Thief of Hearts (13 page)

Satisfied, she stood up, buttoning her sleeves. She would lose no more sleep, waste no more time thinking about Mr. Brodie. She'd wasted enough time already worrying that she wasn't the decent, principled woman she'd always known herself to be. It was
he
who was entirely to blame. Any man who would try to exploit his brother's widow in a weak moment was a conscienceless, black-hearted villain. She despised him.

She smoothed her skirts, slipped into her shoes. Rearranged a hairpin and pinched her cheeks for color. Today she would tell him all about stanchions and deck girders. And nothing he could do, no mocking, exaggerated politeness, no thinly veiled double entendre, no hot, surreptitious glances at her bosom would discompose her. Because she was impervious to him. He was boorish and offensive, and she was a lady. The wonder was how she'd ever let him affect her so strongly in the first place. But no more. Today was a new day.

"Mr. Brodie."

"Ma'am."

"Smelling the meat before consuming it is considered ill-bred."

Brodie squinted at the chunk of roast pork on the end of his fork. "Well, now, that may be," he conceded. "But where I'm from it's also considered a life-saying precaution."

"Not here, though, I think we can all rest assured," said Anna firmly. At least he was using his fork; Mr. Flowers took up all his food with his knife. She sighed dispiritedly. It was going to be a long three weeks. Mr. Brodie's table manners were neat but not polished, and definitely more practical than correct. "Bread, of course," she noted a moment later, "is broken off into small bits, rather than eaten whole in great bites."

She spoke in a general tone, looking at no one in particular, but Billy Flowers stopped dead with a giant mouthful of half-chewed biscuit and stared guiltily down at his plate. The evening wasn't going the way he'd hoped. This was the first time he and Brodie had been invited to eat with Mrs. Balfour and Mr. O'Dunne before, they'd taken their meals in the kitchen and he'd been looking forward to it all day. He'd taken special pains with his toilette, slicking his sand-colored hair back with oil and putting on a clean collar under his best plaid jacket. But he wasn't having any fun. Mrs. Balfour was smashing, tiptop, he was half in love with her, but tonight he wished she would shut up. Sit close to the table but don't lean your elbows on it, refrain from loud talking and laughing, use your napkin, not your handkerchief. Billy was so keyed up he couldn't taste his food anymore. He kept his eyes down and tried to look inconspicuous.

"It's rude to blow on one's soup and" Anna laughed lightly, "of course one never
drinks
it; one spoons it up from the bowl and tries not to make slurping sounds."

Billy rose up from a near-crouch and wiped soup from his mouth with the back of his hand. He picked up his spoon surreptitiously, stared at it a moment in perplexity, then dunked it into his bowl. In an effort not to slurp, he put the whole spoon in his mouth, clanging it against his teeth and causing everyone to look at him. He belched nervously.

Brodie began to enjoy himself. Twenty years ago his mother had taught him and Nick all about table manners. Since then he'd gotten… a bit rusty. But compared to Billy, he ate like Prince Albert, and so poor Bill was getting most of the attention. Brodie sat on Anna's right, Billy across from him, O'Dunne on his other side. Everyone had changed clothes for dinner. Anna had on a gray gown of some soft-looking material, silk, he guessed, with darker gray stripes. He liked the way she was wearing her hair; it was softer tonight, coiled on top of her head instead of that bun thing in back she usually wore, and the candlelight was picking out the bright strands of copper and gold and—

"It's also rude to stare."

Brodie turned his slow gaze on O'Dunne, who had been silent up to now. Brodie had wondered a time or two before now if the lawyer was in love with the lady. He was protective enough of her, but Brodie couldn't tell if his devotion was because of love or friendship. He caught himself hoping it was the latter, then wondered why. What difference did it make? None, of course. It was only that Mrs. Balfour, he guessed he'd keep calling her that, it meant so damn much to her, had had a shock, and he knew, from his own very personal experience, that she was in a vulnerable state. He'd hate to see her snapped up by another man, even one as righteous and honorable as the lawyer, before she'd taken enough time to recover.

He swallowed another mouthful of pork and looked about for something to wash it down with. "Anything to drink around here besides this bug juice?" he asked, swishing the slice of lemon around in the little cup in front of his plate.

