Authors: Masquerade
A hope stirred inside her, the first genuine
feeling to penetrate the numbness she had wrapped herself in.
James. Could it be possible that he had returned and somehow-
The hope was immediately dashed when the cell
door opened to admit Jonathan. His sallow features were suffused
with color, the flush in his cheeks appearing to be more than
merely the result of the brisk autumn air. There was a gleam of
triumph in his eyes.
He clasped Phaedra's hands between his own.
"I have come to take you home, my dearest one."
She regarded him dully, but Jonathan did not
seem to notice her lack of response. He produced a cloak, which he
wrapped about her shoulders, his fingers clumsy and trembling.
"Come. Let me take you out of this dreadful place."
Although she was not quite steady on her
feet, Phaedra resisted his offers to carry her. When he escorted
her through Bedlam's main gallery, the scene that had once so
horrified her no longer seemed real. All the slack mouths, the
blank stares, the emaciated arms straining against chains,
gesturing toward the visitors like performing monkeys-it was like
gazing upon one of Hogarth's disturbing sketches of London's dark
side. Phaedra remembered what Beida had said about Marie and
experienced a brief surge of satisfaction. She was glad that Marie
had escaped. Wherever the poor creature had gone, it would have to
be better than remaining here.
Phaedra felt exhausted by the time they
emerged into the street, and she permitted Jonathan to lift her
into his waiting carriage. She sank back against the squabs. In the
early days of her confinement at Bedlam, she had longed for nothing
so much as the sight of the sky, the feel of the sun upon her face.
Now she shrank from the light like a wounded animal.
As they rumbled away from Bedlam's walls,
Phaedra felt grateful for Jonathan's silence. He had made no
mention of the loss of her babe. But then, he had ever been a man
of great sensitivity and consideration. He appeared content to sit
opposite her, gazing at her with a feverish glow of happiness in
his eyes. She wished she could demonstrate more thankfulness for
his rescue, feel something besides this leaden despair that
weighted her soul.
The progress of the carriage seemed painfully
slow. After some time, Phaedra roused herself enough to glance out
the window. Frowning, she realized the coach's dilatory movement
was owing to the fact they were heading into the city's crush of
traffic, not away from it.
"Jonathan, this is not the way to the
Heath."
"I know that. I am taking you to my home
instead." He could not quite meet her eyes. Phaedra thought she
understood why.
"My grandfather died while I was in Bedlam.
Didn't he?" she asked.
"No.But there is nothing.more that can be
done for him. It is you that need taking care of now, and I mean to
do it-as I have always done."
Phaedra started to voice a weary protest, but
hesitated. The way Jonathan looked at her made her uneasy. Such a
strange stare. And yet, the expression was somehow not unfamiliar
to her.
He reached across to pat her hand. "You were
never happy at the Heath. Sawyer was so wretchedly careless of you.
So much evil in the world, and he never protected you. First Lord
Ewan, then that Searle woman and-and worst of all, that cursed
marquis."
It disturbed Phaedra to hear Jonathan couple
James with those other two, although she did not know what caused
the shiver to course up her spine. Then the thought struck her.
Ewan and Hester were dead. But James-
Somewhere in the numbness of her heart she
felt the first knife stroke of fear. "Jonathan, have you heard some
tidings of the marquis?"
"Aye, he is back in London," came Jonathan’s
indifferent reply.
Back! The knife stroke became a piercing
stab. James had been in London, while she lay trapped in Bedlam,
near death, losing their child.
"And he made no effort to come for me?" she
faltered."
“There is nothing to fear my dear. I am the
only one who knows where you are.”
Jonathan's calm statement raised inexplicable
prickles of alarm along the back of her neck.
"Jonathan!" Her voice was sharp as she said
his name. She tried to assure herself that as always he was just
attempting in his muddled way to help. "I have to see Jam- I mean
the marquis."
"Eventually." Jonathan caressed her fingers.
"I will have him out to the house."
Phaedra found nothing in Jonathan's words or
touch that was reassuring. Her fear grew steadily inside her,
although she tried to quell it. Nothing was wrong. This was
Jonathan, her quiet, solemn friend. He had been part of the
background of her life forever, as solid and unthreatening as her
desk or books.
