A Lady Awakened (39 page)

From time to time also, she battled the urge to turn for a glimpse of Mr. Mirkwood, who sat in his usual place three rows back. She’d half-expected him to miss the service as well, after two sleepless nights. But there he’d been, looking a bit bedraggled even in fresh clothes as she passed him on her way up the aisle. And there was his voice—a fine, true one, she must allow—interlacing with the others on every hymn, proof he hadn’t dozed off in his pew.

He’d sleep after church, perhaps. Collapse on his bed fully clothed. Or he might change into a nightshirt. Or he might wear nothing at all. To shuck his clothes would be all he could manage before he crawled under the covers, cool sheets caressing every turn of his rough-hewn frame.

She missed the sight of his body. Nothing could be done about that. Circumstances estranged them more decisively than any quarrel could do.

“That was a thoughtful sermon,” said Mrs. James Russell on the walk home. “A bit long, perhaps, for the children, but well considered.” It was the first opinion the woman had ventured in her presence.

“Not too long for your sons, to judge by their conduct.” The boys trailed their governess in single file, a little way ahead. “They attended like perfect gentlemen.”

“Thank you.” The words came softly, as though she were unused to compliments of any kind. “Miss Grey does very well with them.” She lowered her gaze to the ground. “You feel better, I hope, now you’re walking and in fresh air?”

“Indeed. Forgive me if I distracted you in church. I fear I may have to give up going, sooner than I expected.”

“So I did with my first child.” Her eyes, as she glanced at Martha, were pale blue and framed with thick lashes. She would be pretty indeed if her face were not so careworn. “I was sorry for it. Church is a great comfort.” She blushed as if confiding something, and angled her glance away.

Her soft plump hand might as well have reached into one’s chest and wrung one’s guilty heart. She was worse than unhappy, Mrs. James Russell was. Disconsolate, forsaken, and entrusting her slight confidence to someone who would cheat her sons of their birthright. “You must miss your church in Derbyshire, then. I’m sure you’ll be glad to go back.”

Ruthlessness muscled those words out—ruthlessness might be all that remained of her, one day—and the other Mrs. Russell did not again attempt fellowship for the rest of their walk.

H
E HOPES
to set up here with a mistress, and leave her behind in Derbyshire.” Miss Sheridan sat forward in the blue-and-silver striped armchair, hands clasped before her. “Her maid says he’s even brought a mistress into their house sometimes.”

“But a wife can divorce for that, can’t she?” Mrs. Russell, on the sofa beside him, gripped its far arm with pale knuckles. Any observer would think she was the one who’d gone two nights without sleep, so drawn was her countenance. “For a mistress under her own roof?”

“She’s got nowhere to go.” Such an impressive compendium of knowledge, a lady’s maid. “Her father won’t have her back again and she hasn’t any brothers to take her in.”

Theo leaned back into the sofa’s corner. He missed this sitting room, site of so much profitable study and of a few other things as well. From this very sofa she’d risen in that pink dressing gown, on the day he’d most needed such a gesture.

“I knew she was unhappy.” Poor Mrs. Russell. Discovering she wasn’t so heartless as she’d counted on being. “But I didn’t know how dreadful were her circumstances.”

Without thought he lifted a hand and settled it on her back, where it made slight comforting circles. Miss Sheridan averted her eyes as though by reflex. She knew what had been between them. A companionable touch could hardly shock her in the face of that.

“Miss Gilliam says he’s always had one mistress or another.” The maid brought her eyes back to Mrs. Russell. “She says he’s never touched his wife since the second son was born.”

He could feel the widow’s spine sag farther. He sat straighter himself. “That’s her good fortune, I should think. Does the maid say whether he’s given any trouble to the servants?”

“Nobody likes the way he looks at them. But she doesn’t know of his taking any liberties.”

Mrs. Russell dropped her face into her hands. “I’d almost rather he had,” she said through her fingers. “If he poses no threat to the servants, then I cheat those children without good cause. And if he were to inherit, and move here with his mistress, who is to say his wife and sons wouldn’t be better off for his absence?”

“Martha.” What had become of his iron-willed mistress? “You cannot be sure he poses no threat, and you cannot gamble on that uncertainty. So you told me yourself, I remember. You’ve pledged your allegiance to the women of Seton Park. You must do what you think best serves them, regardless the effect on anyone else.”

“I know. Only I expected to feel grand and righteous, doing so. I had no thought of its all feeling so mixed-up and awful.”

Miss Sheridan gave a small cough, as though to remind them of her presence in the room. He nodded to her. “Did you learn anything else?”

“Only that he suspected Mrs. Russell was counterfeiting her condition. But his wife is convinced she’s not.”

The widow’s backbone came away from his hand as she brushed off her skirts and stood. “Thank you, Sheridan. Very well done. I hope you’ll summon us both again if you have further intelligence to report.” She paused, and half-turned to him. “You’ll be back later tonight, I expect?”

“Indeed I don’t plan to leave.” He leaned over and grasped his right boot. “I remember this sofa as a fine spot for napping. Miss Sheridan, you’ll send someone to roust me if I sleep past Mrs. Russell’s bedtime?”

The maid rose and bobbed a curtsey. “Mrs. Ware says you may come to the kitchen if you’re here through supper. She’ll put something aside for you.”

“Mrs. Ware. Splendid.” He shed the second boot and brought both feet onto the sofa. The widow was staring at him, no doubt astonished he should know her cook by name. “Will you leave a candle for me again? That was quite helpful last night.” She nodded, and both ladies left.

