Chapter 6
Alice wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her. Sleep was always elusive at the start of these parties. George used to laugh, calling her his little phantom with the way she would wander around at night.
He was always laughing. Not at her, of course.
Well, not typically.
He just had such a jovial disposition that it was natural for him to find his wife amusing from time to time.
Such as when her nerves overcame her and set her to walking the island or house.
Or when his friends thought her beautiful and she found the attention discomfiting.
There was always something droll afoot to entertain him.
Alice bit her lip at the war of emotions those memories brought up. Recollections of Commander Seymour always did that. Even upon hearing of his death, she’d been conflicted.
Sad, naturally. But also . . . relieved?
She did not like to dwell on it. Perusing the past was not beneficial to what she needed to accomplish in the future.
Perhaps she’d head to the kitchen and prepare something to add to the meals tomorrow.
It calmed her. The smells of baking, the feel of dough in her hands, the warmth of the oven—something about the room made her feel at home in a way that no ballroom or dining hall ever could.
Even when Trumble eyed her in that disdainful way if she caught her there.
Martha did not judge, and that was enough.
She grasped the candle she’d never put out and made for her door.
Unless her cook was somehow still awake, Alice would surprise Martha by having some bread dough made and rising when the woman awoke the next day.
Maybe she could convince her to make it into sweet rolls.
No matter how often Alice helped with the cooking—and she had since the second week of her marriage when she’d hidden from well-meaning guests and Cook had taken her under her wing—she’d never been able to make her rolls come out as Martha’s.
Her footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet of the hall in the family wing. The house was quiet, not even the telltale sounds of staff up late preparing for the events of the next day. It was the best part of night. When she could be entirely alone.
A shadow crossed at the end of the hall.
At least she was supposed to be entirely alone.
She nearly called out to see just who it was, but that felt silly.
Most likely it was a figment of her imagination.
Less likely, but still plausible, it was one of her guests dealing with trouble sleeping.
Either way, there was no reason to call into the dark of the family wing.
No one but her was housed here—not even George’s friends who had been more like his brothers to him.
The shadow appeared in the hall again, closer this time.
It wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
Instinct took over. She stopped walking, tucked herself into an alcove, and blew out her candle.
The shadow appeared again, some fifteen paces away. A person, most definitely, their head bowed to watch the floor.
Mostly baseless fear gripped Alice. Folktales of wraiths on the island’s cliffs came unbidden to her mind.
Lieutenant Carruthers truly was a good storyteller, and his gravelly voice filled her ears just then.
Stories of lost sailors, bloodthirsty pirates—ridiculous.
She was within the walls of her home, and even if she were not, these stories were only fairytales created to teach the island’s children not to wander around at night.
If nothing else, then to stay out of the way of the smugglers.
Smuggling. That made her skin crawl as much as the folk tales.
The personage took the distinct shape of a man of average height with ruffled hair. A few more steps and she thought she recognized him.
“Sir Henry?” she asked quietly, stepping forward.
The shadow jumped into the air, letting out a small squeak.
Alice nearly laughed at the reaction, which was akin to a frightened cat.
“Mrs. Seymour?” he asked.
“Yes. I apologize, I did not mean to scare you.”
“You did not scare me. You simply . . . I cannot think of a word that means ‘scared’ without sounding so chickenhearted.”
“Perhaps startled?” she offered.
“That is far better, yes. I was startled. I did not expect to find anyone on my nighttime stroll.”
“Nor I.” She could not make out his features from his distance only a few steps away.
“I apologize. I, ah, could not sleep.”
“Nor I,” she repeated, taking in his rounded shoulders and averted gaze, and seeing discomfort in that stance. An unsettled guest was something she could solve, even if it made her a little uncomfortable. “How did you find yourself in the family wing?”
“Oh. Is that where I am? I . . . was attempting to find the drawing room. But I accidentally put out my candle.”
“That is in the other wing. A floor down.”
“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, this is rather embarrassing.”
She set her mind on helping him and not on her own ever-present discomfort. “What were you in need of?”
He hesitated, hands adjusting his jacket. “To own the truth, I was seeking out a nightcap.”
Unwittingly, she stiffened. “I ought to have told you before now, but I do not keep drink in the house.”
A beat of silence. “Truly?”
She nodded, then realized he might not see it.
“Truly.” Her tone was clipped. This was one thing that she did not feel nervous over.
It was her house. If she did not want alcohol kept within the walls, she would not.
No matter how the butler raised his eye or how ridiculous every man who stepped foot in Windvale thought her, on this she would not budge.
They could go to the town of Dunsmore for their drinks, and leave her home free of the repercussions.
“Ah. Well, then . . . ” He shifted his weight, his shadow fuzzing on the edges with the movement.
“Is that all?” She did not intend to sound rude, but she was afraid it came out as such.
Yet it could not be helped. She was tense all over, and she had as much control over it as she did her nerves.
If there was anything she detested, it was strong drink.
She would just return to her room. Her desire to bake had been squashed by her sudden resurgence of memory.
Of shouting and the sound of shattering bottles.
She shuddered, pushing back the thoughts to add, as a good hostess ought, “I am sorry to disappoint you, Sir Henry.” She said the words even if she did not feel them.
“It is no matter.” He paused, as if considering what to do next. Good. Every man should consider just what could better occupy their time outside of indulging in drink. “Might I accompany you on your walk then? Only to pass the time until we are both prepared to sleep.”
