Chapter Fifteen
Luncheon was an awkward meal. Only Lady Braithwaite, Miss Farnborough, and Dawn met in the dining room. Dawn only went to prove she was not intimidated by the countess, but immediately wished herself anywhere else in the world. Lady Braithwaite was chillingly civil. Miss Farnborough chattered sweetly about great homes she had visited which were nowhere near as wonderful as Braithwaite Castle.
“Although, of course, I love my own home in Lincolnshire best,” she confided. “Where is it you live, Miss Conway?”
“Oh, I have always been a bit of a gypsy,” Dawn said sardonically. The countess choked on her soup. “I travel a lot.”
“I wonder where Lord Braithwaite is?” Miss Farnborough said a little later, barely hiding her discontent.
“About estate business, I expect,” the countess replied. “There will be much to do before he returns to London.”
“Will he risk the snow?” Miss Farnborough asked.
Dawn couldn’t help glancing at them uneasily. Gervaise had said nothing to her about an imminent departure.
“It will thaw,” Dawn blurted, recognizing that this would remove any obstacle to his returning to his political life. But then, if he had wished to, wouldn’t he have already gone? They all received mail from London, so the main roads were clearly passable.
“What makes you say so?” the countess asked.
“Just a feeling,” Dawn said distractedly. “It seems warmer.”
*
Toward the end of the afternoon, the rain came on, not sleet but fat, clear raindrops that began to wash the snow away. Even Dawn didn’t care to go out in such conditions. Instead, she went to the library, in the hope that Gervaise would find his way there. In the meantime, she took out her books and, sitting with her back to the door, began to read, silently mouthing the words. Slow and halting, she was nevertheless improving. After each paragraph, she paused and wrote it out in her notebook.
“You weren’t forging Eleanor’s signature, were you?” Lady Braithwaite said behind her.
Dawn jumped and dropped the pen, splattering ink across the page as she jerked her head around to face the countess.
To her surprise, the older woman looked neither contemptuous nor angry. “You are learning to read and write.”
Warily, Dawn watched her walk around the desk and sit opposite her in a cloud of expensive perfume and rustling black silk.
“I find that admirable,” the countess pronounced. “I am quite in favor of education for everyone and I am pleased to see you making the most of your opportunities.”
Dawn blinked.
Lady Braithwaite’s lips stretched into a rueful smile that just touched her eyes. “For the most part, I am not an unkind or an unreasonable woman, but I am subject to protective anger where my children are concerned. I came to apologize for the way I spoke to you this morning. I have seen Serena.”
Dawn inclined her head in acknowledgement. She refused to gush with gratitude.
Lady Braithwaite sighed. “It is hard for a mother to realize her children have grown beyond her influence. But it is right that they should. Gervaise is a good son to me, so good that I have barely noticed all his decisions have been his own for the last ten years. What’s more, if I do wrong, he quietly fixes it, and he is nearly always right. Therefore, I have to consider the possibility that he is correct about you. About your origins and your suitability as a guest in my house, among my children and my friends.”
Dawn searched her eyes, which were no longer so agate-hard. “I understand your doubts,” she admitted. “I had my own. It’s only since coming here and visiting Haven Hall that I began to remember little things that could only come from Eleanor. Or at least, that is what I believe. I may yet be provenwrong.”
“I hope you are not wrong,” Lady Braithwaite said. The words seemed to be dragged from her, and yet they seemed genuine. “You have strength of character combined with instinctive grace and civility. They will carry you far and help make you an excellent mistress for Haven Hall.”
Stunned, Dawn flushed under the countess’s praise. “Thank you.”
“I say this because my apology is necessary. And so that you understand my advice does not come from ill-feeling toward you.”
Here it comes, the sting in the tail. “What advice is that?” Dawn asked.
Lady Braithwaite held her gaze. “I am not blind. I have seen how my son looks at you. I have seen how you look at him.”
Dawn tilted her chin.
“I am not accusing you of impropriety,” the countess said mildly. “Only of naivety. My son will not marry you.”
Dawn clenched her hands in her lap. “I have not asked him to.”
“But you love him. That is the tragedy.”
“I see no reason for it to be so,” Dawn said. “Not if I am truly Eleanor.”
“My dear, if you are Eleanor, that will be the tragedy. If you want his love, you would be better off a gypsy, or a courtesan he could set up in some discreet establishment away from his wife. Eleanor, he could never treat so, even if you were willing, for Eleanor is a lady.”
