Born of Persuasion (25 page)

Mr. Greenham proved to be a patient companion. He waited, his tender gaze fixed upon me. When I could speak again, I asked, “You knew all this the first time we met?”

He gave a guarded “Yes.”

It was an adjustment to realize he’d known about Mama during that dreadful dinner with Edward and his parents. He knew my guardian intended me harm while Lady Foxmore bargained her requirements for chaperoning me.
“This is no game,”
he’d told her through gritted teeth. No wonder he had looked so disgusted when Mrs. Windham contrived to leave us alone. Doubtless he had no other intentions but to transport me safely to Eastbourne.

“And Lady Foxmore?” I asked.

“She is in no danger of which I am aware.”

“No, I mean, does she know?”

Mr. Greenham grew very still. “I do not know how much Macy has made her aware of.”

Our conversation was broken by the heavy slap of boots. Mr. Greenham shifted forward to the edge of his chair, as if ready to stand. Only later would I learn to distinguish the unwelcome sound of Mr. Forrester’s tread—a slight lilt between steps.

Knowing my eyes evidenced the effects of last night, I feared meeting the newcomer.

Mr. Forrester entered, wearing the same suit of clothing from the previous evening, only now more creased, suggesting he’d slept in it. Though I gave him a slight nod of welcome, he only wrinkled his nose and wiped his hands over his waistcoat, as if my greeting had soiled him.

Eyes narrowed at us, he poured juice at the buffet and then strode to our table. His bloodshot eyes hinted he’d slept no better than I had.

I silently studied him as he dropped to his seat and took a loud gulp from his glass before sneering at us. “Where’s Macy?”

I dropped my gaze and Mr. Greenham only tapped his long fingers over the side of his steaming coffee cup.

Who at that moment could have known how inextricably bound our three fates were? What a thin thread that held us too, for we were dissimilar in every possible way excepting one—we were traitors. The cord binding us did not snap, either, until we each administered our Judas kiss.

“I know he’s here,” Mr. Forrester prompted.

Mr. Greenham and I united, our silence becoming a wall. Though it was unladylike, I placed my chin in my hand and made a point of looking arch, as if I thought him vulgar.

“His servants claim he’s left,” Mr. Forrester said. “But his horse is still here.”

Again, silence reigned.

“All right, keep to yourselves.” Mr. Forrester stood with a leering smile. “On the day you come begging to me for succor, know that you’ll find me equally silent.”

As he stood, he reached for his glass and picked up mine by mistake. Before I could stop him, he took a swig. His eyes bulged before he gave a gagging cough. His head jerked toward me. “Aww, nice, love. It’s not even nine yet.”

My breath caught as Mr. Greenham stood in my defense.
But Mr. Forrester backed toward the door, holding his hands upright.

“Remain here,” Mr. Greenham ordered once we were alone, then slipped from the chamber, closing the door behind himself.

A quarter hour turned into half an hour, yet Mr. Greenham did not return.

I sat looking outdoors, listening to the patter of rain. Eventually I folded my arms on the table and rested my head, feeling drowsiness weight my limbs. After another quarter hour passed, I sat back in my chair and decided to return to my bedchamber and sleep.

No one else had awakened for breakfast. Only now do I suspect that Mr. Greenham had only because Reynolds must have awoken him from his slumber to tend to me.

I slipped from the room, not knowing how long that day would stretch out. It is a curious thing to have your perception altered. I had lost my footing. I wanted no company, no comfort, yet neither could I bear to be alone.

Reynolds approached with a bow. “May I be of service, Miss Elliston?”

“I’m returning to my bedchamber to sleep. Would you carry that message to Mr. Greenham?”

Reynolds’s head bobbed, as though approving of my plan. “Do you need help finding your bedchamber?”

I gave him a shy smile. “No, if you point me in the direction, I’ll manage on my own.”

