Chapter 11 #2
As we emerged into the night, freezing air slapped my cheeks. The snow had stopped swirling in pretty patterns and was coming down thick and fast beyond the stone roof that covered the colonnade.
“May I offer my coat?” Godric asked.
I shook my head. “No, thank you. We’ll be outside for two minutes at most.”
His right hand returned to the middle of my back, a touch that warmed my entire body.
(Yes, I was drunk. You already know that.)
Ophelia skipped up and clutched Godric’s other arm. “It’s so cold!” she squealed.
“This storm will likely continue through Christmas,” Lancelot told his wife, taking off his lavender coat and bundling her in it.
A week of continuous snow? I felt a sudden wave of uneasiness. I hadn’t grasped the weight of being “snowed in,” as Miss Wellington called it. We were all trapped, not just with my wretched husband, but with dead monks, dead wives . . . even the rats.
(Was it too much to say that the abbey loomed balefully around me? I had to remind myself that while I may have fallen into a novel, I would never start screaming like a silly girl. Probably.)
“I brought a trunk of delicious treats from Paris,” Colette said, peeping at me from inside her husband’s coat. “I suggest we create a refuge in the library.”
I pulled myself together. “I’ll request that Crumpsall reserve the wine I had sent here for us.”
Godric made a quiet sound that might have been a chuckle in a less serious person.
“I adore you even more now I know you are responsible for the excellent champagne,” Colette said. “But at the moment, I need a cup of English tea.”
“So do you, or you’ll have a powerful headache tomorrow,” Godric told me, steering me around the corner of the quadrangle.
“Perhaps not,” I said, trying to ignore a glow caused by the press of his fingers. “It could be that champagne is like mother’s milk to me.”
“So you plan to begin drinking and take a lover?” Godric asked.
I hesitated to answer. I know that I announced my intention to find a Frenchman, but the word lover sounded so raw. Even, dare I say it, impolite.
Ophelia dropped Godric’s arm, darted ahead, and pushed open a door.
The breakfast parlor was a charming room, wallpapered in silk printed with strawberries. One of three small tables was laid with a white cloth and held a teapot, triangle-cut toast in a rack, crumpets, floury scones, and gingerbread.
I hadn’t eaten my dinner, and suddenly I felt ravenous.
Ophelia threw her cloak on a chair and sat down. “I approve of your taking a lover,” she said, with no regard for the footman who had taken a pot of boiling water from the hob and was pouring it into the waiting teapot.
(Yes, I had been taught to show discretion before household staff—yet another useless rule, since our employees had known more about my marriage than I had.)
“I believe in revenge,” Ophelia continued blithely. “Unfortunately, there aren’t many appropriate gentlemen on offer in the Highlands. Since you dislike surly men, Godric is out of the running.”
“Actually, Lady Burnsby plans to acquire a French peacock in the male form and import him to the Highlands next Christmas,” Godric informed her, once we were all seated.
I couldn’t quite interpret his tone, but it reminded me of Burnsby talking about Peony.
“My father would be far more irritated if Genevieve took an English lover,” Ophelia said, “preferably one with a seat in the House of Lords. If he was English, everyone would know, you see.”
“Burnsby takes his reputation very seriously,” I agreed.
“Ophelia, your avoidance of hypocritical delicacy together with your excellent command of the French language make you an honorary Parisienne,” Colette said, raising her teacup in a salute.
“Delicacy would have been difficult to achieve, growing up around Sophonisba. I will miss all of you when Christmas is over.”
Colette and I smiled at each other in perfect agreement; Ophelia would leave with one of us. “My husband didn’t come here merely to introduce me to his father,” Colette said. “He came to fetch you, his sister.”
“Really?” Ophelia asked, clearly astounded.
“You merely need to decide whether you’d prefer to live with Genevieve or me. London or Paris?”
I abruptly realized that I was now unconstrained by loyalty or respect. I had planned to live in the London townhouse during the Season, but I could remain in England permanently, even when my husband returned to Scotland.
