Page 26 of The Scandalous Deal of the Scarred Lady
James had stood when the man had entered, half-thinking to ask how long he must wait; the very fact that the fire was laid told him to expect some time to pass before the household reacted to his presence. But the man gave him no room for questioning and likely would not have told him anything all the same.
So, it was that James stood near the door as it closed and heard the first strains of music from somewhere deep within the house.
A harp?James caught the door, to keep it from closing all the way. The servant on the other side looked askance at him. James stood for a moment, framed within the doorway, tilting his head to one side as he listened.
“Would that be Lady Barrington?” he asked, listening to a trill played with some skill, realizing that he not only knew the piece, but that whoever played the piece did so with enjoyment and even emotion.
“Yes, Your Grace. If that will be all?” The servant asked the question with a finality that did not leave room for further inquiries.
“Yes, thank you.” James watched the man depart, making no move to close the door and retreat back into his parlor to wait as a good guest ought to. No, he was not good at this entire act of making a call upon a lady. So long as she played, he had no intention of moving at all.
But the music was too faint, and he found that his feet had their own resolve, which was to carry him nearer that he might hear better. He moved without thinking into the hall, finding the room that must need be parlor and music room both. The music changed, a tempest raging, a piece he did not know. The music grew wilder, more untamed. Passionate.
James felt the stirring within, the answering call that he could not have explained if he’d tried. This was a piece that spoke of yearning. He wanted to go to her but could not. It was not proper. This entire visit was not proper.
In frustration and agony of indecision, James leaned against the wall next to the door. She was there, just on the other side. Had she been informed that he was waiting and not cared? Or had the message gone elsewhere to another member of the household?
Footsteps above him drew his attention to the staircase. A woman descended; he could see the bottom hem of her skirts first. A moment later, Miss Barlowe came into view, a bundle of green fabric draped over one arm.
She stopped when she saw him, her face suffused with pleasure. “Your Grace! I was not expecting to see you there!” She came down the remaining steps much lighter than she had trod the previous ones, nearly to dancing in delight as she paused at the foot, one hand still on the bannister. “Are you waiting on Lord Barrington?”
“Actually, I had rather hoped I might speak with his daughter. I know she was not feeling well last night, and it seemed the polite thing to do to call today and see how she fared.”
Some look that he could not interpret crossed Miss Barlowe’s face as she shifted the bundle in her arms. Regret? Anger? Sorrow? Her eyes narrowed a little as she studied him, as though she were testing her words in her mind before answering. “I am afraid that Lady Barrington is not receiving callers today,” she said finally, her tone cold and sure.
“But is that not her playing just beyond that door?” he asked, for the music had not ceased once since he had come to stand there.
Miss Barlowe’s lips tightened. “She finds that when she is not feeling well that, sometimes, playing her harp gives her comfort. I have tried to dissuade her in the past but to no avail. She absolutely refuses to rest herself, though I have begged her to.”
James frowned at this information. “She is not well often then?” he asked, thinking how quickly she had left the table last night. Her cheek had seemed rather pale now that he thought about it. Had she been escaping his company, or had she been ill after all?
His eye caught on the fabric that was bunched in Miss Barlowe’s arm. It took him a minute to place it, the soft green with the pale embroidery seemed at odds with the violent streaks of dark rust within the folds.
“Is that Lady Barrington’s dress?” he asked, reaching out to finger the cloth.
She whipped it away from his fingers. “Your Grace, it is hardly proper…”
But he had seen in that movement what he had been unsure of before. He reached and took the object from her arms, shaking out the folds and seeing the streaks that had been crimson, but dried darker. “‘Tis blood!” he exclaimed, shock making his hands lax, allowing her to take back her prize.
“It is nothing. A trifle. The maid should have seen to it last night though I suppose the dress itself is ruined now.”
“What has happened to her?”
Miss Barlowe folded the fabric over her arm again, smoothing the skirts down. “Can you not hear her playing? Lady Barrington is well and hale. This is nothing that should concern Your Grace.”
James glanced toward the door, wanting nothing more than to see for himself. “A moment ago, you said she was not well. Which is it?”
“She was not well last night, she is better today, though she still needs rest to recover.” Miss Barlowe met his gaze steadily as she finished saying this, as though daring him to question her further.
“From what? What injury would stain the dress? What are you hiding from me?” James made as if to throw open the door and see for himself what lay beyond.
Miss Barlowe darted out and grasped his arm, drawing him back and away, toward the small parlor he had so abandoned only a few moments before. So startled was he by the unexpected touch, especially from one of her station, he found himself following out of sheer curiosity. “Perhaps if we talked privately for a minute.”
But he dug his heels in and refused to go another step. “I would feel better if I could see her for myself.”
Her chin came up, and her eyes glittered darkly as she looked at him. “I would advise against it.”
James was beyond the point of listening. He pushed past her, going to the door he had stood against so longingly. Had it only been a few minutes? His world had changed in that time. The only thing he could think was how much he needed to see Lady Barrington, to reassure himself that she was all right. It was foolishness, he knew. Someone who was ill could not play like that.
