. She wrapped her legs around him, and he pressed her against the door. Her back hitting the wood made a thump, and she froze. “If Frances heard that—”

Rory groaned. “If she finds us like this, she’ll have even more questions.” He gave her a quick kiss and set her down. Genevieve understood what he meant now when he said it hurt not to touch. Now she hurt not touching him. “Rory, can we please—”

“Mama Genevieve!” Frances called. “Where are you?”

“Mama Genevieve?” Rory asked.

“We haven’t decided what she’ll call me yet. She’s trying this one.”

“I’d better go before she finds us.” This time he picked her up and moved her away from the door. He was out before Genevieve could say another word. Alone again, she had more questions than she did before.

But she knew one thing for certain: Rory still wanted her.

*

Frances was supposed to play in the nursery. Papa had returned from his trip with a tiny tea set packed in a pretty, velvet-lined case. The set contained two cups, two saucers, a sugar bowl, a creamer, and a teakettle. Mama Genevieve told her the set was made of porcelain and the little pink roses were hand painted. Frances enjoyed arranging the set on her table so she and Harriet could have tea. Marcella had to watch because there were only two cups. Frances was in the midst of once again arranging her tea set on the table when Mrs. Mann—Frances liked to think of her as Mrs. Mean —came into the nursery with a question for Mama Genevieve. Now that Miss Genevieve had married Papa and become Mama Genevieve, Mrs. Mann had questions for her all the time.

Mama Genevieve had told Frances to stay in the nursery and she would be right back. Frances had stayed in the nursery until she heard Mrs. Mean’s clomping footsteps go silent, and then she’d gathered Harriet in her arms and tiptoed downstairs. Ha! And Papa said she always sounded like a galloping horse. Now she sounded like a fluffy bunny.

One of the footmen was standing in the foyer near the door, but Frances put a finger to her lips. He raised his brows but nodded when he saw she was heading for Papa’s library. Outside the door, Frances pushed her spectacles up higher on her nose and shifted Harriet to her left arm. Then she did what she’d seen other people do: she rapped on the door and pushed it open.

Frances entered before she could lose her nerve. She’d only been in the library once or twice before. She wasn’t supposed to hide in there, but that meant if she did hide in there, no one ever found her. Before the fire, the library had a red couch and a white couch on a soft rug. Frances had sat on both couches, and she liked the white one better.

But she didn’t look at the couches now. She glanced at the desk and saw her father watching her with raised brows. He held a quill in his hand, and his hair was a bit messy, as though he’d forgotten to brush it when he woke up this morning. Sometimes Frances forgot to brush her hair, so she understood.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the nursery?” he asked.

Frances knew there was no right answer to that question, so she ignored it. “I have a question, Papa.”

He set the quill down and motioned for her to come closer. Frances did so. Two chairs were near his desk, and she set Harriet in one and hoisted herself onto the other. When she was settled, he had a hand over his mouth and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Go ahead,” he said. “What is your question?”

“Will you take me to see Mama?” she asked.

His hand dropped from his mouth and his eyes un-crinkled. “We talked about this, Frances. I know you’d like to believe she is in another kingdom, but that’s not true.”

Frances nodded. Part of her did still believe that her mother was queen of another kingdom and would send for her. But another part of her wondered why she hadn’t done so yet. What if the day of the accident, Mama had not been pretending to sleep when Frances looked over at her? What if…

“You said Mama was inside the fence at the chapel. Will you take me to see her there?”

Papa glanced at the window, and Frances did too. The day was cloudy, but it wasn’t raining. The last of the lilacs had been swept away by the wind and Mr. Bloom, and everything looked naked outside.

“I’ll take you,” he said, turning back to her. “Where’s your coat?”

Frances shrugged. Papa stood and went to the door. He called to the footman to fetch a coat for Miss Lumlee. Frances heard Mama Genevieve telling the footman where to find the coat, and she tensed. Now she would be scolded because she was not in the nursery. But Papa said something to Mama Genevieve, and she didn’t come inside the library to scold her.

