The Shadows (12 page)

“No doubt.”

That smile of his dropped right though me. I jerked to my feet—too fast; the blood rushed from my head. I flailed uselessly for the railing.

He grabbed my arm to steady me, close enough that I saw that his eyes weren’t black at all but a deep, deep blue.

He didn’t even try to hide his laughter. “A trick stops working when you try it too often, lass. Next time I’ll let you fall.”

“Why, Grace, there you are!”

Lucy’s voice, almost shrill. I glanced over my shoulder to see her standing on the stoop, Rose beside her. Lucy’s expression was quietly furious. I realized that her stableboy still had hold of my arm.

He must have realized it at the same moment, because he let go, quickly. Lucy came down the stoop, her pale eyes blazing. She grabbed his arm, pressing herself against him. “Tell me you’re driving us.”

He glanced at me. He looked uncomfortable as he carefully disengaged himself from Lucy. “I just brought the carriage up. Leonard’s on his way.”

As if Rose and I weren’t standing right there, she whispered, “I’ve missed you so. We’re going to choose Grace’s debut gown now, but will you meet me later?”

“Lucy, you’re in the middle of the walk,” Rose said in a low voice. “People will see.”

“I don’t care,” Lucy said, but she stepped away from him. She gave him a pleading look that was far too obvious. “Please, Derry.”

A shiver swept me at the sound of his name; again I felt that familiarity, that sense that I’d known it already.
And you did,
I reminded myself.
Lucy told you at tea.
But I couldn’t escape the feeling that it had nothing to do with that.

He leaned to whisper something in Lucy’s ear, and I went hot with . . . jealousy.
What’s got into you, Grace?
I looked away. When I looked back, Lucy was smiling.

“Here’s Leonard now,” Derry said.

The driver came hurrying. He touched the brim of his hat, deep-green livery—the Devlins’ color—and said to Lucy, “Forgive the delay, Miss Devlin.”

She didn’t even look at him. Her gaze was fastened on Derry.

“You’d best go, lass,” Derry said gently, pushing her a little.

Lucy flashed him a brilliant smile, and then she said brightly to Rose and me, “Shall we?”

The driver helped her into the carriage, and then Rose. I couldn’t stop myself—I glanced back at Derry. He was watching me with a thoughtful look that made me stumble on the carriage step.

The driver closed the door, and we were off.

Lucy played with a loosened ribbon on her shawl, tucking it neatly into place as she said to me, “I do hope my brother hasn’t misjudged you, Grace. He’d be so disappointed.”

I didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “I tripped coming down the walk. Your Derry was only helping me to my feet.”

She shot me a glance from beneath her lashes.

Rose said, “What color do you think Grace should choose for her gown? I’ve told her pale green, but perhaps pink would be better?”

Lucy said, “Oh, it depends upon what style she chooses. I vow I . . .”

I hardly listened. Instead I thought of that strange and persistent glow, the pain that had disappeared at his touch. The way he’d held me and the leap of my heart and my sense that I knew him. How foolish that I should feel this way. I didn’t want this. I’d never seen him before and I doubted I would again, and so this feeling that I’d been waiting for him . . .

It was nothing. An illusion brought on by no breakfast, just as that strange glow had been. And yet the glow hadn’t been completely strange either. There had been something familiar in it too. Something I’d seen somewhere—

Then it came to me. My nightmares. Flashes of intense, blinding light. Pain and ravens.

I shuddered and reached into my pocket for Patrick’s book of poems, for the reassuring feel of something belonging to him, something to remind me of who I was and what I wanted.

But the little book was gone.

The entire time we were at Mademoiselle Paulette’s—discussing patterns and fabrics, ribbons and buttons—I wished to be home. I remembered dropping the book on the
walk the moment the headache came upon me. No doubt it was still there. Or Lucy’s stableboy had picked it up. Perhaps he had taken it to the house. Patrick had written his name on the flyleaf, so there would be no mistaking where it belonged. Perhaps it was waiting for me. I didn’t want Patrick to know I’d lost it, to think I had been so careless with something so very important to him.

It was all I could do to smile and laugh with Rose and Lucy. I agreed with them on the choice of pattern, though I had trouble remembering afterward what it was. A scooped yet modest neckline, puffed sleeves decorated with lace and ribbon and . . . flowers. There had been flowers. And . . . and pink. Yes, definitely pink.

