Born of Persuasion (29 page)

I started to nod, but his face hardened. “Verbal agreement, Miss Elliston.”

“Y-yes, I swear.”

He lifted my chin in an unrelenting grasp. “No one other than you touches these keys. Not John, not Reynolds. Understand?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

His stance loosened, though he continued to lift my face upwards. His eyes lingered on my mouth with an expression that suggested he had all but resolved to ignore our witness. Then all at once he released me. “Reynolds, escort her today.”

“A third generation of lifelong service,” Reynolds said as Mr. Macy departed, his eyes fastened on the key ring, “and he has yet to pay me that honor.”

The keys were as heavy as a small weight, yet I marvelled at the level of trust and confidence Mr. Macy had placed in me. I couldn’t remember anyone ever having placed that much faith in me.

“Might I suggest you begin with the library?” Reynolds’s tone was soft, as if gently reminding me he was present.

I nodded, so touched that I was tempted to press the keys against my heart. I forced back emotion and gave Reynolds a shy smile, knowing he couldn’t possibly understand the rush of emotion flowing through me, then picked up my skirts and made ready to follow him.

I am told that little more than a year later, men in powdered wigs debated vehemently for hours about the significance of my having the keys and my exploration of Eastbourne—as if that had any legal bearing on the matter. That, however, is another story for another time.

Reynolds unlocked one of the large doors and opened it with a pleased air. “I shall wait outside.”

If the former heart of Eastbourne was a monastery, its new center was its library. The chamber felt as ancient as a forest, as stuffy as an attic, but rich with life. Above me the ceiling, as large as a train station’s, vaulted into a stained-glass dome. Weak light backed it, so it did not cast down flecks of colors, but in the full sun I had no doubt there would be pools of colors.

It was a library, yes, for books lined shelves, which lined walls, which went up three stories with carved stairs and heavy banisters. Yet it was also a museum, an apothecary shop, a classroom.

Through a glass cabinet displaying exotic birds, I spied an open drawer containing rows of eggs, their shades and colors so beautiful and dull it made my heart ache. Through the wavy glass I saw one leathery sample labelled
Alligator
.

I turned from it to a furniture grouping before the large hearth. Tables, long and large enough to belong to a chemist, were stacked with papers and inkwells. Mr. Macy had said to leave his papers alone, but I chanced to see what sort of things he wrote about. The tang of cigars greeted my nose as I approached and lifted a few sheets. To my disappointment, his notes were in Latin.

Another table was crowded with apothecary jars and various potted plants preserved in liquid. A book lay open, a dried plant segment tucked in its spine. Its seeds and flowers had been affixed to the pages alongside handwritten notes telling of its
medicinal values. Next to it, butterflies were in the process of being mounted.

I looked over my shoulder, amazed at the sheer number of volumes in the room. Nearby maps and display cases called for exploration, and beyond those, smaller rooms with more treasure.

I left the table, deciding I would beg Mr. Macy tomorrow to explore his library at leisure, knowing I could spend three or four afternoons here without boredom.

I retreated to the door and exited.

Reynolds gave me a surprised frown. “Was it not to your liking?”

“Oh yes!” I shared my rapture and was rewarded by the glow of pride that lit his face.

“May I see the ballroom?” I asked, recalling Lady Foxmore’s statement that Macy withdrew from society on a night when he was throwing a ball.

A shadow passed over Reynolds’s face as he wet his lips. “Well, Mr. Macy did give you his keys.” He looked down a dark passage. “Very well, though I must warn you, it’s been unopened for fifteen years.”

Reynolds had no key to this room, and it took me several attempts to unlock the bolt. When the doors finally moaned open, I refused to enter. The decayed chamber lay in shambles. Dust-coated cobwebs hung in crooked angles. Velvet draperies, partly disintegrated from years of hanging in the damp, hung on their rods like rags on a beggar. The mirrors lining the upper half of the room were either cracked or lying in shards on the floor. Broken chairs and overturned tables were scattered about demolished instruments.

I stared at the space, wondering what sort of man would utterly ruin his own ballroom.

“Perhaps—” Reynolds stepped forward, shut the doors, and motioned for me to relock them—“you’ll allow me to show you
the card room. That too hasn’t been used in over a decade, but I think you’ll find it more suitable.”

I nodded agreement, glad to leave whatever memory disturbed that chamber.

There is little point to describing all that I saw in Eastbourne that day. Were I to spend a month exploring, I scarcely would have acquainted myself with the estate. A museum in London could not have held more wonder, nor a haunted palace more mystique.

I declined lunch, still filled enough from our late breakfast, but as the day stretched late into afternoon, my stomach grumbled.

“Shall you take tea now?” Reynolds asked.

I held back my annoyance at my need for food. In every chamber we’d entered, every gallery I’d explored, I’d cut short the time, denying my desire to explore every nook and cranny. I wanted to see all of Eastbourne, and daylight was fading.

“Which room is that?” I asked, pointing to a grand-looking door.

