13. In Which Grace Might Crumble to Dust

Grace raced into the library, where Aunt Amelia sat at the table, discussing something logistical with Luke, who stood with an opalescent pink snake in a jar tucked under his arm.

They both looked up, startled—Grace was moving so quickly, and the look on her face must have been alarming. They both immediately looked concerned. Which made her giggle.

By the time she got to the table, she was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Tears welled up and ran from the corners of her eyes.

Amelia watched, nonplussed. Luke looked intrigued. “Dear?” Amelia said. “Sit.”

“I’ve ... ” Grace dashed away the tears. She most certainly could not sit, yet. “I shall contain myself. I cannot believe I didn’t think of it, Auntie. Look at his estate. Look at this room .” She gestured to the elegant spiral of illuminated painting on the ceiling. “I knew this ceiling was trying to tell me something. Everything Bexley did was about it.”

Grace emptied the little sack on the table. And waited to see if they understood.

Luke clearly did not, but he was watching her with unconcealed fascination.

“He spoke of beauty, all the time. Did he not?” Grace directed the question to Luke, who nodded. “And what did he say to you about it?”

“Many things. That it was an integral component of the whole, in all of nature.”

“ Look .” Grace flipped the shell, to expose the chambers.

“A nautilus,” Luke said, still not comprehending her excitement.

“No—yes —but I mean the mathematics, ” Grace managed, barely, b ecause the tears were welling over again and excitement had bound her chest, aggressive as too-tight stays.

Amelia s hot her niece a quizzical look. “Do you mean Fibonacci, dear?”

“ Yes. Spira mirabilis . ” She looked to Luke. “It’s an equation, very simple, elegant—”

His eyes lit with understanding. “ Liber Abaci , published 1202, I’m not a complete illiterate, Miss Chetwood. Do you mean to say—”

“It will give us our key. At least, I believe— hope so. All of these—the curl of the fern, the pine cone’s spikes, the chambers of the nautilus—logarithmic spirals, all in the golden ratio, which somehow always has the effect of rendering things exquisite to the eye. And it’s everywhere in nature, and on this ceiling, and in the garden outside Bexley Hall, and—we need fresh foolscap and ink at once ... ”

Amelia, looking genuinely impressed, rose to her feet and, muttering that she’d had the supplies moved to a newly-rebuilt closet, left the room to gather what Grace needed.

Grace stood there, flushed and damp and giddy. And at the same time, intolerably anxious. “I think if I am wrong, I might crumble to dust,” she whispered.

“Chetwood,” he said in a lightly scolding tone. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, old chum.”

She felt herself smile, charmed by his ridiculous man-to -man tone.

And then she was abruptly lightheaded, and sat in the nearest chair as quickly as possible.

“ Grace ,” Luke said, sharply, and rounded the table.

“I’m all right.” She wasn’t. The room was tilting like a drunkard. She hadn’t slept enough in days. Hadn’t eaten since—was it sometime yesterday? And then there was ... everything. The cipher. Philip’s illness. Trying not to recall what Luke’s hand had done to her under this very table ... his mouth, in the solarium ...

Panic rose in her throat. It felt rather as though everything solid was turning to water and cascading down the walls.

Luke was kneeling in front of her chair, now. “Look at me.”

She couldn’t. She couldn’t even take a proper breath.

Charlie. Philip. Luke. Luke. Luke.

“Grace,” he said, quietly. “Breathe with me a moment, won’t you?”

“Can’t,” she whispered. Tears, again. Lord mercy, she was a mess.

“Of course you can.” He took her hands in his. “You can save a museum, I am confident you can take a breath.”

He leaned closer till his forehead was touching hers. And inhaled slowly, inviting her to do the same.

Her body locked against it. She couldn’t. She couldn’t.

He stayed as he was. Breathing. He moved his hands to her face, holding it, running his thumbs over her wet cheekbones. Slowly. Steadily.

Feeling it, the warmth of his breath, the pressure of his forehead against hers, the glide of his thumbs, everything began to slow, just slightly, just enough.

She inhaled shakily, and managed to fill her lungs.

