Chapter 19 #3
The servants clearly did not know quite what to do when she was admitted to the house. She took a deep breath and decided to take the initiative.
“I am fatigued, Chapman,” she told the butler, as if she had just come in from an afternoon’s walk. “Have hot water for a bath sent to my room, if you please, and send Annie up to me.”
“Yes, Miss Bradshaw,” the butler said, looking at her rather as if she had two heads, Fleur thought. He spoke again as she turned away to climb the stairs. “Annie is not with us any longer, Miss Isabella.”
“She is gone?” she said, turning back to him. “Lord Brocklehurst dismissed her?”
“She had an offer of a place in Norfolk at the house where her sister works, Miss Isabella,” he said. “She was sorry to leave.”
“Send me one of the other maids, then,” Fleur said.
She had been looking forward to seeing Annie again, she thought, climbing the remaining stairs to her room and looking about at all the familiar objects—a part of her identity for so many years.
It was almost a surprise to find that nothing had been removed from her room.
Even the clothes that had been packed away in her trunk were back there.
She need not have brought her new clothes from Willoughby Hall after all.
And she had wanted to talk with Annie, who had apparently been the one to discover the jewels in her trunk. Had the maid been alone when she found them? Had she gone running to Matthew with the news? Had Annie believed her guilty?
She would probably never be able to fill in those blanks in her knowledge now. Annie had gone to Norfolk. Fleur could not recall any mention of a sister in service there. It was probable that Matthew had dismissed her because she was Fleur’s maid and no longer needed in the house.
It was strange to be back, to find everything so normal except that Cousin Caroline and Amelia and Matthew were from home.
She had fled for her very life just three months before.
And she supposed that soon she would be in fear of her life again.
Someone would do something as soon as the shock of seeing her just walk back into her home had worn off.
Someone would send for Matthew or do something else to detain her.
Matthew himself would doubtless come, once she was missed from Willoughby Hall. Indeed, perhaps he was not far behind her. Perhaps she would not have even the night to herself.
But she was in the only place she could be.
She bathed and washed her hair when water was brought, and put on one of her own dresses. She felt almost herself again as she brushed and styled her hair without the services of the maid who had been sent up to her.
She would not think of Matthew coming. She had a few things to do before he came. And she would not think at all of the recent past. She would not think of Lady Pamela and their days together. She would not think of the magnificent home she had come to think of almost as hers.
And she would not think of him. No, she would not.
But she thought of his dark hair and strong, harsh features, of the cruel scar that slashed across the left side of his face.
She thought of his hands with their long, well-manicured fingers—hands that she had so feared because they had touched her impersonally and intimately and had held her steady for the infliction of pain and degradation.
But the same hands had held hers warmly and cupped her face and wiped away her tears.
She would not think of him. Or if she must, she would remember him telling her to remove her clothes and sitting down to watch the show.
Or bent over her, watching as he took her virginity.
Or telling her that she was a whore and was enjoying what he did to her—but had he really said either of those things?
Or had they been merely part of her nightmares?
She would not think of him. Or if she must, she would remember that he was a married man, that he had a beautiful wife and a daughter whom he dearly loved.
She would not think of him.
“Come in,” she called when someone knocked on the door of her dressing room.
It was a maid to inform her that she had visitors belowstairs.
Well, she thought, getting to her feet and squaring her shoulders. It seemed that she was not to have even that one night of peace. It was beginning already. Perhaps coming home had been the most foolish thing she had done in her life.
But she had had to come. She had had no choice short of losing herself.
The butler opened the door into the visitors’ salon for her and she stepped inside.
“Isabella!” Miriam Booth, small, rather plump, fair heavy hair in its usual rather untidy knot on top of her head, hurried toward her, both hands outstretched. “Oh, Isabella, my dear, we just heard that you were home.”
Tears blurred Fleur’s vision as she was enfolded in her friend’s arms—but not before she had seen Daniel standing quietly before the fireplace, tall and blond and handsome in his black clerical garb.
“Miriam,” she said, her voice quite breaking out of control. “Oh, how I have missed you.”