The Runaway McBride (18 page)

She locked the door and sagged against it. She was so tired, she could hardly keep her eyes open. Perhaps that was why she found it hard to decode her mother’s diary. When she thought about the horrible events of the day, she was surprised that she was still standing.

After she turned down the gas lamp, she went to bed, the precious diary tucked under her pillow. In the morning, she’d find a better place to hide it.

She’d thought, hoped, that she would fall asleep right away, but her mind buzzed with a thousand impressions: Madeline, James, Lady Cowdray, Egypt.

Her mother had been quite celebrated in her own circle, but when she’d written about her travels, she’d used an assumed name. Was that so that her husband and daughter would never find her?

How could this remarkable woman have abandoned her only child? Was there something about her, Faith, that made her unlovable? Abandoned first by her mother, then by the man she loved. Was the fault in them or in her?

She was wallowing in self-pity, and that set her teeth on edge. Once she had decoded her mother’s diary, she’d have a better understanding of why Madeline chose to give her up. Perhaps there were reasons beyond a daughter’s ability to understand. There was no diary to help her understand the workings of James’s mind. None was needed. A better prospect had come along, and that was that.

Until he’d found her in Pritchard’s Bookshop. There was a mystery here she could not fathom. Why was he helping her?

Her eyelids grew heavy, and she drifted into sleep.

 

 

James’s lashes lifted, and he fought to master his breathing.
He’d been dreaming of Faith. His whole body was twitching. His groin was rock hard. She’d been trying to prove that she was more woman than he could handle.

He shook his head and gave a drowsy smile.
Wishful thinking, you old reprobate,
he told himself. He rolled to his side, let out a resigned sigh, and settled himself to sleep.

Since the following day was Sunday, everything stopped except
for the trains and Sunday worship. After attending that morning’s service, everyone found something to occupy their time. James went to the station to fetch the box that he’d arranged to be sent back from Brighton, and Faith retired to her own room to write Lily a letter. So much had to be left out that she made several attempts before she was satisfied. She couldn’t even tell Lily precisely when she would come down to Brighton, because she didn’t know what she would find when she transcribed her mother’s diary.

When the letter was written, she turned to what really interested her: the diary. It was a simple leather-bound volume with nothing to distinguish it but the faint odor of . . . She wasn’t sure what the odor was. She put the diary to her nose and inhaled, then promptly sneezed. Not soot. Dust? Sand? She reached for her handkerchief, held it a few inches from the open diary, and blew gently. A few grains of reddish gold sand drifted to her handkerchief and settled there.

The thought that these few grains of sand had traveled to her in the pages of her mother’s diary staggered her. It was as though, after all these years of silence, her mother had reached out to touch her. She folded her handkerchief and laid it reverently on top of the escritoire.

Breathing deeply, she opened the diary and studied the first page. The definite and indefinite articles soon emerged, as well as common verbs and proper names. After that, she began to make real progress.

This was to be a record of her private thoughts, Madeline wrote on the first page. There were other notebooks she’d used to describe her various journeys, but this volume was for her eyes only. She’d written the date at the top of the page: November 1873.

Faith turned the page and plowed on. The first entry was a summary of Madeline’s life after she embarked on her first expedition with like-minded ladies to the unexplored peaks of the Dolomites. There were many hardships, but Madeline’s thirst for adventure was patently obvious. Faith read on.

If she’d had any doubts about what Lady Cowdray had told her, they were soon resolved. Madeline often referred to past lovers not with bitterness but with something that bordered on gratitude. They’d enjoyed their affairs, but when it was time to let go and move on, there were no hard feelings. She’d also had several offers of marriage from men of rank, but she’d laughed them off, as well she might, since she was still married to Faith’s father. She wasn’t a romantic. She wasn’t mercenary. She just wanted to live life on her own terms.

Faith scanned the initials of Madeline’s lovers, but they meant nothing to her, and she soon gave up trying to put names to them. For all she knew, they could be in code as well.

She discovered that when in London or Paris, her mother enjoyed dressing up to go to parties or the opera or the theater, but she had only one true love: Egypt. She loved its climate, its landscape, its people, but most of all, she loved its history and getting down in the dirt to scrape the sand away and find a fragment of ancient pottery or the painted floor of some ruined temple. That was when Madeline was in her element.

A picture was forming in Faith’s mind. She saw a woman with many failings but whose failings were easily overlooked by the sheer passion for life that permeated every page. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have Madeline for a friend. Who could keep up with her?

Suddenly rising, she pushed back her chair and went to stand in front of the cheval mirror. She was supposed to look like her mother, but her mother radiated confidence and good humor. The reflection in the mirror showed a quiet, well-bred young woman who would never be noticed in a crowd.

How in heaven’s name had her father managed to ensnare someone like Madeline? Papa was more like his daughter, quiet and understated. The one thing he’d had in common with his wife was a love for ancient history. Evidently, it wasn’t enough to hold them together.

A bird in a cage. Is that how Madeline felt? Is that why she left home?

Faith stared at her reflection for a long time, trying to think herself into her mother’s shoes. The thought of Egypt filled her mind, the sun beating on her face, the warmth permeating every pore. She closed her eyes. She was standing at the rail of the sailing boat that was to take them up the Nile. Pyramids, the sphinx, the Valley of the Kings—the anticipation of seeing them for the first time made her heart beat just a little faster. There were treasures to find here, tombs that had yet to be discovered. Would she be the one to find some pharaoh’s lost tomb?

