Page 86 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
The girl looked astonished, but she blushed with pleasure. “Why, thank you, milady. I hope I continue to do so for many more years.”
“Aye.” Phaedra quickly averted her face. “There is no need for you to wait up for me this evening.”
Or ever again, she added silently. The thought saddened her, despite her joy at the prospect before her. Lucy bade her good evening and slipped out. Phaedra gave herself a brisk shake.
She would forget all of these qualms when she stood with James upon the deck of the ship, feeling his strong arms abouther, his lips warming her. It was only when she was left alone for too long that she was beset by doubts.
She tried to subdue her nervousness by taking a practical survey of her belongings. James had already spirited away one small trunk, all that she could take away with her, except whatever items she might fit into her purse.
Phaedra lifted the lid of her jewel case, studying the contents.
Most of the sparkling gems meant little to her. Even the diamond aigrette earrings and the emerald brooch were but part of the image she had been expected to maintain as Lady Grantham. But she hesitated over the strand of pearls her grandfather had so recently given her.
Their luster seemed somehow dulled now, as she thought of the torment on James’s face, and of how her grandfather’s silence had helped see him hanged. As though some of James’s bitterness crept into her own soul, she rejected the pearls, dropping them back into the box. The only object she removed was an oval gold locket.
The locket was extremely plain. Its beauty for Phaedra lay in her memory of the giver. Two days before she had set sail from Ireland to become Ewan Grantham’s bride, Gilly had tossed the locket into her lap, saying, with one of his teasing grins, “And you can rest easy wearing it, darlin’. ‘Tis even paid for.”
Phaedra’s hand shook as she fumbled with the catch, opening the locket to reveal the hollow emptiness. “Damn you, Patrick Gilhooley Fitzhurst. Why did you never think to put a likeness of yourself inside?”
She clicked the locket closed, telling herself it didn’t matter. She would carry the image of unruly black curls and laughing green eyes forever in her heart. It was the most painful part of her leaving-not being able to bid Gilly farewell. She had forestalled him with great difficulty these past few days, sending him notes begging him not to come to the Heath until she sentfor him. She had even gone so far as to lie, writing that James Lethington had left the Heath, simply disappeared, assuring Gilly that all was well with her.
She feared seeing her cousin, knowing she might break down and reveal her plans. She could well imagine what Gilly’s reaction would be. He would attempt to kill James rather than let her go off with a man he deemed dangerous.
Her only choice was to slip away like this, leaving behind a letter for Gilly, pleading with him to understand and not to fear for her, ending with the prayer that, God willing, they would somehow meet again one day.
Phaedra fastened the locket about her neck. She took one last glance about her bedchamber, but she felt no regrets that she had spent her last night here. She had never truly known happiness in this room or any other of the elegant chambers of Sawyer Weylin’s mansion. Only one part of the house had ever held any charm for her.
Lighting a candle, Phaedra rustled out of her bedchamber to take one final peek into her garret. She had not been up there since the day she had discovered Hester dead. As she mounted the narrow stairs, she tensed with apprehension. But she need not have worried. The candle’s soft glow revealed her little sanctuary to be undisturbed even by the ghosts of the past. The dust gathered silently upon the jumbled assortment of furniture, which meant nothing to anyone save herself.
Phaedra walked immediately over to the bookshelf, running her fingers ruefully over the stiff leather spines. It was impossible to take the volumes with her. How ironic, she thought, that once more she must lose her treasured books-and this time because of the very man who had restored them to her.
Her gaze roved about the garret with a kind of bittersweet nostalgia. She found herself remembering all the dreams shehad woven up here, her plans for independence, the desire to be free, never to place herself in the power of any man again.
Of course, she told herself hastily, that had all been long before she had fallen so desperately in love with James. A mocking voice inside her reminded her that she had once fancied herself wildly devoted to Ewan Grantham.
But it was far different this time, she assured herself. It had to be; the risks were so much greater. She was flinging herself into a void, with only James’s love to sustain her. She had to trust him.
Thus resolved, Phaedra had but one more task to perform before she quit the Heath forever. She walked over to the oak desk and unlocked it. She intended to make sure all copies of her Robin Goodfellow writings were burned. But as Phaedra groped inside the desk, a feeling of panic settled over her. They were gone-the drafts she had bound up so neatly with the black ribbon.
She rifled through the drawer, coming up with nothing but blank sheets of parchment and yellowed issues of the Gazetteer. Phaedra straightened, willing herself to be calm and think.
The last she had seen of the papers had been the day she had showed them to James. He had flung them back at her. She had gathered up the parchment in great distress. And then ...
She pressed her fingertips to her temples in frustration, her mind drawing a blank. She simply couldn’t remember. She thought she had brought the papers back up here, stuffed them into the desk. Phaedra rummaged through the drawer one more time, but with no result. She supposed she might have temporarily placed the drafts in her dressing table.
Snatching up the candle, she raced down to her bedchamber, but although she fairly tore the room apart, she turned up no sign of the missing papers. When Lucy came upstairs forthe second time to report that Sawyer Weylin was growing impatient, Phaedra reluctantly had to abandon her search.
But as she flung her cloak over her arm, she fretted, “What could have happened to those accursed things?”
A thought occurred to her. Not a thought so much as a name-James. But she would not allow herself to pursue the fear. Instead she tried to tell herself that it truly did not matter. She was leaving London and her days as Robin Goodfellow far behind. If the papers came to light after the departure, she could rest assured her grandfather would be quick to destroy them.
Still striving to stifle her uneasiness, Phaedra descended the main stair to find her grandfather awaiting her in the hall below. James had not yet come down either, and the old man was fuming.
Leaning upon his cane, Sawyer Weylin hobbled past the suits of armor, his elaborately curled white wig and purple satin waistcoat straining over his huge middle, making a strange contrast to those lean men of iron.
Phaedra tensed at the sight of him. Ever since hearing James’s story, it had been difficult for her to meet Sawyer with any degree of composure. She had adjured James to forget the past, but discovered she had a hard time doing so herself.
Each time she regarded the stubborn set of her grandfather’s lips, the shrewd eyes set beneath heavy lids, she was unable to think of anything but the misery her grandfather had brought to both herself and James. How different things might have been if Weylin’s first concern had been for his granddaughter’s happiness! But he had thrown it all away, for the dream of enabling a great-grandchild to wear a coronet.
