The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (13 page)

Upon folding the paper, he tucked it and the graphite into his jacket then draped his fingers over the cane’s knob. Sun filtered from the window behind the table and the brass handle winked as if forged of flame. I squinted to focus on his mouth.

“Your uncle mentioned you read lips.”

A flash of heat surged through my neck. I nodded, too embarrassed to answer aloud. I wanted to look at my shoes, the polished floor, anything but this dashing, cryptic man who mirrored my ghost. But there would be more humiliation in missing his words and having him repeat them, so I met his gaze head on.

“You do quite well. I would never have known you were deaf.”

Of course you wouldn’t, had Uncle not told you.
I scowled.

Our guest resituated his cane’s handle. “Feel no discomfort on my behalf. I can relate.” The cane’s tip gestured toward his right foot, twisted on an unnatural slant. “I’ve been burdened with this since birth.”

I ventured a small smile, surprised by his kindness. Surely it was all an act to get in my good graces so I’d hand over the deed to the estate.

“In fact,” he continued, “you don’t seem limited in the least. I’m astounded by your many talents.”

My brow arched. What other talents had he seen?

“That was a stunning performance earlier.” He straightened the tie-pin in his celery green cravat, then tapped his finger against his sternum, as if remembering my cheek pressed against him there.

My spine withered, just to imagine us sharing the same thoughts. “Performance?” I ventured the word to save face, though worried how my voice must sound to him. It was the first time I’d been brave enough to speak in his presence. But since he already knew of my deafness, what did I have to hide … other than his brother’s ghost?

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a cough come upon anyone with such vicious spontaneity,” he answered. “Do such fits run through your bloodline, or is it exclusive to you?”

“Oh.” I forced out another “Hawk” induced cough for good measure, then gripped the lace at my collarbones with my left hand. “I fear the burden is mine to bear alone.”

His attention settled on my naked ring finger. “Ah. A shame. That flair for theatrics would be a fine trait to pass along to any future offspring you might have.” He’d seen right through my act. His white-toothed roguish grin favored Hawk’s so much my pulse broke into a gallop.

Chloe tottered in with Uncle behind her. He tipped his chin to the viscount and handed off a cup of tea with rosemary-scented clouds swirling at the brim. Taking the cup and setting it next to Hawk’s flower, the viscount held an envelope out to Uncle, pulled from the pocket opposite of the paper he earlier scrawled upon.

Uncle sat next to me and nudged the envelope my direction. I took it and frowned at him, an unspoken reproach for telling our guest of my infirmity. In all my years, he’d always left it up to me to tell people on my own terms, once I deemed them worthy of trust.

Uncle glanced down at his hands like a reprimanded child.

I opened the envelope and, spreading the document on my lap, read the words silently—an itinerary of the dreaded day’s events from the ochre mine’s previous owner, Lord Larson. There was nothing more than my age, the date, the time, and the location: ochre mine #34. The lack of details left me an anonymous bystander to my own tragedy.

I glanced up at the viscount and saw compassion in his eyes.

“Please, Miss Emerline. I would like to have a more thorough account of the incident for my own files. Is there anything else you can offer?”

I focused on Uncle, my annoyance softening. Was it possible he hadn’t betrayed me after all? Perhaps Uncle thought that if Lord Thornton knew of my tragedy, of my deafness, he might feel sympathy for me and stop pressing for my estate.

“I remember only bits of that day.” Setting the opened parchment aside, I twisted my hands on my lap. “Nothing fits together or makes sense. Can you help me with the pieces, Uncle? I’d been climbing a tree. It had … it had a witch’s face.”

Uncle crossed his ankles, catching my hem with the movement. For years, he’d stifled my efforts to remember. It was to protect me; but it was also to protect him.

Sighing, he nodded. “Yes. The bark formed something of a face. A hideous image. In fact, for months thereafter, you had nightmares about old women.” He kept his head turned to me, but addressed the viscount. “Her father, Anston, and I were visiting the ochre mines that day, to ascertain if they’d be a profitable investment for our cloth dying business. Juliet’s mother had been ill all morning so we took the child with us, to give Emilia some rest.” His mouth quirked to a grin. “Juliet was quite adventuresome as a six-year-old.”

I suppressed a smile, thinking upon stories I’d been told.

“Lord Larson offered a tour of the place. We became preoccupied,” Uncle continued. “We failed to notice Juliet had slipped away. The moment I looked down and saw her gone …” His eyes pinched.

My hand grasped his.

He laced our fingers and the story became an apology. “We looked everywhere for you. For hours. Your father was desperate to tears. Finally, just when dark came, one of Larson’s men stumbled upon an abandoned shaft where the scaffolding had buckled. Up above was the tree with several broken branches. The worker surmised what had happened and called us over.” Uncle’s lips tightened to cords of white. “We feared the worst.”

He’d always blamed himself. Even when he and Papa returned me to Mama with nothing more than a few scratches. Even when she assured them it was no one’s fault. Uncle still couldn’t make peace with it. From that day forward, he became my staunchest protector.

Uncle’s gaze shifted from me and I realized our guest had said something. My attention centered on Lord Thornton.

“How did you find your way out of the wreckage after you fell?” he asked. “As the victim, you can offer insights no one else can.”

I turned to Uncle, seeking his assistance.

“She did mention a boy helping her,” Uncle said. “A boy made of dirt.”

I felt a whimper escape my throat. I had forgotten that detail.

The viscount’s face paled and he leaned forward, knees on elbows, as if Uncle’s words had tugged him down. “There was someone else there with you? In the mines?”

Although his question was directed at me, I turned to Uncle, waiting for him to explain. My voice stayed trapped within.