She opened her eyes. The young woman in the looking glass had undergone a remarkable transformation. Her eyes glowed. The corners of her lips turned up, and her cheeks were infused with color.

It took a moment for Faith to realize someone was knocking on her door.

“Faith, it’s James. Are you there? ”

She crossed to the door and let him in. He was carrying her box. “Come in, come in,” she said, opening the door wide. “So Lily did send on my box.”

“As you see.” He stepped inside and closed the door with his foot. After depositing the box on the floor, he stood there staring at her, his head cocked to the side. “You look different,” he said.

“Do I? ” She smiled. “It must be the Egyptian sun.”

She was making an effort to be pleasant after the quarrel they’d had the night before and hoped he would follow her example. If they were to be in each other’s company for a while, they couldn’t go around with long faces.

“I take it that means you’ve broken the code.” He walked to the escritoire and started moving things around. “Where are your notes? ”

She crossed to him and batted his hands away. “Don’t touch anything!” She reached for her handkerchief and showed it to him. “Look, James. These grains of sand were on the pages of Madeline’s diary. I’m sure they come from Egypt.”

He looked at the handkerchief. “A holy relic, is it? ”

She opened the top drawer of the escritoire and carefully stowed the handkerchief. “I didn’t make notes.” Her voice was tight. “I became engrossed in the diary.”

“I’m all ears. What does it tell us? ”

She wanted to show him the door for the snide remark he had made about a holy relic, but there was so much that she wanted to tell him that she couldn’t stay angry. As she related one episode after another, she wasn’t aware that her voice glowed with admiration for the intrepid Madeline Maynard. She stopped suddenly when it registered that he was watching her with an odd look on his face.

“What? ” she asked.

“I thought,” he said, “that you didn’t want anyone to read your mother’s diary. Eavesdropping, you called it. Yet, here you are, telling me the most intimate details of her life.”

She was momentarily struck by his observation and had to search for an answer. “I meant that I didn’t want
strangers
reading my mother’s diary. You’re different. We’re in this together, aren’t we? ”

When his head began to lower to hers and it looked as though he might kiss her, she said quickly, “Do you recognize any of these initials? Can you put names to them? ”

“No, but I was thinking of the photograph you gave me, the one of the group. I bet when we know the names of the people there, we’ll be able to match them to some of these initials.”

“Lady Cowdray knows all their names. She tried to tell me, but I couldn’t take them all in. We may meet some of them on Saturday at the lecture.”

She glanced at the clock and gasped. “Is that the time? It’s almost time for lunch. I must have been reading the diary for the better part of two hours.”

He put a restraining hand on her arm. “First, I have something for you.” He dug in his pocket and produced a revolver. “This is small enough to hide in your reticule. I want you to keep it with you at all times. It’s lighter than mine, and the caliber of the bullets is smaller, but it’s lethal for all that. You have six shots, but you must remember to cock the hammer before each shot.”

He went through the motions, demonstrating what he had told her.

When she stared at it mutely, he gave her a reassuring smile. “You may never have to use it, but just in case, it’s wise to have something in reserve.”

She was thinking of her mother and how fearless she was. Without a tremor, her fingers closed around the revolver’s butt. “Thank you,” she said. “I shall look after it as though it were a hundred pound note.”

There was a brief silence. Shaking his head, he said, “That doesn’t sound like you. I thought you hated guns.”

“That was before someone started shooting at me. Next time, I’ll be prepared.” She walked him to the door. “Tell the others I’ll be down for lunch in a moment, after I’ve tidied up.”

He stopped on the threshold, and his grin flashed. Lowering his head to hers, he breathed into her mouth, “Don’t fuss, Faith. I’m going to kiss you.”

She’d been warned. She could have taken evasive action. That’s what she meant to do. But something else was at work in her. She was laboring under her mother’s influence. Madeline wasn’t afraid to reach for what she wanted. And Faith wanted James. He wasn’t safe; he wasn’t constant. Here today, gone tomorrow. That was James. What did it matter? This time, she had no illusions, so he couldn’t break her heart.

She expected heat, fire, passion. What he gave her ravished her senses and soothed every ache in her bruised heart. He seemed to know what she needed better than she knew herself.

“I think, Faith McBride,” he said softly, “that you’re twice the woman your mother was.”

He walked away, leaving her staring after him.

Shaking her head, she crossed to the escritoire, picked up her mother’s diary, and stowed it in a pillowcase, which she proceeded to hang in the wardrobe, inside her borrowed dressing gown. She thought, perhaps, that she was being a little too careful. She didn’t think anyone in the house would take the diary, but Mayfair was a favorite haunt of housebreakers. To her way of thinking, any housebreaker worth his salt would take one look at her meager belongings and leave empty-handed.

After a quick look in the mirror to tidy her hair, she left her room and made for the stairs. On the landing, she came face-to-face with Roderick. They tried to pass each other but, instead, got in each other’s way. Laughing, he steadied her by placing his hands around her waist.

“You’re not really going to marry that old stick, are you? ” he said.

She eyed him through narrowed lashes. A young man of considerable charm and grace, she decided, except in the presence of his brother. “Is he an old stick?” she asked, returning the artful smile Roderick bestowed on her.

“Come, now, Faith. May I call you Faith since we’re soon to be family?” It was a rhetorical question, and he went on blithely, “You can do better than an accountant, and that’s all Jamie is. Haven’t you found that out yet? Debits and credits, that’s all he knows.” His voice lowered to a confiding whisper. “Maybe you should look for a younger man? ”