"Plans?" he echoed casually, as if she talked of going on a mere jaunt to view the ocean.
"These plans need not concern you, my lord, other than to make you aware that I shall leave promptly after two weeks have passed." She folded her hands together, a gesture of finality.
"What if your wound remains unfit for travel?"
"Even so, I will go. All I require from you is information as to when the Post runs through Severn's Well."
"The Post, Elizabeth? I think not, not with a foot that requires coddling. You will make use of one of my coaches. I insist."
"You are very kind," Elizabeth said, trying to sound sincere, but it was difficult to be grateful when the look that suddenly crossed his face was strained. He looked ... distressed, but Elizabeth could not think why he should.
Still, this offer of a private coach was a boon, for heaven only knew how dreadful travel, while nursing an injury, would be on a Post coach.
Lord Greyleigh took a dismissing step backward. "Very good," he said crisply, still with an edge of agitation in his manner. "Good day, Elizabeth," he said over a swift bow.
The abrupt end of the conversation caught Elizabeth off-guard, but she managed a nod and a smile. "By the by, I do thank you, Lord Greyleigh, for rescuing me." It felt good to speak without reservation, without pretense. "I am aware I might have perished in that ditch had you not found me."
"From pneumonia perhaps, but otherwise your injuries would not have proven fatal, I think," he said in answer.
What curious light eyes he had. Although calm and seemingly benign in all his manners, those eyes seemed to place peculiar emphasis on any words he spoke. Elizabeth found herself searching for hidden meaning in the mildest of terms and for sinister meaning in such phrases as "proven fatal." This man made shivers course up her spine at unexpected moments; when she looked into those exotic eyes, it was easy to wonder if nature had whitewashed his eyes to match an emptiness in his soul.
"Yes, well," she said with a disconcerted little laugh. "Even so, I thank you, sir."
He inclined his head again, as he might in casual recognition of a common courtesy, and although nothing changed in his demeanor, it was at that moment that Elizabeth was convinced she had not been believed. Her thanks, yes, but not her claims as to a cure, as to having full possession of her wits.
There was something in Lord Greyleigh's aspect that she had seen before, in him, in herself, in Papa. It was a kind of genteel doubt, evinced usually through an avuncular laugh or a slide of the eyes or a nervous shrug. In Lord Greyleigh it was something to do with his eternally even tone, with the way he held his shoulders.
So he yet chose to believe she was not in her right mind—it mattered not. She was once again comfortable in her own truths, and she would be gone in two weeks—sooner if she thought it possible to travel safely before then. He had no reason to hold her here. No one in the village would blame him for letting her go, particularly now that she had no intention of maintaining a pretense of insanity. Even if he chose to continue to believe she was bewildered or even incoherent, the maids would see that she was neither mad nor dangerous. Once she was mended enough, she could be happily sent on her way, no threat to the community, no longer a burden to Lord Greyleigh's household. Greyleigh could believe her demented if he wished, but it would change nothing.
Still, when he bowed his way out of the room, Elizabeth was left with a sense of disappointment that he had not accepted her word that there was nothing wrong with her. Or perhaps dis-gruntlement was the better word. Either way, she was glad for the distraction of the one-eyed maid, Polly, arriving just then with a luncheon tray.
Chapter 6
Five minutes later, Gideon stood behind his library desk, staring down at the list he had been compiling. It was wasted work now—a list of places to inquire after an inmate's relations.
Though perhaps not wasted after all. Just because the girl claimed she "could not share" the name or locale of her family, it did not necessarily follow that he must not find such information for himself.
But why make the effort? She would be gone, escorted away by his own coach-and-four within a fortnight. It would be empty effort to pursue her name and lineage simply for the sake of possessing it. But there was something about this girl, this young woman, something that nagged at one's sense of right and wrong.
Where could she mean to go, if not home? What thoughts tumbled in her pretty, dark-haired head? He could not doubt "tumbled" was the proper term—for had not his own mother many times declared herself cured? But such cures had never been true, never a reality except in her own befuddled mind.
