A Bride by Moonlight (36 page)

Lisette dropped it and picked up another piece, almost identical. The fabric was a lush, heavy green velvet—and very familiar-looking velvet, too.

“Anne,” she said curiously, “aren’t these Lord Hepplewood’s old bed-hangings?”

“Yes, and his curtains, too,” said Anne, flicking a glance up. “Or, more correctly, that the fabric was
left over
from the sewing of his hangings and draperies. After she fitted out the room all those months ago, Diana stuffed the scraps in a drawer.”

“Like
this
—? All hacked up?”

Anne’s brow furrowed. “No, in one piece in the bottom of that wardrobe, I think,” she said. “But Gwen found it and began cutting it up for compresses when we were nursing Uncle Hep.”

“Oh.” Lisette looked at her curiously. “Were you here?”

“Oh, yes, when I could be,” said Anne, triumphantly freeing one of the braces. “When Uncle was restless, we’d soak compresses in cold vinegar for his forehead and wrists. It was a trick my stepmother often used for fever.”

“Nanna did that when my sister and I were small,” said Lisette. “It’s oddly soothing.”

Anne shrugged. “And velvet, we thought, would feel quite nice,” she said. “But Diana had a fit. She said she was saving it to make a Parisian green counterpane.”

Something inside Lisette went perfectly still.

Parisian.

Paris
.

For a long moment, Lisette stood there, scarcely daring to breathe as she scrabbled through her brain, one arm hitched beneath the little drawer.

“Anne,” she said a little sharply, “did Diana perhaps say a
Paris Green
counterpane?”

Anne looked up, her expression bland. “She might have done. Uncle adored green. But he was so ill by then, it seemed awfully optimistic. Still, Gwen stuffed what was left of the velvet away to appease Diana.”

Inwardly, Lisette ran through her logic again.

Good Lord. Could it be so simple?
But what were the chances of such a thing happening? And entirely by accident?

A chill ran through her. Both Gwyneth and Mrs. Jansen understood scientific things; astronomy and mathematics and yes, chemistry. Abruptly, she set the drawer down, stuffed a velvet scrap in her pocket, and then strolled toward the hearth.

The strange kettle still swung from its hook in the firebox.

No. It was not possible.

Still, she spun around, her heart suddenly pounding. “Anne, I beg your pardon,” she blurted. “I just remembered—the letter—I should post a letter to Nanna. To tell her I’m coming home.”

Anne was standing by one of the tall dressing chests, pushing one of the drawers in. “Yes, of course,” she said. “You’ve been a great help. But Elizabeth, you’ll likely arrive home with the letter—or within hours of it.”

Lisette nodded, and tried to calm herself. “Perhaps so,” she said. “But I mightn’t go tomorrow, you know? It might be Friday or Saturday. I should let her know, do you not think? Just so she’ll know I’m definitely coming? That I haven’t forsaken her?”

“Oh, it will cheer her immeasurably, I am sure,” said Anne brightly. “Thank you for your help. Shall I see you at dinner?”

“Oh, yes. I shall look forward to it.”

Swiftly, Lisette made her escape.

Q
uite by happenstance, Napier timed his visit to the schoolroom for half past ten. It was an hour when Mrs. Jansen was most apt to be taking Beatrice out for a morning romp since no trace of rain remained, and the day had dawned brilliantly sunny, with a stiff breeze that had dried the landscape.

His task, it seemed, could no longer be put off.

Napier strode through the house a bit like a man bound for the rope. He’d hoped to delay another day or two, but Lisette’s anguish and Craddock’s gout left him with no excuse to dawdle. He was going to have the conversation he’d been avoiding since coming to Burlingame—certainly since his last visit to the schoolroom.

Napier met the winsome pair coming down the staircase, Mrs. Jansen with a large bonnet in one hand and what looked like a novel in the other.

“Saint-Bryce!” said the child, her face lighting up.

“Good morning, Bea.” He stopped on the landing to make her a little bow. “Mrs. Jansen, you are in good looks today.”

“Oh, how do you do, my lord?” said the governess. “Are you not off to Berkshire?”

“No, Craddock was willing, but his foot still looks a misery,” said Napier. “I thought I might walk in the orchard with Bea instead—assuming you’ve no objection?”

