Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 8
High summer in Hampshire was a thing of verdant beauty, and Sherbourne House gleamed like a golden coin within it. Eliza and Lydia had made the house their own, and every vinegar-polished windowpane and wooden chair rail shone with proof of their housekeeping. It had become an airy, restful place, with light and freshness spilling into every room. Clarence Fawcett, who had taken rather keenly to Lydia and had a habit of dropping in for dinner every evening after his rounds, enthused over their care of the mansion, even going so far as to say it rivaled the cleanliness of his own hospital ward. At this, Lydia had beamed with pride.
Even still, for Eliza, Sherbourne House was no match for Havenwood Manor and the man who lived within it. It had been over two weeks since her outing with Malcolm, and Eliza was worried. She’d received no further correspondence from him, and as July stretched onward, her anxiety grew. Each night, she cast a pensive look toward the manor, watching its lights flicker on as dusk lay over the day like a heavy cloud.
As for Lord Eastleigh, he’d sent a card and flowers—a mass of love-lies-bleeding accented with the hideous white lilies that reminded her of death. Eliza threw the garish bouquet into the rubbish heap. She was quite decided. Whether Malcolm continued to court her or not, and despite the looming threat to her inheritance, Charles Lancashire did not wear the shoes of a future husband, earl or not. She only hoped he hadn’t been meddling in her affairs behind the scenes as he’d threatened, and that Malcolm’s absence wasn’t the result.
Eliza was filling her mop bucket at the outdoor pump when Nigel came up the path, wearing his cap low over his eyes. After greeting him, she said, “Nigel, I’ve been wondering about something. It seems as if my business is getting out, and it hasn’t been me sharing it. Would you have any idea as to how Lord Eastleigh might have known about my other callers?”
The boy took off his cap and twirled it in his hand, avoiding her gaze.
“Nigel?”
“I’m sorry, miss. I wouldn’t know anything about Lord Eastleigh.” He shuffled his feet in the gravel. “It’s only. Well. It’s just that Miss Moseley pays me to tell her the comings and goings on the lane. And me ma can’t work, so I do need the money.”
Ah. It hadn’t been Polly, as Lydia had suspected. It had been Una Moseley. But why? Something wasn’t adding up.
She offered Nigel a careful smile. “It’s all right, Nigel. I’ll gladly pay you double what Miss Moseley does to keep my correspondence confidential.” His eyes widened, the skin behind his freckles blanching. “Now, what does she pay you, darling?”
“A thruppence, miss.”
Eliza laughed. Sold for a pittance!
“I’d say your kind of superior confidentiality is worth at least ten shillings a month.”
“Really?”
Eliza winked. “Absolutely.” She pulled the coins from her apron pocket and placed them in the boy’s outstretched hand. “Now, should I hear you’ve been telling my secrets . . .”
“I’ll do no such thing, miss! I swear it. You can trust me to be true.”
“I’ll hold you to it. Now, do you have anything for me?”
“Only a letter from Lord Havenwood.”
Eliza took the envelope from Nigel and excitedly broke Malcolm’s seal. Inside was a handwritten note, folded around a charcoal sketch. It showed her in profile, sitting on the heath, her features finely rendered. His talent was formidable.
Miss Sullivan,
I’ve become spellbound, I’m afraid. You did not tell me you were a witch. That would have been the kind thing to do, as you now have me in the worst state of distraction, and my fate seems perilously sealed. I’ve thought often of our most inappropriate outing . . . and of you. I do hope you’ll enjoy my sketch. It may not do you justice, but I was inspired to set it upon paper all the same.
I’d like to invite you and your concerned sister for a constitutional by the Avon tomorrow. This will no doubt enforce the blight upon your good reputation, being seen with me in public, but it is my solemn duty to give the townspeople something to talk about.
In all seriousness, I am attempting to convey my irrepressible desire to woo you, only you, exclusively and in earnest. I’ll meet you on the promenade at half past two Saturday if you still find me agreeable.
Fondly,
Malcolm
Eliza’s face went wild with color. His words nearly had her in a swoon. Irrepressible desire, spellbound . . . It was all too heady and delicious. With a smile, she folded the pages and tucked them into her bodice. She bid Nigel farewell, went inside, and bustled down the hall to the kitchen, where Lydia stood chopping onions. “Sister, Lord Havenwood has invited us to take the air tomorrow afternoon!”