I could—and I would.
“I’d prefer to live in Paris,” Ophelia said. She took my hand and clasped it tightly. “Merely because my father doesn’t care to be around me. And I don’t like him.”
“I completely understand,” I assured her.
“We would be happy to have you reside with us,” Colette said.
“Lovely,” Ophelia said happily. “This toast is also lovely. By the time afternoon tea arrives in the nursery, it’s always stone-cold.”
“Couldn’t you ask for tea in the library since it’s close to the kitchens?” I asked.
“I’m not allowed to eat anywhere other than the nursery and the breakfast room. Miss Wellington sometimes leaves plates of food in the library despite my father forbidding it, and her fear that rats will find them before me.”
“I’m sorry,” Lancelot said in a rough voice.
His sister turned to him, surprised. “I’m not afraid of rats.”
“I shouldn’t have left you here. I fled to France the moment I left Eton, and I should have taken you with me.”
“I was a child,” Ophelia pointed out. But she gave him a blinding smile. “You can make up for it now. Like your wife, I would like a piglet of my own.”
“We shall have a familial pigpen,” her brother promised.
“I can bring Peony for a visit when I travel to France to scoop up a lover,” I said.
Godric made a low sound in his throat. I didn’t bother to look at him; the man clearly felt he knew better than I. He didn’t.
“When one’s husband is deranged, one can do whatever one likes,” Colette declared.
She threw her husband a provocative glance over her teacup.
“Take that as a warning, mon chéri. If you lose your mind as your father has, I shan’t hesitate to find a peacock of my own.
He won’t be wearing a kilt, either, because I will reserve his bare knees for my private chamber. ”
Lancelot murmured something in her ear; I glanced away, conscious of an ache in my chest. Colette’s husband regarded her not with adoration—a questionable emotion, to my mind—but with laughter, admiration, and joy.
I still couldn’t fathom the idea that I could find happiness in male company, but that might be an excellent proviso if I did take a lover: Any man in my bed had to have that expression.
“Forget it,” Godric said roughly. He buttered a piece of toast and handed it to me.
I turned to him, my lips rounding in surprise. “How did you know what I was thinking?”
“You’re imagining your future lover. Eat that. Toast will soak up the champagne.”
I took a bite, deciding he knew more about drinking to excess than I did.
“You’re not very good at keeping your emotions to yourself,” Ophelia informed me. “I can see everything you’re thinking. I’m sure Godric can, too.”
“I’m excellent at disguising my emotions,” I said indignantly.
“Let’s do an experiment. How did you feel when you saw my ghost?” Ophelia asked, staring intently at my face. “Were you frightened?”
“Terrified.”
“You’re fibbing,” she said with satisfaction.
“I’d say you were disappointed,” Godric said.
“I had been eager to exchange notes with a predecessor,” I admitted.
“What on earth would you talk about? Alice wasn’t at all like you,” Ophelia said. “She was frightfully boring. If you even mentioned Sophonisba, she would faint, ghost or no.”
Alice was boring—and I’m not? Yes, I savored it. They were regarding me with an intensity that no one ever had in my experience—which may have been why I had found it easy to disguise my emotions in the past.
“You would have liked your mother, Ophelia, if you’d known her,” Godric said.
“Mima told me that my father squashed the life from Hecuba,” Ophelia said. She shivered.
“Another experiment to test my ability to read your expression.” Godric met my eyes. “Were you forced to marry Burnsby because of your father’s debts?”
“No.”
“Someone would have to force me to marry a man that old,” Ophelia said with relish. “I’d wait until we were at the altar, and then I’d scream and scream, tearing at my hair.”
“Not your hair!” Colette interjected, aghast.
“Fine. I’d tear my clothing and pretend to have lost my mind. Burnsby is always running away from Aunt Mima because you never know what she’ll say next. My would-be spouse would dash back down the aisle.” She took a satisfied bite of crumpet.
“Not a terrible plan,” Godric said, “but perhaps you could find a groom whom you liked and preserve your wedding gown.”