“Knew you had it in you, Chetwood,” he murmured. “Again, if you would?”

She nodded. The room seemed to be steadying around her.

He stroked a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not sure you realize how hard you’ve pushed yourself.”

She felt a flare of indignation. “Precisely hard enough,” she pointed out, but her voice was unsteady, small. “I—for Charlie ... ” The rawness of it stole her breath. “Oh, God. I cannot fail him. After all he did for me, I cannot —”

“Breathe.” He lifted his head from hers, to meet her eyes. “He would be proud of you.”

“Stop, we do not even ... know if ... it will work—”

“He would be moved that you tried until you fell bloody over. I’m taking you to bed, Grace,” he said, then heard himself. “Not in that way.”

“No— no, I need to try the—”

“For God’s sake,” he snapped. “Two quantities exist in the golden ratio if their ratio is equal to the ratio of their sum to the larger of the two quantities. A is to B as A add B is to A. I may not be as quick as you, princess, but I paid attention in school. Can you walk to your room or will I carry you?”

Aunt Amelia had gasped when she returned to find her niece half in Luke Ashburton’s arms, but recovered when she realized the swoon was constitutional rather than sensual in nature. She reprimanded Grace for failing to look after herself as Luke walked them to Bexley Hall, Grace’s arm in his, steadying her.

As they arrived to Grace’s room, she explained three ways of using the ratio to create a key, then all but pushed Luke out the door to get to work. “Send word at once if I am wrong,” she pleaded. He promised, and left, with a last look that she felt like a caress on her cheek.

Amelia briskly saw to Grace—had the kitchen send up a plate, brought brandy and a stack of books from the earl’s collection. “Something to occupy you as you rest.”

“I wish to return to the library once I’ve—”

“You will return in the morning,” her aunt told her. “Mr. Ashburton has it in hand. You will eat. The maid will prepare a bath. And you will sleep.”

Grace would have argued, but her brain felt heavy and spent. She felt her eyes water. “I wanted to be there to see it work.”

“But it will work, and that will have to do.”

Grace looked to her aunt, surprised. “You sound certain.”

Amelia shrugged imperiously. “All females of our family are exceptionally keen of mind. Despite your frivolity, you are no exception. Now rest,” Amelia concluded. “And do for once try to limit your weeping and hysterics.”

Grace felt far more herself after she’d eaten. The exhaustion hit her then, but she could not imagine sleeping before she heard word about the cipher. So, instead, she’d have that bath. She looked through the books Amelia had brought, and discovered On Winged Species. Written by Luke Ashburton.

She brought it with her to the bathroom.

In the field, we seek the rare and elusive. As with any endeavor that might transform us, patience is everything.

Was that the core of the man? Some preternatural patience that Grace did not possess? Was that what enabled him to stand and walk away from a woman eager to give him pleasure, even with her taste still in his mouth?

Stop. Luke Ashburton is not a cipher. You are not here to solve him.

But she could not stop herself from seeking clues to the man in the writing. She’d been reading for perhaps ten minutes when she heard Aunt Amelia scratch at the door.

“Yes, Auntie, I’m in the tub,” she called.

“Denton sent me, Chetwood.” Luke. Gruffly formal, solicitous. “He wanted you to know all proceeds apace.”

Her heart lifted as though it suddenly weighed nothing. “It—is working, then?”

“Perfectly. Your aunt is even now transcribing it all in her lovely penmanship for the displays. We have it.”

She felt the relief all through her. She slid down into the tub on a l augh of victory, letting the water splash around her.

“You sound better.” His voice was quiet, close against the door. She could hear him shift, and imagined him leaning against the doorframe. And then, even softer, “You had me worried.”

Why did hearing him say that make her throat sting? “It was only ... an overwhelming moment. I must thank you for ... ” For brushing my hair from my face. For pressing your forehead to mine. For looking at me the way you looked at me. “For your kind attention.”

“It was easy to provide.”

