Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (13 page)

Stubbornly, Claire crossed her arms in front of her. She noticed Abella’s crying had ceased — the better to eavesdrop. Keeping her voice low, Claire said, “She tried to cause me serious harm. I have nothing to apologize for.”

“Nonsense. The girl said it was an accident.”

“But it wasn’t.”

Mrs. Gower dragged her further down the hall, forcing her to uncross her arms. “I am warning you, Lord Monroe will not choose between you and his ward. If you war, your reputation as a troublemaker will precede you. Do not shame yourself.”

“I’m not the cause of strife.”

Without listening, Mrs. Gower pivoted her toward Abella and landed an angry shove between her shoulder blades. “Go.”

There the girl stood, pitifully snuffling, eyes red with lamentation. All Claire could think was how thoroughly she’d enjoy slapping those moist cheeks. How could she possibly find the strength to apologize to Abella by the time she reached her at the far end of the hallway?

“Forgive me,” Abella cried, racing straight at her. The girl threw herself at Claire’s feet — a crumpled mass of black hair and white cotton. “I should have run to stables for help. They farther than west wing, but still … or maybe down to garden. They be someone in garden who help. I so sorry.”

It was all Claire could do to keep from kicking her. Between clenched teeth she muttered, “Please don’t fret, Abella. All’s forgotten.”

“Truly, you so dear to me,” the girl cried. “You my hope. You my salvation. If I no sing in London, I die here and no one ever hear me. You see burden of my talent? This voice drive me mad day and night. I no rest until I have audience — great audience with noblemen and ladies of court. Please, please Lady Claire, let me find rest.”

The girl gripped Claire’s ankles and sobbed, her delicate shoulders heaving with grief.

Claire attempted to pull her wine-stained dressing gown from Abella’s hands. “Rise. There’s no need to prostrate yourself.” She reached under the girl’s arms and tried to lift her. But Abella had not finished her scene. Stiff and heavy, Claire couldn’t budge her. Tears dripped on Claire’s vinegar-soaked slipper.

“Give me remedy now and I drink it by the jug,” Abella wailed. “Help me.”

Mrs. Gower’s lips pursed. “You don’t want to consume that nonsense.”

“But I do,” said the girl, her voice quavering as she rose from the floor. “I want be well, and Lady Claire is only one who can help me.”

“But it’s all just roots and dirt … ”

“I no listen to you,” Abella clapped her hands over her ears. “There must be something help me in this medicine.” Eyes wide, she backed away like a frightened beast. “Vav will make her give me remedy.”

No doubt believing Abella would run to Flavian and ruin the match, Mrs. Gower waddled after the girl. “Poor little thing,” she cooed, “of course Lady Claire can help you.” The chaperone produced a handkerchief from her bosom and dabbed at Abella’s eyes.

“Take a deep breath,” Claire advised, taking one herself as her emotions clanged like a warning bell.

Calmer now, Abella sailed over and took Claire’s hand. Her fingers were moist and hot. “You bring me medicine? My voice … I so worried about my voice, I didn’t want to drink potion before … but it no hurt sound,
si
?”

“The herbs will soothe you. Your voice will be fine.” Abella might have changed her mind about taking the remedy, but Claire was hardly in the mood to administer it.
Holly berries
. The chit had sickened the household with holly berries then blamed her. She’d ruined her with the staff and then nearly crushed her with a barrel.

Yet, if the herbs did work, perhaps Abella would find sanity. Perhaps there would be harmony between them, and whatever troubled Flavian would disappear. How could she give up a chance for more of his masterful kisses? How could she live without his admiring gaze, his broad shoulders, his muscles, etched in the moonlight? The words came slowly, but Claire said, “Would you like to meet me in the breakfast room?”

Face glowing like a child’s at Christmas, Abella held her hands up as if in prayer, “Oh,
gracias
.”

• • •

Simmons poured a cup of coffee and placed it on the round side table next to a wing chair by the window. “And there’s a note, my lord,” the valet said, passing a folded scrap of paper with the distinct scrawl of the estate steward on the exterior.

“Do you know, there is nothing worse than sharing one’s morning coffee with a message from Betteridge-Haugh,” Flavian said, sighing as he unfolded the note.

“I apologize, my lord,” Simmons said, brushing the shoulders of Flavian’s jacket before helping his master into it.

