Chapter Two

Presently, Jack came upon an old man, sitting by the side of the road. The old man’s clothes were rags, his feet were bare, and he sat as if the whole world rested upon his shoulders.

“Oh, kind sir,” the beggar cried. “Have you a crust of bread to spare?”

“I have more than that, Father,” Jack replied.

He stopped and opened his pack and drew out half a meat pie, carefully wrapped in a kerchief. This he shared with the old man, and with a tin cup of water from a nearby stream, it made a very fine meal indeed. . . .

—from LAUGHING JACK

That night, Melisande sat at dinner and contemplated a meal of boiled beef, boiled carrots, and boiled peas. It was her brother Harold’s favorite meal, in fact. She was on one side of a long, dark wood dining table. At the head of the table was Harold and at the foot was his wife, Gertrude. The room was dim and shadowy, lit only by a handful of candles. They could well afford beeswax candles, of course, but Gertrude was a frugal housekeeper and did not believe in wasting candle wax—a philosophy that Harold heartily approved of. Actually, Melisande had often thought that Harold and Gertrude were the epitome of the perfectly matched husband and wife: they had the same tastes and views and were both a trifle boring.

She looked down at her grayish portion of boiled beef and considered how she was to tell her brother and his wife of her understanding with Lord Vale. Carefully she cut off a small piece of beef. She picked it up in her fingers and held the bite down by her skirts. Under the table, she felt a cold little nose against her hand, and then the beef was gone.

“I am so sorry to have missed Mary Templeton’s wedding,” Gertrude commented from the foot of the table. Her smooth, wide brow was marred by a single indent between her eyebrows. “Or rather, her not wedding, for I am sure that her mother, Mrs. Templeton, would="4„ have appreciated my presence there. I am told by many people, many people, that I am a comfort and a relief to those whose fortunes are in decline, and Mrs. Templeton’s fortunes are quite in decline at the moment, are they not? One might even say Mrs. Templeton’s fortunes are abysmal.”

She paused to take a tiny bite of boiled carrot and looked to her husband for his concurrence.

Harold shook his head. He had their father’s heavy jowls and thinning light brown hair, covered now with a gray wig. “That gel ought to be put on bread and water until she comes to her senses. Throwing over a viscount. Foolish, is what it is. Foolish!”

Gertrude nodded. “I think she must be insane.”

Harold perked up at this. He was always morbidly interested in disease. “Does lunacy run in the family?”

Melisande felt a nudge against her leg. She looked down to see a small black nose poking out from beneath the table edge. She cut off another piece of beef and held it under the table. Both nose and beef disappeared.

“I do not know if there is lunacy in that family, but I would not be surprised,” Gertrude replied. “No, not surprised at all. Of course, there is no lunacy on our side of the family, but the Templetons cannot say the same, I’m afraid.”

Melisande used the tines of her fork to scoot the peas to the edge of her plate, feeling rather sorry for Mary. Mary had only followed her heart, after all. She felt a paw against her knee, but this time she ignored it. “I believe that Mary Templeton is in love with the curate.”

Gertrude’s eyes widened like boiled gooseberries. “I don’t think that pertains.” She appealed to her husband. “Do you think that pertains, Mr. Fleming?”

“No, it does not pertain at all,” Harold replied predictably. “The chit had a satisfactory match, and she threw it away on a curate.” He chewed meditatively for a moment. “Vale is well rid of her, in my opinion. Might’ve brought a bad strain of insanity into his bloodline. Not good. Not good at all. Better for him to find a wife elsewhere.”

“As to that . . .” Melisande cleared her throat. She would find no better opening. Best to get it over with. “I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you both.”

“Yes, dear?” Gertrude was sawing at the lump of beef on her plate and didn’t look up.

Melisande took a deep breath and stated it bluntly, because really, there didn’t seem to be any other way to do it. Her left hand lay in her lap, and she felt the comforting touch of a warm tongue. “Lord Vale and I came to an understanding today. We are going to be married.”

Gertrude dropped her knife.

Harold choked on the sip of wine he’d taken.

Melisande winced. “I thought you should know.”

“Married?” Gertrude said. “To Lord Vale? Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale?” she clarified as if there might be another Lord Vale in England.

“Yes.”“Yesnt>

“Ah.” Harold looked at his wife. Gertrude stared back at him, quite obviously at a loss for words. He turned to Melisande. “Are you quite sure? Might you have mistaken a look or . . .” His sentence trailed away. It was probably quite hard to think of what else might be mistaken for a marriage proposal.

“I am sure,” she said quietly but clearly. Her words were steady, though her heart was singing inside. “Lord Vale said he would call upon you in three days to settle the matter.”

“I see.” Harold stared in consternation at his boiled English beef, as if it had turned to Spanish stewed squid. “Well. Then I offer my congratulations, my dear. I wish you every happiness with Lord Vale.” He blinked and looked up at her, his brown eyes uncertain. He’d never really understood her, poor man, but she knew he cared for her. “If you are sure?”

Melisande smiled at him. However little they had in common, Harold was still her brother, and she loved him. “I am.”

He nodded, though he still looked worried. “Then I shall send a missive informing Lord Vale that I will be glad to receive him.”

“Thank you, Harold.” Melisande aligned her fork and knife precisely on her plate. “Now, if you will excuse me, it’s been a long day.”