M
R
. M
IRKWOOD
must have come during the night—the candle was put out—but he was gone, as he’d been the first two mornings, by the time she woke.

A pity, because she woke with an idea, and he was the one who’d planted it.
You have more allies than you know
, he’d said. What if she called on their aid? Other people, if given a chance, might take an interest in the fate of Seton Park. Or the safety of honest women. Other people might have a care for justice. They might step in, when her purpose wavered, and take up the cause on her behalf. An alliance of such people, with herself among their number, might after all accomplish more than she could manage alone.

She would finish, by whatever means necessary, what she’d set out to do. And if she wronged the sons, well … Well, there was no
if
in the matter. She would wrong the sons. Time enough for self-recrimination when Seton Park was secure.

She sat down at the library desk that morning, and she wrote. To stately Mr. Rivers and his wife she wrote, and convivial Mr. and Mrs. Tavistock. To conscientious Mr. Keene, and generous Mr. Granville, and to the three sensible ladies in town. The words, so very awkward at first—
I need your help
and
Forgive my opening such a subject as this
—came more easily with practice, one found.

And when the letters were all sent, she made some visits.

“I had no idea of this.” Mr. Atkins had just dismissed his school, and sat on the edge of his desk, half-crumpling a paper he’d had in hand when she’d begun to speak. “No idea in the world. Had you?”

“Only recently. We were both left ignorant.” She faced him from a desk in the front row. They’d been equal in ignorance. Natural allies. Why hadn’t she called on his help long ago? “I believe such secrecy only abets that kind of man in his crimes, and shields him from the censure he deserves. I mean to end it.”

“To be sure. You may depend on my assistance.” His brows canted. “But Mrs. Weaver won’t be named, I hope. For the sake of her children, particularly Christine, I think ignorance may be the kinder path.” How quickly he’d taken on this protective concern for his pupils, even those who never came to his church.

“My instinct is the same as yours.” She folded her hands before her. “But I shall leave that decision to Mrs. Weaver herself.”

W
ELL, THIS
sitting-up-all-night business would get him back in practice for London hours, at least. Though if Mr. James Russell stayed much longer, he’d have to make some account to Granville of why he slept so late in the mornings, or was nowhere to be found of an evening.

Theo glanced at his dressing-room clock. Half past two. A respectable hour for most pursuits. He’d just finished arranging his cravat and was entertaining thoughts of breakfast when a footman appeared with a card he’d first seen six weeks ago to the day. Plain black lettering on white; no border. No hint of the owner beyond her name.

He found her in his parlor, seated on the least comfortable chair, her gloved hands folded one over the other in her lap. Her gaze, staunch and decided, swung to him as soon as he crossed the threshold. “I have a plan,” she said, “and I need your help.”

“Of course. Tell me what I may do.” Somehow, clearly, she’d found her resolve again, and he would help her hold tight to it.

A quick, grateful smile lit her face before she restored the air of purpose he knew so well. “First, I’d like your company for a visit to the Weavers.”

Chapter Seventeen

T
ELL ME
what I may do
, Mr. Mirkwood had said.
You may depend on my assistance
had been Mr. Atkins’s words. These were friends, and perhaps bound to answer her summons.

What, though, could account for the beneficence of the other fifteen people ranged down the length of her dining-room table?

Not one person had refused her entreaty. There sat Mrs. Canning, Mrs. Kendall, and Miss Leigh, glancing about at the imposing portraits of Russells gone by. There were Mr. Rivers and his wife, respectable bulwarks against delinquency of any kind. There were Mr. Lawrence and Mrs. Kearney, longest-tenured of the household servants, looking quite the equal of the gentry among whom they sat. Everyone had risen to the occasion, almost as though they’d only been waiting for an occasion to which they might rise.

Mr. Mirkwood, halfway down the table on her left, caught her eye and vouchsafed her a private slight nod. He was responsible for making her known to all these neighbors, and he might have sat beside any of them. But he’d chosen a chair by Mr. Atkins, and now the two of them conversed in low tones, probably about the school. The sight put a bothersome prickling at the back of her eyes.

She needn’t be overset now. She must make an example of steadiness for others. She turned to the place at her right. “Are you ready?” she said, and Mrs. Weaver nodded once as her husband, beside her, put a coarse knuckly hand over hers. “Mr. Lawrence.” Martha pitched her voice to reach the rest of the table as well as the butler. “Will you have a footman fetch Mr. James Russell to us, please?”

T
HEO’S SEAT
faced away from the door, but even had he been deaf, he could not have mistaken the moment of Mr. James Russell’s entrance. Mrs. Canning’s eyes and those of her two friends all narrowed in unison, as though it were some maneuver the three ladies had practiced. Attention sharpened all up and down that side of the table. He saw a rolling flex in Mr. Weaver’s prodigious shoulder. Mrs. Russell’s right arm went under the table at an odd angle, and he realized she was grasping Mrs. Weaver’s unseen hand. Mrs. Weaver herself was red in the face.

“Have a seat, please, Mr. Russell.” The widow had never sounded more regal. Doubtless she could dispense justice singlehandedly, if she had to. But she didn’t have to. Seventeen comrades stood ready to do their share. No, eighteen. The footman Pinnock took up a position behind the end of the table, where Mr. James Russell was sinking into a seat.