The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (15 page)

Joyce released Aunt Rosaline’s other hand, now that she was no longer putting up a fight, and started to leave the room only to be stopped short by Lord Roman’s next question.

“What spirits do you have in the house? Whiskey? Brandy?”

“We have a flask of whiskey in the cupboard, my lord.”

“Bring it. And laudanum, if you’ve got it.”

Laudanum? A lump built in Bethanne’s throat. She swallowed convulsively as Mrs. Temple stood again.

“I’ll get that. Back in a jiffy.”

When the housekeeper and cook were both gone, Bethanne caught Lord Roman’s gaze and held it. Her mouth opened and closed as though to speak, but no sound came out.

“We’ll just give her a little. Enough that she won’t feel it as the needle pierces her skin.” He gave her a grimace of sorts that might have been an attempt at a calming smile. “It is better for her to stay calm.”

And of course, he was right. Again.

Bethanne resolutely nodded with far more confidence than she felt as Mrs. Temple and Joyce came back in with their various supplies. Mrs. Temple gave Aunt Rosaline a spoonful of the laudanum while Joyce helped Lord Roman with the needle and thread.

He poured some of the whiskey over her cuts and, while she winced, she didn’t cry out or jerk her arm back. Perhaps the laudanum was called for in this situation after all.

When Lord Roman pushed the tip of the needle into Aunt Rosaline’s flesh, Bethanne’s stomach almost revolted. She pressed her eyes closed, willing him to be done with it as soon as possible.

A few murmurs were all that were coming from Aunt Rosaline now, no longer the whimpers or shrieks from earlier. She sounded peaceful. Like she was merely resting.

A moment later, Lord Roman bit off a muffled oath. “I need more light,” he said louder, clearer.

Footsteps rushed away and then back. Probably Joyce. The pace of the steps seemed more like her gait than Mrs. Temple’s.

A few minutes later, Lord Roman stood. “Well, that should take care of her wounds, unless there is an infection. If that happens, we’ll have to send for the doctor.”

Take care of it? He couldn’t possibly be done, could he? Bethanne opened her eyes, finally, braving the sight of blood once again. It was all still there—plenty of it—but it was no longer oozing at an alarming rate, at least.

She scanned the room. There was blood everywhere…drenching the bedding and the floors, covering the chairs, and all over Bethanne, Aunt Rosaline, the two servants, and Lord Roman—most especially over Lord Roman. It looked like a murder had taken place in there, and he’d been the one to commit the crime.

When Bethanne looked up and met Lord Roman’s eyes, he hurriedly looked down at his hands and arms. “I should go so I can clean myself up. I’ll be back later to…to help.”

She nodded, unable to find her voice. He took a step back, and then another, before she called out to him, “Lord Roman?” Her voice was wobbly and it cracked with emotion. “Thank you,” she finished after a long moment had passed.

He looked her straight in the eye and held her gaze. Then he nodded again, and left.

Only after he was gone did Bethanne attempt to stand again. She made her way out of the room and down the hall before casting up the contents of her stomach in a decorative urn.

How many more episodes like this could they all survive? And if Lord Roman hadn’t arrived when he did…

She couldn’t even let herself think on that possibility.

“My hand hurts all over, Bethanne.”

Aunt Rosaline’s pronouncement came as such a surprise to Bethanne that she pricked her finger with her needle. “Bother,” she muttered, pushing her sewing aside and sucking away the blood coming from the pinprick on her finger. Cautiously, she looked across at her aunt.

For the first time in a very long time, Aunt Rosaline’s eyes were clear.

Bethanne realized her mouth was hanging slack and forced it closed. “I’m sure they are, Aunt Rosaline. I’m sorry they’re causing you pain.”

“What happened?” Her eyes were filled with tears.

What hadn’t happened? Bethanne took a long breath, debating how much to tell her aunt. After all, how would she react? There was no way of knowing. Resigned, she gave Aunt Rosaline a half smile. “You fell on some broken glass.”

Aunt Rosaline nodded slowly, her lips pressed into a line. “I broke the glass, didn’t I? You don’t have to be careful with me about this, Bethanne.”

But she always had to be careful with Aunt Rosaline, for months on end. Still, lying wouldn’t really serve a purpose. “Yes. You broke the window.”

“I’m so sorry, luv,” her aunt said on a sob. “I’m so sorry that I am not myself. I just wish I could…” Her words hung in the thickness of the room, poignant in their nonexistence.

Tears stung Bethanne’s eyes, but she forced them aside. “I know.” She moved to sit next to her aunt and draped an arm over her shoulder, gently drawing her into an embrace. “I wish everything could be different, too.”

There were so many things she wished for her aunt. For them both. But wishes solved nothing.

They sat there for long minutes, holding onto each other. Years ago, it would have been Aunt Rosaline consoling Bethanne and easing her hurts after her brothers teased her or something else of the sort, not Bethanne easing the hurts of her aunt. How very odd, how life changed sometimes.

After a while, Aunt Rosaline pulled away slightly. She turned and smiled at Bethanne, a tearful, wavering sort of smile. “Would you play for me? I’d join you, but…” She held up her bandaged hands, which clearly would be no use with the pianoforte.

It had been a while, but it would do them both some good. Bethanne smiled. “Sit by me, at least. Even if you can’t play, you can be part of it.”

Aunt Rosaline nodded and stood gingerly. Bethanne took her arm and led her from the parlor to the bright music room. Even with the clouds from the snow, the yellow cheeriness of the music room made it feel warm and welcoming. They sat, side-by-side, on the bench.

