Season For Desire Page 21

  Daniel Balthasar was a stocky, sturdy young man with dark hair and a deeply tanned face. He did not seem to want to let go of his wife to shake hands, so he bowed. Kitty crouched along with his bending arm, laughing.

  “I am pleased to meet you, sir,” Audrina said. “I hope you were not too worried about your wife in her absence.”

  “I’ve been worried about Kitty for a while, m’lady, and tha’s the truth. Fair sick when I foun’ her gone, though I know she’s a smart woman and wou’ get a safe place to stay ou’ of the weather.”

  “Oh, Daniel!” Kitty looked up at him with wide eyes. “And you’ll never guess what I’ve done. Sold that puzzle box from my mother for twenty pounds!”

  “You never!” The weather-beaten face of Daniel Balthasar transformed. “You’ve a magic touch, my loove. Twen’y pounds?”

  “It’s true! I’ve got it in my pocket.”

  Her husband planted a great smacking kiss upon her cheek. “Glad I am of it. We’ll have the bes’ doctors for you, Kitty dear, so you and baby will be well.”

  A dusting of snow must have blown into Audrina’s eyes, for they would not stop watering.

  The Rutherfords trudged over then, their carriage packed first. “We’ll drop the pair of you at your home,” offered Richard as he shook Daniel’s hand. The Balthasars were too wise to decline this offer, and probably too cold.

  Mr. Booth tugged his forelock in farewell, and Mrs. Booth bobbed curtsies all around. “Wha’ an honor it was to have you all here for Christmas,” she said. “I never had sooch fine crackers as what you made, Lady Audrina. If you’re ever in York again, I hope you’ll stay wi’ us.”

  Audrina made some noise that probably represented assent. After Giles had left her bedchamber, she had fallen into a blue-deviled fit and forgotten to return to the bread in the kitchen. There it puffed and puffed and fell, and by the time she recalled it, there was nothing to do with the dough but make ship’s biscuit and apologize.

  Lady Irving arranged payment for them both, as Audrina had no money with her. The Rutherfords, too, settled their bill. And then there was just the farewell, looming like a thundercloud. No longer would they be traveling together: The Rutherfords intended to race back to London, pushing their lightly laden carriage to make the journey in three days over the terrible roads. If all went well, Lady Irving and Audrina would also arrive in three days—but just in case, Lady Irving penned a letter of introduction for Richard to take to Lady Xavier, the countess’s clever code-solving niece.

  “I expect we will see you in London.” Giles stood before Audrina. His posture was stiff and over-formal, as though he were uncomfortable in his own skin.

  She was, too, now that he had seen all of hers.

  “I expect so.” Audrina clipped her words off tight and kept her expression still, so it would not wobble or betray her.

  He looked at her for a long moment, then with a nod of farewell, he left.

  She hoped against all likelihood that they would not meet in London. Everything would be different in London: the crush of society, the demands of propriety, the disappointments of her parents.

  Maybe different was not her favorite word after all.

  The world would do nothing to bring Giles and Audrina together, and neither of them could bridge the chasm between them.

  As she climbed into the carriage, she overheard Richard Rutherford behind her: “You wouldn’t dislike the idea, would you, Estella? Think of me as a sleigh bell.”

  “Making noise long after it has ceased to be pleasant?”

  Rutherford chuckled. “Bringing cheer to the wintriest days.”

  Audrina took her seat, peering out the carriage window, just in time to see Rutherford kiss Lady Irving’s hand.

  She flopped back against the hard horsehair squabs. Just now, their bright stripes offended her eye. When Lady Irving and her maid Lizzie climbed in as well, Audrina pretended to be asleep, and they pretended to believe that she was.

  For three long days, the carriage cut southward toward London. At every inn where they changed horses or stopped for the night, Audrina contrasted their surroundings with the Goat and Gauntlet. Whether more lavish or less, nothing caught at her quite like the thought of that blue-walled room. Or the parlor, wherein she had left her fillet tucked in the window frame. Even the room in which Llewellyn had been locked up held a charm in memory for her. For that night, she had known he could not touch her.

