Chapter 6
Six
THAT NIGHT, Claire couldn’t sleep. A sudden storm broke over the castle, rattling its windows and howling through its battlements. Yet she wasn’t kept awake by fearful noises, or even anxious prayers for the weather to clear by morning.
No, though a tempest raged all around her, what disturbed her rest was the far more piddling matter of a stomach ache.
Even worse, the stomach ache was her own fault. Having been too diverted to eat much at dinner, then too flustered to eat anything at teatime, she had thought to fortify herself with a cup of coffee, though she usually took only tea or chocolate. Now she felt shaky, empty, and sick.
Of course, one could lay part of the blame at Lord Milstead’s feet, for it was he who’d rendered her too flustered for teacakes.
Just before tea was announced, he’d mentioned in passing the fact of his father having proposed to his mother at a Christmas party, with just such a meaningful look as Claire could hardly fail to understand.
Then he’d spent the rest of the evening attempting to ease her toward the mistletoe dangling from the drawing room chandelier.
And even though his pending proposal was no great surprise—even though he’d been invited here for just this purpose, and even though she’d already made up her mind to accept him—she couldn’t help feeling just a touch of panic.
Which was perfectly natural.
Right?
A proposal was a momentous event. Momentous enough to make any woman feel nervous. It would be strange had she not felt so!
Although, come to think of it, she could not recall any nerves when Jonathan proposed. She remembered feeling excited and wildly in love. And so happy that her heart might actually burst out of her chest, or inflate like a hot air balloon and carry her to the clouds.
But not nervous.
Which was neither here nor there. In fact, likely this was further evidence that Jonathan was the wrong man for her. She must have known, deep down, that the marriage would never take place. Hence, there had been no reason for nerves.
Though such lines of reasoning relieved her feelings, they did nothing for her sour stomach. After an indeterminate time spent curled up in a tragic ball, she threw back the covers and braved the wrath of Kippers.
“Forgive me,” she said, smoothing his offended fur. “I simply must have something to eat. I daresay you can relate.”
He mewed in agreement.
Claire commenced a thorough search of her rooms. “Why, oh, why did I only send sweets to the guests’ chambers and not the family’s?
” she asked Kippers, who was observing her efforts with interest. “Because Rachael always did it that way. Hang Rachael. And hang the maids for cleaning so attentively. Could they not have overlooked so much as a crust of bread?”
She gave up her fruitless search and tried other remedies. She walked up and down the room, cooled herself by the window, warmed herself by the hearth, and splashed water on her face—all to no avail.
“There’s nothing for it,” she told Kippers. “I’ll have to venture down to the kitchen.”
With another approving mew, he hopped off the bed to accompany her.
She scooped up her candle and slipped out into the dark and drafty corridor.
Lightning streaked across its small, high windows as her feet, shod in her warmest slippers over two pairs of wool stockings, found their unerring way to the kitchen.
But upon entering, she was startled to find the chamber already occupied. By the dim light of another candle, Claire could see a figure hunkered over the worktable. Surely the poor scullery maid wasn’t still washing up?
No. The figure was a man’s, garbed in a loosely tied dressing gown and nightcap.
With dismay Claire recognized him by the thick, chestnut lock that escaped his cap to fall into his eyes.
And with stupefaction she watched him continually sweeping it back, though the same hunk of hair would inevitably fall again a moment later due to the violence with which he was shoveling food into his mouth.
A half-forgotten urge came over her: the desire to touch that unruly lock.
Which was absurd. It was attached to the head of a man she despised, who was currently appearing in a most unappealing tableau.
Before him lay a ripped burlap parcel, the contents of which littered the table: spare bits of pie, picked-over joints of meat, open jars and canisters of stewed fish and vegetables.
Why, Jonathan had purloined the remains of their dinner!
She might have burst out laughing were she not transfixed by the horrifying sight. None of his fastidious table manners were in evidence. He was eating with his hands, licking his fingers, making hideous noises of satisfaction. Behaving like a man driven half-mad by starvation.
Which, Claire supposed, he was.
Hadn’t she and Elizabeth made sure of that?
Claire decided to attempt a quiet retreat.
She might have got away unseen, too, were it not for the traitorous Kippers.
