Page 27 of The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady
Still, his hand hesitated on the knob. What if she had no desire to see him? What if she was still ill as her aunt suggested?
I am being foolish.
Foolishness or not, by this point he had to know. His mouth was dry as he grasped the knob firmly and opened the door.
Lady Barrington was, indeed, the player of the harp. She sat at the window, head tilted back, eyes closed, her fingers moving across the strings of the instrument bringing out the most wild and wonderful of melodies. Her lips were parted as though at any moment she would burst out into song, matching voice to the wild keening of the strings.
She was playing winter, he realized. The ice and snow and the storms that shook their town upon the bay. He could almost see it in the melody that filled the air and captured him to where he found he wanted nothing more than to tilt his own head back and close his eyes, the better to savor the experience.
Only the music stopped with a sudden crescendo, the final notes hanging in the air long after her hands had stilled. He followed their movement down from the strings, seeing for the first time the gloves bunched on the table beside her, the bare fingers. The bandaged wrist.
“Your Grace?” Her eyes were wide, questioning.
The bandage on her wrist gleamed white against the dark velvet of her dress.
“I…I truly am sorry. I should not have intruded.” The words stumbled over each other as he backed from the room, closing the door carefully and turning to lean on it, trying to breathe, to catch his breath.
Understanding what Miss Barlowe had been trying to say.
“She is unused to the strain of guests,” Miss Barlowe said quietly, coming to stand next to him, her eyes full of sadness. Pity. Concern. The dress, the damnable dress lay over her forearm still. He wished to God she would lay it down somewhere. Burn it. Anything, lest he be reminded of the blood spilled, HER blood spilled by the very virtue of him being there.
“She arranged this. These meetings. I cannot begin to fathom…”
Miss Barlowe’s eyes widened so quickly he almost missed it. When she spoke, her tone was calm. Even harsh. “She does not know what is good for her. The condition she carries affects her very mind. She is prone to deep bouts of depression. I would not take it personally, Your Grace.”
Not take it personally when she left the table, left histeasing, and went and performed something unspeakable upon herself. It was all he could do to stand. He pushed away from the wall, stumbling a little, trying to control the sob that threatened. He made it as far as the front door, fumbling a little with this knob too, wondering why they were all made so hard to grasp in this house.
“I should…I need to…HERE.” He reached into his waistcoat and brought out the pin, that blasted brooch that had haunted him for near two weeks now. “Give this back to her. Tell her…tell her that I cannot honor our agreement. That I am sorry to have caused her distress. That I am sorry…”
Miss Barlowe took it from him, no concealing the way her eyes widened this time or the way her lips parted in a look of intense surprise and a hint of wonder. “Helena’s brooch?”
“She will understand. Or…you will make her understand.” James looked at the woman hopefully, recognizing that this was Lady Barrington’s aunt after all, for all her youth, that it was her job to protect her mistress and make these things right.
Miss Barlowe’s fingers closed around the jewelry. “I will make her understand.”
“Thank you. I am most indebted to you.” James bowed shortly and finally the door yielded under his fingers, just as the footman approached from the inner recesses of the house, who should have been there to manage this ridiculous door for him all along.
“No…thankyou, Your Grace,” Miss Barlowe called after him as he stepped out into the cold. From behind her there came another call, a different voice, high-pitched and panicked. Lady Barrington was calling him back.
James let the door slam shut behind him, let the wind carry him to his waiting carriage and all the way home. The sight of that bandaged wrist traveled with him all the way there.
Chapter 18
“Iam surprised that you were playing at all,” Phoebe said as she shut the door behind her.
Helena blushed. “It gives me comfort to play,” she said softly. “Why was he here?”
“And without your gloves? It truly is a shame that he saw the bandage upon your wrist. After the efforts I have gone through to keep your secret…”
Helena stared. “There is no secret to keep. You said yourself it was an accident! Besides, I had no way of knowing…it is easier to play without gloves. I never…”
“Thought? No, Helena, sometimes you fail to think at all.” Phoebe sighed and shook her head. “Well, the damage ’tis done. Come, it is near time for our meal. Would you like to take it in your room today?”
Helena stood her ground. “What do you mean? ‘The damage is done’?”
“This seems hardly the place to discuss it, where everyone can hear. My dear, you seem pale. I think perhaps it best if you eat in your room today. Come, I will take you.” Phoebe reached for her arm, but Helena wrenched away.
“You are saying he came to see me, after all. I thought so! I was sure of it when I saw him in the door, but he seemed not to hear when I called…” Helena started for the door, frantic, not thinking of anything except going to him, of not letting him leave thinking so ill of her.
