The Bargain (20 page)

Alan took in the reminiscent glow in the older woman's eyes. How had he ever thought she was frightening? he wondered.

“She went away to school, and I thought she'd forgotten all about that sort of thing. But when she finished and came back to London, her one thought was to create a place where such children could find refuge.” Their hostess's mouth turned down. “Of course I am not overly pleased to have her frequenting a back slum. And some of the people she deals with are…” She let out a breath. “But it is… difficult to argue with Flora. She has great force of character.” The smile reappeared. “Her father was just the same.”

“Akkadian,” Robert blurted out.

Agatha Jennings's eyes lit. Her head came up. “You know my husband's work?” she asked, as if she couldn't believe it.

“The Assyrians,” responded Robert, looking as he had the first time he put his pony to a fence. Alan had to swallow a laugh.

“Henry was one of the foremost experts on cuneiform,” agreed Agatha enthusiastically.

Robert goggled at her, obviously past the limits of his knowledge.

“I'm afraid I don't know that word,” said Ariel, coming to his rescue.

“The Akkadian language is written in cuneiform,” Agatha informed her. “They are symbols—rather like our alphabet letters—made of combinations of wedge shapes and connecting lines. Cuneiform letters were inscribed on clay tablets while the clay was wet. The scribes used reeds as writing instruments—thus the wedges, you see—and when the clay dried, the tablets became a lasting record. Much sturdier than paper.” She looked at Robert as if for confirmation, and he nodded somewhat desperately.

“How interesting,” said Ariel politely.

“Have you read Henry's articles?” Agatha asked Robert, suddenly completely focused on him. “I had no idea that anyone in the family cared about his ideas.”

“I… er…” Robert flushed a dull red.

“I believe what Lord Robert is trying to say,” interposed Ariel sweetly, “is that his knowledge cannot compare with your husband's, Mrs. Jennings. He doesn't want to embarrass himself in front of you.”

That, at least, was quite true, thought Alan, struggling to control his expression.

“You mustn't be embarrassed,” Agatha urged in response. “Henry spent his entire life on his studies. Everyone must begin somewhere. The critical thing is the desire to learn.”

“Lord Robert is terribly keen on learning,” said Ariel.

Robert rolled his eyes in her direction. He was incapable of speech, Alan decided.

“If you would care to look over some of Henry's papers,” suggested Agatha. “He left a great mass of notes, which Flora and I have been slowly putting in order.”

“What an opportunity for you,” exclaimed Ariel, giving Robert a significant look and receiving a glazed stare in return. “To work alongside Mrs. Jennings and her daughter,” she elucidated. “And to learn from the work of a master.”

“If you are truly interested,” said their hostess, looking suddenly doubtful. “I know that my enthusiasm—”

“Lord Robert has told me of his intense desire to
show
that he is a serious person,” said Ariel. “Have you not, Lord Robert?”

He was gazing at her as if she were a stage magician who had pulled a poisonous snake instead of a rabbit out of her hat, Alan thought. In a moment he would break and run. But once again, Alan was surprised.

Robert nodded. “Have to start pretty much at the beginning,” he managed.

Agatha Jennings smiled at him in a way that transfigured her dignified features. “That is where we all start,” she replied.

Robert tightened his jaw. “Won't be like your husband,” he warned.

“No one could be.” The older woman looked around their group. “This is astonishing,” she added. “I never thought to see…” She hesitated. “It was always so awkward visiting Langford House, you know. Because although your mother was very kind, I believed that everyone saw Henry as a hopeless eccentric and mocked him behind our backs. If I had realized that one of you boys… well…” She spread her hands, seemingly unable to say more.

“I don't recall anyone mocking him,” said Robert.

Alan shook his head.

“Too busy being terrified of—” Robert bit off his words and gulped. He coughed. “Forgot what I was going to say.”

A sputter of laughter forced its way past Alan's defenses. He turned it into a cough as well.

“Is it close in here?” wondered Agatha. “Shall I have a window opened?”

