Elizabeth Thornton (30 page)

Harriet thrust the glass at Abbie. “Drink the rest of it,” she said. “You’re shivering. I’ll get your dressing gown.”

Abbie sipped on the brandy as Harriet went to the wardrobe. The dressing gown was puce too, and though she knew she was being absurdly childish, she cried even harder.

When Abbie was wrapped up in the dressing gown, Harriet pulled up a chair and prompted her to drink down the brandy every time she tried to lay the glass aside. Gradually, Abbie stopped shivering; her breathing became regular; her tears dried; and the madness that had possessed her faded, leaving her spent and without hope.

After a long silence, Harriet looked anxiously into Abbie’s eyes. “You didn’t mean what you said back there at the park, did you, Abbie?”

Abbie stared at the glass in her hand. She said miserably, “Harriet, we’ve got to face facts. There’s been no reply to my advertisement. No one has tried to approach us,
and we’ve given them every opportunity. A week has gone by, more than a week.” She looked up at Harriet, and the words of finality, of hopelessness, died unsaid. But her silence spoke for her.

Harriet shook her head. “You heard what Giles said. We shouldn’t go looking for trouble. And nothing has changed, has it? We’re all being watched by Maitland’s people, and that’s a good sign. And if George were dead, surely his body would have turned up by now?”

A look of horror crossed her face, as though by voicing that last thought she had made George’s death more real. “No,” she moaned, “I won’t believe it. He can’t be dead. It will kill our mother.” She dug her nails into her arms as if she wanted to hurt herself. “And I’ll never have the chance to tell George how sorry I am.”

“Sorry?” said Abbie. “Sorry for what?”

“For all the unkind things I ever said to him.” Harriet bent her head in shame and began to rock. “I was always making fun of him, even when we were children. And later, when he became interested in painting and … and landscape gardening, I made fun of that too.” Tears splashed onto her hands. “But I didn’t mean it, Abbie. I just wanted him to find a profession that would make him secure.”

Abbie set down her glass and went to kneel by her sister’s chair. She put her arms around Harriet’s shoulders and rocked with her. “I’m sure he understood that, Harriet. I know I did.”

Harriet went on as though she had not heard. “Don’t you remember how it was when Papa died? Mama was always in tears, and Daniel was preoccupied. We couldn’t spend a penny because we were so deep in debt. I used to lie awake at night worrying about it.”

Abbie remembered having to do without, but it had
never affected her to this degree. She was ashamed now that she had been blind to her sister’s pain. “You should have told me,” she said.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why I like shopping so much? It’s to make up for all the things we had to do without.” Harriet looked up and managed a tired smile. “It’s taken something like this to make me see how foolish I’ve been. Money isn’t everything. We should enjoy each other, don’t you think? I don’t care if George turns out to be a gardener, or a painter, or even a dancing master. I don’t want to lecture him, or tell him how to live his life. Giles says that’s one of my failings, always thinking I know what’s best for everyone. Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I just want to see his face and know that he’s all right.”

“I think he
is
all right.”

“What?”

“You said something just now that jogged my memory.” Abbie straightened and rubbed her brow as she searched for the memory.

“What did I say?” asked Harriet, finally losing patience.

“You said that if George were dead, his body would have been found by now, and you were right.” Abbie’s voice became more animated. “That awful man who assaulted me in my bed? He said that if I crossed him he would … well, he would punish me by … by hurting George. He’d want me to know, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see.”

“It’s hard to explain. He—” Abbie shook her head as she groped for words. “No one ever crosses him and gets away with it, and he thinks I crossed him in Paris when Colette passed me the book.” She paused, then said in a surprised tone. “He
hates
me and wants to hurt me. No, ‘hate’ isn’t the right word. He despises me. He wants me
to know how powerful he is. The point is, if he’d done anything to George, he’d want me to know.”

Harriet caught Abbie’s hands and held on to them. “Abbie, I don’t like the sound of him. What can we do against someone like that?”

“We’ll talk about it tonight, when we’re together as a family.”

