Courtney Milan (40 page)

“What did your father have to say to that?”

“As I recall, what he said was, ‘What are you showing me all this mud for? Haven’t you got seed to sow?’” John quoted. “He wasn’t much for talking. But after that he said no more of my going into business and leaving the farm to others to manage.”

“How horrid.”

“No. It just wasn’t his way to give praise. Not to my face. After he passed away, though, I heard that he’d crowed about it to all of his friends.”

That put Mary in mind of her piano master. But thinking of Herr Rieger only made her sad. Maybe that’s what she’d liked about John, when first they met—that automatic understanding of what it was to take on an impossible, years-long task. She’d met him long after he’d built his windmill. At that point, there had only been talk of all the things he’d done—and no hint of how difficult they might have been. The other girls had spoken of him in hushed tones, as if he were some sort of magician, and a handsome one at that.

But he was real—real and warm. And he wasn’t with any of those other girls. He was here in the dark with her, holding her arm, losing sleep to talk with her at night. He’d achieved so much on his own. And what had she done?

Once, that question might have made her throw up her hands in despair. But perhaps it was because she was so close to him. Perhaps it was because they’d resumed their friendship, and the world no longer seemed as impossibly frightening as it once had been.

Crickets sounded again, thin and reedy in the night.

Perhaps she had given up hope too easily. She’d let Sir Walter take everything from her without a fight. Maybe she didn’t need to be devastated when John left. Maybe she was strong enough not only to face her world, but to change it.

Herr Rieger came to mind again, his mouth narrowed to a flat, white line.
Not right,
the image of him barked in her head.
Try again. This time, slow—once your fingers know the way of it, you can speed it up.

“I was wondering,” she said quietly. “Could you perhaps do me a favor?”

“What is it?”

A little step. She’d play it slowly at first. Once she knew the way of it…

“A paper,” Mary said. “Bring me a newspaper.”

I
T WAS NOT UNTIL NOON
three days later that Mary had a chance to reveal her bounty. Lady Patsworth was sewing; her husband had left the two women alone to answer letters. He sat in the next room over, close enough to hear, but hidden by the door. It was as good a chance as either of them would ever get. The front room, papered in a delicate pink and gold, gleamed in the morning sun.

“Now,” Lady Patsworth was saying, “white ruffs might seem too much like livery, but—”

Mary adjusted her skirts, rescuing the paper from its place in her petticoats. She slid it into Lady Patsworth’s sewing basket and gestured for the woman to continue. But Lady Patsworth had stopped talking. She looked at the paper; she looked at Mary. She reached out and touched it with the edge of her fingertips, as if she were afraid it might reach up and bite her.

And then she gave Mary a brilliant smile.

Keep talking,
Mary mouthed, tilting her head toward the door behind which Sir Walter sat.

Lady Patsworth glanced in her husband’s direction and then picked up the paper.

“Of course,” she said loudly, “now that I’m designing my own gowns—”

She stopped again as she unfolded the pages. Sir Walter always read the news of the world while handing the middle page of fashion and gossip to his wife. But she was staring at the front page—not the fashion column.

“Now that I’m designing my own,” Lady Patsworth said more quietly, “I can do…anything I want?” Her voice raised in a question.

“Of course you can,” Mary soothed her.

Lady Patsworth’s hands were shaking. She turned the paper around.

Mary hadn’t had the chance to look at it yet. When John had given it over last night, it had been too dark to make out letters. If she’d tried to read it herself in daylight hours, she would have risked losing her contraband. So this was the first time that she’d seen the headline.

Queen Grants Royal Assent to Matrimonial Causes Act.

Mary drifted over, skimming paragraphs, trying to take it all in. No wonder Sir Walter had canceled his subscription. The gossip pages wouldn’t have been safe any longer. The new bill had created a civil court to hear cases of divorce, allowing anyone to bring suit. Anyone—not just those with access to Parliament. And when that court came into existence…oh, the gossip that the paper would print.

Mary raised her eyes to Lady Patsworth. The woman was staring at the words in confusion.

Mary tilted her head, reminding the other woman that her husband was near. “What sort of
gown
do you think you will make first?”

Lady Patsworth was staring at the black ink before her.

“I don’t think…” Her fingers plucked uselessly at the pages. “That is to say…” She let out a breath and shook her head. “I believe I will make the same sorts of gowns that I always have. Nothing has changed, really.”

How many years had Lady Patsworth suffered under her husband’s rule? More than Mary knew. She knew that the other woman hated his restrictions—but maybe, after all this time, she’d forgotten how to live without them.

“I think you should make a riding habit,” Mary said. “With divided skirts so you might be able to challenge anyone to race—and dash away quickly so that they might never catch you.”

The other woman’s eyes widened at those words. She stole another glance in the direction of her husband. “I…I couldn’t. I haven’t the slightest notion how to cut the cloth.”

It wasn’t
right
. The last few days, talking with John in friendship…they’d been a real balm for Mary. But John would leave, and when he did, Mary would find herself all the more aware of the bars that made up her cage. This was her chance to prove that she could
do
something besides wait to be released.

