A Stolen Heart. Candace Camp
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I could hear her up, pacing the floor long after everyone had gone to bed. Sometimes she would cry—oh, fit to break your heart. I felt so sorry for her. But what could I do? All I could think of was to take care of you and the house as best I could, to help her with all the business things that she disliked so. Even with Mr. Perkins managing the shipping business and her cousin running the store, she hated to have to listen to their reports and try to sort out their advice. I don’t know, perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps I took away too much responsibility from her. But she seemed so helpless, so needy…”
“I know. I’m sure you did what was best. Mother could not have handled raising me or managing the house by herself, much less running a business, too. You must not blame yourself.”
“And you must not, either,” her aunt retorted decisively, bobbing her head. “Your mother is the way she is, and who’s to say she wouldn’t have been worse if you had left her back in Massachusetts with only servants and distant relatives to take care of her? She is used to having the two of us with her. She probably would have taken it into her head that we had abandoned her or some such notion.”
“That’s true.”
“And don’t tell me that you shouldn’t have come to England at all, for I won’t hold with that. You can’t live your whole life around your mother’s…oddities.”
“I suppose you’re right. It’s just so distressing to see her this way. Sometimes I—” She stopped abruptly.
“Sometimes you what?” Aunt Hortense turned to look at her niece when she did not continue.
“Nothing.”
“It sounded like something to me. Out with it. Is something else troubling you?”
“No. Only—” Alexandra’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “Do you ever wonder if Mother is—well…” She twisted her hands, frowning, reluctant to voice the fear that had been nagging at her for some time now. “What if she’s not just odd? What if she’s mad?”
“Wherever did you come up with such nonsense?” Aunt Hortense demanded indignantly. “Your mother is not mad! How can you say that?”
“I don’t want to think it!” Alexandra cried, her voice tinged with desperation. “But you’ve seen how she acts. Most of the time I tell myself that she isn’t insane—obviously she’s not insane. After all, she doesn’t run screaming naked through the house or tear her clothes and try to do herself harm like Mr. Culpepper’s sister did.”
“I should say not!” Aunt Hortense crossed her arms pugnaciously.
“But sometimes I can’t help but think these things she says and does are not simply genteel eccentricities. Aren’t they something worse? More peculiar? In a person without wealth or standing in the community, mightn’t they be called evidences of madness?”
“It doesn’t matter what they’d call it if she were poor, because she isn’t and never has been. She’s not mad. She’s just…more fragile than the rest of us.”
“I hope you’re right.” Alexandra summoned up a small smile for her aunt, but she could not completely rid herself of doubt. Nor could she admit, even to Aunt Hortense, the other cold fear that lay beneath her worry. If her mother did indeed lean toward madness, would the taint of it lie in her own blood, as well? Might she, someday, disintegrate into insanity?
CHAPTER THREE
ALEXANDRA TOOK A LAST LOOK AT HERSELF in the long mirror of the hallway; then, satisfied that she would look her best among the titled crowd this evening, she turned toward the staircase. Her deep rose satin gown would doubtless be outshone by many of the gowns on the ladies present at the ball. Her clothes, while of good cut and material, were not in the first stare of fashion in London, and she had not brought her very best ball gown with her, not thinking that she would attend anything dressier than the opera. Still, she knew that the dress was fashionable enough to cause no comment, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that its rose color was excellent on her, bringing out the rose in her cheeks and contrasting stunningly with her black hair. Her hair was done up in a mass of curls, thick and shining, with a pale pink rose nestled on one side as adornment. In her hand she carried, besides her fan, a small corsage of rosebuds delivered an hour earlier and sent, she was sure, by Lord Thorpe, though the card had contained no message.
Her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she walked into the formal drawing room. Much to her chagrin, she saw that Thorpe was already seated there with her aunt. Alexandra had made it a point to come downstairs as soon as the maid had brought her word of Thorpe’s arrival precisely because she did not want Lord Thorpe to be subjected to her aunt’s inquisition. From the frozen look on Thorpe’s face, she guessed that he had already been here for several minutes, and Alexandra was struck with the suspicion that her aunt had deliberately bade the servants to delay taking Alexandra the message that his lordship had arrived.
As she started into the room, Lord Thorpe was saying tightly, “I assure you, madam, it is a most respectable party, given by one of the leading peers of the realm.”
Alexandra had to stifle a smile at the man’s barely concealed look of affront.
Her aunt continued blithely. “Be that as it may, Lord Thorpe, I don’t know any of your peers of the realm, so their respectability is unknown to me. I’ve heard stories of some of the doings of so-called noblemen, and it’s not what would be called suitable in America. The Hellfire Club, gaming hells, houses of—”
“Miss Ward!” Lord Thorpe looked shocked. “You can’t believe that I would take your niece to such places!”
Alexandra wasn’t sure whether his dismay came from the idea that her aunt thought him capable of such ungentlemanly actions or because she so bluntly brought up the subject.
“Too bad,” Alexandra interjected lightly. “They sound terribly fascinating, I must say.”
“Miss Ward.” Thorpe jumped to his feet, relief spreading across his face.
“Good evening.”
“You look—”
Alexandra raised an eyebrow as he paused. “I hope you are not going to say ‘like a country bumpkin.’”
“No, indeed. It is simply that you render me speechless.” His gray eyes shone in the candlelight as they drifted involuntarily down the front of her body, taking in the curves to which the rose satin clung. “You look stunning. I fear you will cast our London beauties into the shade.”
Alexandra chuckled. “Very pretty words, my lord, but I am not so naïve as to believe that.” She turned toward Hortense. “Good night, Aunt. I am going to take your victim away from you.”
“Victim!” Aunt Hortense assumed a look of great offense. “I was merely looking out for my niece’s best interests.”
“Your aunt is a very careful woman,” Thorpe remarked politely. “You are quite rightly cherished.”
Alexandra grinned. “You see, Aunt Hortense, how polite he is.”
A servant brought her Paisley shawl, which Thorpe took and draped across her shoulders with a courtly air. The brush of his fingertips against her bare arms sent a tingle through Alexandra, intensified when he leaned in to murmur, “It seems a shame to cover up such beauty.”
Alexandra ignored the little thrum that started along her nerves and smiled at him. “It is a lovely dress.”
“It was not the dress of which I spoke.” His gaze dropped significantly, if fleetingly, to the expanse of bosom that swelled above the square-cut neckline.
Alexandra wrapped the shawl more tightly around her, covering the swell of her breasts. “I think it’s time to leave,” she said repressively. “Good night, Aunt.”
She smiled across the room at her aunt, who was glowering suspiciously at their whispered conversation.