Sharon Sobel (17 page)

“The kitchen is still there,” Claire said impatiently. “It only requires someone to chase the squirrels out of the stove.”

“I have employed no one to chase out the squirrels, nor anything else, for that matter. There is no reason for anyone to be trespassing my property.”

Claire dropped her arms and followed his direction. Indeed there was someone there, slowly passing behind a stone window frame, its glass long gone. It was a man, but she guessed this simply because of the hat on his head, and the breadth of his shoulders. However, by those scant clues, the trespasser could be Mrs. Clark, or one of the other rather sturdy women who were employed at Brookside Cottage.

“We must confront him, and discover his reason for being here,” Claire said. “He might be up to some mischief.”

When Max didn’t answer, she turned to him, and realized he was unhappier about this business than was reasonable for a property owner who only wished to know why someone was on his property. Claire realized the cause of his reticence, for he had not yet managed to get past the threshold of the home that still held such great unhappiness for him, and perhaps was not yet ready to do so. But when he spoke, he deftly avoided the issue altogether.

“As we do not know who he is, we cannot trust his intentions. He might be dangerous,” Max cautioned. “I am not concerned for myself, but I will not risk your safety.”

Even if she doubted the complete truth of it, Claire had to admit his statement was rather noble. She decided she would do well to change the subject, if only slightly.

“It is a pity that even with our eyes that see so much around us, we are not as adept at identifying people as is Camille,” Claire said. “At the Assembly, she thought she recalled someone on nothing more than his scent.”

Max frowned, and she decided there was something on his mind other than a mysterious stranger.

“My sister likes to astound everyone by making us believe her senses are more acute than is truly possible. At first, I thought she did this to soften my own sense of guilt. But now she claims it as a remarkable talent.” Max shook his head. “I doubt she could recognize anyone on nothing more than a vague scent and a childhood memory,” he said dismissively.

“And yet I have never known your sister to be wrong,” Claire pointed out. “Who is the man she mentioned? Her thoughts returned to Brook Hall as it once was, and spoke his name.”

Max shrugged. “You refer to John Mandeville, long gone these twenty years, perished in the fire. The man was a Brooks cousin who grew up on the estate and his father was steward before him. He knew the land and the holdings as well as anyone else, and perhaps even better. I used to follow him around like a devoted puppy and in turn he taught me everything about masonry and water drainage and dry rot.”

“How utterly fascinating.”

Max ignored her. “He also knew about the paintings and Greek amphora in the house, making him a favorite of my mother.”

It was not what Max said but the way he said it that gave Claire pause.

“And of your father as well, I suppose?”

“I suppose, for they were cousins, after all. There was always some good-natured rivalry between them, in horse racing and fencing and other things.”

“But your father always won, of course.”

“Of course not. Mr. Mandeville was a strong sportsman.”

“Max, do not insult me by pretending you do not know how this world works. Your father was a marquis, and his cousin his steward. Your father owned this grand property and was well settled with an excellent wife and heir. It does not matter if Mr. Mandeville beat him to the stone wall in a horse race; your father was always the winner.” Claire wondered why the steward would have still been in the great house late into the evening on the night of the great fire, when the guests already retired, but she said nothing.

“But, as it turned out, neither won in the end. It all came to me, years before my time, and under the worst possible circumstances.”

“But it did, and this is yours, Max. Should you not claim it? You might argue that you do not deserve it, but surely Brook Hall deserves your care?”

Claire knew he was wrestling with himself and remained quietly at his side. She, who offered opinions on everything and everyone, knew when to be silent.

“You may be right, my dear. Perhaps it is time to put all ghosts to rest.” He sucked in his breath as he held out his hand to her. “Will you accompany me into Brook Hall?”

Claire felt chilled and crossed her arms over her breast. “Are you quite certain, Max? After an eternity of twenty years, living not a mile from this great house, you choose to enter now, at this time? And what about the risks of confronting a dangerous man?”

Max came behind her and wrapped her in his arms, his chin resting on her head. Together, they gazed up at the ivy-laced walls and towers.

