Ten

When Benjamin at last fell asleep that night, very late, he dreamed about Alice. She stood beside him, looking just as she did in her portrait—more perfect than life, red-gold hair gleaming, blue eyes gazing out at nothing. He held her hand, but she didn’t seem to notice. He knew it was no good speaking to her. She wouldn’t answer. He tried anyway, and was proved right.

Then, with a dream’s sudden shift, he saw a mail coach bearing down on them—sixteen pounding hooves, a shouting, gesticulating driver. The big vehicle was going so fast that it careened from side to side. There was no chance it could stop before running them down. They had to move, to dive out of the way. But Alice was immovable. He tried to pull her, lift her, but her slender form might have been made of stone. She was rooted to the road. Benjamin pushed with all his strength, shouted in her ear. No response. The coach came closer and closer, until he could feel the thunder of its passage in his bones. He could escape if he abandoned her where she stood, but of course there was no question of that. And then the vehicle hit them with an apocalyptic slam.

Benjamin jerked awake. His pulse was pounding, his head thick. He panted, and the roar of the dream lingered in his ears. He put his hands over them. “Could I do no better than that?” he said aloud. The significance of the scene was ridiculously obvious. He had to leave the past behind or risk disaster. “Oversimplified,” he told whatever part of him composed dreams.

He threw back the coverlet and rose, going to the window that overlooked the gardens and parting the draperies. The sun was just rising. Shafts of golden light made dewdrops sparkle; trees threw long fingers of shadow. This place was beautiful. His family and people who depended on them had made it so over centuries, Benjamin thought. The house, the land felt like part of him, or vice versa. He loved it.

Did Geoffrey feel anything like this? Sadness descended on Benjamin. This place was meant to be a home, with a family, and he’d been living here alone. He’d insisted upon it. He’d even, now and then, gloried in it. Worse, he’d forced isolation on his son. He didn’t need to be hit by a mail coach to see his mistake.

His bare feet grew cold. Still in his nightshirt, Benjamin made up the fire. Following his standing orders, no one would enter his room until he left it. He dressed and headed for the stables. He knew from too much experience that a hard ride could alter a morose mood.

As he galloped along a lane between blooming hedges, Benjamin realized that he hadn’t given any thought to scandal. Had anyone walked into the library last night—his uncle, a servant—there would have been an uproar. Many young ladies, most he supposed, would be expecting a proposal today. He was fairly certain Miss Saunders wasn’t. Indeed, he doubted she wanted one. Not because she was scandalous, but because she was unlike any woman he’d ever known. Her concerns seemed more mysterious and darker than gossip. A man would have to fathom them before he offered for her.

Not that he was actually considering an offer. He was merely…considering. She was such a heady mixture of independence and allure. Recalling various incidents of her visit lifted his spirits and made him smile. She’d taken a tomahawk in stride—cliffs, a kidnapped kitten. Between one bout of kissing and the next, she’d wakened him. And now? What lay behind her behavior last night? He needed to know.

Back at Furness Hall, Benjamin found his uncle at the breakfast table, which seemed to have become a central exchange for information since his unexpected guests arrived. Benjamin wished him good morning, poured coffee, and sat where he could observe the entry. “Tell me all you know about Miss Saunders’s family,” he said then.

The older man raised an inquiring brow.

“From a remark she made, I believe there’s something odd about it.”

“And if there is, it’s our affair because?”

“Because I’ve grown interested in her.”

“Interested? As in interested?”

“More and more as time goes by.”

Meeting his nephew’s eyes, Arthur rose from the table. “Shall we take a turn in the garden, where we won’t be overheard?”

“Is your information that ominous?” Benjamin frowned at him.

“It is private,” Arthur replied.

Looking uneasy, his nephew followed him outside.

They walked along a path bordered by nodding daffodils. “I have made some inquiries,” said Arthur then. “I understand that Miss Saunders’s father was forced into the marriage. The young daughter of a country neighbor found herself with child, and he was undoubtedly the culprit.” He had heard the girl in question called a dreadful creature, but Arthur took that with a grain of salt, considering the source. “Mr. Saunders was not pleased. Having ample resources, and control of them at a young age, he moved to London soon after the wedding, and he remained there until his death several years ago. From overindulgence, if gossip was correct.”

“He abandoned his family?”