“Mr. Macy’s personal billiards room.”

I lifted my brow. There had been two other billiards rooms. “His personal one? Does he use it often?”

Reynolds smiled. “Yes, I should say so.”

“One more room,” I begged of Reynolds, heading toward it. “I want to see it.”

Like the other rooms favored by Mr. Macy, it also bore the scent of cigar in addition to the lingering scent of his pomade. Indentations in the leather chairs suggested frequent use. A dressing gown, similar to the one I’d worn, was slung over the table that needed refelting. I resisted the urge to scoop it up to smell.

I ran my fingers over the billiards table, picturing Mr. Macy, coat off, collar unbuttoned, calculating his next move. Over the
bar, paintings of horses were grouped in mismatched frames—some round, some oval, and others rectangular.

It was only as I turned to leave the room that I spotted the green coffee set with carved dragons. All warmth left my body as I knelt before the occasional table to study it.

Once more I saw the broken cup.

The very devil himself was engraved on my father’s features as he lifted his fist.

I remembered Mama’s screams as she threw herself before me, the crimson blood that spotted her gown.

Long-forgotten words rang from the past.
“Priceless. Irreplaceable. Only one in existence.”

I tasted the fear I’d experienced that day, as my finger plucked the air, counting the settings. Five. It lacked a setting to be a complete set. Mentally I roamed the house. It had been so long, I couldn’t even recall what room it had once sat in.

“Miss Elliston?” Reynolds asked in a concerned voice from the doorway.

I tore my eyes from the set and somehow rushed from the room.

“Are you ill?” Reynolds took my side as I bent over.

I wanted to shake my head, to laugh at the frightened look on his face, but I felt too numb. That memory had long been buried, but now I remembered Mama’s cries each time my father’s fist fell.

A dent formed between Reynolds’s brows, but before he could speak, I shook off his touch. “Reynolds, I wish to retire. Would you kindly direct me to my chambers?”

“Shall I take—?”

“No.” I nearly screamed the word; any second I felt ready to cry. “Just tell me which direction.”

He didn’t hesitate. “If you turn left at the end of this hall, I believe you shall find your way quite easily. Shall I bring a tea tray to your room?”

I shook my head, leaving. The hall led me to the arch, and from there I reached my room a few minutes later. Yet instead of entering it, I leaned against the door, breathing hard. Part of me longed to return to the billiards room and examine the coffee set again—to make sure it really had been ours. Only there was no need to. I knew the set was unique. I felt sick with the knowledge it would be hours before I could seek explanation.

I bent my head toward the dark stairwell that wound up to Mr. Macy’s chambers. That’s when my heart slowed as a plan formulated. Here, I realized, was probably the best opportunity I would ever have to truly judge what manner of man Mr. Macy was. Was not one’s bedchamber his most intimate space?

Before I could change my mind, I bounded up the stairs. One locked door waited at the top. Kneeling, I tried every key, but to no avail. Only then did I recall Mr. Macy’s statement that our chambers were identical.

I drew out the ribbon that hung around my neck and inserted my key. The lock clicked.

COLD AIR, carrying the reek of tobacco, streamed from the chamber. I clutched the door handle, stunned. His chamber was a paradox. Though it was the exact size of my chambers, it was stark and open, undivided by walls. His bed was a cot with a coarse woollen blanket stretched over it. Armoires stood like wardens between pegs filled with his clothing. Near the fireplace, a sea of ash and cigar stubs surrounded a leather chair. I felt nervous viewing the space and turned to leave. There seemed little point in remaining. A glance took in its oddity.

And yet, as I stepped away, I spied a glint of white beneath the bed.

It is no easy thing to intrude on a man’s bedchamber, much less peruse papers he’d forbidden me to touch, but reasoning I’d come this far, I completed the treachery. With one swift movement, I crossed the room and knelt. My skirt stirred the floor dust as I took up the sheet.

There, drawn in smudged charcoal, was a sketch of me—the type a travelling artist might render. My likeness had been taken
after my father’s death, for I recognized the mourning bonnet. I traced my fingers over the rendering of my face, touched. If this gentle and despondent image was the one Macy believed, no wonder he’d become attached. Even I desired to rescue me.

Keeping the paper in hand, I stood, wondering why he’d had it commissioned, then took in the room. This time I ached with a protective nature. How could anyone look upon this gaping scar of isolation and remain unmoved? My exploration had formed a picture of his daily practices. He spent time in the billiards room, library, and personal study. The rest of his house he neglected, attending to some unknown business. Yet, somehow, I’d become endeared to him. I was the first outreach he had made beyond these walls in years. Only why?

I replaced the page, careful to make it look exactly as it had. Before exiting, I shook my skirts free of dust. I locked the door and checked it twice before trudging downstairs with a new sobriety. I had found the future I sought—someone older and wiser than Edward. Not a father, but someone with the steadfastness that we associate with age. I had not been alone after Mama’s death, after all. Unbeknownst to me, Mr. Macy had been there all these months too.