  It was safer to confine her thoughts to architecture. To think of people was too difficult, and for most of the journey, Lady Irving had let her keep her silence. The countess seemed to be mulling over many things, too, which Audrina guessed were related to that kiss on the hand from Richard Rutherford.

  On the fourth day, at last, they drew near London. For the night, Audrina would stay with Lady Irving at the countess’s Grosvenor Square house. Darkness was falling, the moon no more than a fingernail in the sky. Waning crescent.

  She wondered how Sophy was doing. And Miss Corning—was she still at Castle Parr? How badly Lord Dudley had wanted company in his great lonely house over Christmas. Giles Rutherford was not alone in not getting the things he wanted.

  By the time the lamps of London began to split the evening, Lizzie had drifted into a doze. Lady Irving poked her, and when the maid did not budge, she turned to Audrina. “Look here, girl. I’ve let you keep your silence, but I’m not going to keep mine anymore. Before we settle back into London, you need to know: There’s no shame in changing one’s mind.”

  “I have not changed my mind about anything, my lady,” said Audrina, caught by surprise. “Or—wait, perhaps I have. What is the right answer?”

  Harrumph. “A good try, but I’m not going to answer that for you. You’re breaking your heart over your Rutherford and you’re both too proud to say so.”

  Was this a broken heart, this feeling that the world was gray and endless? Before this month, she had thought the world too small. Now it stretched huge, with spaces that could not be spanned. “Nothing kept us together except a journey neither of us wanted to take.”

  “Wrong, wrong, and wrong.” The countess’s voice rose, and Lizzie stirred. Once she settled back into her slumber, Lady Irving added in a furious whisper, “Nothing brought you together except a journey neither of you wanted to take at first. By the end of it, you were glad for it, weren’t you?”

  Audrina opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it. “Um.”

  “Blushing. I thought so. I can tell even in the dark.” The countess looked smug. “As to what might keep you together, that’s up to you. But you can’t blame the weather, or that stupid sot of a Llewellyn, for the fact that you left York in my carriage instead of theirs—nor for that pining look on your face. Like a child watching someone else eat an ice.”

  Why she had wanted to ride with Lady Irving, she didn’t know. “We have all had more than enough ice lately, my lady. But I thank you for your kindly meant observations.”

  Lady Irving harrumphed again but did not press the matter. Likely she wanted to mull over her own romantic possibilities. This was all well and good for her, a widow of independent means and infinite opinions. She could fit in anywhere, molding any circumstance to her formidable will.

  Not everyone could do so. The young, the unmarried. . . the ruined. Giles’s mother had fled across an ocean. He would probably prefer that to our staying in England besmirching his good name, Audrina had said of her father.

  Because she knew what it meant to be told to come back to London betrothed or not at all: Her father found her to be a thumb mark on the glossy surface of the family. One way or another—by marriage or by absence—she was to be buffed away. An unprofitable investment, and an unnecessary one now that Charissa’s union with the Duke of Walpole seemed ready to yield such impressive results.

  When had they all got into the habit of thinking that Charissa was worth more, because she was obedient and a duke wanted to marry her? Was Giles right, that Audri
na thought of people as worth more or less depending on their rank? Or how much they cleaved to proper behavior?

  Lamplight slipped in stripes through the carriage window; the streets widened into the familiar groomed avenues of Mayfair. Tomorrow she would call upon Charissa and explain what had happened, because she was quite sure her parents had hidden the truth of her sudden absence. Another of those thumb marks on their varnished life.

  Audrina knew her error now, and it was not slipping away from a ballroom for stolen kisses, or even surrendering her virtue. Not taking a lover or hiding her heart. No, her error had been in laying her trust on someone undeserving.

