Читать книгу The Sleeping Beauty - Jacqueline Navin - Страница 12

Adam had a difficult time falling asleep. This was unusual for him. He usually experienced no trouble.

He had certainly gotten the best of Helena at dinner. Sent her out in a huff, he had, and it had felt good for exactly one-tenth of a second. Then he had felt mildly ashamed. After all, it was graceless of him, when he had obviously won everything so completely, to be snide about it.

Besides, it troubled him that she had missed dinner. She was so damned thin. He hoped she had eaten later, but doubted it.

Sitting up, he turned on his side and punched the pillow. The nights were certainly cool up in this corner of England. Tonight, however, the sheets felt clammy and his skin dry and hot.

A sound reached his ear, causing him to still his arm in midpunch.

It was music. It was a pianoforte, being played by an expert hand.

Maybe it was the completely moonless dark, or maybe it was this tomblike place finally getting the better of him, but the hair on his arms stood straight up and cold fingers traced a chill across the back of his neck. It was a sensation that had nothing to do with the plunging temperatures.

The strains were lilting, but faint. Carefully, he climbed out of bed and grabbed his trousers as he tiptoed to the door. Pressing his ear to the crack, he heard the music better.

On the dressing table lay his watch and fob. He fumbled for them after he had secured his trousers, and retrieved a flint box and small candelabra. Striking a flame, he lit three tapers and checked his watch. Half past one.

Who was playing the pianoforte at this hour?

Quickly, silently, he undid the latch to the door and entered the hall. The candlelight threw up shadows along the wall. They looked like undulating wraiths that melted into the darkness as he passed. Fanciful nonesuch, he scoffed, and padded barefoot down the corridor.

He didn’t yet have his bearings in the house. Upon reaching the stairs, he wasn’t certain whether to proceed to the corridor on the east end of the house, which looked to be a match of the one he had just come down, or descend. Taking a few tentative steps down the stairs, he judged the sounds to be growing louder and hurried on.

The piece being played grew bolder, harsher. Increased emotion built into a medley of light frolics offset with low undertones. Under the guidance of the magnificent piece, a vision unfolded in his mind, of a child playing alone, serving tea to her dolls on a clean, sweet lawn, while a slavering beast lurked just on the edges of the forest. And every so often a moment of disquiet entered the child’s consciousness as she became increasingly aware that she was being watched by a predator.

As he moved stealthily down the corridor, Adam marveled at the vivid picture in his mind. Never having been a man given to great contortions of imagination, he blamed the music. It was incredibly moving, incredibly passionate.

He paused, cursing himself for a clodpoll. Of course—the music room. The problem was he wasn’t certain where it was located. His wanderings that day had taken him all over the house, and he couldn’t rightly place it.

Trying a door, he winced at the long, agonizing protest of the hinges. The sound was like a wail of pain. The pianoforte music ceased.

In the darkness, he called, “Hello? Who is there?”

There was a silence, then a soft scrape and the light brush of footsteps retreating quickly.

Cocking his head, he tried to gauge their direction, but the vaulted ceiling and polished floors created a cavernous chamber where the untraceable sound echoed, then died.

It had to be her, of course. Helena. He couldn’t imagine the servants were used to making free with the musical instruments, and only one who had been subject to careful—and expensive—instruction could play with that combination of skill and passion. And yet it seemed impossible that thin, wasted waif who had scowled and screeched at him had so much within her.

But if there was one thing he was learning, and learning quickly, it was that Lady Helena Rathford was rarely what one would expect.

Helena spent the morning in the drawing room she often used, sewing with Kimberly. Their project was to alter the contents of her wardrobe, trying to transform the outmoded gowns into some semblance of current style. Inspecting their efforts, Helena held up a green silk. She could not say she was pleased. Not particularly talented with the needle and unskilled in working the delicate fabric, she had drawn the material into unsightly puckers as she stitched.

“I think I have no choice but to go to Strathmere and visit the seamstress,” Helena said, bundling up another botched effort and tossing it on the floor.

“If yer vanity must be appeased, so be it,” Kimberly replied darkly, not looking up from her own sewing.

“If I do not wish to go about with my bosom exposed, I must.”

Kimberly looked up. Helena stared back at the watery blue eyes. There passed between them a moment of shared astonishment. Helena did not speak this way to Kimberly. She simply didn’t.

Drawing in a nervous breath, she proceeded more calmly. “It is not conceit to wish to be dressed properly. I am, after all, a noblewoman, even if we’ve all forgotten that fact.”

Kimberly’s great irritation, which was clearly apparent on her freckled face, did not frighten Helena. Well, perhaps a little bit, but her mind was already made up. She simply would not allow Adam Mannion to see her in these rags.

“Are ye, now?” Kimberly purred. She placed the dress she’d been working on down and rose to her full height, which came to just under Helena’s chin. Of course, Helena was taller than most, but this only made Kimberly’s small stature all the more noticeable. “I’d o’ thought ye’d be beyond that kind of conceit. After all, ye’re not so high and mighty as ye once were, when your mama was alive and ye thought ye were the toast of the land. Ye know what ’appened then, eh, missy?”

“Yes,” Helena said, fighting the tremor of reaction at the mention of the accident. “I know what happened then, Kimberly. And if I ever forget, no doubt you will hasten to remind me. Nevertheless, I am to be married. I cannot disgrace my husband. And I would think you’d wish me to make a better impression, as he is my destiny.”

