Chapter 31 #2
He nodded. “It reminds him too much of the wild little half-breed he took in. Especially when I play Romany music.”
I felt my heart quicken. “The second piece?”
“Yes. Did you like it?”
“I did.” I swallowed thickly. “I had never heard it before, but I should have known it for what it was. I heard enough Gypsy music as a child.”
He waved a lazy hand. “So, you see? I must not have intended to keep my secret from you for very long.”
His gaze narrowed and focused now, tightly upon my face, my eyes, and I began to feel flustered. I have seen the terrible excitement of chickens when a fox comes creeping too near the hen yard. I felt my feathers beginning to ruffle.
I cleared my throat primly. “You may be certain that I shall keep it.”
“It does not matter. One of these days my great-uncle will get too old or too tipsy and that particular cat will come streaking out of the bag. And I will be finished in society.”
“You do not know that.” I felt suddenly argumentative. I did not like him like this, quiet and acquiescent. Combative and difficult was his normal manner. I had grown accustomed to it. “Many Jewish men are accepted in society. Why not a Roma?”
“The Jewish men in society all have a great deal of money that they are happy to lend to their impoverished peers.”
“That is horribly cynical, Brisbane. But probably true,” I admitted. “Still, you are only half a Gypsy. Half Scot as well.”
He laughed. “Slim redemption, that. With the exception of the duke, all of my father’s family still refer to me as ‘Jack’s filthy Gypsy bastard.’ I doubt they would sponsor me should I lose my entrée into the best houses.”
“Don’t be self-pitying. It isn’t becoming,” I said sharply.
He shrugged again. “It is true. That they say it, I mean,” he said with a grin. “Not that I am. My parents were married very properly some seven months before I was born.”
“Your father was quite something else,” I observed mildly.
“Quite,” he agreed.
He seemed so reconciled to the thought that he might lose his standing, his reputation, that I had to ask, “Why do you pursue society clients, then, if you do not seem to mind about losing them?”
“Money, of course. The wealthy are able to pay far more for my services than the middle class. Why not take fewer, more lucrative investigations and leave myself more time for my own pursuits?”
I did not wish to probe too deeply into this. I had a vague notion that some of these pursuits might be unsavory.
“What will you do if the clients do not come?”
“What I did before. This and that. Do not mind about me, my lady. Like all cats, I land on my feet.”
I started. I had so often thought of him as feline, that I wondered for one mad moment if he had read my thoughts.
“Ah, good. Well, I suppose we had best discuss the investigation and how we shall proceed.”
“We shall not proceed, my lady,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I must do the rest alone.” He raised a hand to stem my angry protest. “Listen, before you screech at me. You went to that camp last night because you feared for my safety. I shall not forget that. But in return, you must allow me to have a care for yours. The next step must be tracing this box to the person in the brothel who knew Sir Edward. You might have gotten away with your little masquerade in a dark Gypsy camp on a moonless night. But there is no possible way, I repeat, no possible way that you could do the same in a West End brothel. There are men there whose sole occupation is to beat and torture those who make trouble for the proprietors. Do not think they would scruple to hurt you if they discovered the truth about your identity.”
“But you cannot—”
He sat forward sharply in his chair.
“This issue is not open to discussion,” he said sternly. “You have assisted me as far as possible, but it must end now. I will report to you what I discover, but I will do this alone, are we quite in agreement?”
It really was not a question at all. He did not expect an argument and I did not give him one.
I nodded, dry-mouthed. He had let me off quite lightly from my faux pas of the previous evening.
I should keep very quiet and be grateful, I supposed.
Besides, there was Simon. I had a duty there, and Brisbane’s insistence upon working alone would permit me to honour it.
I rose. “Then there is nothing more to discuss.” I extended my hand and he touched it briefly before dropping it.
He followed me to the door. I thought he had reached to open it, but he flattened his palm against the wood, keeping it closed.
I did not turn, but I was conscious of him, just behind me, his breath stirring the hair at the base of my neck.
I remembered what he had done the last time he was so close to me and I felt rather giddy, sick even.
“I was angry with you last night,” he said softly, “but it was nothing, nothing, compared to what I will be if you interfere now.”
I reached out and turned the knob sharply, forcing him to step back.
“Good day, Mr. Brisbane,” I said, flinging my shawl over my shoulder.
He did not reply, but I felt his eyes boring mercilessly into my back all the way down the stairs.
Upon returning to Grey House I went directly to Simon. He was moving a little in his sleep, tossing under his embroidered coverlet. Desmond was sitting with him, sponging his brow from a basin of warm water laced with lavender.
I smiled as I entered and he rose, spilling a little of the water on the carpet. He started, blushing. With his Titian colouring, it was entirely charming. I thought of Portia’s insistence that I take a lover and blushed a little myself.