Arthur nodded. “Essentially. He provided an allowance.” His female source had called this income sufficient. Arthur translated this as miserly.

“He lived a solitary life?”

“Hardly that. He kept a string of mistresses.”

“So he scarcely knew his own daughter?” Benjamin sounded thoughtful.

“I’d say he didn’t know her at all.”

“But what about his property, his responsibilities?”

“I gather there was no large estate to manage. Naturally, I don’t have financial details.”

Benjamin nodded. “And her mother? There’s something important about her.”

Arthur waited, but his nephew provided no clarification. “She was the daughter of a country squire, quite young when she married. That’s as much as I know.”

“Unhappy, I imagine. Married to a man who didn’t want to see her.”

“That seems very likely.”

“So I suppose she wasn’t a…jolly parent.”

“She may have found solace in her child.”

“I don’t think so.”

Once again Arthur waited for more. But Benjamin was silent.

They continued along the path for some time, each occupied with his own thoughts.

• • •

Sarah spent half an hour combing out Jean’s hair that morning. “It came loose from the braid in the night,” Jean told her.

“Did you have a nightmare?” the maid asked as she dealt with the tangle of curls.

Jean winced. It was difficult to hide her bad dreams from the person who shared her room at inns when they traveled. “A kind of nightmare, yes,” Jean said. In the mirror, her eyes had a steely glint, which she was pleased to see. She’d wrestled that strident inner voice into silence once more. As she always would.

Downstairs, Jean stopped in the library, first peering around the doorframe to make sure the chamber was empty. She searched the shelves until she found what she was looking for and went on to breakfast. Blessedly, that room was vacant, too. But when she came out after her meal, she encountered Lord Furness and Lord Macklin returning from a walk. She spoke before either of them could. “I was thinking I could read to Geoffrey. I always liked being read to as a child. I suppose you did as well.”

“No,” said Lord Furness.

“You don’t wish me to read to him?” Jean felt a spurt of indignation. “Why not?” She wanted to make a more personal connection to Geoffrey. She also wanted to divert attention—her host’s attention—from last night’s debacle.

He regarded her steadily. Not diverted, Jean thought. Not even a little. “No, I didn’t like being read to,” he said.

“Really?” Stories had been a rare solace of Jean’s childhood. They took you somewhere else entirely, and she’d often wanted to be somewhere else.

“I preferred being outside on my own.” Lord Furness gestured at the book she held. “What have you got?”

She showed him. “The enjoyment often depends on the reader.”

He scanned the cover. “Goody Two-Shoes? Are you serious? That sounds dreadful.”

“I found it in the library,” Jean replied. “There weren’t many books for children. I thought perhaps this had been read to you when you were young.”

“No.” Lord Furness eyed the book. “Does that girl keep a menagerie?”

The image included two birds, a sheep, and a dog. “I don’t know,” said Jean. “One reads books to discover what they’re about.”

“Is it so indeed?” He pretended to be amazed.

“I’ve heard of that book,” said Lord Macklin. “Rather well known, isn’t it?”

“Did you like being read to as a child?” Jean asked him.

“Never was, much. Were you?”

It seemed to Jean that both men were overly interested in her answer, which made her more reluctant to give it. Her mother had been a marvelous reader, or rather performer, of books. When in the mood to entertain, she’d used different voices and swept about the room, miming the action as she held the volume up before her. Even when Jean didn’t understand the story, as was often the case with the sort of book her mother enjoyed, she’d been enthralled. And her mother had reveled in the applause and admiration she offered. Reading had brought some of their rare moments of harmony. “Yes.” Jean turned away. “I’m going to try it on Geoffrey.”

Both men moved to follow her.

“It’s not necessary for you to come,” she said. Better if they didn’t. Lord Furness was a…disturbance. He loomed in her consciousness. She’d meant to avoid him this morning. Hence the book.

And so of course he said, “Oh, I have to see this.”

“I admit I’m curious,” added his uncle.

As she couldn’t prevent them from coming, Jean turned and marched off. They trailed her upstairs to the nursery, where they found Geoffrey and Tom sitting on the floor in front of the blanket tepee. A spread of wooden blocks before them seemed part of a counting game. Geoffrey sprang up at once. “Can we go to the stable early?”

“No,” said his father. “Miss Saunders has come to read to you.”

“Read?”

“From a book.”

The boy shot him a suspicious glance. “Why would she?”