“Giles thinks we should ask Hugh Templar to help us. I don’t like him any more than you do, but for George’s sake, I’d be willing to bury our differences.”

A shutter came down on Abbie’s face. Just to hear Hugh’s name mentioned was like pouring acid in an open wound. She’d been hurt before, but those other times she’d managed to put a face on things. She couldn’t put a face on this, couldn’t make light of it, couldn’t fall back on bravado. The only way she could cope was not to think of Hugh at all. And there wasn’t one hour in the day when she did not think of him.

Both women turned to face the door when they heard their names being called. “It sounds like Daniel,” said Harriet. She went to the door and opened it. “We’re up here, Daniel.”

There was the rush of feet pounding up the stairs, then Daniel burst into the room. He was breathless and flushed, and waved an envelope under their noses. “Abbie, you were right,” he said. “No, George wasn’t at Tattersalls. But this note is from him. It’s in answer to the advertisement.”

She took the envelope out of his hand. “But how did you get hold of it?” Her heart was pounding.

“At Tattersalls, I put down my catalogue to examine a bay gelding, and when I picked it up again, that envelope was tucked inside. There’s no doubt the letter is from George. He’s alive. Read it and see for yourself.”

With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of vellum. She smoothed it out and began to read.

N
ot the puce, Harriet. I don’t think I could bear to wear it.”

Harriet draped the puce silk evening gown over the back of a chair and glanced at Abbie. “I wasn’t thinking of the puce for you, but for myself. But you know, Abbie, it occurs to me that if I’m going to pass myself off as you and you’re going to pass yourself off as me, you should dress in colors I like and vice versa, if you see what I mean.”

“I do see what you mean, Harriet, and I agree, but not the puce. It depresses me. Now, what else do you have for me to try on?”

They were in Harriet’s house, in her bedchamber, selecting the gowns they would wear to the King’s Theater tomorrow night. It was Harriet’s idea that they should impersonate each other. That way, she said, if Maitland’s people were watching, they’d be looking at her while Abbie slipped away to Box 10. Their mother had contributed the blond and black wigs that would complete their costumes, wigs, she’d said with a faraway look in her eyes, that she’d worn as a young woman when she first met
their father and they fell in love. Those were the days, according to the dowager, when men were men and ladies knew how to be women.

Harriet said, “Giles thought you might like the silver tissue. It’s memorable, so when people see it, they’ll know it’s my gown and they’ll think you’re me. At least from a distance.”

The gown she held up for Abbie’s inspection was a pale gray gauze, shot through with silver threads. Scattered on the bodice and around the hem were silver satin appliquéd leaves.

Abbie stared at the gown and looked up at her sister. “I can’t accept the gown,” she said.

“Why can’t you?”

“It’s too … beautiful, too costly. I would never have a moment’s peace all night, wondering if I was going to tear the hem or spill something on it.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Hah! You say that now, but what will you say when you see the tear on the hem?”

Harriet’s brows rushed together. “A fine opinion you have of me! I don’t know why I bother. Can’t you see that I’ve changed? What must I do to convince you?”

Abbie retreated a little. “You’ve been wonderful, Harriet. I couldn’t ask for a better sister. And really, I wouldn’t blame you for being cross if I ruined your dress. Anyone would be. It’s a beautiful dress. But you must have something less … well … irreplaceable for me to wear?”

A reluctant smile tugged at Harriet’s lips.

“What?” asked Abbie.

“It’s not irreplaceable.”

“Not?”

“No. Giles has promised that if anything happens to it, he’ll have my modiste make up an exact copy, and he
doesn’t care how much it costs. So you see, you can wear it with a clear conscience.”

Abbie ground her teeth together, reached for a cushion, and threw it at Harriet. Then both girls began to laugh. As quickly as the laughter had sprung up, it died away.

“How can we laugh at a time like this?” asked Harriet.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we have hope now, and we didn’t have much to hope for before.”

“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it, Abbie?”

“I … Of course it’s going to be all right.”

“Yes, but so many things can go wrong.”