“Do not mind that,” I said softly as he bent to blot the water spots. “It will dry soon enough and the scent is pleasant.” I beckoned him away from the bed. “How is he?”
“H-he was sleeping peacefully until perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, my lady. I asked Mr. Aquinas and he thought a bit of lavender water might ease h-his sleep.”
His eyes were round with apprehension. He had seldom had cause to speak to me directly, but when he had, his speech had always been laced with a boyish stammer and the slightest lilt of a country drawl. I could not imagine how he had come to Mayfair.
“You have done quite well, I am sure. Did Doctor Griggs leave instructions about the next dose?”
“Oh, yes, my lady.” He crept to the night table where he collected a piece of paper. There were a few directions given, but only general in nature.
“Blast, nothing about what to expect,” I murmured.
The round blue eyes, anxious and wide, fixed on my face. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Nothing. I suppose Aquinas has told you that Sir Simon’s health is failing completely now?
” He bowed his head, dropping his eyes to the carpet.
“I doubt that your stay in the sickroom will be of any long duration,” I said softly.
“I simply want him comfortable. I will be here often myself. I see that you have left off your livery. I will tell Aquinas to have a bed made up here for you so that if he wakes, he will not be alone.”
Desmond inclined his head further, assenting.
“You did well referring your question to Aquinas. You must not hesitate to tell him, or myself, if there is anything you think Sir Simon requires. You’d best go and have your supper now. I will sit with him.”
He withdrew and I took his chair by the bed. I slipped my hand into Simon’s. It was warm and damp with sleep, like a child’s. After a while he opened his eyes and turned to me, blinking slowly.
“You were moaning. Are you in pain, dearest? I could give you some more laudanum.”
He waved a hand. “No. I’ve had the most appalling dreams.” He licked his lips and I poured out a glass of water. I held his head while he sipped. When he was done I laid him back against the pillows, settling him gently as an infant.
“Not long for it now, am I, Julia? No, don’t look like that. I won’t be brave and make speeches. I will be so glad to go.”
I picked up Desmond’s basin and began to sponge his brow, wiping it slowly.
“You are not afraid?”
His expression was dreamy. “How can I be? You should have learned by now, darling, it is life that holds all the terrors, not death.” Something clouded his eyes then, and his hand tightened on the coverlet. “I used to be afraid of it. So afraid. I cannot think how it changed.”
I wrung out the sponge and put it into a saucer.
“Perhaps because you have seen others pass.”
“Edward,” he said softly. I nodded. I resumed my seat and picked up his hand again.
“Perhaps it makes us brave when we have watched others.”
He nodded slowly. “Perhaps. I was so terrified, I used to think I would do anything to save myself. But there is no way. I have come to know that, Julia.” He was growing animated now, almost feverish, and I could hear the rattle beginning to sound in his chest. A few weeks, Doctor Griggs had said.
I was beginning to think days, instead. “Do you remember the stories, the myths we used to read together as children?”
“Yes, of course. I always fancied myself as Artemis.”
He gave me a feeble smile. “Is that why you always ran around with Benedick’s castoff bow?”
“Of course. Lady of the Wild Things. I used to pretend my grandmother’s moth-eaten old spaniel was my faithful hunting hound, don’t you remember?”
This time he laughed, but I was sorry I made him.
A painful interlude followed, with much gasping and coughing.
I gave him more water and persuaded him to let me order some broth from the kitchen.
We talked of nothing in particular while we waited, and then I held the bowl as he spooned it into his mouth, spilling a little on the coverlet.
After a very few sips he waved me away and patted his mouth with the napkin.
“The Fates,” he said suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?” I resumed my seat.
His fingers were plucking at the damp patch on the coverlet, but his expression had grown dreamy again, perhaps an aftereffect of the laudanum.
“I was thinking of the Fates. When we used to read myths, they always frightened me. Those three old crones, spinning and measuring and cutting the thread of life. What were they called? Clotho spun, I remember that, and Lachesis measured, but the last…”
“Atropos,” I supplied. He nodded.
“That is the one. Atropos. The cruelest Fate of all. There is no bribing her, you know. No putting her off when she decides you are done. Snip!”
His voice was growing loud and I half rose, but he shook his head at me, angrily I thought.
“What does it matter now? Let me shout a little, Julia. What harm will I do?”
I sighed. “None, I suppose. I feel perfectly helpless, you know. I keep thinking there is something I could do, should do, but there is nothing. Is there?”
But Simon could not give me absolution. He had retreated deep into himself and was brooding. Probably on the cruel Fates and their obsession with the men of his family. I rose and kissed him on the brow, smelling lavender and sweat.
“I will return later. I will send Desmond up to you now.”
He heard me, his eyelids flickered, but he said nothing. He was angry, and with good reason. His thirtieth birthday was two weeks away. He would not live to see it. I would have been angry, too.