Chapter Four
Gerolf hesitated at Lady Alwynne’s door, unsure of whom he would find within the parlor.
Certainly not the vibrantly seductive woman he’d met for the first time one snowy night. Nor the shattered shell of a woman he’d wrapped in a blanket, knowing she did not see him, or know him. She had simply bled from her body and her soul, steeped in the terrible fog of violence and terror.
He calmed himself, meditating for a few moments, centering his breath and his focus.
He was pleasantly surprised to find his hostess seated in a feminine overstuffed chair near a blazing fire. Winter sunlight filled the room, touching her pale blonde hair and turning it into an angelic aura.
She was wrapped in a rich blue robe, buttoned to her neck with a single frill of lace cascading down over her shoulders. Matching lace fell from her wrist as she raised her hand to him.
“Baron, how kind of you to visit. Forgive my not rising.”
Her eyes were cool, unblinking, studying him as he crossed the room to take her fingers and gently press them to his lips. “My Lady. I am honored you allowed me to come.”
She indicated a chair opposite. “They tell me I should begin to interact with people again.”
“Who tells you, my Lady?”
“My maids. And two doctors who came from London not long ago.” Her gaze turned to the flames in the hearth. “They said I needed companionship to help me move forward.”
“Perhaps they were right. I cannot say.” Gerolf watched her. “Might I ask how you are feeling today?”
She lifted her hands and locked her fingers, stretching her arms out in front of her in an oddly casual move. “I improve, Baron. I improve.”
“That is good news indeed. So many of us have been waiting to hear those words.”
“Really?” She looked at him. “How nice.”
He let the silence fall for a moment or two while he gathered his impressions. She was—perfect. Physical beauty of an ethereal nature. Unadorned, almost severe, her hair was pulled back, highlighting the bone structure underlying her white skin.
She was thin, without doubt. She’d suffered an ordeal that would have surely killed a lesser woman. But her hands were steady and her voice smooth.
“May I ask you something, Baron?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“I am aware you have a profound interest in the human mind. So I would like your opinion.” She shifted very slightly in her chair and rearranged her blanket to her satisfaction.
Delaying techniques perhaps? He wasn’t sure. He simply waited.
“As I said, I’m told by my physicians that I should begin to break my solitude. Interact more with the household and perhaps consider entertaining a guest or two.” She gave a very slight smile. “They seem to think that my recovery will be best served by my pretending to be the Lady of the Manor.”
Gerolf thought for a few moments. “If you feel you would be pretending, my Lady, then I could not—in all conscience—endorse such a suggestion. However, if you can begin to accept that you are now, and always have been, the much-admired doyenne of Harbury Hall, then yes.”
He leaned back, knowing he had her attention. “The human mind, as you so rightly averred, is my life’s study, and yet I cannot pretend to have understood more than the smallest portion of its capabilities. Its possibilities? Endless. My work has shown me more of what I can never comprehend, than what I will eventually know.”
He paused, hoping she was following his discourse. “So I won’t insult you by saying I can understand what you have suffered. I would venture an assumption that you are, physically, well on the road to recovery. Psychologically, the scars will also fade with time. But such mental healing is not a bandage and liniment regimen. It is more a progressive move into new areas, leaving the old ones behind. One cannot obliterate one’s memories, my Lady. One can only learn to put them in their place.”
She swallowed, a graceful ripple of pale skin. “And how does one learn to do that, Baron?”
“I would be honored if you would allow me to assist.” He dipped his head respectfully. “I have some skill in helping those who have experienced… unpleasantness in their lives. Often it is as little as a few minutes of total relaxation, or it could be regular sessions of deep psychic exploration. Journeys through memories, both good and bad, that assist the mind in categorizing them, putting them into their correct places. Diminishing their importance, if you will.”
He paused, observed her intense interest, and then continued. “I could show you if you would care to try?”
Her expression remained unchanged, blank and uncommunicative. He couldn’t read her as well as he would have liked.
But then she lifted one hand. “Show me.”
“Very well.” He stood and glanced at a small side chair. “With your permission?”
She nodded.
He moved the chair close to hers, sitting down to one side, facing her. “If you would give me your hands.” He held out his own, palms up, encouraging her to place hers downward on top. They were cool to the touch, almost waxen. It was difficult for him to sense even the slight vibration of nerve endings or the pulse of blood through her veins.
She was a living statue with a weakened spirit…or perhaps it was firmly suppressed. He had to discover which.
“Close your eyes, Lady Alwynne. Relax. You are perfectly safe here. Safe and warm.”
He began to gently stroke the silky skin of her hands with his thumbs, speaking softly and melodically, urging her to simply let her mind drift free. As he continued his well-rehearsed soliloquy, he watched for the tell-tale signs—the deepening of her breathing and the easing of her facial features.