“I have taken your words to heart, for you have made many things perfectly clear. I have a future to protect, and this house is necessarily a part of it. I will banish its ghosts, and anyone else who has overstayed his time.” Max cleared his throat. “Besides, if you can embrace this ruin of a body, I ought to come to terms with this ruin of a home.”

Claire shook her head. “This has nothing to do with me.”

“This has everything to do with you, my love. You have allowed me to see what I could not, and hope for what I dared not imagine. I have begun to see things through your eyes, and the vision is full of promise.”

Claire felt tears well up in her eyes, clouding everything before her. She told herself that it was because his words were so eloquent, but the truth was that she was awed by the responsibility now hers. Indeed, she might, in some small measure, have brought this man and his sister into the light, but what a challenge it would be to remain there.

Chapter 7

On their last night before leaving for London, Max came to her in the dark with a basket of red roses. Claire was already waiting for him for some time; indeed, she was beginning to think he would not come at all.

“This is most unexpected,” she murmured as she lifted the soft down quilt to welcome him close.

“Is it?” he asked, pulling off his dressing gown. “I thought I gave you enough hints over dinner that you might expect me this night. If I were any more explicit, my poor sister would have fled the room, thinking I would take you on the dinner table, between the roasted duck and the whipped potatoes.”

Claire studied his muscular torso, not critical of the scars of which he was so self-conscious, but considering the pleasures of licking whipped potatoes directly off his body. “That is a vision with some possibilities,” she said softly.

Max promptly dropped his dressing gown to the floor and picked up the basket of roses.

“Are those for me?” Claire asked somewhat foolishly, as there mercifully was no one else around. But Max’s answer momentarily confused her.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled away the quilt, exposing her body to the cool air. If he had any doubts she expected him, they were dispelled in an instant, for she was not wearing her nightdress or anything else between the crisp sheets and the quilt.

“They will not survive the journey to London, you know,” she pointed out.

“They are not for you, they are for me,” he said. “And when we’re in London, I will buy you a houseful of roses, if you’d like. Judging by Camille’s and your response to Jamie Cosgrove’s modest offering, I suspect you’d like them very much, indeed.”

“Well, yes,” Claire said, still unsure of what he intended to do. “But the question is, do you like them nearly as well?”

“In certain settings,” he said, and pressed her down on the mattress. “I am not certain, but I think I can imagine possibilities as well as you. Even better than you, for I think love among the dinner foods might be a messy affair.”

He placed a rose petal on her nipple. With that single deed, she thought she’d die of pleasure.

“Not yet, my darling,” he said. “Lay still. Let me consider the possibilities.”

He took his time about it, but Claire knew there was nothing indecisive about his lovemaking, and that he was fully aware he inflicted the sweetest torture on her raw nerves. One by one, each delicious petal was applied, rearranged, studied, until she was quite covered—and yet she never felt so fully exposed.

“Max, please,” Claire begged.

“I am nearly done. This flower arrangement lacks only one thing.”

Claire was so distracted, she could not guess the obvious. “Please do not tell me you have lilies and larkspur in hand, for I do not think I could bear it.”

“Nothing so beautiful and fair, dear lady. I only can offer something ugly and ill-formed,” he said, as he came over her.

Perhaps he intended to be ironic. Perhaps he only repeated what he believed for so many years. But a man capable of such poetry should not be allowed to doubt himself so grievously. She, who was already open to him, pulled away.

“Have I hurt you?” Max asked, lifting himself on one elbow, and brushing a tear from the corner of her eye. “I am not Glastonbury and you must trust me enough to tell me if I am causing you pain, or asking you to do something you do not wish.

Claire felt the coolness of the night air that rushed between their damp bodies.

“There is nothing of Glastonbury in who you are and what you do to me. But neither is there anything ugly. When you doubt yourself, you make me doubt myself as well. For in my eyes, you are a thing of beauty.”

Max responded with a grunt that had the effect of reassuring her completely. And when he again came down over her, warming her heart and body, she believed the matter was quite settled in splendid satisfaction.

***

“You are not asleep?” Claire murmured against his back. Her arm rested languidly over his ribs and her legs were entangled in his.

