Unknown (8 page)

A
whole tub
full of hot water was an unspeakable luxury.

Mrs. Plunkett, the housekeeper, was a woman of few words. “A coaching accident?” she asked. “Lord Kilmartin’s cousin?”

“I suppose so,” Lily murmured, staring at the tub longingly. “Oh, that is, yes. A coaching accident.”

If Mrs. Plunkett wondered how a coaching accident could have coated the two Miss Masterses in what looked like an irrevocable layer of grime as well as shredded the clothing they wore, she refrained from comment.

“Alice will go first,” Lily said quickly.

Mrs. Plunkett eyed Alice dubiously. “Ye’ll need a whole other tub fer yerself, Miss Lily. We’ll set the water to boil now.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Plunkett.” Lily’s voice had gone faint.

Lily shifted in the bath; the scented, soapy water lapped gently at her shoulders and breasts. And then, to her astonishment, tears pricked at her eyes.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d wept; there had never seemed to be a point to it, really. And now she was about to weep over a
bath
. It made her furious.
Bloody Gideon Cole
.

It was just all so much…
bigger
than she was. The house. The overwhelming array of rich textures, the wood and gilt and marble, everything clean and gleaming. The servants. The
silence
. It was never, ever silent in St. Giles. The bath cradled her tenderly; she could not recall the last time she’d been cradled tenderly. The soles of her feet stung a little where the soapy water found raw places and fine cracks, the result of racing shoeless through London’s streets.

Thank you, Mama
, she said silently and fervently, a sort of prayer. Because at least she more or less knew how a lady should speak, a few “bloody”s and “whoreson”s notwithstanding. She’d been able to pull that ladylike demeanor around her today and wear it like battered armor in front of Gideon Cole.

The scented water lapped at her soothingly.
There, there, now
, it seemed to say.
No need to take on so
.

Lily had managed to coax a tremendously skeptical Alice into the copper tub. But when the water began to grow dark, Alice became convinced it was because her body was dissolving into it, turning her into so much Alice soup. Lily was able to stifle her sister’s shriek of horror with her hand just in time.

A short time later, Alice was splashing as happily as a duck. Lily taught her how to scrub herself clean, working the soap into Alice’s hair, taking rags gently to her face. Scrubbed of the layers acquired from living in St. Giles, Alice was beautiful. This made Lily want to cry, too.

Lily abruptly sat up and raised herself out of the tub. The water suddenly felt like hands holding her down; she needed to be moving. Sometimes it caught up to her when she was quiet and still; it rose and crested and crashed down over her: fear. Not the sort of fear she could simply run from, the way she’d run from Gideon Cole a mere few days ago, a knee in the baubles and then off you go. It was far, far larger and less tangible.

Fortunately, quiet moments were few and far between in St. Giles. And if sometimes she jerked awake at night bathed in sweat, her heart battering her ribs, Alice was next to her and could be prodded awake for conversation.

Get a hold of yourself, Masters
, she told herself sternly.

If she was equal to London, to
St. Giles
, for that matter, then she was equal to this house.

And perhaps even equal to Gideon Cole.

The room was like a plush cave, all velvet hangings and dark furniture and candlelight pulsing in globes. The heavy draperies had not been parted in years, but the windows may have been opened once or twice—Gideon seemed to recall Mrs. Plunkett insisting upon it.

In the middle of the soft dim room was Lord Lindsey’s bed, and Lord Lindsey occupied it like a castaway surrounded by the vast sea of his house and land.

There was a tacit agreement among all those who knew and cared for Uncle Edward: no one was to question why he was ill; no one was to question whether or not he
was
ill. The servants, of course, would never dare, and Gideon, who was heir to the title only because his two cousins had been killed in the war, felt he had no right. So for years, Edward had been indulged in the way that extremely wealthy men are often indulged. If Edward said he was ill, he was ill.

And yet, while Lord Lindsey spent his days in bed, he never seemed any less formidable for it.

“Uncle Edward?”

No response.

It had been more than a decade since his uncle had soundly thrashed him and his cousins for stealing his cigars and then turned around and taught them how to smoke one properly, but Gideon couldn’t help fidgeting. His Uncle Edward, a steely, wry counterpoint to the breezy charm of Gideon’s father, had never let him get away with anything.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “Uncle Edward?”

