Chapter 12

CHAPTER12

Iwoke early that next day, before the sun, before any of the guests—some of whom were still in the parlor, sleeping in a tangled mess of limbs and silk. My heart pulled remembering last night; it had been both delicious and painful.

I only knew one thing—I had to see Mr. Markham. I had to talk to him, had to touch him. He’d invaded my dreams and my waking mind—a thought would arise, only to be chased away by the memory of his lips on my skin, of his hardness slowly pressing inside of me. It was like a disease, falling in love with him, and it made me apathetic and anxious all at the same time.

I went down to the kitchen to find an early breakfast. Wispel was grumbling around a table, gathering eggs and onions into bowls. “No doubt going to sleep late again, not so much as a hint as to when they’ll want breakfast, and I’m not a magician, I can’t pull a full breakfast out of thin air at a whim.”

Whether she was complaining to me or I had simply arrived in the middle of an ongoing soliloquy, I didn’t know.

“Would it be okay if I had something to take with me for breakfast? I’m thinking of going outdoors to eat.”

Wispel shook her head. “You and the master, both up hours before the others, both wanting separate meals. There’s only one of me, you know, at least until the village girls get here to help with luncheon and supper.”

“Mr. Markham is already awake?” My heart jumped. I might be able to see him, alone and apart from any of the others. “Is he still in the house?”

“He also wanted to be outside. I think he had a letter to post in the village. Couldn’t get his valet to do it, like a normal master, oh no.” And despite her grumbling, Wispel pulled together a bundle of warm bread and hard cheese and two hard-boiled eggs.

I took the bundle gratefully, eager to get outside and find Mr. Markham. Wispel must have noticed, because she kept her hand on the food for a moment. “It does not do to follow men about,” she warned me. “The late mistress was much the same way before she married, and it only sowed unhappiness for her.”

For whatever reason, I didn’t feel defensive or chagrined—Wispel seemed kind enough in her intentions. I did, however, remember my conversation with Mrs. Harold yesterday—the one where she’d accused Mr. Markham of killing not one, but two wives.

“Thank you,” I told her, and then left the kitchens, my thoughts floating away from kisses in the dark and floating towards sabotaged saddles and gravestones. And so I turned my feet toward the village, knowing now where I’d go.

The lingering shadows seemed to hug the village church longer than any other building, and so the churchyard still had an air of night about it, even though the main street was now washed with the rosy oranges of dawn.

I walked through the sagging wooden lych-gate into the graveyard, picking my way around sunken graves and crooked gravestones, looking for a newer grave. I wanted to find Violet. It was something I should have done as soon as I’d come, but my thoughts and energy had been so occupied with her widower that I hadn’t. That surely made me a terrible cousin, but if she’d been alive, she might not have minded. Violet herself had always put men first.

The graveyard wrapped around the church, the grass impossibly green and the stones speckled with moss and lichen, and then I found Violet’s grave without even needing to scan the headstones. Mr. Markham was standing beside it, his eyes fixed on the stone, his hands behind his back.

I was unsure whether to approach or not, but then he said, without looking over at me, “Join me, Miss Leavold.”

I did, all the while thinking of Mrs. Harold and Wispel and their stories. Even though I craved his presence and his touch, I came around the other side of the grave, keeping my eyes on Mr. Markham.

“You look at me so warily,” he said, again keeping his eyes fixed on the stone. He gave the impression of someone who could see everything. “Are you worried I’m going to bite?”

I didn’t answer at first. It was strange having Violet’s grave actually before me, actually between us; it was strange and terrifying, but it felt inevitable as well. That we should be here in this gloomy place, staring at her name carved so cleanly into the white marble. Atop the plinth was a pale angel, her hands covering her face, her head bent, perhaps in sorrow or perhaps in shame.

Whose sorrow? Whose shame?

“Did you really laugh when you found her?” I asked Mr. Markham. “When you found Violet dead?”

He finally looked up, his face serious. “What are you talking about?”

“After Violet died, and you were the first to find her—I heard that you laughed.”

“No,” he said softly.

“No, you didn’t laugh?”

“No, I wasn’t the first to find her.”

The breeze blew through the yard and I shivered. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that there were footprints in the frost. Someone found her first and left her body there, without going to find help from anybody else.”

“And then you laughed?”

His eyes flashed. “What are you implying? That I was happy when Violet died? That’s a very sinister accusation, Miss Leavold.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said.

“Yet how carefully you keep your distance.”

Because you frighten me.And he did, in that moment. His anger was palpable, as was some darkness that roiled within him, and at the same time that a part of my brain signaled me to step backward, another part of me remembered that I was dependent on him for everything—for shelter and food and almost every portion of my well-being. I needed to remain sensible of that—that no matter how I loved him or how I feared him, I still relied on his goodwill and benevolence.

“I shouldn’t have disturbed you,” I said. “I’ll leave you now.”

“Don’t,” he said.

I chafed at the order, yet I obeyed.

“I want you here with me, Miss Leavold,” he said. “Violet was your family too. You should be able to pay your respects alongside her former husband.”

And so we stayed at the grave another ten minutes, me looking at Mr. Markham from underneath my eyelashes, watching his face as he traced the lines of the angel with his eyes. There was longing in his expression and pain too, and his shoulders, normally so broad and straight, were slumped, as if a great weight were pressing down on him.

“I made a mistake once,” he said. “And now its ghost will follow me forever.”

Violet.Was his mistake in killing her? Or marrying her in the first place?

He looked up, searching my eyes. “You have something of her right now, in your face. I can see her, as if she’s inside of you, wanting to speak to me.”

