 
# Legacy

### A Regency Saga - Book 1

## Linda I. Govik
Cover artist: Ivan Zanchetta,

Editor: Sandra Haven

Formatting: Bad Doggie Designs

Published by Linda Govik

Copyright © 2019 by Linda Govik

<http://www.lindagovik.com>

* * *

Ebook ISBN: 978-91-982867-0-0

### Contents

License Notes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

# License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# 1

_September 12th 1797_

It was a big fly, fat and disgusting, its body a dark shimmering green, wings disproportionally small to this immense bulk. Emily Bradley had heard it ever since she'd entered the room, at first full of vigour and anger, bouncing hard against the window. An hour later, the sound had changed into a tired humming, the bouncing mere meaty bangs, followed by moments of silence as the insect fell onto the sash bar and stayed there, too exhausted to move and slowed down by the autumn chill that penetrated the window from the outside.

Emily raised her head and peered at the man. He had dressed and stood dapper and flawless, owning the room with his presence, proud profile turned toward the window; he seemed to have taken notice of the fly as well.

"I hate bugs," he said. The soft glow from the Argand lamp played with his fair hair when he walked over to the window, colouring it in shades of orange, gold and silver. "Don't you, sweetheart?"

Loud, aggravated buzzing, then complete silence... She closed her eyes, breathed in, breathed out. Her windpipes hurt as if she'd been screaming, which she might have done, though she couldn't quite remember. When she opened her eyes again, the man was brushing his hands against each other to rid them of the remains of the insect, while he viewed her with detached interest, as if she too was an insect.

"You do look a mess, you know," he said. "Maybe freshen up a bit, hm?"

As she nodded, the bruised skin on her cheek chafed against the mattress.

He sighed a little. "Oh for goodness sake...Stop looking like a frightened hare, will you? One might think it was your first time with a man. But ah..." He trailed off, placed his palm lightly against his forehead and shook his head in mock surprise. "Forgive me, it _was_." He gave a short, snorting laughter. "Imagine that—a virgin at a brothel... What a lovely paradox. I had to pay handsomely for you, of course, but it was worth every penny. I quite enjoyed the show you put up, fighting me like that. Shame I have to leave tonight, don't you think, or we could have some more fun, you and I. I'm going with my regiment to Ireland, if you wonder. With that French bastard Bonaparte raging about, one would have thought they'd send us to France instead, but I don't really mind—vermin are vermin, whichever country they happen to be in. Things should be calm in France anyway now—they have enough to worry about over there. I heard he just declared the whole state bankrupt. The entire bloody state... Can you believe that?"

She shook her head, cautiously. She didn't know anyone named Bonaparte, and France... Was that a place in England? She didn't know the word bankrupt, either, but it sounded like it was a bad thing, which, strangely enough, seemed to amuse the man. He'd had enough of talking, however, turned on his heel and set off toward the door, his movements decisive and powerful, full of confidence. Emily burrowed her head into the pillow. _Go_ , she thought. _Leave_.

"Be right back, darling," he threw over his shoulder, and was gone.

She turned over on her back and thought about what he'd said, her body stiff, her heart pounding. Back? Had he said he'd be _back_? As in, he'd put her through all this again? _Oh no, no way_. _Never ever_. She pressed her lips together, drew a shaky breath. _I can't let it happen._ It wouldn't happen—she wouldn't allow it. For a minute, she remained in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, her mind abuzz with her options, of which in the end, turned out to be only one. _I have to get away from here._

Swiftly, she shoved the duvet to the side and slid over the mattress, momentarily closing her eyes at the sight of the blotches of blood on the crumpled sheet. It felt as if he'd ripped her apart with his body, and as sticky and sore as she was, she hadn't yet had the courage to examine her injuries, but at least, they weren't so bad that she couldn't move.

There was her chemise, sadly clinging to the side of the chair where he'd thrown it. The cream-coloured fabric had a tear from the neckline almost all the way down to the sleeve, but it held together: with her dress over it, the damage was barely detectable. She scurried across the room to the window, tried not to look at the crushed fly while she unhooked the clasps. It took some time: her fingers trembled, and she winced when she wouldn't manage right away. When the window finally swung outward and the blustery autumn wind slapped her face, she gulped in surprise. _What am I doing?_ Tears pricked her eyes, blurred her vision. The outline of the backyard far beneath her appeared as a dark, undefined square, like a hole that was about to swallow anyone entering it. _Is this really happening?_

There was still time to reverse the decision. She could close the window, return to the bed and wait for the man— _the fine gentleman_ , as Paul called him—to set about his grisly business with her body again. Only, she knew she'd rather die than have him touch her again. The worst thing was that she couldn't go to Paul and complain or seek help, for not only was he her caretaker, but also the proprietor of the whole establishment: she'd heard him say a hundred times that the customer was always right, and so he'd hardly take her side in the matter. She'd heard his word before sending her up to this room, or rather, the instruction: _be a good girl and_ d _o exactly as he tells you, Emily, or you will be dealing with me later on_. She'd already disappointed him by not being bad, and couldn't expect any sympathy from him. He'd add to her bruises, more like it.

* * *

The cold air stung her airways, but she braved it and leaned forward to stare down at the ground. Some feet from her window was the roof of a small shed, where Paul stored things of lesser value, like wood for the fireplace, some old tools and the rickety handcart for trips to the market. A high wooden fence surrounded the backyard and behind it was Queen Street, which led to Hay Market Square, where they bought vegetables and meat for the alehouse downstairs. She'd been allowed to follow Paul there once, but it was a long time ago, and all she remembered was that the noise and crowd had scared her. People had stared at them and some had pointed at her and whispered, looking both scandalized and amused—most likely because they knew Paul and had speculated in whether she was one of his girls. She hadn't been, at that time, and had lived in the comfortable and perfectly distorted illusion of thinking she never would be: how could she, when she had none of the looks of the others, with her scrawny body and flat chest?

_If I walk along the outside to where the shed is, I'll be able to jump down on its roof and climb to safely_. The idea filled her with dread, because she'd never seen herself as very daring, but also with a sense of determination: there was a way, and she was going to take it. Decisively, she moved the lamp to the side and climbed up on the table, nearly losing her balance when it wobbled on its uneven legs. To steady herself, she took a step out on the small ledge of the window, for a moment swaying toward the dark depth below it. She closed her eyes in panic, fingers clawing the frame, and for a breathless second, she stood there, muscles hard, cold sweat trickling down her spine, and heard moss and dirt topple from the ledge to the ground far beneath her feet. When all was still, she slid her foot further out. The stone was rough and cold under her bare skin, and her feet quickly fell numb. One hand still on the frame of the window, the other clinging to the façade, she stepped outside. A gust swept past the corner, grabbed her skirt and sent it up over her waist, almost as if it was furious over her daring venture. _Don't slip, Emily, don't slip_. She pressed herself against the outer wall. The chill seeped through her thin clothes and went straight into her body, making her shiver—but the worst thing was that she could barely feel her hands or feet anymore. Still, she'd come quite far already: she spotted the roof of the shed a mere foot away and felt a pang of hope.

_Almost there now. Almost there._

There was a crash behind her. With a jerk, she glanced back and saw that the window had flown open completely and smashed into the outer wall. For a swift, confusing moment, she was overcome by huge relief that at least it didn't break—Paul wouldn't like it if anyone broke his windows—but then the moment was over and panic took hold of her, pressing the air from her lungs. There he was, the man, leaning out of the window and glaring at her.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed. "Are you trying to run from me? Is _that_ what you're doing, hm? Well, not if I can help it."

He flung out his hand and caught hold of her arm, tugged her toward him. Her feet slipped, and though she desperately tried to maintain contact with the house, she soon felt it only by the tip of her toes.

"Let go!" she cried out.

"And have you fall? Are you mad?" The jackdaw eyes met hers, full of disbelief. "Come back here immediately."

He bettered his grip, had her by both her arms now, and as he pulled her closer, her feet completely lost the tiny contact with the ledge, dangled free over the chasm.

"Stop bloody..." He yanked her closer. "... _struggling_ and come in here."

His face was so near that the fumes of sweet brandy and cigars from his warm breath washed over her face. The closeness sparked feverish images through her mind, of him holding the back of her head and pressing his mouth against his. After the taste of freedom, it felt as though she'd rather die than let him do that again. The nether edge of the window cut into her ribs when he hauled her upper body inside, and her knees banged against the outer wall, so hard she screamed out in pain—but it was good too, because it allowed her to push back, giving her leverage to tear her arm free from his grip and strike out against his face. It was a blind blow, a panicked, random attempt to get away, but a very effective one: her nails raked along his cheek, tearing the skin all the way down to his throat. During a breathless, strangely still moment, as if the world had suddenly stopped, they fell still and stared at each other. Then, she heard him utter a baffled:

"Well, fine then, you wicked little wench. If that's what you want..."

With a jerk, he let go of her arms, and let Emily plunge to the ground.

* * *

She landed hard on her feet on the trampled soil. The hollow thump was immediately followed by a disgusting, snapping sound, like a twig breaking in two, before she crumpled to the ground. Red, scorching pain seared through her, and she screamed out, but there was no air left in her lungs to produce any sounds, and what came out was a meek sound, like a kitten meowing.

In the stillness that followed, she heard the man's voice again. The crisp air carried it far, and it was strangely clear, almost as if he was standing next to her.

"The girl jumped," he said, frostily. "She's down there now. Injured something when she landed—I heard the snap myself—so she won't go anywhere." He cursed. "Christ, I'm bleeding."

"I am dreadfully sorry, my lord." It was Paul's voice. Either the man must have fetched him, or he'd heard the commotion and had come to check. "I don't understand this. She's usually very obedient..."

"Is that so?" The man's snort, tinged with dismay, wafted to the ground like a black, tarnished feather. "I'd say your idea of obedience differs significantly from mine. Never mind... Get her for me."

The silence that followed held a great deal of surprise, and when Paul spoke again, that surprise coloured his voice:

"My lord, if the girl is indeed injured, it's probably not wise to use her again. I have other girls available for your enjoyment. You may choose whoever you want and enjoy her company for the rest of the evening. On the house, of course."

"I don't _want_ another girl. I paid for this one. Besides, I don't take it very lightly to be humiliated in this manner: she must learn not to do it again, and I must be the one to teach her. I will pay even more for her than I already have, if need be, but you _shall_ do what I tell you."

Emily held her breath. _Say it_ , she pleaded to Paul. _Say that he shouldn't have done what he did, and that you will protect me. Show me I'm worth something, show me you honour my mother's wish to always care for me, to be my guardian._

But he didn't. She heard him sigh, heavily, and then:

"As you wish, my lord. I will bring her to you."

* * *

The pain so far had been dull, a distant hum in her foot, giving her the impression that it wasn't that bad—but that changed when she sat up and tryingly put her weight on it: the immediate pain that shot through her foot, along her spine and exploded in her head, forced her to shift over and throw up violently on the ground. Panting and sweaty, her head lowered she remained on all four until the throbbing pain had subsided. _This is never going to work_. She'd be stuck there, and Paul would come and collect her and carry her back...

"No," she murmured. "No, no, no."

She managed to crawl, on all four, toward the fence. There, she slowly got up on her good foot, careful not to stand on the injured one. _I'm standing_ , she thought and wiped the sweat from her brow, _at least I'm standing_. Now she only had to—

The backdoor to the house opened, jostling her from her thoughts. She stared at the silhouette that had appeared against the rectangle of light that was the opening. If she hadn't known it already, she'd have seen it on the round shape: this was Paul. She pulled back into the shadows, pressed herself against the fence and closed her eyes; a silly thing to do, for he could still see her from where he was.

"Emily, darling," he called out, his voice as soft as she'd ever heard it. "You have been a bad girl, haven't you? Whatever got into you, jumping out of a window like that? Come back here and we'll talk about it. Get you some warm clothes and a cup of tea. How about it, hm?"

_Lies_. She wanted to scream to him that they were lies, just like everything up until now had all been lies—for how could he promise her mother, on her _deathbed_ of all things, to always protect her, if he let this happen to her? How could he value a stranger's money more than this promise? More than Emily's life?

She wiped her eyes, angry at herself for not being able to keep from crying.

"Emily?" Paul said again. "I know you are there, I can see you. I shouldn't have to come over there to get you, should I, darling? Be a good girl and come over here instead."

She held her breath, spotting the shimmer of hope in what he'd just said: Paul didn't want to move if he didn't have to. Corpulent and heavy, his knees bad, he was unable to walk long distances, and he moved slower than a snail. Swiftly, she turned her head and spied along the fence. The opening was near her, and outside it, the street leading to Hay Market Square. Whatever was out there, it had to be better than what she knew here.

"Em?" Paul's voice was still friendly, but she could detect a sliver of annoyance there now. "Are you coming or not?"

"No," she breathed.

Steadying herself against the fence, she limped, as fast as she could, toward freedom. She heard Paul call out—he'd seen her—and felt the panic burn through her body, almost making her forget the pain. She paced up, and out on the street, she went.

* * *

Queen Street stretched before her, its long row of apartment houses and pubs huddling on each side. The street was scarcely lit at this hour, but the stars above and the occasional light from the windows provided enough guidance. She heard voices in the stillness, undoubtedly from one of the alehouses in the area, and spotted the occasional late wanderer further ahead—her voice pounded at the sight and her racing mind tried to think of ways to avoid bumping into anyone. It wasn't only Paul or the gentleman, she realised: the world was full of men who wanted to harm her. Had she not experienced that herself, working as a maid in Paul's alehouse all these years? They'd forced her to sit on their laps, their hands groping her, and they'd whispered things in her ears, things she hadn't understood but that still had made her blush. Paul had always been there to scold them, telling them she was too young. Now, apparently, she wasn't anymore; she was, it seemed, open prey for men to do what they wanted. _I'm not going to let them._

Still, even with her best intentions, it was a fact that there were men ahead of her, and Paul was behind her, and she needed to hide. On a whim, she reached out and pulled at the door next to her. It was open, and she quickly slid into the dark foyer, closed the heavy door and backed away into the darkness, bumped against the pillar of a staircase leading to the apartments on the next floor. She rounded it and sank down on the floor, leant her head against the cool slates and closed her eyes. Safe, for now—she could stay here and catch her breath, wait for the daylight before she continued.

As she sat there, everything she'd been to seemed to attack her, as if the images and pain had been waiting in the shadows, ready to attack. Her world grew and shrunk, grew and shrunk, keeping perfect pace with her frantic heartbeats.

Whimpering quietly, she curled up into a ball and slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

# 2

"I think it's about time you woke up, don't you, my dear?"

At first, the words, cooed by a female, appeared to be part of Emily's dreams, which had started out as nightmare but later had turned into something much softer, where she'd been washed with gentle hands and dressed in the finest gown, and then placed in a bed made of feathers and clouds, tucked between sheets that smelled like flowers.

"So, little one, shall we open our eyes, then?"

Since it was a demand and she was made to obey, she did as she was told. Stared at the unfamiliar woman leaning over her. Behind this woman, Emily spotted a room that was equally unfamiliar. With a gasp, she ran her hands over her body. Touched sheets, soft sheets, that smelled of lavender and roses. She stiffened and opened her mouth to scream. Out came only a faint wheeze, but it was enough for the woman to withdraw, her dresses rustling from the swift motion.

"There, there, sweetheart," she said, holding up her hands. "You have nothing to fear."

She looked sincere, but Emily still pulled up the sheet to her nose and made herself as small as possible, her heart thundering inside her chest, while she tried to discern where she was. She had never been in this room, that much was clear—in honesty, she'd never been in a room this beautiful, with its pale-yellow walls adorned with small paintings of flowers, the bottle green curtains over the large windows. She raised her head a little to look out but saw only the red and black rooftops of houses and a glimpse of a dark blue sky.

Faint noises found their way inside, of the rumble of carriage wheels, the clopping of hooves and loud, rowdy voices... It wasn't unlike the ruckus she'd experienced at the market, and not at all like the street outside Paul's pleasure house, which probably meant she wasn't near. Besides, if she'd been taken back to him, she wouldn't be in a comfortable bed, eyed by a little quick-eyed sparrow of a lady by now—she would have been suffering under the hard body of the gentleman. She shuddered, then tried her best to rack her mind as to what had happened after she'd fallen asleep under the stairs. Had someone collected her? She had a faint memory of _someone_ leaning over her, someone with gentle eyes and a gentle voice—was it the dark man from her dreams, perhaps? But who was he? The memory was elusive, hard to grasp like an eel, slipping away easily from her every effort.

"You will be wondering where you are, of course," the lady said, as if reading Emily's mind. "I can tell you that you're in Dr Bedford's house. In Old Woking—but I'm sure you know _that_ , seeing we found you here and all. I'm his housekeeper, Mrs Wright. It was Master Giatelli who found you. Brought you here this morning, he did. And you poor darling, you were so exhausted that you slept through the day. It's almost evening now." She drew her hands on her white, starched apron, as though flattening the already immaculate garment, and smiled. "Let me get Dr Bedford, dear, so he can have a look at you."

_No_ , Emily mouthed, but too late—the woman, quick in her movements and energetic in her ways, was already gone. Slowly, Emily sank back against the pillow, pondering the new information. Once, one of the girls at the brothel had fallen down the stairs—that's what she'd said, but later, Emily had heard the others whisper that Paul had pushed her because she was with child and he'd wanted her to lose it—and had hurt herself so bad that they'd had to summon a doctor. Emily remembered how she'd admired the man with his strict ways and piercing, intelligent gaze. He'd been a little scary, but at least had done no harm, and he'd looked at Paul in a way that had made her quite flabbergasted, since one simply didn't look at Paul that way, ever, but Paul had seemed oddly flat, and hadn't gotten the slightest bit angry. She figured doctors stood above ordinary men, like priests, and that this was why Paul hadn't dared to talk back.

If doctors had this power, maybe she could beg for Dr Bedford not to send her to the pleasure house? She didn't belong there, she could tell him, and she didn't want to go back—especially not seeing that Paul would kill her for what she'd done.

Maybe she could do that. Maybe it would work. Whoever these strangers in this strange house were, they at least seemed to wish her well already, and hadn't further harmed her; far from it. She lifted the duvet to glance down on her body. Her torn and dirty clothes had been replaced by a beautiful, white nightgown, and someone had wrapped her foot in dressings. A faint whiff of Opodeldoc liniment wafted to her nose, mingling with the clean scent of flowers. It was all so nice, so clean, so... _exquisite_ , that she almost wanted to cry. _I'm not worth all this_. The question was, would these people realise that? Perhaps it was better not to tell them anything about who she was.

* * *

The sound of footsteps jostled her from her thoughts. She heard a male, rumbling voice, and a softer male voice that answered—two men, at least—and grabbed the sheet with her both hands, prepared to pull it over her head. Mrs Wright entered first, her head proudly raised and a look of content efficiency on her face.

"Here's our little patient," she chirped, and gestured toward Emily. "All awake."

The two men joined Mrs Wright. All three towered over Emily, eyeing her with intense curiosity, the two men with their hands on their backs, looking as though they were seeing something incredibly interesting for the first time. And one of them... Her mouth fell open.

