The Duchess War
Page 78
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He picked up a chunk of beef on his fork. “No time for supper,” he said, almost apologetically, before putting it in his mouth. “And I find I’m starving.”
She sat next to him. “I’m a little hungry, myself.”
They were probably both lying. They probably both knew it.
Still, Minnie took a roll to keep him company, and while he ate, she shredded it on her plate. If nothing else, her presence spurred him on to do justice to the food before him. He ate mechanically—peas and turnips and carrots, as well as the beef in a sauce that had congealed. It turned her stomach to think of it, but he didn’t seem to taste anything he put in his mouth. He seemed surprised when his fork found nothing on the plate.
“Long day,” he said. “I—I think I’ll be going straight to bed.” But he didn’t stand.
Minnie took that as an invitation to walk over to the sideboard and pour a glass of sherry. She brought it to him; their fingers touched as she passed it over.
“Will everything be all right?” she asked.
In response, he put his head in his hands. Minnie put her fingers over his. His skin was warm to the touch; she could almost feel his temples throbbing. Slowly, she rubbed his forehead; he made a little noise and then leaned into the pressure.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I’m not…” He turned his head sideways to meet her eyes and then quickly looked away. “I’m not certain.” His fingers drummed against the table. “But I’ll do everything I can to make it so. My brother…” He drew in another deep breath. “My father didn’t care. He didn’t help. Oliver grew up with none of the advantages I had, and to have him so publicly take the blame for something that I have done—Minnie, I can’t abide it. I feel on the brink of madness just contemplating it. You must know that.”
“I know.” She rubbed his forehead. “But you’re doing everything you can.”
“Yes.” His voice was bleak, so bleak. “Still, I can see no way that this can turn out well.”
“Maybe not. But whatever happens, we’ll face this together.”
He took in another long breath. “Minnie… Tomorrow there’s going to be a crowd at the courthouse. Someone notified the London newspapers that I would be testifying, and now there are not just two reporters present, but twenty.”
“Are you asking if I can manage with a crowd? I can be in crowds. They make me uneasy, but so long as everyone’s not looking at me, I can make do.”
If anything, that intensified the bleakness in his eyes. He seemed to deflate right there at the table. “I…Minnie. I don’t know what to say.”
She shook her head. “I have to be there,” she said. “There is no other way. So I will.” She’d work out the details later.
He shook his head. “At least one good thing has come of this. I came to Leicester to stop the misuse of criminal sedition as a tool to end strikes. Now I know who’s behind it.” He gave her a sharp smile. “I had the most interesting talk with…with a magistrate about what Stevens has asked for in order to help him keep the peace. Justice will be done.”
“Good,” Minnie said. “Excellent. I have something else for you, and I hope it’s good, too. I got you something.” She indicated the object wrapped in brown paper that she had brought in with her.
He eyed the oblong package warily, then took hold of one corner and pulled it to him. “What is this?”
“A gift.”
“It’s not my birthday.” He glanced up at her. “It’s not Christmas, not for over a month.”
“It’s not a gift for any occasion.” She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. “It’s just one where I saw it and wanted you to have it.”
Like those rubies he’d given her, now packed away in a box for a happier occasion.
“It’s heavy,” he said, feeling the edges. “A book? An atlas?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” she said. “You have to open it and find out.”
He tugged on the twine, and, when the rough bow came undone, dropped the string to the floor. The paper crinkled as he unfolded it.
The volume was bound up in soft cream-colored leather, embossed in a subtle pattern. There was no title on the front, nor, when he tilted it, was there one on the spine. She held her breath as he pulled back the cover and flipped through the first creamy pages.
This book had come off no printing press. It had been lovingly, perfectly, illustrated by hand. She thought that the illustrations were watercolors, but if they were, they were astonishingly vibrant—layers and layers of paint ghosted on top of one another until the reds were as deep as dying leaves in autumn and the blues as real as a summer sky. The first illustration—a giant letter A—stood on the crest of a hill. The letter itself was composed of myriad smaller pictures. An apple tree, bending in the wind, formed one side of the letter. At the very height of its branches, an albatross stood, stretching its wings to the sky. An alpaca stretched to eat an apple, its neck forming the other side. An adder curled at its feet, but instead of threatening any of the other creatures, it appeared to be busily munching on an apricot. The entire illustration was composed of things that started with A.
He stared at it before turning the page to letter B—bees, birches, and buttercups. “You got me a primer?” He looked bemused.
“I thought—” She swallowed. “You said you wanted to have lots of children. I thought I would get you a primer that didn’t have any words printed in it. That way, you might make up anything that you wanted for each letter. And you wouldn’t be wrong.”
He looked at the pages. He touched the edge of one, and she wondered if he was thinking about the M—which, indeed, had both mice and the figure of a mother, holding her child’s hand entwined in the moonlight, with moths and magpies flying around a mulberry bush at the dead of midnight. But he didn’t flip to that letter. Instead, he turned to look at her.
“You got this for me,” he said.
She nodded.
“Because…”
“Because I was thinking about you.”
He stood. She couldn’t read his expression at all.
But then he put his hands on her shoulders, and, when she looked up at him, he kissed her. He kissed her with no finesse, no gentleness. He kissed her with all the emotion that he hadn’t shown since he’d walked in the door—fiercely, savagely, as if he’d returned from an absence of ten years and needed to remind her of everything that had happened. His arms came around her, wrapping her to him as tightly as chains. He was a scorching heat against her. He took kiss after kiss after kiss, scarcely allowing her to draw breath before wrapping her in another one. He pulled her to him so tightly that she scarcely noticed when he lifted her up and set her on the table in front of him. He left her mouth long enough to suck on her chin, her neck. Little spots of pleasure bloomed in the wake of his kisses, and still he went further down—until he undid the buttons at the neck of her nightgown, enough to pull it down over her br**sts.
