Chapter 25 #2
“Lady Julia, you must believe I did what I did because it had to be done. And I have paid for it every moment since. I cannot close my eyes that I do not see his, staring up at me as I pressed the life out of him. I am not accustomed to such dark deeds. I am a clergyman’s son from Kent,” he said with a small, mirthless laugh. “What do I know of such things?”
Tears gathered in his eyes again. “My father was right, you know. He always told me that of the seven deadly sins, envy was the deadliest. I was envious of Lucian Snow. It was not just that he was a monster. It was that he had everything I had not. And he did not deserve it.”
“That was not for you to decide, Henry.”
“I wanted to believe I was an instrument of justice. At least that is what I told myself when I thought of taking his life. But when the moment came, there in the chapel, when my hand tightened at his throat, all I felt was that cursed envy. I knew I was taking away from him everything he had that I did not, and I delighted in it. Tell me, Lady Julia,” he said, his voice cracking on a sob, “who is the monster?”
He fell into me then, and I shied from him.
But he meant me no harm. He was sobbing, the great, racking sobs of a child whose heart has been irreparably broken, and all he looked for in me was comfort.
Without thinking, I put a hand on his back and petted him.
He slid from the chair to his knees and stayed there, weeping into my lap for some time.
Finally he recovered himself and drew back, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“I am sorry. More than that, I am penitent. I know justice must be served, Lady Julia. I am content you should go and tell his lordship. I give you my word I will not try to escape,” he said, straightening his shoulders and looking me squarely in the eye.
I rose and edged my way to the door. I did not truly believe he would harm me, but I had been wrong about such things before. It seemed to me a little caution, even at this late juncture, would be prudent.
“Will you grant me one thing before you go?” he asked. He had command of himself now, but only lightly. His shoulders were trembling and his tone was plaintive.
“If I can,” I told him, my fingers wrapped about the doorknob.
He raised his chin, summoning his dignity. “Will you promise not to think too badly of me? I would not like to think that I was entirely friendless in this world, although God knows I do not deserve your regard.”
I paused a moment, my instincts warring. Then I released the doorknob, and with cool deliberation walked to where he stood. I put out my hand.
“You are not friendless, Henry. It is not in my power to forgive you, but neither is it in my power to condemn you.”
Solemnly as a judge, he shook my hand and the ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
“Thank you for that. Your kindness means more to me than you can possibly comprehend.”
I nodded and hurried out, stopping only when there was a stout door between us.
I took a few deep breaths, not surprised to find my legs could barely hold me up.
I was shaking, and cursing myself for a fool.
But there was no time for recrimination.
I hastened to Father’s room and banged upon the door.
He must have returned to his room whilst I had been hearing Henry Ludlow’s confession, for he had already retired to bed; he was half-buried in a pile of mastiff pups, dear Crab snuffling in her sleep on the floor.
“What the devil is it now?” he growled, sitting up and straightening his nightcap.
“Father, you must come. Ludlow has just confessed to the murder of Lucian Snow.”
It took several minutes before I could make him understand what I had just learned, his expression growing more ominous by the minute.
“You mean to say you went to this man’s room alone to accuse him of murder?”
“Not precisely, no,” I temporised. “But he has confessed it, and you must come.”
It took three more tries to coax him out of bed, and by that time he was scolding me bitterly.
“For an intelligent woman, Julia, you are by far the most headstrong, reckless, thoughtless, feckless of my children. And that is quite saying something,” he grumbled, tumbling the puppies as he threw aside his bedclothes.
I retreated hastily to the corridor and paced, waiting for him to appear. He had dressed himself quickly, not bothering with collar and cuffs.
“You might want to remove, er—” I pointed to his nightcap. “It lacks a certain gravitas.”
He gave me a filthy look, then yanked off the offending garment and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Get Brisbane,” he ordered. “I will take Aquinas to Ludlow’s room and we shall take him into custody.
God only knows where we will put him. I suppose we must lock him in the wine cellar,” he trailed off, more to himself than to me.
“Father, let me find Aquinas. Brisbane’s room is quite near Ludlow’s. You could fetch him on the way,” I suggested.
