Page 98 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Mrs. Audley could only stare at him in shock.

Thomas knew just how she felt.

Amelia wasn’t sure what time it was. Certainly after midnight. She and Grace had been shown to their room several hours earlier, and even though she had long since washed her face and donned her nightclothes, she was still awake.

For a long time she’d lain beneath her blankets, pretending there was some kind of music to Grace’s even, sleep-lulled breathing. Then she’d moved to the window, deciding that if she couldn’t sleep, she might as well have something better to look at than the ceiling. The moon was nearly full, its light rendering the stars a bit less twinkly.

Amelia sighed. She had enough trouble picking out the constellations as it was.

Somewhat apathetically, she located the Big Dipper.

Then the wind blew a cloud over it.

“Oh, it figures,” she muttered.

Grace began to snore.

Amelia sat on the wide window ledge, letting her head lean up against the glass. She’d done this when she was younger and couldn’t sleep—go to the window, count the stars and the flowers. Sometimes she even climbed out, before her father had the majestic oak outside her window pruned back.

That had been fun.

She wanted that again. Fun. Tonight. She wanted to banish this grim despondency, this horrible sense of dread. She wanted to go outside, to feel the wind on her face. She wanted to sing to herself where no one could hear. She wanted to stretch her legs, still cramped from so much time in the carriage.

She hopped down from her perch and donned her coat, tiptoeing past Grace, who was mumbling in her sleep. (But sadly, nothing she could make out. She certainly would have stayed and listened, had Grace been making any sense.)

The house was quiet, which she’d expected, given the hour. She had some experience sneaking through sleeping households, although her past exploits had been limited to pranks on her sisters—or revenge for their pranks on her. She kept her footsteps light, her breathing even, and before she knew it, she was in the hall, pushing open the front door and slipping out into the night.

The air was crisp and tingling with dew, but it felt glorious. Hugging her coat close, she moved across the lawn toward the trees. Her feet were freezing—she hadn’t wanted to risk the noise her shoes would have made—but she didn’t care. She’d happily sneeze tomorrow if it meant freedom tonight.

Freedom.

Grinning and laughing, she broke into a run.

Thomas couldn’t sleep.

This did not surprise him. Indeed, after he’d bathed the dust from his body, he changed into a fresh shirt and breeches. A nightshirt would be of no use this night.

He’d been shown to a very fine bedchamber, second only to the one given to his grandmother. The room was not overly large, nor were the furnishings obviously new or expensive, but it was all of fine quality, lovingly cared-for and warm and welcoming. There were miniatures on the desk, placed artfully in the corner where they could be gazed upon while one was writing one’s correspondence. There had been miniatures on the mantel in the drawing room, too, lovingly displayed in a row. The frames were a bit worn, the paint rubbed down where they’d been picked up and admired.

These miniatures—these people in the miniatures—they were loved.

Thomas had tried to imagine a similar display at Belgrave and almost laughed. Of course, portraits of all the Cavendishes had been painted, most more than once. But the paintings hung in the gallery, formal documents of grandeur and wealth. He never looked at them. Why would he? There was no one he wished to see, no one whose smile or good humor he wished to recall.

He wandered to the desk and picked up one of the little portraits. It looked like Jack, perhaps a decade younger.

He was smiling.

Thomas found himself smiling, although he was not certain why. He liked this place. Cloverhill, it was called. A sweet name. Fitting.

This would have been a nice place to grow up.

To learn to be a man.

He set the miniature down and moved to the nearby window, leaning both hands against the sill. He was tired. And restless. It was a noxious combination.

He wanted this done.

He wanted to move forward, to find out—no, to know who he was.

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