Chapter 13
Elsie awoke slowly and stretched, her muscles quivering, and stared up at her crimson canopy smiling. With a deep breath, she realized that for the first time since her sister had died, she had slept well and soundly in her bed.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” Missy said cheerfully, coming into her room with a stack of fresh laundry.
“Afternoon?” Elsie said, laughing. “Isn’t that something, Missy. What time is it?”
“Just after noon. Seeing as how you were up ’til dawn, we all thought we should let you sleep.”
“And in my own bed,” Elsie said, as if she’d just accomplished something grand. The sun was shining brightly, and a breeze pushed the curtains away from the window. It was a glorious day, and she refused to allow thoughts of how stubborn Alexander had been last night to ruin it. She chose, instead, to think about how wonderful it was that he’d told her he loved her. And how very much she loved him.
Two people in love could move mountains if they wanted to. It was almost as if the previous night and all its terrible implications had never happened at all. Elsie was strangely, almost frenetically, happy. She didn’t know how, but she knew she and Alexander would triumph. After the bleakness of the night before, she knew Alexander would have awakened much as she had—ready to face the world with the person he loved. Certainly, there were obstacles to their love. Anything truly worth having did not come easily.
“I’m ravenous,” Elsie said, whipping off the covers and leaping from bed and walking to her washstand. Splashing her face with water and giving the rest of herself a quick wash, she changed into her simplest gown, a pretty butter-yellow muslin. It was the sort of dress a duchess would never wear, which was perhaps the reason she loved it so.
“My, you’re just a bubble of joy this afternoon, Miss, if I may say,” Missy commented as she gave Elsie her slippers.
“You may say anything you like today, within reason,” Elsie said, smiling as she put her hair up into a simple bun. She felt an odd twinge of trepidation and she stoutly ignored it. “Do you know where Mary is?”
“In the garden, Miss.”
That only made Elsie smile all the more. She dashed down to the kitchen, where cook clucked over her for not eating a more substantial meal than a buttery roll and two juicy plums. “Oh, heaven,” Elsie said, a bit of juice running down her chin.
“Now I’ll not have enough for my plum cake,” cook grumbled.
“I’ll fetch you more from the garden,” Elsie said, waving back at the woman as she hurried to find Mary. They could go on an adventure, the two of them, hunting for the plumpest plums.
A squeal of little girl laughter gave away Mary’s location, where she sat on a soft blanket in the shade having what appeared to be a tea party with imaginary everything. Not a tea cup or pot to be found. Hating to disturb Mary’sfun, she simply watched for a while, until her nanny announced it was time to clean up their mess. Elsie giggled, and approached the pair.
“What a delightful tea party,” she said to the blushing nanny.
“Mary decided to have a tea party and we both thought it’d be a bit easier than running back into the house for her set, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Veryimaginative. I wonder if I might borrow my sister and go hunting,” Elsie said with a mischievous grin.
“Hunting,” Mary gasped. “For what?”
“Why the Plum Fairy. She hides behind the biggest, plumpest plum in the tree. And if we find that plum, we just might find the fairy.”
Mary clapped her hands together, an endearing copy of what Elsie herself did when she was extraordinarily pleased. “Where shall we go?” Mary asked, her blue eyes wide.
“Why to the orchard, of course.”
Elsie spent the next two hours searching for the plum fairy and eating more than a couple of small fruits with Mary, whose chin was turning a bit purple. The little girl was getting tired, and it was clearly time for her afternoon nap.
After giving Mary back to Miss Lawton, Elsie spent the rest of the afternoon writing invitations for her birthday ball. She felt on the edge of a strange hysteria, for shouldn’t she be crying into her pillow rather than planning the ball at which her doomed engagement to Lord Hathwaite would be announced? It was to take place in a matter of three weeks. Three weeks to come up with some sort of plan that would convince Alexander to claim his title or convince her father that being transported to Australia as a debtor was a viable option. Her stomach was suddenly filled with butterflies, not the nice sort that one felt in anticipation of something wonderful, but the ones that battered one’s stomach until it lost its contents.
Elsie put her pen down and stared blankly at the last of the invitations. What if Alexander did not love her enough to seek his title? What if he tried to attain his title but was put back in an asylum by his powerful father? What if he were discarded as a fraud?
What if he simply left?
She needed to see him, to speak to him. It would be hours until she could safely go into the ballroom so they could talk to one another. But what if he stayed away? Should she simply take that as a sign that he wanted to forget her? They’d both been so tired last evening, and shocked and upset by what they’d learned about each other. The glow of optimism that had made her feel almost giddy had seeped away slowly throughout the day, leaving Elsie nearly bereft. Alexander couldn’t have been more clear. He did not mean to seek his title. He would not.
And she would not leave her father open to scandal or worse and her sister to a life of poverty. She had no doubt, none at all, that His Grace would make her father suffer if the wedding were called off. Elsie shivered.
I will never be the Duke of Kingston. And, therefore, you will never be my bride.
Really, what was there to talk over?
Elsie steeled herself against the tears that threatened. She would not cry, not until all hope was lost, not until she spoke to Alexander. Surely, if he loved her at all, he would seek her out this evening. He knew she would go to the ballroom as she had been nearly every night since that fateful evening she’d wandered down and seen his light. He would be there. He would.
But that night, and the four nights after, Alexander did not make an appearance and it was driving Elsie slowly mad. Had she imagined that he’d told her he loved her? Was it simply a game to him, to tryto seduce the daughters of the households he visited?
