Six
T hat night, Claire couldn’t sleep. A sudden storm broke over the castle, rattling its windows and howling through its battlements. Yet she wasn’t kept awake by fearful noises, or even anxious prayers for the weather to clear by morning. No, though a tempest raged all around her, what disturbed her rest was the far more piddling occasion of a stomach ache.
Even worse, the stomach ache was her own fault. Having been too diverted to eat much at dinner, then too flustered to eat anything at teatime, she had thought to fortify herself with a cup of coffee, though she usually took only tea or chocolate. Now she felt shaky, empty, and sick.
Of course, one could lay part of the blame at Lord Milstead’s feet, for it was he who’d rendered her too flustered for teacakes. Taking her side immediately upon entering the drawing room, he’d stuck there like a burr the rest of the evening. In the course of which, just before tea was announced, he’d mentioned in passing the fact of his father having proposed to his mother at a Christmas party, with just such a meaningful look as Claire could hardly fail to understand.
She was very aware of the mistletoe dangling from the drawing room’s chandelier. And for the time being (at least), she was making sure not to stand under it.
For even though his pending proposal was no great surprise—even though he’d been invited here for just this purpose, and even though she’d already made up her mind to accept him—she couldn’t help feeling just a touch of panic.
Which was perfectly natural.
Right?
A proposal is a momentous event. Enough to make any woman nervous. It would be strange had she not felt so!
Although, come to think of it, she could not recall feeling any nervousness when Jonathan proposed. She remembered feeling excited, wildly in love, and so happy that her heart might actually burst out of her chest, or inflate like a hot air balloon and carry her to the clouds.
But not nervous.
Which was neither here nor there. In fact, likely this was further evidence that Jonathan was the wrong man for her. She must have known, deep down, that the marriage would never take place. Hence, no reason for nerves!
Such lines of reasoning relieved her feelings, but they did nothing for her sour stomach. After untold hours curled up in a tragic ball, she threw back the covers.
Her belly cried out for food, but having none to hand (alas, the fancy domed platters were for the guests, not the hosts), she would have to try other remedies. She walked up and down the room, cooled herself by the window, warmed herself by the hearth, and splashed water on her face—all to no avail.
At last, she stifled a groan. There was nothing for it: She needed to eat.
She lit a candle and slipped out into the dark and drafty corridor. Lightning streaked across its small, high windows as her feet, shod in her warmest slippers over two pairs of wool stockings, found their unerring way to the kitchen.
She wasn’t alone, because (unsurprisingly) Kippers had followed her. But upon entering the kitchen, she was startled to perceive another occupant in the space lit by just one dim candle.
Surely the poor scullery maid wasn’t still washing up?
No. The figure hunkered over the worktable was that of a man, garbed in a loosely tied dressing gown and nightcap. With dismay Claire recognized him by the thick, chestnut lock that escaped his cap to fall into his eyes. And with stupefaction she watched him continually sweeping it back, though the same lock would inevitably fall again a moment later due to the violence with which he shoveled food into his mouth.
As had been the case during their entire courtship, she found herself itching to touch that unruly lock.
Could anything be more ridiculous?
Unconsciously, her hand went up to close her own dressing gown tight at her throat. Despite having been moments from marrying this man (three agonizing times!), Claire had never appeared before him in a stitch less than full dress.
Not that she had anything new on display—rather the opposite. Swathed in her heavy winter nightclothes, there was no chance of exposing even a single bodily curve. Still, no man save her brother or late father had ever seen her in such a state.
Luckily, this particular man was too preoccupied to look. Before him lay a burlap parcel, ripped open, its contents spread across the table. Spare bits of pie, picked-over joints of meat, jars and canisters of stewed fish and vegetables…why, it was the remains of their dinner!
And over said remains stood Jonathan, gorging himself like a man half-starved.
Which, Claire supposed, he was. Hadn’t she and Elizabeth made sure of that?
Still unseen, Claire began to retreat. Could she gain the corridor without drawing his attention? She rather thought she could—and would —have succeeded, if not for the inconsideration of the step stool beside the doorway. She tripped, threw out a hand to catch herself, and caught instead a rack of copper pots, knocking several to the floor with a thunderous clamor that sent Kippers scampering away.
Jonathan leapt to his feet, brandishing an eating knife. “Who’s there?”
Claire stood blinking in the dark—and realized her candle had been lost and gone out amid the confusion. The room’s only light now came from Jonathan’s candle on the worktable. She was grateful for the cover of darkness that preserved her modesty.
But now she found it necessary to speak before he gutted her with the dull blade. “You know,” she said in her haughtiest tone, “that food parcel was intended for the poor.”
Though his face was hidden in shadow, his body let slip a little start of recognition. He set down the knife. Then he seemed to hesitate, silence stretching between them. Claire could not see his eyes, but she could feel their gaze on her, appraising her.
At last he reached into one of his dressing gown’s pockets, pulled out his money-book, removed several banknotes, and placed them beside the knife. “Shall this make recompense?”
