Friends and Foes (16 page)

“Perhaps
she
is the one you ought to be at war with.”

Philip’s statement hung in the air between them as they reached the first landing, which marked the halfway point in their descent. Her leg already seared with pain from her difficult walk
to
the stairs. Now, one flight later, she struggled to stay on her feet.

Perhaps
she
is the one you ought to be at war with.
With herself?

“Good heavens!” A shrill voice cut through the silence. “What are you doing!”

Sorrel looked to the foot of the stairway to see Marjie’s frantic face turned up toward her. She felt her stomach clench. Marjie hurriedly began ascending the steps. Sorrel sighed in frustration—she’d been so close. Now Marjie would fuss and bother for days.

“Stay there, Miss Marjie,” Philip called out, his tone offering no opportunity to object. Sorrel watched Marjie freeze.

“But . . . the stairs . . .” Marjie sputtered. “She can’t—”

“She can most certainly do this,” Philip insisted.

“You won’t let her fall?” Marjie asked, her face filled with concern.

“If I had wanted to toss her down the stairs, I could have done so long before now,” he answered dryly.

Marjie pinked. “I am not concerned about
your
abilities.”

“In other words,
my
abilities concern her,” Sorrel muttered.

Philip squeezed her hand. “If you can outrun your warden, you can stand down your little sister,” he whispered.

Sorrel took a deep breath and nodded. Not two steps later, both of which were watched by Marjie with wide-eyed terror, Fennel arrived on the scene, stopping abruptly in his tracks at the look on Marjie’s face.

“Stairs,” was all Marjie could mutter. “Without her walking stick.”

Fennel’s gaze fell on Sorrel then shifted to Philip before settling on his oldest sister once more. He watched her slow, painstaking progress with obvious concern. Sorrel felt herself grow less steady. She’d not anticipated an audience.

“It will do them good to see this,” Philip said to her. “Perhaps they will change the way they think of you.”

“You mean they might remember that I am twenty-three and capable of looking after myself?”

“It would be a start, anyway.”

They took another step. Then another. A smile spread slowly across Fennel’s face. Marjie still looked on the verge of apoplexy.

Sorrel’s leg felt like it was on fire. Each movement caused pain to sear through her. “I have the terrible feeling I am going to faint,” Sorrel said quietly.

“Six more steps, Sorrel,” Philip whispered. “You can make it six more steps.”

“I don’t know if I can.” The admission came far more easily than she would have believed. She never confessed to anyone how very limited she felt at times. “I have never gone this far without my cane. Not since my—”

“—‘unfortunate incident?’” he finished for her. “It is time you did. Might I suggest you actually take advantage of the arm I have offered you.” He must have seen the guilty expression on her face. “Surely you knew I would notice you were barely touching it. I assure you I am up to the task.”

Another excruciating step. Five more to go. Marjie reached out for her.

“No,” Philip waved her back. “Let her finish.”

“But—”

“Marjie!” Fennel scolded. “Let her finish.”

Soon only one step remained but not another inch of banister. Sorrel paused. How would she maintain her balance? With the railing for support she’d managed to negotiate this far. She couldn’t bring herself to lean so heavily on Philip. It would be too . . . humiliating. But, after so much effort and such constant pain, she didn’t think her leg would support her at all.

She couldn’t come that far only to falter at the end. And she would
not
reach out to either of her siblings. She needed to prove to them, to herself, that she was as independent as she’d always claimed to be.

Without a word of warning, Philip shifted her hand from his arm to his other hand and slipped the arm nearest her around her waist.

“One more,” he said. She looked up at him, suddenly uncertain of herself. He smiled a little. “I won’t let you fall.”

The last step was excruciating. Tears stung her eyes, though she did not let them spill over. She closed her eyes as she settled her feet on the floor, standing rooted to the spot. Philip’s steadying hand remained on her back, her hand entwined in his.

“You did it, my dear,” he whispered in her ear.

A smile slowly spread across her face. Her breath seemed to bubble and jump inside her. Sorrel glanced over her shoulder up the expanse of the grand stairway. She’d taken each step, one at a time, without her cane and without falling. No one would have believed her capable of it, and yet she’d done it. Sorrel instantly corrected the thought. Philip had believed it from the beginning.

“Poppy, would you go get your sister’s walking stick? It’s in the library.”

Sorrel turned her eyes on this enigma of a dandy, who’d just spent the better part of a half-hour helping a deformed woman inch her way down a staircase. He’d so often seemed completely self-consumed, shallow, even. Lately he’d managed to contradict nearly every opinion she’d formed of him. She’d begun to trust him, had even confided in him. Facing the dangers of a staircase and her own uncertain balance, she’d felt safe with him at her side.