It was damned hard.
She had been unreadable during their conversation, her voice level, her pulse steady. Her eyes had given away nothing of her inner state, nor had there been the tiniest tremor to betray emotions.
And yet as he uttered the words that he knew should instill a sense of quietude and tranquility, there was a subtle change in her demeanor. The firmness of her lips softened just a little, and her shoulders seemed to lower slightly beneath the elegant robe and lace collar.
For the first time he caught a glimpse of the slow throb beneath the skin of her throat, and saw a touch of color rise to her cheeks.
She was following his instructions, responding to his directive. She was approaching a state of relaxation that opened her mind to his suggestion.
He had not failed with any of the patients and clients he’d worked with in his past.
He would not fail Alwynne Harbury.
*~~*~~*
Portia found herself in the unusual position of having absolutely nothing to do. James and Charlotte were out walking, and Devon had been called to Lord Southfield’s estate.
The Lord Lieutenant of the County was one of the few admitted to the secret of Devon’s identity and was working with Burke and several men in London to amass sufficient documentation and evidence to do two things—restore Devon to his rightful heritage and ensure the Harburys answered for their many crimes.
She stared from the window wondering if she’d prefer a cup of tea or a walk. The tea would keep her in the warm, and ready for whatever Charlotte might decide to do upon her return. But heaven knew when that might be. She and Burke seemed to be finding a great deal of pleasure in each other’s company, and who was Portia to complain, since she’d willingly spend the day and the night with Devon if she could.
The sun broke through the clouds and the dazzle of light on snow lured her more than the thought of a warm cuppa. She slipped on her cloak, buttoned her boots and found a hat, scarf and mittens.
Thus attired, she opened the front door and took a breath of crisp cold air, noting the blue sky that grew ever more bright as the clouds scudded away to the east.
It was going to be a lovely afternoon and she was going to enjoy it.
Walking from the cottage, she took the lane leading to the village of Little Harbury. Her hope was that she might meet up with Charlotte and the Inspector, or someone else she knew coming this way from the village.
The deliveries would already have been made; the roads were still snow-covered, but quite passable, so it was unlikely any tradespeople would still be about.
But one never knew. She strode off, wrapping her cloak snugly around her neck and enjoying the crunch of the icy stuff beneath her heels. The breeze was sharp enough to make her turn her collar up as far as it would go to meet her hat, and knot the scarf snugly to keep her neck warm. Her breath clouded as she walked and she blew little puffs like a steam engine just for fun.
The lane wound through snow covered hedgerows; an open tunnel in places, a wide swath of snow in others. She thought about singing, remembered her family’s response when she’d attempted a Christmas carol a few years ago, and compromised with whistling a cheerful tune she’d picked up from some of the other servants while working at Harbury.
Lost in her own delightful musical stroll, she jumped when she heard a voice call out her name.
“Jones! Mary Jones…hold up girl.”
Portia turned—and froze. It was one half of the team known to all in the laboratories as RobertandArthur, the two servants who took care of the various unpleasant messes caused by science or man. The man most often being Lord Harbury.
Both of them scared the daylights out of Portia, resembling as they did a couple of bullyboys, rough and ready to fight with whatever was at hand.
Rapidly assuming the persona of Jones the maid, Portia stopped and lowered her gaze respectfully. “Afternoon, sir.”
“You don’t have to sir me, girl. But it’s good that you’re a polite one.” He closed the distance between them, his boots crunching harshly on the snow. “I’d have a word with you.”
“Of course, s… Mr. Robert.” She bobbed a quick curtsey, a habit she’d easily adopted when working at Harbury.
“You’re employed by that Mrs. Howell, now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Portia risked a look at him. He didn’t seem quite so menacing in the sunshine, but she remained cautious. “I’m her companion. I’m waiting for her to return from her walk. Thought she might come up this way from the village. It’s such a lovely day—“
“Never mind that. I need you to pass along a message.”
“A message? For Mrs. Howell?”
“Yes. From up at the Hall.”
“Ohhh. You’re meanin’ Harbury Hall, then, Mr. Robert?” It might have been a tad heavy handed, Portia reflected, but he seemed unaware of it.
“Of course. Where else?”
Where else indeed?
“I’d be happy to pass it along, sir. But you could do it yerself if you’d a mind to. I can give you Mrs. Howell’s direction.”
For a moment he looked a little uncomfortable—and even less menacing to Portia’s discerning gaze. Perhaps something had changed, or he was out of his element away from the Hall—she didn’t know. But whatever it was, it interested her.
“No, that’s all right. You can pass it on. It’s from Lady Harbury herself.”
