Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Harry woke with a cockstand and a deep ache in his ballocks. Remembering where he was, he rolled over in hopes that Agnes would be interested in a morning romp. Her place was empty.
That was probably for the best. They were no longer hidden by the darkness of night.
Her staff would be awake now, around to hear her muffled cries from behind the door.
The home was spacious but still cozy. Hopefully Agnes’s sounds hadn’t made it below to the servants’ quarters.
They still played in his mind. She had made her pleasure known.
Despite his desperate need, he would not attend to his situation with his own hand.
It would be impolite for him to leave soiled cloths for the maid to launder, and it wasn’t as though he could travel back to London without his trousers.
He needed clean clothes and a release, but first, he and Agnes had to discuss what to do about Skelton.
The morning light illuminated the foyer.
The house felt alive. A faint scent of garden herbs tickled his nose, and warmth from the fireplace wrapped around his body.
No wonder Agnes was partial to staying here.
There was a comfort within these walls that didn’t exist in his bachelor rooms. This was always meant to be a family home.
He and Ward crossed paths in the foyer. Harry prepared himself to be greeted with a snarl, but instead was met with only cold disinterest, an improvement.
“Lady Skelton is in the drawing room,” Ward told him. “She has asked that you join her for tea and breakfast when you wake.” He walked past Harry and up the stairs.
The drawing room door was open, so Harry knocked on the wall beside it. Agnes stared out the window, lost in thought.
“Good morning.” Neither the knock nor the greeting garnered her attention. He took small steps forward, not wanting to frighten her. “Agnes . . .?”
She gasped, and her startled eyes met his.
“I’m sorry. I’m just thinking. Sometimes I get so stuck on trying to solve a problem, I shut out the world around me. This is my favorite place to think.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Being able to achieve that level of concentration is a useful skill. I long to be able to find that type of quiet in my own mind.”
“It’s been more useful than you could imagine.”
He sat himself in the chair beside her, sharing her view out the window. People walked by on the cobblestone streets wearing layers of clothing in defense of the early morning chill.
“So tell me about it.”
“Hmm?” Agnes must have fallen back into her thoughts.
“How has blocking out the world around you been helpful?”
He imagined a future sitting here with Agnes each morning engaged in familiar conversation. Unfortunately his current attempt dimmed her demeanor.
“Oh,” she said, looking away. She lifted her hands to pour the tea, but they shook. The lid clattered against the pot. He placed his hands gently on top of hers.
“Allow me. I will pour, and you can tell me, but only if you would like to. If not, tell me something else, anything else.”
He tried to meet her gaze, but she stared down at his hand resting on hers. He took the teapot and poured into the cups.
Her silence made him uneasy. “I’ll tell you something about myself, if you’d like. I didn’t mean—”
“No,” she whispered. “I think I would like to talk about it. With you.”
His throat caught. Agnes was becoming an important piece in his life, changing the way he saw the world, coloring his everyday experiences. For her to open up to him, just him, was a privilege. He would do anything to prove he deserved it.
“I’ll listen to whatever you wish to tell me, darling.” She met his gaze, but the pinch between her brows remained. She exhaled a shaky breath.
“My mother and I had a difficult life in London.” He didn’t respond, not wanting to distract her from her story. He did not know she had been from London. No one in the ton had recognized Agnes when she had married Lord Skelton. Her mysterious origins had only added fuel to the rumors.
“I never knew who my father was. My mother didn’t seem to know either. Whenever I asked her, she would just say I had no father, and shouldn’t want one either. Said even if I found out who he was, I wouldn’t have found a good man anyway. My mother . . . she earned her living with her body.”
Agnes’s posture slumped, a declaration of shame, a shame that Harry wanted to take from her and make disappear. Her gaze had fallen back to her hands cradling her teacup.
She continued, “I understand why women are forced to make that choice. I mean, I’m not angry at her for keeping us fed and housed, just barely.
But the men who paid her, they were unkind.
Sometimes she worked on the streets, hidden in alleys.
Sometimes . . . she brought them to the room.
We only had one room. I hid behind a curtain that hung in the alcove of the only window.
“I got good, really good, at blocking out the noise. Looking out the window to find my inner peace, shutting out the world around me—the sounds, the smells, the way the floor shook.”
Turning toward her, Harry let his knee slide into hers, testing her reception to his touch. To his surprise, she took his hand between hers and pulled it to her leg. She held on fiercely, as if she were uncertain he would stay with her. Of course he would. He could never leave.
“Is that why you didn’t want to find passion within your marriage or outside of it?”
“Yes. That’s part of it. What my mother did with the men never sounded pleasurable, never romantic.
It was hard labor, sometimes with an aggressive, violent partner.
I couldn’t see how anyone would desire that.
Even with a good partner. But that was before.
Now with enough time, and meeting you . .
.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I believe I understand.”
He stroked the side of her hand. “It’s difficult being a parent. No one can judge a mother for what she does to feed her child, to keep her safe.”