“That he is. But why impress him? Who is ’e—a commoner, not a nobleman. An’ ’e’s come for yer money. What difference does it make ’ow ye look, my pretty bird? Yer destiny is not to be a pleasured pet. Ye best remember that, eh?”

Whirling away, Helena headed for the door. “I think you’ve said enough. I—” She broke off, staring at Adam, who was standing just outside the room.

“Hello.” He cocked his eyebrows and flashed her one of those half grins he favored. She supposed the tarts he was used to dealing with found the expression absolutely adorable. “I was just about to knock.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Why looking for you. You weren’t at breakfast. Naturally, I wondered where you had gotten to.”

“I cannot see why my whereabouts would be of such interest.”

He shrugged, another gesture of appealing nonchalance. “There is little enough diversion for a man up here in the wilderness.”

“It is not the wilderness.” Gad, she sounded like a harridan, even to her own ears. With an effort, Helena softened her posture and modulated her voice. “It is a perfectly respectable part of the country and we are quite civilized.”

“Compared to London, it is positively primitive. Why weren’t you at breakfast?”

She was disconcerted. As it was not the family’s custom to take meals together in the dining room, it hadn’t even occurred to her to go there this morning. However, her father had no doubt given orders that they were to institute this ritual for the sake of their guest. She was simply forgotten. She said, “I rose late today.”

“Slept in because you were up all night, did you? Do you always play like that when you can’t sleep? No use denying it. I heard you at the pianoforte last night. Excellent performance, if a bit odd in timing.”

Kimberly made to leave, glaring at Adam as she brushed past him. Swiveling his head to follow her path down the hall, he muttered, “I’m afraid she doesn’t like me.”

Nothing else he might have said could have melted Helena more readily. She fought back a smile. “It would seem not.”

He turned back to her. “I would like it if you would play for me sometime.”

“That is impossible. I do not play for anyone but myself,” she answered honestly.

“Really? We shall see, then.”

Whenever he and Helena were sparring, his eyes had a habit of sparkling, as if they danced in delight at some amusing secret he held from the rest of the world. She got the strongest feeling that if there was a joke there, it was most certainly on her.

“Sewing today, are you?” he said.

Helena bristled. She hardly wished him to be made aware of the fact that she had spent the morning frantically attempting to refashion her wardrobe in order to make a more pleasing presentation—for him! Her response was reflexive. “No, no, not at all. Why do you say that?”

That debonair grin deepened, showing a single dimple. His hand came up and she flinched, catching herself and flushing with embarrassment at the instinctive response. She didn’t like being touched, as a rule.

He didn’t hesitate, however. Long, tapered fingers plucked a snippet of embroidered silk from her hair. They moved down to her shoulder, where a tendril of thread stuck to her bodice.

Faced with this evidence and nearly undone for his forwardness, she stared at him. “Oh, sewing. Yes, well, we were doing our usual mending. A few hours here and there. I am so used to it, I barely notice it anymore.” She ended with a nervous laugh that fell flat.

His smirk told her he guessed the truth. Her humiliation knew no bounds.

“I could take you into the village if you need…supplies.” A heartbeat later, he added, “For your mending.”

“I don’t need…” What was she saying? It was no use denying that her wardrobe was a shambles. “Actually,” she began, “I saw today that my mending has rather taken its toll on my old dresses. Of course, I normally couldn’t be bothered with such things, since no one ever comes here. However, given the state of things, I was considering purchasing a few new items. Gowns, I mean. Just because the other ones are beyond repair, you understand.”

He was tactful enough not to let the quivering of his lips blossom into a true smile. “Every bride should have a trousseau.”

“I am hardly an ordinary bride,” she stated smartly.

He ignored her show of vinegar. “All the more reason for the ordinary rituals to stay locked in place, yes?”

She didn’t know why he was being so kind. He could very easily expose her, or even cock one of those sharply arched brows, and she would be totally humiliated.

“Does tomorrow suit you? Or did you have other plans?”

“No, no plans.” She said haughtily, as if there were some possibility of her having plans. Which was ridiculous. She’d be devoured by flesh-eating maggots before she’d admit that to him, though. “Tomorrow should suit me.”

“After breakfast, then?”

“I’ll meet you in the dining room for the meal, and we can go immediately afterward.”

“Good.” He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her with a pleased expression. “Then I can make certain you eat something.”

She saw him go off to the stables some time later. Less than three-quarters of an hour after that, he went galloping across the meadow and into the woods.

It was a relief not to have him about, not to have the possibility of him chancing upon her at any moment. Her days were usually spent either in the kitchens or together with Mrs. Kent, undertaking some house chore. There was an endless supply of them, what with the shortage of staff. It was Helena’s fault, that was, and she felt obligated to help. She might be a lady of noble birth, but she was not one of leisure. She toiled alongside the lowest-paid servant, and didn’t mind a bit. For one thing, it kept her busy and helped her fall exhausted into bed most nights. For another, it meant she could keep the amount of strangers in her house to a minimum.

Since the accident, she couldn’t tolerate intruders.

Therefore, this planned jaunt into Strathmere tomorrow threw her into a fit of anxiety. Of course, going anywhere with Adam would be bothersome. They were likely to quarrel the entire way.

But more than that, she would be seen. She hated being seen. She hated the whispers and the looks.

She almost changed her mind. Just imagining what it would be like turned her legs to water. But she simply could not be a faded frump any longer. When he left to return to London, she’d get her precious solitude back, but until then she would have to contend with his presence. His intrusion.

And she would simply have to get some new clothes. What a bother he was!

Yet she found herself watching all afternoon for his return.