Lydia looked up from her work, wiping her streaming eyes with the tail of her apron. “Oh? How delightfully proper. You must wear your blue lawn—the one with the ruffles and Alençon lace. It draws the eye so much better than any of your others.”
Whatever her reservations about Una’s snooping and Lord Eastleigh’s veiled threats, her courtship with Malcolm was about to become common knowledge within Cheltenbridge.
Eliza and Lydia strolled arm in arm along the river promenade, the feathers in their wide-brimmed hats casting nodding shadows on the pavers. There was a weekend fair going on, complete with roving jugglers and carnival games. The delicious aromas of roasted peanuts and fish and chips made Eliza’s stomach rumble. Truthfully, her appetite had suffered of late; she’d been far too consumed with ardent feelings and fantasies—the kind of romantic nonsense that made schoolgirls doodle in the margins of notebooks and whisper their beloved’s name beneath their breath. She was growing far too old for such things, but heavens, this infatuation was a pleasant surprise, all the same.
And there he was, the object of her affection: dressed in dark blue, his silver-topped walking stick swinging in a jaunty fashion as he came down the path, his straw hat tilted at a rakish angle.
“He’s a bit of a dandy, isn’t he?” Lydia said. “Far too pretty for a man, in my opinion.”
“Oh, Lyddie. Don’t be so cutting. I think he looks smashing. They can’t all be Dr. Fawcett.”
Malcolm’s face brightened as he drew near. “Ah, Miss Sullivan and Miss Tourant,” he said, sweeping his hat from his head. “I do hope you’ve been well. You’re looking twice as lovely as I imagined you would.”
“I’ve been well—but I was even better upon receiving your note, Lord Havenwood,” Eliza said, dropping a quick curtsy as her lips tilted into a flirtatious smile. “Your talent is superb, and your rendering of my countenance too kind.”
“Yes, well. Only something I dabble in when I’m feeling inspired.” Malcolm offered his arm and they walked on for a bit, following the curve of the river. Townspeople craned their necks to watch as he led them to a gazebo overlooking the water.
“People are certainly paying attention, if that’s what you wanted,” Eliza said. “We’re quite the sideshow.”
“I don’t often make public appearances. It’s much easier for me that way.” Malcolm motioned to the wrought iron benches in the middle of the gazebo. “Please sit. The barmaids from the Rose come around with ale and cider, if you’d fancy a pint.”
They sat, Malcolm facing Eliza as Lydia sank down at her side. Below, children were splashing in the shallows of the river, screaming and laughing in their play. An unbidden memory flashed through Eliza’s mind and she closed her eyes briefly against it. She took a breath to center herself, focusing on Malcolm and the way his dark hair curled so becomingly around his face.
“Are you enjoying Cheltenbridge?” he asked.
“It’s been delightful so far. Wouldn’t you agree, Lydia?”
“Indeed. We’re settling in well, Lord Havenwood.”
“If there’s something I admire about American women, it’s your plucky fortitude. Quite a thing to leave one’s country behind to make a life in a new one.”
“Yes, but I’m glad to have hazarded the risk,” Eliza said. “It’s already brought so many unexpected delights.”
As promised, a young barmaid with full, reddened cheeks and impressive arms came around, carrying a tray loaded with glasses of frothy ale. Eliza took a pint and offered it to Lydia, then took one for herself.
Malcolm shifted on the bench, crossing one leg over the other and drawing his pipe out from his coat. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all,” Eliza answered. “I happen to enjoy a fine cigarette on occasion, myself.”
“Really?” Malcolm said flatly. He pursed his lips and pulled a tin from his pocket, then packed the bowl of his pipe with cherry-scented tobacco. “I saw no servants when I called upon you. Is it true you’ve been managing the property all on your own? It’s looking splendid.”
“We only manage the care of the house ourselves,” Eliza said. “We’ve kept Giles Mason, who lives in our carriage house and maintains the grounds. He’s managing our livery for now, though we’ll eventually need a proper groom. I’ve plans to expand the stables and increase our livestock. I’d like to bring in three Thoroughbreds as early as this fall—a stud and two broodmares.”
Malcolm leaned forward with interest. “Is that so?”