He sounded so offhanded about it. As though guiding a vertiginous, sleep-deprived , grieving woman away from panic really were the most natural thing in the world. “You are a bit of a marvel, you know,” she told him. “You have worked days longer than I, just as intensely, with less rest. And yet you’ve maintained a startling equilibrium.”

“I am not always so calm as I appear, I assure you,” he said. She heard him clear his throat. “I don’t wish to set your mind to racing, but I ought to tell you, one mystery remains.”

“Oh?”

“The four journals yielded easily. The small one, however ... still gibberish. All the information needed for the exhibit seems to be in the others. The last is some other project, or perhaps a personal diary.”

Grace couldn’t help feeling intrigued. “Would you mind bringing it to me? My aunt is very insistent I not return to the library tonight.”

A small pause. “I have it here.”

Oh.

She should not. Under no circumstances should she invite him to open the door to hand her the book.

“Slide it under the door,” she said.

Another pause. “It’s too thick.”

Images assailed Grace’s mind. Luke in the open door, his angular figure against the doorframe. One fingertip gliding absently across the woodgrain. Those gray-blue eyes, on her, here, now, in the water.

Don’t be softheaded.

“I’ll leave it here by the door for you.”

But ... why not transgress, exactly? They were alone in the house. She was already quite nude. And she wished to. “Wait. Luke—”

“Miss Chetwood.” He cut her off before she could ask it. “I ought to go.”

“Is it ... because of Miss Cora Kendall Worthing?” She’d meant to make it teasing. But the words emerged with a sharpness.

“Yes. There’s also St. George.”

She gave a laugh. “The way you say his name. You do not much care for him.”

“I despise him.”

“Then why trouble yourself? Besides, I believe this is about fairn ess. Twice, you’ve—”

“Helped with the work,” he finished. “You owe me nothing. You saved the exhibition. I remain entirely indebted to you.”

“Are you afraid of me? Is that it?”

That earned a thoughtful pause. “It’s not fear.”

“Then—would it be so very traumatic to—”

“It would be what I’ve thought of every night and every morning.” His voice was level, but she could detect an edge. “It would be what I’ve wanted since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Ashburton ... forgive me, but you sound tense.”

He blew out an exhale. “You cannot imagine.”

“I could help. A bit more directly than by dint of some memory, or—kerchief.”

He gave a low chuckle. “You know, it’s shocking to consider how frequently I’ve had to see to myself this week. The sheer distraction of you. You live in my mind ... very vividly.”

Her belly tightened, hearing it. “When you say those things, it makes me ... ”

She did not realize she’d trailed off until, quietly, he echoed, “Makes you ... ?”

“Makes me long to watch you do it. You are not the only one who enjoys observing.” She expected he might chuckle again, but no sound came. She thought he must be listening intently. “I’d like to se e you in your pleasure. I find myself wondering what you look like, sound like when you give yourself over to it. It’s ... I imagine there would come a point when I would nee d to touch myself. Seeing you like that.”

On the other side of the door, he hissed out an exhale. And then there was a long silence.

It only then occurred to Grace that she was not blushing. Perhaps because he could not see her. Or perhaps, something deeper had changed, and she simply felt no embarrassment speaking the words. They were the truth.

“Grace.” His voice was low, now. Thicker. “No one has ever made me feel like this.”

“Then let me help.”

He sighed. “I cannot.”

“A few moments of—”

“It won’t be a few moments. I won’t be able to stop .”

Should she say she’d stop? She wasn’t sure she could either.

“You are not some simple thing one has their fill of in an h our or a day. It would not feel finished. It would not be finished. Believe me, it is far easier if we simply do not begin.”

Grace hated hearing it. And, it made sense.

“Miss Worthing will attend the opening. The following day, I will propose. I won’t pretend I haven’t behaved abominably in a thousand ways. I can’t even pretend I regret any of it. I will think of you, under the stars ... for a long, long time. But I don’t want to harm either of us any further.”

“I wish ... ” she sighed. “I wish you were slightly more villainous than you are.”

“As do I.”

A moment between them. Listening to each other breathe on either side of the door.

“I shall leave the journal. I bid you goodnight.” Then, softer, “Rest, Grace. Sweet dreams.”