.
As it turned out, what happened next were parties. Blythe felt there was something cosmically unfair about the fact that she wasn't allowed out of the house without her cousin playing watchdog, but she also couldn't avoid the galas and balls ramping up into full swing as the London Season got underway.
Things remained chilly between her and Tristan, to the point where they passed the coach rides to and from the parties in silence, and even when they were at the events themselves, they tended to stay away from each other. After Tristan kept introducing her to marriage prospect after marriage prospect, Blythe started to slip away as soon as she could, spending her time off to the sidelines and waiting to leave.
More than once, she wondered if there was something she could do that would end her prospects once and for all. Unfortunately, things she could do in that regard were all so extreme that it would probably have disastrous consequences for the entire Carrow family, and even if she and Tristan were barely on speaking terms anymore, there were other relatives who might be terribly impacted by any scandal she might become involved in.
For the moment, she bided her time, she tried to avoid making Tristan angrier than he was, and when she could, she feigned illness to get out of going to the events Tristan picked out as appropriate. It rankled, being a full-grown woman who had to play sick, as if she were a girl getting out of her lessons, but at this point, she was taking whatever kind of reprieve she could.
One night, some two weeks after that disastrous meeting with Tristan, Blythe pleaded a fearsome headache and stayed home from the Galways' crush. Since her life had shrunk down to the balls and the house off Grosvenor Square, she had learned to take a certain kind of joy in simply wearing her old gray dresses and leaving the silk gowns in the closet.
Blythe had the insane urge to go find Thomas. Of course, there had been no way to communicate with him after they had returned from Seven Dials. At most, she had glimpsed him at the crushes, but Tristan was alarmingly good at keeping clear of Thomas and his sister.
Blythe sat down at her desk, and after a moment, she started to write.
I wanted to say thank you for everything you did when we saw each other last. I don't know if I really thanked you at all in the heat of the moment, and now, I am unable to do it in person...
She crossed out the passage in irritation, and tried again, and then again. In the end, Blythe gave up, because everything that came out sounded utterly ridiculous or pompous.
I suppose the price for doing the unconventional thing is that there is no template to use.
She crumpled the paper up in a ball and dropped it into the ash bin, and then she heard an unfamiliar step in the hallway.
When she had still lived with her parents in the north, they had taken her to a talk by a big game hunter who'd stalked his prey on three different continents. It was likely too frightening a presentation for even as adventurous a girl as she had been, but she could still remember the way he had described being in the jungle and hearing the tread of a tiger when he'd only brought ammunition enough for small roe deer.
“There is a moment separating what came before and what came after. What came before was that I was the master of the jungle, self-important with my knowledge and firepower. What came after... well, it was the knowledge that suddenly, there was something much more powerful than me nearby, and it saw me as prey.”
The words had always stuck with her, but now, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what it felt like. A few moments before, she had been angry with Tristan, missing Thomas, and wondering exactly what life in a cage would be like. With the sound of that footfall in the hall, everything had changed and, suddenly, she felt as if she were in imminent danger.
If she was someone else, if she was really a good pious girl who never wandered around Seven Dials after dark, she might have told herself that it was nothing. Perhaps it was a maid or a footman, hurrying after some forgotten chore before the eagle-eyed housekeeper noticed.
She didn't question the sudden nearly queasy feeling in her stomach. She was dressed in her nightgown, she was barefoot, and suddenly, she felt as if she would throw herself out the window if there hadn't been a three-story drop.
Walking as quietly and as quickly as she could, Blythe crossed the room and slid under the bed. The space was narrow enough that anyone much bigger than she was wouldn't have been able to squeeze their way in, but right now, she was grateful for the closeness. The bed was low enough that someone might not think it was possible for a person to squeeze underneath. At least, she hoped that's what they might believe.
She could hear the clock on her mantle ticking away, the loudest sound in the room as she tried to breathe more quietly.
