Bound by Your Touch (35 page)

What rubbish was this? He frowned. "He has nothing to do with us."

Her regard was too steady to be comfortable. "My honesty is no good to you if you won't listen to it." She slid out from beneath his touch, leaning over the edge of the bed to grab her corset. "Help me dress."

"To hell with that."

Impatience touched her voice now. "I have to go, James."

His anger came from nowhere. "You shouldn't have come in the first place. But you did. And now you are here, by God, you will stay."

"Don't be childish," she said calmly. "It's one thing to risk rumors. It's another to ask for them."

"That's not what you said downstairs. You knew very well what you were committing to by coming up here."

"True enough." She shrugged. "I took a gamble. A great leap. I still don't know how it will turn out. But I see how far you are willing to go for it, and that doesn't reassure me."

He caught her by the elbow. "We are in this
together,
Lydia."

She looked him in the eye. "I thought we were. But you are being cowardly now. Oh yes, I saw that you were drinking water. But as long as you nurse this hatred, there's no reason to believe you won't go back to the whiskey."

He took the strings of the corset, forcing himself not to vent his frustration on her ribs. "This is not fair," he said, punctuating his words with a sound yank. "You will not let go of your father, but you ask me to let go ofher?"

The look she gave him over her shoulder was full of surprise. "Never. James, the two have nothing to do with one another."

"You know nothing of it."

Her smile, now, struck a chill in his heart. It looked so strangely resigned. "Nor do you, it seems."

Chapter Sixteen

She did not want to go back to the house on Wilton
C
rescent. It felt wrong to her now, nothing like home. But James's house would not be a home, either, so long as it remained a fortress erected for the sole purpose of antagonizing his father,

Sophie and Ana were out; they had gone to a dinner, the butler informed her. She dressed for bed early, not because she was tired, but because she wanted the day to be over. And also, perhaps, because an expectation hummed inside her, steady and immune to reason: he would come for her. It was foolish, perhaps, but one could not repress such hopes. He would not come in the night, but that did not stop her from lying awake to count the chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall.

Sophie and Ana returned at half past two. Wide-eyed, she listened to their murmured good nights. The house quieted again, and after some immeasurable time, the old clock in the hall wound down and the chimes ceased to ring. The steady sound of her heartbeat finally lulled her
eyes
shut.

When she woke again, the room was flooded with light and Ana stood over her, smiling. "Come downstairs quickly! You will not believe who is here."

As she descended the stairs minutes later, she could hear the happy noise spilling from the drawing room. Her feet wanted to fly to him. It was angering, to realize that this reunion had been tarnished by the news she must share.

But when the sound of his voice—as familiar and comforting as lullabies—reached her in the hallway, her cares fell away for the moment. She burst into the room, and his dear face appeared to her like an answer: the same graying mustache and sun-browned skin, the rounded shoulders, the little paunch that no amount of abstention would ever mitigate. He had not changed a bit. "Papa."

He broke instantly from some remark he was making to Sophie. His face lit, and his arms opened to her. "Lydia! My darling, where have you been?"

His embrace smelled of his journey, of coal smoke and sweat. But beneath it was the intangible essence that she had once associated with everything safe and loving and wonderful. She realized all at once that she had never needed him more than she did now. "Papa," she whispered into his lapel. "Thank God you are home."

She lifted her head, looking past Ana's beaming face and Sophies fading smile, to where George glared like a gargoyle at the edge of the room. Papa followed her glance, and murmured into her ear, "We must speak privately, Lydia. Very soon."

And that quickly, her spirits deflated.

Later, after a long luncheon in which Papa regaled them with tales of his journey and the antics of his workers, she withdrew with him to the guest bedroom where his luggage had been stowed. "I do not know how to tell you this," she said, and he drew her to his side and laid an arm over her shoulders as he might have done with a son.

"Simply tell me," he said. "You can tell me anything, dearest."

But as she recited the tale—the lies of Miss Marshall, and the strange boy with the knife, the men at the station and (haltingly, and with a creeping sense of mortification) Ashmores offer—he withdrew from her. First his cheek, which had been pressed against hers, and then his stiffening arm, which fell away to he inert on the arm of his chair. His face grew red, so red she feared for him. She lapsed into silence.

He came to his feet with such force that the chair legs thumped against the carpet. "But this is
preposterous
¹
"
he burst out. "Who is this Ashmore? How do you know him? How dare he feed you such lies?"

"He is a friend of—of a friend," she said awkwardly.
A friend of the man I love.
She had hoped to confide in him about that as well, but the violence of his pacing served to focus her on the matter at hand.

"Who does he think he is? Passing judgment on such flimsy happenstance?"

"I don't know." She moved her hands under her thighs, clenching the seat to channel her nervous energy. "He—he gave the impression of being involved in government work."

Papa wheeled to stare at her. "Aligned with such scum? Who would attack you in plain sight?" Spittle beaded his mustache. "It is
outrageous
¹
. Is
this what our government has come to? I can think of better pastimes for them—Egypt overrun by the French, Russia preying on our Indian borders. And they will harass girls over some paranoid fantasy about a khedive's paste gems?"

His fury was so out of character that she hardly knew what to say. "I am sorry," she whispered. "I told him of your innocence. I told him it was all lies. I swear it!"

His face changed, the craggy line between his brows smoothing. "Of course you did," he said, and came to her, pulling her up into a hug. "Lydia, my girl, don't look so distraught. We will straighten this out. We always do, don't we? There is no trouble we can't face together."

It was all she'd wanted to hear, for so long now. But as she closed her eyes in his embrace, her fear did not subside. "How?" she managed. "What will we do?"

He pulled away. "I will go see this Ashmore."

