Page 105 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
Stratsworth’s gardens were even more delightful now that nighttime had fully conquered the twilight. Fireflies swarmed about, lighting the night like hidden jewels catching stray bits of moonlight. The air was sweet and warm.
Caroline, the maid whom Bailey had appointed as lady’s maid for the duration of their stay, followed respectfully behind, matching the slowness of their stroll pace for pace.
“I’m glad you’re here, Peter,” she said. “But if you don’t mind my saying, you need some time to yourself after someone dear to you passes. You should go on holiday somewhere far away.”
He chuckled. “There may have been a time in my life when I would have taken you up on that advice. After all, it was my desire to go off exploring on my own that ultimately led me to that vile house in the woods where you were kept. But when I got the invitation to this dinner, I thought, by Jove, I need the company!”
“Is it really that miserable, Peter?” she said, her heart aching with sympathy for him.
“Miserable may not be the right word,” he said.
“How so?”
“I’m not sure.” He laughed. “I’m not very articulate, I guess. Let me put it this way. When someone dies, people from all over come and pay their respects. It’s quite nice, actually. One can see the impact a man has had on the world. Cards come in, and people wish you well on the street. Then comes the time when everything trickles to a complete stop. The well of tidings runs dry. And one is left with nothing but silence and the slow passage of time. I suppose this is the land I occupy at the moment. I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be gloomy.”
“Nonsense,” said Madeline. “You’ve a right to feel the way you do, Peter.”
“I keep hearing his voice in my head. He was a wise man. And he was dreadfully funny. There are times that I must stop myself from praying that I should have him returned to me, even if only for a few hours. Just to hear that fine laugh of his and that wonderful wit.”
They were silent for a moment, but for the thumping of her heart. She licked her lips once, and then looked back behind them. Caroline was there, silhouetted by the torches. And because they had entered a spot between the torches, Madeline suddenly felt the imp of impulsivity take control of her, and she took his hand in hers.
He drew a stiff breath as his hand tightened around hers. She let go almost immediately, her heart racing, and feeling the imp working a smile onto her face.
“Apologies, My Lord,” she said.
“No apologies needed, My Lady.”
“Dinner should be announced soon,” she said. “Shall we return?”
“Of course.”
They rounded back to the house. When they returned, they went separate ways—he to the parlour, she to her room for a splash of water on her face.
“I don’t doubt that is what you wish, M’Lady,” said Caroline. “Your face is as red as a lobster.”
“Oh,” said Madeline, feeling herself flush ever more at the mere mention of it, “’tis nothing, Caroline. A reaction ... to hydrangea. I’ve had it since I was a girl.”
“Never heard of no one with a reaction to hydrangea,” said the maid. “But then again, I’ve not had much learning. In any case, a splash of cold water should be the ticket. My mum used to say it all the time. A splash of cold water on the face is indeed the ticket.”
She felt as though she were talking with Lisbelle. Oh, how she wished Lizzy were here now. She could have used her steady head and wisdom to calm her spirit.
When she was through, she felt as though she was reborn. The memories of her romantic indiscretion, though fresh, lost their sinful edge now, and she now only recalled it with fondness, still feeling the warmth of his large hand in hers.
“Thank you, Caroline, she said. I shall go down and join the others.”
“Not at all, M’Lady. Just ring if you need anything, or if the hydrangeas go on thinking who they are and get the better of you again.”
The splash of water had cooled and restored her. If only she could have harnessed its power and taken it with her. For when she entered the parlour and saw Lord Oliver chatting with Papa, she nearly swooned.
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“Look who’s here!” Papa exclaimed, presenting Lord Oliver like a prize turkey.
What thoughts were running through Oliver’s head, she did not know, but whatever they were, they perpetrated all manner of mischief on the poor man’s face. Those same thoughts locked his hands before him, but allowed the fingers to fight amongst themselves.
“Hello, Madeline.”
“Lord Oliver,” she said breathily.