And yet when he kissed her hand, the feel of
his lips lingering upon her flesh caused her to shrink away from
him. When the carriage was forced to halt because of the press of
traffic, she inched toward the door.
"It is kind of you to want to care for me,
Jonathan. But I need some time alone. I will take a hackney back to
the Heath."
She reached for the handle, but he was too
quick for her. He caught her, pinning her back against the seat.
Although weakened by her recent ordeal, Phaedra yet had no notion
that Jonathan could be so strong. Her lips parted to cry out, but
he pressed one hand over her mouth, fairly suffocating her.
"You must be quiet, my dear," he soothed.
"Too much excitement is bad for you and I will never let anything
bad happen to you again.
Phaedra's heart thudded as she felt the coach
lurch into movement once more. Feeling too stunned to move or
struggle, she stared up at Jonathan, past the tension of his
fingers crushed against her face. How could she ever have been so
blind? After all her weeks amongst the inmates of Bedlam, she
should have recognized at once that look of madness roiling in her
friend's dark eyes.
Phaedra strove to maintain an outward
semblance of calm as she was led through the silent house, guided
by the inexorable pressure of Jonathan's hand upon her elbow. Where
was everyone? She saw no sign of any servants whom she had hoped
would help her subdue Jonathan. She regretted not having appealed
to the coachman or anyone in the street. But it was too late to
correct that error in judgment now.
Jonathan gave her a nudge and forced her into
a room of his house she had never seen before. Here the oil lamps
were aglow even in the daytime, revealing a chamber far different
from the austere decor of the rest of the house. In the center was
a bed with a canopy and gauzy, delicate curtains. It looked like a
fairy queen's bower, all pristine white lace and ribbons with a
pale blush of pink. A gilt dressing table was laid out with all
that a feminine heart could desire-perfumes, ivory-handled fans,
and a jewel box so laden with sparkling gems the lid did not quite
close. Wardrobe doors had been left flung open to draw attention to
a rainbow array of gowns.
Jonathan’s eyes were pathetically eager, like
a child offering a bouquet of wildflowers. Phaedra rubbed her arms,
averting her gaze so that he should not see how sick at heart she
was. She noted the initials engraved on the silver handle of a
brush with a flourishing scroll. P B.
The significance hit her with a jolt. P B
Phaedra Burnell- what her monogram would be, if she were Jonathan's
bride. She gazed at the elaborate room, the work of many months of
planning and dreams spun out in Jonathan's mind, until the thread
must have worn so thin it snapped.
She stared at her old friend with pitying
eyes and fought the urge to sink down upon the bed and weep for
him. She would be no use to either of them if she succumbed to
hysterics.
He hovered far too close to her. "Do you like
it?"
"It is beautiful," she managed to choke.
"I have been arranging it all for over a year
now."
"But Jonathan," she protested, "over a year
ago, I was still wed to Ewan."
His soft smile filled her with apprehension.
"There was no difficulty about that. Ewan was ever reckless when he
rode, cruel to his horses, cruel to everyone. After you told me
what he had done to your books, I couldn't let him torment you any
longer. I had to do something."
"But his death was an accident," she said
hoarsely.
"Not precisely, my dear. Oh, his death was
his own fault. But I met him out upon his estate and suggested the
direction in which we should ride. When we got to the stone wall, I
simply had to rein in. He was so careless the way he took his
jumps. The plow was ready and waiting. It was all his own
doing."
Jonathan spoke as though it were the most
reasonable thing in the world. Phaedra ran a hand over her eyes.
This was a nightmare, and she couldn't seem to wake.
"Everything would have been all right then."
Jonathan sighed and regarded her with mild reproach. "Except by
that time, you had started that Robin Goodfellow business. I hated
it. I knew it be only a matter of time before that old woman found
you out."
"Old woman? What old woman?" she asked.
“That Searle woman, of course. She was always
prying. Dreadful creature. I told Sawyer never to employ her."