“I was never more awake,” he said. “Have I kept you from your dreams?”

He turned on his back and pulled her against his chest, brushing aside wrinkled rose petals. His blessed plan did not consider the little morsels getting into everything: his mouth and eyes, and goodness knows where else. Claire stretched along the length of his body and sighed.

“Not at all. You have delivered on my dreams,” she said, nodding her head against him. “But I have been thinking.”

Her simple words reinforced a conclusion he already reached about his lover, one that made her remarkable among his admittedly rather few other partners. Claire was always thinking, considering, measuring, evaluating, anticipating what would happen next. Nothing she saw or did went unexamined, and she questioned everything. He, who had all the advantages of education and a vast library, might be expected to approach life through such a filter. But Claire relied on her sharp instincts and her worldly experience to ask the right questions and draw her own conclusions.

He preferred to believe she was drawing conclusions about his intentions, but he found he did not possess the courage to ask her directly. His reticence had very much to do with the trip to London, and the friendships she already had there. He was not a fool, and he knew there must be dozens of men who wanted her, and perhaps already asked her to marry them. For all she tried to reassure him, her other lovers would be healthy young men, with unscarred bodies and reputations only notable for their worthy deeds. There might be somewhat older men, perhaps even more suitable, with reputations only scandalous enough to add some luster to their courtship.

He doubted anyone among them could be called a murderer.

It was fair enough if Lady Claire considered her sojourn in the country to be a pleasant diversion, and if she sought pleasure with the only eligible man for miles around. It was easy to win if there was no competition—as she already pointed out in the relationship between his father and John Mandeville. And so he had her now, in his home and in her bed, on the lawn and in the ruins of Brook Hall. But soon they would be in town, and she would be, once again, surrounded by unimpeachable gentlemen.

He did not think she trifled with him, for she was too kind for that. But surely she pitied him, as she did his sister, and might truly believe he was just another one of her rehabilitation projects, like the girls in the orphanage.

“Are you not curious to know what I have been thinking?” she asked, tapping on his chest to get his attention. “It is about you.”

It wasas he feared. She would tell him this night would be an end to it, and she would introduce him to ten eligible young ladies in London, after providing them with personal testimonials about his road to redemption.

“Well, I shall tell you anyway,” she said in frustration when he still said nothing. “I have been thinking about Brook Hall.”

He, too, had been thinking about Brook Hall all afternoon, until he remembered why they went there in the first place and he returned before dinner to cut the roses. Then, he found it was impossible to think about anything else.

But wandering through the ruins of his once-grand home with Claire on his arm proved both healing and hopeful. Memories long buried escaped and were retold and savored. He showed her the various rooms and described how they once looked. Remarkably, plates and tiles remained much as they had been on that night, though they now existed in a state of nature alongside grasses and saplings. There was no sign of the unwelcome visitor, but a solitary man truly did not pose the greatest threat to his well-being. Max always thought he could never face the destruction he had wrought, but his courage was manifest when Claire walked by his side.

For the first time in his life, he realized he had something to fear much greater than confronting his nightmares. He now feared he might lose her.

“Very well,” she said, turning away from him. “You are too tired to listen and I am too tired to insist upon it. We will talk in the morning.”

Max pulled her close. “I have been thinking about Brook Hall as well. I will rebuild it to its former glory, so that it will not only be a suitable monument to my parents and the other poor souls who died that night, but a home to which I can bring a wife.”

He caught himself before he rattled on about children and heirs and garden parties. He had been thinking about none of these things, and now it all was about to spring forth like water from a ravaged sluice gate.

“Yes,” Claire said, quite as if this could have nothing to do with her. His heart sank, for his worst suspicions were now confirmed. “You surely were thinking of many things as we walked through the house today and I am not surprised that rebuilding is one of them. It is a beautiful place, even now, and has not suffered as badly as one would think. Or at least, as badly as you have made me believe.”

“It is hard to put a value on suffering,” he said pointedly.

