Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Adeline paced the length of her chamber, her skirts swishing restlessly against her ankles.
Annoyance bubbled within her. It was aimed at Winston, but also, and more keenly, at herself.
She had allowed him to draw her into an argument.
She had reacted as though she were his equal, had raised her voice, and even shed tears before him.
I need to remember my position here. Cordelia has very relaxed expectations of her staff, but Winston does not.
But then she had never wanted to be employed as a governess; it was simply that circumstances had steered her in this direction.
That included an early bond with Louisa that was fast becoming impossible to break.
She had vowed never to be so weak. And yet, when Louisa’s well-being was in question, passion overcame composure.
I am behaving as though she is my daughter. After such a short amount of time, that is ridiculous. I must get some perspective.
She had undone herself in Winston’s eyes, and Louisa was the reason. Louisa, whose trust she could not betray, whose health she had sworn to guard with the whole of her heart. That same devotion, however, had given Adeline a weapon.
I was given an excuse. A reason to resign. I could not find it alone, but he just handed it to me. I will be just one more governess who could not get along with the Duke of Greystone.
She now had a pretext to sever herself from Greystone with the appearance of wounded pride rather than desperate necessity.
Winston’s anger had been so sharp, so cutting, that she doubted he would miss her.
Cordelia, she suspected, would take her son’s side in all things.
That left Louisa alone, and the thought of leaving her tore something deep inside Adeline’s chest.
It is Louisa that I will miss. Not her father. He is infuriating. Rude. Obnoxious and arrogant.
And a masterful, skilled lover. Handsome.
Olympian. His eyes upon her made her feel naked.
His presence sent shivers through her body as no other person had ever done.
She forced her thoughts away from him. Fear was a harsher master than either grief or desire.
For two years, she had lived a safe and concealed existence. Two years had passed without pursuit.
Now, with her lies exposed to Winston’s wrath, with questions beginning to surface about her history, it all threatened to collapse. If Winston learned the truth, if her father learned her whereabouts, her life would no longer be her own.
She wandered without purpose until her feet carried her to the library.
The heavy air soothed her nerves, the smell of old bindings a balm.
And there, still lying open upon the great oak table, was Debrett’s.
She had left it there when Mr. Pike had paid his unsettling call.
The name Clifford-Edge stared up at her, unblinking. Her breath hitched.
The entry listed the lineage of the viscountcy.
A son. But no daughter. No mention of her.
No anchor for the story she had told Cordelia.
It would take but a glance for him to uncover the lie.
She looked to the inkpot, which stood in the well at the corner of the table, stoppered with a cork.
Her hands trembled as she took up the small, glass bottle and unstopped it.
Then she tilted it until a black tide spread across the page. The neat lines of print blurred, vanished, drowned beneath the stain. With swift care, she pressed blotting paper over it, sparing the rest of the volume. But Clifford-Edge was gone, swallowed in ink.
And I have now committed an act of deliberate sabotage to protect my lie. If it is discovered, there is no way to avoid looking guilty. Of something.
Adeline pressed a hand to her temple. She was weary of this.
Weary of lies and inventions, of shadows and concealment.
Yet she knew no way to free herself from the tangle.
The truth would ruin her. Silence endangered her.
Either path was ruinous. She sought solace in memory, and her mind turned to the night she had read poetry aloud to Winston while he lay half-asleep and in his cups. Keats’s words had steadied her then.
She drifted toward the shelves, seeking Endymion, thinking to soothe herself again.
Her fingers, however, strayed to another binding, a volume she recalled Winston once examining with strange absorption.
She lifted it down, only to find it false, a hollowed cover that cradled a velvet-lined recess. Within lay a cameo. She opened it.
A woman gazed up at her. Beautiful, serene, her features bearing a resemblance to Louisa so marked that Adeline’s breath caught. Winston’s late wife. Louisa’s mother.
What happened to her? Why is she concealed in such a way? Why conceal her at all? How did she die?
The questions clawed at her heart. She closed the cameo with shaking hands, returning it to its hiding place, and slipped the false book back among the rows.
Later, she crept once more to Louisa’s chamber, intending to reassure herself that Louisa was well.