Uncle ruffled his white hair. “We were never sure. It was all she would talk of for weeks thereafter. How a mud prince had saved her. Her fantasy champion.” He looked fully at me. “We decided it was someone your mind had conjured.”

“I
imagined
him?” I asked, because a part of me was starting to see it as truth. Because now that I’d allowed details to surface, I could envision the boy’s youthful features—masked in mud and sculpted of pain—with such precision, he must have been real.

“A dream perhaps,” Uncle answered. “Your father and I wished to explore the collapsed mine to be sure, but Lord Larson said it was too dangerous for a layman. He had a staff of gypsies that mined for him … said they would better know the tunnels. He sent us home, promising to have his men search. We later received news that they found no one else. Just red dust, broken rocks, and splintered scaffolding that blocked any other tunnels in sight.”

Something began to tap at that fragile, unreachable moment within me, causing hairline fissures in the shell surrounding it. All this time, a vague sense of foreboding had shaded its birth, like a raven’s wing spread possessively over her nest. Now, I tried to lift away the black feathery shadow, determined to remember it all.

My face must have revealed my inner turmoil because my uncle patted my hand and leaned closer.

“This is why I never encouraged the memory. The trauma still affects you. That was my mistake. I’ve kept your fears static, not allowing you to face them. My thought is, since Lord Thornton’s manor sits atop the quarry, if we take his offer to work for him, you can get a glimpse of your past. With all of the changes he’s incorporated at the mines, it will put things in perspective as to time’s passage. You and I can move forward … bury the memory for good.”

My attempt at remembering fell stillborn, unable to compete with Uncle’s bizarre announcement. Had I read his lips right?

I shot to my feet, forcing both of the men to stand.

“Me, work for
him
? In his mines?” I glared at the viscount. “Have you both gone stark-raving mad?”

“Juliet, you’ll not be expected to work in a mine shaft. Heavens.” Uncle gestured to the viscount. “Lord Thornton and I have found we share some business interests. Now, I’m to fetch samples of my fabrics. Keep our guest company until I return.”

As my uncle started toward the stairs, he threw a meaningful frown in my direction—
be on your best behavior.
Though my cheeks burned, I responded with a slight nod. Uncle vanished behind the banister. I stood with my back to the viscount, two steps away from plucking a petal from the flower to revive Hawk.

Chloe sniffed at my ankle as our guest came up behind—close enough that my entire body surged with awareness. I forced myself to turn and face him. He loomed over me, holding me in his long-lashed stare. An immeasurable darkness shifted through his eyes like moving clouds.

I was too intent on that mysterious gaze to notice him reaching into his pocket until he held out the folded parchment he wrote upon earlier. On the front, in lovely curving script, were the words:
To help you make peace with your past.

Blood thrumming in my neck, I caught the opposite end of the paper. He clasped it tighter. I watched his mouth.

“Read it when you are alone.” Though his words seemed a command, the way he looked at me, almost pleading, drained any defiance. I nodded and he released his clasp. Then his attention strayed to the stairway.

I tucked the letter inside my bodice as my uncle came around the banister.

Had I managed to eat anything earlier, I would’ve been sick upon seeing the three dress forms he carried. He had draped his fabrics over their shoulders, yes. But he failed to mention he’d be showcasing my newest creations atop each of the figures’ heads.

“Did I not tell you?” He addressed our guest while beaming with pride. “The finest hats in all of England.”

Numb, I watched the viscount take his place beside my uncle and run his fingers across the bonnets, measuring my work. I grimaced at Uncle. Thrice in one day he had brought my insecurities to float atop the froth of my mortification, never to sink again.

“His Lordship has already hired a seamstress,” Uncle explained. “And he has a boutique ready to accommodate a linen-draper and a milliner. You and I can work side by side. I’ll sell dyed fabrics and trimmings for gowns, and you can provide hats to match them.”

The viscount glanced up from his appraisal of my bonnets. “I need a bright and charming young lady to attend to my female patrons, Miss Emerline. They will be the cream of society.” He acted as if nothing had taken place between us in Uncle’s absence. As if he hadn’t passed me a secret note. As if his improper proximity hadn’t made my pulse race.

Uncle’s face brimmed with excitement. “You have your mother’s touch, Juliet. Do not let it fade away to waste. Make her proud.”

Eyes burning, I glanced at my feet, knowing he referred to more than my perfect pick-stitches. He wanted me to step outside my safe haven and forge new relationships, just as Mama had always done.

But I was satisfied here in Claringwell with the few clients I had made. I never intended to reach beyond them. I had no desire to fraternize with the snobbery and tout-abouts of an aristocracy I did not belong to.

I’d been to enough showings over the years. I saw how Mama’s more elite customers looked down on me. How they treated me like a rare porcelain toy with minuscule cracks, lovely to look at, yet sad and fragile. Untouchable. Better to be seated on a shelf where I wouldn’t break.

I couldn’t relate to them, much less befriend them. I lacked the status … I lacked the finesse. How could a deaf woman sit safely upon the throne of the elite, when she couldn’t hear the whine of slanderous arrows in time to stop them from pricking her exposed heart?

Catching a hooded glance between my uncle and our guest, I pondered how many missives had passed between them in the last few months. How long had they been planning this?

A gritty dryness tightened my windpipe.

The viscount stepped in front of my uncle, holding one of my fall bonnets formed of spruce crape upon a foundation of straw. “Exquisite work, Miss Emerline. The finest Trianon hat I’ve ever set eyes on.” He traced the gold bow at the crown where brown foliage gave way to peach and maroon flowers. “These blossoms are immaculate. So lifelike.”

Despite my discomfort, I couldn’t help but be impressed by his knowledge of the design. “Strawflowers,” I mumbled, making little effort with my vocal cords. “Immortelles bred for their vividness and shape retention. Few things are more persuasive to a person’s mood than color.”