“It’s hardly your fault, but whenever Betteridge-Haugh needs me before noon, it always means something expensive.”

Flavian perused the letter. “Ah, here it is. ‘The hay wagon collapsed under the weight of stones the men were clearing to expand the horse pasture.’ Either we’ll need a new hay wagon by the harvest, or we can try to repair this one again. He’s got a list here of all the items that would need replacement. Sixteen in total.”

Slapping the message into his lap, Flavian stared gloomily out the window, a fist tucked under his chin.

“Will we be shaving this morning, my lord?”

“It’s as bloody expensive to repair the wagon as buy a new one,” Flavian said.

Simmons hovered at his shoulder. “Perhaps I could summon your secretary?”

A sour grunt was all Flavian could manage. “I know what his advice will be, and I just can’t do it anymore, Simmons. We already owe too much.”

• • •

When Claire entered the breakfast room late, due to the time it took to rid her skin of the smell of vinegar and dress hundreds of holly pricks, Flavian scarcely mumbled good morning. Instead, he clutched his newspaper and tipped the corners of his mouth in a smile containing little warmth. The black wall was back between them, and it made her so indignant she could spit. For all of his amorous kisses and fondling the night before, he’d turned to granite again. She wanted to scream and throw china and shout that Abella poisoned the household and then tried to maim her. Instead, she slapped her napkin in her lap, silently poured a measure of the remedy into a glass, and placed it at Abella’s empty seat. Within a few minutes, Abella charged in. She went swiftly to her place at the table, and with an efficient, determined air, drank the bitter brew without saying a word.

Did Flavian notice her agitation or that his ward just swallowed a glassful of remedy? Claire couldn’t tell. The newspaper seemed to be the only object capable of holding his interest. Even Abella seemed subdued by her guardian’s forbidding mood. Despite the tension, Claire pantomimed a typical morning at breakfast, accepting a golden-topped Sally Lunn bun from the footman.

Flavian snapped a page back, folding it over as if it were an object he’d lost all patience with. The uncomfortable silence grew. Claire’s Sally Lunn bun might as well have been sawdust for all the taste it provided. She found she needed copious amounts of chocolate just to swallow.

As the silence grew, so did her outrage. Did he blame her for dancing beneath the moon or for letting him kiss her, and then kissing him back?

She studied his profile, searching for dislikable qualities; for example, the careless way his hair curled on his forehead, lacking pomade or other serious attention. Actually, she appreciated that. Dandies were too self involved for her taste. Ah, but his eyebrows thickened as they curved to the bridge of his nose. Yes, everyone’s brows did that, but this morning his did it to excess, and that was not attractive, nor was his mouth, flanked by folds of flesh like commas this day. And his shoulders were bunched together, reminding her of a dog’s tail tucked between its legs. Guilt. That’s what his features conveyed, which only made her madder.

She ripped off a snippet of Sally Lunn bun and dropped the rest back on the plate.

At that moment, Mrs. Gower burst into the room and simultaneously sneezed. “
Lawks
, that’s the first one of the morning, and here comes the second.” The woman walked into a beam of sunshine alive with dust motes. “
Achoo
!”

“God bless you,” they all said at once. Abella started to giggle and magically, the tension broke.

“They’re writing about William Lambert again — the cricket player who sold a Nottingham, All-England game last season,” Flavian announced.

“I’ll have the kippers and the eggs and the ham to start,” Mrs. Gower instructed a footman. “
Ooo
, Sally Lunn buns! Just put three on the plate.”

“That Willie Lambert did nothing of the kind,” the chaperone continued. “I’ve seen him play, and he’s a decent, honorable man.”

Flavian scanned the page. “The gossip columnists are after Lord Beauclerk. They say the season is ruined because his lordship accused Lambert just to settle an old score. I shouldn’t like to wear that gentleman’s boots in London about now.”

Abella peered over her cup of chocolate. “These matches, they be in London, Vav? I go with you.”

“I’m not planning a trip.”

“Oh,” she whispered, and blew over the hot chocolate. “Vav, you know, I took full dose of Lady Claire medicine?”

Flavian lowered the paper, the commas disappeared around his mouth, and his brows rose. “Did you?”

“I take from now on.”