He turned his laughing, blue eyes on her, and Sorrel’s stomach seemed to knot up inside her. “Another successful Jonquil escape,” he said with a lift of his eyebrows.

“The warden didn’t catch us, then?”

“I don’t believe she did.” He looked proud—proud of
her.
Fennel, it seemed, was right. Philip was not at all like Father had been.

“Mother, just see!” Fennel’s voice called out, pulling Sorrel’s attention back to her surroundings. He rushed back to the base of the stairs, where Mother stood with a look of confusion on her face. “Sorrel came down the stairs, Mother!” Fennel announced, grinning from ear to ear. “Without her walking stick! I saw her!”

Mother looked at each of her children quickly, then her eyes darted to Philip. A deep blush patched her cheeks as she looked away again. With her chin high she began climbing the stairs. Over her shoulder she declared, “Even a halfwit can climb stairs.” She waved her hand dismissively and continued her ascent.

Every ounce of triumph drained from Sorrel in an instant. What a simpleton she’d been to feel such pride in so miniscule a thing. As Mother said, even imbeciles could climb stairs, and they managed it unassisted.

“Thank you, Fennel.” Sorrel kept her voice as even as she could manage and took hold of her walking stick. She extracted her hand from Philip’s and firmly grasped her
affectation.
“Thank you for your assistance,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. Mortified beyond bearing, she made her way toward the library, hoping for seclusion and a place to rest.

Rest.
She’d done nothing but walk down two flights of stairs, and she needed to rest. She truly was ridiculous.

“She could have hurt herself,” Sorrel heard Marjie declare, her voice watery with tears. “And for such a tiny thing. It is horrible!”

Do not fret,
Sorrel told her silently.
I will not try again.

Philip barely managed to keep from glaring at Mrs. Kendrick when she entered the west sitting room that afternoon for tea. She straightened her ridiculously ruffled dress as she sat quite at her leisure on a spindle-legged chair as though nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred in the course of her entire existence.

Even a halfwit can climb stairs.

Could she really be so unfeeling, so callous, to her own daughter’s suffering? Sorrel had said her mother didn’t believe in being uncomfortable. If he had his way, Philip would like to see Mrs. Kendrick deucedly uncomfortable. Somehow, he’d like to make her see that her daughter was not an inconvenience she could simply brush aside.

Sorrel was remarkable and intelligent. Resilient. Beautiful.
Strikingly
beautiful. And beneath the often chilly façade beat a warm, caring heart. She no doubt kept it so firmly hidden because unfeeling wretches like her mother thought nothing of bruising it at their will.

“Good afternoon, dearest.” Mater greeted Philip with a customary peck on the cheek. “I haven’t seen you all day, Philip. I hope you haven’t been sulking over something.”

That
look was awfully pointed. Philip set his jaw and looked away.

“You have been sulking. What about, pray?”

“Nothing I would like to discuss at the moment,” Philip said, momentarily glancing at the oblivious Mrs. Kendrick.

Mater’s gaze followed his. She, too, watched the back of Mrs. Kendrick’s neck for a moment before returning her eyes to him. The calculating quality of her stare made Philip decidedly uneasy. “She is not always kind to her eldest daughter,” Mater whispered.

“No, she is not.” Philip spoke equally as soft.

Another moment of rather obvious scrutiny passed before Mater relinquished the subject with an abrupt dive into a different topic. “Your brothers have arrived. I am not sure you heard.”

“Layton and Harold are here?” A grin split Philip’s face.

Mater smiled back. “Washing up upstairs, I believe.”

Philip bowed his farewell and rushed up the stairs and down the wing of Kinnley they had come to refer to as the Jonquil Ward. The first open door he came to was the room reserved for Harold.

Inside, Harold bent studiously over a writing table, dressed in somber colors and entirely unaware of movement in his own room. Harold was as subdued in his choice of clothing as Philip was flamboyant, and they made an almost comical pair every time Philip visited Harold at Cambridge.

At the moment, Harold was scratching onto a sheet of parchment some, no doubt, deep insight he had gleaned from the book of sermons opened on the table beside him. If past experience were any indication, Harold would be impervious to interruption until he finished his work.

Philip smiled and stepped out of the room. He made his way eagerly down the corridor but stopped just outside the door to Layton’s room. He’d missed Layton, and yet he almost dreaded seeing him again. They’d once been the closest of friends, partners in mischief, easy companions, as inseparable as twins, though a year apart in age.

“You might as well come in, Flip,” a deep, somewhat disgruntled voice echoed from within the bedchamber. “I heard your fobs clanking all the way down the corridor.”

