The Solemn Bell (14 page)

Mother eyed him. He did look better—no longer sallow and sunken. His hair had thickened, and his skin glowed. He ate, slept, and showered regularly. No one could deny that he’d made a remarkable turnaround these last few months. Couldn’t she be happy for him?
 

Couldn’t she, of all people, understand why?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

She fidgeted as the maid fussed with her skirts. Brody had barged his way into her room, not caring that the maid would be shocked, and the entire household scandalized. He sat on her bed in his own evening clothes, chatting happily to distract Angelica from the process of being washed, dressed, and styled.

The maid, of course, was happy to do it. She would earn a little extra for her troubles, and perhaps even the opportunity to advance her situation. Angelica would need a lady’s maid. She’d never be able to manage the elaborate frocks, jewels, and hairstyles necessary to fit in with his world. Having someone see her turned out properly would benefit everyone involved.

Tonight, she’d selected a dinner gown of shiny black satin. He was fast learning that black was her color of choice. It suited her, with her inky hair and pale skin, making her sea glass eyes shine even more blue. He’d never seen her in evening dress. Brody wanted to drop to his knees and worship her.
 

Instead, he dismissed the maid.

Angelica pulled at the sash of her dress, which hung low on her hips. “Did you send her to watch me in my bath? I don’t fall every time, you know. Just because I can’t see someone in the room with me, doesn’t mean I don’t value my privacy.”

“She was merely doing her job.”

“I don’t need a handler.”

Brody sat back on his elbows, which was damned hard to do, starched, pressed, and stuffed into a dinner jacket. “Most ladies keep personal servants. Didn’t your mother have a lady’s maid?”

“Well, yes. But my mother was a married lady…”

“All the same, I’d like the girl to look after you—at least while you’re here. It will make things so much easier.”

Angelica hung her head. “What if she doesn’t want to work for a woman living in sin? Just because we don’t care about it, doesn’t mean she won’t. Other people have morals, Brody.”

“Either she’ll do it, or we’ll find someone who will. I don’t really care, so long as they treat you respectfully. Now, can we please go down to dinner? I’m starved.”
 

He stood, straightened his waistcoat, and offered her his arm. Angelica dutifully allowed him to lead her out of her room, down the stairs, and into the drawing room where the others waited. He liked having her on his arm. He liked the way Mary Rose’s face blanched at the sight of poor, blind Miss Grey looking impossibly chic, and how Marcus stumbled over himself to greet them.
 

It wasn’t sporting to laugh at his one-legged brother’s clumsiness, but he couldn’t help it. Usually, Marcus was the one who held it all together while
he
staggered and slurred. Brody was thankful to finally have something to be proud of—for other people to be envious of—even if it was only for as long as Angelica would let him.

She’d grow tired of him, eventually. She’d find a man who could love her better. A man who could make love to her better, and then the dream would be over. For tonight, at least, she was his, and he was delighted to have her by his side.

Mary Rose studied them from her place on the sofa. She sipped her cocktail and frowned. “Is that frock from Grocott’s?”

Angelica smiled. “Yes, it is…” Suddenly, she turned to Brody, anxiety flashed across her features. “Isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” When Angelica breathed a sigh of relief, he addressed his sister, “We stopped in on our way through Shrewsbury.”

Mary Rose still frowned. “I recognize the frock from the window display. I think I might have even tried it on, but it didn’t suit.”

Brody didn’t care for the condescending way she’d said that, as if Angelica wouldn’t care if a dress looked good or not, because she couldn’t see it on herself. He thought the dress suited her perfectly—it hugged her curves in all the right ways, the low sash accentuating her plump little bottom. Angelica looked like she’d been born for such a dress. He couldn’t wait to see what else she had bought at Grocott’s.

Instead of being offended, Angelica kept her smile bright. “I don’t know how things look, but I know how they feel. And this one feels like it suits me. But, of course, each woman is different. I can’t imagine what looks good on one will necessarily look good on another.”

Mary Rose took a long pull from her glass. “I’m glad someone finally bought it. The thing sat in the window for weeks. Before long, it will be out of fashion.”