Mrs. Gower patted Abella’s hand. “Isn’t she a wonder? What harm would a little trip to London do?”

He lifted the paper again. “Let’s see what the medicine does, and then I’ll make my decision.”

The girl lowered her eyes, no expression on her usually animated features. Was that the effect of the brew, Claire wondered, or could Abella be up to something? Though she tried to dismiss it, a niggling fear seeped into her consciousness.

As if making up her mind to something, Abella tossed her napkin on the table and stood. “Come hear me sing. Bring your breakfast — I serenade you.” She laughed like a peal of church bells. Planting a kiss on Flavian’s cheek, she dashed from the room.

He watched her go. “Please bring our plates into the conservatory,” he instructed the footmen.” When Claire rose to leave, he held up a finger indicating she should wait. “How did you ever get her to drink your remedy?” he asked as the last servant departed. “This morning she said you hated her.”

Claire’s jaw dropped. “We had an incident that I wished to … ”

“It was nothing, my lord,” Mrs. Gower quickly interjected, “the girls are the best of friends. Come. Let’s hear our mourning dove
coo
.”

He seemed to be considering Claire’s answer. “Are you certain nothing happened? Abella can be mischievous.” The brown in his eyes deepened with concern as he took Claire’s hand, rubbing the top with his thumb. Like the sudden stop of a rainstorm, her rage drizzled away. Basking in the warmth of those eyes, she could not bring herself to risk his love. Unable to lie, she shook her head,
no
.

“Then lead the way, Mrs. Gower,” Flavian said, folding the newspaper.

Before trundling out the door, the chaperone locked eyes with Claire. The warning could not have been plainer if she’d shouted it:
Don’t say a word about Abella or the barrel of wine.

Claire stood, but Flavian pressed his hand over hers. He waited until Mrs. Gower’s footsteps faded down the passage. “Tell me truly what passed between you and Abella this morning.”

She sat. His eyes were pinched with worry. To buy time, Claire fussed with the arrangement of silverware on her breakfast plate. “The tower is overrun with rats; it’s disgusting.” The words sounded bitter, like an accusation. Her mind may have forgiven his cool mood, but her heart clearly had not.

“Were you there this morning?”

She nodded.

“You’re wondering how I could allow Abella to sustain such a place.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. All the blood drained from his face. “I told her to collect things in memory of her brother. The tower is my fault.”

“But vermin?”

“Her family was unspeakably cruel to her. Hernando wrote saying his father, the Caballero de Vargas Duarte, beat her for the slightest transgression. He threw plates of food in her face when he wasn’t starving her or shutting her in a closet. Eight-years-old and hated by everyone except Hernando. He begged me to take her. He wrote to me, saying, ‘If you’ve any love for me, or feel a touch of gratitude that I saved your life, you will help Abella.’” He cleared his throat. “The difficulties Hernando underwent to get a child out of Spain and to England in 1811 — I’ve still little understanding of how he accomplished it. Yet there she was, alone on the quay — a little girl sitting on her trunk — rain soaking her light Spanish shawl. A more thoroughly abandoned creature you cannot imagine.”

Claire shifted in her chair. “And she captured your heart then.”

He rubbed his eyes and in a husky voice continued, “When Hernando died, I promised her we’d build a shrine to him. Everything he needed in life, he would have in death.”

“You told her to collect torn clothes, rotting wine … ”

Flavian took a deep breath. “No. My idea was to have a bronze made of him standing amongst plenty — bronzed bags of grain, bronzed ammunition. The idea transformed Abella. It gave her a reason to live.” Flavian bit his lip. “Day after day she returned with … “ He shook his head. “At first she paid the locals to bring things for her collection. I cut off her allowance. Then she went collecting alone. I forbade her, but she sneaked out at night. The tower kept filling.”

A sudden fury seized Claire. “But how could you live so passively with the horror of that tower? The place is a filthy, rat-infested mess.”

Flavian balled his fists then removed them from the table. “You’ve a right to wonder, but don’t think I haven’t tried. We sent her to Brighton once. I had the servants scrub the place and we buried everything she’d collected. She screamed and screamed — deliberately trying to ruin her voice. Nothing calmed her, and then she contracted pneumonia. Out of desperation, her caregiver told her where we’d disposed of her collection. My God, Claire, she dug it all up.”