Claire raised a brow at the generous denomination. “That will do.” Having nothing else to say, she turned to go.
“Claire—wait—won’t you join me?”
Incredulity brought her up short. “ Join you?” Aside from the impertinence… She looked pointedly at the table littered with crumbs, empty vessels, and used silverware. “Join you for what?”
“Er…” He began rooting in the burlap. “Ah! There’s still some bread, and”—unearthing a jar—“I saved you the prawns.” He presented them with an air of great chivalry.
Claire snorted. “A noble sacrifice.” Though prawns were her favorite, she knew Jonathan despised them.
While she continued to hang back, he bent to restart the banked fire in the kitchen’s big cast iron stove, then left the stove’s door open to add welcome heat and light. “I’ve something else for you, as well.”
“A fork?”
“No—well, yes.” He selected one and began polishing it with a fresh napkin. “But that’s not what I meant.” When the fork sparkled, he arranged it beside the bread and jar of prawns. “I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you alone, because I owe you an apology.”
Now he’d piqued her interest. Not that any sort of apology could melt her heart enough to forgive him, but it might be nice to hear, all the same.
She looked down at herself regretfully. “If I were decent…”
He chuckled. “You—the strange creature shivering in worsted wool last summer while we humans roasted in linen—not decent? You must be wearing four layers at least.”
Five, actually. She wore two shifts and a flannel dressing gown beneath her plush velvet one, plus a shawl wrapped round the whole. And she was still cold.
But she wasn’t about to admit as much aloud. Jonathan didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing he knew her so well.
However, he’d convinced her she wasn’t indecent. Feeling more comfortable (well, aside from being chilled to the bone), she found herself moving toward the table, drawn chiefly by the prospect of the warm fire and vindication, alongside, not inconsiderably, the temptation of buttered prawns.
In silence he watched her settle on a stool, uncork the jar, and begin eating.
An uneasy quiet reigned until Kippers reappeared, seemingly from nowhere, and nimbly leapt onto the table. No doubt he’d smelled the prawns.
“Down!” she said, not expecting Kippers to obey (as he never did). She threw a prawn on the floor, and he jumped down to devour it.
Finally Jonathan cleared his throat. “Where to begin?”
She held his gaze calmly, making no reply. She would not help him. Nor would she betray any hint of curiosity. Sangfroid was to be her byword.
She tossed Kippers another prawn.
Jonathan looked away, fiddling with the napkin. “It seems all too inadequate to say ‘you were right’ and ‘I’m very sorry’ but…well, there it is.”
She paused with the fork halfway to her lips.
I was right about what? she wanted to demand. Or perhaps seize Jonathan by the shoulders and shake the answer out of him. But her composure held. She placed the prawn in her mouth, chewed thoroughly, and swallowed before coolly responding: “I fear I don’t understand.”
“Ah. Right. I beg your pardon. No matter how many times I imagined this conversation, it was never quite—but that’s of no consequence.” He cleared his throat again, his evident discomfort eclipsed only by his painful earnestness. “Allow me to clarify: You were right about my mother’s deception, and I’m very sorry I didn’t believe you. I learned the truth when we arrived in Neuf-Marché, to find my grandmother not on her death bed and gasping her last.”
“I knew it!” Claire cried out, then choked on a mouthful of bread. She coughed and sputtered until Jonathan offered her a cup of something, which she gulped gratefully. When it burned a path down her throat, she realized it was brandy.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she returned the cup, her face hot enough that it must surely be red as a beet. “I—er—am pleased to learn the marquise is not ill.”
“Oh, she is ill,” he said matter-of-factly. “Consumption. But it’s not often quickly fatal, and she’s always had a strong constitution, so she seems likely to remain with us a few years more.”
“I see.” While Kippers rubbed against her legs until she gave him another prawn, Claire’s mind was busy reordering the facts. “Then…when the messenger came to Greystone last Christmas Day, he did bring news of the marquise’s illness? But your mother mistook the urgency of the case?”
“No, and no.” Jonathan grimaced. “I’ve no idea what news the messenger brought—and perhaps there was no news at all, its invention being part of maman’s ruse. Because she’d already learned of the diagnosis several weeks before. And, I assume, understood the lack of immediate danger, or she would have sailed to France much earlier.”
“She knew for weeks and kept it from you?” Claire watched as, apparently satiated, Kippers curled up near the stove and promptly fell asleep. “Why would your mother do that?” she asked. “Just so she could use it to stop our wedding?”
“Probably.” Jonathan shrugged. “But that’s just a guess. I know no details. After seeing grand-mère upright and catching wind of maman’s lies, I left. Hired the first chaise I could find and got as far away from her as I could. We haven’t spoken since.”
