Eve Silver (21 page)

“Ah. You have regained your voice,” he said.

She nodded, uncertain of his mood.

He glanced at the glass saucers once more.

“Do you know what grows there, Miss Parrish?” He nodded toward the table. She was Miss Parrish to him now, no longer Emma. His walls were back in place.

“No,” she whispered.

Holding her shoulders, he looked into her eyes. “Death. All manner of death. Anthrax. Gangrene. And I am attempting to breed consumption, though I have been less than successful thus far.”

His words made no sense to her, but she could read an intensity, a frantic resolve in his gaze, and feel the tension in the pressure of his fingers on her shoulders. Then she realized it was fear. He was afraid for her.

“I touched nothing,” she said, feeling the need to reassure him of her safety. For some reason, he was troubled, nay more than that—terrified—by the possibility that she had handled those dishes. And she almost had. The thought made her shudder.

“More than a century ago the Royal Society of London published the English translation of the findings of one Antoni van Leeuwenhoek. He was a Dutchman whose hobby it was to grind magnifying lenses, then peer through them and see what they revealed. His hobby led to his discovery of what he called ‘wee animalcules,’ tiny living beings that could only be seen with the help of those lenses.”

“What does this have to do with those dishes?”

“You wondered about Miss Rust, and likely about Mrs. Winter, as well.” His tone was brisk.

Emma stared at him mutely as her pulse leapt once more. He was quite correct. It was the former governesses or, at least, their fate that had brought her here in the dark of night. And now it seemed that at last she would have the answers she sought.

“They were curious. Like you.” His tone held a hint of censure. “Their curiosity cost them their lives. Mrs. Winter slunk in here under cover of darkness. She was careless, knocking one of my glass plates to the floor. In addition, she was foolish, because she lifted the broken pieces and hid them away in her skirt pocket. As if I would not know that one dish was missing.” He made soft sound of frustration. “We were lucky she did not spread the pestilence through the entire household.”

“You believe that wee animalcules—tiny animals that no one can see—are the cause of disease.” The thought was fantastical, ridiculous. And perhaps just outlandish enough to be true. She sank her teeth into her lower lip, working up her courage. Finally, she asked, “What happened to her, to Mrs. Winter?”

“She must have cut herself on the glass shards. Weeks ago, Miss Parrish, you recognized anthrax. But have you ever watched it eat a person from the inside outward? Fever, headache, vomiting—all mild symptoms in comparison to what followed. She developed malignant pustules, and her blood was poisoned by the disease. It ate away at her, and she hemorrhaged inside, where none could see.” He raked his fingers through his hair, pushing the thick, dark strands from his face. Emma stared at him in appalled fascination, the image of Mrs. Winter’s dreadful demise too horrific to contemplate.

“She did not come to me for help. Instead, in her fevered and weakened state, she tried to flee to the village, to Bosherton, and seek the care of a physician there. She was found dead by the side of the road the next morning. She never arrived at the village.” He shrugged. “It would have made no difference if she had. Mrs. Winter’s fate was determined the moment the glass pierced her flesh and the disease took root inside of her. Few survive once the malaise taints the blood.”

“No more,” Emma whispered, turning her face away from his intense gaze. “I do not wish to hear more.”

 Gently, he pressed the side of her jaw with his index finger, moving her head so she looked at him once more. His eyes glittered in the dim light.

“Now, tell me again.” His words were softly spoken, but his tone demanded her compliance. She could feel the kiss of his warm breath against her skin. “What did you touch, Emma?”

Emma. Not “Miss Parrish”. His use of her given name was an indication of his concern. “Nothing. I touched nothing.”

Breathing deeply, she tried to still the dizzying tumult of emotion that assailed her. Fear. Confusion. Horror. And yes, terrible irrational attraction that made her long to fling herself into Anthony Craven’s warm embrace and seek safe harbor there even as reason whispered that she guard herself against such dangerous longings.

Slowly, as if in answer to her secret yearning, he pulled her against him, wrapping his arms about her. Emma turned her nose into his chest, inhaling the smell of him, the fresh clean scent of sunshine that seemed to cling to him even here in this loathsome place. He rested his chin against her crown. They stood thus, wrapped in each other's embrace, isolated from reality. His explanation filled her mind, cutting through the misty suspicions she had built and then argued against during her weeks at Manorbrier.