No doubt smelling fish, he leapt onto the table.
When Jonathan glanced up, Claire panicked and tripped over a step stool.
She threw out a hand to catch herself, and caught instead a rack of copper pots, knocking several to the floor with a thunderous clamor that sent Kippers scampering away.
Jonathan leapt to his feet, brandishing an eating knife. “Who’s there?”
Claire stood blinking in the dark—and realized she’d dropped her candle during the commotion. Now she had to speak before she was gutted with a dull blade.
“You know,” she said in her haughtiest tone, “that food parcel was intended for the poor.”
Though his face was hidden in shadow, his body let slip a little start of recognition. He set down the knife and reached into his dressing gown pocket, pulling out his money-book. He removed several banknotes and placed them beside the knife. “Shall this make amends to the poor?”
Claire raised a brow at the generous denomination. “That will do.” Having nothing else to say, she turned to go.
“Claire, wait. Won’t you join me?”
Incredulity brought her up short. “Join you?” Aside from the impertinence… She looked pointedly at the table littered with crumbs, empty vessels, and used silverware. “Join you for what?”
He began rooting in the burlap. “Ah! There’s still some bread, and”—unearthing a jar—“I saved you the prawns.” He presented them with an air of great chivalry.
Claire rolled her eyes. “A noble sacrifice.” Though she adored prawns, she knew Jonathan had never cared for them.
While she continued to hang back, he bent to restart the banked fire in the kitchen’s big cast iron stove, then left the stove’s door open to add welcome heat and light. “I’ve something else for you, as well.”
“A fork?”
“No—well, yes.” He selected one and began polishing it with a fresh napkin. “But that’s not what I meant.” When the fork sparkled, he arranged it beside the bread and prawns. “I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you alone, because I owe you an apology.”
Now he’d piqued her interest. Not that any sort of apology could induce her to forgive him. But it would be nice to watch him grovel, all the same.
She looked down at her night clothes regretfully. “If I were decently attired…”
Though he snorted, Jonathan tactfully chose not to remind her that he’d seen her far less decent before. Instead he countered with: “You—the strange creature shivering in worsted wool last summer while we humans roasted in linen—not decent? You must be wearing four layers at least.”
Five, actually. She wore two shifts and a flannel dressing gown beneath her plush velvet one, plus a shawl wrapped round the whole. And she was still cold.
However, she wasn’t about to admit as much aloud. Jonathan didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing he knew her so well.
But she did find herself mollified enough to approach the table, drawn chiefly by the lure of the warm fire and vindication, alongside, not inconsiderably, the temptation of buttered prawns.
In silence he watched her settle on a stool, uncork the jar, and begin eating. An uneasy quiet reigned until Kippers reappeared, settling with an expectant air at her feet.
Finally Jonathan cleared his throat. “Where to begin?”
She tossed Kippers a prawn, making no reply. She would not help Jonathan. Nor would she betray any hint of curiosity. Sangfroid was to be her byword.
Jonathan fiddled with the napkin. “It seems all too inadequate to say ‘you were right’ and ‘I’m very sorry’ but…well, there it is.”
She paused with the fork halfway to her lips.
I was right about what? she wanted to demand.
Or perhaps seize Jonathan by the shoulders and shake the answer out of him.
But her sangfroid held. She placed the prawn in her mouth, chewed thoroughly, and swallowed before coolly responding: “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You’ll have to be more specific.”
He grimaced. “I beg your pardon; no matter how many times I imagined this conversation, it was never quite—but that’s of no consequence.
” He cleared his throat again, his evident discomfort eclipsed only by his painful earnestness.
“To specify: You were right about my mother’s deception, and I’m very sorry I didn’t believe you.
I learned the truth when we arrived in Neuf-Marché, to find my grandmother not on her death bed and gasping her last.”
“I knew it!” Claire cried out, then choked on a mouthful of bread. She coughed and sputtered until Jonathan offered her a cup of something, which she gulped gratefully. When it burned a path down her throat, she realized it was brandy.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she returned the cup, her face hot with embarrassment. “I’m—er—pleased to learn the marquise is not ill.”
“Oh, she is ill,” he said matter-of-factly. “Consumption. But it’s not often quickly fatal, and she’s always had a strong constitution. She’s likely to remain with us a few more years to come.”