“So,” came a decidedly petulant voice from the bed at last “I see you were in a tearing hurry to see your dying uncle.”

“I’m always eager to see you, Uncle Edward; you know that. I apologize for the delay. I was detained by business in town.”

“I was
dying
, Gideon.”

“You’re
always
dying, Uncle Edward.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Gideon was horrified.

The shocked silence radiating from the bed was almost comical.

And then, much to Gideon’s astonishment, Lord Lindsey chuckled. “Impatient for the title, are you?”

“Of course not, Uncle Edward.”

“Perhaps just a
bit
?”

Gideon paused, and then he sighed and pulled a chair up next to his uncle’s bed. He was struck anew by how vigorous Edward looked. There were obvious effects of age— his thick hair was nearly white, his skin loose and lined—but Lord Lindsey’s eyes crackled with alertness and his posture as he sat up in bed was erect. “There’s a certain daughter of a marquis whom I believe is impatient for the title, Uncle Edward. I, truthfully, would prefer you to live forever.”

Lord Lindsey chuckled again. “Ah, and here we have a fine example of how a barrister is able to court the daughter of a marquis: your silver tongue. You remind me of your father, you know. Lord, I miss the man, glorious wreck though he was. Who’s the girl? The big blonde daughter of Marquis Shawcross? It’s been some years since I’ve seen her, but I imagine she’s grown into a strapping lass. She’d be a good match.”

Gideon smiled a little to hear Constance described as big and blonde. “She’s lovely and tall, and yes, she’s quite the finest young woman in London.” He wasn’t about to tell his uncle about Jarvis and the betting books and Constance’s lust for property.

“You are seven- and twenty now, Gideon. You can set up your nursery without a title, you know. And you
should
. And then bring all your children round to stay. Marry that girl.
One
of you Coles should make a good match.” There was a slight edge to these last words.

Gideon tensed, but thankfully Lord Lindsey said no more. His uncle had made his feelings about Helen’s marriage plain—scathingly plain—long ago. The subject remained a tender one; they talked of it rarely.

“Soon, Uncle,” Gideon said softly. “I plan to.”

“Ah, yes. You and
plans.”
Uncle Edward was amused. “Shawcross owns more of England than even Kilmartin’s family. And he wouldn’t hurt your career one bit. How are you fixed for blunt, by the way? You’re prospering?”

“Of course, Uncle Edward,” Gideon lied. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, never worse, m’boy, never worse,” was the cheerful reply. “The doctor should be by a little later with my simple and some gossip, however.”

“Has he managed to marry off the last of his daughters, sir?”

“I think she was hoping to have a crack at you, Gideon. But the curate nurtures hopes regarding her which are not entirely unwelcome, or so I hear.”

Gideon laughed. Life, and the game of marriage, was simpler here in the country than in the
ton;
he felt a brief pang of
what if…
? But if one intended to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, one didn’t marry the doctor’s daughter.

“So, m’boy, will you be staying for a time or is it right back to London for you?”

“I thought I’d stay for a few days, sir. Kilmartin will be joining me tomorrow—we thought we’d get in some shooting and what-have-you before the season begins in earnest.” If he were careful, his uncle would never know Lily or her sister was even under his roof.

“What a shame,” Uncle Edward teased. “I know I’m a demanding old sod, Gideon. I am happy to have your company.”

Demanding
, Gideon thought with affectionate exasperation, did not begin to describe it. “I am always glad to see you, Uncle Edward. I’m at your service.”

Their chamber, like the bath, like the rest of the house, made Lily feel almost angry: what gave
anything
the right to be so grand?

A thick carpet, patterned in twining green vines and faded pink roses, sprawled on the floor; Lily slipped her feet out of her borrowed slippers and curled her toes into it, reveling in its undreamed-of softness. A pink velvet tufted chair sat before a little writing desk; she’d arranged her books upon the desk, and she decided they looked well enough there. A great oaken wardrobe stood against one wall— empty, as far as she knew, for they’d taken her clothes away along with Alice’s—and a dainty dressing table sat opposite it. And a fire, clean and smokeless, crackled cheerily in a fireplace. This was a marvel: she’d always had to do battle with the fireplace in their room at Mrs. Smythe’s. Old Smokey, she and Alice called it.