Lady Braithwaite leaned forward over the desk as though trying to impart silent wisdom to Dawn’s bewildered brain. “You have not been brought up in this world, so it will be hard for you to understand. Braithwaite is not just a gentleman, he is an earl, the head of a great noble family, several estates and houses, a man with a great future in the government of this country. The lady he marries must be more than his wife and the mother of his children. She must be the Countess of Braithwaite, the mistress of this castle and several other grand homes, where she would be expected to entertain the great and the powerful. She must be a flawless hostess and help mate with influence and instincts of her own to aid Braithwaite in his hugely busy life. I don’t believe you truly understand even half of what that entails. You were not even brought up to run a small manor house. As for birth, it is true Eleanor Gardyn is a gentlewoman. But she is not and never could be a great lady.”
The blood drained from Dawn’s face. She felt sick, for she could not deny a word of this. Most of it had never entered her head. It was Gervaise she loved, not the great nobleman with the important life beyond her reach or knowledge. But it was not in her nature to give up without a struggle.
“You are right,” she managed. “I don’t understand that part of his life. But I understand him. And if you imagine he could be happy married to someone like Miss Farn—”
“But of course he will be happy,” Lady Braithwaite interrupted with impatience. “Braithwaite knows what is due to his position, to his family because he was born with the knowledge and grew up with it. He has always known he would marry a great lady of equal rank, wealth, and influence.”
“So, presumably, did Lady Serena,” Dawn threw in desperately.
The countess shrugged. “No one could deny Tamar is poor, though his rank carries him far. Serena is not the point here. Braithwaite told me she would only be happy with Tamar, and I believe he was right, for the man dotes on her. But my dear, Braithwaite is not so romantic and never was. Miss Farnborough is exactly who will make him happy. I don’t deny she is tiresome and humorless, but she is the daughter of a viscount and has grown up in great houses. She has connections, wealth, and the ability to keep my son content in all things.”
“Except love,” Dawn said passionately.
Lady Braithwaite smiled sadly. “Lifelong love is a myth, my child. Any other kind, he may indulge discreetly without harming the important things in his marriage. But that cannot be with you—not unless you truly are a gypsy or wish to become the kind of wife who forms illicit liaisons.”
Dawn stared at her. What the countess had said made an awful, twisted sense. It was how these people lived, because they had done so for countless generations. It was how they had gained their wealth, power, and influence in the first place, and how they added to it with each, carefully chosen marriage.
“Be honest, Miss Gardyn,” the countess said quietly. There was pity in her eyes. “Has he even mentioned marriage to you?”
Dawn swallowed and slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered.
“But you will have other suitors, now, men more suited to you,” Lady Braithwaite said, every word like a knife in Dawn’s heart. “Gervaise will help you prove who you are and then a whole new life will open before you.”
Her lips tugged into an unhappy smile. “So that I can throw the Benedicts from their home and live alone in that house while Julius Gardyn hurls resentment and plots to get it back?” She stared at the countess, overwhelmed by the need to be away from her, from there. And by a sudden longing for Ezra’s familiar, roguish face, the rough almost-affection of Aurora and the easy, bustling fun of the encampment. “What a life I see before me.”
“I can’t pretend it is fair on you” Lady Braithwaite said, frankly. “Or that my son has been blameless in rousing expectations he won’t fulfil. If it’s any consolation to you, I believe he was led astray by genuine feeling. But, as always, it is up to women to make the sacrifice, to be genuinely selfless. If you love him, you must walk away.”
Stricken, Dawn stared at her.
The countess smiled ruefully. “I mean metaphorically, of course. My home is yours until other arrangements are made and you legally inherit Haven Hall.” She rose to her feet. “I have thrown a lot of unpalatable truths at you. I only regret no one else did so earlier, before they could hurt you. For what it is worth, I am sorry. I like your strength of character. But I’ll leave you for now to take in what I’ve said. We’ll meet again at dinner.”
*
In the few short weeks in which she had grown accustomed to the life of a lady, Dawn had somehow talked herself into believing that even if she wasn’t that lady she could easily learn how to be. The speed with which she had picked up the surface accomplishments had blinded her to the depths she would never reach. Oh yes, she was a mimic. She could now speak with the correct accent and avoid most of the wrong words. She could walk and dance with modest grace, talk naturally to servants. She could even read and write to a degree. But Lady Braithwaite was right. She had no more idea than Gervaise’s favorite dog how to run a great household. Apart from the Tamars, who were widely acknowledged to be “different”, she knew nothing about aristocratic marriage. Or how to navigate among the powerful on social occasions.
