Chapter 20
Twenty
“And, again, you are quite certain that you wish to come with me?” Elisabeth stood in the front hall, drawing on her gloves as she said this, her face still swollen from the trip to London, lack of sleep, or some grief she had not voiced to him.
“I only mean to deliver the painting, and that is not a task that requires both of us. I would not be offended if you remained here, at home.”
Gabriel stopped at the base of the stairs, and his hands went to his cravat to adjust it for the fifth time that afternoon.
“Quite certain, yes.” He sighed and ripped the garment off.
His valet handed his coat to the butler and crossed over to tie his cravat.
“Why do you insist on questioning me about this? It is only a social call.”
Elisabeth watched as they carried the artwork, covered with a protective sheet of paper, out of the building and into the carriage. “You have not been yourself since Surrey,” she said.
“Have any of us been quite the same since the news of the baron?” He nodded as the valet stepped back to assess his work. Gabriel no longer felt like he was choking, which was an improvement.
His question silenced his aunt, which had not been his intention, though the implication was not untrue.
She had taken the baron’s collapse harder than Gabriel had expected; harder, he thought, than a friendly acquaintance could account for.
She had spoken of little else since their return, the trips she and the Winthrops had planned together that coming year, some scheme involving Provence she’d only half mentioned before, all of it now suspended indefinitely.
“Well... We had agreed on the Bologna piece, and that is what he should get,” she said now, stepping toward the open doors.
“He wanted it for his study, and I thought it could not hurt to bring it to him now, whatever state he is in, as a gift instead of a purchase.” She looked away.
“A man ought to have something to look forward to while he lies in his sickbed.”
“You shan’t go in to him.”
“Of course not,” Elisabeth snapped, some energy returning to her at last. Anger was funny in that way, especially with his aunt. “Who do you take me for?”
Gabriel laughed without mirth, because he understood the gesture for what it was and was only teasing her.
And because he had to admit, his own reasons for accompanying her were considerably less noble.
He did not bother exposing them out loud, even while Elisabeth stared at him with a fiery, examining gaze.
I want to see Rosalie, he told himself privately, escorting his aunt outdoors once he had his coat. That fact is the truth. I have missed her—whether it is out of habit or a devilish, evil desire to be near her—I must know how she is.
“Gabriel,” his aunt said, turning to him once they were seated in the carriage and it drove down the road.
“This moment requires care from you. A man visiting a woman at this time, such a precarious and frightening time... It might be received with an excitement and relief you have not anticipated, if you catch my meaning. And so my question, as to your intent...”
Gabriel’s hand tightened into a fist at his side. “I know well what this might appear to be, but Rosalie... Miss Winthrop... she will know that I am coming only to ensure her well-being, nothing more. You need not concern yourself with my intents.”
Elisabeth nodded, and that was the end of their conversation, leaving what she really wanted to say unspoken but alive in Gabriel’s mind nonetheless: Why have you not yet asked for her hand, especially now that her father may be dying?
Mayfair was dull and drizzling as the carriage wound through the streets, passing a few brave walkers, sheltered under umbrellas, as they headed in the direction of the park.
When the Hartmere vehicle finally arrived, the Winthrop house stood pale against the sky, its white columns and facade damp with rain from the night prior, windows gleaming with oily yellow light.
They waited longer than expected at the door.
The butler, when he finally took their card and admitted them, seemed less stricken than Gabriel had feared.
He cautiously took this as a good sign, meanwhile glancing up the stairs as they crossed the foyer, listening for signs of the baron, and of his youngest daughter.
In the end, it was not the baron’s condition that struck him first upon entering the drawing room.
It was Rosalie, seated near the window with her hands folded in her lap, dressed in pale blue with a matching knitted shawl...
and Mr. Edmund Sinclair beside her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, his hand resting lightly over hers.
He glanced up, saw Gabriel, and removed it slowly but comfortably.
“Your Grace?” Rosalie said—asked—he had no idea what she intended with the question, or what he had interrupted.
She rose too quickly, color rising in her cheeks.
Sinclair rose with notably more composure, inclining his head in greeting.