She'd heard about Mephostophilis, the man who sold his soul to the Devil and had been cursed for all eternity. This was how he must have looked like, with his face seemingly modelled from a chunk of clay and a slightly crooked nose, really too big for his face, but strangely proportionate, still. His hair fell dark and unruly over the large forehead, like tall grass over the edge of a cliff, and his eyes, black like coal, held all the secrets in the world, and all the knowledge of it, too. Emily shrunk under his gaze, afraid even to breathe.

"Well," said the man beside him. He looked soothingly normal. The grey, neatly cropped hair, the goatee and the kind, blue eyes gave an impression of distinguished intelligence. "That's good. When someone is unconscious for too long, that's normally a bad thing." He gave a slight bow. "I am Dr Bedford."

"And I am Vincente Giatelli," said the dark stranger. His voice was a dark rumble, as if it had its source from somewhere very deep inside the barrel chest of his, and it had a strange, thick accent that she'd never heard before. "Master Giatelli. I am a painter, an artist. It was I who found you under the stairs. I had been visiting someone in the same house, and was on my way home when I saw you there. It looked like you were not doing too well, so I decided to bring you to my good friend Dr Bedford. He is the best physician in the country and a good man."

"As are you, _Signore_ ," the doctor said, amicably. "A good man, I mean. You are a great many things, but not a physician."

"Ah, but my dear doctor friend, but I am a physician of the mind."

There was an amused snort. "That is an oxymoron, and you know it: the mind does not have a physique, and so you cannot be its physician."

"The soul is as important as the body." The dark stranger straightened his back, proudly. "My art makes people feel well. Not even you can disagree, doctor—why else would you commission me to do your paintings?"

"Because you are the best painter in the country?" the Doctor said, dryly. His smile, however, was friendly enough, and it remained friendly as he turned to her. "How are you doing, little one? I took the liberty of examining you while you were unconscious—much more humane that way—and luckily, it seems your foot isn't broken. A bad sprain or at worst, a torn tendon, but just give it time and be careful, and you shall see that it will heal nicely."

"So she will be able to dance again?" the man named Giatelli said, his eyes twinkling.

"Perhaps. If she cares to." The Doctor suddenly turned serious. "May I to talk to her in private, please?"

" _Naturalmente_ , Dr Bedford. I will go to the kitchen and ask your cook if she has something to eat." He turned to Emily and bowed, deeply. " _A presto, Signorina_!" With that, he shoved his arm under Mrs Wright's, disregarding her amused little yelp, and smiled broadly at her. "Come with me, _bella donna_. You have a way with the cook that I don't, so you can ask her to slip me some of her precious cheese, no?"

The doctor shook his head, amused. "A painter, he says," he said, gently, as the door closed. "A jester, more like it." His gaze fell on Emily. "How are you feeling, child?" She didn't answer. He frowned. "You _do_ speak, do you not?"

Since it would be rude not to reply, she nodded obediently. "Yes."

The simple word was hoarse and cracked, barely audible. The doctor picked up a glass from the bedside table and filled it to the brim with water from a decanter. Carefully, he placed the glass in her hands before withdrawing to the beautiful chair in white and gold beside her bed. She could see now, how this was truly his home; the neutral colours and slender-looking furniture seemed to fit his personality very well.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"E-Emily."

"Emily. That's a lovely name. What else?"

She shook her head, suddenly scared. If he knew her full name, he would be able to trace her to Paul. It seemed as if the doctor understood, for he didn't persist.

"Emily... You've certainly been through your fair share, haven't you?" he said. "How old are you?"

She wasn't sure, hadn't been counting lately. _Old enough_ , Paul had said when the gentleman at the pleasure house had asked the same thing, but it seemed a strange thing to answer, so she answered with what she thought:

"Fourteen."

The doctor sighed. "I see," he said, curtly. "Do you know who he was?" She stiffened, hadn't counted on such a direct question. "Obviously, he did something to you that you weren't... um... in consent of, and it says in the law one isn't allowed to do that. We must find him and make him answer to his actions."

_Oh no, please_... She closed her eyes, pressed them together. As if they'd been waiting around the corner, ready to attack, the memories, dark and raw, pushed into her mind, filling her with a sense of dread. She felt him, weighing her down against the mattress, his bulk making it hard for her to breathe, his mouth over hers suffocating her further—she'd fought for her life, and he had merely laughed, while holding her down without any effort at all. He'd found her panic amusing and arousing.

With a gasp, she forced herself to open her eyes again. _He's not here_ , she repeated to herself. _Not here, not here_. Slowly, the images faded, leaving only her thumping heart and a crawling sense of unease.

"Where do you live?" the doctor asked. She shook her head. The doctor did the same, bewildered. "You don't want to tell me? Or, perhaps you don't have a home?" She pressed her lips together. "No? That's a shame. I think you'll be needing someone now. Especially since—" He coughed in his hand, and the colour of his cheeks deepened some. Strange: she had thought doctors were above blushing. "I'm sorry to have to ask, but are you having your monthly cycles?"

Now it was her time to blush. "Yes."

"Well then..." The Doctor scratched the bridge of his nose. "I think you must know that, in that case, it's possible that this encounter has left you with... with child."

A short, strangled noise escaped her throat. With impressive foresight, he snatched the chamber pot from the floor and put it in front of her. She emptied her stomach, then fell back against the pillow, clammy and shaking. The doctor sighed.

"It's not very nice, but we have to count on the eventuality. It's too soon to tell, however, and there need not be any reason to worry at all." He rose, brushed off his grey-clad knees and smiled briefly at her. "I will leave you to rest for a bit, and after that, we shall return and talk about your future."

Future? She shook her head, confused. What future? She slipped her hands under the duvet, put them carefully on her belly. It was flat and hard, yet she knew. She _knew_.

"Like I said, no need to worry just yet," the doctor decided and walked toward the door. "I will be back soon, hm?"

At last, the door closed behind him. Emily dug her face into the soft pillow and finally gave in to the tears.

The walls had shifted from pale yellow to a rich, dusky gold when the doctor, Mrs Wright and the foreigner called Master Giatelli finally returned to her room. Almost ceremoniously they placed themselves around her bed, and their faces beamed with delight, as if they were waiting to tell her a nice secret. She looked bleakly at them, exhausted from hours of crying, disinclined to share their strange enthusiasm.

"Child," began Mrs Wright, clasping her hands. "We have now spent some time discussing your situation. We all agree that it is our Godly duty to help you in your time of need. Therefore, we have decided—"

"Not decided," Master Giatelli corrected her. "It is a suggestion. _She_ must decide."

Mrs Wright nodded. "A suggestion, with your best interest at heart." She stepped aside, and Giatelli moved forward, bringing along a whiff of cheese and bread, and something else, more ethereal. The scent, acrid but not unpleasant, reminded Emily of the time when Paul had ordered the brothel's sign painted, and some stranger had arrived with a bucket of paint and some brushes. Hadn't Giatelli presented himself as a painter? Maybe he painted signs.

"I keep a farm some distance from this town, _Piccolina_. It is not big. Not because I couldn't afford it," he added, flippantly, "but because I do not care for castles and mansions. I am a simple man who enjoys the simple life. I have my staff, some animals and big fields to yield good harvests, and that is enough for me. Tomorrow, I will be going back there. You will join me, _no_?"

She stared at him. The doctor nudged him, elbow at his side.

"Dear friend, didn't you say she should be allowed to decide? You're not exactly doing that, right now."

Master Giatelli frowned. His dark eyes searched Emily's. "Why would she say no? I cannot see the reason. With me, she will be safe, she will have a roof over her head and my protection. You will work for me, _Piccolina_ , so you can feel valuable. You will clean my brushes and the floors; keep my studio neat and tidy and prepare the paints when I need them. But most importantly, you will be part of my _famiglia_."

"This is a very rare offer, Emily," the doctor said. "Also because Giatelli's studio is sacred ground. Few are the people, besides his clients, who have been allowed to enter. He must think you're very special."

"He is correct. You _are_ special. Besides, it is a matter of trust. I trust you, _Piccolina_."

"But you don't know me," she whispered; her first words to him, she realised.

"I _do_ know you. I have seen enough of your soul to know who you are, inside your heart. It is harder for you to know me, because I am a man, and I do not think you trust men right now. But look at me and ask your heart to tell you what you need to know. Do you trust me? Will you accompany me to my farm?"

Emily gazed into the dark eyes for a longer time than she'd ever looked into anyone's eyes—she'd never been allowed to look into a man's eyes before; it wasn't the correct thing to do—until she knew the answer.

Then, afraid that her voice wouldn't carry, she nodded.

The departed the next day, in his carriage, drawn by two black horses—the very same she'd remembered from her dreams. Drove through a landscape that astounded her, because she had never been allowed to venture outside town, and because the colours were so bright and the air so clean. With the Master's permission, she opened the little window and put her nose against the wind, daring even to smile, utterly amazed at everything she saw.

"A little observer!" Giatelli exclaimer, equally delighted. "What a lovely surprise!"

Finally, after hours on bumpy roads, they reached his farm. The sight caused her to drop her jaw once again. Resting at the bottom of a valley, protected by softly rounded slopes, the square building was the oddest she'd seen, and also the largest—and prettiest. It surprised her when Giatelli explained to her that it was an ugly house and that he'd much rather own a house like the one in his home country Italy. He mentioned a name she'd never heard before—Sardinia—and said that there, houses had different colours, not just grey like here. Still, she couldn't help but find his house beautiful. With the roses clinging to the façade, it must be stunning in the summer, when they were all abloom. The stable, which Giatelli claimed needed a renovation, held both horses and pigs and hens. Paul had only owned a horse, and she hadn't been allowed to come near it. Here, Giatelli had promised she'd be allowed to roam free, which included moving in and out of the stable, and taking care of his animals.

Finally, the carriage came to a halt. Giatelli opened the door and jumped out, surprisingly gracefully for being such a large and barrel-like man. He gestured to her to come out as well, so she shuffled across the seat, careful not to get tangled up in the skirts of her dress, which had been a gift from one of Mrs Wright's daughters. Emily appreciated the thought, but thought the dress was much too nice for someone like her, and she wasn't used to the many layers of fabric. When stepping out, she had to steady herself against its bulk not to fall on her face onto the gravel. Knowing she didn't like to be touched, Master Giatelli didn't move to help her, even though she could tell he wanted too—especially since she was limping quite badly, and thus had problems walking.

"There we go," he said, pleasantly, when she stood beside him. "It is not beautiful, my house, but as you can see, it's just enough. I do not need more than this; have all I need. I will show you around once we have greeted Mrs Goodall."

Mrs Goodall proved to be his housekeeper, but, as it appeared, first and foremost, his cook. If Mrs Wright had been a quick-moving, slender sparrow, this woman was a hen, short and plump, her face red-cheeked and merry. She viewed Emily with a great deal of surprise, especially when Giatelli said Emily was there to stay.

"Is that so?" She brushed her hands on the apron, flecked with flour and grease. "Well then, in that case, welcome to you!" She stretched out her chubby arms for an embrace. Emily dove behind Giatelli.

"Not just yet," Giatelli said, mildly amused. "Give her some time, Mrs Goodall."

"Oh... Well... Indeed, Master Giatelli, I will do so."

Mrs Goodall shrugged. Her way of accepting the situation told Emily that she was used to her master's strange ways and madcap whims, and for some reason, the thought made her want to giggle. She pressed a hand to her mouth and managed to stop the urge in time.

"Please show the child inside," the cook said. "And I will make a pot of tea."

* * *

The inside of the house was just as pleasant as the outside. Here, there were no ruddy rugs or heavy velvet drapes, no pungent smells of perfume, smoke and sweat. The soft white walls were covered with beautiful paintings and delightful tapestries, bathing in the gentle daylight flooding in through the large windows; the air carried the lightest scent of beeswax and soap, fresh bread and lavender. Emily could sniff it all day, and never grow tired.

"Can you read?" asked Giatelli, when they passed a room covered with shelves stacked with what she imagined must be all the books that had ever been made. She shook her head, her mouth slightly ajar. "Then I will hire someone to teach you, _Piccolina_. It will open up new worlds. But come now, I want to show you something special."

They went through the house until they came to a door at the end of a dark, small corridor. He pushed it open with a grin and gestured to her to step inside. Carefully, she did as she was told, but held on to the doorframe until she knew it was safe. At least there was no bed in the room.

"It's alright; nothing to be afraid of," Giatelli said and took a few light steps out onto the worn floorboards. "Just look, _Piccolina_. Is it not _marveloso_?"

She wrinkled her nose. Not _marveloso_ , she wanted to say. Strange.

It was a huge, square room, its ceiling twice as high as in all others. It held no furniture, aside from a pair of stools and low tables, and three, what appeared to be, wooden scaffolds, skeleton-like and completely confusing, since she couldn't even guess what they were for. The strangest of all, however, was the large windows. They were huge, and faced the back of the house, with the pastures and a bit of the road, where it snaked just around the side of the house. Beyond was the woodlands with the stream that, if one followed it, eventually lead to Egham. Though they were indoors, the windows made her feel as though they were standing out there on the grass... and she'd never seen anything like it in her life.

"What do you think?" Giatelli said. "You are stunned, I can tell. This is called a studio and it is where I work." He pointed to one of the wooden scaffolds. "That there is my easel. On it, you place a canvas. Or a piece of wood, if you want, but I can afford canvas, so that is what I normally use."

"Canvas?" she had to ask. It was such a strange word and seemed so important to him and to this room.

" _Sí_." His eyes glittered. "Canvas." He pointed to a white rectangle that had been placed on the thing he called the easel. "A canvas is what it's called before it becomes a painting. It is what you paint on. I use linen, again because I can afford it, but there are other materials." He made a sweeping gesture to the wall on the other side. "These are some of my paintings. Have a look."

She'd seen paintings before, of course. Paul had covered the walls of the pleasure house with what he had called _art_ , but she had never liked any of it. To her, they had appeared frightening, dark and brooding, with images of voluptuous, naked ladies writhing on dark red _chaise longues_ , or of meadows with foxes carrying bloody corpses of rabbits. No matter the motif, they had all made Emily feel either ill at ease or embarrassed, or both.

Giatelli's collection was different. Firstly, there were no bawdy, gilded frames on his paintings—there were no frames at all: they had just been placed on the wall in a seemingly random order and without distractions. Secondly, these paintings were breathtakingly beautiful. If there were naked ladies, the were not the kind squirming on sofas and beds, with every part of their bodies displayed for all to see. The naked women on Giatelli's paintings seemed happy and free, bathing or resting and caring not for their viewers at all, or perhaps peering shyly at them from over their shoulders. They had round bottoms and pearly, small breasts, and their bodies looked pure and innocent, as though no one had ever hurt them and never would. There were also grandiose paintings of horses and dogs, and one painting of a forest was so large and realistic that Emily felt that she would be able to walk right into it. She could feel the sun shining through the leaves, resting on her arms, and the smell of soft, warm soil and fresh grass. Others were portraits, so detailed she almost couldn't believe they were paintings.

"Art is not just a matter of splashing paint on canvas, _Piccolina_ ," Giatelli said, gravely. "It's about capturing the soul of an object, of understanding its nature, its essence, and trying to convey that to the viewer. It's to capture a tiny part of the world on a piece of cloth, and make it available for everyone to enjoy, maybe even teaching them something about themselves and their surroundings. That's what I do. That's my calling."

She nodded, listening with half an ear. By now, she had passed the threshold and was now several steps into the room. The smell in here was the same that surrounded her new friend. She drew it further into her lungs, walked to the wall with the paintings, continued, after a while, to the large windows. She glanced at the strange wooden scaffold—the easel—and tried to understand how it worked; wanting, suddenly, to know _exactly_ how it worked. She felt strong, as if she could run for hours, or lift massive things without getting tired. Powerful, invincible. Unafraid.

"I knew you would understand," Giatelli said, softly. "You have that soul, too."

He let her stay in his studio for another little while, before he told her it was time for tea.

# 3

Life at the farm proved much better than Emily had at first anticipated. Giatelli wasn't a very patient man, and his temper combined with his grandiose gestures sometimes frightened her, but he never laid a hand on her, and if his outburst had been severe, he always apologised when he'd calmed down again. He also left her alone, allowed her to wander about on her own, discover and explore everything at her pace. Gradually, she became bolder, and would even sneak up behind him as he was painting, watching with admiration how those enormous hands created the most astounding magic on the canvas. Sometimes, she headed out to the stables to spend time with the horses. She quickly overcome her fear of their massive teeth and scary hooves, and within soon, dared to approach them. Brambles, an old, fat gelding, became her favourite, and she spent a considerable amount of time in his box, talking to him, petting him and hugging him. It was a happy life, and she had to pinch herself at times to remind herself that it was real and not just a dream.

The bliss didn't last very long, however. After a few months, she started to feel sick—especially in the mornings—and she was constantly tired. She tried to hide this strange sickness as much as she could, but after Mrs Goodall had found her emptying her stomach in the flowerbeds outside the kitchen, Emily could no longer deny that something was wrong. Crying, she confessed to Mrs Goodall that it seemed as though she had fallen seriously ill and that she believed it was God's way of telling her she didn't deserve to be happy—would they at least bury her within the graveyard, even if it was in a corner? Mrs Goodall had Emily sit down.

"My dear," she said, firmly but gently. "You're not ill. You're with child."

The shock first made Emily stare at her, without being able to process one single word. Then, slowly, the truth sank in, spreading like a dark cloud in her mind. With a moan, she ripped herself free from Mrs Goodall's hands and ran to the stables. She fled into Brambles' box, buried her face against his neck and cried fiercely for so long her throat ached and her tears dried out.

"I'd rather die, Brambles." Her voice turned muffled by the thick pelt. "Just let me die."

" _Bambina_..."

She flinched and looked up. There, by the door, was Giatelli, cheeks under the ragged beard slightly flushed from having followed her, or maybe he was blushing: after all, it was now clear what had happened to her, and neither of them could deny that she was sinful. With a moan, she burrowed her face in Brambles' pelt again, refusing to look at him.

" _Bambina_ ," he repeated, sternly. "I heard what you said before. You mustn't say such things. This isn't the end of the world, you know." She looked up, opened her mouth to scream to him that it _was_ the end of the world and how could he say that it wasn't? But he was quicker: "Not the end," he said, raising his chin. "I wish things were different, but they're not and so now we will deal with it the best way we can. No wishing ourselves dead, _capisce_? That's a sin, and I won't have that under my roof."

She stared at him, and he stared back, without blinking. What she had wanted to say—that everything about her was sinful and wicked—failed to leave her tongue: she didn't dare to say it when he looked like that.

"I understand," she whispered.

" _Bene_. When you are done petting Brambles, I expect you to come and help me in the studio. The painting for Lady Davenport has to be finished this week, you know."

An order. She couldn't disobey that, just as little as she could let him down.

She wiped her eyes and swallowed. "I will be there."

" _Bene_ ," Giatelli said again and left.

* * *

Perhaps it was Giatelli's determination not to see the coming child as a problem, perhaps Mrs Goodall's hands-on support in giving Emily advice on child-birth and mothering, but the days went on, and Emily coped. It was only during the night that the fear poked its ugly head up, tormenting her with images and memories, refusing to allow her sleep, and when she finally did fall asleep, riding her with the most hideous nightmares, in which the child she carried turned out to be a silver-eyed demon, who shredded her to pieces from inside.