These were all things aristocratic ladies imbibed almost with their mothers’ milk. Painful as it was to admit, Miss Farnborough, the viscount’s daughter, could do all of those things.
Even so, Dawn might have argued with herself for longer had it not been for Lady Braithwaite’s question. Has he even mentioned marriage to you? He sought her out, he laughed with her and teased her, flirted and made assignations with her. He kissed her as if he cared. Dawn should have known that such intimacies were improper without at least the intention of marriage.
Which he had never once mentioned. He would have, she realized, if he had wished to marry her, and her gypsy upbringing was no excuse. He said he regarded her as a lady. Just not as a great enough lady. It was probably so obvious to him that he had never felt it necessary to warn her. She should have known, he was only flirting, taking a few offered liberties…because he wanted her and always had.
The pain was unbearable. Only as it wracked her interminably did she realize how far she had truly fallen, how long this wound would fester within her. When she had first come to the castle it had been in the hope of lying with him just once. Now, even if she could seduce him, she would not. Because for some reason, it was no longer enough. She would not take scraps, even from him.
By the time Clarry had dressed her for dinner—for once, Dawn contributed nothing except a blind stare at the mirror—she had made up her mind what she had to do.
Her first test was running into Gervaise on the stairs. In mud-spattered riding clothes, he bolted upstairs and grinned spontaneously when he saw her. “Forgive me, I’ve left no time for the library today.” He came to a halt on the step below her.
Since she could not pass without being obvious in her avoidance, she said only, “It is no matter. I can work on my own now.”
“The good news is, I believe I have found Abe.”
“Abe,” she repeated. Although it no longer mattered, she forced herself to ask, “Where? Are you sure he is the right man?”
“A gypsy called Abraham, who fits the description, was arrested for drunken behavior near Keswick. He should be released, but I’ve asked for him to be sent to Blackhaven so that we can talk to him first.”
“Good,” she managed. “Thank you.”
He smiled and frowned at the same time. “Is everything well?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’d better hurry and change or my mother will have me flayed.”
Fortunately, the main topic of conversation during dinner was Serena’s pregnancy. Dawn ached, because she would never see the baby. She smiled at the excited chatter of the younger girls, whom she would never see again either.
Somehow, she got through the meal with pain clenching her stomach. She barely ate anything, but fortunately no one noticed. When the countess rose to leave the gentlemen, she followed obediently, almost with relief, although at the door, she couldn’t resist looking over her shoulder at Gervaise and Tamar.
Gervaise glanced up, met her gaze, and smiled. She smiled back. Let that be our farewell.
Fate, however, was not so kind. In the drawing room, she merely curtseyed to Lady Braithwaite and excused herself. “I have a headache and believe I shall retire early,” she said.
“I’ll send my maid with a tisane,” Serena said at once.
“Oh no, I shall be better sleeping,” Dawn said.
“Let the girl be,” Lady Braithwaite ordered. “Don’t fuss her. She knows what is best. Good night, my dear, and sleep well.”
“Thank you.” She raised her eyes to Serena, who was surely one of the kindest people she was ever likely to meet. “And thank you.”
“You are welcome to my fussing,” Serena said with a quick smile, and Dawn left them, closing the door with a click of finality.
“Dawn.”
She heard his voice as she hurried along the gallery to the staircase, but she pretended not to. She didn’t think she could bear it. However, he did not simply return to the dining room as she expected. He ran after her and leapt in front of her at the foot of the stairs.
“Are you avoiding me?” he asked quizzically.
“I have a headache and am retiring to bed.”
“I’m sorry,” he said in quick sympathy, giving her cheek a gentle caress. “Shall I send for Dr. Lampton?”
“Of course not,” she managed. “I shall be as right as rain in the morning.” Her throat ached with tears she refused to shed. She could not even meet his gaze in case he read the truth there. “Good night, my lord.”
He took her hand and though it jumped nervously in his, he raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Good night,” he said, softly.
She gasped and dragged his hand to her cheek, squeezing her eyes tight shut. Then she released him and ran upstairs without looking back.
