Hannah didn’t have time to change her gown, so her dark green cotton would have to suffice. At least the colour wouldn’t show grass stains from being out in the garden, and her silk shawl would make it look more appropriate for paying calls. She undid her hair, smoothed it all back, and twisted it up again. Several pins secured it in place and then she plonked her bonnet on top to hide the lot. She tied the ribbons under her chin as she descended the stairs.
Mary stood at the bottom, wringing her hands and biting her lip.
“Whatever is the matter, Mary? Is it Mother?” She shouldn’t have left her mother alone with the viscount, but surely a powerful mage was able to wrangle a petulant noble. Or perhaps Mother had turned him into an actual dark cloud and not a metaphorical one.
“Oh no, miss. It’s him. He swept back through here in ever such a black mood and is waiting outside. I don’t envy you, miss.” Mary peered around Hannah at the closed front door as though she expected him to be summoned by her words.
Mother’s storm had arrived after all, and had stuffed itself into a carriage. Would it be rattling with thunder and lightning when she emerged from the house?
Hannah patted Mary’s hands. “Thank you. I shall have a most invigorating afternoon. Perhaps I should take Father’s old sword cane in case I must make a quick defensive parry.”
The maid snorted and then covered her mouth.
Out on the road, there was no sign of bolts exploding through the carriage windows. The viscount, however, did wear a stormy expression when Hannah climbed inside. His dark brows were drawn and his black eyes narrowed. Once again he stared at his timepiece as though it confirmed that Hannah had offended him further by making him wait.
“Where are we going today, my lord?” Hannah was determined to be polite in the face of his rudeness, but it did require monumental effort. The man almost begged to be snapped at, the way he glowered at everyone.
“The Knightley residence first, then the Talbots’.” He rapped on the roof with his cane, then dropped the pocket watch back into its pocket on his waistcoat. He drummed his fingers on the carriage seat for a long minute. “You made the observation that a starving Afflicted would act differently. Are there other characteristics of an Afflicted in such a state?”
Hannah blinked at him. Had he just sought her knowledge on the subject? “A person in such a state is what others would refer to as mad. The hunger consumes them literally and figuratively. Their bodies begin to decay, and rot moves upward from the extremities. They are frenzied, tearing at themselves and often crying uncontrollably. The symptoms only abate when they are fed.”
His hand curled into a fist as his body tensed. “Does it have to be human? Could they not subsist on cow or pig brains instead?”
Hannah remembered the poor women who tested other species’ tissue, with disastrous results. “No. We found that substituting another species’ brain did not halt the natural process of decay, although it did remove the worst of the craving. The disease is species dependent. For example, Afflicted mice require the brains of mice.”
He exhaled through his nose and one by one, released his fingers from a tight grip. His words were measured, as though he sought to control them. “Is such a cannibalistic and murderous rage what lurks behind the veils and masks of all Afflicted?”
“You are disgusted by them,” Hannah whispered. That was why he treated them so rudely and why he appeared to teeter on the verge of a violent outburst.
The hand curled into a fist again and he stared out the window. “They are not just Unnatural, they are inhuman, subsisting on the minds of decent Englishmen. They should be rounded up and burned so no trace of their blight remains on this earth.” He bit the words out as though each syllable tasted bitter in his mouth.
His reaction not only stole Hannah’s words, but also her ability to think. Her entire being froze in disbelief and she simply stared at him while the carriage swayed back and forth. Only when they hit a pothole in the road and she was jolted to one side did her mind recommence its operation. She wanted to yell at him, to accuse him of the most horrid prejudice. She wanted to cry for all the Afflicted like her mother, who had been cruelly taken from their families in the prime of life.
“You would blame the women for their state? They were all, each and every one of them, victims of the foul weapon created by French mages. None sought the fate thrust upon them so cruelly.” She clasped her hands together in her lap to stop the rage that shook them.
“They died. They should have the dignity to stay that way.” His nostrils flared and he enunciated each word slowly, as though he thought her dim-witted.