She sat next to him. “I’m a little hungry, myself.”
They were probably both lying. They probably both knew it.
Still, Minnie took a roll to keep him company, and while he ate, she shredded it on her plate. If nothing else, her presence spurred him on to do justice to the food before him. He ate mechanically—peas and turnips and carrots, as well as the beef in a sauce that had congealed. It turned her stomach to think of it, but he didn’t seem to taste anything he put in his mouth. He seemed surprised when his fork found nothing on the plate.
“Long day,” he said. “I—I think I’ll be going straight to bed.” But he didn’t stand.
Minnie took that as an invitation to walk over to the sideboard and pour a glass of sherry. She brought it to him; their fingers touched as she passed it over.
“Will everything be all right?” she asked.
In response, he put his head in his hands. Minnie put her fingers over his. His skin was warm to the touch; she could almost feel his temples throbbing. Slowly, she rubbed his forehead; he made a little noise and then leaned into the pressure.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I’m not…” He turned his head sideways to meet her eyes and then quickly looked away. “I’m not certain.” His fingers drummed against the table. “But I’ll do everything I can to make it so. My brother…” He drew in another deep breath. “My father didn’t care. He didn’t help. Oliver grew up with none of the advantages I had, and to have him so publicly take the blame for something that I have done—Minnie, I can’t abide it. I feel on the brink of madness just contemplating it. You must know that.”
“I know.” She rubbed his forehead. “But you’re doing everything you can.”
“Yes.” His voice was bleak, so bleak. “Still, I can see no way that this can turn out well.”
“Maybe not. But whatever happens, we’ll face this together.”
He took in another long breath. “Minnie… Tomorrow there’s going to be a crowd at the courthouse. Someone notified the London newspapers that I would be testifying, and now there are not just two reporters present, but twenty.”
“Are you asking if I can manage with a crowd? I can be in crowds. They make me uneasy, but so long as everyone’s not looking at me, I can make do.”
If anything, that intensified the bleakness in his eyes. He seemed to deflate right there at the table. “I…Minnie. I don’t know what to say.”
She shook her head. “I have to be there,” she said. “There is no other way. So I will.” She’d work out the details later.
He shook his head. “At least one good thing has come of this. I came to Leicester to stop the misuse of criminal sedition as a tool to end strikes. Now I know who’s behind it.” He gave her a sharp smile. “I had the most interesting talk with…with a magistrate about what Stevens has asked for in order to help him keep the peace. Justice will be done.”
“Good,” Minnie said. “Excellent. I have something else for you, and I hope it’s good, too. I got you something.” She indicated the object wrapped in brown paper that she had brought in with her.
He eyed the oblong package warily, then took hold of one corner and pulled it to him. “What is this?”
“A gift.”
“It’s not my birthday.” He glanced up at her. “It’s not Christmas, not for over a month.”
“It’s not a gift for any occasion.” She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. “It’s just one where I saw it and wanted you to have it.”
Like those rubies he’d given her, now packed away in a box for a happier occasion.
“It’s heavy,” he said, feeling the edges. “A book? An atlas?”
“I’m not going to tell you,” she said. “You have to open it and find out.”
He tugged on the twine, and, when the rough bow came undone, dropped the string to the floor. The paper crinkled as he unfolded it.
The volume was bound up in soft cream-colored leather, embossed in a subtle pattern. There was no title on the front, nor, when he tilted it, was there one on the spine. She held her breath as he pulled back the cover and flipped through the first creamy pages.
This book had come off no printing press. It had been lovingly, perfectly, illustrated by hand. She thought that the illustrations were watercolors, but if they were, they were astonishingly vibrant—layers and layers of paint ghosted on top of one another until the reds were as deep as dying leaves in autumn and the blues as real as a summer sky. The first illustration—a giant letter A—stood on the crest of a hill. The letter itself was composed of myriad smaller pictures. An apple tree, bending in the wind, formed one side of the letter. At the very height of its branches, an albatross stood, stretching its wings to the sky. An alpaca stretched to eat an apple, its neck forming the other side. An adder curled at its feet, but instead of threatening any of the other creatures, it appeared to be busily munching on an apricot. The entire illustration was composed of things that started with A.
He stared at it before turning the page to letter B—bees, birches, and buttercups. “You got me a primer?” He looked bemused.
“I thought—” She swallowed. “You said you wanted to have lots of children. I thought I would get you a primer that didn’t have any words printed in it. That way, you might make up anything that you wanted for each letter. And you wouldn’t be wrong.”
He looked at the pages. He touched the edge of one, and she wondered if he was thinking about the M—which, indeed, had both mice and the figure of a mother, holding her child’s hand entwined in the moonlight, with moths and magpies flying around a mulberry bush at the dead of midnight. But he didn’t flip to that letter. Instead, he turned to look at her.
“You got this for me,” he said.
She nodded.
“Because…”
“Because I was thinking about you.”
He stood. She couldn’t read his expression at all.
But then he put his hands on her shoulders, and, when she looked up at him, he kissed her. He kissed her with no finesse, no gentleness. He kissed her with all the emotion that he hadn’t shown since he’d walked in the door—fiercely, savagely, as if he’d returned from an absence of ten years and needed to remind her of everything that had happened. His arms came around her, wrapping her to him as tightly as chains. He was a scorching heat against her. He took kiss after kiss after kiss, scarcely allowing her to draw breath before wrapping her in another one. He pulled her to him so tightly that she scarcely noticed when he lifted her up and set her on the table in front of him. He left her mouth long enough to suck on her chin, her neck. Little spots of pleasure bloomed in the wake of his kisses, and still he went further down—until he undid the buttons at the neck of her nightgown, enough to pull it down over her br**sts.