In the round mirror over the dressing table Lily saw a girl, big-eyed with the strangeness of her surroundings, swimming in Mrs. Plunkett’s borrowed nightdress. Her shining, newly clean hair seemed much… well,
larger
than usual. As though ecstatic to be free of grime, it waved with wild abandon about her face and down her back.

Alice flung herself on the bed; Lily sank down next to her. Not surprisingly, the bed turned out to be deliriously comfortable, too, so they spent a moment oohing and ahhing together over it.

Alice was wearing what appeared to be a little boy’s shirt as a night rail. Lily took the hem of it between her fingers and rubbed it wonderingly; the shirt was so fine she knew she could have gotten more than a penny for it from Mrs. Bandycross, a fence in St. Giles who specialized in such things. She snuggled down under the blankets next to Alice, and the blankets, unsurprisingly, were heavy and smooth, of good wool.

“ ‘Tis very quiet here,” Alice mused, wrinkling her nose. “But I might like to stay forever, anyhow. Do you think Mrs. Smythe will give our room away?”

“I paid her for it through the month, so she’d best not if she knows what is good for her,” Lily said with more bravado than confidence.

“If she does give it away, perhaps Mr. Cole will make her give it back to us. Perhaps he will give her a good whacking.”

“A good
whacking
?” Lily turned to her sister. “More likely he will simply
smile
and Mrs. Smythe will swoon like a great… great… ”

“Cow.”

“Cows don’t swoon, Alice.”

“They would if they saw Mr. Cole.”

Lily was not inclined to disagree with her.

“He looks like your prince, Lily. He has dark hair and dark eyes.”

“As does half of London.
McBride
has dark hair and eyes.” Her sister was a little too astute.

“McBride has only a little hair. Mr. Cole has a great deal.”

Yes. A great deal of silky-looking hair that glows like a lit coal in the sunlight.

“I like him,” Alice concluded sleepily. “Tomorrow I am to see the peacocks.”

And Lily’s heart squeezed. Didn’t Gideon Cole see or care how cruel his careless kindness to a little girl was? It wasn’t fair to give Alice these things only to take them from her in a few weeks’ time.

And yet… though she’d managed to keep Alice fed and clothed and off the streets for years,
she
had never yet been able to show Alice peacocks, or feed her cold roast of beef for dinner. Or give her a quiet place to sleep cocooned in fine wool blankets.

She could only tell stories of them.

“We are only staying here for a very short time, Alice,” Lily warned. “Remember? I am only in Mr. Cole’s employ for a short time.”

“But I
might
like to stay forever,” Alice repeated, on a yawn.

“Yes, but we’re—” Lily stopped herself and sighed. It was a fruitless argument; she would return to it another time. “Shall I tell a story?”

“Yes, please.” Alice snuggled down next to her.

And because telling stories was her singular talent, Lily felt a little mollified, of use to her sister once again. She sorted through the day’s images. Trees like ranks of soldiers, stoic Gregson’s tall, bent frame, and this house, a house that could comfortably accommodate gods and goddesses…

“Once there was a kindly old wizard named”—Lily thought a bit—“George, whose job it was to carry the weight of the world on his back. Soon he was so bent from his burden that he asked the gods if he might rest a while. But the gods said to him”—Lily lowered her voice to give it godlike gravity—“ ‘George, we have need of you now more than ever. A great army of immortal soldiers is even now marching toward our homes… ’”

And so a fantastic tale unfurled, and Lily’s low soothing voice was Alice’s lullaby. Her sister’s eyelids grew heavier as the fire burned lower, until Alice was snoring softly.

What will become of us
? The treacherous thought crept in, beckoned by the silence and stillness.

Don’t think about it. There is only now
. This thought had always been Lily’s own lullaby. She repeated it until, despite the deafening silence and the newness, she fell fast asleep.

Chapter Four

Gideon pounced upon the solicitor the moment his beaky little nose poked into the Westminster Court chambers.

“I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Dodge.”