I cleared my throat. “I liked Burnsby.”
I let them regard me with pity because?
I deserved it.
Still . . . I wasn’t sure that Godric was feeling pity. His eyes had a gleam that was hard to read. I decided that he was swallowing a laugh and frowned.
He leaned close to me and said in a voice as rich and dark as hot chocolate, “So it wasn’t your father’s debts. From something you said at dinner, I’d guess that Burnsby promised your sister a dowry?”
I nodded. “Her name is Rosie.”
“You sacrificed your future to make Rosie happy,” Godric said, as if the matter was settled.
His smile fizzled down my spine.
(Yes, I know how odd that sounds, but it’s accurate).
Godric reached over and tapped the back of my right hand with his index finger. “Saintly women are boring. Firebrands like you, Genevieve, do not qualify.”
My breath caught because an excess of champagne had destroyed my restraint. His compliment nestled in my heart, and his light touch felt like more than a fizzle. It was—
Intoxicating.
I blinked down at his hand, and he moved it away.
“Did you ever meet a man whom you’d like to marry for himself?” Godric asked, as casual as if he’d never touched me.
I frowned, confused.
“Despite his title or wealth,” he clarified.
“No, never.”
“When you were twirling around ballrooms and musicales and all the rest of that claptrap surrounding the marriage market, you never met a man whom you admired for himself?”
I shook my head. “I did not.”
(You’ve probably grasped that he was the first man who’d caught my attention. How embarrassing.)
“How did you get the scar through your eyebrow?” I asked, changing the subject.
“A mishap with a poker at twelve years of age,” he said. “You didn’t what? Find the right man? Or you found him, but he wasn’t free?”
“Perhaps he didn’t want me,” I said with a peevish edge.
“That’s absurd.”
They all turned to us. “Good God,” Lance said. “It’s a Christmas miracle. The most severe man in the law courts is smiling.”
“Please share the jest,” Colette said.
“Genevieve is trying to convince me that she married Burnsby because the man she preferred didn’t want her,” Godric said, his voice deep with amusement.
I rolled my eyes. “There was no such man.”
“Obviously not,” Colette said.
“Perhaps if I’d been courted by a viscount or a duke, I might have been tempted,” I said (untruthfully, but this was embarrassing).
Next to me, Godric snorted.
“Genevieve would have scooped up that viscount before he knew what happened,” Ophelia said. “Burnsby allowed her to keep a piglet as a pet, but he won’t even allow me to sit at the dinner table.” She waved a crumpet. “Poor Alice was unable to counter him on any front.”
I couldn’t help being thrilled by her approval.
“You would make an excellent viscountess,” Lance said, laughing as he stood up.
Colette allowed her husband to draw her to her feet. “We should stop by the library and check whether a real ghost is waiting for us.”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Lance said, towing her away. “It’s bedtime. Farewell, everyone.”
I stifled a jealous sigh.
After the door shut, Ophelia said, “It’s a good thing I grew up in this abbey, because otherwise I’d be scandalized. Shocked to the bone. Fainting like Alice.”
“Newlyweds can make anyone feel lonely,” I said.
“Do you often feel lonely?” Godric seemed genuinely curious, as did Ophelia.
Feeling humiliated was becoming so commonplace that I scarcely registered it.
“On occasion,” I said lightly.
Godric’s lips compressed.
Ophelia sighed. “I feel lonely most of the time.”
“We’re not leaving you here,” I reminded her. “You’re moving to Paris, although if you prefer England, I have decided to live in London. Burnsby will remain in Scotland.” I intended to make sure of that.
Godric stirred, and something flashed through the air between us.
(Yes, I know how stupid that sounds.)
“Time for bed?” I said, and felt myself color. Now Godric had taken up smiling, after I inadvertently echoed Lancelot’s bawdy jest? I probably shouldn’t drink champagne again. I cleared my throat.
Ophelia got up slowly. “This has been the best day of my life.”
The worst day of mine?
Perhaps?
Or perhaps not.