“It was so kind of you to see us,” said Ariel, starting to rise. “I must go, but I thank you for telling me something of your daughter's work.” She turned to Robert with a brilliant smile. “Perhaps you wish to stay a bit longer and look at some of the papers Mrs. Jennings mentioned.”

“Eh? Oh, er, that is… don't wish to impose,” fumbled Robert, turning to give her a horrified glare.

“Not at all,” said Agatha behind him. “On the contrary, it would be a great pleasure to show you some of Henry's writings. We have a collection of clay tablets as well,” she added, as if offering a special inducement.

“Tablets,” Robert echoed, directing a final searing glance at Ariel before turning. “Splendid.”

“I had no idea you were so cruel,” said Alan as he handed Ariel into the carriage for the drive home.

She had miscalculated, Ariel thought. She had become so engrossed in Lord Robert's curious behavior that she had maneuvered herself into a journey alone with his brother, the last thing she wanted. And now he was joking as if nothing had passed between them but common civilities.

“You more or less forced my poor brother into learning Assyrian,” he continued.

“Akkadian,” corrected Ariel. “And I did not force him. He might have refused at any moment.”

“Why didn't he?” asked Alan as the coach started up. He sounded genuinely interested.

“I believe he wishes to impress Miss Flora Jennings.”

“Because she insulted him?”

“Possibly,” replied Ariel.

“What might his other reasons be?”

“She is very pretty,” Ariel explained. “I think he was rather taken with her.”

“Indeed?”

Ariel wished he would stop looking at her.

“You know, you are not obliged to become embroiled in my brothers' affairs,” he said.

She risked a glance. He was sitting back in the corner of the carriage, quite at his ease, achingly handsome and assured and apparently quite unaffected by her proximity.

“They will take all your time if you allow it,” he went on. “I know from long experience. You mustn't let them be a bother.”

“They aren't any bother,” she replied.

“They will become one,” he assured her. “They have no notion of when to leave off, or that others might have more important things to do than listen to their chatter. If their visits are burdensome, tell them outright.”

Ariel couldn't understand what he was talking about. She delighted in having his brothers in her house, almost like a real family. She couldn't imagine wishing them gone, and going back to the emptiness she'd faced when she first came home. Was he really saying that he didn't want her getting too close to
his
family, and thus, perhaps, to him? He couldn't stop her from seeing them if they wished it, she thought defiantly. “They are not at all burdensome,” she declared. “I am very happy to give them whatever advice I can.”

Lord Alan smiled. “And just how did you become so expert in matters of the heart?” he asked.

His smile made Ariel's breath catch. It was so confiding, so inviting. He was reminding her of a lion again, a very large lion, lazing in the sun, deceptively innocuous. Did lions toy with their prey as Prospero did? she wondered. Was he mocking her? “It is all from plays,” she answered breathlessly.

“Plays?”

“Lord Robert's situation reminded me at once of
The
Bluestocking
, where the hero wins his lady by taking an interest in her studies,” she answered, speaking a little too quickly, she realized.

“Her studies?”

“Natural philosophy,” Ariel stammered. He
was
mocking her, she thought. Only it didn't seem exactly that. But he was watching her so steadily, letting his gaze move over her so warmly. He must know that he was making her skin feel hot and her pulse accelerate.

“You have an uncommon memory for plays,” he said into the charged silence.

“I was known for it at the theater, when I was a child.”

“Were you?”

He had to be aware of her state, Ariel thought. He was enjoying it, reveling in his power to unsettle her, while he sat back, cool and amused. She gathered her resolve. She refused to give him the satisfaction. She could match his detachment, she thought. If he wished to talk about plays, then she would talk about plays. “A really good villain makes a drama,” she informed him.

“Yes?” he said.

Ariel nodded, not looking at him. “Well, a tragedy, anyway. The most successful ones have several. Think of
The
Duchess
of
Malfi
. Both the duchess's brothers want to take her lands away. And there is the evil servant who tortures and murders the duchess and her children. And then, of course, nearly everyone kills each other in the end. They always do.”

“Do they indeed?”

“In a tragedy,” she said severely.