Lucy mooned about Derry the whole hour we were at the confectioner’s, sitting at a small round table with curved legs, eating ice cream with sugared violets that Lucy held between her lips and sucked upon until her mouth was delicately tinted purple. When Rose teased her about it, Lucy said, “Oh no! What will Derry think?”

Rose said, “I imagine he’ll like licking you pink again.”

Lucy blushed.

I pretended I didn’t feel sick at the thought. “Rose!”

“Don’t tell me you’d say no to him,” Rose said, dragging her spoon through her melting ice cream. “
I
wouldn’t, that’s certain. He’s gorgeous. Too bad he hasn’t a penny to his name.”

“I’m partial to fairer coloring,” I said.

“Well, you would say that now, wouldn’t you? But I
remember when you couldn’t tear your eyes from Bobby Sullivan. Dark hair and dark eyes. He looked like Derry, didn’t he?”

“Derry’s eyes are blue,” I said, dipping my spoon into the ice cream, scooping up a violet. I had crunched it between my teeth before I realized they were both staring at me. “What?”

“You noted the color of his eyes?” Lucy asked.

“I could hardly help it,” I said. “He was holding me closer than was proper. He’s a bit of a flirt, Lucy. Even you must admit it.”

“He flirted with you?”

Stupid, Grace.

“I’m certain he was just being kind, isn’t that so, Grace?” Rose provided.

I nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. He couldn’t let me fall to the ground, now could he?”

“Whatever made you swoon, Grace?” Lucy’s voice was light, but I heard her suspicion.

I opened my mouth to tell them about the glow, but what exactly was I to say? That he’d been afire like the sun? That it had been very like the dreams I’d been having? That his touch made it go away? It seemed ridiculous even to me. I settled on “I’d eaten nothing all day. I was a little light-headed.”

“It was lucky he was there then,” Rose put in. “You could have been hurt.”

“Yes. And he knew about Patrick. He said I must be Patrick’s girl.”

Rose laughed. “No, did he? I imagine you liked that.”

“He sounded just off the boat. He’s probably Catholic as well, and you know how clannish they are. I’d watch out for him, Lucy. He probably wants a dozen children and an obedient wife.”

“Sshh.” Rose giggled. “You are so bad, Grace.”

“I don’t care if that’s what he wants,” Lucy said, raising her chin. “I would be perfectly happy with a dozen children.”

“Not if you’re raising them in the slums,” I countered.

“I have money.”

“But he doesn’t. And you’re mad if you think your mother will allow it. Or Patrick.”

“My brother’s a romantic too.”

“Not enough of one to marry his sister to a stableboy.”

Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “You think you know Patrick so well. But you don’t. Why, you didn’t speak to him for three years.”

“I know him well enough,” I said, a little more angrily than I should have. “I know what matters to him. I know how he feels about Ireland. I know he cares about oppression and poverty and want. Things you know nothing about.”

“And neither do you,” Lucy said, pointing her spoon at me. “You think that just because your family’s fallen on hard times you know everything about being poor. But you’ve just paid a dressmaker to make a gown for your debut, and my brother is preparing to go down on his knee to save you, so don’t go all high and mighty on
me.
”

She was right. I felt the sting to my pride, a shame that made me look down into my dish, stirring little violets into
whirlpools of melting ice cream, my appetite completely gone.

Rose said, “Must we argue? Come now, both of you. It’s been a perfectly lovely day. Let’s not spoil it.”

“Of course,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry, Grace. I shouldn’t have said those things. We’re to be sisters, after all.”

“I’m sorry as well,” I said sincerely.

“There,” Rose declared. “Isn’t that better?”

Lucy stood. “Let’s go back to the house. It’s hot and I’m tired.”

And no doubt she wanted to run off to visit her stableboy. But I didn’t say that. We said little on the way to the Devlin house.

In the too-warm parlor, Mrs. Devlin looked up with a smile. “Did you choose a gown? Is it lovely?”

“It is,” Lucy said curtly. “Pink.”

“I believe that’s Patrick’s favorite color,” Mrs. Devlin said.

“Really? I would have said he preferred green.” Lucy threw me a smug look.

Her mother said, “I thought he would have returned by now. I do know he would want to see you, Grace.”

“You’ll excuse me if I retire?” Lucy asked. “I’m afraid I’m quite exhausted.”