Inexplicably, she felt tears gather on her lashes, threatening to fall. Did she cry for herself, or for an unknown dead woman? She couldn't say.

Emma closed her eyes, but she could not block out the images of Anthony's laboratory. This place was his wretched domain, his ghastly realm, as much a part of him as his eyes, his nose, his heart. She found it rank. Putrid. Repulsive. It was difficult to equate the place with the man.

“And Miss Rust?” she whispered against his shirt.

For a long while she thought he had not heard her.

“She came searching for secrets and found her death instead. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. I suspect she never made it to the top of the staircase, but fell on her way up. She lay broken at the bottom of the stairs when I came the next morning.” His tone held no apology. No regret. He merely stated a fact.

Broken at the bottom of the stairs
. Those words painted a picture too abhorrent to contemplate. Emma wondered if she could ever learn to regard death and suffering with such equanimity. Aunt Cecilia’s accusations rang in her thoughts, for Miss Rust’s fate was chillingly similar to that of Anthony’s dead wife, Delia. A fall down a treacherous staircase with death’s chilly embrace waiting at the bottom. Had Miss Rust been thrown down the stone steps, or had she slipped on the slick surface, as Emma herself had nearly done?

Pulling back, she tipped her head and met his gaze. “This is a terrible place,” she whispered.

“Is it?” Something dark flickered in his eyes. “I find it to be a place of enlightenment.”

“Enlightenment?” she cried in anguish. “Here, where you are surrounded by darkness and death? What manner of man are you? What manner of doctor?
There is a head in that jar!
” Emma made a frantic motion in the direction of the far table as a bubble of hysteria welled up from her core. “
A head
. A human head that once held thoughts and dreams and fears. You keep it in a jar next to a dead pig!” The sound of her voice escalated until she yelled in earnest, and tears coursed down her cheeks.

Taking great gasping breaths, Emma struggled for calm. And through her tirade, Anthony said nothing.

“You grow death like others grow flowers,” she said at length. “You are a harsh man, unyielding as rock, who spends his leisure hours here, in a place that I could never have imagined. From the depths of my darkest fears, I could not have dredged thoughts of such a place.” She felt raw, flayed by the night's events and all she had seen. “Yet there is a gentleness in you that I cannot deny. The love you shower on Nicky is pure. And your heart is good.”

He made a rough sound of denial. “Do not paint me with rose tinted hues, Emma. If you see me at all, see me as I am in truth. I have made the mistake of looking only at the surface. Believe me, the shock of discovery—and, yes, it does come—the shock of peeling away layers to reveal a rotten core is unpleasant in the extreme.”

Delia. He spoke of Delia. “I do not paint you with rose-tinted hues. Nor do I paint you the villain. I know what you did for Mrs. Bolifer, offering her the position as housekeeper to ensure that she chose life—a
useful
life—over one of despair. And Griggs. And Cookie. And Meg, whose family would starve if you did not pay her a ridiculous sum.” She hesitated and then whispered, “And for me.”

“Do you list my virtues in order to convince me, or yourself?” he asked dryly.

As she looked at him now, she thought him splendid. The candlelight played across his sculpted features, highlighting planes and hollows. Emma reached up and laid her palm against his lightly stubbled jaw. He made a low sound, but did not pull away.

What terrible malady had overtaken her that despite everything she had seen here she yearned for him so? He was the demon who haunted her nightmares, the angel who graced her dreams.

“I am so confused,” she whispered, dropping her hand to her side.

He caught her wrist. Drawing her palm to his lips, he kissed the fleshy part at the base of her thumb, then gently pressed his teeth against the sensitive skin.

A flame seared her, running from her arm to the pit of her belly with lightning speed.

“Oh!” she cried, trying to snatch her hand away. Such feelings were not appropriate, least of all here, amidst the death and decay.

