It Takes Two to Tangle

Thirteen

The callers had all gone at last; the sandwiches had been tidied from the floor by a maid. The carpet and Wadsworth’s dignity had been restored to order with equal skill—one with a few well-placed whisks of a rag, the other with a few well-chosen words from Caroline.

“Why bother appeasing him?” Frances said when she and Caroline were finally alone in the drawing room. “I know you don’t care for him.”

Caroline shrugged. “Not particularly. But why antagonize him? He might have his uses one day.”

“He could be good for sharpening your claws on, I suppose.”

Caroline laughed and agreed. “Now go have a rest. You look dreadful, and I mean that in the kindest way possible.”

So Frances went to her bedchamber as bid. It was usually a quiet haven, a long, narrow room with walls the color of a new leaf and light pinstriped curtains.

With the help of Millie, Caroline’s lady’s maid, she shed the rustling bronze-green silk, which had won entirely the wrong kind of notice today. Instead, she donned a soft blue linen day dress that made her feel much more like herself.

Not precisely at ease, though. The peaceful surroundings had little effect on her turbulent thoughts today. As soon as Millie had left, Frances folded herself onto the wide-planked wooden floor, leaning against the side of her bed.

She did feel tired, just as Caroline had suggested—tired of lying, even through omission. Maybe it was time she came face-to-face with a few truths. Namely this: if Caroline was everything Henry wanted, Frances had only herself to blame.

That was the case with her whole life, wasn’t it? Every turning was of her own choosing, every pursuit, every inevitable fall.

She lifted the white swagged bedding that draped nearly to the floor, then reached under the high bed. Her fingers found the sturdy square of a rosewood box, pulled it forward, and hefted it into her lap.

It was a fair size, a foot square, but it felt as light in Frances’s hands as if it held nothing of consequence. It seemed as though it ought to feel heavy with portent. Here lies everything left of the first twenty-three years of your life.

She ran her fingers over the lid and rubbed its ornamental brass plate. Elegant and cold, engraved with the ornate capitals IMW. Irene Malverne Ward. This had once been her mother’s jewel case. Lady Ward had been gone for a long time, and Frances had only this legacy with which to remember her mother.

Frances had given up everything else for Charles Whittier, but she’d never regretted it. Not when her family’s anger separated her from her childhood home, not even when Charles’s disappointment separated her from himself. She had always assumed their separation would be only temporary, but war had made it permanent. When he died, she had been even more glad for her deception and disobedience, for their brief marriage.

She had given herself away too cheaply, she now thought. Now she was left with only this box, a compact reminder of what she’d tossed away for love.

A reminder not to be an idiot, really.

She was beginning to think she needed that reminder again. For the second time in her life, she was allowing herself to become fascinated with a man who was too young and too good-looking. She was losing track of what was right, tricking him to keep him close. That had not ended well the first time; there was no reason to think the second would be different.

She lifted the lid of the box, and the papers within it whispered faintly. A faint floral scent wafted from the dark wood.

There were a few letters from Charles, delivered to her with titillating secrecy while they were courting by moonlight. Charles was not well educated, though he had been bright and witty, with the finest mind for figures Frances had ever encountered. As an innkeeper’s son, he had little call to practice a flowing hand, and the letters were scrawled untidily. She had never seen a worse hand from an adult, now that she thought it over—except from Henry.

Two soldiers, two casualties of war. Two, two, two. Yet they were nothing alike, except that she cared for them both.

Though even that was not the same. Charles had been the love of her youth, her feelings so ferocious that they withstood even the certainty of his waning regard. Her love might have burned out in time, but it had been snuffed by his death before that could happen. And so it lingered like smoke, pervading the very air of her world. The loss had choked her, until after long months and years, it began to dissipate, and she could breathe again.

What she felt for Henry was different. She knew him from the first time she saw him—his hidden wounds, concealed under a role. She wanted to tease out his every secret, to gain the right to bring down his guard.

Through the letters, she had come to understand Henry’s mind; now she hungered for his body. She was beginning to think she would not be satisfied until she had captured his heart, though she had no stratagem for doing so.