Mrs. Jansen blushed prettily. “No, my lord, not in the least.”

Napier turned and offered her his arm. “Perhaps you might like to sit on the bench above, just to keep an eye on us,” he suggested. “Bea might decide to climb up a tree again. In which case, you’ll have to come down the hill and get her out, since I’m afraid of heights.”

At that, both females laughed and Beatrice began to tease him unmercifully. A few minutes later, they had deposited Mrs. Jansen and her book upon the bench and were making their way down the hill toward the stables in a stiff but not unpleasant breeze.

“You
aren’t
going to climb up a tree, are you?” he asked warily.

“Not if I have something better to do,” said the child, grinning up at him.

“Ah,” he said. “What did you have in mind for today?”

The girl shrugged, and flopped down in the grass beneath her favorite tree. “We might go down to the boathouse,” she suggested, “and skip stones on the water again?”

“Aye, we might,” he said reluctantly.

Later, Napier was to wish that he’d encouraged the child’s notion. But in that moment, he simply wanted to avoid the damned boathouse—as he’d been doing for days now. Merely glimpsing it through his window reminded him of his passionate interlude there with Lisette, and of the crashing argument that had followed.

It was the same pattern they’d followed again last night, but with far more harrowing results.

Lisette had not even appeared at breakfast this morning. Napier was sure, for he’d gone down early, having been unable to sleep, and lingered until everyone else had dined. He had lingered so long, in fact, that the servants had begun to mill about, anxious to clear the sideboard.

Finally Napier accepted that Lisette didn’t mean to come down at all; that even as he sat hunched over a cold cup of coffee, his stomach in a knot and his heart half broken, she was likely packing her trunks and wishing him to the devil.

But if he was going to dwell upon the chaos that constituted his love life, he might as well go down to the lake and throw himself in. Far better to turn his attention to someone he perhaps could help.

He joined Bea in the grass, with little regard for the grumbling that would ensue when Jolley saw his trousers.

They had met here with some frequency, he and Beatrice, Napier having learned the girl’s schedule and gained, in some measure, Mrs. Jansen’s trust. He had been relieved to learn the woman always hovered near, well within earshot and usually carrying a book or something pertaining to Bea’s lessons. Though there was a fine line between the two, he’d decided the child was not neglected, but was instead given a healthy amount of independence. In that knowledge, at least, he’d found some comfort.

Napier stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. Beatrice followed suit, her tiny brown boots peeping from beneath a froth of lace. Then she fell back into the grass and stared up into the branches now clattering a little in the wind, crossing her hands over her heart.

He glanced down at her. With her blonde ringlets fanning around her head, Bea looked rather like an angel. He had developed a great fondness for the girl, he realized, and no small amount of tenderness. Suddenly, that unfamiliar emotion gripped his heart a little—wounded, wrung-out organ that it had become these last miserable hours.

But it would not do to be maudlin on such a lovely day. Beatrice had enough of that in her quieter moments, he suspected. Instead, he inhaled deeply. “Ah, smell the fresh air, Bea,” he said. “I shall miss this when I return to London.”

“Is the air in London truly foul?” asked Bea absently. “Mrs. Jansen says it smells worse than the sewage canals in Amsterdam.”

He laughed, and fell back into the grass beside her, staring up into the skirling canopy of green. “It often does,” he agreed, wedging his hands beneath his head. “Especially when that notorious odor is blended with the acrid stench of coal smoke and the reek of the riverbank, and the whole miasma is pressed down upon the city by a fog. They call it a London Peculiar, and you can scarcely see through it.”

“If it stinks so, why would you go back?” The girl sounded wistful.

“Oh, because of my work,” he said vaguely.

“But what about Miss Colburne?” said Bea. “Aren’t you going to marry her and bring her here to live?”

Napier hesitated, still unwilling to mislead the child. He gave a soft sigh. “I’m afraid we may not marry after all, Bea,” he said quietly. “Miss Colburne is having second thoughts.”

Bea swiveled her head to look at him, her eyes giving up little. “Diana had second thoughts,” she said quietly, “and that didn’t end well.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m afraid I brought Miss Colburne’s second thoughts on myself,” he said. “Will you mind so very much?”