Gideon could not trust a woman who blithely claimed that all was well. He supposed there were women for whom such assertions were true—but he had yet to meet such a one. In his experience women held secrets, and they held them close, sometimes even closer than they allowed themselves to know.
This woman had done nothing to change Gideon's first impression. One moment the female had been preparing to dance at her imaginary wedding, and the next stating in a clear and sane-sounding manner that she would be going away without first identifying herself, her origins, or her destination. In Gideon's world this vacillation, this altering of manner, meant there was little doubt the woman's nerves were unsteady.
So Gideon would do as he'd planned; he would pay Clyde Arbuckle, an investigator from Bristol, to learn what the man could of Miss Elizabeth B. Too bad they were far from London and its celebrated Bow Street Runners, but Mr. Arbuckle would serve well enough, as he had in the past, to find out something about this female who chose to remain lost. Mr. Arbuckle had done other "quiet" work for Gideon, and would not demur at finding out a name and direction.
In the meanwhile, Gideon would avoid his guest, as much as good manners and conscience would allow. He'd be happy enough to see the back of the coach bearing Elizabeth away— one less burden among an already overwhelming mountain of burdens. But through Mr. Arbuckle he would know something of the stranger in his guest room before she went. Knowing was how he protected himself. It was what he did, what he was good at. Never mind for now his own weariness at juggling a dozen problems, to say nothing of a dozen desires.
Desire—a strange word, all but foreign to Gideon. No, that was not correct; he was used to desire.
Now, desire's fruit... ! That was something of which he had too infrequently tasted.
He had a normal man's appetites, those of the flesh, and there had been the occasional and accommodating females in the village for the last eight of Gideon's six-and-twenty years, so he had not lacked for sexual congress. In the three years just past, there had been one particular farmer's widow who had fancied having Gideon call upon her of an evening, a situation that had proved satisfactory for both. The fact that the Widow Denbarry was barren had been part of her charm, for Gideon was not anxious to leave by-blows about the countryside, not least because there was a part of him that feared he might pass on his mother's lunacy.
The Widow Denbarry was married and moved away now though, going on four months, and Gideon had not found suitable company since. He had yet to summon the time—or was it the energy?—to find another outlet for dalliance. Had he become too accustomed to desiring a thing without being able to achieve it? That was an appalling thought.
So while his sexual appetite went neglected, another hunger in him grew even stronger, even more fierce, that often left him pacing late into the night: he longed to be free. He longed for a life that included "more."
But "more" must wait.
I am used to waiting,
he thought to himself.
But it grows more difficult each day. came an answering whisper in his head, and there was no argument to be made in return.
With an effort, he forced himself to sit down at his desk. He wearily reached for a quill and looked again at his list, a piece of foolscap marked w ith many lines of writing, some of which had been scratched out by a stroke of the quill. He uncapped the ink in the stand before him. dipped the point, and wrote below the other lines: "Asylum/four living patients. Three males, all identified or awaiting family contact. One female, unidentified" Below this he wrote: "Hire Arbuckle."
He glanced down the entire sheet, realizing how many items remained on the list, waiting to be crossed out upon completion. There was so much to do. always so much more.
And why did he even try 0 Once upon a time, when he was younger and full of the energy of hope, it had been his plan to create a paradise, to turn what had been a hell into a haven. He had meant to remake this house into a refuge—only to make it into a prison. A prison whose walls were built of duty and yet more duty, each stroke of his pen adding another brick to the battlements of his bondage.
He could walk away. The physical leaving would be simple. even easy. But there were bonds that tied a man to a certain patch of soil, bonds far stronger, far more taxing than a chain or a moat could ever form. There was no peace beyond these walls, not for Gideon, not if he simply left his obligations behind.
His dream was an impossible one. Had his mother's madness taught him nothing 0 Did he not know that some things were simply fated to fail forever? That Dame Fortune played tricks as neatly as she granted treats? He must go to find his peace of mind—but to leave everything as it was, was to know no peace. He was eldest. He was obliged. He was doomed. His dream could never succeed.