She was always out of step. She had grown up in wealth but married a workingman. Now she served as a companion, yet she raised her eyes to the son of an earl. She did not know for which world she was better suited. At times, both lives chafed, as though she lived in a garment cut wrongly and fitted for another’s body.

She sifted through the papers in her rosewood box, looking for her drawing of Charles. Though she wasn’t much of an artist, the likeness had been passable. No still image could have captured the things she loved best about him: the quirk of his brow when he was surprised, the slight pout of his lips when he tried to suppress a smile. He had been roguish and fun, and he had been proud of Frances, his highborn lover, once upon a time.

Of course, it was easier to be proud when one had enough to live on. It was easier to be in love too. In the end, Frances had managed it, but Charles had not.

Her fingers touched the bottom of the box. She had turned all the papers, and the drawing was not here.

She set the box on the floor and bent down again to peer under the bed. No, it had not fluttered out.

Strange. Very strange.

She straightened up and looked around her bedchamber. The only thing out of place was the box itself, where she had just set it down. She sat on the floor, leaning her head against the bed.

It was not as if she could not bring his face to mind without the picture. He had arched brows, warm eyes. His nose had been… straight, she supposed. His mouth…

She could not recall it, not right now. She could recall only the mouth that had kissed hers in the Blue Room.

She closed her eyes and pressed at them with the heels of her hands, wondering if shutting them would help her mind’s eye to open. Her fine memory was failing her. The lineaments of Charles’s face were blurring into those of Henry.

The faint old sketch was nothing but lines of carbon on paper, but she needed them. Now that she could not trust her memory to hold him safe, she had to find her drawing. It reminded her of more than Charles; it reminded her of the choices she’d made and how they’d transformed her.

Possibly one of the maids had taken the drawing for some reason, though she could not imagine what. “Millie,” she called, not caring that her voice rang at a very unladylike volume.

The lady’s maid peeped into Frances’s room within seconds, bobbing her head, her eyes wide at the sight of her mistress’s companion sitting on the floor. “Mum? Is everything all right?”

No. “Yes, Millie. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just need to know if you’ve seen a picture in here. A sketch.”

“A sketch, mum? No, I haven’t. I could check with Pollitt. He’d know if one of the other maids had found something. Ah… what sketch would it be, mum?”

Frances hauled herself into a chair. “It was a drawing of Mr. Whittier. You understand why I wish to locate it.”

“Yes, mum. Right away, mum.” Millie looked sympathetic as she dipped into her curtsy and went to question Caroline’s butler.

So, even the servants pitied her. Millie had a young man who always took her out on her half day off. The butler, Pollitt, who seemed never to feel emotion at all, had won a woman’s lifelong devotion at some point in the unimaginable past, for he was married to Caroline’s cook.

Feeling no emotion at all. That sounded wonderful.

Frances made herself stand, twisting to remove stiffness from her back. Her body felt tired and overfull of old secrets she would have gladly discarded.

She might as well see if there was some way to distract herself. Maybe Caroline needed some letters—some real letters—written. If not, she could find herself a book to read.

She’d tried to face the truth, but it was too much, now that Charles’s face was turning into Henry’s.

On her way to the morning room, she padded down the corridor past the drawing room and heard a low voice inside. A man’s voice. Caroline was not alone.

Frances had a suspicion whom she would find even before she peeked through the doorway.

“Henry.” She slung a sloppy smile across her face. “I thought you had left.”

From his seat next to Caroline on the sofa, he snapped to attention with the speed and grace of a bone-deep soldier. “Only for a short while. Frances, I didn’t realize—”

“You were supposed to go to sleep, Frannie,” Caroline interrupted. “Go away at once, and come back in half an hour.”

Frances could not have gone more numb if she’d been plunged into ice water. “Of course,” she said in a toneless voice, and turned her back on the pair. Half an hour, they wanted. She could easily imagine why.

“Wait, please,” Henry called before she could take a step away. Lower, he said, “Caro, I can show her now. It won’t harm anything.”