When Giatelli didn't need her to help him in the studio—which wasn't very often, since he saw to it to keep her busy—Mrs Goodall asked for her help instead. This way, the days rushed by rather mercifully. Sometimes, Emily worked harder, secretly hoping that she'd lose the child in the process, but it didn't happen. Another, very shameful time, she stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the landing far beneath and wondering if she'd dare to take the fall. She didn't, partly because her injuries had now healed sufficiently, and she didn't want to end up in that state, or worse, again, but also because she couldn't be sure of the outcome. Had the girl at the pleasure house lost her baby when she fell? Emily couldn't remember, and it seemed a much too dangerous gamble to take. The idea that she'd been this close to harm herself, scared Emily to the extent that she decided not to behave and not do any stupid things. When everything felt bad and she needed comfort, she went to the stables instead, and confided her thoughts to Brambles, who listened without judging.

* * *

One day in early June, it was time. Emily, panicked and frightened, first refused to let anyone near. It took a good dose of patience and an even larger dose of orgeat lemonade laced with plenty of rum before she finally gave in and allowed Mrs Goodall to help her deliver her a small, but healthy little boy.

The moment Mrs Goodall placed the warm little bundle on her chest, something happened in Emily. From having been some strange and frightening lump moving around inside her, draining her of energy and kicking her kidneys, she now looked down on a small miracle, with a tiny button nose and the smallest hands she'd ever seen, and feet that were wrinkly and pink and so very vulnerable. It didn't resemble the man at all: it was its own little person, amazing and unique—and all hers. She touched the silken skin, felt the vibration of his ribcage when he drew in the air and screamed, offended by having been plucked from her warm womb. A new little person. Her son, dependant on her to survive. _How could I hate you? And how could I ever have wanted to die from this?_

Emily named him Daniel, after the writer Daniel Defoe, whose books Giatelli had read to her and whom she admired greatly, and set about to be the best mother she knew how to be, with the keen help of Mrs Goodall and the nurse they'd employed. Even Giatelli, who was somewhat awkward in the presence of babies, quickly got used to having Daniel around and even allowed Emily to bring him to the studio. She loved peeking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of his latest masterpiece, loved watching how blotches of paint, swept onto the canvas, or pressed there by a spatula, formed the most beautiful, vibrant paintings. Her fingers itched with longing: she wanted to give it a try, herself—but knowing one didn't bother the great Giatelli with such requests, she never dared to ask. It didn't matter, however. Seeing him work was reward enough, and she was happy that he allowed it without complaints.

# 4

_September 2 nd, 1798_

"You were supposed to clean my brushes, _Piccolina_ , not ruin my floors." Giatelli's voice was tinged with annoyance. "Pick it up. Quick."

Emily, used to his temper but certainly not used to him being in a bad mood, stooped immediately to clean up the dabs of blue that had spilt on the floorboards.

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Hm," he snorted.

She could feel his gaze as she tried to rub the floor clean with the turpentine drenched rag, the radiating annoyance running along her spine like the cold feet of a lizard. This wasn't about the floor, of course; nor did he think she was lazy. No, it was her, how she'd been acting during the last couple of days. Giatelli had finally reached his limit.

When she straightened her back, he was there, snatched the rag from her hands and flung it on the stool beside the easel. She swallowed, but didn't move away—she didn't fear Giatelli, even when he was angry.

"You tell me now," he demanded. He folded his arms across his chest, stood there broad-legged and black-eyed. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing."

"No? You don't think I have eyes in my head?" He pointed, impatiently, to his head. "I see you are worried about something, hm? You walk around here looking like a like a martyr. It annoys me. You tell me what it is, or I will ban you from my studio for a week."

It was an efficient threat, which he knew very well. She loved working with him in the studio and the mere thought of being banned from it made her heart shrink. However, the unease of having to tell him what ailed her was larger.

Her eyes darted to the sheepskin on the floor. There was Daniel, sleeping comfortably on his stomach under the quilt that Mrs Goodall had given to him for his birth gift. Emily could make out the soft rounding of his head, covered by fair wisps of hair, and had to brace herself not to go to him and cuddle him. Sweet, lovely Daniel... He was now three months old, and the best thing that had ever happened to her—and also, the most complicated.

"Ah..." Giatelli nodded, and sighed a little. "Is it that important, _Piccolina_?"

"I'm not sure," she said, thinly. "Maybe."

It was an admission, an acknowledgment, and Giatelli looked relieved.

"Because it reminds you of him?" he asked. She closed her eyes. "Ah," he said again.

The change in Daniel had been gradual but inevitable over the three months he'd been with them. At first, his eyes had been quite dark—grey like the sky during a summer thunderstorm. Then, slowly, it was as though the dark area had shrunken, pulling back to the edges of his irises, where it now remained as a thin line. The rest of the iris was now a very light silver, eerily translucent and intensive: when Daniel looked at a person, it felt as though he saw right through them. It was, of course, unnerving not only because of its uniqueness, but also because it was all too clear who was his father. If anyone saw the man, they'd make the connection immediately and without hesitation. Nobody—least of all her—knew what would happen if the man found out he had a son, but with his cruelness and fiery temper in mind, she had no reason to believe he'd be overjoyed by the knowledge.

Unable to stand Giatelli's gaze, she walked to the large windows and folded her arms across her chest. The scenery was so breathtakingly beautiful, and also sad: summer still lingered, but nature was dying, and the green lushness slowly fading. She'd always reckoned this break between seasons was painful to watch, like a struggle before the inevitable defeat—and now, mingled with her fear of losing everything, it was even worse. A sob worked its way through her body, and she couldn't stop it: dry and hard, it shook her, making her feel as though she was about to be torn apart. She heard the shuffle of Giatelli's feet as he moved closer, but didn't turn around, and wanted badly for him to go away.

" _Piccolina_..." he said, tryingly. "Daniel is his own person. He is not his father. You mustn't let yourself be reminded of what happened."

"I don't."

"No?" He stood still for a moment, contemplating this. "Then why...?"

She wiped the tears with the back of her hand, but they didn't want to cease, trickled down her cheeks, down along her neckline. "I don't want to leave this place. _You_." The last word came out as a mere squeak.

Shocked silence, then a highly wondrous: "Leave me? Are you leaving, _Piccolina_?"

"Yes." She had to turn around now: he didn't deserve to be speaking to her back. "I have to." She struck out her hands. "I can't stay, can I? People will start talking, and what if it reaches..." She couldn't continue. "I _have_ to leave, don't you see?" she continued, fervently. "Maybe leave the country, or... I don't know..." More tears now, and her nose had started to run as well, so she had to snuffle to hold it in. "I don't know what to do."

Giatelli eyed her, curiously. "So that's what you're worried about? That his father will find out about Daniel and come here? Is that it?"

" _Yes_."

Her agitated voice made Daniel cringe in his sleep. She walked to him, placed a hand gently on his back. He didn't wake but seemed to settle down again, sighing a little. She drew in his heady scent, the soft smell of baby and milk, and then straightened her back. She was calm now, her heart heavy. She knew what she had to do.

"I've packed some things. I did that already when I... I understood what was happening with his eyes. I can leave right away and you will never hear from me again. You will be free. To... to live your life. Paint." Again, her voice cracked up, turning into a little squeak. "Thank you for everything you've done for us. I will never forget it."

"Stop."

She closed her mouth—the command was too powerful to do anything else. Lowered her arms and looked at him with big eyes. Somehow, he appeared much bigger than usual: it seemed as though he'd filled his lungs with so much air, he could explode at any minute... and she understood that this was exactly what he was close to doing.

"What are you saying to me?" he rumbled. "What are you implying?" There. The anger exploded, in a gesture so full of anger she blanched and took a step back, even though she knew he'd never hurt her. "That I'm a heartless monster who will throw you out as soon as things get a little inconvenient?" He raised his head, his black eyes flashing. "I'm _very_ disappointed in you, Emily."

It wasn't merely anger he displayed, she realised. It was pain. She'd hurt him, his feelings. Dumbstruck, she shook her head.

"I... I'm sorry. But—"

"No, _Piccolina_. Do you think I'm afraid of that _bastardo_ who brutalized you?" Despite the discomfort, she managed to keep her eyes in his and shake her head. Giatelli wasn't afraid of anything, or anyone. "Do you think I do not care about you?"

Her gaze slid away. "I suppose you do."

"Suppose," he snorted. "Let me tell you, _Piccolina_ : I have grown immensely fond of you and the boy; more than I thought possible, for I am normally not a man who keeps people close. But you are my _famiglia_ now, _capisci_?" He shook his head. "Do you _want_ to leave?

"Of course not."

"So why are you saying these things?"

She couldn't answer that, not after what he'd just told her, and lowered her head in shame.

"Do not run off because of some ghosts in your mind," he continued, softly. "Ghosts are scary, but they are not real. _Sí_ , one day, perhaps this _bastardo_ will hear about Daniel—I'm guessing he will, because people love to talk and gossip has a way of travelling to the people who shouldn't hear it. But when that happens, and even if he decides to visit you, know that you will have people around you to keep you safe. Personally, I'd like to see the man drown in his own blood." He closed his fist as if he was already living through the occasion in his mind, but when he spoke, his voice had resumed its softness. "I will do what it takes to protect you and Daniel and I vow to care for you both until my last breath, _and_ beyond. If one day, you want to leave, you are free to do so, but it must be because it is what you desire and because doing so will make you happier."

"I understand." She nodded. Relief flooded her body, almost turning her into a pool of warm liquid, like the honey Mrs Goodall poured onto her honey-cakes when they were fresh out of the honey. "Running away won't help."

"Correct. And...?

"And I will stay," she filled in, obediently.

"Excellent. And now we stop this conversation. No more of these silly thoughts, _bambina_. Promise me."

"I promise."

" _Bene_." He picked up the rag that he'd thrown on the stool, folded it and put it back on the worktop, patted it resolutely. "I will withdraw to my study for a while, _gioia mia_. There is something I need to do. But while I'm gone, I would like you to do something for me."

"Of course." She curtseyed, even though she knew she shouldn't, because he didn't appreciate it. This time, however, he didn't see it: he'd already gone to get a brush and a palette. Grinning, he pressed them both into her hands.

" _Ecco_." He smiled at the puzzled look on her face. "You do not know what it is for," he concluded.

"No. Do you want me to clean them?"

"I want you to _use_ them. When I'm back, you shall have finished this painting that I have started." He pointed to the easel and the frame with the canvas, where he'd drawn some support lines for a landscape. When her lips parted to form a protest, he shook his head. "No," he said, resolutely. "It's an order. Do not paint the way you think I would do it. You must create it your way, the way you want it. You are free to use all my pigments, all my brushes, all of my utensils. The important thing is that you put your soul into—and remember, Master Giatelli can tell the difference."

Paint? Helplessly, she looked down on the utensils. Her secret dream had always been for him to show her how it was done, but this was... different. He trusted her to _know_ it on her own, without any tutoring. Would she be able to make him proud, or would she fail him? But glancing at his content face, she realised it wasn't about him: this was all about _her_. He'd seen her watching him, had seen the shimmer in her eyes and the look of awe on her face, how she carefully and with pleasure drew in the smell of turpentine and linseed oil in her nose, and treated his utensils so very delicately... He knew what was in her soul, and probably always _had_ known, and now he wanted to give her the gift of trying her wings. So she looked up, her eyes wide and scared, and gave him a grave nod.

"I'll do my best."

His smile was broad and instant. "I never doubted it, _Piccolina_."

* * *

When he had left, she stood for a while and stared at the blank canvas. Her heart pounded in her ears, the blood rushed through her body, and despite the chilly air—it was always chilly in the studio, due to the windows—she was sweating. Slowly, she lowered her gaze to the brush, clasped hard in her clammy hand. How did one start? How did Giatelli start? _I use my eyes_ , he'd said once, _but mostly, I use my heart_. She frowned slightly. How was that done? What did he mean? Maybe he meant that one must let go of all those thoughts of how to do it, and just... do it? Tryingly, she dipped the brush in the green colour. _I want to paint the view_ , she thought, and raised her gaze to the windows. _What do I see?_ Hills, green hills. She dabbed the paint on the canvas and felt an instant, odd tingle of excitement when the soft brush squished against the fabric. She dipped the brush in the colour again, then dabbed it on the canvas, and felt the same, lovely response rush through her body. Within a few minutes, she had created something that with a bit of imagination could be taken as the hills outside the windows, but she wasn't entirely pleased. _It doesn't look like that_ , she thought, viewing it critically. _It's too... pure._

Daniel woke from his slumber and gave up a small, grunting noise from displeasure. Emily handed him the wooden ladle that he'd been playing with before falling asleep, and then returned to scrutinise the painting. _In reality, the hills shift in all colours_ , she thought. _Not all green... Yellow. Brown and a bit pink, where that tall grass grows; the one that I like to run through. It feels so soft and bows so gently in the wind, so I should probably try to paint it like that. Shadows, shifts where the sun hides behind the clouds..._

She mixed colours on the palette, applied it carefully. Muttered where she went wrong, tried again. The paint was forgiving, as Giatelli had often pointed out: when she made a mistake, it could always be corrected, scraped off with the putty knife, applied again. When she was done with the green fields, she cleaned the brush like Giatelli always did, and started on the sky, tried to paint exactly what she saw; lighter close to the ground, a deep, saturated blue at its highest. She tried to paint the clouds as she pictured them in her mind: like soft, lovely pillows that she wanted to rest upon.

Her notion of time disappeared. When Giatelli returned, she couldn't tell how long he'd been gone, and she even felt a pang of annoyance for the disturbance. He walked to her and stopped behind her back, peering over her shoulder, just like she would do.

"Well done, _Piccolina_ ," he said, warmly. "Well done."

With a sigh she turned around and looked up at his face. His eyes glittered, the wide mouth was curled in a pleased smile.

"You have enjoyed it?"

"Yes, oh yes." She clasped her hands in front of her chest and didn't care to wipe her eyes from the tears—they were tears of happiness, and she knew he didn't mind those. "I didn't know painting could be such joy. What do _you_ think? It's not very good, is it? I'm not happy with the lighting..." Tilting her head, she studied the canvas. "It doesn't look like a painting you would have done."

"That is because it isn't a painting I have done. It is yours. It is not perfect, but I did not expect it, because it takes time to learn how to paint like me. I'm very proud of you, _bambina_ , and you have convinced me. I will teach you to paint. Perhaps one day you will turn greater than Master Giatelli himself, hm?"

"Oh, but I wouldn't want that," she assured him. "If you could teach me to paint half as well as you, I would be most grateful."

"Then that is what I shall do," he said and laughed when she didn't at first understand the joke. "You will become an excellent artist, _bambina_ , I can already feel it. I see it, hm." He pointed at his eyes. "I was worried that I would have no one to continue in my footsteps. Now, I have someone. You will carry forth my legacy."

He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. She didn't like being touched by anyone, but she knew showing affection in this way was part of his personality so she accepted it without flinching. From the corner of her eyes, she noticed that the large fingers were stained black with ink. Had he been writing something while he'd been away from the studio? She didn't get the opportunity to ask, however: Giatelli had headed to the door with large strides.

" _Bene_ ," he said. "Clean up, and then let us go to Mrs Goodall and have a nice cup of tea. You English people are not very good in making delicious food, _Piccolina_ , but tea is at least something you can do right."

# 5

Later that autumn, Giatelli hired a stable groom called Joseph Gerard. Emily regarded the man with suspicion: his ragged appearance and youth frightened her. When she pleaded to Giatelli not to take the man in, he merely snorted.

"Don't be silly," he said. "I need a groom and Gerard is an honourable man. I give you my word that you will be safe around him."

Since he had that determined glimpse in his eyes that told all further protests would be in vain, she decided not to argue, but kept her distance from the young man instead—a decision that pained her, as she enjoyed being in the stables with the animals. She went to Brambles to tell him that her visits from now on would be sparse, and begged for him to understand.

"It's not that I don't want to be here," she whispered in his scruffy ears. "I just cannot, not while _he_ is here. You know how I feel about... about these things. It's not so easy for me, even if Giatelli seems to think so."

Little over a year had gone by since the night when she'd fled through the window. A lot had happened since then: her life had changed drastically and she had flourished in Giatelli's tender care—for the most part, she felt pretty good about herself. It was only occasionally that she fell back in gloom and everything came tumbling over her. No matter how pleasant life was, she was still Emily Bradley, small and insignificant, scared of everything, and she couldn't see how that would ever change. She knew Giatelli regarded her as a recluse—if there were visitors to the farm, she'd always stay away until they'd left—but it was easily explained: she hated strangers, men as well as women. Meeting people scared her, and she was always afraid they'd recognize her and send her back to Paul.

"I'm happy now," she said thoughtfully, and slipped Brambles a carrot. He nipped it from her hand and started to chew, his eyes half closed. "But I can never relax. There is always something that worries me."

Painting was the only thing that soothed her frazzled mind. When she painted, she forgot herself and the world, and she felt strong and invincible. Giatelli said that she had the soul of an artist, and was proud of her progress. He tutored her for almost two hours every day, and the rest of the time, she could spend as much time in the studio as she wanted, which she gladly did. Even though she was too timid to admit it, she had to agree that she had developed over the past month.

She sighed and leaned her head against Brambles muscular neck.

"I wonder if I will ever be carefree like Giatelli? What do you think, Brambles? I think not. It's not who I am."

The stable door opened. The sound wasn't very loud, but Emily flinched. Her reaction startled Brambles, who moved hastily to the side. Since he was a very sturdy pony, and Emily a small person, he probably didn't notice that he pushed her into the wall. The impact made her lose her breath, and she pressed her hands against his side.

"Brambles, move!"

The pony, however, didn't budge. Panic crept along her spine. It wasn't like she thought she'd never get away from there, but the fact was that she was stuck, and that Joseph Gerard was on his way over to investigate the ruckus. His face appeared over the box door—a friendly face, Giatelli would say, but his fair colours and the youthful sharpness of his features made her heart pace up in fear.

"Is he being a pain, the old boy?" Calmly, he opened the box door, grabbed Brambles' mane and, clicking his tongue resolutely, forced the gelding to move forward. "There we go." He peered at her. "You alright, Miss Emily? You look a tad pale. He didn't step on you, did he?"

"N—no." She remembered that she had to be polite. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Gerard gestured to her to come out. After a bit of hesitation, careful to keep her distance as much as possible, she slunk past him in the doorway. "It's nice to see you around, Miss. Master Giatelli told me you love horses, but this is the first time I've seen you here."

She nodded, unsure of what to do. Since the man was conversing her and seemed genuinely friendly, it seemed rude to run away, but the unease made her scalp tingle. Stiffly, she took a step toward the entrance, prepared to dash off if he'd come too close.

"Can you ride?"

Hesitantly, she shook her head.

"Brambles is a good horse," Gerard continued. "Reliable; bit slow, so he's perfect for beginners. If you want, I can prepare him for you, and teach you how to ride."

She didn't want that at all. In fact, everything about the idea scared her. But then there was that thought nagging at the back of her head. It was something Giatelli had said once, when she'd declined joining him for a social gathering: _you cannot stay scared of everything_. True artists had to be curious, he'd said, and being afraid to take part in life was a sure way of never experiencing anything.