“That would not be particularly prudent, Sir Henry. I do not need accompaniment.” She may be afforded certain privileges as a widow, but that did not mean she had any desire to hurt her reputation by a nighttime stroll with an unattached gentleman. Especially one who wanted alcohol.
Again, Sir Henry shifted. “Do forgive me, but if you will not allow me to escort you, perhaps you will escort me?”
Alice’s eyes widened against her will.
He shifted. “You see, I am lost. I fear without your escort, I will never make it back to my room.”
What would be the best response? The part of her trained to be a good hostess said she should give in. The part filled with past recollections wanted to leave him to wander aimlessly through the house.
“Or perhaps you could simply direct me?”
She sighed, swallowing back her feelings. They were heightened with irrationality anyway, and returning a guest to his room was nothing to concern herself or her reputation over. She could at least take him to the proper wing. “No, I will escort you. I apologize that you’ve become lost.”
“It is I who should be sorry.” He fell into step beside her. “Your home is so large I think I may be just as likely to walk off a turret as arrive intact to my room before sunup.”
Despite herself, Alice’s lips twitched. A turret.
She remembered when she’d arrived here for the first time, surprised that the large house was more like a castle than a home.
She’d felt like a princess. It had astounded her to know that her own funds had paid for it.
“Should I be concerned, Sir Henry? First you told me you were worried you might wander off a cliff. Now you are telling me you will do the same from a turret? You do not have a death wish, do you? Or an abominably large amount of clumsiness?”
“Maybe a bit of both.” There was a smile to his words, though she did not look over at him. The lingering feelings from her memories of a drunken man still hovered about her mind like wispy clouds following a storm, but they were dissipating.
“I am sorry to hear it. I will endeavor to keep you from sudden drops.”
“I would be much indebted to you.” They walked together in silence, crossing the house at a leisurely pace.
“The island really is beautiful,” he added by way of menial conversation.
“My sister and I saw some rocky beaches during our walk today. Is all of the island so stony, or do you have beaches of sand as well?”
“We have several of sand, yes. There is one not far from here, but all the shoreline south of us is not particularly forgiving to foot or boat. Further north is far kinder.”
Sir Henry nodded thoughtfully. Or, she assumed that was what his slow nod indicated.
“Is the port I came in on, near Dunsmore, the only one on the island?”
“Yes.”
Again they walked for a time in silence. The interior of the castle had been updated prior to George purchasing it, and despite the sometimes drafty corridors, it was quite comfortable, with plush carpets, tasteful wall hangings, and ample lighting during the day to make up for the smaller windows.
That was the one downside to this home. Such a beautiful view just outside the walls, yet it was difficult to see from the interior. Many bedroom windows had been enlarged, but not all.
“Do you have family on the island, Mrs. Seymour?” he asked.
“No. There is only my mother and she remains across the Channel.” Alice had anticipated Mother would visit once Alice had settled here.
Heaven help her, she’d thought she might finally impress the woman, but alas, Mother had claimed a distaste for boats and had not set foot on Shalk once since her daughter’s marriage.
When George had died, Mother had written, expecting Alice to return to her.
But hard as it was to win over the servants in this house, it was her house and she was more likely to succeed than to convince her mother that her husband’s death had not somehow been a failing on Alice’s own part.
“Do you enjoy hosting these house parties?” Sir Henry asked of a sudden, breaking her from her thoughts.
Alice paused a moment before answering with the same, rote answer she always gave. “Yes, it brings me great pleasure to have this home filled with happy individuals.” Then she added a bit more, feeling as if she could not help but reveal the entire truth. “My late husband loved parties.”
He grasped his hands behind his back. “That is magnanimous of you. I imagine having this many people invade my home would leave me feeling upended.”
She looked over at him, but nothing in his tone or gaze indicated he knew her true feelings on hosting these parties.
Could he understand to a point how greatly upended she herself felt?
George never could. Neither could her mother.
Alice had believed herself alone in such sensibility—assumed it to be a defect of her personality.
“I admit to feeling out of sorts at times.”
He glanced her way through the shadows, a soft smile barely visible across his lips. “You would not know it.”
Her breath caught in her chest, and she looked resolutely forward.
“Here we are,” she said, gesturing down the hall before them. “I expect you can see yourself to the correct door?”
His face creased with amusement. “I do believe I can. Thank you for saving me from myself.”
She nodded. “You are welcome.”
He made his way down the hall, stopping at a door, his hand wavering at the handle.
“That is Lieutenant Carruthers. Yours is the one to the right, Sir Henry.”
He pulled back his hand, nodding sharply. “Yes, of course it is.” He took several steps to the side then hesitated to open the correct door, eyes flicking up to meet hers.
Their gazes caught, and something unseen passed between them.
A combination of the late hour, shared sentiments, and .
. . something else. It made heat rise in her stomach, tickling its way up her back.
She dipped a quick curtsy and retreated, her breath coming faster but not for exertion.
She pressed a hand to her midsection as she retraced her steps to her own room, repressing the swirling feelings within.
What was wrong with her? She’d never felt this way around George.
Certainly she’d found him charming and he’d made her smile with his flattery, but never had she felt this unsettled—but not really unsettled—sort of feeling.
And worse than anything, she did not believe she disliked the sensation so very much. This could not mean that she was attracted to Sir Henry, could it? A new feeling joined the muddle growing in her. Guilt.
She had loved her husband, and though he was gone, she did not intend to find anyone to replace him.
Without looking back, she sped down the corridor, allowing the darkness of the hall to swallow her as she turned a corner.