“Let me sketch you how it is done,” she said, reaching for a pencil. She wrote in tiny letters in the margin of the paper.

Would your brother help you?

Lady Patsworth bit her lip and took the pencil from her.
But how am I to get word to him? Even if he came—he did two years ago—Sir W will simply not let him on the property.

“With the right riding habit,” Mary said, “you might even take a horse over an obstacle. Just jump over it if it gets in your way.”

He has a pistol,
Lady Patsworth wrote.
I’m afraid he’ll use it.

They stared at those words and then Lady Patsworth turned away. “It’s a silly project.” She sniffed. “I don’t ride, I’m afraid. I haven’t since I was a girl. No sense in countenancing such waste.”

There must be some way to change matters,
Mary wrote. Her hands were shaking. If Lady Patsworth could break free, Mary might as well.

But the other woman shook her head vehemently.

“Make an evening gown, then,” Mary suggested. “One you might wear to an elegant party at a neighbor’s house.”

“Alas,” Lady Patsworth said coldly. “My health does not permit such excursions.”

We could make it happen,
Mary wrote.

Lady Patsworth looked at those words for a very long time before reaching for the pencil.
How?

Mary let out a breath of relief.

I have an idea.

Chapter Eight

“I
NEED TO TELL YOU
something.”

John had been meeting Mary for a half hour or so every night for more than a week, now. It was easy to be patient, to pretend to be her friend. It was easy to fall into their old camaraderie—so easy that most of the time he forgot that he was pretending. In fact, he’d stopped probing after the first days. He had time, he told himself, and it would go better if she trusted him…and he was enjoying himself.

He only remembered that he was lying to her at moments like this—when she looked at him with her eyes round and solemn, and he recalled that she had secrets he wanted to uncover.

There was a luster to her eyes, something more than the reflection of starlight. There was something about the way she looked at him that made his chest feel tight.

“I need another favor,” she said. “Two favors, this time, and rather larger. But in order for my requests to make any sense, you have to understand who—what—Sir Walter is.”

One confidence was good. It might lead to another, after all, the one that he truly desired. But that didn’t explain the warmth that filled him at the thought of her trust, the smile that he felt come onto his face.

“He’s an ass,” John said simply. “That much I can tell. But I’m sure you have specifics.”

“He has not let his wife be in company for six years. Not to go to church; not to visit the shops. The last time her brother came to see her, Sir Walter threw him off the property and threatened to shoot him if he returned.”

“What is his reasoning?”

Mary shook her head. “Does it matter? His reasoning is flawed. He says he wants to keep her safe. I think he’s afraid that she will be as unfaithful as he has been.”

It matched what little he’d seen of the man. Mary’s voice was scornful, but when he looked down, her hand was a little unsteady on his sleeve.

He set his own hand over hers, holding it in place. “And what has Sir Walter done to you?” His voice went low. And angry—how angry he felt in that moment.

“He withholds my salary,” Mary said. “I have no money—literally not a penny. I’m not allowed to speak to anyone. I live in fear that he’ll discover that I’m climbing out my window to talk with you at night. If he sends me away, I will have nothing, absolutely nothing. He made my world this small.” She held up her thumb and forefinger, indicating. “And I made myself fit into that space.”

He pressed her fingers into his arm. “I could strike him.”

“Don’t be too angry with him. I did it to myself,” she said. “I let him make me small. I
believed
him at first, when he said he knew what was best for my welfare. I gave up everything, because—”

She was shaking. His hand on hers was no longer enough; he reached and put his arm around her, pulling her close. She had always fit against him so well; she did so again, her body molding to his. The skin of her arms had broken out in gooseflesh, even on this warm night. So he held her and said nothing, held her until she grew warm.

“I let him,” she whispered in his ear, “because I thought I deserved it for what I had done.”

Here was the other half of the confession—the one he had waited for so patiently. So why didn’t he feel any triumph?

“Nobody deserves that,” he responded.

“I thought I did.” She took a deep breath. “You see, when I left Southampton, I went to Basingstoke. I had only a little money, and so much I needed to do. I asked the maids at the inn if there was a doctor who might help me with a private problem for the least amount of money. The maid I talked to suggested Dr. Clemmons. I should have known what I was asking for.”

John felt curiously calm, despite the words she was saying. As if all his emotion was just beyond his reach. “What did you need a doctor for?”

She looked into his lapels. “To falsify a certificate of death.”

His sense of calm grew. It was always thus when he became angry. He’d been right. She
had
been lying to him. Her father wasn’t dead; the money was still there. He should have been delighted to know there was something to recover, but all he felt was that ugly sense of betrayal.

His hands were still on her, gripping just a little too tightly. “You told me that your father was dead. That you’d watched him buried with your own eyes.”

“The fact of his death was not false.”

He took a breath of relief.

She looked up at him. “The day on the certificate and the cause, though, were lies. My father died in Southampton two days prior. I had to find a doctor willing to certify a lie, and Dr. Clemmons was that man.”

“Two days prior in Southampton? But that’s when we were last together. Why did you not tell us then that your father had passed away?”