Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Adeline was sitting on the floor in her undergarments, sucking on her finger.
A broken vase, which had been on a pedestal by the door, lay in pieces next to her.
One of those pieces bore beads of bright blood on its jagged edge.
She screamed again as Winston burst into the room and spun on his heel.
“What on earth has happened?” he demanded.
“I was hurrying because you were waiting on me. I was too hasty trying to get this dratted dress off that I bumped first the door, then the vase.”
“I note that you have cut yourself.”
“Yes, and I can’t get dressed until the bleeding stops because it will get all over my…my blasted clothes. Oh, hang it all!”
She sounded exasperated, and Winston found himself chuckling. Her swearing had the sound of one who did not do it often or really know how to say the words with conviction. He took out his handkerchief and turned. Adeline had pulled a bedsheet from the bed to cover herself.
“Here. Press it against the wound and keep your hand elevated.”
He seized her wrist and lifted it above her shoulder.
“I am not usually so incompetent. I do know how to treat a minor cut. But my mind is scattered.”
Winston crouched beside her, studying her. There was such innocence in her pretty face, such earnestness, such brightness that he struggled to hold onto his suspicions and his doubts. She looked into his eyes and then away, only to come back again as though a bee drawn inexorably to a flower.
“Why is it scattered? I am the one with the hangover.”
“Did you sleep well?”
Winston frowned. The question seemed out of place.
He studied her again, refusing to look away, wanting to see her emotions and her thoughts play out across her face.
She gazed back in such a frank way that Winston became aware of their proximity.
Of the fact that he still held her wrist, fingers gently enclosing her pale flesh. He could feel her pulse. It raced.
“I slept enshaded in forgetfulness divine,” he quoted, remembering the poetry of what he had thought to be a dream.
A dream in which an angel read Keats to me. A strange dream. An even stranger reality.
“O’ soft embalmer of the still midnight,” Adeline replied, eyes never leaving Winston’s face.
He sat back on the floor. Her arm slowly lowered to her side, but his hand never left her wrist. He had forgotten it was there, and so too, it seemed, had she.
“Keats,” Winston said.
“My favorite,” Adeline said.
It is too much. What are the chances that she should find pleasure in such an obscure writer, just as I do? He is not widely read. But then how would she know?
“I used to agree.”
“What has changed?”
“Much.”
Her eyes demanded more, pulled the words from his soul to the very edge of his lips. But Winston obstinately refused to share those words. He kept them back, swallowed them.
A shared love of a poet does not make bricks of trust. It makes a wall of sand at best, and the tide is always near.
“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,” Adeline said in a soft, rhythmic voice.
It made Winston want to close his eyes and let her dulcet tone and the meter of Keats’ words wash over him. How long since he had found joy in something as simple as a poem?
And how long since I found one who shared that joy?
The ghost was a chill on the back of his neck, denying him this pleasure and reminding him of shame and guilt. His eternal burden.
“It was you,” he said.
They both knew what he meant. The book, the blanket…those had been provided by Adeline. The angel was no dream. She had seen him in his weakness and had not mocked him, had not carried tales to his mother or his daughter. She had given him dignity where she might have stripped it away.
Such actions are what make bricks of trust. A foundation. But it has been so long. Do I still remember how to construct such a relationship?
He felt his resolve soften, the memory of her voice carrying verses through the shadows returning to him with disarming clarity.
“Thank you,” he said at last, low and rough. “For your discretion. And…your kindness.”
“How could I have done anything differently? You were…unhappy. I wished to give you comfort.”
“I was…” Winston realized the depth of the admission in those two words and wished for them back, “I was drunk. Maudlin. That is all.”
“That is fine. I did not read Keats to you to make you happy.”
“You were in the library reciting poetry in the middle of the night, simply for the fun of it?” Winston asked, raising his eyebrow.
Adeline laughed.
“No. Do you not remember? You asked me if I was…well, you asked me what I was doing there.”
A recollection pierced the opaque fog of strong drink, burning through it like the rays of the sun. He had accused her of spying on him.
And she does not wish to remind me of that accusation. Does not want to put the notion of spying back in my mind after I might have forgotten it.
He could feel his suspicion growing. Feel the trust dissolving.
“And you said?” he asked.
“I said that I was choosing a book because I could not sleep. I had a nightmare and always find sleep difficult after it.”
“Is this a recurring nightmare?”
Winston could not help but ask. The story unfolding for him was intriguing. It gave him insights into this lovely creature that he realized he was craving. But what is her plan? Is that what she intended?
“Yes, but now colored by the Briarwood fire. It was a frightening night.”
Winston had been so wrapped up in his distrust that he had not considered the impact of the fire on the survivors. The staff of Briarwood had been absorbed into his own. His mother had seemed as flighty and unreliable as always, though particularly focused when it came to the subject of Adeline.
A sure sign that Adeline has her claws firmly embedded in the mad old woman.
The thought annoyed him. He wanted to be rid of the sly, cynical voice that spoke them. Yet, that voice had been his salvation for years. Had kept him whole and sane. Kept him free from attachment.
Attachment means vulnerability. Weakness. Louisa needs a father who is strong and resilient.
“Yes, a traumatic experience,” he said softly.
“Added to the collection.”
“You have others?”
Adeline colored. Winston suddenly realized that she held his hand in her lap.
He had not been aware; the movement had felt so natural that he had not consciously thought of it.
She skipped her fingers across his palm.
When she saw him looking at their intertwined hands, her eyes went wide.
Her cheeks flared, and she released him.
“I’m sorry. I did that entirely without thinking,” she stammered.