“I see.” While Kippers rubbed against her legs until she gave him another prawn, Claire’s mind was busy reordering the facts. “Then…when the messenger came to Greystone last Christmas Day, he did bring news of the marquise’s illness? But your mother mistook the urgency of the case?”
Jonathan pulled a face. “No and no. I’ve no idea what news the messenger brought—and perhaps there was no news at all, its invention being part of maman’s ruse.
Because she’d already learned of the diagnosis several weeks before.
And, I assume, understood the lack of immediate danger, or she would have sailed to France much earlier. ”
“She knew for weeks and kept it from you?” Claire watched as, apparently satiated, Kippers curled up near the stove and promptly fell asleep. “Why would your mother do that?” she asked. “Just so she could use it to stop our wedding?”
“Probably.” Jonathan shrugged. “But that’s just a guess. I know no details. After seeing grand-mère upright and catching wind of maman’s lies, I left. Hired the first chaise I could find and got as far away from her as I could. We haven’t spoken since.”
Claire felt surprise, and perhaps just a touch of triumph, at this turn of events.
She wished she could have seen Jonathan’s defiance and his mother’s reaction.
If the woman had sabotaged her son’s marriage and broken two hearts in the process with the aim of keeping him all to herself, she must have been bitterly disappointed.
Claire could not help reveling a little in her enemy’s just deserts.
And she felt glad for Jonathan. Defying his mother was a great step forward.
For him, that was. So far as Claire was concerned…
Well, she wasn’t. The matter did not concern her at all. It was far too late for that.
Had he rushed immediately from Neuf-Marché to her side, perhaps things might have been different…
“Where did you go afterward?” she heard herself ask, abandoning all pretense of incuriosity.
“Paris,” he said ruefully, “to embark on the Grand Tour I never had. I followed my father’s route: from Paris to Lyon, Marseille, then on to Genoa, Florence, Venice, and Rome.”
Most young men of their generation had eschewed the coming-of-age tradition of touring the Continent (unless sent there to endure the horrors of French warfare).
But a hopeful peace had endured four years now, and Claire could envision how happily Jonathan must have flitted about Europe.
Traveling in the greatest luxury, enjoying vivid landscapes, palatial cities, ancient treasures (with a buxom Italian lady on his arm).
The picture made her jaw clench. “How splendid,” she said through gritted teeth.
Then he fixed her with a penetrating gaze, and his deep, expressive blue eyes made her fear the imminence of an ill-considered disclosure.
Hoping to head it off, she continued hastily: “Which city was your favorite? Rome, I’ll wager, unless you visited Pompeii?
Ah, so you did! That must have been splendid.
No doubt you were in heaven among so many antiquities.
” The ones they used to talk about seeing together someday, for Claire had found herself sharing Jonathan’s interest in ancient history.
“All those temples and amphitheaters and—er—columns,” she heard herself babbling on. “How perfectly splendid.”
La, how many times had she said splendid? Why couldn’t she recall any other adjectives? And how could Jonathan still be looking at her with such ardor after that performance?
She held her breath, bracing herself for a declaration.
But instead of professing his love, he said: “In point of fact, it wasn’t particularly splendid.
It was sad. Since the war…” He looked away.
“The devastation on the Continent is beyond imagining. It was difficult to enjoy the sights when all around one saw so much suffering. People are destitute. Their homes and livelihoods were ripped from them. They still face poor harvests and crippling war-debt on top of all the death and damage caused by the fighting.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks burned. “Of course. I was not thinking. I suppose we English are like to forget, now the threat of invasion has passed, that the Continent was not as lucky. How such scenes must have afflicted you.”
She told herself she was imagining things. Jonathan wasn’t still in love with her. He’d been gone twice as long as they’d been together, after all. Besides which, he’d told Noah in no uncertain terms that he would not renew his suit.
She could breathe easy.
But before she drew a single breath, Jonathan’s gaze returned with redoubled tenderness. Her heart leapt into her throat—and this time, her fears were borne out.
“I was not so afflicted as I should have been,” he said in a tone filled with unmistakable meaning. “For any momentary distraction could not but give way, and very soon, to thoughts of you.”