Frances turned slowly on the balls of her feet. “Show me what?” Her eyes hunted jewelry, a hand clasp, some sign that Caroline had succumbed to Henry’s scheme for all that he insisted it was not at all improper. Henry wanted to spare Frances a half hour of suspense; he must feel he owed her that much after their interlude in the Blue Room. A half-dozen kisses and a bit of illicit groping won her the right to be told in person that he had chosen another.

Caroline shrugged. “Fine, Henry. It’s your secret plot.” She drew an old-looking piece of paper from behind an embroidered cushion.

Henry began to fidget; he stood, cleared his throat, motioned for Frances to come in and seat herself, then cleared his throat again.

“You’re fidgeting,” Frances noted, feeling no less confused as she perched on a low-back Windsor chair. “The last time I saw you so restless, you, ah, asked me for help.” Help composing a reply to a letter he thought he had received from Caroline.

Henry’s face turned red under its sun-brown. “And you granted it very kindly. But I’m not asking you for help this time. I’ve made you a present.”

“You made me a present.”

Caroline blew a breath out between thinned lips. “In case we haven’t said it often enough, yes, Frannie, he made you a present. Only it’s not really ready yet, but since you wouldn’t sleep and you wouldn’t leave, now you’re going to look at it.” She slapped her hands onto her thighs. “I believe I’ve summarized the essentials of the situation.”

“Oh.” Frances’s mind seemed to have been wiped as blank as the accounting slates Charles and his father used to keep at their inn. “I didn’t realize.”

“Obviously not,” Caroline said crisply. “So. This belongs to you.” She held the old paper out to Frances.

Even before Frances had unfolded it along its worn creases, she knew what it was. “Charles.”

“You once mentioned having a sketch of your late husband.” Henry’s voice was quiet as he sank back onto the sofa next to Caroline. “Your cousin helped me figure out how to abstract it earlier. I hope you do not mind.”

Frances unfolded the paper. There was her missing drawing: Charles Whittier at the age of twenty-one, as lifelike as a pencil and Frances’s limited talent could make him. There was his clean jaw, the cleft in his chin, the twist of his smile. The shape of the mouth she had adored for years, had so often kissed—but had not, only a short while ago, been able to recall.

“Why did you take it?” She sounded peppery as she folded up the paper again, impatient with their teasing little plot. As though she was their pet, to be tricked and played with.

“He made you a present,” Caroline chanted. “Good heavens, Henry, show it to her so she’ll quit asking about it.”

Frances watched, still feeling left behind, as Henry retrieved a leather case from behind another cushion.

“I shall have to remember to look under every one of your cushions, Caroline,” Frances said. “You’ve been hiding things.”

Caroline flapped a hand to shush her. “You’re going to love this, I know.”

Henry stood and handed the folded leather to Frances. When she didn’t open it right away, he retreated again to the sofa and sat by Caroline. The two of them peered at her, eager for her reaction.

Despite herself, she smiled. They obviously meant well, and it was becoming just as obvious that they really hadn’t gotten up to anything improper—beyond sneaking Frances’s possessions, that is.

She unfolded the butter-soft leather and found within an ivory oval. The outline of a young man was drawn on it, his coat tinted a rich blue not much darker than Henry’s eyes. The lines of the man’s face were shaky and vague, but recognizably those of Charles.

Henry cleared his throat. “I colored the coat over the last few days, but I have not had time today to do more than copy his face in pencils. Maybe it’s for the best that you learn of the portrait now, as I need to know his coloring before I can finish.”

“Brown,” Frances said quietly, still staring at the picture. “His hair light, his eyes dark.” She stretched out a finger to touch the ivory surface, then thought better of it. She should not smudge the lines Henry had carefully marked out.

With his left hand, he had done this. It was not a great work of art by any means, but it was almost as clear as the drawing she had made with the living man before her.

She looked up at Henry’s face again, her mind locked. “I don’t understand. Why have you done this?”

His eyes were the painful blue of sapphires worn by a rival. “I wanted to give you a gift. To thank you for your friendship. Caro thought this was something you might like.”

“A new picture of my dead husband that you created by stealing the old from me. That’s what Caroline thought I would like.”

“Well, yes.” Caroline’s voice was higher than usual. “I thought you’d prefer something more meaningful than a book, and it wouldn’t be right for him to give a gift of clothing, you know.”