Claire felt surprise, and perhaps just a touch of triumph, at this turn of events. She wished she could have seen Jonathan’s defiance and his mother’s reaction. If the woman had hoped that sabotaging her son’s marriage and breaking two hearts in the process would result in keeping him all to herself, she must have been bitterly disappointed. Claire could not help reveling a little in her enemy’s comeuppance.
And she felt glad for Jonathan. Defying his mother was a great step forward.
For him, of course.
As far as Claire was concerned…well, she wasn’t. She had no concern regarding the matter at all. It was far too late for that. Had he rushed immediately from Neuf-Marché to her side, perhaps things might have been different…
“Where did you go after that?” she heard herself ask, abandoning all pretense of incuriosity.
“Paris,” he said ruefully. “To embark on the Grand Tour my dear maman was always too frightened to allow.”
In truth, most young men of their generation had eschewed the coming-of-age tradition of touring the continent—unless sent there to endure the horrors of French warfare. But a hopeful peace had endured four years now.
“Wait. No,” he suddenly added under his breath. “She said she was too frightened, but in fact she was merely set on keeping me by her side.” A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head in apparent disgust. “In any case, I meant to follow my father’s route. From Paris to Lyon, Marseille, then on to Genoa, Florence, Venice, and Rome.”
The picture of him flitting about Europe, traveling in the greatest luxury, days filled with vivid landscapes, palatial cities, ancient treasures—a sultry, buxom Italian lady on his arm—made her jaw clench.
“How splendid,” she said through gritted teeth.
He fixed her with a penetrating gaze, his deep blue, expressive eyes making her fear the imminence of an ill-considered disclosure.
Hoping to head it off, she continued hastily: “Which city was your favorite? Rome, I’ll wager, unless you stopped in Pompeii? Ah, you did! Splendid. You must have been in heaven among all those antiquities.” The ones they used to talk about seeing together in future, for Jonathan had always been fascinated by ancient history. “The temples and amphitheaters and—er—columns,” she heard herself babbling on. “How perfectly splendid.”
La, how many times had she said splendid?
She fell silent.
And still the expression remained in his eyes. She braced herself for a declaration.
But instead of professing his love, he said: “In point of fact, it wasn’t particularly splendid. It was sad. Since the war…” He shook his head. “The devastation on the continent is beyond imagining. I found it difficult to enjoy the sights when all around me I saw so much suffering. People are destitute. Their homes and livelihoods were ripped from them. They still suffer from disruptions to trade, heavy taxation, massively higher costs for everything…so much impact. Though they’re beginning to recover, they still have so far to go.”
“Oh!” Her cheeks burned. “Of course! I was not thinking. We English are like to forget—now the threat of invasion has passed—that the continent was not as lucky. How such scenes must have afflicted you.”
“Some did.” He shrugged. “But, truth be told, I did not dwell overmuch. My mind was otherwise occupied. Any momentary distraction could not but give way, and very soon, to thoughts of you.”
There it was: the confession she’d feared. His tender look made his meaning clear, and her expression must have betrayed the question roaring in her mind— Then why the dickens did you not come back? —since he answered as if she’d spoken aloud.
“I wanted to come back. I should have come in an instant had I any hope of winning you over once more. But I knew all hope must be in vain.”
Claire found that she was holding her breath. “How did you know?”
He gave her an odd look. “You told me so yourself. Have you forgot what you said to me in the carriage sweep? Wretched as I’ve been—difficult as it was to stay away—I was never so far beyond honor as to consider forcing my attentions upon a woman who had declined them so decisively. I have not forgot what you said.”
Nor had she.
Those words would be burned into her brain until her dying day, for she’d had ample time to rehearse them while Jonathan rushed about making all the arrangements for his departure. And as they’d parted ways in the snow-covered sweep, she’d delivered her speech with a quiet ferocity that had satisfied her pride—if nothing else.
“Should you go,” she’d told him, “you’re not to come back here. Not ever. Nor may you write to me, seek me out, or approach me in public. I never want to see you again.”
His eyes had pleaded with her. “You know I must go.”
“You’re choosing to go. You’re choosing her . And by the time you’ve seen your mistake, it will be too late. I’ll be lost to you forever. So make your choice now…and live with the consequences.”
Though tears had run down her cheeks, she’d held his gaze and refused to wipe them away. Let him see what his betrayal was doing to her. Let him—a man who abhorred nothing so much as the sense of having injured or imposed upon another—see all her naked grief and know he was the cause.
His face was contorted with guilt and remorse, and she wasn’t sorry for it. All she’d wanted in that moment was to hurt him as much as he was hurting her.
And she’d rather thought she was succeeding. He’d looked like she felt: as if his heart were cleaving in two. He’d even looked, for just a moment, as if he might change his mind.
But then an ear-splitting wail had commanded his attention, and he’d glanced over his shoulder. Behind him was the chaise, and in the chaise was his mother—bent over, hands hiding her face, sobs racking her body.
He’d made his choice. He’d climbed in and settled her little yapping dog on her lap.
And Claire was left standing in the snow, an icy wind stinging her wet cheeks.