“For your amusement. And edification.”

“What’s ‘ed-i-fi-cation’?”

Geoffrey had only a little trouble repeating the word, which was impressive at his age, Jean thought. She didn’t want him to hear a definition, however. That would put a damper on things. “For fun,” she said. “Let’s sit on the sofa, shall we?”

She led the way to that shabby piece of furniture under a row of windows. Tom and Lily the nursemaid found perches nearby, both looking interested. The two men took chairs opposite, and naturally Lord Furness chose to face her directly. She’d be unable to raise her eyes without meeting his. Well, she simply wouldn’t look up from this no-doubt fascinating volume.

Jean patted the cushion beside her, and Geoffrey slowly climbed onto it. He examined the cover of the book as if he’d never seen such a thing before. He didn’t look rebellious, however. Perhaps this could be a chocolate-box moment, Jean thought.

She opened it and read the first words of The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes. “‘Care and discontent shortened the days of Little Margery’s father. He was forced from his family and seized with a violent fever in a place where Dr. James’s Powder was not to be had, and where he died miserably.’” She stopped. This wasn’t what she’d expected.

“Died miserably,” repeated Geoffrey. He didn’t sound distressed. He seemed, in fact, to relish the phrase. “You thrash about when you have a fever. Bob fell right off his bed. Hit the floor with a great thud and wr…writhed.”

Jean looked down at him. His angelic blue eyes were bright.

“Geoffrey keeps a tally of local deaths,” said Lord Furness dryly. His gaze turned to Lily. “He should not be allowed in sickrooms, however. Bob’s or any others.”

The maid winced. “He’s slippery as an eel.”

“Bob?” asked Lord Macklin.

“He’s the gardener’s boy, my lord,” said Lily.

“Ah.”

“I wasn’t in. Jack told me about it,” said Geoffrey. “What comes next? Does somebody else die?”

“Yes, do read on,” said Lord Furness.

Jean looked down the page. “‘Margery’s poor mother survived the loss of her husband but a few days, and died of a broken heart, leaving Margery and her little brother to the wide world.’” She closed the book. “Clearly, this isn’t suitable.”

“That must be worse than a broken leg,” Geoffrey said. “Mr. Foster’s leg is all right now. He didn’t die.” He leaned over to examine the book with more interest than he’d shown before. “Is it all about people dying?”

Jean had had the impression, from hearing the title mentioned, that it was a sweet, poignant story. Quite suitable for her mythical chocolate-box child. She ought to have looked it over before she started this. But she’d been too eager for a diversion.

“That would be an original approach to narrative,” said Lord Furness. He smiled at her as if he knew precisely what was going through her mind. Which he did not!

“Perhaps Margery dies next,” said Geoffrey.

“Not likely so soon,” put in Tom. “She must be the one on the cover, with the sheep.” He pointed at them. “Mebbe her little brother.”

“Eaten by a wolf,” Geoffrey suggested.

“In sheep’s clothing,” replied his father. “Don’t keep us in suspense.” He gestured at the book, annoyingly amused.

“Very well.” Jean wouldn’t be embarrassed. If he wanted his son to hear this, then he would. She found her place and read on. “‘It would both have excited your pity, and have done your heart good, to have seen how fond these two little ones were of each other, and how, hand in hand, they trotted about. They were both very ragged, and Tommy had two Shoes, but Margery had but one.’”

“Shouldn’t the book be called Goody Three-Shoes then?” asked Lord Furness.

“Perhaps she catches cold without a shoe,” said Geoffrey. “And dies.”

“Or develops chilblains, at the least,” said Lord Macklin, apparently entering into his great-nephew’s point of view.

“Ye get a limp after a while, walking with only one shoe,” said Tom. “It ain’t good for you.”

Lord Furness laughed.

Jean felt a tremor of amusement in her throat. She resisted it and read on. “‘They had nothing, poor things, to support them but what they picked from the hedges, or got from the poor people, and they lay every night in a barn.’”

“They got to live in a barn?” exclaimed Geoffrey. “I’d like to live in our barn, with Fergus.”

“But with both your shoes,” replied his father.

“Acourse.”

“And all four of his.”

A laugh escaped Jean. Lord Macklin joined in. Tom grinned, and Lily giggled. Geoffrey looked confused, but ready to be amused.

