Page 33 of From the Ashes
"Forgive me for not writing, then. I didn't think my letters would be welcome." I picked up my skirts and marched for the door.
I didn't realize Lincoln had followed until he grasped my arm. He spun me round and pulled me close. Not so close that our bodies touched, but near enough that I felt his warmth and saw his pupils dilate.
I steeled myself for a confrontation, but he quickly let me go and stepped back. "You're right. Letters wouldn't have been welcome. I wouldn't have read them."
His honesty stung, even though I appreciated it. Lincoln had never been one for spouting sweet yet false words to get his way with me. It was one of the things I'd liked about him.
"I didn't want to be reminded of you," he said. "I avoided everything here that I associate with you."
I crossed my arms, determined to ward off his words and any kindness he might show me now. I refused to be affected by them. "How unfortunate that your seer's sense didn't sever when I left, or you might have succeeded in never thinking about me again."
"I didn't succeed before I sensed your life was in danger either. It seems I don't need to be near the things I associate with you to think of you."
I swallowed heavily again. This conversation wasn't going at all as I expected. "That passes in time, so I'm told."
"I was told the same thing."
I huffed out a bitter laugh. "Since we are speaking to one another about injuries incurred during my absence, tell me about your feet."
His features settled into a blank expression. "There is nothing to tell. You saw me at a weak moment."
"A moment when you forgot to walk without a limp." Speaking with him was a battle in itself where neither of us got the upper hand. I felt like I had to be on my guard the entire time, and yet I neither advanced nor retreated. "I know about the broken glass and the blood on your floor. Before you get angry with Doyle for telling me, you should know that he's only concerned for your welfare."
A beat passed. Two. His eyelids lowered and he watched me through his lashes. "Does your asking mean that you are concerned too?"
I bristled. "I'm curious as to why you broke a glass then deliberately walked over it."
He watched me. I bore it with what I hoped was a defiant stance and a lack of emotion, but it wasn't easy. His scrutiny made it difficult to maintain a façade of indifference.
After a few moments, he stepped around me. He waited, a hand on the door handle. It would seem I was dismissed. With my chin tilted up and my gaze on the door, not him, I strode out of the library.
"I'm glad you're home," he said while I was still within earshot. "I know you think I'm not, but I am. Immeasurably."
"Is that so?" I tossed over my shoulder without stopping. "I suppose my return will help assuage some of your guilt."
When I reached the landing on the main staircase, out of sight of him downstairs, I ran the rest of the way to my rooms. Once inside, I sat on the floor, my head on my knees, and cried. Not from sorrow, but from sheer, utter relief at being home and for the frustration of being so near Lincoln again. I thought I'd be able to bear seeing him every day, but I was no longer sure that I could. He wasn't someone I could remain indifferent to.
* * *
Iwas never verygood at waiting. It felt like an eternity watching for Lincoln, Seth and Gus to return from Brooks's Club through the parlor window. Surely it shouldn't take long, but two hours after their departure, they still hadn't returned.
Lady Vickers tried to convince me to join her on the sofa and sew, but even that mundane task proved a trial. I started at every creak of the house, every breath of wind rattling the window panes. Doyle's arrival with tea provided some relief, not because of the tea or his presence, but because he brought the newspaper with him. He passed it to Lady Vickers and then left. She flipped to the society pages. I scanned the front page for some news, but it was mostly of a political nature and not interesting to me.
Lady Vickers gasped. "Good lord. My my. She'll be upset at seeing this."
I knew she was goading me into asking her, but I didn't care. I needed the distraction. "What is it?"
"Listen to this." She snapped the paper open and cleared her throat. "'This newspaper has learned of the scandalous past of one of London's most illustrious dames. Never one to shy away from a party, H's low birth did not hinder her rise after marrying a peer, but this as-yet un-verified information may well do so. It has come to our attention that the celebrated beauty danced at The Alhambra in her youth. The proprietor of that establishment, Mr. Golightly, refrained from commenting, but our source tells us that H was a popular performer with the audience.'"
An audience that consisted mostly of gentlemen eager to associate with the dancers during the long interval and afterward. I'd been there and learned of Lady Harcourt's past as a dancer from Golightly's assistant, Miss Redding, a dancer herself. Lady Harcourt met her future husband at The Al and had managed to keep her past a secret. Until now, it seemed. Her reputation had been clinging to respectability by the barest margin in recent times. Miss Redding seemed to want to reveal the secret, and another former dancer, Mrs. Drinkwater, had threatened to do so too. Only by divulging information about me to her blackmailer had Lady Harcourt avoided her scandalous past being aired. I'd been tempted to air it myself on occasion.
Lady Vickers couldn't possibly know any of that, however. "H?" I asked innocently.
"Julia, Lady Harcourt, of course. All the clues are right here." She pointed to the article, the first and most prominent on the tattler page. "'Low birth,' 'marrying a peer,' 'beauty.' The extra clue of 'H' is hardly even needed." She smiled at me. "Oh, how the mighty fall."
"You don't like her?"
She sniffed. "She was among the first to snub me after my husband's debts became known. She pretended to be sympathetic, of course, but I saw through her act."