But her grandfather had paid no heed. No one
had ever paid heed to Jonathan, least of all herself. Perhaps,
Phaedra thought sadly, that was what had reduced him to this.
Feeling her legs ready to give out, she sank down upon the chair at
the dressing table. Dreading what he might say next, she felt it
far safer to keep him talking, clinging to the desperate hope that
someone- perhaps one of Jonathan's servants-might return to the
house to help her.
"So Hester knew about my writing?" Phaedra
was astonished that her voice could sound so calm. They might have
been conversing over the tea table, as they had so many times
before.
"Aye, Hester found your drafts, and she
wanted money to keep silent. She knew better than to approach
Sawyer, but being aware of my fondness for you, she came to me
instead."
Memory rushed back to Phaedra of Hester's
conversation in the garden that night, the unseen man. It had been
Jonathan, and not James. Phaedra played with the ivory handle of a
fan; the gesture, she hoped, would conceal how unnerved she was.
"So then you planned to kill her, too?"
Jonathan looked hurt. "I didn't plan it,
Phaedra. I was very reasonable and paid her what she asked. But the
wretch was too greedy. Even as I placed the money in her hands, she
was already sniggering, saying this would do for a start. I knew I
never would be able to trust her or rest easy again.
"We were alone in the kitchen the day of
Sawyer’s fete. When she turned away from me, I had to do something
to stop the greedy witch. There were logs stacked by the hearth. I
snatched up one and struck her over the head.
“She was only unconscious. I knew I had to
act quickly before anyone else returned to the house. I realized I
had to make her death appear more like suicide or an accident. So I
carried her up to the garret and thrust her body out the
window."
Phaedra tried not to tremble when Jonathan
rested his hand upon her shoulder. "I felt so relieved when you
gave up your writing. The worst part of it all was when those riots
began and I overheard Jessym at the coffeehouse, threatening how he
would expose Robin Goodfellow if he had to-to save his own
miserable hide."
The grim thought crossed Phaedra's mind that
Jessym was lucky to find himself still alive. It was a wonder that
Jonathan hadn't- Suddenly another realization clicked in place with
painful clarity.
She stared up at Jonathan. "You! It was you
who took my papers, forged grandfather's seal, and gave them to
Jessym."
Her accusation agitated him. "Short of
killing Jessym, there was nothing else I could do. I hated to shift
the blame to Sawyer, but he is nothing next to your happiness. I
would destroy anyone who threatened your safety."
Phaedra leapt out of the chair and backed
away from him. The vehemence in his words frightened her. She paced
toward the window and shifted the curtain aside, hoping to find
help in the streets below. But as she drew back the material, she
found the glass boarded over, the wood covered with a landscape
scene painted in pastels. She was as much a prisoner here as she
had been in Bedlam--only now she had a madman for her gaoler.
Phaedra clutched her hands together resisting the urge to beat
futilely against the boards.
Jonathan stalked toward her, pleading, "Don't
turn away from me, Phaedra. You must see that I have done all this
for your good. I never meant to hurt you. The most difficult thing
of all was helping to rid you of that babe. "
Phaedra felt her face drain of all color.
Jonathan!"
She cried out in protest, wanting an end to
these horrible confessions, wanting this all to be a bad dream and
Jonathan to transform back into her calm, dependable friend
again.
"I thought the cold water of the pond would
be enough. The shock should have made you miscarry. I knew you swam
far too well to drown, and of course I was right there, to protect
you." He shook his head mournfully. "But it didn't work. And then I
was afraid that when you recovered, you would go back to Ireland,
just as you had threatened to do. It was then that I thought it
might be best to have you looked after, until this room was ready
for you."
Phaedra drew in a sharp breath as the final
piece of this nightmare fell into place. Jonathan had often spoken
about his patronage of various charities, and Sawyer Weylin had
chaffed him about throwing away good money.
"Bedlam,” she murmured. “You are one of the
patrons of Bedlam.”
"Indeed I am. I have always been most
generous, so that it was not difficult to arrange your stay there.
I kept praying that somehow you would yet miscarry by natural
means. But in the end, to protect you from that sinful child, I had
no choice but to put the tansy root into your stew."