  And as Charissa was worth the truth, so Audrina hoped her sister would find her to be worth forgiveness.

  The sort of person you are, Giles had told her once, you do not need to change. But this was too generous. Her courage had been false, testing others to make them prove how much they cared.

  How much did she care, though?

  She had cared enough, in the quiet of a Yorkshire inn, to ask Giles if he was willing to marry her. She cared enough for her sister to lay out the full truth. Asking for help, for forgiveness, was what allowed a problem to be solved.

  Yes, she cared enough to think that both of these relationships were worth pursuing, worth setting right.

  And that must mean she, at last, was deciding what she was worth, too.

  “Lady Irving,” she said as the carriage rolled to a halt before the countess’s home. “You are right. I was glad for the journey.”

  “Are you going to marry again?” For the first time in the four days since they began their journey back to London—four long, muddy, tiring days—Giles asked the question of his father.

  It was easier to talk of Richard than of anything that might remind Giles of Audrina. Like the moon, or the puzzle boxes, or an apple tart. Bread that failed to rise. A strip of folded paper. Cuff links and hairpins. Dressing or undressing.

  He knocked his head against the carriage window.

  Only when Richard spoke did Giles recall that he had asked a question. “I never thought to until very recently. But yes, if I can persuade Lady Irving that I would be better company than bearish solitude, I think it would suit me well. She’s funny, isn’t she?”

  “Lady Irving?” Giles lifted his brows. “Funny isn’t the word I’d use for her.”

  “No, maybe not funny.” Richard rubbed at his chin. “Like a great grouchy tiger, all teeth and claws—but for all that, a cat who thrives on warm fires and coddling.”

  “So she’s a bear and a tiger and a cat. Quite the menagerie you hope to set up.”

  “After raising six children, I’m capable of taking on any sort of menagerie.” Richard leaned back against the forward-facing seat, sinking his chin to catch Giles with a tell the truth gaze he hadn’t employed in some years. “Do you mind the idea? I hope you will not. No matter what lies ahead, a remarriage would not replace or erase my life with your mother.”

  “No, no. I know that. Building a life with someone else would be . . . different.” The word hurt, and he tried again. “It will be an adventure for you.”

  Richard smiled. “My favorite word. Thank you. And what about your happiness?”

  Giles waved a hand. One of those cursed, damned hands. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Spoken like someone who has no children. I have done nothing since your birth but worry about you. In a loving way, of course. Wanting the best for you. Your safety, your health.”

  “About that.” Giles flexed his hand, then drew in a deep breath. “Father. I—have what Mother had. My hands—it’s been years, and . . .” Against the sadness that pooled in his father’s eyes, words dissolved.

  “Giles, no.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” Why was he apologizing when he was the one who hurt? Or was it instead a feeling: I’m sorry for this. I’m sorry for us.

  I’m sorry for me. He would never have told Richard at all, except that his heart hurt as much as his hands, and that was entirely too much not to speak of.

  “How can you be sure?” Richard asked. The same question Audrina had asked; the same thing he himself had wondered at first.

  So he explained: the long months at university, when the pain had grown beyond ignoring; the flares of agony that came with overuse. How it spread into palm and forearm, how his wrist weakened and burned until every design, every line he drew, had to be considered before he put his hand through the pain of creating it. How he had consulted a physician—and when the man offered to cure him with leeches and galvanic shocks, he decided to stumble through on his own.

  As Giles spoke, Richard leaned forward: first just a slight bit, with the rocking of the carriage; then fully, a triangle with elbows propped on his knees and a smile growing on his features.

  “Your hands have hurt for years?”

  Why this should make his father smile, Giles had no idea. “Yes.”

  “Just your hands, and mostly at the wrist? Not your knuckles or feet or knees?”

  “Right.”

  Richard let out a breath as big as a collapsing hot-air balloon. “What you’ve got—Giles, I truly don’t think it’s arthritis like your mother had.”