With a low laugh, he licked the place he had grazed with his teeth. As his tongue played across her flesh, she closed her eyes in confusion. She had challenged him, demanding to know what manner of man he was, when, in truth, she should be posing that question to herself. What manner of woman was she to fall under his wicked spell without struggling in the slightest?

“You ask what manner of man I am.” His voice was thick and rough as he revisited her earlier question, deciphering her thoughts with unerring accuracy. “I am a man who grows death—” At her startled look he affirmed her words with a nod. “Your description was most precise, sweet Emma. I grow death as others grow flowers. I research the nature of contagion. My interest is no longer in the living. I do not physic them or tend to their ills. My dominion is the realm of the dead. And I revel in it.”

He pulled her against him, so close she thought they would meld into one. His fingers tangled in her hair, and his thumb caressed the angle of her jaw. Her heart thudded, pumping blood that felt thick and hot, warmed honey in her veins.

“I am a man who keeps a head in a jar.” Anthony's expression grew hard. He leaned close, his lips touching her ear, and when he spoke, the movement caressing her skin, sending a cascade of tingling pleasure to every nerve. “Make no mistake, Emma. I am a man who is part monster. Cold. Hardened to human suffering. That I freely admit,” he whispered harshly. “Do you want such a man?”

He had pared away all pretence, all nicety, and bared the heart of the matter. Did she want such a man?

Dear heaven, she did. With all that she was, she wanted this man. But at what cost to herself? She closed her eyes tightly, weighing the merit of any answer she might give. In the end, she responded to his question with one of her own.

“Why do you keep that abomination?” She gestured toward the macabre contents of the specimen jar, leaning back enough to see his face.

One side of his mouth curved, a parody of a smile. “To remind me of my humanity.”

Emma drew a deep, shuddering breath. “So you do acknowledge that you are human,” she mused.

He made no reply, merely held her trapped in his embrace. His fingers gently massaged the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation of his touch warm her, tease her, bring her to life.

Before her loomed a choice, a forked road with one well-trod path, the path of genteel poverty, living life within the dictates of society, but only on the fringes of true fulfillment. She would never have a home, would instead live as a governess, raising someone else’s child, cast aside at the whim of whatever employer she served. She would be as her mother had been. Oh, but when her mother had been alive, Emma had felt that she
did
have a home, for home was her mother’s love. Could she live the rest of her life without love, adrift and truly alone?

She could feel the warmth of Anthony’s body, a mere breath from her own.
He
was the second path, less defined, ill understood. The path that would carry her to the role of lover, mistress, fallen woman. And to make such a decision here, in this ugly place, fraught with mystery and fear...it was nearly more than she could bear. Yet, this was the perfect place, for here, Anthony was laid bare, presented as nothing other than the man he truly was.

She stepped away, needing space and distance and clarity of thought. Her gaze skimmed the table, strewn with papers, the glass dishes harboring the promise of a slow, agonizing death. Emma hesitated. She glanced at the maggots, writhing in the fetid rot that served as their home. Then, she confronted the bottles that held the macabre specimens, her mind spinning through conjectures and endless possibilities. Finally, she turned at Anthony once more.

“You research the nature of contagion,” she reflected. “For what purpose?”

“Purpose?” he repeated, then shook his head.

“What purpose, my lord?” Her tone was insistent. “To breed death and disease? To kill unwary governesses?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” he muttered.

She thought him uncomfortable with his own nobility, determined to present himself in the worst possible light. Perhaps he genuinely saw himself as some sort of fiend.

“Then why?” she pressed.

“To know the nature of contagion. To stop the onslaught of pestilence and plague. To stop the suffering and death.” He made a harsh sound low in his throat. “There is no cure for anthrax. For smallpox. For diphtheria. For sepsis of the blood.”

“So you wish to save lives,” she said triumphantly. “To lessen human misery.” Whatever macabre experiments were performed by Anthony Craven, his motive was pure. His response, and her reasoning, had provided her with an answer she could accept.

He clicked his tongue impatiently. Emma watched him, and waited. At length, he spoke.

“Do you imagine me to be a hero, Emma? A gilded prince who will fulfill your every fantasy? I am no mythical champion. Just a man. And if you build me up to some outlandish degree, I will disappoint you, my dear.”