To his surprise, O'Dunne let out a bark of laughter and then looked across the table at Anna expectantly.

"That's the fingerbowl," she said matter-of-factly. "One doesn't drink it, one washes the tips of one's fingers in it after eating." She frowned at O'Dunne, who was still chuckling. "It's an understandable mistake, Aiden, and not really that funny. As it happens, the French gargle with it, although no English person would."

The lawyer sobered instantly.

"Mr. O'Dunne and I thought perhaps it would be best if you, that is, if we abstained from wine and spirits during the next few weeks."

Brodie loosened his grip on the bleeding goddamn "fingerbowl."

"I see," he said, expressionless. Embarrassment and anger coiled around each other inside him. "Afraid I'll run amok if I'm given my daily rum ration, eh? Good thinking."

There was a moment of heavy silence. Anna rang the bell beside her plate. When the serving maid entered, Anna asked in her best schoolgirl's Italian for water and goblets, and the maid went away to get them.

Out of politeness, and because she found the tense, returning silence oppressive, she made an attempt at conversation. "What are meals like on board ship, Mr. Brodie?"

His look was cold. "Not much like the ones around here."

"No, I imagine not, but in what way? Could you be more specific?"

He sat back. Oh, he could be specific, all right. "Well, ma'am, on a sailing ship the big meal's at two o'clock. The men who aren't on watch gather around a big brass cooking pot in the forecastle. When the quartermaster gives the signal, we all pitch in with our knives and spoons, everybody after the biggest piece of meat."

She made a courteous humming sound and took a small bite of potato.

"This pot's also the center for all the practical jokes so clear to the hearts of us bored, simple minded sailors," he went on, warming to it. "The man who can slip an old sock or shoe into the soup is a great hero to everyone but the cook, that is, who's apt to get fifteen lashes for gross negligence. Which the crew always attends with enthusiasm, since they hate the cook and don't trust him. They think he's putting money meant for their pork and beans into his pocket. Which he usually is."

"What sort of food do they give you?" Anna asked faintly.

"Mostly hardtack, salt pork, and dried beans. You only get fresh meat in port. You can take along a few cows and kill them as you go, but they have to be kept on open deck and it's never long before they break their legs. Then you have to shoot them. You can keep chicken in coops on the sides, but in a small ship the decks are usually half-flooded, so the chickens either drown or get sick and die. Then it's risky to eat 'em."

"How… interesting."

"Sometimes there's cheese, but that gets to tasting pretty peculiar after a few days in the tropics. It won't kill you, but it can give you a mighty bad case of the runs."

Anna made a choking sound and laid down her fork.

"Ow, now, I 'ad that last monf," chimed in Billy around a mouthful of asparagus. "I et all of 'alf a bowl o' wot I thought was a loin mutton stew at Slattery's in Stite Streetin Soufampton; know it?" No one seemed to. "An' not 'alf an hour liter I've got the backdoor trots so bad I'm runnin' like a grey'ound fer the jikes. If I wasn't 'alf sick! I thought my insides would—"

Anna and O'Dunne rose to their feet simultaneously. Both were red in the face, the former from mortification, the latter from trying not to laugh. In a high voice Anna suggested they have coffee in the library and abruptly left the room, O'Dunne on her heels.

"Blow me, d'you think I said somefin' wrong, Jack?" fretted Billy, slipping a few biscuits in his pocket and clambering to his feet.

"No, no, never think it. You were a perfect gent."

"Truly? She went a bit green about the gills just then. Wot if I—"

"Nay, by no means. I think she likes you, Bill."

"Huh!" With great delicacy, Billy rinsed his sausage-sized digits in the fingerbowl and dried them on his napkin. "C'mon, mite, don't forget t'' wash, ay?" And he waited until Brodie gave in, stuck his fingers in the damned fingerbowl, and wiped them on his trousers. "Likes me, ay? D'you really think so?"

"I'm sure of it. Why else would she go on and on at you about the butter knife and the salt cellar and the bloody salad fork? She's given up on me, see, but she still has hope for you."

"D'you think?"

Brodie guided him down the hall with a firm hand. "I haven't a doubt of it."

