Page 50 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
What could he intend to do that was so dreadful? The man talked as though he meant to commit a monstrous crime, as though he were thinking of murdering someone.
Despite the warmth of the late-morning sun streaming through the garret window, Phaedra shivered. She tried to tell herself she was being absurd. Yet although she might wish to deny it, she feared Armande would be capable of anything. For all his tenderness, she had seen the chilling light in his eyes too often. When she had left him, he had already taken refuge behind the icy facade she had learned to dread.
Phaedra’s hand tightened upon the pen, nearly snapping the delicate quill in half as she fought against the despair and fear that beset her. Flinging the pen down upon the desk, she tried to whip up her anger as a defense.
Blast Armande and all his cursed secrets! She shoved back from the desk, getting to her feet. The violence of the movement caused her chair to tip over backwards and clatter to the floor.
She left it where it had fallen, stalking over to the window. Both segments of glass, like two small latticed doors, were tightly closed. No wonder it was so stuffy in here. Phaedra struggled with the casement, trying to force one side open. The wood resisted her efforts until her face flushed damp with perspiration.
Swearing, she shoved with all her might, venting her temper upon the frame. When the window finally gave, swinging wide with a mighty slam, she lost her balance, her head and shoulders thrusting out into nothingness.
For a moment Phaedra had a dizzying view of the Heath’s stone gates and the cobbled drive below. Quickly drawing herself back in, she mopped at her brow with the heel of her hand.
Her heart pounded with fright, but she adjured herself not to be a fool. After all, it was not as though she had actually been in danger of falling the three stories to the ground below. She would have to squeeze her entire body through the window to be in peril of that.
Phaedra lingered by the window, resentful of the pale blue sky, so indifferent to her misery, and the sun, glinting with appalling cheerfulness off the cobblestones wet from last night’s rain. She wished there was some way she could spring from the window ledge and fly like some silver-winged bird, far from the Heath, fleeing these gray stone walls that had never harbored anything for her but unhappiness.
But what made her longing to escape so keen this particular morning?, Perhaps it was the memory of a night that would never come again, of blue eyes whose longing and despair tore at her heart, then froze her with the menace of secrets she was notpermitted to understand. Perhaps it was merely a wish to avoid the pain of watching Armande ride away.
“I’m glad he’s going. Glad!” she whispered fiercely.
But her heart condemned her for a liar. She blinked hard, staring out at the summer-blue sky dotted with fleecy clouds. No, she would not weep again. For the truth was, no matter how much Armande desired or needed her, it made no difference. Nothing could change the fact he was a man caught up in some dangerous intrigue. She would not make the mistake of being ensnared in those silken bindings, of once more becoming enamored of a man whose life held no place for her.
She had a life of her own to live, and it was time to get on with it. Her resolve taken, Phaedra squared her shoulders, determined to think no more of Armande, at least not this day. Stalking away from the window, she uprighted the chair and resumed her place at the desk. Reaching for her quill pen, she dipped the tip in the ink, forcing herself to concentrate on finishing her composition.
... and how can a nation which declares itself to be enlightened continue to cower behind the ancient cry of “No Popery,” like children howling in terror of bugbears in the night? Too long have Catholics been denied their rights to vote and hold office simply because of the bigoted fears of king and parliament.
She continued in the same strain for a few more terse paragraphs before signing the name of Robin Goodfellow with a large flourish. There. Although the writing was done in haste, her message was clear. Freedom! Freedom from English rule and emancipation for the Catholics who made up the suppressed majority in Ireland. Honest folk martyred for the sake of their religion, like her own cousin. At this thought, a reluctant smile curved Phaedra’s lips. Truthfully, she could not picture a less likely candidate for sainthood than Gilly. But forall his nonchalance, she knew there was a serious side to his nature, one that had often been angered by the persecution of his countrymen. Perhaps this essay of hers would merit more of Gilly’s approval than her ill-conceived piece about Armande had done.
And perhaps Gilly would be more inclined to forgive her for the fact that he had gone on a fool’s errand. She suffered a pang of conscience when she thought of her cousin wasting time and money in France to discover what she already knew, that Armande was not the Marquis de Varnais. It didn’t matter, anyway. After today she would likely never see Armande again.
Phaedra briskly sanded the parchment to dry the ink, trying to keep her mind busy with matters other than Armande’s departure. She thought of the considerable sum of money Jessym had promised for her next essay. The difficulty would be, with Gilly away, in finding a way to get the writing to her publisher. She trusted no one else, with the exception of Jonathan, to act as courier for her. But she could not bring herself to take advantage of her old friend’s devotion, knowing full well how such an errand would distress the nervous man. She might well be forced to await Gilly’s return-but who knew when that might be?
Her reflections were interrupted by the sound of the ormolu clock chiming the hour of eleven. Her gaze traveled to where the timepiece sat. It was the only ornament on the shelves that had remained empty since the day Ewan had destroyed her books. She supposed Armande would be packed, preparing to leave.
Phaedra folded the essay and locked it inside the desk drawer. She suddenly knew she could not endure being in the house when Armande left. Her grandfather was sure to rage at her for not exerting enough charm to make Armande wish to stay. Her lips twisted into a bitter expression when she thoughtof exactly how much charm she had exerted. But it had not been enough.
She could not face Sawyer Weylin’s wrath just now, could not endure bidding farewell to Armande as though he were but the merest acquaintance passing through her life. Her only hope of maintaining her composure lay in losing herself on the grounds until she was certain Armande had gone.
Fearful of encountering him, she did not even risk returning to her room to fetch her bonnet. She crept down the backstairs, drawing a sharp-eyed glance from Hester Searle as she skirted through the kitchens. Ignoring the woman, Phaedra let herself out the kitchen door, making her way through the rose garden at the back of the house, and headed for the gravel walks beyond.
But she had not gotten as far as the dense shrubbery when a voice, barely audible, pronounced her name. “Phaedra?”
She bit down upon her lip, despising herself for the hope that flared in her heart, but she could not suppress it all the same. She held her breath as she turned around. Her heart sank.
It was not Armande rising from the stone bench, the morning breeze riffling the dark strands of his hair. Phaedra watched as Jonathan crossed the garden to her side, wondering what on earth he was doing at the Heath so early. She had no desire for the comfort of Jonathan’s solemn smiles this morning, and regretted she hadn’t walked on, pretending not to have heard him. But she felt immediately ashamed of her impulse to avoid her old friend, who had always been so kind to her. Concealing her impatience, she managed to greet him in cheerful tones. “Why, Jonathan. What a surprise. What brings you out to the Heath at such an hour?”
He blinked at her, his smile fading in confusion. “Don’t you remember? I spent the night at the Heath because of the storm. I told you I meant to do so.”
“Oh.” She bore but vague recollection of parting from Jonathan. She had thought he’d summoned his carriage to return to the city-but then she had been absorbed in her card game with Armande.
Quickly she attempted to recover her error lest she hurt Jonathan’s feelings. “Aye, of course. What I meant was, it is such a surprise to see you sitting alone in the garden. Why are you not breakfasting with Grandfather?”
“I never eat much in the mornings.” He regarded her eagerly. “Were you going out walking, my dear? I should be only too pleased to accompany you.”
Phaedra heard his suggestion with dismay. She needed solitude now, needed it like a drowning man needs air. But how could she spurn his offer without wounding him? Only one reason occurred to her.
“To own the truth, it is already so warm and sticky I was not planning on a walk.” She fingered the high neckline of her saffron morning gown in what she hoped was a convincing manner. “I should rather pay a visit to the pond instead.”