Adeline sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing back Louisa’s hair.
The girl was brighter now, the worst of her ordeal past. She caught Adeline’s hand with sudden urgency.
“Promise me you will not leave, Adeline. Promise you will forgive Papa.”
Adeline’s throat tightened. Louisa’s devotion pierced her more keenly than reproach ever could. She leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“I would never go without saying goodbye,” she said, conscious that she was avoiding a promise that she knew she would have to break.
Louisa sighed and closed her eyes, clinging to Adeline’s hand until sleep claimed her.
Adeline went to her own rooms, fatigued in body and soul. She opened the door and stopped at the sight of Winston. He was waiting for her, rising from a perch on the edge of an armchair. His expression was taut.
“I am tired,” she said at once, forestalling him. “I will not dine with you this evening.”
“I have no appetite myself,” he answered, his voice low, “but I asked that a meal be prepared for you. Here.”
He stepped aside to reveal a tray on the small table that stood by the window. Candlelight flickered across silverware, and a rose had been laid delicately beside the plates. Adeline’s heart gave a jolt.
“Is this an overture?” she asked. “A peace offering?”
Winston looked over the tray. “As I filled the tray myself, down in the kitchens and brought it here, yes. I think that would count as an overture.”
“I would rather hear you say that you are sorry,” Adeline said quietly.
“I acted as any father would,” Winston insisted, “but I do not like there to be discord between us.”
“Why? You have not shown that you care,” Adeline said.
Winston’s eyes went to the food. “Have I not?”
Adeline felt her anger flare anew, a wildfire fanned by the wind.
“You humiliated me. You would not hear reason. You are too proud to admit you were wrong.”
“And you wield my daughter’s affection like a blade,” he shot back. “Do not tell me you have not used it to sway me to your will. That is emotional blackmail, Adeline.”
Her eyes widened, stung.
“How dare you? Everything I have done has been for Louisa’s sake!”
Her anger boiled over like a pot left on the fire too long.
She remembered their first meeting and the bright flare of irritation that had led her to do the unthinkable, to bite his silencing finger.
Her eyes went to the tray, to the round, glazed bread rolls. She picked one up and hurled it at him.
Winston stood dumbstruck, the roll bouncing harmlessly off his chest. Then, astonishingly, he picked one himself and without a word, threw it at her.
Adeline ducked, gasping. He seized another, this one buttered and halved.
It struck Adeline’s hair, leaving a smear of butter behind.
Winston’s lips twitched in a barely suppressed smile.
Adeline’s fury transformed into mischief.
She scooped a spoonful of thick soup and flicked it like a catapult. It spattered across his waistcoat.
“You are incorrigible!” he exclaimed.
“You began it!” she cried, breathless with indignation.
“I?” He arched a brow. “As I recall, you began our last quarrel in similar fashion. Biting, was it not?”
Color rushed to her cheeks. “And you began this one!”
“You threw the first…object!”
“Because you accused me of using Louisa to manipulate you.”
Winston snatched a linen napkin to dab at his soup-stained waistcoat.
“You are juvenile,” he said.
“You, sir, are no better.”
Winston suddenly fired his own soup-laden catapult, but Adeline dodged out of the way and the curtains bore the brunt of the assault.
Food began to fly in earnest, their barbs mingling with laughter.
A bread roll hit the mantel. A slice of meat slid gracelessly to the carpet.
And then Adeline seized the pudding. It was beautifully yielding and luscious.
Her aim was true and it struck Winston full in the face.
He stumbled back, tripped over the arm of the sofa, and fell in a most undignified heap.
Adeline froze, both hands covering her open mouth.
She fought to contain laughter as Winston blinked through treacle, cream, chocolate and sponge.
The room held its breath. Winston wiped cream from his cheek, then brought the finger to his lips.
“An excellent pudding,” he said gravely.
Adeline stepped nearer, breathless with laughter, and dabbed at him with her own finger before putting it into her mouth.
“It certainly is,” she agreed, shoulders shaking with barely repressed mirth.
Winston did a fine job of watching her through a face-full of pudding and maintaining his dignity.
“Our cook, Mrs. Hardcastle, must never hear of this outrage,” he said.