Chapter Eleven
"You have been very quiet this evening," Edward observed during a lull in the conversation. "Are you feeling unwell? Is your ankle troubling you?"
"I am perfectly well," Vanessa said. "Simply tired. This is the first evening I have been out of the drawing room in days."
"Perhaps you should retire early. I am certain Martin will not take offense."
"I am not offended in the least," Martin said. "But I confess I would be disappointed. The evening is still young, and I had hoped to hear about Lady Vanessa's childhood misadventures. You promised to provide commentary."
Edward groaned. "I promised nothing of the sort."
"You implied it strongly. I consider that a binding agreement."
"You are impossible."
"So I have been told. Repeatedly." Martin turned to Vanessa, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Come now, Lady Vanessa. Surely there is some entertaining tale from your youth that your brother has been unfairly suppressing."
"There are many," Vanessa said. "But most of them reflect poorly on Edward, which is why he is so eager to change the subject."
"I resent that characterisation."
"The truth often stings."
Martin laughed…a genuine laugh, warm and unguarded. "I see that an injured ankle has not dulled your wit."
"It would take more than a sprained ankle to accomplish that."
"I do not doubt it. You are formidable, Lady Vanessa. I have always admired that about you."
The compliment caught her off guard. Martin did not offer compliments easily, and when he did, they were usually wrapped in irony. But there was no irony in his voice now. Only sincerity, and something else…something that looked almost like tenderness.
"Thank you," she said, uncertain how else to respond.
"You need not thank me for stating the obvious." He held her gaze for a moment, then turned to Edward. "Now, about those childhood stories…"
"No," Edward said firmly. "Absolutely not. If you want embarrassing tales about Vanessa, you will have to extract them from her yourself. I refuse to participate."
"How disappointing. And here I thought you were a good friend."
"I am an excellent friend. Which is precisely why I am protecting my sister from your interrogation."
"Interrogation is rather a strong word. I prefer to think of it as gentle enquiry."
"There is nothing gentle about you, Martin. You are a menace."
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
Vanessa listened to their banter with a smile she could not quite suppress.
This was what she had always loved about their friendship and the ease of it, the way they could tease each other without malice.
Edward was the closest thing Martin had to a brother, and she had always been grateful that her own brother had found such a loyal companion.
But tonight, for the first time, she found herself wishing she could be something more than Edward's sister in Martin's eyes. Something more than the girl who threw cushions and argued about poetry.
Something like an equal. A partner.
A possibility.
***
After dinner, the ladies withdrew to the drawing room while the gentlemen remained with their port. It was a tiresome convention, but Vanessa was almost grateful for the respite. She needed time to compose herself, to smooth the edges of her emotions before facing Martin again.
Her mother, of course, had other ideas.
"He is very attentive to you," Lady Wayworth observed as soon as they were settled. "Lord Montehood. I noticed how solicitous he was at dinner."
"He was merely being polite."
"Polite? He could not take his eyes off you. Every time I looked up, he was watching you."
Vanessa's heart lurched. "You are imagining things, Mama."
"I am imagining nothing. I have eyes, Vanessa. And what I saw was a man who is interested in more than mere politeness."
"Lord Montehood is not…he has never shown any inclination…"
"Has he not?" Her mother's smile was knowing. "Perhaps you have not been paying attention."
Before Vanessa could respond, the drawing room door opened and the gentlemen appeared. Edward came first, slightly flushed from the port, followed by her father. And then Martin, his eyes finding hers immediately, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"Ladies," he said, inclining his head. "I hope we have not kept you waiting too long."
"Not at all," Lady Wayworth said warmly. "Please, do sit. Vanessa, dearest, perhaps Lord Montehood would like to see the book you have been reading. You were telling me just yesterday how much you were enjoying it."
Such was the provocation that Vanessa felt a most uncharitable urge to stifle her mother’s surge of observational chatter.
The book in question was Keats, the volume from the anonymous gift basket.
She had not mentioned it to anyone except in passing, and certainly not with any enthusiasm that would warrant showing it to a guest.
But she could not refuse without seeming rude.
"Of course," she said. "If Lord Montehood is interested."
"I am always interested in literature." Martin crossed the room and settled into the chair beside her chaise longue, the chair Helena had occupied earlier, the chair closest to her. "What are you reading?"
"Keats. Endymion and Other Poems." She reached for the slim green volume on the side table. "It was a gift."
"Indeed? From whom?"
"I do not know. It arrived anonymously, the day after my accident."
Something flickered in Martin's expression, there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. "How mysterious. You have no idea who sent it?"
"My mother believes it was Lord Deane."
"And what do you believe?"
Vanessa hesitated. She was treading on dangerous ground, and she knew it. But something in his eyes, some quality of attention, of waiting made her reckless.
"I believe," she said slowly, "that it was sent by someone who knows my tastes rather well. Someone who would understand that I prefer Keats to Wordsworth, and that I have a particular fondness for Endymion."
"That does suggest a certain intimacy with your preferences."
"Yes. It does."
Their eyes met and the air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken meaning.
"Perhaps," Martin said quietly, "the sender wished to remain anonymous for a reason. Perhaps they feared that revealing themselves would... complicate matters."
"What sort of complications?"
"Any number of things. Social expectations. Prior obligations. The opinions of others." He paused. "Fear of rejection."
Vanessa's breath caught. "That seems an unlikely concern. If someone were to send such a thoughtful gift, they could hardly expect rejection."
"Could they not? Sometimes the things we want most feel the most impossible to obtain. And the fear of reaching for them…of having them slip through our fingers can be paralysing."
He was not talking about the gift. She was suddenly, absolutely certain of it. He was talking about something else entirely, something neither of them dared name aloud.
"Perhaps," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "the sender should have more faith. In themselves, and in the recipient."
"Perhaps they should." Martin's gaze was intent, searching “Perhaps they are endeavoring to set the matter to rights.”
"Vanessa!" Her mother's voice cut through the moment like a blade. "Do show Lord Montehood the passage you were admiring earlier. The one about the moon."
The spell was broken. Vanessa blinked, disoriented, and fumbled for the book. Her hands were trembling slightly as she opened it to a random page.
"I…yes. Of course. The passage about the moon."
She did not remember any passage about the moon. She did not remember anything except the weight of Martin's gaze and the certainty that something had just passed between them…something significant, something that changed everything.
Martin leaned closer to look at the book, his shoulder nearly brushing hers. "Read it to me," he said. "I should like to hear it in your voice."
And so she read, her voice steadying as she fell into the familiar rhythm of the verse. She chose a passage near the middle of the book, the famous lines about truth and beauty, about the eternal nature of art.
"A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
Her voice was soft in the quiet room. She was aware of Martin beside her, the warmth of his shoulder near hers, the sound of his breathing, the intensity of his attention.
It felt strangely intimate, reading poetry to him while her family carried on conversations across the room.
As though they had carved out a small private space for themselves, invisible to everyone else.
She continued, the words flowing easily despite her nervousness.
"Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth, spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth of noble natures, of the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits. "
When she finished, he was silent for a long moment. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her face, though she did not look up from the book.
"Beautiful," he said finally, and his voice was rough. "Thank you."
"It is Keats who deserves the thanks, not I."
"You underestimate yourself. A poem is only as beautiful as the voice that speaks it." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was lower, meant only for her ears. “Your voice is singularly pleasing, I could listen to it for hours on end.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and saw something there that made her breath catch. It was not the cool, sardonic Martin she had known for years. It was someone else, someone vulnerable and someone yearning.
Someone who looked at her as though she were the only woman in the world.