Rose and I both murmured good-byes. When Lucy flounced from the room, I turned to Mrs. Devlin. “Ma’am, I think I dropped a book earlier. Outside, while I was waiting for the carriage. Did anyone retrieve it?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She bustled into the hallway, calling for the butler. But he hadn’t seen it either.

“Perhaps it’s still outside,” I said. “Rose and I will look for it as we leave.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Patrick you were here. And to give him your regards,” Mrs. Devlin said.

Outside, Rose asked, “Did you really drop a book, or was it just an excuse to leave?”

“I really dropped it. And it’s Patrick’s, too, so I must find it.” I bent to look beneath the bench.

“It’s Patrick’s?”

“A book of Irish poems.” I hurried down the stoop, searching at the foot of the railing. Nothing.

“And you just dropped it?”

We were at the end of the walk. Where I’d first seen the glow and had the headache. “Yes. I was reading it and then the carriage came up and my head . . . it was the worst headache I’ve ever had.”

“Not just hunger then?” Rose asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps. But I’ve never felt like that.”

“You don’t want to get between Lucy and this boy, Grace. Not if you want Patrick.”

My stomach tightened. “Who says I’m going to get between them?”

“The way he was looking at you . . .”

“He’s a flirt, as I said,” I told her impatiently. “And an irritating one too. He’s just perfect for Lucy. Together they can pretend they’re king and queen and rule the world.”

Rose laughed. “However are you going to hold your tongue when you’re Lucy’s sister-in-law?”

I sighed. “I don’t know that I will be, Rose. Perhaps Patrick won’t propose.”

“Oh, I think he will. But not if you keep picking at Lucy. She has his ear, you know.”

“I’ll try to be good.” I let the yew branches fall back into place. “It’s not here. What am I going to do?”

“Tell Patrick you lost it.”

“I can’t! It means so much to him. How am I to tell him that I was so careless I just dropped it in the street?”

“Well, perhaps it will turn up.”

I followed her back to her house. The book hadn’t been kicked aside. It hadn’t fallen into the bushes. Which meant it would’ve been lying here on the walk, obvious to anyone. Obvious to the stableboy who’d been standing right there. He must have it. And he had to know who it belonged to. But he hadn’t turned it in to the house. Why not?

Unfortunately, the only way to find out was to ask him.

When we came to Rose’s door and she asked me to come in for some lemonade, I told her I had to check on my mother. But instead of going home, I doubled back. I knew where the Devlin stables were—two blocks over from the park, only a short walk from here.

I was nervous as I went there, my pulse racing.
Stupid!
There was nothing to worry about. This morning had been odd, and those things I’d felt . . . whatever the cause, I had no wish to see Derry again. And who knew if Lucy was there right now, lying to her mother, sneaking out. . . . He’d whispered
something
to her; doubtless it had been a time to
meet him later. Wouldn’t
that
be perfect, to run into her there.

But I needed that book. And I knew Derry had it.

The stables were on the corner. As beautiful as any mansion—probably just as well appointed, too, though I’d never been inside. The brougham we’d taken to the shop was parked outside, and the driver was polishing it until it gleamed in the sun. He started when he saw me.

“Miss?”

“I think I might have left a book in the carriage,” I lied. “I wondered if perhaps you’d found it. A small book. Of poems.”

Leonard shook his head. His hat was off, his dark-green coat lying over the carriage wheel. “No, miss. There was no such thing.”

“I must have dropped it. Perhaps the stableboy found it on the walk.”

He jerked his head toward the open stable door. “He’s just inside. You could ask him yourself.”

I knew that he believed this was just what I’d come to do, and I hated it, especially because it was true, even if not for the reason he thought.

The inside was as beautiful as I’d expected. Polished walnut stalls and gleaming leather tack hanging from the walls, porcelain troughs of water, a barrelful of oats so fine I would have been glad to eat them myself. The stable smelled like any other, of oil and leather, hay and horse, but the air here seemed more rarefied somehow, as if the scents of sweat and manure were not allowed but kept hovering outside, waiting to sneak in.

I hesitated just inside the doorway. I saw no movement anywhere but for the horses: a swish of tail, a stomped foot. And then I heard a noise, a muttered voice, and Derry emerged from a stall. There was no glow this time—not that I’d thought there would be. He held a currying brush, and his shirtsleeves were pushed up to expose muscled forearms, his shirt mostly open, revealing far too much of his chest, which gleamed with the fine sheen of sweat. His dark hair was still falling into his face—irritating me all over again. How could he even see through it?