“As I mentioned, my family owned stables in Louisiana. I’m an expert at racehorse bloodlines. I’ve been studying the sales sheets for horses derived from our line.”
“Fascinating! There’s still money to be made in horses, then?”
“Yes, my lord. Even though trains and motorcars are overtaking transportation, they will have no effect on gaming. As long as men bet, horses will run.”
“I see.” Malcolm took a puff off his pipe. “And how is it with your estate? Did Lady Sherbourne leave things in satisfactory order?”
Lydia nudged Eliza, and they shared a knowing look.
“I’ve settled the bequest with my aunt’s solicitor . . . ,” Eliza offered cautiously.
“How many acres came with the estate, then? Three hundred? Four?”
Lydia put a hand on Eliza’s arm and gave Malcolm a tight smile. “Never mind Eliza’s property. How many acres do you own, Lord Havenwood?”
Malcolm tilted his head and arched a dark brow. “One thousand acres with twenty tenants connected to Havenwood Manor, Miss Tourant, and a London townhome in Hyde Park. Shall I bring out my ledgers?” His tone was teasing, but there was a hint of scorn behind his words. “As I told Miss Sullivan on our last outing, my estate has been poorly managed. Your sister has seen for herself the state of Havenwood Manor. And as for the townhouse, rats have taken over the attic and the plumbing remains irretrievably busted. As my pension is greatly lacking, I do not have the means to begin repairs on either property.” The green of his eyes deepened as he regarded Eliza. “And there’s something else, darling, which you’ll hear soon enough from others if you haven’t already. I’m indebted to Lord Eastleigh. He holds four mortgages against my properties—gambling debts my father accrued well before I inherited the title. He makes a healthy profit absconding with my rents and filching off my estate. It has nearly crippled me.”
Eliza let out a breath. So, the source of the rivalry between Malcolm and Eastleigh concerned money. The earl had a great deal to lose if she accepted Malcolm’s suit. And Malcolm had much to gain.
“My goodness,” Lydia murmured, “I had no idea things were so dire for you.”
“I’m nothing if not honest, Miss Tourant.” Malcolm sighed and leaned back, blowing a perfect ring of smoke through his lips. “Feels rather good to have it all out there, I daresay.”
“Your honesty gives me a great deal of comfort, sir,” Eliza said, reaching out for Malcolm’s hand. He took her fingertips in his own, grasping them fleetingly. “If we’re to continue our courtship, I feel it’s only fair to reveal our assets and liabilities early.”
“Spoken like a pragmatic woman who knows her mind’s value as well as her purse,” Malcolm said.
Eliza paused for a heavy moment before continuing. There would be no going back once the next words were freed from her tongue. Even though she wanted to be certain Malcolm was pursuing her for her companionship, her money would go far in sweetening the eventual prospect of marriage. A marriage that had to happen, and soon. Yes, they were practically strangers. But her attraction to him was undeniable, and happy unions had been founded on less. His honesty about his finances was enough to encourage her to level the conversation. But he needn’t know the extent of her promised fortune. Not yet. Not until a true betrothal had occurred.
She pulled in a sharp breath. “To answer your question, my lord, the estate has four hundred acres of arable land with ten tenants, who have promised to stay on. Were I to marry, I would happily cede the earnings of my estate to my future husband, so long as my sister is allowed to manage Sherbourne House while I build my stables and raise my horses as I see fit. I’ll not entertain any offer of marriage unless I can be assured of some measure of continued independence—for myself and for my sister.”
Lydia let out her breath with a hiss. “You say too much,” she rasped.
Eliza shot Lydia an annoyed glance. “Cher, these matters must be discussed. It’s only practical.”
Malcolm’s narrow lips quirked at their corners. “I assure you, Miss Tourant, your sister’s appeal has very little to do with her inheritance, if that is your concern. She’s the most charming creature I’ve yet had the pleasure of encountering. If I’m to eventually ask for her hand, her estate would be the lesser of my reasons for doing so, although as we all know, marriage in the upper classes is a financial agreement as well as a matter of the heart.” Malcolm absently stroked the side of his face. “Well then, now that we’ve done the accounting and you’ve discovered I’m a penniless pauper, let’s talk of more pleasurable matters, ladies. Shall we . . .”