Oh, let the storm break. How dared he!
Anger flashed through Hannah and if she could have hurled a lightning bolt and skewered him to the seat, she would have. “What a cold life you must lead, that you would wish so many women a horrid end because of the actions of others. We are fortunate that most of the ensorcelled powder was destroyed and only three hundred containers made their way into the dressing rooms of noblewomen. Would you have a different opinion if tens of thousands of men had been infected by their snuff habit?”
His black eyes drilled into Hannah. “There are many challenges facing England. We waste resources keeping these creatures ambulatory. Great scientific minds should find subjects more worthy of their time—such as finding a way to stop more Unnatural creatures breaching the veil between our world and Hell.”
Fury gave her the strength to meet his hellish gaze. She stiffened her spine and squared her jaw. “I am grateful for men like my father, who did not turn his back on the woman he loved simply because her pulse stopped. He works tirelessly to find a way to wrest her free of death’s grip. I would consider myself blessed to ever find a man who loves so deeply. Which is obviously something you cannot comprehend.” Hannah stared out the window and blinked back tears. Her father would fight until his last breath for her mother.
Viscount Wycliff grunted and proceeded to ignore her until the carriage stopped and the driver opened the door. The black cloud swept out and the driver jumped back, out of his way.
“Everything all right, miss?” he asked as he peered inside and held out a hand to assist her.
“Yes, thank you. I suspect his lordship swallowed something that did not agree with him.”
Hannah took her time gathering her shawl about her shoulders, and looped the ends over her arms. Before her stretched a row of modest terrace houses. Each had an identical cast-iron railing along the front and leading up to the front door.
A startled maid, not a butler, held the door open for her. It appeared Wycliff had already stormed the parapets, as there was no sign of him in the hall.
“Hannah Miles to see Miss Emma Knightley, please.” She couldn’t hear raised voices or screams, which meant he hadn’t yet started his interrogation.
“Lord Wycliff and Miss Knightley are this way, miss,” the maid said as she gestured to a door to her left and closest to the front of the house.
The Knightley parlour reminded Hannah of the one in her family home. The decor was at least twenty years behind current fashion. The sofas were worn but comfortable looking and covered in a cheerful floral pattern. Books were piled on the end tables, waiting to be picked up and delved into. The room was tidy and clean, but with the relaxed shabbiness that comes from regular use.
Emma perched on a chaise and twisted her hands in her skirts. Her parents, a handsome couple somewhere in their fifties, held hands on the opposite chaise. Wycliff stood in the middle of the room, staring at Miss Knightley. For a moment it looked as though Hannah had stumbled upon a nervous suitor about to propose, the entire room on tenterhooks waiting for the words to be spoken.
Then she remembered that this was Wycliff and everyone was no doubt braced for the incoming cannonball.
Hannah edged around the viscount and murmured a greeting as she took the seat next to Emma. The poor woman needed some defence against Wycliff’s barbs. The attack was launched just as Hannah sat.
“Did your fiancé call off the engagement because you died?” Wycliff asked.
Emma’s hands stilled in her lap. “Yes. He disengaged himself to find a bride he could legally wed and who could present him with an heir—as he has every right to do. I believe he is most happy with his choice.”
Hannah’s heart broke for the other young woman. To think love was within your grasp, only to have it coldly snatched away. The French curse had revealed the fickleness of men. Women found themselves abandoned by those who had once professed undying love. It seemed men only remained true up until the point such affection was tested. What a sad statement about their society that men like her father, who continued to love a woman with no pulse, were the rare exceptions.
Hannah studied Viscount Wycliff. He seemed such an intense individual, one who should have the capacity to love a woman with constancy. What a shame that he seemed to be incapable of love for another.
The piercing stare remained fixed on Miss Knightley. “I understand that on the night of the ball, you were seen with a stain on your dress. Where is the garment?”