Her eyes slid to Brambles. Hadn't she thought about how it would be to ride him? Hadn't she admired those who could ride? That freedom, that utter sense of control, had to be something else. _But you're never going to know, are you?_

Gerard had almost given up waiting for an answer and had half turned to tend to his other chores. She called him back. A feeble little peep, but he heard her and came back, his brown-green eyes curious.

"Yes, Miss?"

She drew her breath. _Say it_ , she thought. "I'd like to ride Brambles, if I may."

Brambles wasn't very big, but he appeared gigantic where he stood, his large head lowered, his jaws slowly chewing some straws of frostbitten grass that he'd managed to rip from the ground before Gerard had tugged at his reins to make him stop.

Nervously, Emily glanced at the saddle, with the two large bumps that Gerard had told her were called pommels. Her right leg was supposed to go over the top pommel and her left under the lower one. According to Gerard, this would ensure comfort and safety, but her racing mind couldn't figure out how that was even possible. Unfortunately, she was so frightened that she couldn't even tell Gerard that she didn't want to go through with this anymore.

"All ready," he said, merrily and turned to her. "Now put your foot in the stirrup. Left foot," he said, when she lifted her right foot.

"Oh..." She switched to the left.

"Excellent. Now place your hand on the top pommel."

She did, but removed it again. He was standing too close and she was afraid of the large horse, and nothing felt good.

"I don't want to," she said, her voice breathless. "Please..."

"Don't be afraid. I'll help you."

Before she could protest, he'd placed his hands around her waist and hoisted her onto the horse. It was over in a second—she barely even had time to react over the sudden contact with his hands—and within the next moment, she was too busy adjusting her weight and placing her leg correctly to be able to think about anything else.

Gerard took a step back and beamed at her. "Well done, Miss Emily. How do you feel?"

"Don't let go of Brambles," she pleaded.

"Of course not." He put his hands around Brambles' head. "Not that he'd move anyway. He's awfully sluggish."

She exhaled and raised her head, for the first time noticing where she was.

"I'm riding," she breathed. "I'm riding, aren't I?"

"You sure are, Miss Emily. Would you care to walk around the yard for a bit?"

Her face stiffened, and he shook his head. "I'll hold him," he said. "Don't worry." Gently, he tugged at the reins. Brambles raised his head and took a few steps. The world rocked. Emily leaned forward, gasping in panic.

"No, stop! I'll fall!"

"No, you won't. Sit up straight and keep your weight on your right leg. And relax," he added, an amused smile on his lips. "It's not going fast at all, and old Brambles isn't very big. In the worst case, you'll slide off and land on your feet."

She took a deep breath and slowly shifted her position in the saddle until she sat upright. Her hands grabbed hard around Brambles' mane, but the horse didn't seem to notice.

"All good?" Gerard peered at her.

She set her chin and nodded. "Let's continue."

They walked around the yard and, while at first, the ground seemed to rush past beneath her, she soon got used to the pace, and could relax some more, until her body become one with Brambles, and she didn't have to think so much of what she was doing. The cold wind brushed her face, played with her hair. Brambles' hooves scraped the frost-bitten ground, creating a calming, soothing noise. She saw far out over the fields and imagined herself riding there, on her own, on a much younger and faster horse.

_I'm riding, she repeated in her mind; I'm truly riding_. The laughter bubbled up inside her, impossible to stop. Gerard looked up and met her gaze.

"You're doing very well, Miss Emily," he said, voice warm. "Have we had enough for today, you think?" She nodded. He must have seen the glimpse in her eyes, for his smile widened. "Would you like to try again another time?"

She nodded again. Gerard tugged at the reins to make the horse stop and helped her down. This time, she didn't mind him touching her—his grip around her waist was efficient and swift, not at all like the men at the pleasure house.

"I'm not going anywhere, Miss Emily," he said and moved to grab the reins right under Brambles' head. "Just come back whenever you want and we'll give it another go."

That afternoon, Emily told Giatelli about her big moment, and he could immediately tell that she'd overcome some large obstacle—she was a very cautious _ragazza_ ; so cautious that he was sometimes concerned she'd turn into a stiff old prude before she'd even turned twenty—and that she was elated.

"He said he'd teach me to ride. Joseph Gerard, I mean," she clarified, a slight blush on her cheeks.

_Oh_ , Giatelli thought, and carefully placed the brush on the little ledge of the easel.

"I take it you're over your fear of him, then?" he said, without looking at her. "Joseph Gerard, I mean," he added, pointedly.

"He treated me very well. I don't think he means me any harm."

"Of course not." He peered at her. Her cheeks were still charmingly red, her large eyes glittering in a way he'd never seen before. All this, for a little ride? "You like the man?"

"He's not as bad as I thought," she replied, truthfully.

With a sigh, she brushed her hands against each other, and squinted at Giatelli's latest work-in-progress—a commissioned portrait, which was nearly finished.

"I think you must add a little more of the dark blue to his cuffs," she suggested, and pointed. "The shadow seems a bit off."

She was right, of course. Sometimes, she took notice of details that he'd missed, and that was why he thought that one day, she'd exceed him in skill... if only she'd gain a little more confidence along the way.

"Thank you," he murmured, but didn't pick up his brush. "I heard Daniel cry just a minute ago. Maybe he needs to be fed?"

"Oh... I'll check on him."

* * *

When Emily had left, Giatelli got up and headed to the stables. He found Joseph Gerard in Brambles' box, where the young man was feeding the pony some hay. He looked up when he heard Giatelli, patted Brambles on the nose and then came out, carefully closing the door behind him.

"Emily had fun today," Giatelli said. "It was a good initiative."

Gerard shrugged. "I thought she'd appreciate it."

"She did. Very much so." He scratched the bridge of his nose, squinted at the man. "So... What do you think of her?"

The question made Gerard look a little surprised, but he replied nevertheless: "She's a nice girl, I suppose."

Giatelli's heart contracted. _There you go_ , he thought. Emily had never wanted him to hire Gerard, and during a brief moment, watching the young, handsome face, Giatelli almost wished he hadn't.

"How old are you?" he asked, his voice a little harsh.

"Twenty-four. Why?" Gerard stooped to brush off some straws of hay that had stuck to his boot.

"Just wondering."

Gerard was in no way stupid. Slowly, he straightened up and stared at Giatelli, his eyes narrowed.

"Just wondering, eh?" His mouth turned into a thin line. "You hired me to protect her, remember?"

"I remember," Giatelli. "I also remember where you come from. Misbehave, and I will send you back."

"Yes, thanks for reminding me."

The dry tone didn't escape Giatelli, who felt a small jolt of guilt. _What are you doing, old fool?_ This wasn't like him at all.

"All I'm saying," he said, "is that Emily is a vulnerable young woman. You are an attractive young man and..." He scratched his head, unsure of how to continue. "She's not used to... to..." Well, this didn't go very well, did it? He exhaled, a heavy puff of air. "Just be careful. Don't take advantage of her innocence."

"I don't think you have to worry about that," Gerard answered, still sourly. "From what I can see, she doesn't trust me; all she's interested in is the horses and learning how to ride. Which is what I have promised to teach her. Not to mention, _I'm_ not interested in _her_."

"I'm glad to hear it." Giatelli reached out and pounded his back. "I don't doubt you, _amico mio_. I know you're a good man. It's just that... I care about her."

"Obviously."

Giatelli leaned closer and lowered his voice. "My informants tell me Daniel's father is still stationed in Ireland, but that he will be transferred to England soon. I've heard..."

He didn't continue, stared absently on the stable door. He'd long since managed to trace the man who raped Emily. An important man, he was, highly influential and from a wealthy family. Most importantly, however, he had a rumour of being brutal and ill-tempered; a man who didn't think twice to eliminate those who came into his way. The atrocities he'd committed in Ireland, albeit with the Crown's blessing, were countless.

"I know my place, sir," Gerard said, as though reading Giatelli's mind. His eyes gleamed, a callous sheen. "Whatever happens, I'm prepared."

"Good." Giatelli allowed for the relief to flow through his body, and it tinged his voice when he answered: "That's why I picked you."

# 6

_June 15 th, 1803_

A week after Daniel's fifth birthday, Giatelli was contacted by a sheikh in North Sinai, who wished to engage him to paint portraits of his Arabian horses. This was a rare request and an equally rare opportunity, and Giatelli, who, during the last few years since Emily came to the farm, had been scarce with appointments in other countries, accepted at once. When he told Emily, she was both sad and worried, though happy for his sake, which she told him as well. He answered that one day, she would attain such requests as well. He meant it. Over the years, Emily's skill in painting had increased, and—even though it pained him to admit—to some extent surpassed his own. She had found her own voice early on, and her style was powerful yet subtle, the perfect blend of boldness and sensitivity, in some ways reminding Giatelli of the classical masters, but in others displaying a uniqueness that was purely hers.

He wanted to bring her with him, and told her this, but they both knew it was impossible: she couldn't leave little Daniel. With a tear-streaked face, she bade him farewell, told him he mustn't stay for too long because she would miss him immensely and couldn't be without him. For Emily to voice signs of affection was as rare as it was surprising, and for the next-coming weeks, Giatelli wondered what this could mean for the development of their relation. Emily was now almost twenty years old—at least that was what they reckoned—and had grown into a fascinating young woman... and as it was, she'd long since captured Giatelli's heart. Maybe this meant he'd captured hers as well?

In November 1803, Giatelli declared the paintings of the sheik's horses complete, and was finally allowed to leave the sun-drenched palace for the long journey back to England. A British troop waited for him and his entourage at the port of El-Said and safely escorted them by frigate through treacherous waters, where both pirates and the French army patrolled. Some weeks later, without too much disturbances along the way, they arrived in Dover to a landscape that had long since shed the beautiful colours of autumn and draped itself in a cloak of grey and brown. The air was raw, saturated with rain that seemed to penetrate every layer of clothing and dig itself into the very marrow of those who ventured outside, but after months of searing heat and scorching sun, Giatelli enjoyed the cold, and lustfully drew in the earthy dark scent of decomposing leaves into his nose, as the carriage bumped and jerked along the badly maintained road to his home.

During the last bend, as the carriage went up the slope, soon to reveal the little valley where his farm sat, he leaned forward on the bolstered seat and stared out through the grubby window. His heart pounded, and not only because he'd missed the sight.

There they were now—his heart paced up even more, so it almost hurt. They must have seen him through the window of the studio, and now Daniel was running toward the carriage as fast as his short little legs would carry him. On the stairs, he spotted Emily too, and even from a distance, he reckoned that the dark, sombre figure breathed a keen anticipation. _She must have missed me,_ he thought, as if there was another option—but he didn't feel sure of anything at the moment, and his hands were sweaty as the carriage made it onto the yard and he could finally see her face. Happiness, indeed. But was there more? What message did those dark eyes convey? He didn't have time to ponder: Daniel had ripped open the door and threw himself in Giatelli's arms. He gave the child a hearty hug, held the tiny body tight against his chest, his nose against the fair hair. _Bambino_ , he thought, his throat aching with emotions. It was long since that he'd forgotten their differences—Daniel was as fair as Giatelli was dark—and by now, he saw Daniel as his own son. With the boy still in his arms, Giatelli shuffled over the seat and made it onto the gravel. Emily had approached them, and smiled warmly at the scene.

"He's missed you," she concluded, her voice slightly timid. "Hello, Vincente."

"Hello Emily." His voice echoed that timidity, which was odd, for shyness wasn't his cup of tea. Maybe it was because she'd used his first name, something she normally never did.

"I'm so glad you're back," she said, sincerely. "It's been empty here without you. The house lost its soul."

"I was never that far away. My soul is with you always, you know that."

He put the boy down and turned fully to her, reached out his hand and cupped her chin in his.

"You look even more beautiful than when I left you."

She blushed but didn't pull away. At least that was something. He removed his hand and stepped back, and noticed how she exhaled a little, as though she'd had to restrain herself.

"You look different as well," she said, quietly. "Your skin... It's dark."

He laughed. "Yes, I am Italian, _amica mia_. My skin likes the sun. Do you not like it?"

"I do." Her gaze travelled swiftly over his face and neck, then further down his body, as though she wondered if all of him was as golden brown. Or maybe not, he corrected himself. Emily's thoughts were unfortunately always pure.

He knew he looked good, in any case. Great food, sweltering heat, plenty of servants and a whole harem at his disposal had done wonders for his health, and though it had perhaps added a few inches around the belly, he felt stronger than ever, and knew it showed.

With a smile, he turned to Daniel. "I've brought presents. Lots of presents."

"Oh, Giatelli..." Emily shook her head. "You shouldn't have..."

"Of course I should. Presents are important to young men."

Daniel's eyes had grown into large, silvery discs. He stretched his neck like a curious turtle and gazed at the luggage, stacked on the carriage roof. Emily, however, caught the sight of something else, tied to the back of the carriage.

"What... is that?"

"Ah..." He rubbed his nose. "That is my gift to you, _Piccolina_."

She frowned. "My gift? But it's a... a..."

"A horse," Daniel filled in. "It's a horse, _Mamma_."

"A horse," she repeated, weakly.

"I know you've missed having one after old Brambles died last year, and I promised myself to give you a new one. Well, now I have. This is Amal. He's five years old and already trained for riding. By the best, might I add."

Full of wonder, she took a step closer. Her eyes took in the creature, devoured it. Giatelli had to do the same: with his brilliant white coat, showered with tiny grey flecks, his small well-shaped head, and large dark eyes, Amal was the very essence of splendour.

"I've never seen a horse like this. What is he?"

"An Arabian, my dear. It is said that the angel Gabriel descended from heaven and created the first one from a thundercloud. He then gave it to the Prophet Ishmael. The Bedouins call them 'drinkers of the wind.'"

"How beautiful." Slowly, she put her hands to her mouth. Her eyes shimmered with tears. " _He's_ beautiful. I can't believe you're giving him to me. Thank you so much."

"It is the most appropriate gift I could imagine giving you, _Piccolina_." He looked straight at her, a challenge to which she didn't answer since the game between man and female was unfamiliar to her. The thought made him suddenly nervous, and the little speech he'd prepared in the carriage on his way, seemed to have vanished from his mind. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glanced at her. "It's... it's appropriate because it's meant as a symbol of something more. Of a... a new start."

She looked back at him, hastily. "New start?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "I was thinking... I'd give him to you as a gift for... for a proposal."

" _Proposal_?" Her face had turned stiff. Daniel pulled at her hand, wanting her to go to have a look at the horse. "No, Daniel," she said, without taking her eyes from Giatelli. "Not now. Go play."

When he was gone, she turned back to Giatelli. Her eyes were large, and she was so tense the tendons on her neck stood out like strings on a violin.

"I think you must explain."

"I just thought that if we married, I would be able to give you and Daniel a—"

"No." She held up her hand. "Stop. I don't want to hear this." She glanced at Gerard, who was busy detaching Amal from the carriage and fortunately didn't seem to hear them. "This is not fair, Giatelli," she said, her voice a desperate whisper. "You ask me out here? _Now_?"

"Where would be a better place, then?"

She was right, of course, but he would never admit it. This had all taken a course he hadn't counted on, and it was the wrong course, too.

He shook his head. Never a very even-tempered man, he now felt his patience, along with his confidence, slowly crumble.

"Would your answer be different if I asked you inside the house?" She pressed her lips together, and he struck out his hands. "Why, _Piccolina_? Why will you not consider it?"

"Because..." She stomped her foot. "You _know_ why."

"That was a long time ago. At one point, you must move forward." He lowered his voice. "Love is a wonderful thing, _Piccolina_. Also the physical side of it. We could take it slow, and..." Her nostrils widened, as though she'd sensed a particularly foul smell. Next, she took a step back, hugging herself. " _Santa Madre di Dio_ ," he sighed. "Forget what I said."

"How can you ask me to forget _that_?"

"Do as you want," he said, grumpily. "I just don't think you should go through life unmarried."

"Says who? _You_?" She glared at him. "Haven't you always told me I could do what I want? That I should follow my heart?"

He rather thought he had, come to think of it... _You idiot_. "Yes," he said, "but this is different. It's not good for you not to have a man's protection. You need it, especially as you have turned into a beautiful young woman."

"What does that got to do with anything?"

Yes, what? Where was he going with this? All the romantic words about how he wanted to care for her and make her happy, had suddenly turned into something that seemed more like a clumsy business offer. He sighed, drew a hand through his hair.

"The point is, and this is the most _important_ point..." He raised his gaze and looked straight at her. "I love you, Emily. Helplessly, more than I've ever loved any woman before. And I have loved plenty," he added. "I want you to be my wife."

She flinched, or shuddered, maybe, as if his words filled her with the utmost disgust. When he saw the grimace that followed, he knew that it wasn't disgust at all, however. It was pain. And fear. He'd overstepped an unspoken boundary, and soiled something that up until now had been pure and beautiful between them, had ripped it open like that man once had ripped apart her clothes and forced himself on her. Shame, heavier than he thought possible, placed itself over Giatelli's shoulders, making him slump.

"Forget it," he heard himself say. "Forget everything I said—I don't know why I did that." He forced a laugh. "It must be the sun... It has done things to my head, hm?" She was still staring at him, her face so stiff it looked like a mask. "Let's not talk about it again." he continued, softer now, not so desperate. "Keep the horse as a token of our friendship and let us carry on as we have done. Please, _Piccolina_?"

Another moment of icy silence, and then, at last, she moved. Pulled the shawl around her shoulders and compressed her lips.

"Alright."

With only a judging glance to follow, she turned from him and called out to Daniel, who reluctantly returned to her. Together they walked to the house, without looking back. Giatelli stared at their slender figures, and felt his old, beaten heart slowly fall to pieces.

"Giatelli, may I have a word, please?"

Emily's voice, so unexpected he first thought he'd imagined it, made Giatelli look up. He was sat in the library, in one of the leather chairs, a large glass of whiskey in his hand and the deerhound pup Lachie—a gift from a client—by his feet. This was where he'd spent most of the evening, or least all his time after supper. Daniel was already in bed, the servants had withdrawn, leaving the house quiet and peaceful, with only the faint crackle from the glowing hearth in the fireplace to disturb the silence. Emily stood in the doorway, her face pale and her eyes burning, a sight of utter despair. Carefully, he placed the glass on the table and got up, bowing slightly, which caused her to wrinkle her nose.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That." She gestured to him to sit again, then sighed. "I... I don't know what to say."

He shrugged. "Why do you have to say anything at all?"

"Because I feel bad for what happened. You know what I mean," she added with a grimace.

Did he ever. He shrugged again, mostly to hide his hurt. Took his glass of whiskey, gulped a fair bit of it down. He'd always hated the taste, but had to admit its properties far outclassed a grappa when it came to burn off the effects of a broken heart. Staring at the amber liquid, he heard Emily move through the room. She appeared before him, her figure distorted through the glass.

"Won't you at least look at me?"

Reluctantly, he raised his gaze. The expression on her face sent a pang of guilt through him, but he couldn't act as though what had happened didn't matter, and that it hadn't done something to him: he wasn't that kind of man. If she had any sense, she'd leave him alone until he'd found his balance.

"If it's me you're worrying about," he said, "don't be. I'll be fine."

"But I hurt you."

"No, you didn't." Tiredly, he shook his head. "I brought it on myself, by asking you something you weren't prepared for. I should have known, but I didn't, and now I have to deal with the consequence."

"I don't agree."

