“What happened, Your Grace? Why are you wet?”
She really wished Ella wasn’t here. She could have done for herself quite well if the room wasn’t suddenly spinning. She needed to compose herself and take a few minutes to blink back the dizziness, but Ella had an arm around her back and was insisting that she sit up.
“What happened?”
Suzanne swallowed against the sudden sourness on her tongue. She still tasted the wine she’d drunk at her father’s dinner. Too much wine. How many glasses had she consumed? Too many if she couldn’t remember.
“Your Grace, why are your clothes sodden?”
Here she needed to be careful. Drummond had surprised her by not revealing the entire story. But if she wasn’t cautious now, Ella would summon her father to Marsley House and Suzanne would be forced to endure his scrutiny and lectures.
She opened her eyes. Ella looked even more angry tonight than she normally did.
“The storm was spectacular. I went on the roof to see it.”
“The roof?” Ella said.
“I wanted to see the display of lightning.”
There, that was plausible enough. In addition, it sounded slightly idiotic, which wouldn’t disappoint either Ella or her father.
“But on the roof, Your Grace?” the maid asked, her voice conveying some degree of skepticism.
“The rain had momentarily stopped,” she said.
“Your dress is wet, Your Grace.”
“It started to rain again,” she answered as Ella began unfastening her clothes. She was wet and the cold was finally beginning to penetrate the gray fog that always surrounded her.
“Where is your other hair clip?” Ella asked.
“My hair clip?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Ella said, her voice just this side of rude. “Your hair clip. One of two that you inherited from your mother. The ones that look like leaves, Your Grace, and are filled with diamonds.”
Suzanne kept her eyes closed. She really didn’t want to see the maid right now. She didn’t want to see anything at all. How odd that she could still see the newly hired majordomo standing there in his militaristic way, his eyes heated with fury. How very strange to be hated by one’s servants.
“Where is the hair clip?” Ella asked.
Suzanne raised her right hand. Georgie’s mourning ring was still on her third finger. That, and her mourning brooch, were the only pieces of jewelry she cared about right now.
No doubt Ella would inform her father of her laxity. The maid was fawning but only toward her father. Not a foolish thing to be, all in all. Had he encouraged her to spy on Suzanne? Sometimes she felt herself being observed by Ella, as if the maid were making mental notes of what to write at a later date. Did she journal as assiduously as her late husband, George?
How odd that she didn’t know. Nor did she care. If she could have, she would have dispensed with Ella entirely, but her father would no doubt hire someone else in her stead.
Ella was extremely proficient at her position. She hadn’t lost a collar, cuff, or corset cover since Ella had come to Marsley House six months ago. All of her lace was laundered to perfection. Her unmentionables were darned when necessary and replaced otherwise. A summons from Ella would bring all manner of tradesmen, seamstresses, and jewelers, each one of them eager to be recognized as providing trade to the Duchess of Marsley.
If she cared about any of those things, she’d be quite content with Ella’s execution of her duties. Since she didn’t, Suzanne felt apathetic and wished she could feel the same about Ella.
She didn’t like the maid, and that feeling seemed to be growing every day. How very odd. She hadn’t objected to Ella at the beginning, but then she hadn’t felt much of anything. Now the only emotion she felt was antipathy.
She looked at Ella, trying to figure out what it was about the other woman that was sparking so much sudden feeling.
Ella’s hair was much lighter than Suzanne’s own dark brown. Instead, it was almost the color of honey and seemed to have a will of its own, one of constant disobedience, frizzing when it rained. The maid’s eyes were brown, almost the color of whiskey. Her lips were thin, the better to disappear in her face when she was in a critical mood, and her nose was slightly askew, as if it had been broken once. Or perhaps the Almighty, having seen Ella’s character as an adult, had tweaked it in remonstration.
She’d never asked Ella about her parentage, her childhood, her wishes or wants, or anything remotely personal. She hadn’t asked if the other woman liked chocolate or had a dog as a child, or what kind of weather she preferred. She knew as little about the other woman as she could and only wished that she could say the same about Ella’s knowledge of her.
She kept her thoughts to herself. At least Ella could not invade them. She never willingly confided in Ella. Instead, she watched every comment she uttered in the maid’s presence, which meant that she hadn’t spoken freely for months.
Her majordomo hadn’t been as constrained, had he? What had Drummond said to her? Had it been Gaelic? How strange that her solicitor would hire a Scotsman, especially since her father didn’t like Scotland or its people. She’d often heard him complain about them for some reason or another. Either they were too penurious or they had a tendency to speak their thoughts too honestly.