In a more satirical tone, Jean continued. “‘Their relations took no notice of them; no, they were rich, and ashamed to own such a poor little ragged girl as Margery, and such a dirty little curl-pated boy as Tommy.’” She frowned. “What do curls have to do with it?”

“Clearly a sign of ungovernable temper, are they not?” said Lord Furness.

“No!” Jean exclaimed. She caught the gleam in his eye. “Very funny.” She read on. “‘But such wicked folks, who love nothing but money, and are proud and despise the poor, never come to any good in the end, as we shall see by and by.’”

“I sniff a moral coming up,” said Lord Macklin.

“Inescapable in such sickly stuff,” replied Lord Furness.

Geoffrey squirmed.

Jean leafed through the book to see what was ahead. “Margery gets shoes. She is a paragon of virtue.” She paged farther. “She starts giving spelling lessons to other children, and then lessons about life in general.”

“Oh, we must hear those,” said Lord Furness.

Geoffrey sighed audibly.

Jean read, “‘He that will thrive, must rise by five. He that hath thriv’n, may lie till seven. Truth may be blam’d, but cannot be sham’d. Tell me with whom you go, and I’ll tell what you do. A friend in your need is a friend indeed. They ne’er can be wise who good counsel despise.’”

Geoffrey squirmed some more.

Jean flipped more pages. “These go on for quite a while.”

“I think we’ve heard enough to get the gist,” replied Lord Furness. “Platitudes.”

“But what about the sheep and the birds in the picture?” asked Tom.

“Margery makes friends with animals,” said Jean, scanning quickly through the book. “She does many good deeds, is a model of perfection, and makes a success of her life.” There was a chapter about a funeral, she noticed, and a dead dormouse, and a dead husband near the end. The author seemed as enamored of death as Geoffrey. In fact—she read out the end. “‘Her life was the greatest blessing, and her death the greatest calamity that ever was felt in the neighborhood. A monument, but without inscription, was erected to her memory in the churchyard, over which the poor as they pass weep continually, so that the stone is ever bathed in tears.’” Jean closed the book. “Mawkish.”

“No inscription,” said Lord Furness. “Odd.”

“Because she was a woman, she must remain nameless, I suppose,” said Jean.

“What did she die of?” asked Geoffrey.

“It doesn’t say. Old age.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, Geoffrey.” Jean set the book aside. “No wonder no one read to you,” she said to Lord Furness. “If this is a sample of your library.”

“You ought to see some of my father’s volumes about the American tribes.”

“And his collections,” added Lord Macklin. “Didn’t he have a scalp?” Then he pressed his lips together and glanced at Geoffrey.

“Old Jacob told me a better story,” said the boy. “It was about the ancient days. When the Black Death came, and nearly everybody died.” He gazed up at Jean like a bloodthirsty cherub. “They swelled up until they burst. Even their eyeballs.” The idea seemed to fill him with unholy glee.

“Who is Old Jacob?” asked Lord Furness.

“I told you not to talk to that dirty, old hermit,” Lily said to Geoffrey.

“Hermit?” said Lord Furness.

“He moved into a broken-down woodcutter’s hut,” added the maid apologetically. “He used to come begging to the kitchen sometimes. He’s gone now.”

“He died,” said Geoffrey. “Bradford found him, all stiff and cold.”

Lord Furness contemplated his son. “We really must do something about your obsession with mortality,” he said.

Geoffrey gazed back at him. If Jean had had to label the boy’s expression, she would have called it smug.

“The Duke of Hamilton hired a hermit for his estate,” said Lord Macklin.

“Hired?” repeated Jean.

“He said it was quite a difficult position to fill. He had to advertise.”

“You don’t say he paid somebody to act the hermit?” Tom asked.

The older man smiled. “How to separate the acting from reality in this case? The fellow was required to lurk in a stone grotto in ragged clothes and keep a long beard. I suppose the acting came in when he was exhibited to visitors.”

“Did he have to rave at them?” Tom asked. “That’d be a hard sort of job.”

“Do you think so?” answered Lord Macklin, looking both interested and amused.

Tom nodded. “What would you say, raving? What sort of…topics, like? The feller couldn’t just go on about the weather and such, could he? Likely this duke would expect somethin’ more entertaining.”

“A good point.” Lord Macklin shook his head. “I wish I knew the details of his…role, but I don’t.”

Geoffrey opened his mouth to speak.