But no—Brodie's theory proved to be wishful thinking. Holding her coffee cup, paying but token attention to the conversation of the three seated men, Anna made a long, patient perusal of the library shelves and finally found what she was looking for. She carried a thick volume to the desk at the far end of the room and scanned its contents under the lamp with a practiced eye. She straightened. "Mr. Brodie."

He tried not to flinch. "Ma'am." She really should've been a schoolteacher.

"Would you come over here, please?"

O'Dunne and Billy sent him commiserating glances. He got up with the brave but temporizing movements of a boy about to be thrashed.

She came up to his collarbone. It was hard to imagine crossing her, though, she looked so strict, like a general all set to review the troops. Then he caught the merest hint of her perfume, a soft rose fragrance, and the aptness of the military metaphor crumbled. He sat on the edge of the desk, bringing their faces closer. "Have you got an improving book for me, Mrs. Balfour?" he asked softly, smiling.

"I do, Mr. Brodie. But I confess, I doubt if all the books in the British Museum could improve you."

"That hopeless, eh?"

"Beyond redemption." His eyes were lighter than Nicholas's, she noticed suddenly. The disparity was slight, but she noticed it. There was something faintly different about his smile, too. She glanced away uneasily and opened her book. "This is what's called an etiquette book," she said distinctly, as if speaking to someone not quite fluent in English. "If you can manage it, I think it might behoove you to have a look at the chapter on table manners. There's a section on topics appropriate for dinner conversation, too, which you should find rewarding."

"Ah." His smile widened. "Shall I pass it on to Billy when I'm done?"

"I don't think that's necessary," she answered, without a particle of humor.

In the lamplight he could see the tiny golden hairs on the side of her delicate neck. Her cheekbones were so fine and fragile, he wanted to touch them with his fingers to know what they felt like. Or with his tongue. Her unsmiling mouth was perfect, and he already knew exactly how it tasted. "What if I come upon some great big words I can't read?" he murmured. "Will you help me, Annie?"

Now she knew what was different about his smile. It had a gentleness Nicholas's hadn't. A sweetness. "I asked you not to call me that," she remembered to say after rather a long moment.

"But what if I can't remember? Annie's such a pretty name. If you'd drop your guard just a little, it might even suit you."

Her chin went up. "What sort of name suits me is none of your concern, Mr. Brodie. And you would do well to—"

"Why don't you call me John?"

She stopped, taken off guard. He grinned, and his white, even teeth were a bright surprise against the darkness of his beard. "That," she said, "is out of the question."

"Why?"

"It just is." She closed the book with a snap and pushed it across the desk to him, signaling the end of the discussion.

"But why? I'm your dead husband's twin brother, Annie. Like it or not, we're related. I'm your closest non-blood kin." He tried to think of more ways to say it. "We Brodies have to stick together. I suppose I could call you 'Sis' if you don't like 'Annie.' Or—"

"
Will
you stop?" Her face was flushed, small fists curled, and she was standing in her drill instructor's posture again. "Our 'relationship,' Mr. Brodie, is a very tenuous and, thank God, a very temporary affair. I pray every moment that it will end soon. During its course, I must insist that you call me Mrs. Balfour and treat me with common decency and respect. Do I make myself clear?"

"You're wearing a corset, aren't you?"

Anna's mouth opened but no words came out. At home, such a question would have been unthinkable. Aunt Charlotte would not allow anyone to speak of even a bureau as having "drawers."

"It looks like you are, and I can't understand why. You've got the prettiest little breasts, Annie. Why would you want to—"

Finally a sound came out, something between a squeak and a squeal. O'Dunne and Billy Flowers glanced over toward them. For reasons she didn't even try to understand, Anna lowered her voice so they couldn't hear. "Sir!" she hissed, purple-faced. "How dare you speak to me this way? Never, never say such things again!" In her agitation, she stamped her foot.

Brodie came off the desk and stood over her, hands in his pockets to keep her from running away. "Couldn't help myself, Annie," he said, speaking softly too. "I've been thinking about it all day. It seems like such a damn shame."

"No! No! You must not!" She took a step back, ready to bolt.

"Must not what? Think about your breasts?" He frowned sternly. "Now you're asking too much. I don't mind the shipbuilding lectures and the etiquette, but when you start telling me not to—"

Anna screamed very softly, pivoted, and ran out of the room.

O'Dunne jumped up and ran after her.