A sharp scream interrupted Malcolm. A scream of distress instead of play. Eliza leapt to her feet, her glass of ale tumbling to the floor of the gazebo. Down the hill, there was a commotion at the water’s edge. A little girl, no more than ten, stood there crying, her hands clawing through her strawberry-blond hair. In the river, Eliza saw the face and thrashing arms of a small child briefly emerge from the swift current, and then disappear beneath the water.
Not this. Not again.
Even as Eliza’s head spun with panic, she lifted her hem and ran, her skirts tangling around the heels of her boots as she hurtled down the hillside and scrambled toward the muddy banks. “Move!” she screamed, pushing through the gathering onlookers. Her vision tunneling, she pulled in a deep breath and dove headfirst into the cold, green-tinged water.
Once submerged, she opened her eyes wide and scanned the murk for the boy’s gleaming blond hair. She saw nothing but a ruby shimmer of schooling bream, startled by her flailing. She pushed herself deeper with powerful, long strokes, fighting against the Avon’s current. Watercress tangled in her fingers and obscured her vision, but she pressed onward until her lungs were brittle with pain and the need to breathe was no longer a choice. She fought for the surface, her drenched clothing heavy as an anchor. Her hair streamed in slimy rivulets over her face as she gulped air. Malcolm and Lydia called her name, but she ignored them, arcing back into the water once more.
Albert! Where are you?
Eliza swirled frantically beneath the surface, straining toward any glimmer of movement as she swam. At last, she saw him. He was trapped against the roots of a tree, his braces wound around a blunt limb, his chin tucked to his chest. Her corset-bound lungs burned and demanded filling, but Eliza pushed onward. She pulled and tugged at the snaking yellow tree roots, her head spinning as her need for air threatened to take her consciousness. Finally, she yanked the boy’s leather braces free from their buttons, and he became buoyant. Eliza clawed toward the rippling surface and broke through, gasping and choking, the boy clasped beneath her arm. His skin was cold, his lips a grim shade of violet she remembered all too well.
“It’s too late!” someone cried, their words desperate.
“Poor mite!”
“God rest his soul.”
“Why weren’t his sister minding him?”
Malcolm was suddenly in the river next to her, taking the child from her and helping pull her to shore. He laid the boy gently on the grass, and Eliza rolled him onto his side, smacking his back with the heel of her hand. “Wake up, Albert! Wake up!” She struck the space between the child’s shoulder blades, again and again, while his sister cried and the villagers murmured their infuriating, useless platitudes.
“Enough.” Malcolm seized her hand, midstrike. “I’m afraid he’s gone, darling.” Lydia took hold of her elbow and together they tried to pull Eliza to her feet.
“No! I can save him yet. Get away from me!” She slapped and fought free of their grasping hands like a wild animal. Once more, she drove her fist hard against the little boy’s back. For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then a sputtering, choking rattle came from deep in his chest, and a stream of water clogged with river grass and mud erupted from his mouth. His lips and cheeks pinked as he coughed, his eyes fluttering open. Eliza wailed and covered his body with her own, rocking him and rubbing his arms with her hands to warm him. “Albert, my darling, mon petit chou, I’m so sorry. You’re going to be all right. I’m here.”
The sister, her chubby face streaked with tears, looked down at Eliza with mournful eyes. “I should have been watching him. He canna swim.”
“No!” Eliza said. “No, cher. It wasn’t your fault. You’re only a child. Albert is going to be fine, do you hear?”
The little girl’s lip trembled. “His name’s Patrick, mum, not Albert.”
“Of course.” Eliza nodded. She saw now that he was a brunette, not a blond. Not Albert. It was too late for Albert. It always would be. And it would always be her fault. Her breath came in sharp, wheezing gasps, her throat closing like a vise. It was as if she were seeing the scene from above, hovering over everyone—the townspeople, Lydia wringing out her hair, the little boy coughing and groaning at her feet.
“Run along, Mary. Find your mama and I’ll send for the doctor.” Malcolm’s rich baritone suddenly sounded as if it were coming through a tin can. A high, intense whistling screeched behind Eliza’s eardrums. She was fading into the darkness again—a darkness she’d pushed aside and buried on a warm day in September, so many years ago. “Tell her mother it wasn’t her fault,” Eliza managed before the world went black, her voice falling to a whimper. “Please.”