“I know that as well as anyone else, Max, for I was married to a great brute who made me suffer every day of our lives together. I do not pretend that my grief can be anything approaching yours, but it is real enough.” He was right about her intelligence, even here. She had considered such matters already and was prepared with an answer. “But I used the word incorrectly. A house cannot suffer as people do, but it can sustain great, injurious damage.”

“Yes, of course you are right,” Max said, slowly. He did not know where she was leading him.

“And perhaps because I was not personally involved in the events of that night, my eyes saw things today that yours did not.”

“That is likely to be the case,” he said, wishing she did not wiggle so when she was excited. He wanted to hear what she had to say and she was distracting all his other senses.

“Now, tell me where the fire started,” she asked.

He wished to speak of anything but this again. In fact, he suddenly wished to speak of nothing at all.

“The fire started in the parlour, where I neglected to clean out the cinders. That is a fact,” he said dutifully.

“That is a tale, my lord, given credence by your admission that you did not do a job that was asked of you. Asked of a twelve-year-old boy by a man who was clearly taking advantage of you, I must add. And so, it became very easy to take advantage of you again.”

Now she had his interest. “No one has taken advantage of me again,” he said with greater conviction than he felt.

“The whole rumor mill has had you,” she said, emphasizing each word. “For today, while you were recounting the story of how you rode your first pony at the age of three or something of equal import, I saw with my own eyes what no one has bothered to tell you before. Did no one ever notice that the most damage to the house was in the area of the kitchen, quite on the other side of the house from the parlour?”

No one ever had. And inasmuch as he had not been up to the Hall for nearly twenty years, he had not noticed it, either.

“Perhaps there was more to burn. Grains and meats and wood for the ovens,” he said a little doubtfully.

“Lord Wentworth,” Claire began in a tone that he was becoming to know very well, “have you ever actually been in a kitchen?”

“No more than you, my lady.”

“I am perfectly capable of baking bread and poaching an egg. I often escaped belowstairs to the kitchen when my husband had too much to drink, and the cooks were happy for my company.”

“In that case, I must conclude that as a wife you would be a very good bargain, indeed. The man who would have you will be able to economize on his staff.”

“The man I would have,” she began, reversing the subject and object, “will discover I have many talents, not all expected of a gentlewoman.”

Indeed she did, and he recalled some of them with perfect clarity.

“Tell me then: What would I have realized if I knew my way about a kitchen?” he asked, refusing to be diverted.

“Why, that it is a cave of stone and iron and copper. In the very best kitchens, such as you surely had at Brook Hall, there would have been every caution taken to contain the fires that would burn there all day and all night. And even in the most modest kitchens, there would be buckets of water to tamp down flames. Surely the foodstuffs would burn, as would the wooden worktable and the chairs. But that is nothing to what one would find in a parlour or library, with wooden wainscoting, and heavy draperies, carpeting and hundreds of books. There is indeed a possibility that a cinder ignited the rug, and a fire spread from there. But I believe the fire started in or above the kitchen, where the damage is greatest.” She paused to take a breath. “And everyone knows a fire does most damage at its point of origin.”

“I am not sure everyone knows that,” Max said cautiously.

“Perhaps not. But if you combine that fact with the evidence of the damage sustained in the kitchen, the least likely place for it to occur, I believe you have an inherent contradiction in the story that has been set about.”

Max rubbed his forehead, which throbbed with a pain he never experienced before. “Why would it be set about?”

“Who examined the ruins after the fire?” Claire asked at precisely the same moment.

“I do not recall,” Max said. “I am not sure I ever knew. I believe the servants and my Aunt Adelaide tried to shield me from the truth, but I heard people whispering, even at my parents’ funeral.”

“Then we will ask your aunt when we see her in London.”

“Leave it be, Claire. There is nothing to be gained by this.”

“There is something to be gained. You deserve to know the truth. And the woman who will have you,” she said, repeating his words, “will want a man who is not carrying about the unwarranted weight of his past.”

Her words were full of promise but he reminded himself not to take them too much to heart. She gave him much to consider on this last night in Brookside Cottage and for the first time in as long as he could remember, the smallest shaft of light shone through the hitherto closed door of his life. The more he thought, the more questions he had, but the light grew brighter.