Abbie was well aware of it. George’s message implied that he would be waiting for her in the box at the theater, but she couldn’t believe that it would be that easy. His abductors would want to verify that the book she would hand over was the genuine article. Giles had scoured the bookshops and found a French translation of the
Iliad
that he’d doctored to make as near to the original as Abbie remembered. He’d even invented a code to make notations in the margins. The most she could hope for was that the exchange would be made before his abductors realized they’d been duped.

She struggled to produce a smile and finally managed it. “It’s the book they want, and when I hand it over, I’m sure they’ll let George go. Besides, what can they do in a crowded theater? They’d be fools to try anything, and these people are no fools.”

“That may be, but it sounds too easy for my liking.”

Abbie avoided a discussion that could only add to her panic by changing the subject. “Do you know how lucky you are to have Giles for a husband? Not many men I know spoil their wives as he spoils you.” She was fingering
the delicate silver tissue gown that Harriet had spread out on the bed. “And he’s such a wonderful father, so patient with Lizzie and Vicki. No wonder the girls adore him. I sometimes regret,” she went on, “that I did not snap him up while I had the chance.”

Harriet blinked. “You do? I thought—” she cleared her throat, “I thought that was water under the bridge, Abbie. I thought you had forgiven me for taking Giles away from you.”

“Well, I had,” said Abbie, “but that was before I knew how rich he was.”

There was a long, uneasy silence, then Harriet giggled. “You’re teasing me!”

“Of course I’m teasing you, ninny. But I am envious of you, and if I could find someone as nice as Giles, I’d snap him up in a minute.”

“You’re not really envious, Abbie, are you?”

Abbie looked up from the satin leaf she had been idly tracing. “Why should that surprise you?”

“No reason.” Harriet shrugged. “It just seems so strange to hear you say those words. I thought you were happy. I thought you had everything you wanted.”

“What I have,” said Abbie dryly, “hardly compares to a wonderful husband who dotes on me and two beautiful and charming infant daughters. I’d have to be an idiot not to envy you.”

Harriet edged onto the bed. “We never did get around to talking about—” she coughed delicately, “Giles and me. I couldn’t help falling in love with him, you know. He made me feel … I don’t know … good about myself, I suppose.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Abbie’s voice was now as dry as a desert.

Harriet nodded. “Giles taught me that though I could never be as clever as you, I wasn’t as stupid as I thought I was.”

Abbie said slowly, “Harriet, you were never stupid.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You got all the brains in the family!”

“And you got all the beauty! Men were always falling all over you, even before you were out of the schoolroom.”

“Yes, and what a curse that can be! It wasn’t me they wanted! They didn’t care if I was stupid. In fact, they preferred me that way. I was just an ornament to them. But not to Giles.”

A picture formed in Abbie’s mind. She was remembering Giles after that first dinner at Vayle House, telling her that Harriet wasn’t anything like he’d expected. She wasn’t the least bit conceited, said Giles. In fact, she was just the opposite. And she’d wondered if they were speaking about the same Harriet. “I always thought—”

“What?”

She looked at Harriet. “That you beauties had an easy time of it.”

“And I always thought that you clever girls had an easy time of it. I’d open my mouth and say something stupid and everyone would laugh. I would have given anything to be more like you.”

“And I would have given anything to be more like you.”

There was a moment of silence as both girls smiled. Then a thought occurred to Abbie and her brows rushed together. “You don’t have to say all this, you know. I got over Giles a long time ago.”

Harriet beamed. “That’s what I wanted to know. But I wasn’t lying just now. I really did envy you when we
were girls. Well, you must have noticed how I’m bringing up my own daughters. I want them to be educated like you, Abbie. No one is going to laugh at my Lizzie or Vicki when they open their mouths.”

“What on earth,” said Abbie emphatically, “has brought this on?”

Harriet sighed. “George, I suppose. It could have been you, or Giles, or Daniel. I don’t know how to explain it, except to say that it’s shaken me. I’ve done more soul-searching in the last week than I’ve done in my entire life. If you promise not to laugh, I would tell you—” she looked suspiciously at Abbie.