“I do not understand why you need give me anything at all.”

Henry looked embarrassed. His gaze flicked just to the left of Frances’s, and his mouth tugged into a dent at one corner. “There was no need, but I wanted to give you something.”

“Why?”

His voice grew quieter, not much more than a whisper—as if he feared having Caroline hear him. “Because of the ball. The way you… when we…” His eyes slid to Caroline before finding Frances again. “Thank you for helping me.”

Help. Her every kiss and touch—he thought she had meant it as help. The summer heat was almost suffocating, yet Frances prickled with cold. It was just as she feared. She had drawn him aside, placed herself in his way until he could not ignore her attentions.

“You are too generous,” she said in a faint voice.

She had led him with letters and with her own body, but by leading him, she had no idea where he truly wished to go.

Frances swallowed a sigh and looked into his beautiful eyes again. “Thank you, Henry,” she said, managing the calm companion’s voice he was used to. “It was not necessary, but it was very kind of you. And Caroline.”

Henry looked relieved. “She thinks the world of you.”

And what do you think? Of me? Of her?

Better not to ask any questions if she did not want to hear the answers.

“She knows that,” Caroline said, sounding breezy again. “At least, she ought to. I’m horribly reliant on her.”

Frances made the shape of a smile as she folded Charles back into his leather case. “Likewise, Caroline.” She stood, and Henry at once matched her movement. “Here, Henry. You must have the chance to finish. If you want to.”

He took the case from her. “I do. I’ve enjoyed working in watercolors; they’re easier for me to blend than oils. And if you think you’ll like having the miniature, that makes it all the better.”

She could only nod. What could she say? That he and Caroline clearly thought the only man she needed was a dead one, three inches high, composed of pencil and watercolor and an oval chopped from an elephant’s tusk?

That they were wholly wrong about that?

Charles belonged in a box of keepsakes now, even as his bones lay somewhere in the Netherlands. She had loved him and grieved him, and for several years that life had been adequate. But it didn’t satisfy anymore.

“I could do with a sherry,” Caroline murmured, standing and fanning herself with the inevitable ivory accessory. “Or something stronger. What would be cooling in this wretched heat?”

“Lemonade,” Frances said. “With brandy in it.” How easily she slipped into her role as Caroline’s advisor.

“That sounds odd,” Caroline said. “Let’s give it a try, shall we? Henry, will you have one?”

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said with a rueful smile. “But I hope to see you again soon.” He waved his hand, still gripping the small leather case, and made his farewells to Caroline and France.

Frances watched the empty doorway, listening as his boots thumped down the carpeted corridor and rang on the stairs down to the front door.

She heard the murmur of a servant, the thick rustle of a liveried footman retrieving Henry’s hat. The front door opened silently, but she knew he was gone when the street clatter of hooves and carriage wheels spilled into the house, then was shut out again.

Silently, she turned back to face Caroline. The countess had folded her hands behind her back; her brows were puckered under her blonde coronet of hair.

“That didn’t go at all as I’d planned,” Caroline said. “I rather wish you’d stayed in your room.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d feel the same about the miniature no matter when I saw it.” She tried to force a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

Caroline looked skeptical. “I think,” the countess granted at last, “we’ve both earned a brandy by now. Don’t you? We needn’t bother with the lemonade.”

She rang for a servant, but when the snifters arrived, Frances pleaded long-deferred fatigue and took her brandy with her. Rather than heading to her bedchamber for a rest, though, she went to her writing desk in the morning room. The letter from Henry still lay where she’d tossed it earlier today, after Caroline had discarded it.

Before she could change her mind, she gulped down the brandy. It burned her throat, fired her resolve. She found a pen and tugged her inkwell toward her.

The miniature had startled her out of her submission, such as it had been. She couldn’t live in her rosewood box; she couldn’t torment herself with Charles anymore. Not when her life had begun to offer new torments instead.

There would be just one more letter to Henry, and it would be their triumph. Frances’s triumph. She would tell him everything she felt, everything she wanted, even knowing he would credit it to another woman.

He wanted the lie, she reminded herself.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around the quill, the feathered barb teasing her skin, and she began to write.