  Giles stared at his hands. As though to prove his father wrong, one wrist shot hot pain up into his forearm. “Why do you say that? After what it has done to me?”

  “Because of what it has not done to you. Your mother soaked her hands in hot water every morning, and she had to brace herself to get out of bed because her feet hurt so badly when she first stood. Every day, it was like that, starting from when she was younger than you. None of you children are showing signs of that, thank God.”

  “Then what is it instead?”

  “That I can’t say. But if it hasn’t gotten worse—if it sometimes gets a bit better—maybe it’s an injury rather than an illness.”

  Not. Arthritis.

  Not arthritis? He had lived with the certainty for—oh, seven years now. It had shaped his entire adult life.

  Maybe it’s an injury rather than an illness. An injury that never healed? What sort of injury could one cause by doing detailed work with one’s hands?

  “Maybe.” His thoughts seemed locked in a wary circle. “Maybe. I could consult another physician while we’re in London.”

  “Good. Yes. I think that would be wise.” Richard sighed. “You never said anything. All these years, you never told any of us. What a burden to bear.”

  “Mother was already so ill, and whenever I came home, you were so glad for the help—”

  “Giles. Son. I was glad to see you.” In the shadow-dim evening, Richard looked worn and sad. “I should have known, when you never pursued a career you’d given years to learning. I should have guessed that something was wrong.”

  “Something was wrong. Mother could hardly move.”

  “Yes, but even so. She would not have wanted me to overlook any need of one of our children. And I wouldn’t—don’t—want that either.” He shook his head. “Did she know what you thought?”

  “No. I wanted to spare her that.”

  “And who were you sparing by never becoming an architect?”

  Giles’s jaw clenched. “I still got to design things.”

  Richard’s expression looked—disgusted? It was difficult to tell in the wan light of the crescent moon and the scattered street lamps. “Buildings and jewelry aren’t the same things at all.”

  “The process isn’t completely different.” Even to his own ears, Giles’s excuse sounded thin. “Parts fit together into a harmonious whole, and materials are calculated.”

  Richard folded his arms. “Do you love it?”

  “I . . .”

  “Tell me right now if you love it. Do you love designing jewelry?”

  “I . . . no. You know that. I’ve never said I loved it.”

  “True. That’s true. Do you love something else more?”

  Green eyes. Black hair. Curious and proud. Afraid bu
t never wants to admit it.

  Beautiful, within and without.

  “Something, Father? No—not a thing.”

  “Someone, then.” Richard’s posture relaxed. Again, he rubbed at his chin: his let me think about this gesture. “Well, then. I have to ask you again: Who are you sparing by not pursuing what you want?”

  Damned difficult question. He seemed to be surrounding himself lately with people who tossed that sort of thing his way.

  But he thought he might be coming to an answer.

  The problem was never what ailment he had, or—blessed possibility—thought he had. The problem was in how he had reacted to it. Instead of glutting himself on a purpose, on a rich and interesting life, he had bided his time. Herding the behavior of others, wanting to make himself indispensable.

  But no one needed him. He wasn’t indispensable. Richard had found the puzzle boxes, and Giles hadn’t opened a single one. His sister Rachel missed him, but she loved many people. And Audrina—she had the money and health to do many things with her life, just as he’d told her. She need have nothing to do with Giles.

  And that was all right, after all, because need was entirely different from love. Need was a parasite; love was a choice.

  Richard cleared his throat. “You always seem embarrassed when someone notices what a good man you are, Giles. But I’ve noticed. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, to be a good man.” He smiled, that expression that settled so comfortably over his features. “You meant well, I think, by setting aside your dreams. But no one who loves you would want that of you.”

  “No,” Giles agreed. “No, you are right.” And these words, freely given, felt like the unlocking of a chain.

  It would take courage to gather up the pieces of a long and complex future. How would it fit together? He could not imagine what form it might take. But a man building a future could ask a woman to share it.