No. He was suffering and no doubt felt he was doing the noble thing by staying away from her. It was maddening to know that he was in the ballroom painting, working hard to finish the mural, but was completely out of reach to her. She couldn’t barge into the ballroom and demand to see him. Not only would she give up Monsieur’s secret, she would also be giving up Alexander’s and she loved him too much for that.
She tortured herself by watching them approach the house from her room, willing Alexander to look up, but he never did. The entrance to the ballroom was directly below her window. How could he not see her? She felt as if she were losing her mind. She could not be this girl who pined for a man who clearly did not give a damn for her. But she was, oh, God, she was.
On the fifth night, her father remarked that she looked a bit peaked. “Are you unwell, my dear?”
“Just a small headache,” Elsie lied, finding it remarkably difficult to talk past the lump that had taken up residence in her throat. She felt as if she were on the verge of tears constantly. She stared down at her book, the words swimming before her, and prayed her father did not say something kind, for that would be her undoing.
“Elsie.”
She looked up, trying to put a normal, happy expression on her face. “Yes, Father?”
“I wish you were happier,” he said after a long moment.
“I am happy, Father. Please don’t worry about me.” But even as she said those words, two tears slipped from her eyes.
“Happy tears, then?”
Elsie closed her eyes briefly, then lowered her head and shook it. “I’m just being a ninny, that’s all. I shall miss you and Mary and each day my wedding draws closer, I sense the loss more.” She looked up, hoping he believed her explanation. It was the truth, in part.
“Warbeck Abbey is not so far, you know.”
Elsie smiled. “I know. I told you I was being a ninny.” She forced a laugh, one that made her father relax and smile.
That night, Elsie did not go to the ballroom. She cried herself to sleep, her face buried in her pillow so Missy would not awaken. She knew one thing: If Alexander loved her, truly loved her, he would do anything so they could be together. He did not love her. He did not. It was a litany in her head, a heartbreaking, soul-shattering realization. She went from anger at herself for her foolishness, to anger at Alexander for his cowardice, to heartbreak and back to anger. He didn’t even have the decency to say good-bye. How dare he treat her so shabbily? How dare he claim to love her and then torture her so?
By morning, she was frazzled and tired and ready to make a complete and total fool of herself in front of the entire household. Once she was dressed, she marched down the stairs and went directly to the ballroom, rapping on the door loudly.
“Yes, Mademoiselle?”
“Monsieur Desmarais,” she said, looking past him and seeing Alexander standing at the mural, his back to her, stiff and unmoving. Her heart wrenched, which only fueled her anger more.
“We are having a small dinner party this evening, just the vicar and his wife and their two grown daughters. And I would like you and your assistant to attend,” she said.
“That sounds a fine time. But Andre, he is not one for the company, so I regret he cannot come.”
She let out a brittle laugh. “But surely he eats. We don’t stand on formality in this house, sir, if that is your concern.”
Monsieur Desmarais looked back at Alexander, who still stood like a statue staring at the mural. “I don’t think Andre ...”
“I absolutely insist,” Elsie said, her voice uncharacteristically shrill.
Monsieur gave her a little bow. “Of course, Mademoiselle. We shall be delighted.”
Monsieur closed the door softly and looked worriedly over to the younger man, who stood so rigid before him. He had not been himself these last days and Monsieur worried that Andre was slipping away from him. Never had he been so withdrawn in all the time he had known the boy. Even those days after he’d taken him from that asylum, he had never been so
silent
. Andre might not speak, but his expressions spoke volumes. Lately, his face was stone, a blank slate of misery, and Monsieur had no idea how to help him because Andre couldn’t say what was wrong and he refused to write it down.
He knew his boy was getting little sleep, for the weariness was etched on his face and his eyes were red-rimmed.
“You heard the Mademoiselle?”
He watched worriedly as Andre nodded bleakly.
“I can say you have taken ill. She does not understand what she asks of you. She does not know.”
It was a warm evening, and so Elsie had her windows opened as she prepared for the small dinner party, feeling more than troubled about forcing Alexander to join them. But what was she to do? Go to the artist’s cottage at night and demand to see his assistant? Drag him from the ballroom so he could tell her...something, anything to take away this burgeoning hurt. The worst was knowing that he was right to stay away from her. It was useless, completely so, for her to pine for a man she could never have. Yet this madness would not leave her. She had no idea what she hoped to accomplish by inviting him to dinner. He could not speak, not in front of Monsieur, and she had no hope of taking him aside to talk. He was little more than a servant, and yet she had demanded he attend a dinner party. Even her father had raised his brows at the news.
She simply wanted to see him, so that he could give her some indication that he was suffering as much as she. Yes, that was it.
No, it was not.
She wanted him to declare his love and tell her he would seek his title, he would do anything, so they could be together. She wanted him to get on his knees and beg for her hand and tell her over and over that he loved her and nothing could keep them apart. That’s what she wanted. She might as well believe in plum fairies.
A male voice outside drew her to the window and she watched, her heart slamming in her breast, as the two men made their way across the lawn. Alexander looked so handsome wearing a formal suit and cravat, and it took little imagination to envision him as the lord he truly was. Monsieur was talking rapidly in French, and though Elsie spoke nearly fluently, it was difficult for her to keep up. What she could tell, however, was that Monsieur was attempting to comfort Alexander. Monsieur had one hand on his back and was looking up at him, worry etched on his face.
When they were nearly below her window, Alexander bent over, his hands on his knees.
“Breathe, my son, breathe,” Monsieur said in French. “It will pass. It always passes. I don’t know why the mademoiselle insisted that you come. I will tell her you are ill,” he said angrily. “It is too much for you. She does not understand, for if she did, she never would have asked this of you.”