*
Two hours later, she left the castle by her usual side door. Clarry had helped her undress after dinner and hung up her evening gown. The girl had replied cheerfully to Dawn’s slightly wistful goodnight. As soon as she had gone, Dawn had sat down and written two brief letters in her best handwriting, one to Serena, thanking her for her kindness, and one to Gervaise, merely saying goodbye and wishing him well. To both, she wrote not to look for her, for she was well and had chosen to leave because this life was not hers and never could be.
Then, she had laid the letters on her bed and dressed in the old wool gown and cloak she had worn when she had first come to the castle. She left behind Mrs. Benedict’s grey dress, the gowns she had borrowed from Serena, and those which had been bought for her. Once she had considered them her just payment. Now, she took nothing with her except Tamar’s painting, her old blanket, and, after hesitation, the fur cloak and gloves, which she might well need to survive the night.
The evening was cloudy and the road to Blackhaven slushy and slippery, so it was not a pleasant walk into the town. She wished to make one more visit before she left forever, to look Julius Gardyn in the eyes and ask him if had pushed her downstairs at the theatre. And then, whether or not he had, she meant to negotiate with him. She would tell him she would leave him to inherit Haven Hall if he promised to support rather than undermine Lord Braithwaite.
But as she walked along the high street, she realized she would not easily be admitted to the hotel in her present guise. And then, somewhat belatedly, it struck her that Julius could use her lowly appearance as a weapon against Gervaise. Perhaps she should have worn one of her new gowns after all. Either way, she could not trust such a man to keep his part of any bargain.
She walked straight past the hotel. The doorman ignored her. A few yards further along, she turned decisively and hurried back the way she had come. She could take off her tatty cloak and kept the sable one wrapped well around her. No one would know she was not “Miss Conway”…though why “Miss Conway” should be visiting Mr. Gardyn close to midnight was another cause for scandal.
She walked past again. This time the doorman’s gaze followed her. Half way along the building, she paused, trying to make up her mind once and for all. It was her last chance, but she did not wish to do Gervaise more harm than good.
Besides, what good would it do her to know? This was a bizarre interlude in her real life and it was now over. She was no one and could not influence someone like Julius Gardyn. At least, not by leaving.
Pain clawed at her once more. There really was nothing she could do for Gervaise except go. Pulling forward the hood which had slipped half way down her head, she turned her back on the curious doorman and walked away.
Her skin prickled. Some instinct made her look up at the hotel windows, just as an object hurtled downward. She leapt forward and the object shattered on the road.
“What on earth…?” the doorman exclaimed, hurrying toward her. “Are you hurt, Miss?”
Dawn dragged her gaze from the smashed porcelain to the window it had surely fallen from. A man leaned out. Although the night was dark, the lights in the street and the candles still burning in the room behind, clearly showed her Julius Gardyn.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Dawn said slowly. “It missed me.”
“Did it fall, sir?” the doorman called up to Gardyn. “Is everything well?”
“I have no idea where it came from,” Gardyn said contemptuously. “It certainly wasn’t here. Good night.”
And the window closed again.
“You should charge him for the washing bowl,” Dawn said wryly, and went on her way. She had a long walk ahead.
*
Gervaise stuck his head around the breakfast room door to discover Serena sitting by herself, gazing into her teacup. “Where is Dawn?” he asked.
“I haven’t seen her this morning. She could be in her chamber, though I’m sure she often goes out alone, despite our warnings.”
“I suppose it’s cruel to cage a wild bird! I’m about to ride into Whalen and talk to the gypsy Abraham who might be the man who gave her to Ezra. I thought she might like to come.”
“With me as chaperone?”
“If you’re up to it,” Gervaise said.
Serena wrinkled her nose. “I am enceinte not injured. And since the alternative is Mama, it had better be me! I’ll see if I can find out where she is.”
While he waited. Gervaise poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it down. Then, seizing a piece of toast, he took a bite and walked out.
“Gervaise.” Serena leaned over the upstairs banister, beckoning him.
Gervaise ran up, two and three stairs at a time. “What is it?”
For answer, Serena led him along the passage to Dawn’s open door. He hesitated, casting his sister a quick frown.
“She isn’t there,” Serena said impatiently. “Go in.”
Gervaise obeyed. However, there was not much to see, except a tidy bedchamber with nothing but the guitar in the corner to proclaim it as Dawn’s. Clarry the maid stood nervously by the wardrobe.
“Show him,” Serena commanded.