“Well, I’m happy to put it to good use,” she said, still smiling, “for however long it’s got left.”

Brody smiled down at her, even though she could not see it. She was a brave girl for sparring with his spoiled sister. If Angelica continued to stand up for herself, the others would see her as a capable, compatible partner for him, rather than a helpless, blind mouse he carried home to save.

With Mary Rose safely silenced, Marcus called over from the drinks cabinet, “Can I give you anything?”

“Nothing for me.” Brody had not touched drink since the night of his accident. Addiction was a slippery slope, and he’d rather be stone sober than tempted. Besides, if he was going to lead Angelica around, he needed to be sharp.

He dipped his head to her ear. “Would you like a glass of something?”

“I’ve never had drink before,” she said. “Not even a sip of champagne.”

Mary Rose perked up. “Oh, golly, then you’re in for a treat!”

Brody laughed, nervously. The last thing he needed was for his siblings to get Angelica squiffy. “Better ease her into it, Markie,” he warned.

Marcus mixed something up, and then brought it over. He awkwardly placed the glass in Angelica’s hand. “Uh, just a bit of gin and lemonade. Let me know if it’s too strong.”

She held it for a long time before bringing the concoction to her lips. He hoped she didn’t feel the need to drink simply because it had been offered.
 

After a brave moment, she took a small sip, and immediately puckered her face. “Oooh!” They all laughed—mostly because her reaction had been so damned adorable. Angelica took another sip, and then passed the glass back to Marcus. “I don’t think drink is for me.”

Marcus grinned and downed the cocktail in one gulp. Those two were getting along swimmingly. He could tell his brother liked her, and Angelica was a good sport for being his ‘guinea-pig’.

“You sure you don’t want anything, Brody?”

He shook his head. Usually, he’d have a glass of something to tide him over between injections, but he was determined not to venture down that path. He had responsibilities now—he had Angelica, and perhaps a baby on the way. “I’m trying to…oh, you know…cut back on all that.”

Marcus understood. Mary Rose, however, eyed him suspiciously. “You used to be the fun one…”

“We all have to grow up sometime, M.R.”

She shrugged and laughed. “Not me! I’m going to drink, smoke, and dance forever.”

At that, the drawing room doors swung open, and his parents—so rarely seen together—stepped into the room. Mother was awash in blue silk and sequins. Father wore evening clothes and a pained expression on his face. When he saw Angelica, he didn’t so much as flinch.
 

Mother had prepared him.

“My parents,” Brody whispered. He turned her to face them. “Angelica, may I present my father? Father, this is Miss Grey.”

His father looked her up and down. Angelica stood there, shoulders back and head held tall

Finally, the old man cleared his throat and said, “Welcome, Miss Grey.”

She smiled, sweetly. Brody wondered how long she’d practiced making her facial expressions appear natural. He imagined her lifting her lips as her governess critiqued her. Angelica’s parents’ determination to see their daughter behave normally had paid off in the end. She could work a room almost as well as any sighted girl.

“Now that’s over with,” Father said, dismissing her completely, “Shall we go through?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Brody breathed a silent prayer of thanks that someone—Mother, their butler, or the Good Lord himself—had placed Angelica next to him at the table. He didn’t trust Mary Rose to do it, and knew his parents would be horrified to help his guest navigate the table setting. Seated together, he could discreetly guide her if she needed it.

She didn’t need it.

Angelica carefully touched the plate, the silver, and the flared bases of both the water and wine glass. She did not fumble or upset anything. She buttered her bread, and wrangled her peas with little fuss. Brody couldn’t help but glow with pride. Only once or twice did she lean over and ask him to identify a particularly confusing dish.

If they weren’t all watching her like hawks, he doubted anyone would have even noticed. But, Mother noticed. She glared at Angelica from her place up-table, eyes wide with shock, disgust, or general displeasure—he could never be sure.
 

Had he really believed his parents would approve of her, or was his judgment as poor as they’d always said? What was supposed to be an enjoyable family dinner together had turned disheartening. He wanted so badly for her to be accepted, and to feel like she belonged here with him. Brody was beginning to feel like he’d made a terrible mistake, until the plates were cleared away, and dessert served.
 