“Very good, miss.” He gestured down a hall. “You’ll want to turn left at the end of the first hall.”

I nodded my thanks and followed his instructions. It wasn’t long before I reached a crumbling section of the house, although the worn stone floor did not look familiar. Slabs of rock jutted
from the ground in a mismatched formation. There were few doors in this section of the house, and the ones I tried were locked. Eventually I found a hallway with the same sooty color as the walls near my bedchamber and took that passage.

Instead of my bedchamber, however, an arched door with studded nails waited at the end of the hall. The door was so ancient it bore a chain instead of a door handle. Its scrolled hinges sprawled over the door like decorative tree branches. Heart beating, I approached and gave the chain a tug. A groaning sound filled the air as the massive door swung open.

Inside was a medieval chapel—so aged that I knew I had found the heart of Eastbourne. Cold air swirled about me as I stood on the threshold. I eyed the decaying sanctuary. My father had sworn that I should never set foot inside a church. Sarah said that unbeknownst to him, when I was a babe Mama had carried me into one to be baptized. When Sarah protested in fear, Mama said she’d make certain my feet would never touch the floor. That story wasn’t the only reason I believed Mama had entertained some sort of faith. During the last months of her life, she’d taken to kneeling before a torn book page bearing the image of the crucified Christ. Her lips moved silently, begging something of him, as his image grimaced in pain, looking elsewhere.

A rough-hewn beam had fallen from the ceiling in the chancel, but by some miracle, the ceiling remained intact. The air, though stale, had a trace of incense, as though decades ago someone had religiously prayed here. Only there was something more, something deeper. A sacred memory clung to this chamber. I stretched my hand inside.

Dust stirred in particles around my fingers.

What devout monks, I wondered, had built these walls, labored and bled over this mason work? They must have been men of a rare sort for traces of them to leave behind such a deep impression.

My gaze went to the altar and my thoughts turned toward Edward. What power on earth would convince the son of landed gentry to side with the commoners? What if it wasn’t the monks I felt? What if, what if . . . ?

I shut my eyes, pulling back my hand, refusing to surrender to whatever it was. My father had spoken of the human need to create a feeling that God existed. I’d lost my family, my stability, and had only just learned of my danger. Surely this was nothing except my need to feel there was something worth clinging to.

Make no mistake, the heart of Eastbourne is a monastery, but the organ is stilled; it no longer beats. Gone are the Gregorian chants, the rising incense, the quiet, orderly schedule.

Grasping the door, I tiptoed back into the hall and gently shut the door. I wiped my hand over my skirt, willing myself to shake free all influences of the chamber. I chose the nearest passage and took several successive turns. Instead of leading me toward a section of the house I recognized, my steps took me into a closed-off area. Only shafts of light penetrated the wood boarding the windows, exposing the velvet carpet of dust coating the floor.

Here I sank to the floor in blessed silence. This place, this empty, dying hall suited me better than the rich furnishing in my chambers. I had graduated to new circumstances. Mama had been murdered. Here, I decided, I would collect myself. It was necessary. I’d moved into the heart of an intrigue which I couldn’t quite grasp. Again I wondered who would murder Mama.

I opened the locket that held miniatures of my parents. My father’s blond moustache was raised in a sneer and his blue eyes were cold and indifferent. But Mama . . . I kissed her picture. She looked young and afraid like me. I reflected and saw for the first time how cold and hard I’d grown in order to survive. I’d believed a lie, and like a hailstorm sweeping a field, it had flattened and crushed my opinion of myself. Knowing Mama had
not callously forsaken me, however, soothed some of the pain and brought forth fresh grief.

Drawing my knees to my chest, I recalled the terror that had occupied her eyes in those final weeks. How could I not have known her life was in danger? She jumped at every noise. Checked every lock.

Only a beast would execute a woman in her own bedroom—a beast who looked to devour me next. Did she know I’d found safety? I opened my eyes and viewed the dark passage, remembering Mr. Macy’s kiss. I touched my lips, thrilling anew at the memory.

