Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
The morning came gilded and soft, sunlight glancing off the dew-beaded lawn and spilling through the high windows of Duskwood. Christine woke with a feeling she scarcely recognized.
Peace. I feel utterly relaxed. As though nothing in the world can touch me.
Because she had been touched, and she had touched. Dreams went unremembered, but they could hardly have been more intense than reality. More wanton.
Her hair was still damp, her nightdress hidden under her bed lest the maid should wonder how it had been ripped asunder. She could still feel Tristan’s touch. Remembered the fire which had threatened to set light to water.
It feels as though the world has grown still. After a week of tumult. And I am lying in the shelter of that stillness.
The events of the night before hovered between memory and dream. The storm of his touch, the quiet after, the way he had looked at her as if openness, naked and vulnerable, had replaced calculation. She rose quietly and crossed to the window, her body still tingling.
Outside, the morning mist trailed away from the hedgerows like silk. The bath-house was out there, concealed by the trees. A haven of pleasure.
A knock came.
“Enter,” she said, tying her robe tighter.
It was her maid, Dorothy, neat as a pin and red-cheeked as an apple.
“His Grace bids me say that you should be ready within the hour, my lady. And that breakfast will be had at your destination.”
“Ready? For what?”
“His Grace did not tell me. Only that it is a surprise, Your Ladyship.”
Christine smiled, her heart already stirring with curiosity.
“Then I shall not make him wait.”
She dressed in a gown of soft blue muslin trimmed with white lace, simple but pretty. With Dorothy’s help, she pinned her hair with the pearl combs Tristan had sent up that morning. When she caught her reflection, she was startled at the sight. Her cheeks seemed to glow, and her eyes were bright.
It is as though Gillray House has finally been washed from me. I feel as though I have put aside a terrible weight.
Downstairs, she found Tristan waiting in the hall. He was in a dark riding coat, the morning light burnishing the edges of his black hair. He turned at the sound of her steps, and a slow, satisfied smile touched his mouth. But he said nothing.
Christine tilted her head. “You have words?” she asked.
“No. You look precisely as you should,” he replied.
“And that is?”
“I’ll let you decide.”
He led her to the carriage, where the horses pawed impatiently at the gravel.
“Will you not tell me where we’re going?” she asked as he handed her in.
“No.” He followed, settling opposite her, “you are far too clever. The moment I tell you, you will invent expectations, and reality will never recover.”
She laughed. “So you mean to keep me in suspense the entire journey?”
“I mean to enjoy your curiosity,” he said, “it’s a rare thing to see you unguarded.”
Christine lowered her voice so that there was no possibility of the coachman overhearing.
“You have seen me unguarded. To paraphrase you, what can a naked woman hide?”
A smile tugged at Tristan’s lips, and his eyes wandered to hers. She thought there was smoke there, evidence of a fire still smoldering.
I caught him unawares last night. Saw him unguarded. Now he wears inscrutability like armor.
The carriage jolted into motion. The landscape unspooled around them.
Hills silvered by the remnants of rain, copses of birch trembling in the wind, the occasional cottage with smoke curling thinly from its chimney.
The country was waking, its greenery wet and its air full of the smell of smoke, earth, and wet grass.
Tristan seemed in unusually good spirits. Now and then, he pointed out a landmark or made some dry observation about the world passing their window. She found herself laughing more than she had in months, perhaps years.
“Was Duskwood always so empty before?” she asked as the miles slipped by.
“Empty?”
“I mean, when it is not being filled with the Thynnes and their laughter. And Flora’s mischief.”
His mouth curved. “It was quiet. That suited me. Do you object?”
“I have lived in a quiet house. I find myself wishing for life.”
“Society is overrated,” Tristan said.
“Wolves are social animals.”
“Ah, but I am a funny sort of wolf.”
The confession, understated as it was, warmed her. She let herself imagine, for a dangerous moment, that this could be ordinary. This comfort, this laughter, this journey side by side. She teased him, and his responses were delivered with a half-smile, a twinkle of the eye.
He maintained his image of the solitary wolf, uncivilized and uncaring. But she had seen a different side to him and knew that there was more to him.
He continues to play a role, and I am almost sure it is a performance. Not reality. Almost.
“Ah,” he said at last, glancing out the window, “we have arrived.”
