Page 97 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
“What? Oh, I’m alright. The Duke of Briarmere has passed.”
“Bless us all,” said Lisbelle, crossing herself.
“I should like to go and pay my respects.”
“Of course, of course, you—are you sure you’re well?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ll have to freshen up a bit. Would you excuse me, M’Lady, and I’ll be back in a trice to help you ready yourself. Not that you don’t look like an angel come down from Heaven already, but your hair could use three or four hundred strokes. Excuse me.”
Madeline felt fresh tears come into her eyes. But there was something mixed in with the sorrow that she couldn’t quite make out. It was like a figure seen across a misty dale. She need not squint to see it, for that would be fruitless. And so, she merely rested at peace and waited for it to come into relief.
And with a gentle realisation, she saw it clearly. She loved Lord Peter, and this was merely sorrow for a friend. She cared not for her father’s feelings towards him. Oh, she cared about her father, and was surprised now that she felt heartily guilty for what she’d said last night. But now, her father’s feelings towards Peter or Oliver did not make any difference how she felt. It was as if she was suddenly given the key to her own heart, opened it, and found herself sitting there having waited a lifetime to be let out. She apologised to that prisoner inside her and swore that she’d never again lock that door.
She got out of bed, weeping for herself, Papa, Mama, Oliver, and Peter. Oh, and Ethan, dear, beautiful Ethan!
She laughed at the thought of him, and the tears came again. What a fool she was indeed. But things would be different now. They would have to be. It was inscribed on her heart thus. She had a thousand years left on this earth, and as a gift to herself, she allowed herself to accept this fact.
Chapter 69
Robincher House, home of the Lytton family since 1606, was a sea of black.
Upon Madeline’s entrance, she was immediate beset with a feeling of emptiness, of an atmosphere laden with tragedy, and of a sorrow that she could not locate within herself. The servants milled about slowly, deliberately, the men with their armbands, the women with ink-black ribbons upon their caps. No one spoke, and no one smiled or hummed. Indeed, there were no footsteps to be heard, as if it were a sin to tread heavily, or as if there was a fear that the dead might awaken.
The butler had ushered her in with as few words as she was ever accustomed to, had bid her wait in the drawing room, and had disappeared on shoes made of air. There were no entreaties for her to sit, and so, she did not. She stood still, her hands clasped before her, with the awful feeling that she wanted to run from this dreadful place and keep on running.
Presently, Lord Peter entered. She nearly wept when she saw him. There was something truly horrible about his wan countenance, made ever the more sullen by his attire—completely black from neck to toe. The face was drawn into a mask of deep sadness, aged prematurely by grief.
“Oh, Peter,” she said, fighting the urge to go to him and take him in her arms. Upon this very notion—out of instinct—her eyes darted around the room as if she feared to find an angel that counted her wicked thoughts in the corner, tallying. She was surprised to see a woman sitting like a wraith on a chair against the far wall. When had this woman entered? Was she a woman at all and not some ghost from the family lineage come to pay her respects? She was a maid, to be sure. No doubt a chaperone for her meeting with Lord Peter.
“My dear Madeline,” Lord Peter said, his voice like a strip of crepe. “Thank you for coming to visit.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of not paying my respects to your beloved father.”
At the mention, Peter’s face became ever more wracked with sadness. His mouth twisted, fighting the urge to give full sway to his grief.
“He was quite the man, Madeline. He took a part of my soul when he passed.”
“He is with the angels now.”
“Indeed, and they shall be glad to have him. But I cannot share in the full joy of that notion, forgive me.”
“Oh, I understand, Peter.”
She watched him for a moment. His eyes were following some invisible parade.
“Peter ...” she said.
He looked up at her.
“Give his memory to me.”
His eyes returned to the invisible shades before him. Then a slight smile curled on his full lips.
“He was,” Peter began, “quite fond of sweets. Granny told me this, but I knew it, of course. Father was the second son in the family, you see. And as a second son is wont to do, he took to his mother quite closely. Then consumption took his elder brother, and Father became the eldest son. And so he now had the role of heir, and because of this, he began to look to his father for emulation. But he never lost sight that he was his mother’s son originally. I believe this is what gave him such a command over both sexes—such a well-rounded man, you might say. Everyone was an equal in his eyes. Sorry, I’m getting away from myself.”
“No,” said Madeline, enthralled, “please continue. The sweets.”