“Of course.”

“In
The
White
Devil
, Flamineo murders Vittoria's husband and her other brother, as well as Brachiano's wife, so that they may marry.”

“Who?” asked Alan, sounding lost.

“Vittoria and Brachiano. And then their mother goes mad with grief and dies. And then Vittoria is tried and put in prison, but she escapes and marries, and then avengers come and kill all three of them.”

The carriage lurched at a break in the cobbles, and their shoulders brushed. Ariel swallowed and rushed on.

“Did you know that
The
Spanish
Tragedy
is one of the most popular plays there ever was? That is where the hero, Andrea, is Belimperia's lover, and he is killed by Balthazar. Then Balthazar is captured and delivered to Belimperia's brother Lorenzo, and he wants them to marry for political reasons. But Belimperia loves Horatio. So Horatio is murdered, and Belimperia is kidnapped. The murderers are killed, too, to keep the secret. But Belimperia is able to send a message, written in her own blood, to Horatio's father, and then he—”

“Ariel,” said Lord Alan.

She met his eyes. His were fathomless wells of blue, lit by a sparkle like sun on water. She seemed to tumble into them, floating in a wordless space where time stretched out endlessly before them.

The carriage pulled up. “Here we are,” said Ariel breathlessly. But she couldn't move.

Alan climbed down and offered her a hand out of the carriage. She felt an electric tingle when she took it and stepped to the pavement. Then he was following her into the house, and they were standing awkwardly in the entryway, not looking at each other. “Ariel,” said Lord Alan again.

She was afraid to look up.

“I—”

Ellen the housemaid appeared from the kitchen stairs. “This came for you, miss,” she said, handing Ariel a small package wrapped in brown paper.

Ariel took it, and took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she murmured. She was both glad and very sorry for the interruption. Something had been about to happen, she thought. But more than likely, it would have been just more of his explanations and analyses of how there was nothing going on. She took another breath and focused her attention on the package. “It's from Miss Ames, at school,” she remarked. She tore off the outer wrappings, only to reveal another layer of brown paper. “No,” she added. “It was sent to me at school from London. It's… it's from my mother.” She handled the small box, perplexed and upset.

“They must have delayed sending it on to you,” said Lord Alan. “The mail wouldn't have taken so long.”

“Miss Ames was going away when I left,” replied Ariel distractedly. “They must have put it aside for her to deal with.” She stared at the package, feeling almost afraid of it. “What can it be?”

“You'll have to open it to see.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I should leave you alone.”

She was afraid of it, Ariel thought. “Please don't.”

He hesitated, then bowed his head in acknowledgment of the plea in her voice. “Shall we go into the parlor?” He led her there and seated her on the sofa.

Ariel fumbled with the brown paper that enclosed the package. Her hands were trembling. Finally, she tore it off, revealing a small pasteboard box. After a brief hesitation, she opened the lid—and gasped.

“What?” asked Alan.

Slowly, moving her hand as if she were afraid of being bitten, Ariel picked up the object. “It's my mother's ring,” she whispered, letting the box fall to the floor. “I couldn't find it anywhere. She sent it to me.”

Alan came closer and saw a delicate ring of dark green agate and silver. The design was a sinuous filigree; the large green stone was immaculate. It looked very old—Celtic work perhaps. His shoulder brushed Ariel's, as it had in the carriage, and once again a pulse of desire surged through him. He ought to go, he thought.

“My father gave it to her,” Ariel murmured. “It's the only thing I know that came from him. She always wore it.”

She touched it with the tips of her fingers as if she had not examined it a thousand times. “You've never told me who he was,” he said.

“I don't know.” She clenched her fists at the difficulty of this admission. “Bess used to make up stories about him. But she never told me the truth.”

“Stories?”

Ariel swallowed. “I'd ask her to tell me about my father. And she'd say, oh, that he was a great soldier, who died a hero in the fighting against Napoleon, or a Russian diplomat, or an adventurer from America.” Her voice wavered. “But she never would tell me which story was true, who he was, really. She'd say, ‘You have no father. You don't need one; you have me.'” Ariel glanced up, then down again. “It was a game we played,” she finished, her voice breaking on the last word.