“And Lady Chipping... This is very kind of you, but we had not expected visitors today.”
Gabriel did not ask whether that implied Mr. Sinclair was not a visitor.
The man looked tired but healthy, wearing a striped black and blue vest and jacket that brought out the gray at his temples.
He searched for the baroness. Lady Winthrop sat by the fire alone, but she barely raised her eyes to greet them.
Elisabeth crossed over to her and took her hand, while Gabriel lingered by the door.
“These are calling hours, and we had heard that your father is improving,” Elisabeth said gently, but with a tightness Gabriel suspected had something to do with the presence of Rosalie’s other suitor.
“We hope you will forgive the intrusion, my lady. I only wished to bring your family—your father—a gift.”
Looking up at Elisabeth, Lady Winthrop blinked rapidly, as though waking from a dream. She gasped lightly and rose, still holding Elisabeth’s hand. “Oh, heavens... A gift for us of what sort?”
“A small token of our enduring friendship,” Elisabeth replied, smiling. She still wore her coat, the shoulders speckled with rain. “I will show you soon, if I may bother you out of your seat? This room is very lovely, accommodating; I do not blame you if you wish to remain, but—”
“No, of course not,” Lady Winthrop said, her eyes creasing with a smile that reminded Gabriel so much of Rosalie. “I should like to see, to come. It will do me good to get some air.”
There was a half-hearted flurry of gratitude. Tea was offered and promptly declined. Through all of it, Gabriel watched Rosalie’s hand drift back toward Sinclair’s sleeve and then stop in midair.
His heart clenched involuntarily. He imagined himself storming over and asking why Sinclair had come, how long he had been there, what any of this meant.
But it would have been unfair to Rosalie, and to her suitor, and to the mother, who had just barely regained her senses and was asking his aunt about the end of the house party, hoping they had not ruined everything.
I should be glad about this development, he thought. This was, after all, the outcome he had engineered from the beginning: Sinclair provoked into earnest devotion for Rosalie, who was settled and safe.
Everyone knew what should have happened. Elisabeth had said as much in the carriage. The better man would offer for Rosalie while her father was half in his grave, her future thrown into doubt. What honorable man could withhold the one thing that would actually help her at a time like this?
So it was that Sinclair was honorable, and Gabriel was not, and thinking any more about the situation would only cause them both pain, even while the thought of hearing Rosalie declare the inevitable engagement made him sick.
Still, when Mr. Sinclair kindly left with Lady Winthrop and Elisabeth to fetch the painting from the carriage, Gabriel did not follow.
He remained in the too-warm drawing room with Rosalie, where they looked at each other across the empty space, the fire crackling in the fireplace, and the rain pattering against the window.
“We did not mean to intrude,” he said so softly the words barely came out above a whisper. “I had only wanted to see you, in truth, to ensure that you were safe... And are you? Safe?”
Rosalie narrowed her eyes. She did not move from where Sinclair had left her. Her hair was pinned back severely, exposing her face, such a different style from the house party, when she had been undone, when his fingers had come into her hair as he had held her.
“My father yet lives,” she said, “and for that I am grateful. Whether I am safe... I do not know.”
He nodded, hating the relief that flooded through him. This meant that Sinclair had not yet asked for her hand, even if his behavior intimated that he considered Rosalie all but his regardless.
“You were asked to write to us,” Gabriel said.
“Ah, yes.” Rosalie nodded but would not meet his eye. “I forgot.”
She was lying, he knew. She had not forgotten but chosen not to write to them on purpose. If Elisabeth had not wanted to call on them, Gabriel wondered painfully whether he and Rosalie would ever have spoken again, and he was surprised by how much that scenario hurt him.
“She will want to call on you again,” he said. “My aunt considers herself a part of your family now, for better or for worse. Our support is yours.”
“Is it?” The question came quickly and sharply. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, moving toward the exit. “I should go and see where they have gone.”
As she moved past him, his hand reached out involuntarily and grabbed her wrist. His hold softened immediately upon contact with her skin. But her gasp was unmissable, and it restored some hope in him that all was not lost between them.
“We agreed to be friends,” he reminded her.