“What would you like me to play?” Bethanne asked.

“I think you know.”

And she did. Aunt Rosaline always wanted the same piece, ever since the first time she’d heard it: Beethoven’s fourteenth piano sonata. With a nod and a smile, Bethanne sorted through the sheet music, shuffling to find the one she needed. She pulled it free from the stack and set it out over the keys. Then she took a breath and played.

When Roman returned to the cottage, he was greeted by the haunting strains of a familiar melody. The music coming from the pianoforte was wrought with pain and despair, and yet also with an overwhelming sense of hope. It called to him from someplace deep within, a place he’d long ago fought to close off and leave behind. Mistakenly, it seemed, he had failed to leave that part of himself in Yorkshire with his family, long before he ever bought his commission and set off for the wars.

He wanted, strangely, to turn around and leave without looking back. Yet instead, he found his feet propelling him forward, and he knocked at the door.

Several moments passed with no answer, but he was so entranced by the music he couldn’t be bothered by the fact that he was standing alone, in the cold, in front of a house full of women. Finally, Mrs. Temple came to greet him with a sheepish, surprised smile. The keys at her waist jangled as she pulled the door back.

“Oh, Lord Roman! We weren’t expecting you to return so soon.” She moved back and waved her arm wide, gesturing him inside. “I wasn’t sure you’d be back before tea, after that…well, after what happened this morning.”

Indeed, he’d thought to do more work at Hassop House. For some reason, he’d been unable to concentrate on anything but returning to Miss Shelton and Lady Rosaline, and as soon as he possibly could, at that. “I thought I could help with replacing the window,” he said, though his tone sounded as though he was grasping, even to his own ears.

She smiled. “That would be lovely, my lord, and we would greatly appreciate any assistance you can give us. But right now, we’re all in the music room. Miss Shelton’s playing. Won’t you join us?”

Miss Shelton was creating that haunting, enigmatic sound?

He shouldn’t intrude. He should turn around right this moment and go about his business, and only come back at the appointed time for tea…the only thing to which he’d been invited.

But of late, he hadn’t been doing too many things he ought to do, and he
had
been doing entirely too many things he oughtn’t.

Now, it appeared, was not the time to turn the tides of that pattern.

Roman inclined his head to the housekeeper. “Yes, thank you.” He stepped inside and removed his hat and gloves, then placed them on the table just inside the door.

Mrs. Temple smiled at him, then bustled down the corridor toward the back of the house. She opened the door and waved him inside, then took up her seat by the window and started to work on some sewing, not looking back to see if he’d done as she indicated.

When he entered, he stopped for a moment, stunned.

Miss Shelton and Lady Rosaline sat next to each other on the bench of the pianoforte, the younger playing with such intense feeling that emotion dripped from her very fingertips, the elder swaying along with her eyes closed beside her, side to side, up and down, flowing with the crests and valleys of the tune.

Joyce sat across from them at the oak escritoire on the other side of the pianoforte, scribbling away on some parchment and occasionally looking up with a wistful expression in her eyes.

Mrs. Wyatt was in a high-backed chair close to the hearth, keeping her attention trained squarely upon young Finn, whose limbs were strewn over the floor as he stacked wooden blocks with studied fervor and a fierce scowl.

It was such a scene of domestic tranquility, of home and family, and all of those lovely things he’d long ago convinced himself he could never take part in. The urge to turn his back and make his exit was strong. He wanted, desperately, to do the right thing. But right for whom?

The best thing he could do for these women and this child would be to leave. Wouldn’t it? Or was that simply the best thing he could do for himself?

Never in his life had Roman experienced such muddled thoughts. He’d always looked at the world as black and white, where one path was the proper path to take and the other would lead to ruin.

Now, he was not so certain.

Leaning forward over the keys, Miss Shelton pressed into a crescendo, building like a wave racing for the shore. He was caught up in the swell, moving along with her at an ever faster pace, unable to stop his forward momentum…into what?

Joyce caught his eye, and he nearly fell over from being pulled from his momentary lapse of reason. His pulse was rapid, thundering through his veins, and his palms were sweaty and cool. Good Lord, what was happening to him? Roman forced himself to acknowledge the cook with an inclination of his head, and she pointed to a settee near Finn’s building efforts, across from the pianoforte.

He nodded, not wanting to break the spell the music had cast over the room. Over him specifically, if he was to be honest with himself. Then he moved to sit, never removing his gaze from Miss Shelton.

The play of emotions wafting over her face was as fascinating as the music coming from the gentle yet forceful touch of her fingers. It was as though she and the instrument were one—joined by some invisible force.

Roman lost track of how long he sat there, staring and engrossed in the experience. But then, with a few long, mournful chords, the piece came to a close, and Miss Shelton’s fingers stilled, and the world ceased spinning.

The clatter of wooden blocks crashing to the hardwood floor broke through the electrically-charged moment. Miss Shelton turned at Finn’s cry of frustration, but her gaze landed on Roman, not on the boy.

“Oh!” A delightful flush raced to her cheeks. “I didn’t realize you had returned.”

He stood awkwardly, prepared to leave should she wish it despite the unfounded desire that had struck him never to leave her presence—
their
presence—again.

Finn’s howls increased in intensity, however, diverting her attention. Miss Shelton and Mrs. Wyatt rose as one, rushing to the boy’s side.