She leaned forward, following his gaze. The road opened onto a long, tree-lined drive that swept toward an elegant manor of pale stone. Its windows caught the sun, and ivy climbed the walls like a green tide. Recognition struck her like sunlight.
“Birchfield?”
Tristan’s smile deepened. “Your sister’s home. I thought you would appreciate some cheering up.”
Her breath caught. “Selina knows we’re coming?”
“She does,” he said, pulling from his pocket a folded letter, “I wrote to her from my carriage as I was on my way to Gillray House. Told her I meant to steal you away and that she might wish to see what she was losing.”
Christine’s hand flew to her mouth. “You wrote to Selina?”
“I did. And she replied, quite warmly. She insisted I bring you as soon as the weather and sense allowed. I believe she intends to scold me for not having done so sooner. And probably you as well.”
The carriage stopped before the steps, where a footman already waited. The door opened, and a familiar voice called out.
“Christine!”
Selina was descending the steps, one hand upon her rounding belly, the other extended in delight. Her face was pale but radiant, her eyes bright with happiness. Christine was out of the carriage and running to her before propriety could protest.
“Selina,” she gasped, catching her sister’s hands, “you look…”
“Enormous,” Selina said cheerfully, “but alive, which is something I was not certain of a month ago. Oh, Christine, it does my heart good to see you. And you, Your Grace,” she turned to Tristan with a smile that was both grateful and appraising, “you’ve done precisely as I hoped.”
He inclined his head. “I will try to make a habit of it, my lady.”
Selina laughed. “You must come in at once. Dominic is away inspecting the northern farms; he will be wretched to have missed you. He has been positively unbearable since you told us of your betrothal. Keeps muttering that no man deserves his sister-in-law.”
Christine flushed. “Selina, please…”
But her sister’s smile only widened. “You may spare me modesty, dearest. I know a contented woman when I see one.”
Inside, Birchfield was all warmth and light.
It was a stark contrast to Duskwood. The air was filled with the scent of beeswax and roses, the faint sound of a clock ticking somewhere down the corridor.
The house had always felt like Selina, graceful but unpretentious, welcoming as a hearth.
Christine felt a pang as she stepped inside.
That her own new home was not so welcoming.
That she might not have the time to remedy that. Or the right.
As they were led into the drawing room, Christine caught sight of a cradle half-shrouded in muslin by the fire, a soft reminder of the child soon to come.
“You are sure that you are up to this?” Christine asked, “I do not want to be a burden if…”
Selina took her sister’s hands in her own. “I am far better than…you have believed.”
She paused, a shadow crossing her face. Her smile slipped but returned quickly.
“Selina?”
“A momentary twinge. Nothing at all to worry about,” Selina said, “I should have written sooner myself, but Tristan’s letter was, well…disarmingly frank.”
Christine’s cheeks burned. “Was it?”
“It was. He made it clear he thought a visit was essential to your well-being. I could hardly deny such concern.”
Christine looked at Tristan, who was watching quietly.
A wolf at bay.
“He and I shall have words about impositions,” Christine promised.
“Not a bit of it, Christine. I have been looking forward to seeing you,” Selina replied.
She lowered her voice, for Christine’s ears alone.
“He is a very handsome fellow. Almost on a par with my Dominic. You are a lucky woman, Christine.”
“Appearances are not everything, and you are too quick to believe in happy endings,” Christine replied.
“Nonsense. I have lived one.”
Tristan stood looking out of the window, pretending to be alone in the room. His posture was relaxed, his gaze on the gardens beyond. Christine, watching him, felt a pang, an ache that mingled tenderness with guilt. She wished she could tell Selina the truth, but could not bring herself to do it.
If I did, Selina would want me here with her, and I cannot allow that until I am positive she is well enough.
Despite her protestations, it did not take long before Selina’s eyes became heavy, and even holding her head up looked like an effort.
Christine sent her to bed for a nap, brooking no resistance and recruiting the butler as her ally.
Later, while Selina rested, Christine joined Tristan on the terrace overlooking the lawn.
The air smelled of lavender and warm stone.
“You did this for me,” she said softly, “you knew how much I wished to see her.”
“I thought you would prefer a morning without worry,” he said simply.
She hesitated. “Tristan… she does not know the truth. About us.”
“I know.”
“Please don’t tell her.”
He looked down at her, eyes shadowed by sunlight. “I had no intention of doing so.”
“I hate deceiving her.”
“You are sparing her. That is different.”