The child lifted both shoulders in an exaggerated motion, rustling the grass. “Will you marry Diana, then?” she said a little sullenly.

Napier turned his face back into the branches. “No, Bea,” he said softly. “I think I’ve given my heart to Miss Colburne. It would not be right to marry someone I did not love.”

“Aunt Hepplewood told Diana that love was a cartload of nonsense,” said Bea evenly. “That it was better to marry with the head than the heart.”

“She might be right,” Napier admitted, “but it’s too late for me. That said, I’m going to ask you to keep my secret about Miss Colburne for now. Just in case I can convince her to change her mind. Can you do that?”

The girl nodded. “Yes,” she said solemnly. “I can keep a secret.”

Napier hesitated a heartbeat before plunging forward. “Indeed, I think you must be very good at keeping secrets,” he said, “which is an admirable quality under most circumstances.”

She was still looking at him through the swaying stalks of grass. “But not all circumstances?”

“Not always.” He rolled up onto his elbow, and withdrew the letter from his pocket. “For example, I think, Bea, that you secretly wrote me this letter some weeks past.”

He held it out between two fingers. The child looked at it unblinkingly, her blue eyes narrowed a little against the sunlight.

He let his hand drop. “Actually,” he said, “I know you wrote it. And I should like to know why.”

“How do you know?” she asked doubtfully.

“Because it is my job,” he said. “My job—sometimes—is to uncover secrets. Oh, it looks, perhaps, as if a servant might have sent it. Cleverly done, I thought.”

She was silent for a long while. Napier refolded the letter and tucked it back into his coat. “Bea, you don’t have to say why you sent it, if you don’t wish to,” he said, “but just know that it was perfectly fine for you to write me.”

“Was it?” she said in a small voice.

“Certainly,” he said. “In fact, whilst I’m still living in London, you may write to me at any time, and about anything. If something troubles you—even the most trifling thing—I should
wish
you to write me, and to do it straightaway. But do sign the letters, Bea. I would be very happy to get them, and to see your signature.”

She sat up then, curling one leg beneath her. She looked coltish, and very pretty. Indeed, he thought it quite likely her beauty would surpass even her sister Anne’s.

The child was fast approaching a vulnerable time in her life. Soon enough there would be balls and suitors and marriage proposals to be weighed. The thought chilled him. And because of it, Napier dared do nothing to jeopardize the child’s growing trust.

Bea began to twist a stalk of grass into some sort of loop. “I might write to you again,” she said, “someday—if you don’t come back to Burlingame.”

He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I will come back, Bea,” he said quietly, “from time to time. And if anything should happen to your grandfather—to
our
grandfather—if Duncaster’s health should fail, I mean—then I would come at once. And I would stay.”

“All the time?” she whispered.

“All the time,” said Napier.

And he was suddenly struck with the realization that the idea no longer troubled him as much as it once had. Sir George had been right. There was no escaping his fate. Moreover, there was much to learn here, and the fortunes of many depended upon Napier’s ability to learn it.

But his days spent traveling the estates and reviewing the accounts with Craddock had reassured Napier that Lisette had been right, too. The running of a great estate required, above all, a keen grasp of human nature and a knack for management.

But Bea was still looking at him a little pensively.

Lightly, he patted the letter in his pocket. “Why do we not play a game?” he suggested. “Why do I not guess at the reason you sent this letter? And if I am right, you may simply say so?”

She looked up from her grass chain, and stared at him for a moment. “All right,” she said.

Napier appeared to consider it. “I think you became a bit afraid last year when your Uncle Hepplewood grew ill,” he said. “He became a little . . . distraught, didn’t he?”

Again, she lifted her slender shoulders. “They would not let me see him,” she said quietly. “But I could hear him sometimes. Saying . . . things. He was scared. Then he died.”

Napier thought he understood. “That must have been frightening,” he said, “to know that your uncle was so ill he could not think clearly.”

She gave a little nod.

“And when your papa died a few months later,” said Napier, “I’m sure that frightened you even more. But Bea, he died of an apoplexy. It was unforeseeable.”

“I suppose.” Her chin came up almost defiantly. “But Uncle Hep kept saying that people were trying to kill him. And then P-Papa said . . .”