Father regarded me coldly. “I have no wish to speak to him at present. Words were exchanged this evening. No, you go and tell him what you were about, and I will deal with the matter of Henry Ludlow.”
I whirled and left the room, thoroughly put out with his peremptory attitude.
I stalked to the Galilee Tower and rapped sharply, my temper rising.
Brisbane answered the door on the first knock, still dressed in trousers and shirt, his dressing gown thrown over his shoulders.
“What has happened?” he demanded without preliminaries.
“Henry Ludlow has confessed to murdering Mr. Snow. Father has gone to fetch Aquinas to lock Ludlow in the wine cellar,” I said. His eyes narrowed in suspicion and I retreated a step.
“And how exactly do you come to know all of this?” he asked, his jaw tight.
I could sense his anger simmering and I thought of Father, ordering me about as if I were still a child. I thought of Brisbane, beckoning me toward him with one hand and shoving me back with the other. And I decided I had had enough of overbearing men.
I stepped forward, drawing myself to my full height and lifting my chin.
“I know because I went to his room to continue this investigation, the investigation I was charged by my father to undertake. And because of my actions, a murderer has confessed and justice will be satisfied.” I put my hands on my hips, not caring if I sounded like a Billingsgate fishwife.
“Yes, it was a dangerous thing to do, but as it seems to have escaped your attention, I will remind you I am above thirty years of age, of sound body and mind, and in control of my own fortune. That means,” I said, moving closer still, poking his chest for emphasis, “I am mistress of myself and I answer to no one. Not you, not even Father. I am fed up to the back teeth with being wrapped in cotton wool and treated like an invalid.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I shouted him down.
The floodgates were opened now, and nothing would stem the flow of my indignation.
“I spent more than five years in a marriage that smothered me. I was buried alive in that house, dying slowly, and I did not even know it. And just when I thought I might learn to really live, I nearly lost my life.” His expression changed; something flickered in the depths of his eyes.
“I know you blame yourself for that, and so long as you do, there will never be anything between us except regret. Well, I do not mean to live my life haunted by the ghosts of what might have been. I intend to live every day just as I please, and right now it pleases me to do this.”
Before he could utter a word I reached up, took his head between my hands and pulled him to me.
He had kissed me twice before, both times at his behest, and I had been merely a willing participant.
But this embrace was mine, and from the moment I touched him I made certain he knew it.
I pushed him back against his door, using him as I liked.
I was insistent, demanding, taking more than I gave.
But when he made to circle me with his good arm, I broke away, holding him at bay.
I straightened my dressing gown and looked at him coolly, lofty as a duchess. “There. Now you have been used at my whim.”
He put out a hand to me, but I stepped sharply out of his reach. “No. I want you to think on what I have said. And if we meet again, it must be on equal ground, or I will have none of it.”
I gestured toward the carpet at his feet. “You will want to leave that shirt for the maid to mend. I am sure the sleeve can be put back on.”
He said nothing, did not even incline his head.
He merely stood, staring after me as I left, his expression inscrutable.
I could not imagine what he was thinking, and for the first time, I did not care.
I was determined, well and truly, to be my own woman, to stand on my own two feet and to employ whatever talents and abilities I possessed in some useful occupation.
And I would be treated as an equal, or not at all, I told myself fiercely as I made my way back to my bedchamber.
I threw myself onto the bed, astonished at my own ferocious will and my resolve to be mistress of myself.
But even this new determination was not enough to stop the slow slide of tears onto my pillow.
* * *
I woke early the next morning, having slept a scant few hours, and badly, as well.
A dull headache lurked behind my eyes and I snapped at Morag more than once as she performed my toilette.
She got her own back by yanking at my hair with the brushes and muttering under her breath about what a trial her life was.
“Not a word of appreciation,” she grumbled, jerking the brush through a snarl of hair. She twisted and pinned ruthlessly, jabbing pins into my head. “And does not even look behind herself to see what a mess she’s made, leaving her dressing table a right disaster and her pockets full of rubbish.”