Frances hopped down from the chair and gathered Harriet in her arms. She walked to the library door and peered out from behind Papa. Mama Genevieve looked down at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you wished to talk to your father?” she asked.

Frances lifted her shoulders.

“Do not shrug,” her father said. “It’s unbecoming.”

Frances wasn’t sure what unbecoming meant, but she certainly did it often enough.

“Answer your…” He gestured to Mama Genevieve.

Frances looked up at her and took a breath. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Why would my—Oh, because you want to see your mama? That doesn’t hurt my feelings. You should see her grave, sweetheart.” She knelt down and gave Frances a hug. Frances liked the way Mama Genevieve smelled. She didn’t smell like Mama, but it was still a nice smell.

“I wanted to tell her I still love her,” Frances whispered.

Mama Genevieve hugged her tighter. “I think that’s a very good thing to do.” She pulled back. “Don’t ever think I want you to stop loving your mama. Love isn’t like cake, you know.”

Frances glanced at Papa to see if he understood what Mama Genevieve was talking about. He shrugged, but she didn’t think now was the time to remind him that it was unbecoming.

“What I mean is,” Mama Genevieve continued, “love isn’t finite. Once you eat all the cake, it’s gone. But you can never run out of love. I think you have enough for your mama, your papa, Harriet, Admiral, even me.”

Frances nodded and held Harriet out. “Will you watch her while I go to the church?”

Mama Genevieve took Harriet in her arms. “Of course. Here’s your coat now.”

The footman helped her put it on, and Mama Genevieve tied her hat on. Then Papa took her hand, and they left the house and walked toward the church.

Frances had the song about the Baa Baa Black Sheep in her head, so she sang it as they walked. Her Papa sang along, and she laughed at how he sang “b-a-a-a” and sounded like a sheep.

Finally, they reached the chapel, and Papa brought her to the little wrought-iron fence. Frances felt her heart pounding, but she allowed Papa to lead her inside and to a gray, rectangular stone sticking out of the ground. He hunched down in front of the stone and looked at her. “Can you read that?”

Frances nodded. “‘Harriet Eugenie Dowling,’” she read. “What’s that word?”

“Devoted,” he told her.

She nodded. “‘Devoted wife and mother.’ What are the numbers?”

“This is when she was born. See, it’s the fourteenth of December, 1787. This is when she died—the twenty-third of February, 1814.”

Frances looked around. “You said she was here. I don’t see her.”

“She’s under the stone,” he said. “After the accident, we brought her and your baby brother here. The vicar prayed for them, and then we buried the bodies and marked this special place.”

“Do you think she is scared under the ground? She might be afraid of the dark.”

Papa sighed and rubbed Frances’s back. “She isn’t with us anymore, sweetheart. It’s only her body. Her spirit—the part of her that was alive—went to heaven to be with God.”

Frances considered this. “The Kingdom of Heaven?” she asked.

“That’s right. Sometimes we call it that.”

“So she is in a kingdom.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Frances sat down on the ground and sighed. “I was hoping she was sleeping.” She picked a piece of grass and tossed it down. “When the carriage went upside down and around, I was scared. The baby was crying before the accident, but everything was so quiet afterward. I could hear the drip of the rain, and it was falling on my face. I looked over at Mama, and her eyes were closed. She looked so pretty.”

Her Papa took her hand, holding it tightly.

“Her hair was floating in the water, and she looked like she was sleeping. I found her hand, and it was cold. My hand was cold too, but not as cold as hers.” She looked at Papa. “Is it cold under the ground?”

He shook his head. “She’s not cold anymore.”

Frances sighed again. “I miss Mama,” she said, feeling the sting of tears and then tasting the salt of one as it rolled down her cheek and past her lips. “I don’t want her to be dead.”

“Neither do I, sweetheart.” Papa took her in his arms, and she cried against his shoulder until she didn’t have any more tears left.