“Oh my. Poor lady’s feelin’ better, I hope.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m simply passing on an invitation to Mrs. Howell from Lady Harbury.”
“Goodness.” Portia blinked, her surprise unfeigned. This was quite unexpected. “That’s…well, goodness me.” She was genuinely at a loss for words.
“Yes, um…Lady Harbury would like Mrs. Howell’s company for tea tomorrow afternoon if that’s convenient. You can bring her answer up to the house if you want. Malcolm will relay it.”
“I will, sir.” She nodded, noting that Robert had obviously overcome his reluctance to be addressed in a formal manner. “I’m sure Mrs. Howell would be most honored to accept, but I’ll see what she says first.” She beamed at Robert.
“Good. Make it soon, will you? Lady Harbury shouldn’t be kept waiting.” He turned away with a curt nod.
“I will, sir.” Portia curtseyed again, watching him stride off back toward the Hall.
What strange turn of events had brought this particular invitation their way, she couldn’t begin to guess, but her senses tingled at the prospect of getting back into Harbury Hall, especially the house itself.
She strolled on, lost in her thoughts.
The last time she’d seen Alwynne Harbury, the woman had been naked, battered, bleeding and in a state that still sickened Portia when she recalled it. It had been long ago enough that her bones had probably healed, but that word carved into her back would have scarred to a permanent reminder of what her husband thought of her.
There was no doubt in Portia’s mind that Lord Harbury had brutalized his wife. There had been terrible and violent crimes committed that night, and most of the participants had not survived to tell the tales. But Alwynne Harbury had.
No matter what other atrocities had been done to her, only one man would have had the vicious need to deform her back so savagely.
Was the accusation valid? Portia was nearly twenty but possessed the intellect and knowledge well in advance of her peers. Even Inspector Burke said she surprised him sometimes with the things she knew.
Sex was one of them; a mostly forbidden topic to young girls, who were deemed too fragile to be exposed to the vile desires of men. Until they were married, at which point they were tossed into the marital bed without a clue of what lay ahead, other than the instructions to obey their husbands in all things, and give him an heir in short order.
Portia was having none of that.
Unbeknownst to her father, she’d read more than a few of his more sophisticated books. She knew what happened between men and women, and she’d read of the passions it could inspire.
She’d also had some of her own passions awoken and inspired by Devon, whose touches inflamed all kinds of delightful and needy feelings in places that tingled when she thought of them.
So the idea of a man being incited to take a knife and carve the word “whore” into his wife’s back—well it was, in some obscure and twisted way, understandable if done in the heat of fury or something.
But why he hadn’t just killed her with that knife, Portia couldn’t begin to guess. And wasn’t even sure she wanted to.
Which brought her thoughts back around to the invitation for Charlotte and what, if anything, it signified.
On the positive side, this would gain Charlotte—and hopefully Portia herself—admittance into the upper levels of Harbury Hall. While they certainly couldn’t plan a foray into the desks and papers of the Harburys, they might be able to glean something of the current situation there.
It had been so very quiet and controlled after that night of terror.
The comments and news had filtered from servants in a manner which told the observant that only what the Harburys wanted the world to know was being passed along.
This, in and of itself, was an accomplishment since the household staff, as was expected, usually knew everything. But not here. Not at Harbury Hall. Several had departed, believing that they’d be happier leaving the Hall and its unpleasantness behind them.
The core cadre of servants remained, but they had been with Alwynne and Randall Harbury for many years and their loyalty apparently knew no bounds. Nary an unplanned comment fell from their lips and they were seldom seen in any of the local pubs or inns. Portia spent a moment or two wondering just how much they received in payment for their silence.
Then she mentally shook herself. She was no longer a maid there, to be envious of someone with a larger sum in their wages.
She realized she’d walked quite a way when she heard her name once more. “Portia? Portia, love. You’ll never believe it…”
Buoyant, glowing with happiness, Charlotte hurried to her side, red curls escaping from her woolen hat. “I’m to be married, Portia. Can you imagine?”
She almost danced from one foot to the other, a sprite of a woman with joy and energy far in excess of her peers.
“Charlotte, my dear!” Portia hugged her enthusiastically. “Such amazing news. To whom?”
“I swear, one of these days I’m putting you over my knee and teaching you humility, my girl.” Burke ambled up and flicked her cheek. “To whom, indeed.”
She released Charlotte and turned to the Inspector. “I couldn’t be happier, dear James. You two were utterly made for each other.” She hugged him hard.
“I think so too.” Charlotte looked smug.
“Come on. Let’s go back to the cottage and you can tell me all the details, and I’ll tell you about something very interesting that happened to me a little while ago…”
Portia led the way, brimming with excitement. Perhaps this was the beginning of a new and positive adventure.
Wait until Devon hears about all this…