She rose from the table, conscious that the minute she exited the room, Harold and Gertrude would discuss the matter. The skitter of claws against the wood floor trailed her as she entered the dim hallway—Gertrude’s economy of candles prevailed here as well.

Their amazement was only to be expected, really. Melisande had shown no interest in matrimony for many years, not since her disastrous engagement to Timothy so long ago. Strange, to think now how devastated she’d been when Timothy had left her. All that she’d lost had been unbearable. Her emotions had been sharp and burning then, so awful that she’d thought she might die from his rejection. The pain had been physical, a deep cutting thing that had made her chest ache and her head pound. She never wanted to feel such agony again.

Melisande rounded a corner and mounted the stairs. Since Timothy, she’d had few suitors and none of them serious. Harold and Gertrude had probably long resigned themselves to her living with them for the rest of her natural life. She was grateful that they had never shown any aversion to her constant company. Unlike many spinsters, she’d not been made to feel a burden or out of place.

In the upper hall, her room was the first around a curve to the right. She shut the door, and Mouse, her little terrier, jumped onto the bed. He turned three times, then lay down on the counterpane and looked at her.

“An exhausting day for you as well, Sir Mouse?” Melisande inquired.

The dog tilted his head at her voice, his black bead eyes alert, his button ears—one white, the other brown—pricked forward. The fire was burning low in the grate, and she used a taper to light several candles around the small bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished, yet each piece was chosen carefully. The bed was narrow, but the delicately carved posts were a rich, golden brown. The counterpane was a plain white, but the sheets hidden underneath were made of the finest silk. There was only one chair in front of thshun fronte fireplace, but the arms were gilt, the seat richly embroidered in gold and purple. This was her refuge from the world. The place where she could simply be herself.

Melisande went to her desk and contemplated the pile of papers there. She was nearly done with the fairy-tale translation, but—

A knock sounded at her door. Mouse sailed off the bed and barked wildly at the door as if marauders were without.

“Hush.” Melisande toed him aside and opened the door.

A maid stood outside. She bobbed a curtsy. “Please, miss, might I have a word with you?”

Melisande raised her brows and nodded, stepping back from the door. The girl eyed Mouse, who was grumbling under his breath, and made a wide berth around the dog.

Shutting the door, Melisande looked at the maid. She was a pretty girl, with gold curls and fresh, pink cheeks, and she wore a rather elegant green printed calico gown. “Sally, isn’t it?”

The maid bobbed again. “Yes, mum, Sally from downstairs. I heard . . .” She gulped, squeezed her eyes shut, and said very quickly, “I heard that you’ll be marrying Lord Vale, ma’am, and if you do that, you’ll be leaving this house and going to live with him, and then you’ll be a viscountess, ma’am, and if you’re a viscountess, ma’am, then you’ll be needing a proper lady’s maid, because viscountesses have to have their hair and clothes just so, and begging your pardon, ma’am, but they’re not just so right now. Not”—her eyes widened, as if fearing she’d just insulted Melisande—“not that there’s anything wrong with your clothes or hair right now, but they’re not, not—”

“Exactly like that of a viscountess,” Melisande said dryly.

“Well, no, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am. And what I wanted to ask—and I’ll be ever so grateful if you let me, truly I will, you won’t be a wit disappointed, ma’am—is if you’d take me with you as your lady’s maid?”

Sally’s flow of words stopped abruptly. She simply stared, eyes and mouth wide, as if Melisande’s next words would decide her very fate.

Which well they might, since the difference in station between a downstairs maid and a lady’s maid was considerable. Melisande nodded. “Yes.”

Sally blinked. “Ma’am?”

“Yes. You may go with me as my lady’s maid.”

“Oh!” Sally’s hands flew up and it seemed she might grasp Melisande’s in gratitude, but then she must have thought better of it and merely waved them excitedly in the air. “Oh! Oh, thank you, ma’am! Oh, thank you! You’ll not regret it, really you won’t. I’ll be the best lady’s maid you ever did see, just you watch.”

“I’m sure you will.” Melisande opened the door again. “We can discuss your duties more thoroughly in the morning. Good night.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. Good night, ma’am.”

Sally bobbed into the hall, did a half-turn, bobbed again, and was still bobbing as Melisande shut the door.or.

“She seems a nice enough girl,” she said to Mouse.

Mouse snorted and leaped back onto the bed.

Melisande tapped him on the nose, then crossed to her dresser. A plain tin snuffbox sat on top. She briefly brushed the battered surface with her fingertips before taking out the button from where she’d hidden it in her sleeve. The silver V winked in the candlelight as she contemplated it.

She’d loved Jasper Renshaw for six long, long years. It must’ve been shortly after he’d returned to England that she’d attended the party where she’d met him. He hadn’t noticed her, of course. His blue-green eyes had drifted over her head as they were introduced, and shortly afterward, he’d excused himself to flirt with Mrs. Redd, a notorious and notoriously beautiful widow. Melisande had watched from the side of the ball, sitting next to a line of elderly ladies, as he’d thrown his head back and laughed with complete abandon. His neck had been strong, his mouth opened wide with mirth. He was a captivating sight, but she probably would’ve dismissed him after that as a silly, feckless aristocrat if not for what had happened several hours later.