Blythe was just beginning to think she was going slightly mad from the confinement when she heard the unmistakable sound of her doorknob turning. There was no knock of a servant announcing herself. Instead, there was a subtle turn, as if someone was checking for resistance before opening it all the way. She might have missed it herself if she hadn't been breathing so lightly.
To her shock, the door opened and closed, and now there was a man in her room, treading softly on the carpet in dull black shoes. From underneath the bed, she could see the shoes were of a cheap variety and much worn, and the trousers the man wore were of the same quality. A heaviness to his step suggested a very large man, and she shivered as he paced from her door to her desk.
Blythe froze with fear. In her mad dash to slide under the bed, she had left her candle lit and her quill laid to one side. Someone who was gone would not have left things like that. Someone wouldn't leave things like that unless they were still somewhere very close by.
The man stood at her desk for a moment, and Blythe imagined him inspecting the candle, perhaps even touching the tip of her quill. Then he started to circle the room, opening her wardrobe and rifling through the dresses as if looking for someone hiding inside. She could see his feet pacing back and forth as he inspected the room.
Blythe had no idea what she was going to do if he found her. Every plan that flashed through her head seemed more ridiculous and more unlikely than the next. She held her breath as the blanket draping over the edge of the bed twitched.
Please, please, please...
"Miss Blythe, are you in there?"
Agnes, the young upstairs maid, cut through the tension like a knife. Blythe almost felt dizzy at how normal Agnes sounded, as if it were just a normal night. Of course, except for the intruder in her bedroom, it was just a normal night.
The man dropped the blanket immediately, and stepping impressively lightly, he went to stand in the darkened shadow behind the door, right between the wall and the wardrobe.
"Miss? Do you mind if I come in?"
To Blythe's horror, the door cracked open, and from the doorway, she could imagine Agnes looking around.
Agnes, stay out, stay out, please...
Of course, the maid couldn't hear her fiercely thought pleas, and because it was just a normal might, Agnes came in, tutting a little at the burning candle and the ink left out. From where Blythe lay on the floor, she could see Agnes’ shoes, and beyond, in shadow and half-hidden by the wardrobe, the shoes of the man who had entered the house as well.
What could she do if Agnes saw the man, if the man attacked Agnes? Should she explode from under the bed and, together, she and Agnes could subdue the intruder? She knew at once that they couldn't. Blythe herself was small, and Agnes not older than fourteen. At least one of them would likely get seriously hurt, and in the end, the intruder might get away after all.
After what felt like forever, but which in reality was probably closer to a few minutes, Agnes found Blythe's desk to be tidy enough. She blew out the candle, leaving the coals in the hearth as the only source of illumination, and left.
Blythe wanted to heave a sigh of relief, but she didn't dare. The intruder seemed to wait a terribly long time before he too started to move. Apparently unnerved by almost being caught, he didn't return to the bed, but instead, made his way to the door. When it shut behind him and the footsteps moved away, Blythe could finally breathe again. The first breath she took was more like a sob, and for several moments, she simply lay under the bed, shaking.
Who in the world was that? What was he doing in my room?
By the time she had her emotions under control, Blythe realized with some dismay that it was too late to raise the alarm after him. He was probably long gone, and that meant he was out there somewhere, with access to the house and some kind of intention toward Blythe that she couldn't understand.
She crawled out from under the bed, dusty and her heart still pounding like a drum. Hurriedly, she went to the door to lock it, but that didn't help. The man had probably only been in her room for a matter of minutes, but there was something in her brain that insisted he was still there, that she wasn't safe yet.
Tristan, I have to tell Tristan about this...
Somewhere in the back of her head, she knew she was behaving irrationally. The smart thing to do was to wait in her room with the door locked, or better yet, to run and tell the servants what was going on so they could secure the house.
Instead, the only thing that seemed to reduce the way she was shivering was to take off her nightgown, put on her stays and then one of her gray dresses, and then throw her wrap over all of it. Her hair was still in a long braid down her back, and she didn't even take the time to pin it up before she dashed out of the room.