She kneeled before him and placed a hand on his knee. Since he wasn't used to her touching him, he jerked a little, causing her to pull away again, timid as a doe. _Don't_ , he wanted to tell her. _Touch me. Hold me._ He'd never wanted anything more in his life. But she didn't touch him. Wouldn't.

Bitterly, he took another gulp of the whiskey, thankful for the trail of fire down his throat to his stomach. She waited until he'd put down the glass.

"Whatever you may think, I love you too," she said, softly.

_Madonna_... He flinched again, almost dropped the glass.

"Don't say that," he muttered. "Don't mock me."

"I'm not." She drew her breath. "What you have done for me, what you still _do_... I'm so grateful, and humbled, and amazed... If... if things had been different, I think I would have been happy to be asked to be your wife. If _I_ had been different."

She looked intently at him, her soft brown eyes begging him to understand. And really—how could he not? How could he ask of her to forget what she'd been through? It was pure selfishness on his part, his own damned desire that had spoken. He'd _been_ there that day, when he'd found her lying under the stairs, had seen her torn, abused body, the fear in her eyes when she'd woken... and now he asked her to forget? For his own convenience?

He bowed his head in shame.

"You have nothing to apologise for, _Piccolina_ ," he said. "It is I who should apologise, for trying to force myself on you."

The moment of dense silence made him realise that his words were badly chosen, but when he opened his mouth to set it straight, she shook her head.

"You have never had anything but my best interest at heart. Also with your proposal earlier today. I know you'd never do anything to harm me." She swallowed hard, hesitated. "I have been giving it some thought," she began. "I think that... we should try." He stared at her, not knowing what to say. "Because... I owe you that much. It wouldn't be right of me to deny you, when you have done so much for me. And I'm thinking that maybe I will get used to it?"

With one hand on each side of his chair, she raised herself up and leaned toward him. Her lips touched his lips, an awkward kiss, their mouths closed, their breaths contained. Then, she withdrew, sank back on her knees and bowed her head, the utter image of martyrdom.

"I am ready to be your wife."

He continued to stare at her, while the emotions wrestled inside him—he didn't know whether to laugh, or cry, or get angry. Eventually, he chose the latter.

"Emily?"

"Yes?" Her eyelids fluttered and she looked up.

"Do not ever do that again."

"W—what?"

"What you just did. Don't ever compromise your integrity, your sense of self, just to make someone happy, or... for _whatever_ reason. Don't do it. You are worth more than that. And you are right, you must follow your heart, and that is exactly what you did—but now, you are dishonouring your heart. It doesn't matter what happens in the future: never sell yourself out for someone else. Least of all for me. I will not have it."

"I... see." She looked scared. "But..."

"I will not marry you." He raised his chin. "You are my protégé. My friend. And so it shall remain, always. _Capisci_?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"We'll find a way. You won't have to be afraid—I will find a way to keep you safe. One that _doesn't_ involve marriage."

"I... see." She gazed at him, her eyes lucid, her colours soft; more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. "Yes. I would like that. Thank you." She stood, and curtseyed. _Like a bloody housemaid._ He closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Giatelli."

"Goodnight."

He waited until she was gone, then grabbed the armchair and sent it to the floor with a crash.

" _Mannaggia_!"

Daniel's dog flew up with a loud _woof_ , teeth bared into a snarl. Giatelli fell on his knees beside the animal, groaning slightly from the pain that shot through his left arm down through his side. _My heart_ , he thought, putting his hand to his chest. _This will kill me._

Blind with pain, he put his arms around the dog's neck and dug his nose into the ragged pelt, breathing carefully and shakily. As though the animal felt his predicament, it stayed with him, offering warmth and comfort, its whimpers sounds of sympathy.

They sat like that for a long time, until the pain in his old, broken heart had finally settled, and he felt it likely that he'd survive another day.

# 7

_September 18th, 1805_

The dull weather made the house look worse than ever. Giles Radcliffe stared in dismay at the masses of woodbine that crept over the façade in an attempt to suffocate it. It was, he realised, only the blasted plants that needed a see-to: the rest of the large stone building appeared to be in decent shape. Probably, Mr Radcliffe mused, as he placed his walking stick in the soft gravel and started walking toward the house, it wasn't the house itself that was the cause of his dismay, but rather its inhabitant. Yes, that was it.

Whenever he thought about Lord Charles Stanford, a sense of unease scuttled along his spine like a cold little lizard. This was truly a shame, for a man of Mr Radcliffe's dignity—one of the best solicitors in the country—couldn't afford to let his feelings get the better of him, but it was difficult not to when it came to people like his client. This wasn't because of Lord Charles' tendency to summon Mr Radcliffe on short notice—always short notice—and during the most inconvenient times, but because of the _man_ himself. Lord Charles, despite his fine titles and incredible pedigree, simply wasn't a decent person, and Mr Radcliffe knew this, after having been in his service for most of the man's thirty-two-year-old life.

Ah, there was the steward. At least Wilkins was a gem; kept the vast army of servants under tight command, and seemed to always know what was going on in the household. He was also pleasant and reasonably communicative. Over the years, they'd developed their own code language.

"Have you any information?" Mr Radcliffe asked as they walked through the oh-so-familiar hallways, dark and narrow, decorated with chandeliers and wood panels, large paintings in gilded frames and dark red tapestries.

"Not good, sir," the steward replied, curtly.

Mr Radcliffe shuddered. Wilkins pushed the door to Lord Charles' study open and lined up beside it.

"Here you are, sir. Shall I ask the kitchen for some refreshments?"

"No thank you."

Mr Radcliffe wasn't hungry, and eating in a client's presence wasn't something he normally did, either. By the time the steward had closed the door, Mr Radcliffe's whole attention had shifted to the man on the other side of the room, by the window. Lord Charles had probably seen him coming, and had most definitely heard the door open, the sound of their voices—yet, he hadn't turned around. He waited. Waited, until Mr Radcliffe awkwardly coughed in his hand. This made the man turn and stare at him.

"I'm amazed at how neither Wilkins nor yourself announced your presence. Is common decency something one has to pay you extra for these days?"

"I'm sorry, my lord. I thought—"

"Oh, don't bother. I was only making a joke. Wilkins has been tip-toeing around me all week, and you've always been servile to the point of docile. What's new?" He gestured to his leather chairs. "Have a seat."

Mr Radcliffe did as he was told, crossed his legs neatly and stuck his hands between his thighs to steal some warmth. The air was raw in here, almost musty. His lordship preferred to have all meetings in this horrible room, and Mr Radcliffe had never understood it.

Lord Charles observed him for a long time. With the strange coloration of his eyes, he always gave the impression that he was looking straight through you, but this time, it was even worse, and eventually, Mr Radcliffe had to look away.

"Anything that's mentioned in this room from now on is strictly confidential, Mr Radcliffe," Lord Charles said, finally. "You must not pass it on."

"You know you can always count on my discretion, my lord." He leaned forward, curiously. "What seems to be the matter, my lord?"

"My grandfather is the matter. He is planning to disown me."

Mr Radcliffe blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me."

Mr Radcliffe exhaled, sank back in the chair, tried to understand.

Lord Charles' closest relative apart from his younger brother Lyndon, was his grandfather, an eccentric old fart of very distinct opinions. Personally, Mr Radcliffe didn't blame him for wanting to disown his grandson—he would probably have considered doing the same—but as the only one to carry the family name forth, this would never come to fruition. The truth was, there were no alternatives; Lyndon had long since been declared _persona non grata_ by their grandfather, for marrying an Irish girl. Then, there was Sir Roland Buckley, who was the brothers' cousin—but only on their mother's side, and she hadn't been a Stanford. Since he was Grandfather Stanford's counsellor it was possible that he'd nestled himself closer to the inheritance; possible, since he was a sneaky figure, but not very likely.

Lord Charles walked over to the window. His hand rested lightly on his chin, and the long, slender fingers tapped slowly against it.

"A couple of days ago," he began, "my grandfather sent for me. When I got there, he and Buckley handed me a contract."

"A contract, my lord? Pray, what did it state?"

"That I have to get married and produce an heir within two years. If I don't manage, I get to keep Greywell and some additional land that my grandfather has no use for. I will also get to keep my yearly allowance for the rest of my life. But that's it. And it's not really... _satisfying_."

Mr Radcliffe shook his head and sighed. How preposterous, but not at all surprising, and hardly a problem.

"This has to be Buckley's idea," he said, his tone bearing a slight mockery. Lord Charles shrugged, without looking at him. "It would be just like him to come up with something so ridiculous. I would like to have a look at this contract, my lord."

"Why?" He turned his profile, clean and strong, against Mr Radcliffe.

"Because..." A chill spread through Mr Radcliffe's body, and he straightened up, slowly. "You don't mean to say you signed it, my lord?"

"And if I did?"

Mr Radcliffe exhaled. "Without consulting _me_ first?" Lord Charles turned on his heel and glared at him. "Pardon me, my lord. Of course you are allowed to do what you feel necessary. I only wonder... why?"

"I will get to that, Mr Radcliffe. The most pressing thing is that I need to find a wife. _And_ ," he added, pressing the words between his teeth, ", produce an heir."

"I... suppose so."

This was hardly a problem. Attractive, wealthy and of good pedigree, there was an endless sea of ladies at his lordship's disposal. Anyone of these would probably be glad to carry his child—it was, after all, what females were made for. Of course, any man would take it as an insult to be relegated into a stud horse, and the mere idea of a contract to ensure the bloodline was absurd, but there was also some logic behind it. Lord Charles was old enough, maybe even _too_ old. He should have gotten married a long time ago.

"Pardon me, my lord," Mr Radcliffe said and coughed. "But I fail to see why you are in need of my legal services. The contract, I suppose, is binding since you signed it, and I'm sure you are capable of choosing a suitable bride yourself?"

"That's just it." Lord Charles turned his gaze onto Mr Radcliffe, who squirmed uncomfortably under the icy stare. "The problem is not to find me a wife."

"What is it then, my lord?"

"The heir."

"The heir, my lord?"

"Indeed." His lordship's jaws swelled. "The bloody _heir_. I... I can't produce one."

"Produce?"

"Produce. Please stop repeating everything I say. It's highly annoying."

"Pardon me, my lord," Mr Radcliffe murmured, and Lord Charles shrugged and turned to the windows.

"A couple of years ago, after I'd returned from Ireland, I... was a bit careless with my choice of company. And..." He put a hand to his mouth, talked into his palm, muffling his voice. "I contracted the clap."

Mr Radcliffe's heart gave a painful jolt, and he had to press his lips together not to say what was on his mind; his lordship wouldn't appreciate it.

Of all the scandals the man had been involved with, this was by far the worst. This wasn't a piquant adventure with a married woman or a game of cards gone wrong. Those things were excusable and part of a young nobleman's life. The clap was a shameful disease, a malady of commoners. It was just unthinkable that someone of his lordship's status acquired it. At least it wasn't something one spoke of. Or admitted to, unless under great duress.

"I'm cured," he said. "And I'm still able to find pleasure in a woman's arms, for which I'm of course grateful. My ability to reproduce is, however, gone."

"Are you... are you sure of this?"

"Quite. That's what the doctor stated, and I have no reason to doubt it." He sighed. "Every week, I get proposals from fathers who beg for me to marry their daughters. The list of potential wives is endless, and I can choose whomever I want. But what good will it do, when I can't make her with child?" He put a hand to his eyes, rubbed them vigorously. "You see? This contract will be the end of me."

_So why the hell did you sign it_ , Mr Radcliffe thought—but he knew why. Not signing would cause his grandfather to either disown him immediately, or get suspicious. Bloody blackmail, that's what it was, and that was, of course, why they'd done it. For a precious moment, Mr Radcliffe felt entirely for his client, and wished fervently there was a solution.

"Does your grandfather know of your predicament, my lord?"

"No. At least..." He stiffened and peered at Mr Radcliffe. "At least I don't think so?"

"There must be a reason for this contract, my lord. It seems he wanted you to ease his mind. Which you did by signing, so that was good, but it's nevertheless a tad disconcerting."

"Slightly," Lord Charles said, dryly. "How _could_ he know?"

"Perhaps the doctor treating you at the time was indiscreet?"

For a minute, his lordship was very silent. Then, his fist slammed down on the neat desk with such force the inkwell jumped. As did Mr Radcliffe.

"Please contain yourself, my lord," he said, breath contained, heart thumping. "The point is that you didn't confess. You signed the contract, as though there is no problem, which gives us some time to solve this."

"Solve?" Lord Charles snorted. "How, may I ask?"

"I don't suppose we could find a woman who is already with child?"

"With child?" Lord Charles gave up a short, explosive laugh. "Goodness, Mr Radcliffe... And here I thought you were intelligent."

_Come up with something better yourself then, you condescending bastard_. The thought raced through Mr Radcliffe's mind, unstoppable and utterly disgraceful, and he felt his cheeks go red. _He is your client_ , he reminded himself, shocked by his disloyalty. _He needs your support, not your judgment._ Besides, the suggestion had not been brilliant at all, for a number of reasons.

"The eyes," Mr Radcliffe said, stating the most obvious one.

"Indeed." Said eyes viewed Mr Radcliffe with contempt. "I have yet to see a generation where they do not appear."

Neither had Mr Radcliffe. One just had to walk through the gallery at the grandfather's house with all those Stanfords glowering down from the family portraits to know that they all had been bestowed with the same unpleasant silver discs. Strange it was, and some even whispered that the family was cursed, but the reason was of less importance: the important issue was that they were there—a tell-tale sign that the bearer had Stanford blood.

"As you can see, these are not the best circumstances," his lordship said. "And as you can understand, I'm somewhat worried."

"I do understand, my lord."

"You must solve it, Mr Radcliffe."

" _Me_?" He drew back some, felt his body go warm, then cold. "How?"

"I don't know!" Lord Charles snapped. "Just solve it. That's what I pay you for, isn't? And I don't think I have to remind you what will happen if you fail, do I?"

He went to the door and opened it, gesturing to Mr Radcliffe to leave. Mr Radcliffe had no other choice than to get up from the chair and obey, feeling confused and somewhat queasy with dread. How the hell am I supposed to solve this? Simple: he couldn't. And Lord Charles knew that just as well. All he wanted was to bring Mr Radcliffe along to blame for his failure.

Sometimes, life as a solicitor wasn't as grand as he'd envisioned it as a young man.

# 8

_October 3rd, 1806_

It was early morning when Emily put her feet on the cold floor and stood up; so early that the sun still hadn't reached over the hills, leaving the room dark, furniture mere shadows against grey walls. She splashed some water on her face, gasping at the chill, then dressed and tiptoed out of the room. The cat greeted her as she rounded the corner of the hallway, sneaking around Emily's legs and purring so loudly the air vibrated from the sound. She bent down to pet the smooth back. The hard, cold nose butted eagerly at her hand, encouraging her to continue, but she straightened up and continued through the silent house until she reached the studio. Shuddering, she poked at the glowing embers in the tiled stove, put some more sticks on it and pulled the shawl around her shoulders while waiting for the fire to catch on. When it was sufficiently warm, she went over to the work station by the wall.

Gently, she plucked the brushes from its stand and examined each of them carefully, in search of flaws or remains of paint. She tried them against her palm, tested their softness and flexibility, then put them back. Megan, her maid, had washed and folded the rags like she'd been told the day before; Emily adjusted the pile so that it lay neatly in a perfect angle against the edge of the table. One by one, she lifted her jars of pigments—vermilion, azurite, umber—and put them back with their labels facing outwards. She'd mix the paints later on, she decided. _When I'm closer to the appointment_. The thought made her stomach recoil, her hands immediately turning sweaty. Appointment. Session. Her first client, who'd commissioned her for a portrait. Her, measly little Emily Bradley. The knot in her stomach grew, and she tried to think of something else. Was there enough yellow ochre and led white? Yes, she thought so. She placed them within easy reach from the easel, then reached for the broom and started to brush the floor, her movements vigorous and exact, repeating the pattern that by now was so familiar she barely thought about it: one corner, to the next, then down, starting over again, one stretch for each turn. With a cloth, she cleaned the windows where she could reach—cleaning them in their entirety was a momentous task and not something that was done on a regular basis—and found comfort in the large, repetitive movements.

When she was done with everything, the sun had reached over the hills and the room was considerably brighter. The homey slam of copper pots from the kitchen revealed that the house had started to wake up. Soon it would be filled with delicious fragrances of fresh scones, fried mushrooms and bacon—Mrs Goodall always made breakfasts fit for a small army. Too bad Emily wasn't the slightest bit hungry.

She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, heard her own heart pound inside her head. _I'm not ready for this_ , she thought. _I should never have agreed to it—it was a stupid idea and I'm stupid for thinking it will work._ A mistake, more or less, was what had sent her down this path. The farm had received a letter, originally posted to Giatelli, where a wife had asked for a commissioned portrait for her husband, who was a prominent man of the law and only settled for the very best in everything he did—and Giatelli was a legend, so would he please paint this portrait? Emily had responded truthfully, but had also, in a strange spur of the moment, offered her own services, seeing she had been Giatelli's pupil and her skill was equal to his. She could lower the rate substantially, and if the painting didn't measure up to their expectation, they wouldn't have to pay anything at all. And so it was, that the wife of the prominent man, had accepted Emily's suggestion. In retrospect, Emily reckoned she must have been temporarily mad—there was no other way to explain what she had done.

A sound from the doorway woke her from her thoughts. She smiled when she saw Daniel there, leaning tiredly against the doorframe.

"Are you already up?" Emily said, gently.

"Megan woke me." He yawned, rubbed his eyes with a closed fist. "I've told her not to sing when she walks through the house, but she won't listen. Besides..." He removed his hand and peered at her, his eyes suddenly as alert as a squirrel's. "It's an important day today."

She made a slight grimace. "Don't remind me."

"Aren't you excited?"

"I don't know." She withdrew to a stool, slumped on it and eyed Daniel thoughtfully. "I'm not sure I've done the right thing. What if I'm not good enough?"

Daniel snorted. "Not good enough? You're the best. Even Giatelli said so. He should know."

She nodded. The jab of pain momentarily pushed away all thoughts of her own predicament—it was a pain she was familiar with by now, and that never seemed to ease. Maybe it never would. Maybe she'd have to live with it, just like she had to live with the cruel fact that Giatelli was gone forever.

It had happened three months earlier, a moment that was still engraved in her memory as one of the most horrid in her life. Her gaze travelled to the spot where she'd found him, sprawled on the floor, one hand holding the frame of the easel, which he'd pulled down in the fall, the other clutching his heart—that beautiful, warm heart, that now had stopped beating. It had come as an absolute shock, a turn of events that she hadn't been able to foresee, and why should she?

Perhaps _he'd_ known, however. She reckoned he had, seeing he'd arranged practically everything, from his own funeral to the very well thought-through will. Though most of his fortune had been shifted to his relatives in Italy, he'd arranged for her to inherit his farm and all his paintings—a generous legacy to be sure. There had also been a yearly allowance, but, as he'd put it in his will: 'it is not very high for a reason. Emily should not be tempted to settle for not doing her best'. It was clear he expected her to paint on commission, thus earning her own money. Perhaps that was why she'd put herself in this position—to honour his wish. She knew she had it in her.