Angelica took one bite and edged toward him, excitedly. “Chocolate, Brody!”

He grinned over at her. “Do you like chocolate?”

“Oh my goodness, I haven’t had any in years!”
 

She ate each bite of
génoise au chocolat
with delicious abandon. If chocolate made her smile like that, he’d hand-feed it to her every night. The others thought it odd that she’d be so exhilarated by a simple piece of cake, but they didn’t know how impoverished Angelica had been. They couldn’t fathom foraging for roots and dandelions, or eating apples that had been carefully rationed to last the winter. They were not survivors like his shadow-angel.

After dinner, the family returned to the drawing room for brandies and coffee. When Brody again turned down the decanter, his father grunted. He’d disappointed the old man, as usual. Marcus, on the other hand, stretched out his wooden leg and crossed his ankles, enjoying a drink and a cigar at Father’s side. Brody had not lied when he told Angelica he was the black sheep. He was never going to win his way back into his sire’s good graces—not with two good legs and no war medals.

“Am I doing all right?” Angelica whispered.

He’d been quiet for a long time, and she must have misunderstood his displeasure. “You’re perfect.”

“You say it like you believe it…”

“Oh, you have no idea. I believe it so much, I’m practically a disciple.”

She grinned over her coffee cup—that smile had definitely not been rehearsed. “Blasphemer. You shouldn’t talk like that, especially not after the last time we tried to take on the Devil. We barely made it through the night with our souls intact.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Angelica gasped. “What do you mean?”

“I swear I lost my soul in your kitchen, on your pallet by the stove. And, if not my soul, then at least my heart.”

She nearly dropped her coffee cup. He caught it before disaster struck, but they’d drawn attention to themselves. Mother frowned as she inspected her carpet for stains. Father shook his head and turned back to focus on Marcus. Mary Rose chewed her lip, which had gone numb from one too many cocktails.

He hadn’t meant to blurt the words out, but he couldn’t help himself. He
had
lost his heart on her kitchen floor. He had also lost his damned mind. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

He’d forgot this was all an act. They weren’t lovers—well, not like that. They were only trying to make it through this one miserable week, and then they could get on with their lives.
 

She slid her trembling coffee cup and saucer onto a side table. “I’m feeling very tired.”

“I’ll walk you upstairs.”

“No, Brody, I—I’d rather someone else did that. You stay here with your family.”

He frowned. “Alright, if you’d rather. I’ll ring for your maid.”

“Please do.” Angelica rubbed her eyes. She was either very tired, very frustrated, or both. And it was all his fault. When the maid came to escort her to her room, she bid everyone good-night.
 

Brody watched the two women weave their way through the room, moving carefully between the tables, armchairs, and the plant stands. He felt sorry for Angelica then. He’d always done the leading, and had never seen her be led—until that moment. She reminded him of the lines of gas-blinded soldiers walking hand-to-shoulder through the hospital corridors.

When they were gone, his father turned to him. “Poor girl. How did she lose her sight?”

“Fever, I think. When she was young.”

“What the devil happened to her family? Couldn’t they at least put her in one of those places that care for people like her?”

He wanted to tell the old man that she was not some creature to be pitied or packed away. She was stronger than anybody. The last place Angelica Grey belonged was in some Home for the Blind.

“Places for ‘people like her’—as you put it, Father—are little more than dungeons. She’d be mistreated. Beaten, starved, and quite possibly raped.”

His father nearly dropped his cigar in his lap. “Broderick! Your mother and sister are present! I’d thank you not to use such language in front of ladies!”

“Not saying it doesn’t make it not true,” he explained. “Ask Angelica. She’ll tell you.”

Father stubbed out his cigar. “I’d rather not.”

Mother eyed him curiously from her seat on the sofa. “What exactly is she doing here, Broderick?”

“I told you, she is a dear friend, and I owe her my life.”

“Yes, yes. So you’ve said,” his mother stroked Clarence’s fur with ruthless calm. “But what you’ve failed to explain—yet again—is
why
you thought to bring her here.”