“As did I. Do not fret,” Winston replied.
He suppressed the urge to take her hand once more.
She sat cross-legged against the bed. He sat close by, also with his back against the bed.
It felt oddly intimate even though there was no physical contact between them now.
The bleeding appeared to have stopped, and Adeline no longer held the linen against the cut.
She still held a blanket around herself.
“What trauma do you speak of?” he asked.
“It is…personal and private,” Adeline said, haltingly.
“You wish to be Louisa’s governess?” Winston said, leaving the question open.
“I do.”
Winston looked at her, eyes sharp and unrelenting.
“Your mother knows all of this. My parents died within weeks of each other. Influenza. My fiancé then left me at the altar.”
“A parade of ill-fortune. What are the chances?” Winston said, dryly.
Adeline shot him a look of daggers.
“Are you mocking me?”
“No. You are oversensitive.”
“Your mother gave sympathy when I told her,” Adeline said, accusingly.
“I am not my mother.”
“No, she has a heart.”
They faced each other now. Adeline was on her knees.
Winston had risen to one knee. A foot of space separated them, and they laced it with their barbs.
Winston wondered why he felt the urge to needle her, to draw out such emotion.
It was a perverse pleasure. Ordinarily, he would do such a thing to someone he intensely disliked.
But he did not dislike Adeline. Not intensely anyway.
Perhaps it is the way her eyes shine when she is angry. Or the way her cheeks turn so very red, making the green of her eyes sparkle like emeralds.
Or perhaps he just enjoyed the contest.
“I have a heart. My daughter will vouch for that. But none other is trusted enough to see it,” Winston countered.
“That sounds like a lonely existence,” Adeline said, sadly. “I cannot blame you for your attitude. I had considered adopting it myself.”
“It is pragmatic. The world is too full of knives. One must be hard to survive its blades.”
“Or welcoming of others so that they do not wish to stab you. You appreciate John Keats. You cannot be all that hard.”
Winston thought for a moment, looking away from her because he found it difficult to keep his mind focused when his eyes rested on her loveliness.
But the scent of her intruded. It was fresh and open, the smell of meadow and roses.
Clean and deliciously feminine but not in the manner of the vulgar French perfumiers.
“How did you come to read Keats?” he asked her, allowing his eyes to stray back to her, feeling like a man lost in the desert and stumbling upon an oasis.
“I bought a volume of his poems while out shopping with my mother. I was struck by the lush, almost tactile nature of his words. It was love from the very first reading.”
She looked unutterably sad, even as she smiled at the memory.
Winston found himself consumed with the desire to know more.
Keats had died just a few years ago. He was not widely read or recognized.
That meant her bereavement was relatively recent.
Still raw and bleeding. He took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
That kind of grief was something he knew well.
Oh, how well I know it. We are old adversaries.
“And you?” Adeline said softly.
They had contrived to move closer. Winston did not remember shifting his position or seeing Adeline deliberately closing the gap between them. It was as if they were drawn together like magnets.
“I sought comfort during a…period of coldness. I looked for warmth and found it in this unknown poet. I even considered becoming his patron, but fate intervened.”
Adeline’s smile shone. “Oh, that would have been wonderful! And how sad that the poor man never knew how close he had come to fame and fortune.”
“Possibly. It might have frightened him away. I do not relish the fame my rank brings me.”
Too much. Too much. My armor softens, and I am exposed. This sorceress has me bewitched. I should be rid of her for good.
“Your grandmother warned me that you drive people away with your rudeness. With your coldness. I disagree with both.”
Winston had never wanted to kiss her more. It would be so easy. The merest inclination of his head and their lips would come into blessed contact.
“You should not,” he whispered. “I am not made for the company of others.”
“You might surprise yourself.”
“I do not wish to.”
“For Louisa’s sake.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Winston leaned back, looking away. Adeline’s beauty had been pulling him into a whirlpool. He had been drowning in his desire for her and was glad of it. Even now, he wanted to rip away the bedclothes that concealed her body from his sight.
“You seek to invoke my daughter’s name to manipulate me,” he said harshly, getting to his feet.
Adeline looked stricken.
“No! That could not have been further from my mind. I…I simply thought that there was nothing you would not do for her. I would do a great deal for her if I could, and I have not known her for long.”
Adeline got to her feet, trying to keep the toga of bedclothes from under her feet. Winston walked to the door.
“I did not mean to cause offense!” Adeline cried.
There was such a feeling in her voice. Almost desperation.
The desperation of a confidence trickster who realizes her game is up? But then she has not mentioned my drunkenness. She has shown only compassion. And she does love Keats.
He turned to her, the stricken look on her face a dagger that cut him deeply. He felt the urge to make her smile again.
“You wish to be Louisa’s governess. I will grant you a trial. A month. We shall see if you are suited.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I am most grateful. I am very fond of Louisa even after this short time. It will be a most rewarding employment,” Adeline babbled.
She smiled. Winston’s lips tugged into a response. Then, as the urge to hold and kiss her surged within him like a volcanic upwelling, he opened the door.
“Shall I summon a servant to help you dress?” he asked, putting as much ice into his voice as he could.
“No, I think I can manage.”
“I have matters to attend to. Summon a servant to guide you back to the breakfast room,” Winston said abruptly.
She had climbed his walls and roamed beyond.
He felt uncomfortable at how much he had given.
How much he had allowed her to see. He wanted her safely on the other side of the walls now.
Poetry or no poetry. He left the room, conflicted.
Suspicion gnawed at him like a teething puppy, but the echo of her poetry lingered like light against darkness.