Two days after the grand funeral, which had been held in London, since he was a prominent figure and had earned a prominent funeral, she had locked herself into the studio and painted the most hauntingly beautiful portrait of the legendary Master Giatelli—everyone that had seen it, had said it was her absolute best work, so full of life and passion, a most fitting tribute to one of the best painters England had ever seen. And oh, how she missed him. Sometimes she thought she could hear him; his loud, energetic steps just before he reached the studio, that special wheezing of his breathing, his rumbling voice with the piquant accent. Sometimes the sensation was so great that she half waited for him to stand in the doorway. Other times she thought she felt him standing behind her shoulder, watching her work.

If only.

Giatelli was gone, and she missed him so much that sometimes, she thought she'd break from the pain.

"I miss him," Daniel said as if he'd read her mind. "I wish he was here now."

"So do I."

"It's not fair. People die when they are old. He wasn't old."

"He wasn't very young, either. Bad heart, the doctor said, and he'd suffered it for quite some time, too. I wish he'd said something. Maybe we could have helped him, somehow."

"I don't think he would have wanted that," Daniel said. "It wasn't Giatelli."

"No." She smiled a little. "You're right."

She stood, smoothened out her dress and turned to the easel. She'd placed the canvas there already, and now she wondered if the placement was right. Maybe if she moved it a little to the—

" _Mamma_ ," Daniel said. "I know Giatelli wasn't my father."

She froze and let go of the wooden frame, but didn't turn around, as not to let him see the expression on her face.

"Do you, now?"

"Yes... It's pretty obvious, isn't it? I'm eight years old, _Mamma_ —I'm not a baby. I _understand_ things. You have brown eyes. Giatelli's were black. But mine are..." He made a slight face. "White. And also, I call him Giatelli. Why do I do that? Because he's not my father, of course."

Emily glanced at Daniel. It was impossible to remain untouched by his observation, especially when he looked that vulnerable, his fair hair tousled after the hours of sleep, his cheeks rosy.

"Do you mind?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "I know he loved you like his own son."

"So do I." Daniel bit his lip. "Is my real father alive?"

The inevitable question. And as such, because she'd known it would come, she shouldn't be taken aback—but she was. It was like getting sucked feet first into a black hole.

"Do we have to talk about this now, Daniel?"

"Why not? Do you have something better to do?"

"I'm preparing for my client," she reminded him, rather sharply. "Remember?"

"Looks like you're done," Daniel said, with a gesture to the immaculate studio. "And your client hasn't arrived yet, so... _Is_ my father alive?"

She glared at him. "I don't know."

He glared back. "Why?"

"Because I don't."

"Didn't you know him?"

She shuddered. A face appeared, a ghostly shadow, before her eyes. Sharp features, a taunting smile, pale eyes full of triumphant confidence... Oh yes, she knew him, but not in the way Daniel wanted to hear.

"Please, Daniel," she said, drawing a hand over her eyes. "I don't need this now."

"But I do. I think it's unfair that—"

"Madam?"

The housemaid's voice collided with Daniel. Megan wasn't always a welcome sight with her never-fading, dimpled smile and overly cheerful attitude, but this time, Emily was more than glad to see her.

"Yes, Megan?"

"He's here now. Your visitor." She curtseyed. "Shall I send him in?"

Emily had the faint idea that Megan didn't quite understand what it meant to be commissioned for a portrait, and that Megan somehow regarded it with suspicion. She had never known Giatelli, and hadn't really seen Emily work, so perhaps it wasn't strange—only slightly annoying.

"I will tend to him myself," she decided, with a quick glance at Daniel. "Will you take care of master Daniel meanwhile?"

"Of course, madam." The girl smiled and placed a hand on Daniel's head. He shrugged her off. "Let's go to the stables and see if Joseph has something fun for us to do, hm?"

When they were gone, Emily brushed her shoulders free from dust and drew a finger over her eyes and lips to ensure that they were clear. Then, she inhaled, deeply, and went to greet her guest.

# 9

Squinting his eyes against the sharp October light, Mr Radcliffe stopped in front of the house to scrutinize it. It fell short of what he'd expected, even though he wasn't quite sure what that was in the first place. He had at least been under the impression that an artist would reside in something grandiose and perhaps extraordinary, but this building before him was just a normal, rundown farmhouse.

A maid appeared on the stairs—probably the housekeeper. She wore a high-necked, dark bombazine dress and her face was stern to the point of hostile. When he came a little closer, he noticed that she was younger than he'd thought, and that she could have been attractive, if she'd only smiled a little.

"Mr Radcliffe?" she said. Her voice was surprisingly pleasant, a tad darker than he'd expected. "I'm Mrs Bradley."

Mrs Bradley? He was almost sure that his wife had mentioned that the painter was a certain Master Bradley. Unfortunately, the service of the great Master Giatelli had been unavailable, after his current and very tragic demise, and Mr Radcliffe was still annoyed over this. This Mrs Bradley must be Master Bradley's wife, or, with regards to her youth, possibly a daughter.

He bowed, stiffly. "Pleased to meet you. Is Master Bradley waiting for me in his studio?"

"Oh..." Her mouth slackened in surprise. "Um..."

"Is something the matter?" Mr Radcliffe snarled. "Don't tell me he too has died?"

It would be just his luck. Things hadn't been going well for him lately. Just take this long trip out on the countryside. The roads were in a horrific state and his back hurt from all the bouncing around.

"No," the woman said. "But I am afraid there's been a misunderstanding."

"What kind of a misunderstanding? Speak out. My time is too valuable for half-spoken riddles and vague implications."

"Of course. It's just that..." She coughed in her hand and peered apologetically at him. " _I'm_ Master Bradley."

"Tricked. I have been tricked. Humiliated." Mr Radcliffe declined the offered handkerchief, pulled up his own and dabbed his forehead vigorously. They had moved into the supposed studio. It looked like a proper painting studio—even more so than others he'd seen—and he understood that this had been where the great Master Giatelli had worked. Why, oh why, must such a grandiose man die? And what was _she_ doing, thinking she could replace him? Mr Radcliffe glared at the young woman.

"A lady painter? I've never heard of such a thing. It is a wickedness to think yourself equal to a man. And to call yourself Master Bradley... Do you know the word 'fraud'? Are you aware of the fact that I can prosecute you? Remember, I'm a solicitor, and one of the best in the country. I could see to it that you are put in gaol."

He quite enjoyed the image of her slender body manacled in a cell. It would be a most suitable punishment for a woman like her. To his satisfaction, his threat made her turn a tiny bit pale.

"I was not trying to trick you, sir," she said, stiffly. "Bradley _is_ my name."

"But you are not a Master. How can you be?" He pointed at her with the tip of his walking stick. "You are a... a _woman_."

During a brief but unpleasant moment, he wondered if his wife had known, but then decided that she hadn't: his beloved Dottie would never put him in such an awkward situation. No, this was Mrs Bradley's fault altogether. A trickster, she was, even though he hadn't quite figured out what she'd gain on her tricks. Did she perhaps get men here to seduce them and take their money? Well, he'd have her know that he was a decent man, faithful to his wife. And besides, she wasn't even attractive, scrawny and tall that she was.

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his watch, pointedly snapping open the gold repoussé pair case. If he left now, he'd be in London before supper, which was feasible, but not very tempting. In fact, his back hurt just thinking about it. His delicate physique needed rest, and food. Especially food. Under the reek of linseed oil and turpentine, he could feel the alluring scent of freshly baked bread and bacon.

That settled it.

Resolutely, he put the watch back in his pocket.

"I am not an unreasonable man. I will consider giving you a small compensation if you let me stay overnight."

For a split second, her nostrils widened. "Thank you, but I have to decline," she replied, voice clipped. "I am not an innkeeper."

"Well, nor are you an artist, but that doesn't stop you from claiming you are."

"I _am_ an artist."

"Prove it, then." He drove his walking stick onto the paint-stained floor with a bang and rose. "For heaven's sake, if you are what you say you are, then prove it. Yes, indeed: let us settle this matter once and for all. And if you _cannot_ prove it... then I want a meal and a bed for the night." They stared at each other. "Do we have a deal, madam?"

She pressed her lips together, briefly. "Very well, sir. My works are stacked against the wall. Help yourself."

Still indignant, he rounded the easel that had blocked the full view of the room.

* * *

There were about twenty paintings in all varieties and sizes, from neat portraits to elegant still life paintings, grand hunting motifs and picturesque pastoral sceneries. Some were in beautiful frames, others were housed simply, the canvas stretched over a wooden frame. Some weren't yet finished, some mere sketches, others complete. The ones that hadn't found places on the walls had been placed on the floor. Mr Radcliffe studied each one in silence, noticing how some had the signature that said Giatelli, while others were signed with the name 'Bradley'. Naturally, he focused on the latter. Flipped through the paintings, without saying anything. Took note of the deliciously light hand with which they had been crafted, and the incredible variety of the objects. Pastorals, the occasional still life, and portraits... All displayed the same astoundingly high quality. The most fascinating painting was a portrait, which he had to pull out and admire for more than a few minutes.

"I like this one," Mr Radcliffe said, tightly. "It's quite extraordinary."

"Thank you."

Mr Radcliffe glanced swiftly and with confusion on her face, then looked back at the painting—he _had_ to, as though there was some kind of force that pulled him to it. The man's eyes, so alive, even though they were painted, held his gaze, and the slight smile on his devilish, broad mouth set Mr Radcliffe's heart pounding harder. If he'd ever seen _joie de vivre_ and erotic hunger, this was it.

"You have done this, then?" Mr Radcliffe asked, lightly. "Who is this man?"

"That is Master Giatelli. I painted it shortly after he died. It's the only one that exists of him. He wasn't fond of self-portraits or sitting for sessions himself."

"I'd say..." Mr Radcliffe couldn't hold back his impressed tone.

He had to glance at the woman, and tried to match the passion with which she'd painted this portrait with what he saw. He couldn't. Obviously, she'd been Master Giatelli's mistress, and he'd been able to lure forth something in her that wasn't for others to see. The idea almost made Mr Radcliffe's member stiffen—he had to press his legs together not to show the tell-tale bulge.

"How can you paint like this?" he asked, aggressively, refusing to turn to her. "It's... almost indecent. But very good. _Very_ good. Women shouldn't paint like this."

"Master Giatelli taught me everything he knew."

_I bet_ , Mr Radcliffe thought. He stared at the portrait. What if she managed to capture _him_ in the same way? A man of intense feelings and all-consuming passion? People would think he was one hell of a man. And by a woman, at that—maybe they'd assume they were lovers? Though he didn't find her good-looking, he had to admit the idea was tickling. It was long since that the young ladies had stopped looking at him—if they ever had—but with a painting like this, some of his masculinity would be restored. He would be the one who'd discovered the astonishing Master Bradley... while teaching her a thing or two about love. Ah, what a grand thought. Nobody needed to know he'd never touched the woman.

He turned to her, bowed, and said, stiffly:

"I will agree to a sitting."

* * *

Within the next few hours, Mr Radcliffe became a witness to the passion he'd spotted in the portrait, as Mrs Bradley set about to paint his portrait. She turned from a priggish bore to something formidable and animal-like, as though some power had taken hold of her and spoke through her. Swiftly, with the certainty of a witch with her potions, her hands flew among the mysterious jars and bottles, mixed powders and liquids to paint. Her eyes glittered, her cheeks glowed, and right then and there, Mr Radcliffe found her incredibly striking and enigmatic, and his conviction that he'd taken the right decision to hire her, grew even stronger. Everyone would envy him, everyone would speak about this.

While he sat there, listening to her commands on how he should tilt his head or angle his shoulder, he thought about how to gain power over this new great find of his. Could he control her, somehow? Maybe propose a collaboration in the future, where he decided and acquired clients, and they shared the profit?

After a full day, with only a short recess where the cook, who was just as plump and delicious as he wanted from a woman, brought him vegetable broth and fresh bread with thick slices of cheese, Mrs Bradley finally proclaimed her work done for the day.

"I'm pleased," she said, wiping her long, slender hands with a piece of cloth. The glow in her eyes had faded somewhat, and at best, she now looked slightly cute with her hair coming lose from its neat do, and a streak of yellow across her cheek. "It has gone very well."

"May I take a look?"

"I'd rather if you didn't." She smiled regretfully to his annoyed expression. "I prefer to work without interference until the painting is done." She placed the cloth on the workbench. "We shall commence tomorrow. With any luck, I will be done within the next few days. I hope you will have some patience with me, this being my first official sitting and all. I'd rather be slow and precise, than rush and leave something I'm not happy with."

"Of course," said Mr Radcliffe. Though he didn't like the idea of spending more time in this place than he had to, he had to admit that it fell well in with his plans of letting everyone think they'd had a love affair. "Take your time. I'm grateful that you let me stay here, meanwhile. I don't take carriage journeys very well anymore. I'm an old man, you know."

Here, he would have greatly appreciated if she'd protested— _you're not old at all, Mr Radcliffe; only mature and experienced_ —but she didn't. Sourly, he slid of the chair and walked stiffly to the door.

"Oh, let me join you," Mrs Bradley said.

Together, they walked through the house out onto the yard. The crisp air stung his airways and made him cough, which made her glance worriedly at him, until he held up a hand to let her know he was fine. She waited while he took control of his body. Shivering, breathing into his handkerchief, he felt the last spasm of his cough reside. When he looked up, he found that she was staring up at the sky with a look of wonder on her face.

"Have you seen anything so beautiful, Mr Radcliffe?" she said.

Indeed, it was nice. Streaks of crimson, marigold and tangerine, dotted with purple clouds. By the horizon, a hint of shimmering blue and soft turquoise, just above the blackness of the treetops. _How poetic_ , Mr Radcliffe thought, impressed by his sensitivity. It wasn't only she who had an artist's mind.

Mrs Bradley had started walking. He paced up, planting the tip of his walking stick hard into the soft ground as he kept even steps with her.

"Where am I staying, madam? Seeing it's not in the main building, I mean."

This stung a little. She had agreed to let him lodge _in situ_ while she finished his painting, but obviously, not under her roof. When Mrs Bradley explained that he'd have the small cottage nearby to his disposal, he was relieved, for it seemed to be a nice little house, but still couldn't help but pinch her for the solution.

"I do hope it's warm enough. I've recently suffered a bad cold, as you could hear from my coughing. Maybe my poor lungs will collapse."

"I will ask the maid to make a fire for you, sir," Mrs Bradley replied. "I could also ask Mrs Goodall to bring you some tea and hot broth, should you wish for it."

"I would like that."

The prospect of seeing the plump cook again cheered him up a bit. All women should look like Mrs Goodall: full bosoms and plump bottoms, red cheeks and chubby arms. A rough barking from the stables interrupted his pleasant thoughts. It was so deep, so rough, that it startled him for a bit.

"Must be a big dog," he remarked.

"That would be Lachie, yes. A Scottish deerhound, but we don't use him for hunting."

We? Mr Radcliffe opened his mouth to ask, but was cut off by a loud bang from the stables. He stared in amazement as one of the doors suddenly flew open, and something big and dark ran out on the lawn like a demon on fire.

"Don't tell me," he murmured. "Lachie?"

He watched the beast as it made its way across the yard, running in a wide circle around them both. The white of its eyes gleamed as though it was mad, and the tongue hung from its mouth like a sickly pink cravat. If Mr Radcliffe hadn't already been strongly convinced that dogs were vile creatures, this monster would surely confirm it.

The beast turned suddenly on the gravel, dust exploding in the still air. It continued, huffing and panting, straight toward Mr Radcliffe. At first, it looked as though it would run straight into him, but at the very last second, it managed to twist its huge body and avoid him with a mere inch to spare, so that the flowing grey coat of the hard mass of its body merely brushed against his knees. Mr Radcliffe jumped back, put his palms outward to protect himself from the beast. He felt its hot breath on his hands, stared into a pair of oddly coloured eyes, and then the dog was gone again, running with such gusto that anyone who saw it knew it had wanted to do so for a long time.

Annoyed, he brushed the dog's hairs from his grey breeches and glared at Mrs Bradley.

"Madam, this is intolerable. I have a fragile constitution. I could have fallen. Who is responsible for this dog?"

"He's over there."

He followed her gaze to a slender, fair-haired boy who was approaching them from the stables.

"If I were you, I'd see to it that he got a good lashing," Mr Radcliffe suggested. "Discipline is a cornerstone in our society. Without it, we would all be animals."

She cocked a brow. "I do not believe in that kind of discipline, Mr Radcliffe."

"Well, you may want to reconsider. Kindness has no effect on thugs and rascals."

She didn't answer, and by then, the boy in question had reached them and stopped before them, head bent regretfully, eyes on the ground.

"Is that your dog, young man?" Mr Radcliffe said and pointed at the despicable creature. It was lying on the grass now, with its massive head between its paws, watching them from below furry brows, tail banging slowly against the ground.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then look me in the eye and tell me that you will take better care of it in the future."

"Yes, sir."

The boy obligingly raised his chin.

_Oh good Lord,_ Mr Radcliffe thought, his breath caught in his throat, and it wasn't so much a blasphemy, as a true calling to the Lord Almighty for support. With a hammering heart, he stared at the boy; hexed, thrilled, doubting that what he was seeing was really true. _This can't be,_ he thought. _This really can't be; it's impossible_. Yet, the eyes looking back at him were as bright as polished silver and as unusual as real diamonds in a harlot's jewellery box. _That's a Stanford, if I ever saw one,_ he thought, head spinning so much he had problems focusing his eyes. _The boy is a bloody Stanford_.

"I will take better care of it in the future," the boy said, gravely.

"Huh?"

"The dog, sir."

"Mr Radcliffe?" Mrs Bradley frowned at him. "Are you feeling unwell?"

With effort, he managed to square his shoulders. Jerkily, he put the wig straight on his head and drew his breath.

"Nothing wrong with me. Nothing at all."

Absolutely not. With an excitedly pounding heart, he glanced at the boy, noticing the beauty of his fine features and the majestic tilt of his chin. Indeed, the blood of an aristocrat ran though his veins.

"Daniel," Mrs Bradley said. "Take Lachie inside and keep him out of our way for next time."

"Daniel," Mr Radcliffe blurted. They both stared at him. "Is that your name? Daniel?"

"Yes, sir." He nodded. "Daniel Bradley is my name."

"Bradley?" Baffled, Mr Radcliffe looked up at Mrs Bradley. "Your son?"

She pressed her lips together, her answer rolling reluctantly from her tongue. "Yes."

How extraordinary. Mr Radcliffe leaned closer to the boy.

"How old are you?"

"I turned eight this summer, sir."

Eight years... When was it that Charles had contracted his disease? Later, was it not? So it was possible that this was his son. More than possible. Mr Radcliffe couldn't quite say why, but he _knew_ this boy was Charles'. In a fit of merriment, he snuck a peek at Mrs Bradley, who stood stiff and pale, her slender hands resting like spiders on her abdomen. She thought she could fool him, but he had her all figured out. _Oh, you wicked, lustful little trollop..._

She started walking again, as though she couldn't take more of the exchange—was she ashamed of her bastard son, and didn't want people to ask about him? Very possible. The boy bowed.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," he muttered and turned on his heel.

_Oh no,_ Mr Radcliffe thought. _Not just yet_. He let go of his walking stick. It landed with a thud on the ground, dust whirling up from the impact.