From there, my thoughts turned to Mr. Macy. That he had written Mama and asked for my hand was as extraordinary as the fact she agreed. Neither made any sense. I suspected Mr. Macy’s reasons were not based on love. How could they be? He’d never met me. The more I considered the thought, the more distressed I grew. What would make such an eligible bachelor desire an abandoned orphan? Duty? Guilt? Pity?

Like a cribbage player discarding unnecessary cards, I rejected each one of those suits.
Duty
—let Edward pay me duty if it were so important.
Guilt
—how horribly did that picture rise before me, for the eventual paths of such a marriage end in disdain.
Pity.
Here my face grew hard. Better I go to Scotland as a servant than accept pity. Yet with a quickening of my pulse, I remembered Scotland was no option.

So deep was I in my thoughts that at first I didn’t notice the sound. The second time I heard it, however, I lifted my head and realized the identical noise had occurred just seconds before.

It was a shuffling. But not that of a rat or bird, which one could rightfully expect to meet in such a part of a house. Rather it was larger, more like a mastiff. I clambered to my feet as quickly as I could, aware that candlelight now flickered over the wall in a semicircle.

The intruder stopped, however, short of turning the corner.
From the way the light shrank, I deemed the candlestick had been set on the floor. Every nerve tingled, telling me to run.

Dreading my presence becoming known, I took a step backwards as the sound of metal scraping metal filled the air. It was followed by a string of curses from Mr. Forrester. “What does Macy do, weld the locks?”

My mouth dried as I realized it was the very person Macy told me to avoid. I took another step backwards, this time causing a pebble to skitter across the floor.

“Who’s there?”

I attempted to run, but as in a nightmare where one’s legs are bound by the sheets, my feet refused to move.

Footsteps fumbled toward me, but the light suddenly went out alongside a loud clatter, making me think he dropped his candlestick. This time, I fled.

In two steps, I was around the opposite corner and running. I ran down one haunted passage after another, uncertain of my way. My left side screamed as it cramped anew, but I pressed on. Tears of terror and exhaustion formed.

“Miss Elliston!” A firm grip on my arm forced me to halt.

Gasping, I whirled to find Mr. Greenham towering over me. I doubled over to catch my breath.

“Are you injured?” His searching eyes demanded explanation. “What happened?”

I winced, shaking my head. The cramp in my left side refused to cease.

“Please, Miss Elliston, I have a responsibility.” Mr. Greenham placed a hand on my shoulder. “What were you running from? Tell me.”

He was nothing like his brooding self. Aroused, he was fearsome. I believe he could have snapped a sapling in half had he desired. He placed a hand on his hip and waited for me to regain breath.

Recalling how he had looked at the unexpected arrival of Mr. Forrester, I shook my head. “It is nothing.”

He stormed to the end of the passage and peered around the corner. His fingers flexed into a fist before he turned back. “What happened?”

“The house spooked me.”

“Where were you?”

“Lost.”

“Miss Elliston, please, I’m only trying . . .” He unclenched his fingers and returned to me. “What do you fear to tell me?” He knelt, this time taking my hands. “Is this because I left you in a compromising situation last night? I would not have done so unless I deemed you safe. I am your friend. You must believe that and—”

“John, is that you?” Lady Foxmore turned the corner to find my hands in his. “My goodness, what happened to the child?”

Mr. Greenham ignored her, keeping me in his grasp. “Why aren’t you in your chambers? Reynolds said you were sleeping.”

The brass end of Lady Foxmore’s cane poked his knuckles. “Really, John, I must insist you release the child. Your manner is frightening her. She looks ready to faint.”

When he did not, she wrapped her arms around my waist. “Child, your heart is pounding.” She turned to Mr. Greenham. “She’s shivering. What happened?”

He rose, towering over us. “She won’t say.”