In one thing he would succeed, he thought to himself with a toss of the head that would have belied his turmoil to an observer, had there been one about to witness his dogged return to the matter at hand. He would set Mr. Arbuckle to the task of finding out more about the mysterious female inmate. He would learn more of the woman who had brought from her asylum cell those soft hands, satin slippers, a fine wool cloak, and a silk gown. Something was decidedly not right here, and Gideon would know what it was, because knowing was what kept him feeling some measure of control.
"What is your name again?" Elizabeth asked the maid with the black eyepatch when the girl came to retrieve the dinner dishes that night. The maid who was in a family way, Jeannie, knelt before the fireplace, stoking the fire for the night.
"Polly," the one-eyed girl answered as she rearranged the used dishes on the tray so that they would not teeter and fall off when she lifted it.
"Polly, might I be so bold ..." Elizabeth began, only to bite her lip in consternation.
The maid looked up from her task, a hint of amusement gleaming from her one good eye if not quite on her lips. "You mean to ask what happened to my eye," she stated.
"Yes," Elizabeth agreed, relaxing her shoulders and giving a tentative smile in return. "Do you mind?"
"No. Everyone always asks, miss. I got cinders in it when I was stirring up a banked fire one night, oh, maybe five years ago now. It festered, and before you could so much as whistle, I'd lost the eye, miss."
"How dreadful! I am sorry to hear it."
The maid nodded as she gathered up the tray. "Thank you, miss. Will this be all? Would you be wanting more blankets tonight, d'you think?"
"No, thank you. And ought I thank you as well for the use of this night rail I wear?"
"No, miss. It was a found garment."
"Found?" Elizabeth gave a tiny frown of confusion.
The maid shrugged, noncommittal. Things get found around this house. And things go missing, too."
Ah, the ghost. Elizabeth thought. Well, the servants would gossip about such a rumor, would they not? It was only to be expected. Anything found out of place would be blamed on "the ghost" of course. Elizabeth refrained from glancing toward the tapestry, not wanting to give credence to a rumor, not even one that made her wonder what she had seen after all.
Polly left with the tray, leaving Jeannie. who now sat back on her heels, her hand pressed to her spine as she gave a tired sigh. Elizabeth felt sorry for the girl, so far along in her pregnancy and still having to work at such physical labor, but the reason seemed obvious. The girl sported no wedding ring. It could be that she and her fellow could not afford a ring, but Elizabeth suspected she knew the truer story here: that the baby must be that of the master of the house. Why else would a bachelor tolerate the girl's employment despite her obvious state?
There was nothing extraordinary in a man having his way with a chambermaid—it happened all the time—but drawing attention to the evidence .. . ! Well, that was just another sign of how bizarre this household was.
Elizabeth shook her head, and the gesture caused the sticking plaster on her forehead to pull a bit. She reached up. finding it was coming loose. She worked the edges off, making a few small noises of discomfort until it came loose and she could place it on the table next to the bed. The maid rose and left the room.
What to do with the rest of her day? Elizabeth settled back against the pillows, frowning at the lump under her covers that was her bandaged foot. If not for it, she could be on her way, establishing a new life, a new way of going on until such time as she read the announcement of Lorraine's wedding in the papers.
In the way sound sometimes does, Elizabeth realized that a noise had tiptoed into her conscious understanding. She held her breath until she was assured that, yes indeed, she had heard something. Was it. . . humming? But if it was. it was a strange, muffled humming. She slowly turned her head toward the tapestry, gooseflesh lifting the hair on her nape as she realized the sound came from behind the tapestry, from behind the wall the maid had shown her.
It was too much. Elizabeth could not remain sitting in the bed, transfixed by an uncomfortable mix of dread and consternation. She must touch the wall for herself.
She slid from the side of the bed nearest the tapestry, grimacing at pain and a nervous tightening in her stomach that made her breathing rapid and shallow, and balanced on her good foot. Working her way along the mattress, she took small hops down the bed's length, until she could grasp the post at its nether end. She swallowed hard, her ears still tuned to that disembodied, vaguely harmonious humming, and let go of the post. Spreading her arms wide for balance, she hopped once toward the tapestry. She nearly put down her injured foot as she teetered dangerously, but balance was restored, and she dared attempt another hop. The exercise made the heel wound scream with pain, but pain could be overridden by fear.