“Game,” he repeated in astonishment. “It sounds like a remarkable piece of cruelty to me.”

She looked at him as if she didn't know what he meant. “She ought to have told me before she…” She broke off with a helpless gesture.

A flash of anger at Bess Harding ran through him. How had she dared treat Ariel this way? Clearly, she hadn't deserved such a daughter. To keep from saying so, he bent and picked up the small box Ariel had dropped. “There are some papers here,” he said, pulling them out. He unfolded the top one. It was small, torn from a larger sheet, and stained with water. “This looks like part of a parish register.” He frowned at the faded writing. “It says that Bess Harding married one Daniel Bolton on April the eighth, 1799.”

“What?” Ariel snatched the page and stared at the loops and whorls of ink. “1799,” she murmured after a while. “Bess would have been… sixteen. She told me… or she always let me think that she had gone from the streets onto the stage.”

She looked up at Alan, her lips parted, her hazel eyes intent.

“How could she not tell me? What became of this Daniel Bolton? Why didn't…?” She stopped, her eyes widening in astonishment.

“What is it?” asked Alan.

“I was born in 1799,” she said slowly. “In September.” She gazed at him again. “He must be my father.” She turned to look at the wall. “Daniel Bolton,” she repeated, as if trying to accustom herself to the name, and to a whole new view of the world. She turned the paper over in her hands. “Where is he? How can I find him?”

“Unfortunately, this does not show which parish it came from. It might be in London, or anywhere in the country.”

“But I have to find him!” she exclaimed.

“It may be possible, with some research.”

Ariel rose and paced the room, looking excited and uncertain and upset. “What if Bess had some good reason for never speaking of him?” she murmured.

“The search should be discreet,” Alan agreed.

“I don't care,” said Ariel, answering her own question. “I want to know. I must know.” She turned to him. “How do I begin to look?”

“I can set some of the prince's men to the task,” he offered.

“Would you?” She gave him a tremulous smile that reached into his chest and twisted. “Thank you.” She paced the length of the room again. “Daniel Bolton,” she repeated. “Does this mean that I am really Ariel Bolton?” She shivered. “It's like finding out that you are another person entirely.”

Alan didn't care for the concept. And he found that he was disturbed by the strength of her reaction to this news. “There is another piece of paper here,” he said, noticing it wedged in the bottom of the box. He unfolded it and scanned it quickly, without really reading. “It is a note to you from your mother.”

Ariel gave a poignant cry and grabbed it from his hand. As she devoured the words, her eyes brimmed with tears, which soon were spilling over her cheeks. After a few moments, she cast the paper aside and covered her face with her hands.

Unable to resist, Alan picked it up. The note was a muddle of slanting lines and unfinished thoughts, written in a hand that revealed a greatly disordered mind, he thought. The first few fragments read:

the play wears thin

the voice within

clamors

night and day

Then there was a space, and

the soul killed so young

can never revive

the woman—never child—

is not really alive

He frowned disapprovingly, then went on to read the rest. It was a bit more coherent, saying:

I've done my best to love you, and to make certain you don't follow me down into the black. I'm taking the coward's way. I know. You'll never understand how sorry…

Under this was a great scrawled signature—Bess—and a string of inkblots that suggested she had dropped the pen. Alan's frown deepened. It was appalling to think that Ariel had been left entirely alone in the world on the strength of this. He was glad he had never met Bess Harding, he decided. He didn't think he would have cared for her at all.

Ariel was struggling to control her tears. “The black,” she muttered. “That's what she called it sometimes when she was blue-deviled.”

Alan bit back a sharp response.

“If I'd only been here…” she began.

“You would have been able to do nothing,” he said.

“You don't know. I might have—”

“You might have witnessed her disintegration more intimately,” he cut in again. “You could not have stopped it. And it would have been the worse for you. She saw that much at least.” It was the only thing he could commend in her mother, he thought, that she had kept her young daughter safely away.