“I feel nothing but myself,” I said.

He came around the grave. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. And then a finger traced up my sleeve to my neck, running down my jaw to my chin, where he held my face as he examined me. “I believe it is only Ivy Leavold inside of here.”

For a moment, his face was mere inches from mine, and I could see every irregular fleck of pale jade in his bright green eyes. My body pulsed with heat, remembering last night.

“Would it be wrong of me to kiss you here?” he asked.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Then perhaps we should leave.” He offered me an arm, and I took it, only looking back at the grave once as we made our way back to the house.

* * *

“It’s supposedto be the party of the decade,” Adella was telling the dinner table. “We can’t miss it.”

“The Prince of Wales will be there,” Gideon added.

“Of course we’re going,” Molly said matter-of-factly. “It won’t be any trouble to get down there by Friday, certainly.”

“You’d want to leave tomorrow at the latest,” Mr. Markham said. “Give yourself two days for the journey—it will be easier.”

“You talk as if you aren’t coming with us, Jules.” Molly glanced over at me as she said it, as if it were my fault.

“I’ve been to the baron’s parties. Enough parties for a lifetime.”

“Perhaps you were at the wrong parties,” Silas said, grinning. “Because everyone knows that a hundred times would never be enough. And you haven’t been down to London in over two months—for all you know, your house there has been burgled and all the servants have given up on you ever coming back and left.”

Mr. Markham picked up his wine glass. “I doubt that.”

“Oh, do come with us,” Helene said. “Why would you stay here in this dreary old heap when we can stay at the Savoy and dance with royalty?”

“Thank you, Helene, but my mind is quite made up.” Our eyes met for the briefest of moments and then he looked back at the others. “I’ve left Markham Hall too unattended as of late, and I must set myself to my responsibilities. For a little while at least.”

I kept my gaze on my plate, trying not to give any indication of how happy this made me, that Mr. Markham was staying here, and that I would have him to myself once again.

Molly was clearly not pleased. “Don’t cloister yourself, Jules. It never makes you happy. You’re not meant to be stationary and domestic.”

“You know me not at all if you think that I am at risk of being domestic.”

She didn’t answer, but there was something sharp in her face as she turned to Charlotte and struck up a conversation. Something sharp and determined, and I knew that this seemingly small transgression of Mr. Markham’s would not be forgotten.

* * *

They left the next morning,in a flurry of trunks and carriages and frantic servants, the guests yawning widely and rubbing their eyes as they climbed into their conveyances.

I was kissed and petted by the women and given deep, stately bows from the men, and they all exclaimed over how much they would miss me while they were gone. I treated these sentiments politely but skeptically. I failed to see how they could form such an attachment to me in a matter of days, but perhaps some people were like that, seeking transient thrills and connections and people, and perhaps they really felt as if we had formed some sort of insoluble bond since they’d arrived. Then I flushed, remembering the night in the parlor, the lips and the hands, all stroking and caressing and rubbing, and the way I’d given myself over to it entirely, the pleasure and the fitful ecstasy of such intimate things.

Silas gave me a lingering kiss on the cheek. “Goodbye, pet,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you again.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing against my ear. “And I look forward to tasting you again.” He pulled back, his blue eyes burning, and my body warmed in response.

Then he gave a wide smile—all white teeth and charm. “That is, if Mr. Markham ever decides to share you again.”

“Don’t bother the girl, Silas,” Molly said, coming up to us. She looked very smart in a light blue traveling dress and matching bonnet.

“I’m not bothering her,” Silas said. “I’m making promises.”

“To the carriage.” Molly waved him off. “Honestly.” He gave me a bow and then left, the grin subsiding into something like a smirk, as if he were pondering a private joke.

Molly looked at me in that half-quizzical, half-razored way of hers. “We will be back after our stay in London, I’m sure,” she said. “It is so strange that Julian should stay home. Normally, he would never miss a chance to escape this place. I must conclude that it has something to do with you.”

“Mr. Markham makes his own decisions for his own reasons,” I said.

“Oh my dear,” Molly said. “You are so bad at hiding your feelings. Don’t be ashamed—I doubt you’ve had practice with it. I can see in your eyes that you want him and that he wants you. It will only be a matter of time now. But don’t forget what I told you—Julian Markham will make you his world, but only for a time. Are you strong enough to bear that kind of disappointment?”

“You know nothing of my strength,” I said. “And beyond that, it’s none of your business.”

She cocked her head at me. “I’m not your enemy, Ivy. You are young and not used to the games of adults. I only want to help.”

It was difficult for me to take her at her word when I could still hear the sounds of her and Mr. Markham together in my memory. “Then I should thank you for your consideration and courtesy.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “There’s no need to be so cold.”

Mr. Markham came over then, having supervised the loading of the trunks and hatboxes. “Miss O’Flaherty,” he said, inclining his head.

“Julian.” She raised her hand and he kissed it quickly and then dropped it.

“Safe journey,” he said and then placed a hand at the small of my back to guide me back to the door.

“See you soon,” Molly called as she climbed into the carriage. Mr. Markham didn’t answer, but I knew that he’d heard.

She gave me a smile through the carriage window as it rolled away, a smile both menacing and pretty at the same time, and I knew that whatever was between us would never be friendship. She had her own agenda, her own desires, and she was far more experienced than me at seeing her desires flower into fruit.

The last carriage creaked down the drive, and then it was only Mr. Markham and me. He gave me a look, long and intense, and he opened his mouth to speak, but then he turned back to the house and went inside. I remained in the courtyard, watching the trees blow in the summer wind, thinking of marble angels and Molly O’Flaherty.