"I will go with you," she said instantly.

"No. Absolutely not! I will not have you exposed to him again." He rubbed his knuckles across her cheek. "So much like your mother," he murmured. "Lydia, you mustn't worry about this. I will take care of it, now."

James caught the train from Victoria Station shortly after dawn. It was a direct shot to Kedston, where he hired a coach for the five-mile journey to the asylum. The asylum was set back from the main road, behind ornate black gates that opened onto a long drive winding through low, rolling hills. For several minutes, his only view was of grazing sheep and a blue sky as mild as a baby's
eyes.
A row of trees cropped up for a brief stretch, and then fell away, revealing a circular drive. The carriage pulled to a halt by a short flight of steps.

He stepped out of the carriage and looked up. Stellas prison was a grand stone mansion, sprawling some sixty rooms across and three storys high. At the west end rose a high tower. Judging by the stained glass windows, that would be the chapel, the centerpiece of her improvement. A short flight of steps rose to the entrance; an inscription had been chiseled into the tympanum: "Except the Lord buildeth the house they labour in vain that build it." With a snort, James passed under it into the lobby.

He had wired ahead to expect his arrival. Predictably, Dwyer had absented himself. A young woman named Miss Leadsom came out of the office to receive him. She was as small-boned and brown as a wren, and the overburdened key ring at her waist lent her an air of housekeeperish authority. She tried, at first, to turn him away. She reminded him that Stella did not want visitors.

"As I said in my note, I am resolved to see her. I'll wait in the lobby until she changes her mind."

He took a seat in a soft chair. Morning tea came and went. "Please, sir," said Miss Leadsom. "She says she will not be swayed."

"Pity," he said. "Nor will I."

Around lunchtime, the attendants began to give him nervous glances as they passed through the entry hall. Miss Leadsom appeared again. "My lord, she begs you to go."

"After I see her," he said grimly.

There were no clocks in the lobby. Was that deliberate? Did the passage of time wear on madmen's nerves? Generally he would have counted that a bad sign for himself, but today he felt infinitely untroubled by waiting. Eventually the stained-glass windows began to yield shadows. He watched them creep across the floor. His stepmothers old words whispered to him: Blue, to calm the spirit. Green, to animate the will. Red for passion, yellow for joy. Lydia had no need for any of these colors. Well, perhaps a bit of yellow, but he would help with that. He had no need of any of them, when he was with her.

High tea, now. His stomach was rumbling. He focused on the green bars of light, which had almost reached the main staircase.

A clearing of the throat drew his attention. Miss Leadsom stood a little way off. "Please come with me," she said.

He rose. She led him down a richly furnished corridor, to a wing she referred to as the "ladies' department." They passed a maid once, carrying a tray of half-eaten food, but no one else seemed to be about. The place was immensely silent. A thick Persian leader muffled their footsteps and the heavy tapestries on the walls further dampened noise. It unnerved him, though perhaps it was preferable to the screams and cries he'd assumed were endemic to places like these.

"Lady Boland has her own set of rooms," Miss Leadsom told him. She came to a stop before an unmarked door. He took note of the peephole and the lock on the handle. "She enjoys the gardens, when the weather permits it, so we placed her on the ground story. I believe you will find she has no complaints."

He braced himself for the moment when she would reach for her keys.
Caged and studied like an animal
But when she lifted her hand, it was to knock at the door.

"I will speak with her in private," James said sharply.

The wren gave him a startled look. "But of course. I would not dream of intruding."

A voice called for them to enter. Miss Leadsom stepped back and bobbed a curtsy. "I will wait in the hall."

He entered into a little sitting room, sparsely furnished, with a Venetian carpet and a writing table, and a bookshelf against the wall. The curtains were drawn, the atmosphere heavy. With a visceral shock, he realized that it smelled like their fathers house. Orchids and lemon-wax. He drew a testing breath. Stella had always favored rosewater, but there was no sign of it in the air. Did they not allow her such luxuries?

"James." The voice came from the next room, startling him. "Give me a moment, please."

That he hadn't recognized her voice unnerved him. He prowled the perimeter, letting his fingers trail across various knickknacks. An embroidery frame, empty. A volume by Mrs. Gaskell. A small portrait of a kitten. She'd always liked her pets.

A rustling announced her entrance. He turned, and his chest clenched. In the dim light, she looked unchanged. Tall and slim. Her skin mercifully unmarked, save the scar on her chin, where the stairs had knocked it. She was dressed simply, in a dark woolen gown. It took him a moment to realize why the outfit looked so old-fashioned: she wore no bustle.

"Darling," she said, and came forward. They embraced, but not as long as he would have liked. She pulled back immediately.

He opened his mouth, and realized he had no idea what to say. Her little smile suggested that she understood. It jarred him. He had forgotten how completely she took after Moreland. He was unused to seeing that smile without feeling a lick of resentment and rage.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, and gestured toward an easy chair. After he'd sat, she took the other chair. "You should not have come, of course. But I am pleased the weather held so pleasant for your trip. You came by train, I think?"

Of all the things he had expected her to say to him, he'd never imagined she might begin this way. These were the sort of mundane pleasantries that had once driven her mad with boredom. "Yes," he said slowly, "by train. And you? Are you well?"

Her lashes swept down. "I am well," she said. "Very comfortable. They take splendid care of me here."

He stared at her. "Do they really?"

"Oh, yes. Not a moment of uneasiness. At first, of course, it was frightening—I had only the other place to compare it to. But it's very different, as you see. A bit like a hotel. Well—" She laughed. "A hotel with some very queer guests. But I may pick and choose where I socialize. And I've made some lovely friends. You would not believe what counts as madness, these days."