Silent In The Grave. Deanna Raybourn
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down the barrel of young Northrup’s pistol and said, ‘You are a cheater and a scoundrel and I will say so, even with my dying breath,’ or something like that. He stood square to little Northrup, and the young man could not fire at him. He discharged his weapon in the air and left in disgust.”
I dropped my hand. “But Northrup might have killed him.”
“That is why I said he was dangerous,” she said gravely. “A man who cares so little for his own mortality might well play loose with someone else’s.” Her expression turned mischievous. “But it does make for a rather dashing story, doesn’t it? Can’t you just see him there, the mist swirling about his legs, the sun just beginning to rise, burnishing his ebony hair …”
I poked at her with the end of my parasol. “Do be serious, Portia. I think I may have made a mistake in sending him away.”
Portia sobered. “No, dearest. Nicholas Brisbane is a complicated man. You need simplicity for a while. You must be selfish and think of happy, easy things—like new shoes and a good set of furs.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she went on.
“And as for the threatening letters, I am inclined to think our deliciously devilish Mr. Brisbane was telling the truth. Edward probably annoyed someone at the club with a silly prank and they decided to pay him back in kind.”
I felt dizzy with relief. “Of course! That must have been it. A prank that Edward did not recognize for a jest. Then Mr. Brisbane was acting in sincerity,” I finished, feeling rather miserable. If he had been sincere, I had behaved appallingly.
Portia put her head to mine. “Be cheered. I am certain he has been harassed by more vituperative women than you. To him, it is probably a hazard associated with his profession. Believe me, he will not think of you again.”
For some unaccountable reason, I found this to be less than comforting. I loathed the man and his vile implications about Edward, but I did not like to think of myself as forgettable. Instead, I seized on something she had said earlier that had gone unremarked upon.
“Do you really think I am handsome?”
“Absolutely,” she answered at once. She canted her head, studying my face through my widow’s veil. “But there is work we could do …. “
I looked at her suspiciously. Portia loved projects. If I allowed her to undertake me as a project, there was no knowing where it might lead. I might not recognize myself at the end of it.
Then I thought about her remarks—that I needed an adventure, that Brisbane was more of a challenge than I could handle, that he would not think of me again. And suddenly I felt angry, reckless, desperate to do something to change myself and the course I was on toward a staid old age of boredom and bread puddings.
“Then let us begin,” I replied firmly.
Portia’s eyes sparkled as she began to detail her plans. I was only half listening. I knew that I would give her free rein and that she would do exactly as she pleased with me. Her taste was impeccable, and I had little doubt that I would turn out better at her hands than I had from Aunt Hermia’s or Edward’s.
She chattered on about coiffeurs and corsets, but I was still thinking of Nicholas Brisbane’s dark eyes and cool manners. A year would pass before I saw him again. And it was then that the adventure truly began.
THE SIXTH CHAPTER
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
—William Shakespeare
“Sonnet 94”
Of course, it did not seem like anything of an adventure at the time. Despite Portia’s efforts with my appearance, I still spent most of my time at Grey House, reading to Simon, listening to Aunt Ursula detail her newest remedy for constipation, or waiting for Val to return home from his evergrowing number of social engagements. My year of widowhood was nearly at an end and I was beginning to chafe under the restrictions. I had not been to the theatre or the opera since Edward’s death. I had not entertained, and had been invited to only the most intimate of family parties. I felt sometimes as though I might as well have been locked up in a Musselman’s harim considering how little I was actually outside of Grey House.
As for Portia’s suggestion that I take a lover, the very idea was laughable. I saw few men, save those I employed or to whom I was related by blood or marriage. I had only the notion of Italy to sustain me. I had mapped out my plans to the last detail, dispatching letters to delightful innkeepers and receiving particulars on their accommodations. I had applied myself diligently to the study of Italian, and with Simon to tutor me I made rather good progress. He had always had a good ear for languages, and was enormously patient with my mistakes.
“You are a natural,” he told me more than once. “I could close my eyes and believe you were Venetian.”
“Liar,” I said happily.
And we were happy, I think, in spite of his bouts of breathlessness and the fevers that left him too weak to hold a book. I used to look up quickly and catch him, a hand pressed quietly to his chest as he stilled his jagged breathing. But even then he would not forgo our lesson.
“It is all up here, my darling,” he said, tapping his brow. “Now, tell me, how would you say, ‘these gardens are beautiful’?”
“Questi giardini sono belli,” I replied.
“Very good. Now ask what sort of tree this is.”
“Che albero è questo? But Simon, I’m not terribly interested in trees, I’m afraid.”
He smiled up at me, his face pink with exertion and pleasure. “Ah, Julia. You are going to Italy. You must be interested in everything. You must be open to every possibility.”
Strange that both he and Portia should parrot the same theme. Change, possibility, opportunity … but as I looked at Simon, I remembered that this particular opportunity would not come my way until he had passed from my life.
I think he remembered it, too, for he looked away then and told me to begin counting, a skill I had mastered a month before.
It did not matter. It was something safe to speak of when we dared not speak of other things.
“Uno, due, tre …”
And so the year passed away, dully, though not entirely unpleasantly, until the April morning I decided to clean out Edward’s desk. I had not entered his study in months, certain that the maids were keeping it tidy, but now, as the spring sunlight streamed into the room for the first time in weeks, I saw what a halfhearted effort they had made.
Stacks of books and old correspondence remained where Edward had left them, organized in his own peculiar system and bound with coloured tapes. I had leafed through them once to make certain that the letters did not require a response—and for any sign of the notes Mr. Brisbane had mentioned as well. I had found nothing. I had been relieved, so relieved that I had simply shut the room up and left it, much as I had left his bedchamber and dressing room. It had been very easy to turn my attention to more pressing matters, and very easy to convince myself that anything was more pressing than sorting Edward’s things. The spring had been a wet one, and I had spent many long hours curled in my old dressing gown, lazing by the fire with a book. But days of chilly rain had given way to watery sunshine, cold, but nonetheless bright, and I was determined to take advantage of it. I ordered a pot of fresh tea and a plate of sandwiches and set to work.
An hour later I had made quite good progress. The papers were sorted, the books organized and the sandwiches almost all eaten. Only the drawers themselves were left.
Briskly, I set to work, emptying the contents of the tightly packed drawers onto the desk. There was little Edward had not saved. Programs from theatre evenings,