One did not challenge Edward Hackney without paying a dear price.
“Your Grace?”
She met Ella’s eyes.
“The hairpin?”
She didn’t know where the hairpin was. She didn’t care. But if she said such a thing, Ella would tell her father and she’d receive an involved speech about treasuring the possessions of her dear departed mother. As if she needed a lecture.
How many times in the past two years had she wished her mother had survived the cancer that had taken her life? How many times had she spoken to her in the quiet of the night, as if praying more to her mother than to God Himself?
“Why was Drummond in your bedroom?”
She didn’t remember that part. When she remained silent, Ella continued.
“You returned from the dinner early, Your Grace.”
Was the woman going to challenge everything she did? Yes, if Ella proved faithful to her past.
Suzanne was so tired, almost too tired to care that she was wet and had probably soaked the mattress. Her head hung down, her hair plastered against her cheeks. She didn’t bother removing it.
She stood, finally, a little wobbly and using the mattress behind her as a bulwark. Each separate garment was stripped from her, Ella’s ministrations not requiring any thought. All she needed to do was stand as straight as she was able, given that the room was spinning again, and obey her maid’s commands. Lift that foot, then that one. Raise your arm. Lower it, Your Grace.
Ella led her into the bathing chamber, handed her a cloth to wash her face as she washed and dried the rest of Suzanne’s body. In earlier days, before Ella, she would have dismissed her maid and bathed in the polished marble tub across the room.
If she hadn’t been so tired. If she had cared a bit more. If it hadn’t been beyond her.
She raised her arms again when Ella dressed her in a voluminous silk nightgown. Once attired for the night, with all her other needs taken care of, she was led to the vanity, where Ella removed the rest of her hairpins and began to dry her hair with a thick towel.
“I’ve looked through your garments, Your Grace, and I can’t find it.”
She stared at Ella’s reflection in the mirror, uncertain what the other woman was talking about.
“Your hairpin. Your mother’s hairpin.”
Did she truly need to care about her mother’s hairpin? Would her mother mind if it was lost? Did angels care about such things?
She was so very tired, but she tried to remember what had happened tonight. Her father had been displeased. She’d taken too many glasses of wine from the footmen circulating in the public rooms. She’d dared to look unimpressed at some official’s title. Or perhaps she’d done something else for which she’d been summarily banished.
Earlier, however, she’d pretended attentiveness as she was introduced to her father’s newest protégé. She’d answered the questions put to her with a half smile on her face. She’d endured the endless conversations swirling around her.
Now she just wanted to be left alone.
No one seemed to understand that. Not Ella. Certainly not her father. Not even her Scottish majordomo.
She opened her eyes and stared at her image in the mirror. There was a red mark on her cheek. When had that happened? She suddenly remembered. She’d fallen and he’d picked her up as if she’d weighed no more than a feather.
Abruptly, Ella thrust a glass in front of her.
Without looking she knew what the glass contained. A green liquid that smelled of grass and promised oblivion.
“I don’t need it,” she said. The wine had dulled her wits, numbing her to everything.
“I’m instructed to give it to you, Your Grace.”
Her father’s orders. Keep Suzanne in a half-dazed state both day and night. She’s more amenable that way. She smiles more. She will agree to almost anything.
She took the glass, but didn’t drink it.
Ella didn’t move. She would remain where she was until Suzanne downed the contents. Part of her didn’t want to drink it. Another part, more the coward, craved the stupor that would come over her when she did.
To forget, that was the aim. To pretend that nothing had ever happened. To live in a perpetual dream. If only she could. If only she didn’t have to wake every day.
“You can leave, Ella. I’ll drink it later.”
How strange that it hurt to talk. She pressed her fingers to her cheek.
“If you don’t mind, Your Grace, I’ll stay until you finish the draught.”
Leave me. Words she didn’t say. What difference did it make, in the end? She would take the potion and sleep. Tomorrow would be the same as today. Dress, Suzanne. Be pretty, if vacuous. Smile when commanded. Turn this way, then that. Nod or shake your head, depending on the situation or the dictate. She was only a body, not unlike those marionettes she’d once seen at Covent Garden. No one cared what she felt or thought. Why shouldn’t she live in the gray beyond?
She downed the contents of the glass and handed it back to Ella, who smiled. Was that triumph she saw in the other woman’s eyes? She didn’t care about that, either.