A gasp came from the older Knightleys and Emma’s eyes widened. She turned to Hannah with an expression of complete betrayal, like a shivering puppy that had just been kicked out into the snow. Far from being her defender, Hannah had turned into her persecutor.
“It was red wine. I told you. You saw it,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry. I had to tell the viscount what I saw.” Guilt created a hollow void inside Hannah. How had Wycliff managed to flip their roles and make her the awful one in the room?
“Fetch the dress, Emma. That will satisfy the viscount, I am sure,” her mother said.
The young woman nodded and leapt to her feet. She hurried from the room as though she couldn’t wait to get away from Hannah the Horrid. Wycliff stalked to the window and stared out at the street with his hands clasped behind his back.
Mr Knightley bowed his head. “I shall never forgive myself.” His muttered words broke the heavy silence.
“What can you not forgive?” Hannah asked.
Mrs Knightley sniffed and then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “All her friends spoke of the Russian émigré who had a limited amount of the amazing face powder used by the Tsarina. They all wanted some. They said it would give a woman a delicate complexion of the finest porcelain. She talked of nothing else for weeks and weeks, but it was so expensive—”
Mr Knightley squeezed his wife’s hand and took up the narrative. “We acquired a jar for her birthday. Emma was overjoyed. Then one by one her friends fell ill, until one day, the French curse snatched our darling daughter too.”
“I’m so sorry.” Hannah looked around the room and thought how easily this life could have been hers. Both families were minor nobility who struggled to make ends meet. Two sets of loving parents would do anything for their only daughters. As she gathered her thoughts, other things registered in her mind. The unfaded shapes on the walls where paintings had been removed. Marks in the rugs made by the phantom feet of chairs. The lack of candlesticks, bookends, or ornaments on the shelves.
Emma returned with the gown draped over her arms and extended from her body as though trying to remove herself from it. Wycliff turned from the window and peered at the stain. A collection of dull brown dots and dribbles marred one portion of the satin. It could have been wine, gravy, or paint.
He picked up the section of fabric and sniffed. His nostrils flared as he drew a deep breath—and then he sneezed. “What have you covered this with?”
Emma crumpled the gown in her arms and clutched it to her chest. “A cleaning paste. I was hoping to wash the stain out, but it didn’t work. I cannot remove it.”
He grunted deep in his throat as he pulled forth a handkerchief and sneezed into it again. Whatever Emma had used on the stain worked better on the viscount than snuff.
“When did you last feed?” he asked as he waved away the gown.
From the sofa, Mrs Knightley made a horrified noise and lurched to one side in a dead faint. Mr Knightley caught her in his arms and lowered her so that she rested against the rolled arm.
The older gent glared at Wycliff. “Steady on, my lord, there is no need to be vulgar.”
Therein lay one big difference between Emma’s family and Hannah’s. There was no fainting over feeding habits in the Miles household.
Wycliff arched a dark brow and tsked at the unconscious woman. “Your daughter is Afflicted. She has to feed to stave off the rot. Given that she exhibits very few symptoms apart from her pallor and lack of breathing, I assume she is well fed?”
Emma moved to stand between Wycliff and her parents. Her protective instincts had clearly been aroused and she used the treacherous dress as a shield. “My parents see to my needs and I have a monthly delivery from Unwin and Alder. You can confirm that with them if you wish. I assume there will be no more questions. You have disrupted our day quite enough.”
He stared at the young woman for a long moment, then he spun on his heel and left.
Hannah rose, embarrassed at the role she had played in these events. “I am sorry. I do hope you can forgive me for telling him about the stain.” She dropped a curtsey and followed the viscount out.
In other circumstances, if their paths had crossed, they might have become firm friends. Hannah suspected she had irreparably damaged such a possibility now. As she climbed into the waiting carriage, she wondered if there was any point in rebuking the viscount for being rude.
Again.
The man seemed oblivious. Society’s disapproval was water off the duck’s back and didn’t affect him one bit. How could he rail against society’s treatment of him while inflicting his own prejudices on others?