"Oh dear," he said. "I dropped my cane. Would you mind picking it up for me, young man?"

"Not at all." Obediently, the boy stooped, then came back up with the stick, which he held out to Mr Radcliffe. "Here you are, sir."

Mr Radcliffe grabbed it and then, quickly, before the boy had released his end, gave it a hard tug. Master Daniel fell forward against Mr Radcliffe's body, with a short grunt of surprise. Mr Radcliffe put his mouth close to the boy's ear and hissed into it. "Your father... I know him."

Master Daniel drew his breath, then withdrew, swiftly like a snake coiling up after an attack. Mr Radcliffe gave him a warning stare. The boy's face turned neutral. He took a step back and bowed.

"Thank you," said Mr Radcliffe.

With a cautious look to his mother, who had stopped a bit further on and turned to glance at the two, the boy gave a soft whistle to the dog, and walked away toward the stables. Lachie whirled past them with a friendly woof. Nearby, the sparrows flew up, chirping worriedly at the sight of the furry demon.

"He's a fine boy," Mr Radcliffe said as he re-joined Emily. "You must be proud."

"I am, thank you." She raised her head and turned around. "Now please follow me, Mr Radcliffe." Without waiting for his reply, she grasped her skirts and set off across the yard, steps efficient, perhaps even a little too efficient.

Smiling, Mr Radcliffe took a firm grip on the handle of his walking stick and followed without another word.

# 10

The cottage turned out to be to Mr Radcliffe's liking. It was warm enough, the furnishing sparse but robust and luxurious in a rural way. After a good meal served by a curly-haired maid with a horrible Irish lilt—he'd told her straight out that he was disappointed to see her, rather than the plump cook—and a bit of reading in the light of the candle, Mr Radcliffe should have no problems falling asleep. He did, however. He couldn't sleep, for his legs, his whole body, tingled as though filled with small bubbles, and his mind travelled to places of delight, places that held no promises of relaxation, but rather elation and joy.

They'd thought it impossible. Had given up. The last time Mr Radcliffe had met Lord Charles, a couple of weeks prior, they'd both concluded in a fit of grim insight, that time was ticking and if nothing happened, Lord Charles would soon find himself in a less than desirable position, when he'd have to explain the situation to his grandfather. They had tried to think of ways to lessen the damage, had told themselves that Grandfather Stanford would never really disown his grandson... but at the same time, they knew very well that the old man could do just that. He'd done it with Lord Charles' brother, after all.

This discovery would make Mr Radcliffe the hero. He would be celebrated, praised and admired, even more so than he already was. He would be the talk of town. People would see him, and know that he was a man of great things—not least after seeing his portrait. _That man there,_ they'd say while admiring the painting, _saved one of the most influential men from ruin. And obviously, Mrs Bradley preferred his company over the beautiful Lord Charles. He must be good in bed._

Lying on his back, Mr Radcliffe could feel his manhood swell at the thought. The sensation both surprised and pleased him. He couldn't even recall the last time his member had reacted in this proud manner, even in the presence of the most desirable women. He placed a hand on it, felt the hot, slick hardness and closed his eyes. _Oh yes_. Mr Radcliffe had no problem picturing Mrs Bradley's slender body naked and writhing in lust under him. Under Lord Charles. Under Master Giatelli. Then, which was very improper but incredibly exciting, all of them at the same time. His hand moved along his stiff member, slowly first, then faster. _Goodness_. He drew his breath, thrust his hips upwards. Images appeared of Mrs Bradley's soft brown eyes looking down at him, her lips parted and moist with desire. _Oh, this feels so good, so bloody good._

A rattling noise against the window snatched him from his lovely thoughts. He removed his hand as though he'd burned himself and sat up, squinted at the dark rectangle of a window beside his bed. His heart pounded from equal parts shame, lust and annoyance. Now, everything was silent again, so silent that he could almost hear the quiet shushing from the river that crossed the landscape behind his cottage. Had he imagined the noise? Hesitantly, he leaned back again, and—

There it was again, faint like the splashing of raindrops, yet it couldn't be, because the day had been sunny and dry, with no clouds in sight. He frowned, tried to make sense of the soft, irregular drizzle. And then—a hard _tick_.

He jumped, placed his hand over his heart and glared at the window.

"What in hell's name _is_ that?"

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

The candle by his bed had long since burned out, but the candlestick was a heavy piece, enough to break a skull with a bit of force. He grabbed it, folded his fingers around the reassuringly sturdy foot, then moved carefully toward the window, opened it and pushed it outwards. It was as dark out there as one would expect from a nippy autumn night. The moon, a disk of silver behind veils of opaque fog, was a scarce source of light, though enough for him to make out a small figure below his window. He caught a faint shimmer of silver where the moonlight touched uncovered hair and the roundness of a young face.

"Master Daniel?" he said, surprised, yet not very surprised at all.

The boy took a step closer. His face shone sickly pale in the darkness.

"Did I wake you, sir?"

"No, you didn't. But it was your intention, was it not?"

"Yes," the boy said, matter-of-factly. "I need to talk to you."

Mr Radcliffe nodded and placed the candlestick on the small table under the window.

"Come inside, child."

* * *

Judging from the blue lips and the translucent skin on his hands, the boy had been standing outside the window for quite some time, namely the time he'd needed to muster the courage to throw the gravel on Mr Radcliffe's window.

Mr Radcliffe put some more logs on the open fire in the small drawing room, took a spare blanket from the cupboard in the bedroom and draped it around the young boy's shoulders. Daniel did not protest, but Mr Radcliffe smiled at the brief glimpse of rebelliousness that flew across the face: apparently, he did not wish to be treated like a child.

"You don't want to catch a cold, do you?" Mr Radcliffe said, voice gruff.

"No, sir." Daniel squared his shoulders. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He sat down and leaned his hands against his knees. "Now, young man, I suppose I don't have to ask why you're here?"

"I suppose not." The silvery eyes met his, a straight-forward gaze that reminded Mr Radcliffe of Lord Charles. "You said you knew my father?"

"Indeed. I'm actually his solicitor."

The boy seemed to contemplate this for a second—Mr Radcliffe had a feeling that the boy didn't know what a solicitor was. Then, his silvery eyes sprung to life.

"So my father is alive, then?"

"Very much so."

The curve of a smile touched his lips. "I'm glad. Does he know about me?"

Mr Radcliffe shook his head. "No. Not yet. What do _you_ know about him?"

"Nothing. Mother doesn't want to speak about him."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"Hm..."

"I figure she lost him, somehow," the boy said, suddenly eager, and leaned forward. "That maybe, he was a soldier in the war, and they were in love but he had to go away to fight. Do you think that's what happened?"

"It could be," Mr Radcliffe said. In fact, it wasn't a far-fetched thing to believe—if one didn't know Lord Charles. Mr Radcliffe doubted the man had the ability to harbour any warmer feelings for anyone save himself. But that wasn't to say he knew how to dupe women, and Mrs Bradley may have fallen in love with _him_.

"At one point," the boy confessed, his cheeks blushing, "I used to imagine that my father was the fairy king. I read this book once, see. The fairy king was blond like me and had eyes like jewels."

"Like you," Mr Radcliffe said, reached out and touched the boy's cheek, just beneath the eye. "And your father."

"I knew it!" Master Daniel sighed with contentment. "I want to meet him, Mr Radcliffe. Do you think it's possible?"

"Oh, but you _must_. We do not know the reason why your mother has not contacted him during all this time, but I'd say it's likely that she thinks he's dead. Shall we prepare the meeting without involving her, you think?"

Master Daniel nodded. "I think so. She's been very sad since Giatelli died. Maybe a surprise will cheer her up?"

"Definitely."

It would also ensure that everything went smoothly, without interference. Mr Radcliffe, couldn't really put the finger on _why_ , but he had a nagging feeling that Mrs Bradley wouldn't appreciate their efforts. Women were irrational creatures. Better keep them out of it, and let the men take the decisions.

"Let me organize everything," Mr Radcliffe said. "All you have to do is to keep quiet and wait. I'm sure you can manage that?"

The boy nodded. "Absolutely." He hoisted his lips to a cat-like grin, and Mr Radcliffe smiled back. It was the perfect moment of mutual understanding. Then, the boy clasped his hands together and looked intently, almost hungrily, at Mr Radcliffe. "Please, Mr Radcliffe—tell me about my father. Everything you know. I want to learn about him."

And so Mr Radcliffe did. Daniel learned that his father was an acclaimed officer who had earned a great many medals for his bravery on the battlefield. He learned how Lord Charles was a brilliant swordsman and an excellent horseman, a skilled hunter and a master in archery.

What _he_ didn't hear, because Mr Radcliffe wouldn't tell him, was how Lord Charles used his swordsmanship to duel with infuriated betrayed husbands, or how he sometimes rode horses to their death because he enjoyed the thrill of the speed. Mr Radcliffe also kept quiet about the man's many love affairs, or how he sometimes flogged his staff for the most trivial reasons and made-up offenses. None of this reached the young man's ears, so that when Mr Radcliffe was done talking, his cheeks was aglow with pleasure.

"I knew it," he whispered. "My father is a hero."

"Mhm," said Mr Radcliffe vaguely. "I shall write to him and summon him as quickly as possible. He lives not far from here, actually—about half a day's ride. You will have him here within a few days."

"I cannot wait," Master Daniel said, his eyes filled with tears.

As a matter of fact, neither could Mr Radcliffe.

# 11

Nothing was as soft as the skin on a naked man's chest, and the skin on the chest under Megan O'Connell's fingertips was the softest she'd ever known, and a delightful contrast to the mass of hard muscles underneath. When she pressed her face against it, the arm belonging to the same torso, which in turn belonged to Joseph, tightened reassuringly around her waist. She closed her eyes, breathed in the whiffs of man and hay and horses. _Men_ , she thought, drowsily, _are made to keep females warm_.

"Mm..." His voice vibrated underneath her ear, caught in the hollow of a firm ribcage. "I like it when you snuggle up like that. You're just like a kitten."

"Meow," she replied and dug her nails into his flesh.

He drew his breath, grabbed her wrist and pulled it down, pinning it against her side. "A bad little kitten. No more milk for you."

"You mean you have some left?" She reached down to investigate. Immediately, what had just previously been limp and soft, now turned hard again. "And you call _me_ bad?" she chuckled. "Ready for another go, sweetheart?"

"Always." His voice was husky with desire. "With you, I could go on forever, I swear."

He fell back against the hay and let her fondle him. She moved her hand slowly and teasingly up and down, while repeating his sweet words silently to herself. _With you_. He compared her to other women in his past, and she was better.

"That feels just grand, darling. Ah, yes..."

He inhaled sharply between his teeth, pulled her on top of him and folded both his arms around her. She felt his heartbeat through the silken skin, strong and fast, echoing her own excited rhythm when she steered him inside her. They groaned in unison; she licked his throat, his nipples, arched her back when his fingers dug into her backside, gasped with pleasure when he pulled her down.

After the two hours of being with him, she was sore, sticky and sensitive. She came fast, and he followed a few minutes later, shaking under her. This was the first time in four days they had been together, and they had longed for it, saved up for it. It wasn't easy to sneak away for these precious moments, and they both knew they had to take advantage of it when they finally got the chance. Which reminded her...

"Time to go." She slid off him, warm sticky fluid drizzling down her thighs as she did. She took some hay from the floorboards, hoped it wouldn't be too infested with mouse droppings, and scraped off the worst. "We _have_ to get back," she said when he didn't move. She reached over him for her chemise, pulled it swiftly over her head. "I don't want Mrs Goodall to get up to use the chamber pot and find me gone."

"Don't you think she knows about us already?" he grumbled.

Megan shook her head. "I'm not going to risk anything. You know that. This is the best job I've ever had."

The job she'd had before coming to Giatelli's farm—as a scullery maid—had been horrible. Hardly no food, lousy pay and constant beatings by the mistress of the house. That day when the master of the same had shoved her against a wall and put his hand under her skirt, she'd had enough; she'd packed her measly belongings and left the same day. While she's been walking there on the road, she'd met Joseph, who'd been on his way to town to sell a yearling. They'd started speaking, and eventually, he'd brought her with him back to Giatelli's farm. Mrs Bradley hadn't thought twice about hiring her. Two weeks later, Joseph and Megan were a couple, inseparable and heedlessly in love. That was two months ago now, and Megan's body still tingled with desire whenever she saw him.

Now, he sat, leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his knees. The bluish light illuminated his body, all wiry muscles and taut skin. She would never get tired of looking at him.

"Maybe we should marry?" she suggested.

It was a joke, but also, in all secrecy, not a joke at all. She was eighteen years old, and it was time. But Joseph snorted and poked her in the side.

"You know I'd love to make a decent woman out of you, but it's a bit early yet, hen, don't you think? After two months, I only know you have the loveliest bottom in the whole world, and the sweetest breasts I've ever laid my hands on."

She struck him on the arm, not because he was teasing her, but because what he said was hurtful. _She_ felt connected to _him_ in a way she'd never felt before, and she would be happy to be his wife. Besides, her brothers found out that she'd bedded a man without first marrying him, they would be furious. Admittedly, Joseph was not her first—she had given up her maidenhood long before she met him—but he was the right one, and all of a sudden, these things mattered. She wanted to get married, and she wanted to carry his baby. Or rather, his babies; a whole house full of them.

Joseph picked up on her mood, leaned closer and caught her lips in a soft kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, salty and sweet at the same time.

"We're good for now, hen," he said as he withdrew. "When the time is right, I swear I will bring you to the altar as my wife."

She smiled, warm despite the chilly air. "Good. I will hold you to that."

In a surge of energy, he jumped up on his feet, and flung out his hand, giving her bottom a hard smack. "Now get dressed before you catch a cold, hen."

They parted outside the stable, as usual—he to go to his chalet, which he shared with two other workers, while Megan had to go to her maid's chamber in the main house. She remained there for a while, squinting through the darkness after him where he walked. Then, with a sigh, she pulled the shawl tight around her head and started walking. The gravel crunched under her feet. The frost had left it sprinkled with diamond dust, a beautiful sight. Next to her, by the fence toward the woodland, a thick mist rose gently from the ground. She could hear an owl nearby, its lonely sound making her shiver. Her mind turned to the Irish folk tales that her brothers had enjoyed scaring her with. They'd loved to talk about the _sluagh sidhes,_ the spirits of the restless dead. _They wake when they sense the blood of a maiden_ , they'd said. _They love virgins—they want to steal their souls._ True, Megan wasn't a virgin anymore, but she couldn't imagine that the evil spirits were all that pernickety. Since she was the only living creature out here right now, they probably reckoned she was good enough. What would it feel like, to have one's soul sucked from one's body? Not nice, she wagered, and paced up.

A faint rustle of dry leaves on the yard, moved by the breeze, sent her heart racing. _Not far now, Megan_. The house was right in front of her, a short walk away. Something rattled behind her—pebbles, kicked by a shoe. She froze, arms to her sides, her fingers splayed. _Someone is walking behind me_.

She grabbed the small crucifix she kept around her neck, pressed it hard between her fingers until the edges cut into her flesh and closed her eyes. _Hail Mary, full of Grace..._ She should run, but didn't dare to move. Carefully, she glanced over her shoulder. Saw a shadow, shorter than hers. _The Lord is my Guardian; the Lord the shade I keep. By day the sun cannot harm me, or the moon by night._ _Oh please, please, spare my life..._

"Megan?" said a voice. "Is that you?"

She knew that voice. She swirled around fully, gasping with as much anger as relief.

"Master Daniel," she breathed. "What are _you_ doing out here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he replied. "I thought you were a ghost."

"I thought _you_ were a ghost. You scared me half to death."

"I'm sorry." He didn't look very regretful. "It's cold. Shall we walk back to the house?"

Slowly, her senses returned to normal. "Don't pretend like you have a right to be out here," she said. "You should be in bed."

"So should you."

Megan pressed her lips together, without answering.

"It's Joseph, isn't it?" Master Daniel continued. "I've seen you sneak into the barn with him before at night-time. What are you two doing anyway?"

"That's none of your business."

"I think I know. I've seen the animals, mind you. How they do it."

She gasped. "Master Daniel! How dare you talk like that!"

"I think Mother would be upset if she knew," he mused, tilting his head. The silvery eyes glittered like the frost-covered stones on the ground. "Don't you?"

"She'd be more upset to find out about your adventures. Don't you think I know where _you_ came from?" She tossed her head in the direction of the lodge. A light still burned in one of the windows, but as she looked, it flickered and went out. She turned to Daniel again. This time, she caught the anxiety in his eyes, just before he managed to mask it behind a cheeky grin. "What were you doing there?"

"Nothing."

"Something," she insisted.

She pulled him close and clamped her hand tightly around his chin, forcing his face up to reflect the moonlight. No signs of bruises. The boy squirmed free from her grip.

"Stop that."

"Did he hurt you?"

Daniel brushed off his jacket. "Of course he didn't. Why would he?"

She didn't answer. At least he seemed unharmed, and his annoyance was another proof of him having his innocence intact.

"What were you doing there?" she repeated, calmer now.

He shrugged. "Nothing."

They stared at each other for a while, until Daniel cleared his throat.

"Seems like we've both been doing things we aren't supposed to."

"Seems like it. So what shall we do about it?"

His eyes narrowed, and his reply came quick: "If you keep quiet, I'll keep quiet."

She'd expected that answer, but still, a rush of anxiety flushed her face with heat.

Daniel was a mischievous young man, just like all other boys. This, however, went beyond mischief. This was a serious matter. She should tell Mrs Bradley.

_I like my job_ , she thought. Mrs Bradley can be a sourpuss sometimes, but at least she doesn't beat me, and she has no fat, stinking husband to manhandle me. The job was well paid too, compared to some other places she'd been to.

"Well?" said Daniel. "What's it going to be?"

"Let's keep it to ourselves," she decided. "But you'd better not have done anything nasty with Mr Radcliffe."

"Nasty?" He raised his brows. "What do you mean?" Then he shook his head and smiled. "Everything is fine. In fact, it's _perfect_. You'll see."

"Why do I think of a cat who has eaten a big fat mouse when I look at you?" she said, darkly.

"Maybe because I feel like one." Daniel's grin turned wider. "I can't tell you, though. It's a secret for now. A nice secret. A surprise for my mother."

She frowned. "Will I get to know one day?"

"You will. Very soon, in fact, if everything goes according to plan."

He weighed importantly on his heels. She wanted to slap him, or shake him. At least, she wanted him to stop looking like that, so smug and conceited.

"Come," she murmured, turned around, started walking. "Let's go back to the house and forget this ever happened."

# 12

_All people have something that makes them beautiful in their unique way. Find what it is, Piccolina, and enhance it. That is how you make a good portrait._

Giatelli's words of advice had proved useful a great many times and did so with Mr Radcliffe in particular. With his skeleton-like appearance and sharp, beak-like nose, he wasn't handsome in any way—but he did have a very piercing, intelligent gaze, which she decided to enhance for his portrait. She'd mixed cobalt with lead white to get the exact shade, and applied it with a palette knife to get the correct depth and structure. It was easy to catch the perfect, unnerving expression. A little too easy, as a matter of fact. After a few minutes, her skin crawled under the uncanny stare. She straightened up and sent him a careful glance.

"Could... could you please move your head a little more to the windows?"

He did as he was told. "Better?"

