Silent In The Grave. Deanna Raybourn
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long. There was always a sense of waiting in our house, watching for the final attack, for a worsening of his symptoms, for the time when the doctor must be called and preparations made. It had made for an uneasy life, and I dreaded the idea that I should have to live it all again with Simon. True, he was not my husband, but I did love him dearly, like another brother, and to know that his time would be so short was almost more than I could bear. A year at most, the doctor had said. And so little to be done for him in the meanwhile.
But what of afterward? I wondered as I sat in my study, contemplating my mourning. What would become of me then? The life I had fashioned for myself as Edward’s wife seemed intolerably small now. And in spite of its size, Grey House suffocated me. The air was dead as a tomb, and the rooms full of memories that I did not wish to preserve. How then to break free of them?
The Ghoul could be persuaded to leave in search of more intimately connected bereavements. Val could simply be told to take rooms for himself or return to Father’s. Grey House would be empty, those enormous rooms echoing coldly. It was big, far too big for a childless widow. I could sell it and purchase a much smaller house, something still near to the park, but on a quieter street. Something elegant and discreet, with a tiny staff, perhaps only Aquinas and Morag, with Cook and a pair of maids and Diggory, the coachman. The battalion of maids that it took to run Grey House could be gotten new places. The footmen were a useless extravagance, they too could be given good characters and let go.
The more I considered the idea, the more excited I became. I found myself walking the rooms of Grey House mentally cataloging what pieces I would take with me and which I would send to the auction house, or perhaps sell with the house itself. There was little I wanted. Almost every painting or piece of furniture carried Edward’s stamp. I wanted to start afresh, with new things I had chosen for myself. It would take a while to settle matters, I realized. Grey House had so many rooms, all fitted with costly furnishings. To arrange for it all to be sold and to fit out a new house could take months. Months I might spend more profitably abroad, I decided. I could shop for new pieces in Paris and Italy, taking a leisurely tour of the Continent as I went. I had been to Paris before, but never beyond, and the notion of Europe tantalized me. So many shops and museums, so much culture and beauty. Opera, paintings, books, concerts, the ideas spun me around and dizzied me. I could take as long as I liked. And to make matters simpler, my brothers Ly and Plum were still traveling in Italy, having discovered that two could live as cheaply there as one could in London. They were artists, one a poet and composer, the other a painter. They would provide me with companionship, sympathy, laughter. And when I needed to be alone, I could simply move on—Perugia, Rome, Capri, Florence—the possibilities were endless. I need not even plan my return, but simply take things as they came, wandering idly from city to city as my fancy took me. The very idea was more intoxicating than any spirit I had ever drunk.
Stealthily, I raided Edward’s library for every book I could find on Italy. I pored over maps, plotting out a dozen different itineraries. I read lives of saints and politicians and princesses and made endless lists of verbs to memorize and temples to visit. Within a few days, I was drunk with Italy and starting to recover quite nicely from the shock of Edward’s death. I knew that I had not come to terms with the vastness of it yet, but I also knew that grief takes its own time. I would distract myself with plans and projects, and would pass my first year of mourning with purposeful occupation. And at the end of it, I believed I would be able to think of Edward with something like fondness, perhaps even nostalgia.
Of course, nothing like that happened, but I do not entirely blame myself. I think I might have pottered along quite civilly had Nicholas Brisbane not come to call. It was a week after the funeral and I was in my study, valiantly trying to twist my tongue and pen around an irregular verb, when Aquinas scratched at the door.
I bade him enter and he did, bearing a salver with a caller’s card. I glanced at it and felt myself flush with guilt. I had meant to write to Mr. Brisbane and thank him for his prompt resourcefulness during Edward’s collapse. At first I simply put it off, dreading the task. After that I had forgotten, enchanted as I was with my paper Italy.
I told Aquinas to show him in at once. I dashed the pen into its holder and thrust my untidy papers into the book of Italian grammar. I was just scrabbling the last stray lock of hair into my snood when Aquinas reappeared with Mr. Brisbane.
I rose, moving around the desk to bid him welcome. I was conscious then of the plainness of the room, its tattered edges that seemed even shabbier when compared to his impeccable tailoring. He was dressed in a town suit that had been cut by a master’s hand; his black leather boots were highly polished, and in his hand he carried an ebony cane, its silver head resting in the hollow of his hand.
“Mr. Brisbane—” I began, but he raised a gloved hand.
“You must permit me to apologize before anything else,” he said, his expression inscrutable. “I know full well the indelicacy of calling upon so new a widow, and you must believe that I would not intrude upon your grief were the matter not one of extreme importance.”
My eyes flew to the desk, stacked high with traveling books, and I felt myself grow warm. “Of course, Mr. Brisbane. I must apologize for my own incivility.” I waved him to the chair and perched myself on the edge of the sofa. He seated himself as a cat will, lightly, with an air of suspended motion that seemed to indicate wariness and an ability to move quite quickly if circumstances demanded. His hat and gloves rested in his lap. He kept the walking stick in his hand, rolling the head in his palm.
I rushed to speak. “I neglected to write to you, to thank you for your dispatch and your resourcefulness the night my husband—” I paused, searching for a word that was neither too vague nor too indelicate “—collapsed,” I finished. It was a weak sort of word, one I would not have chosen had I been speaking to anyone else.
But something about Nicholas Brisbane intimidated me. It was ridiculous that this man, about whom I knew nothing, whose birth and circumstances were likely inferior to my own, should cause me to be so unsettled. Without thinking, I smoothed my skirts over my lap, conscious of the careless creases. He was watching me, coolly, as if looking through a microscope at a mildly distasteful specimen. I lifted my chin, attempting aloofness, but I am certain I did not manage it.
“Do not think of it, I beg you,” he said finally, settling back more comfortably in his chair. “I was gratified to have been of some small service to Sir Edward in his time of need.”
I could hear Aquinas, thumping things about in the hall. Like all good butlers, he was usually cat-footed about his work. His noises were a signal to me that he was within earshot if I needed him.
“Would you care for some refreshment, Mr. Brisbane? Tea?”
He waved a lazy hand. His gestures were indolent ones, but affectedly so. He might wear the mantle of the idle London gentleman, but I had seen with my own eyes that he could move quickly enough if the situation warranted action. I found it curious, though, that he adopted a pose of sorts.
Without the prospect of tea to look forward to, I was at a loss. I knew it was my responsibility to introduce a topic of respectable conversation, but in that interminable moment, my breeding failed me. The only event we had in common was the one of which we had already spoken and could not possibly speak of again. Mr. Brisbane seemed comfortable with the silence, but I was not. It reminded me of the endless chess games I used to play with my father when one or the other of us invariably forgot it was our turn and we sat, ossifying, until we realized that we were actually supposed to move.
In fact, the more I studied Mr. Brisbane, the more he resembled a chess king. Polished and hard, with a certain implacable dignity. He was darker than any man I knew, with storm-black eyes and a head of thick, waving hair to match that would have made Byron prickle with jealousy.
But my scrutiny did not amuse him. He arched a brow at me, imperious as an emperor. I was mightily impressed. He did it much better than Aunt Hermia.
“My lady, are you quite well?”
“Quite,” I managed feebly, trying to think of a convincing lie. “I have not been sleeping very well.”
“Understandable,