“There’s more . . .” she murmured. His free hand wiped away the tears that had fallen on her cheek. With his touch, he wished she could take his strength, strength he was desperately trying to muster. Seeing her cry like this broke him too.
“My safety was not her concern. I was another means for earning, an investment. Keep me alive until I could bring in coin with clients of my own. Keep me pretty so I could bring in higher wages than her, attract men with deeper pockets.”
He swallowed down the retching feeling in his throat. His chest felt empty.
“Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head. “No, but they tried. I don’t know where the strength came from, but I fought back with teeth, nails .
. . knees, however I could. I knew enough about men’s bodies to know where they were most vulnerable.
Eventually my mother told me I had one more chance.
Told me if I wasn’t going to earn my keep, then I was no longer welcome.
I tried to find a job, but the income was only a small portion of what she expected. ”
“Agnes . . .” He was at a loss for words. His childhood had been so different. He had always grieved over the loss of his mother, and even though he felt invisible among four brothers, they loved him. Papa cared for them all with everything he had. No one deserved to suffer as Agnes had.
“So, you see, Harry, I’m just a bastard daughter of a woman who lived her life on her back. It was dumb luck that I found myself a baroness. What makes me worthy of passion . . . or love? I want it, but I’ve never expected it.” She hung her head and her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Harry understood trauma could leave lasting effects, but never would he have thought Agnes, the spectacular woman who had rewritten his life, would be the one to feel unworthy of him.
“I’m a nobody, Agnes. I have spent my whole life working for other people, helping them build their legacies.
I have four successful brothers, all who have made a name for themselves.
People know who they are, and I am only ever the accountant, known by the men I work for.
But I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine.
You are somebody. You’ve made a life for yourself here in York.
People rely on you. They admire you. I have counted myself lucky that you even looked my way. ”
He dropped to the floor and moved in between her knees. Agnes gave him a puzzled look, and he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her stomach, laying his head on her bosom. He listened to the beat of her heart.
Agnes had never told anyone about her life in London, except for Edith, who had relayed her history to Richard when arranging the marriage. Now, twelve years after waiting outside the gates of the children’s home, she realized that she had never completely outrun her fears.
As Harry held her, his head on her chest, she felt free. Speaking the truth of her past had banished the lingering darkness.
Would Harry notice the change? He was a master of observing the finer details, captivated by the transformations of his moths.
Could she, as ordinary as his specimens, also be beautiful in his eyes?
She had never considered herself beautiful, but in Harry’s arms, she felt extraordinary.
She rested her cheek on the top of his head.
He rose from his knees and laid his lips on hers. The kiss was tender, affirming, and warmed every part of her.
“I’m going to court you every day until we can marry.”
She pulled away, amused at his unabashed confidence. “Oh, so you think our courtship is going well?” she teased. She couldn’t believe that she was smiling moments after sharing such difficult, shameful secrets with him. He really was the light, and like a moth, she never wanted to leave it.
Harry also smiled. It was full of mischief and a confidence that had grown tenfold in the last few days. “I know it is. You made me aware of that fact last night. I’m curious if your staff is also aware. You weren’t exactly quiet.”
She wondered what he would do next, his eyes almost as dark as hers, but he gave her one last chaste kiss and returned to his chair.
“I have just an hour or so before I need to get back to London.” Her smile dropped with disappointment, and he noticed. “I’m in desperate need of fresh clothing, Agnes.”
“I could have the servants launder them.”
He laughed, a loud boisterous laugh. “You think I will just hand them my crusted trousers while I walk around in what? Your dressing robe?”
She shrugged. “There are still clothes in Richard’s closet. I can have Mrs. Smith look for something suitable.” He laughed again, the same precious laugh she had listened to for years while she sat outside of Richard’s study.
“Sweetheart, if you think I can fit into his clothes, perhaps you might need to whip up a tincture for your delusions. That man was a giant, and I’m, well . . .” He gestured over the length of his body.
“You’re petite.” Teasing him was fun now that he didn’t break into a nervous sweat or lose his ability to speak.
“Watch it now,” he growled.
“Fine,” she said, switching to a more serious tone despite wanting to enjoy the playful conversation longer. They needed to make a plan before he leaved for the station. “We must decide what to do about Charles. But first, should we search Richard’s secret room?”
Harry’s mouth fell open. She had forgotten that when she had told Harry about the Antinous Journals, she hadn’t exactly described where Richard and Oscar had been printing them. First, she would have to explain the key, and to explain the key, she’d have to explain the hauntings.
She didn’t know Harry’s opinion about ghosts.
It was not something that came up in everyday conversation, even in York.
Almost everyone in this city believed in the spirits.
They were just like any other inhabitants, no different than the stray cats that patrolled the streets looking for rats.
How could anyone deny their presence, with centuries of souls left behind in the city through violence, revolutions, and conquering?
People in London were more skeptical of their existence.
“I’ll show you, but first, you haven’t touched your breakfast. It has probably grown cold while I cried all over you.”
“Considering I spent an equal amount of time with my head pressed against your breasts, I cannot lay all the blame on you,” he said, winking.
“Eat.”