Clarry opened the door.
“Gowns,” Gervaise said impatiently. “Why am I looking at her gowns?”
“Because they’re all there, Gervaise,” Serena exclaimed. “All! Including that ugly one of Caroline’s. And Clarry did not make her bed today. She hasn’t slept in it.”
Gervaise frowned, his vague unease blooming into profound foreboding. He glanced at the fire, and the rug where he had found her asleep the first night he had brought her home.
“Her blanket,” he said abruptly. “The bright, colorful one she brought with her. Is it here?”
“No, my lord,” Clarry said unhappily. “Nor is the horrible old cloak or the rough clothes she kept hidden at the back of the wardrobe.”
Gervaise scowled. “I hope you’ve kept that to yourself.”
“Of course, my lord,” Clarry said indignantly.
But of course, that was not the real point. Serena put it into words. “She has no other reason to go out in those old clothes. I think she has gone.”
Gervaise, desperately trying not to think the same thing, strode around the room pulling open drawers. In one, he found sheaves of paper in a book where she had been practicing writing. He closed it again, hastily. Fear clawed at his heart.
“I found these, my lord,” Clarry said, picking two folded papers from her apron pocket. “They were on the bed.”
Gervaise almost snatched them from her. He recognized the round, careful writing at once. The top letter bore Serena’s name and he passed it to her without a word.
“Go, Clarry,” he said shortly. “And keep this to yourself for now. It will help Miss Conway.”
Clarry curtseyed and effaced herself.
“She writes like a child,” Serena observed in surprise, unfolding her letter.
“That’s because she couldn’t read or write before she came here.”
Serena’s eyes widened. “Then she learns quickly.”
“She does,” Gervaise said grimly. The letters danced in front of his eyes, forming eventually into the words he did not wish to read.
“I thought she was a little…strange last night,” Serena said sadly. “I thought perhaps Mama had got to her. You know Mama thought it was Dawn whose pregnancy the doctor was attending?”
“That would not have made her leave,” Gervaise said, cramming the letter into his pocket. “But I think it’s time I visited Mama.”
Alarms were sounding in his head. His body clamored to be riding after Dawn, for if she had left during the night, he had already lost too much time. His blood ran cold when he allowed his thoughts to dwell on what could have happened to her. Knowing she could deal with most things the world threw at her did not help.
Striding to his mother’s bedchamber, he lashed himself in his mind. He had known there was something wrong, but hadn’t pushed it, not even when she had pressed his hand to her cheek and he had felt the wetness there. He had assumed she would tell him when she was ready. Instead, she had fled, and he needed to know why before he could guess where.
“Her ladyship is not yet ready to receive visitors,” his mother’s lofty dresser informed him with outrage clear in her eyes.
“Out,” Gervaise snapped. He had no time to pander to the woman’s ridiculous sense of self-importance. Her mouth fell open and she was clearly girding herself up for a fight. Gervaise advanced upon her and she fled.
“Stewart, who is it?” came the countess’s impatient voice from the chamber beyond.
“Me,” Gervaise said ungrammatically and walked in to find his mother in bed, a lace nightcap confining her greying locks. She was just finishing her breakfast from a tray over her knees.
“You are abroad early,” she remarked. “What have you done with Stewart?”
“Sent her away. I need to speak to you. Did you quarrel yesterday with Dawn? Our cousin?”
“Of course not,” his mother said, affronted. And when Gervaise continued to stare at her, she sniffed. “I might have told her a few home truths. Unpalatable perhaps, but things she needed to know. Things that you, or at least Serena, should have told her already.”
“Such as?” Gervaise said, making a strong effort at patience.
The countess set down her cup and shoved the tray further down her bed. “Such as, even if she is Eleanor Gardyn, she is not the stuff of which countesses are made. Such as, you are not nor ever were the same sort of romantic fool as Serena. I know you were trying to be kind, Gervaise, but I believe she actually thought you would marry her.”
“I will marry her,” Gervaise said grimly, and strode out of the room without a backward glance.
“Braithwaite!” his mother all but wailed after him. “Where are you going?”
“To bring her back,” he yelled from the passage.
“But Gervaise, our dinner party is the day after tomorrow!”
Since he had no interest in her party, he did not trouble to reply. He paused only to throw a few things into his bag and scribble a note to Winslow, begging him to keep the gypsy Abraham until he returned. And then he set off for the stables.