Philip reminded himself to remove his watch, fobs and all, before his next spy hunt and passed the threshold into Layton’s room. He easily found his brother in a chair by the empty fireplace, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, fingers rubbing his face wearily. Layton lifted his head enough to look Philip over.

“Still dressing like a peacock?” he asked, his brows creased in disapproval.

Philip made a show of looking himself over then nodded in mock devastation. The slightest of smiles made a brief appearance on Layton’s face. He motioned Philip over with his head. Trying to not let his concern show, Philip sauntered over and dropped into a seat opposite his brother.

Layton was the only one of the Jonquils not built like a fence post. Every other brother was tall and lanky. Layton could have been a prizefighter. He stood a little shorter than Philip, who measured a couple of inches above six feet, but Layton had at least two stone on him—two stone of pure muscle. If they hadn’t grown up the best of friends, Philip might have resented their physical differences.

“So has Harold been reading you Holy Writ since Cambridge?” Philip asked, opting for a joking tone.

Layton allowed a brief chuckle as he shook his head. “He spoke of nothing but the Archbishop of Canterbury’s visit to Cambridge last month. Holy Harry is still in raptures about it.”

“‘Holy Harry.’” Philip grinned. “How long have we been calling him that?”

“Since he was in leading strings.” Layton leaned back in his chair, allowing his head to fall back, his eyes cast upward. “The boy’s been sermonizing since birth.”

Philip shrugged. “Trying to redeem his wayward family, I suppose.”

Layton grunted in response but didn’t offer another word. He folded his hands behind his head and kept his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling above. Layton had taken to long, heavy silences of late—
of late
meaning the past four years. The days of light, easy conversations had disappeared without warning. Try as he might, Philip couldn’t seem to get his brother back from wherever he’d gone during that rather bleak time of his life.

“Mater couldn’t be happier to have all her boys together again,” Philip said, trying for a safe topic. “She’s said it is the only Christmas gift she wants.”

“It’s kind of Crispin to host our reunion.” Layton chuckled. “He’s enough of a Jonquil that he might as well.”

“And I think he wanted to show off his bride,” Philip said. “They’re pathetically happy, you know.”

“I can handle pathetic for a week.” Layton smiled unconvincingly. It would be a long week for him, Philip knew that much about his brother.

“It’s a shame you can’t stay longer.” He wanted Layton to know he was welcome and wanted.

But Layton just shook his head. “I promised Caroline I would return for Twelfth Night.” He rose abruptly from his chair and walked heavily to the tall window at the far end of the room. Philip recognized brooding when he saw it and knew the time had come to take his leave.

“I’ll see you at supper, then,” Philip said as he rose. “We make an entertaining group here at Kinnley.”

“Wonderful,” came the dry reply.

Philip watched his brother for a moment. He hated seeing him that way. Philip had been an expert in their younger days at sneaking his brother out of punishments and getting him to laugh when he’d obviously much rather sulk. Those childhood tricks didn’t work anymore.

*   *   *

“Where did you find a flower on Christmas Day?” Sorrel asked, eyes wide in obvious surprise.

The fever Fennel had predicted reached its peak the morning after her trek down the Kinnley staircase. Layton had found Philip pacing the library later that same day and came as close to smiling as Layton had in four years.

Word had spread that Sorrel was feeling better less than forty-eight hours after the fever had come on. Philip had felt like he was breathing again for the first time in two days. He’d slumped into a chair in the west sitting room and let out a long, strangled breath. Layton had occupied the seat opposite him.

“Flowers,” he’d said out of nowhere.

Philip’s confusion must have shown.

“Take her flowers,” Layton had said with a shrug, not looking up from his copy of
The Times
. “And before you ask ‘whom’: Miss Kendrick. It would be a convenient excuse to go see her. The flowers just might keep her mind off your ridiculous cravat.”

Philip had smiled. “She likes my ridiculous cravat.”

“I met your sparring partner my first night here, Flip.” Layton had eyed Philip pointedly over the top of his paper. “She didn’t strike me as one who would hesitate to tell you when you look preposterous.”

“I think
preposterous
is a bit strong,” Philip had protested. Sorrel didn’t think he was a complete idiot. Did she? The possibility struck Philip with more force than he would have liked.

“Luckily, I think she favors you anyway.” Layton had returned to his reading as if he’d made the most commonplace observation. “Just make sure she can see past the strutting peacock,” he’d added under his breath.

He’d debated Layton’s words for at least ten minutes before jumping to his feet and accosting the Kinnley conservatory. In the end he’d settled on a single rose of palest pink. He’d brought it to the library where Sorrel was sitting near a roaring fire, a woolen blanket draped across her lap.

Sorrel seemed more surprised by his offering than flattered. Was that a good sign?