“No, he did not die,” said Lord Macklin. “At least not so far as I am aware. Eventually, of course—” He let this sentence trail off.

Jean rose. “Goody Two-Shoes goes back to the library.”

Lord Furness rose with her. When Lord Macklin stood, he went over to examine the wooden blocks and asked about the counting game the lads had been playing. They came to show him its intricacies. Jean waited a moment, but the older man showed no signs of departing. She was left to her host’s company once again.

“Well, that did not go well,” said Jean as she passed through the nursery door. She would talk about the book until she could escape him.

Benjamin walked beside her. He’d never been so acutely conscious of another person. The tiniest tilt of her head called out to him. He was entranced by the soft swish of her skirts. The feel of her was branded on his body. “Geoffrey seemed to enjoy himself,” he said.

“Do you call it that? I should have looked for a book about the plague,” she added acerbically. “But how was I to know that? How could anyone?”

He laughed.

Miss Saunders frowned. “You’re not worried that Geoffrey keeps talking about death?”

“Not really. He seems more curious than uneasy about it.”

“You don’t…” She hesitated, then said, “What if he’s thinking of his mother?”

It was like one of those moments in the boxing ring when a smashing blow slips past your ear, Benjamin thought. The pain—so crushing, so often felt—brushed by him this time, leaving just a whisper of an echo in its wake. “I don’t think he is,” he answered.

“Why?”

“Because he speaks with such gusto.”

She stopped on the stairs and looked at him. Benjamin took the full force of her challenging gaze. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to be able to kiss her whenever he liked, and to follow the kisses with much more. After last night, what man wouldn’t? A dry inner voice countered that question with others. A man who didn’t care for high drama? One who had enough on his plate already?

“He does,” she said slowly. “And he seems to enjoy shocking us, too. But can he really? He’s so young.”

“I know very little about children in general,” Benjamin replied. Miss Saunders shrugged in wry agreement. “I have to judge Geoffrey by his own yardstick. And I see nothing mournful in his words or manner.”

She considered this, biting her lower lip in a way that made Benjamin long to pull her close. “I agree.” She started moving again. “Very observant of you.”

He fell into step beside her. “You sound surprised.”

“After the state of things when I arrived? Of course I am.” She walked faster. “I’m not going to read him grisly accounts of epidemics. Reading at all was a bad idea, I suppose.”

She sounded dejected, and Benjamin found he wanted to cheer her up. “What about something like Waverley?”

“Scott is far too old for him.”

“But we’ve agreed that Geoffrey is one of a kind. I expect he’d like the battles.”

“But shouldn’t we be trying to discourage such impulses? Do you want him flying at visitors with a lance instead of a tomahawk? Mounted on Fergus, no doubt, and armored cap-a-pie.”

“At least he’d be clothed,” said Benjamin.

Miss Saunders stared at him for a blank moment, and then she began to laugh. The sound was musical, infectious. He joined her. She laughed more heartily. Their eyes met, shining with humor. His spirits rose. He tried to remember when joy had last rung through his hallways. Too long ago.

Then they reached the library door. And stopped—walking and laughing. The wooden panels loomed. Miss Saunders seemed to share his feeling that another world lay beyond that portal.

She held out the book. “There’s no need for both of us. You can put it back.”

“I don’t know where it goes,” he said, opening the door and not quite chivying her through.

She strode to the shelves, slipping the copy of Goody Two-Shoes between two narrow volumes. “There. Done.” It was as if their laughter had never been. In another moment she would go.

“We should speak about last night,” he said.

“No, we should simply erase it from our minds.”

“Memory can’t be so easily expunged.”

“Yes it can!” she said, her expression fierce.

Benjamin felt a pang of regret. “And this is what you want? That we should pretend you never kissed me? That I never held you?”

“What else?” She stood like a soldier on inspection, the antithesis of the pliant, ardent woman he’d embraced in this room.

It was a good question. Benjamin wasn’t prepared at this moment to give the conventional answer—an offer of marriage. And he had no others ready. Yet this…void she proposed was deeply unsatisfying. “I don’t want you to be uneasy,” he began.

“I’m perfectly well,” she said. “There is no need to worry about me.”

And with that, she slipped past him and away, leaving Benjamin to wonder at her emphasis. Who or what was he supposed to worry about? Geoffrey, he supposed. Or himself?