“I raided the conservatory,” Philip said, in effect preempting Sorrel’s question about where he would find a flower. “But I am afraid I did so underhandedly. If Catherine comes asking, I plan to deny all involvement.”

“You would place the blame on my shoulders?”

He quite suddenly realized that he loved her smile.

“If she banishes you to the nursery, I vow to rescue you.” Philip held his hand up as if swearing to the truthfulness of his declaration.

“Bedsheets out the window, right? That would be quite a sight.” Her amused laughter filled the library.

Philip could only sit there and stare. She looked a little pale yet, but a lightness had entered her countenance that he hadn’t seen before.

“Thank you for the flower,” she added almost shyly.

“Even if you are blamed for stealing it?”

“Oh, I plan to tell Catherine it was all your doing.” Sorrel waved her hand in a perfect imitation of her mother. “She will easily believe you are the guilty party.”

“And do you promise to rescue me if I am incarcerated in the nursery wing?” Philip asked.

“I think a brief imprisonment would do you good.” Sorrel raised her brow quite saucily.

Philip felt his chest constrict at her look. He could get used to being eyed that way. He inched closer to her on the sofa. She didn’t object. He took her hand in his. “And suppose they torture me?”

“They?”

“The torturers Crispin keeps—”

“—in the nursery wing?” she asked doubtfully.

“Where else would he keep them?” Philip managed to sound completely serious.

“How do you propose I go about rescuing you, Philip? Shall I burst in waving my walking stick and raging with righteous indignation?”

Philip laughed heartily. “I would gladly undergo torture to see that. You would frighten the poor executioners out of their wits.”

“So my
affectation
does have its uses, then.” Sorrel smiled so brightly, so becomingly, Philip could not have looked away if he’d wanted to.

“I am glad you are feeling better, Sorrel,” he managed to say, though his voice sounded strangled.

“Thank you, again, for the rose.” Sorrel touched the petals to her nose.

Philip had to look away after that. The temptation to reach out and touch her was far too great. What had happened to their mutual disdain? Had he forgotten so quickly about her beau in Ipswich? Maybe, he thought hopefully,
she’d
forgotten about the man. He realized rather abruptly that he truly hoped she had. He’d come to care a great deal about what happened to Sorrel Kendrick.

“Oh, I have something for you,” Philip suddenly remembered aloud. “A Christmas present.”

He pulled a package wrapped in brown paper from his pocket and handed it to her, to her obvious surprise. “You really didn’t have to—”

“Open it before you offer any gratitude. You will more than likely withdraw any compliments after you see what I’ve chosen.”

She gave him a wary look. He just smiled in reply. He’d stumbled upon the mystery item while in Ipswich and couldn’t resist purchasing it for her. When she pulled her hand out of his to unwrap his offering, Philip came to the stark realization that he’d come to feel quite content sitting with her hand in his. That was decidedly unexpected.

Sorrel pulled back the wrapping paper, and Philip felt his grin grow. He barely kept back an overloud guffaw as she pulled out a very ostentatious quizzing glass.

“I couldn’t bear the jealousy anymore,” Philip explained with a feigned air of pity. “So I found you one of your own. I know how much you admire mine.”

She shoved his shoulder and laughed full and deep until tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

“Now, shall we make our way to the sitting room?” Philip suggested. “I believe Mater is reinstating the long-forgotten annual Jonquil Christmas singing festival.”

“Singing?” Sorrel eyed him amusedly.

“A painful experience for all involved, I assure you.” Philip rose and turned back to her, holding his hand out to help her to her feet. “Luckily I am so devastatingly dapper that inappropriate key changes will most likely go unnoticed.”

He’d expected another tingling laugh or heart-pounding smile but received a questioning glance instead.

“Why do you do that?” Sorrel asked, suddenly the soul of solemnity.

“Do what?”

“Say things like that. Act like . . . like a complete imbecile.”

Philip shrugged. “Perhaps I am a complete imbecile.”

“You’re not,” she said in a tone that brooked no arguments.

You look far more handsome when you aren’t hiding behind all that pomp.
Did Sorrel even remember telling him that? Did she have any idea that he hadn’t been able to forget it?

She continued to watch him far too closely. Obviously she expected an answer. He could hardly tell her he donned the disguise as part of his efforts at underground intelligence collecting.

“Habit, I suppose,” he offered vaguely.

“Why? What convinced you to originally?”

“It was a long time ago, Sorrel.” Philip rocked back and forth on his feet, not very comfortable with the direction of the conversation. If he were Hanover Garner, his nose would be running profusely.

He was about to abruptly suggest they be on their way when Sorrel lifted her new quizzing glass to her eye and gave him a stare-down Brummel would have cowered to receive. All his defenses melted, and Philip dropped back onto the sofa.