"Thank you," she said but sighed inwardly, for he was still gawking at her, though he tried to be discreet.

Strange—he hadn't stared at her like this the day before. He'd looked at her, which was natural, but not with this intensity, as if he wanted to pick her apart. Perhaps, she thought with a pang of unease, this was how it was going to be in the future, lest she did something about it. A woman shouldn't be alone with a man in a room, and maybe, because this was how she preferred to work, it sent out the wrong signals. Did Mr Radcliffe think she fancied him? Giatelli had said that she changed when she was painting—that was when her fire showed, he'd said, and it transformed her into someone else. If this was good or bad, she didn't know—he had refused to tell her—but seeing Mr Radcliffe's sudden interest, the thought made her a little nervous.

Suddenly, the room felt too small, as though there was too little air.

"Let's have a break," she blurted. "A small one."

"Good idea," said Mr Radcliffe and pushed himself from the seat of the chair. He threw a glance outside the window. When following his gaze, Emily noticed that Daniel stood there, hands on his hips, staring in at them. "I'll go outside for a bit of fresh air, if you don't mind."

He disappeared quickly, leaving Emily to gape at the door. What was wrong with everyone? Megan had been strangely skittish this morning as well, refusing to meet Emily's gaze, her normally cheerfully disposition subdued. When Emily had asked if something was wrong, Mrs Goodall had snorted and said loudly that she could tell, if someone would only listen. Megan had told her to shut her hole, and then marched out... and by then, Mr Radcliffe had shown up, leaving Emily's questions unspoken. She had to ask Mrs Goodall later. There _was_ something going on, she could sense it. Emily wasn't blind: she knew Megan was infatuated with Joseph Gerard. No wonder—Megan was a lovely girl, and Gerard a handsome man, and they were bound to find each other... but Emily didn't like it one bit, and now, if something had happened between them, she had to know.

Her thoughts came to a halt. Slowly, her eyes on the window, she put down the rag she'd used to clean the putty knife. Daniel was still there, but now someone else was there, too: Mr Radcliffe. They smiled at each other, almost like good friends. Daniel looked quickly at the window and said something to Mr Radcliffe, who replied and threw a glance in the same direction. Emily knew he couldn't see her because of the reflection, but moved back just the same. And... so did they. As though they knew she stood there, watching them. _What is this? What's happening?_ Her heart pounded.

There was Megan now. Her normally bright face was clouded with concern. Decisively, she strode off toward the two, and she seemed to be shouting something. Mr Radcliffe's bushy brows furrowed, but he lowered his head and walked back to the front of the house. Megan stopped in front of Daniel, folded her arms across her chest and uttered what looked like a scolding. Daniel didn't answer. The way he bent his head told Emily he wasn't listening—she knew that sullen look on his face, too. Megan grasped his shoulder and ushered him toward the house. Soon, they'd disappeared through the kitchen entrance.

The door to the studio opened. Emily sent Mr Radcliffe a sharp look.

"I won't be a minute, Mr Radcliffe. I just have something to take care of."

Before he could answer, she'd swished past him, and hurried off to the kitchen.

* * *

When she arrived, both Megan and Daniel were still there, ogling a tray lined with Mrs Goodall's fresh hot pasties, their light brown flaky crust encasing its fragrant filling.

"You'd think they haven't eaten for days," she snorted while giving them one each. "Pack of wolves, they are. Shall I bring a few to the studio, madam?" she said to Emily, who stood in the doorway. "Mr Radcliffe is sickly thin, the poor man. He needs to eat."

"You may bring them in a minute," Emily replied. "There's something I'd like to discuss with you first."

Megan stopped chewing for a moment. Even with her mouth full of food, her eyes wide with anxiety, she was pretty. Daniel, on his end, had taken on a sullen expression. Slowly, he put his pasty on the workbench.

"If it's about last night, madam," Mrs Goodall said, "I heard her too."

Emily blinked. "W—what?"

"Megan, of course." Mrs Goodall slapped a baking cloth over a tray of unfinished pasties. "You know I'm one to mind my own business, but it's gone to far. I don't feel safe with that man around. Mind you, I know Master Giatelli thought highly of him, but a man is a man, as I always say, and he has a dark past. Very dark. 'I will guard my mouth as with a muzzle while the wicked are in my presence', the Bible says, but I cannot hold my tongue when the wicked walks so closely. Putting us all in danger, you are."

"Mrs Goodall," Emily said, sharply. " _What_ are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about how Megan brought Gerard with her to her chamber last night. They tried to sneak in, but my hearing is excellent, madam, so I heard them, plain as day. Two pairs of feet."

Finally, Megan spoke. Her face was very red. "I don't know what she's talking about, madam," she murmured. "I was in my bed all night."

Mrs Goodall snorted. "And now she's lying as well, the naughty girl. Protecting that man, when she should be protecting all of us instead."

"Joseph isn't dangerous," Megan protested.

Mrs Goodall glared at her. "You don't know, then? He hasn't told you? I figured he wouldn't." She shook her head. "The man has been in gaol. Sentenced for _murder_. And he wasn't innocent, mind you. He really did kill a man. So don't you tell me he's harmless. That man is marked by violence."

Megan had been staring at her. Now, she uttered a low sound, like a whimper. She turned around, dropped the pasty—it fell with a splat on the floor—and ran for the door. They stood there in silence, until Mrs Goodall finally spoke again:

"I'm sorry, madam. But it had to be said. He may be doing a good job, but I don't like to have criminals roaming the house. It was one thing when Giatelli was alive—he could keep an eye on the boy. But we are only helpless women and children left now. What can we do, if he gets the idea that he wants to harm us?"

"I understand." Emily nodded, numbly. "Thank you."

Gerard. Not a friend—despite his help in the past, they'd never became friends—but a valued worker. Someone she'd _trusted_.

"Are you sure about this, Mrs Goodall? That he's a...?"

"Quite sure." She nodded, bleakly. Wiped her hands on her apron. "I don't listen to gossip, normally, but... I think this in particular has got some substance."

"Ah... Here you are."

Emily jumped at the sound of the whiny voice behind her, and Mrs Goodall looked equally startled. When she turned around, she met the curious glance of Mr Radcliffe. He smiled toward Daniel, who didn't reciprocate. _What's happening here? Are we all going mad?_

"I'm sorry, Mr Radcliffe," Emily said, her face stiff. "I will be right with you." She turned to Mrs Goodall. "Please bring a tray of refreshments to the studio. And tell Megan, when you see her, that I would like to have a word with her and Joseph Gerard as soon as possible."

# 13

Megan ran to the stables, where her dishevelled appearance made Joseph frown and instantly leave Amal's box, ducking under the horse's head as he went for the door.

"Hey," he said. "Didn't expect to see you here now. Anything the matter?"

"Yes. I... I need to talk to you. Right now. It's important."

His hands fell down along his sides, sand-coloured brows forming a troubled V over his gaze. "What's the matter, hen?"

"Not here." She threw a glance through the open door of the stables, to the main building, then quickly looked away. "Somewhere... safe."

He stared at her for a moment, before he nodded and grasped her hand. "Come."

He led them to the banks of the stream that ran along the outskirts of the farm and cut through the landscape like a giant snake. The recent rains had left the water wild and untamed. Frothing and swirling, the river made its trail eastbound toward Egham. Along it, the willows bowed deeply toward the water, and birches showed off their foliage as sparkling cascades of fire, an explosion of breath-taking colour. Some trees had already let go of their clothing, and Megan's feet stirred the thick rustling carpet of wet, decaying leaves, and their thick, sweet scent tickled her nose. They'd been before a few times and knew the place well—they'd made love there a few times, on the flat stone by the bank, before the weather had grown too cold. Her skin prickled in the humid air. Joseph found a good stone to sit on, brushed off the mat of leaves and offered her his jacket. He sat down beside her, threw his arms around his knees, and stared out over the swirling water.

"Mind telling me what has happened?"

She bit her lip. "I heard some things. About you." From the corner of her eye, she could tell that he stiffened. "Are you... Are you a murderer, Joseph?"

Silence. Deafening, telling silence. If he had at least gotten angry. If he'd grabbed her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes and asked her where she'd heard this preposterous lie, and was she insane, thinking this way about him... But he said nothing. She heard his trembling breathing, as if he was fighting for control, and started to tremble herself.

She had been eleven years old when her brother Aindréas had taken down an English soldier outside their own house. The soldier had only been there to ask for the way—he was lost and had been searching for his comrades. Aindréas had struck him down and strangled him. The whole family had been involved in carrying the corpse into the woods to bury it. She remembered very vividly the dangling head with the bulging eyes and the protruding, swollen tongue. When everything was done, Aindréas had given her some things that he'd taken from the soldier's pockets. Some coins, a silver snuff box, but also a locket with a picture of a redheaded lady. Megan had cried over that picture a great many times afterwards, knowing that somewhere, this lady was waiting for her husband or brother, whoever he was, without knowing he was gone forever. Murder was foul, and those who killed even fouler. And now, her own fiancé seemed to be one of those.

She stared at her hands. "Who was he?"

"I don't know his name. He was a... a loud-mouthed troublemaker. We came from the same neighbourhood, but I only ever saw him at the alehouse."

Megan nodded. Joseph had told her about his past, how he'd worked at a tannery and spent most of his earned money on ale and women.

"He was one of the regulars, and nobody liked him, for he always caused trouble. One evening, he troubled one of the maids. Forced her to sit on her lap and groped her... Eventually, I had enough and went up to him. Told him what I thought about him. He..." Joseph swallowed. "He didn't take it too well. I'd known, of course, but I didn't know he'd react that violently."

"What?" Gently, Megan touched the sleeve of his shirt. "What did he do?"

"Pulled out a knife. Charged at me with it. I wasn't prepared, and before I knew it, he'd cut me under the chin."

Megan had seen the thin, jagged scar that ran along his jaw line, almost up to his ear, and nodded. Her sympathy had swung for a bit, which felt good. It wasn't so much Joseph the murderer now—it was Joseph the defender. Much better.

"I bled like a pig," Joseph continued. "And I was furious. I managed to wrestle the knife from him, gave him a punch on the nose to calm him down, but it didn't help. The bastard picked up a bottle, broke it against a table, and went for me again. I still had his knife, though. He... ran straight into it. Think he must've been dead, before he even hit the floor."

"Oh." Megan swallowed. For a brief second, she wondered how a man willingly could run straight into a knife, but she decided she didn't want to know and that she would never ask Joseph about it.

"The other guests overpowered me and brought me to the county gaol at Warwick. Got a quick trial, I did. The other guests tried to talk well of me, but murder is murder, and the judge knew me from the past—nothing serious, but he knew me as a troublemaker, which I probably was, too. And the other man, the one I'd killed, was apparently a decent family man. Who knew?" He shrugged, bitterly. "I was sentenced to death, and... that was it. They threw me back in my cell, and there I had to sit. And wait. It was horrible. All I could think of was how I'd wasted my life doing nothing, and about the things I was going to miss when I was dead. And I didn't even know _you_ back then," he added with a smile. She smiled too, through her tears. "Then, one day, the door to my cell opened and a man walked in. A dark and very large man dressed in black. I thought he was a priest, and was more than happy to see him, because it meant that soon it would be over."

But the man wasn't a priest. The dark stranger squatted in front of Joseph, placed a hand under his chin and lifted his head, squinted into Joseph's eyes. After a minute or so, he grunted, as if Joseph had somehow confirmed something, and stood straight _. I want this man,_ he said to the gaol guard. _Release him_.

"He had the strangest accent I'd ever heard. I later learned it was Italian."

"Was it Master Giatelli?" Megan asked. Her mouth was open—this was the most enthralling story she'd heard.

"Who else? He explained later that the judge was an old friend of his, and he was claiming a favour. That's how he could pick me out and bring me away from there."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he needed me."

Joseph reached for a twig that had fallen to the ground from the willow above their heads, broke it in half and threw the pieces into the swirling water. They continued down the stream where they soon parted, thrown between malicious eddies.

"Giatelli wanted a reliable man. One who wouldn't back down when it came to protecting someone weaker."

"Couldn't Master Giatelli take care of himself?"

Joseph shook his head. "Not him. Miss Emily, as we called her back then. And Master Daniel."

"But... why? And from whom?"

"From Master Daniel's father. Giatelli was going away from time to time, and needed me there when he couldn't be there himself."

This was getting stranger and stranger. She knew Giatelli hadn't been Master Daniel's real father, but any probing she'd done to find out who the man really was, had stranded rather miserably with stern looks and a scolding. It just wasn't something one talked about, Joseph included.

"Is he dangerous? Master Daniel's father, I mean?"

"I don't know. I'd assume so." Joseph gave a small shrug. "I had my instructions, in any case."

"To kill him?"

"We never spoke about it, but I'd assume that, too. If I had to."

Megan sat still, staring at the frothing stream. She was cold, her skin covered with moist, but she barely felt it. Poor Joseph... He'd sure been through a lot. She glanced at him, found that he too was gazing out over the street, contemplatively, his eyes remote. He seemed calm, perhaps even a little relieved. She liked to think that it had eased his mind to tell her; that she had healed him and thus had become even more important to him.

"And now?" she asked, quietly.

"Now?" He glanced back at her. "What do you mean?"

"What happens now?" She shrugged. "Giatelli is gone. You're free."

"I don't see it that way. I never saw myself as not being free in his care."

"He used you."

"I used him too. To survive." After a questioning look, he leaned his head against her and rubbed his nose against her clavicle. "I've had a good time in this place. Not to mention, I met _you_."

"I guess." She relaxed a little, placed her hands on his head, dug her fingers into his thick hair. "I wish you'd told me this sooner."

"I know. I'm sorry. I couldn't, hen. You're so innocent—I didn't want to ruin that."

Innocent... She snorted. "It... it wasn't nice to hear it from Mrs Goodall," she then said, "but I suppose I can't blame her. That's the worst part. I want to hate her, but I can't. She was right, in a way. Wrong, but right."

Hesitantly at first, but for each word with more confidence, she told him about the moonlight encounter with Master Daniel, and about what Mrs Goodall had said in the kitchen.

"She was awfully angry," Megan said and pressed Joseph's hand, eager for his support, "and Mrs Bradley's face went all stiff; it was awful to see. She looked at me like I'd let her down. And I _have_. Just not in the way she thinks."

"You have to tell her, Megan." He tilted his head back to the rain-burdened sky and drew his breath. "What on earth was the boy doing with that man at that time of night? Do you think he's in trouble?"

"I don't know. Maybe. All I know is that he's up to something. He keeps... smiling at Mr Radcliffe, and today, just before this happened with Mrs Goodall, I saw them together outside the house, whispering like old hags. My skin crawls just thinking about it." She shivered, demonstratively, and rubbed her arms. "But Master Daniel won't tell me what's going on. He just keeps saying it's a surprise. A nice one."

"Maybe it is? Let them handle their own things, hen." Joseph pulled her closer, breathed out in her hair. "I know I have to protect them, but I have another girl to protect, too. _My_ girl."

"Your girl... I like that."

She smiled and snuck a cold hand under his shirt to tickle his chest hair. He gasped, but smiled as well.

"Whatever happens, we'll stay together," he said. "Maybe it's time for us to leave, hm? Go to London, maybe. Lots of people move there, you know. I can get a job at a tannery like in the past, and you can be a housemaid. We'll make it work."

"Maybe."

She tried not to show how ill at ease his words made her. She didn't care much for larger towns—they were smelly and dirty and she'd heard the most dreadful stories about mistreatment and injustice.

"I hope Mrs Bradley lets us stay, though," she said, meekly. "I don't want to leave this place."

"I know, hen." Joseph kissed her. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine. I'm here to take care of you."

She liked that, too; the sense of ownership. She was his, and he was hers.

When he gently pressed her down onto the stone and ran his hand under her skirt, she contemplated pushing him away at first—it felt like the wrong time and place for an amorous encounter—but he was persistent and she didn't really mind the closeness, so she gave in and relaxed, placed her arms around his back and allowed him to lower himself over her. While he moved inside her, she looked up at the dark blue sky and thought about how it felt like, after this day, everything would be different.

When they came back, Mrs Bradley had just finished the session with Mr Radcliffe and was bidding him farewell from the staircase. The skeletal man passed them on the yard, and sent them both a curious glance, as though he wondered what the stable groom and the housemaid was doing walking together hand in hand like that. Nevertheless, he gave them a courteous nod, then slunk off to his cottage, the door slamming hollowly in the silence.

Mrs Bradley remained on the stairs, a stone-faced, tall figure, frightening in her dark bombazine dress with the high collar, her eyes burning. Megan tried to think about what Joseph had told her—that once, this imposing woman had been a girl they'd called Ms Emily, who'd been in dire need of Giatelli's protection. She didn't seem to need that protection right now, however, and she didn't seem like someone who was called Emily, either. Megan folded her eyes to the piercing gaze, but Joseph was brave enough to look the woman straight in the eye.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to speak to us?"

"I was actually wanting to speak only to you, Mr Gerard," she replied, "but now that the both of you are present... Why not?"

Megan squeezed Joseph's hand. "We haven't done anything wrong, madam," she said, her voice a tad shrill.

"Would a priest agree, I wonder? Or a judge, for that matter?" Before any of them could answer, she'd turned on her heel and melted into the shadows inside the hallway. "There are too many ears here," she threw over her shoulder. "Come inside, please."

They followed like obedient dogs. Megan sensed that Joseph didn't like it: his arm beside hers was tense, the muscles taut, and when she glanced at his face, she saw that his jaws swelled with annoyance. _Please don't say anything that will cause her to throw us out_ , she pleaded. _Please behave_. But she knew Joseph had a temper, and come to think of it, so did she. This could end up any which way.

She led them into her studio. It was an odd choice of room for this kind of conversation, but Megan thought that perhaps she felt safe there. The portrait of Master Giatelli, the guardian of this farm, which was normally turned to face the wall, had now been placed so that he was watching them. Megan, who'd only seen the painting once before, stared at it, with a strange pang of regret that she'd never met him. That face... She'd had a few lovers and some of them had been excellent in bed, but this, she felt, would have been something else.

"Well," Mrs Bradley began, and Megan, who'd forgotten about her, flinched. "Let's start with the most pressing matter. Mr Gerard, I want you to be completely honest... Have you been in gaol for murder?"

He didn't falter: "Yes."

Maybe it was his hard tone, maybe the confession, but she staggered back a little, as though he'd hit her in the face.

"Care to explain how it happened?"

He shrugged. "No."

Megan pulled at his hand and glared at him. _Tell her_. He pretended not to notice. _Bloody, proud men_.

"He was protecting someone, madam," she said. Now, it was Joseph's turn to tug warningly at her hand. Just like he had, she pretended not to notice. "A bad man assaulted a girl and Joseph stepped up and stopped it."

Mrs Bradley's eyes lost their hard sheen. Megan saw both confusion and something almost resembling panic fight to win ground in the woman, before she managed to find her composure.

"Is this true?" she asked Joseph, stiffly.

He shrugged again. "Don't know why it matters how it happened. If you don't trust me, you don't trust me," he muttered.

"There might be situations that..." Mrs Bradley drew her breath. "You should have told me."

"Can't see why I should."

"I think so too," Megan said. "You should have told her. _Everything_."

"Megan—"

"No!" She glared at Joseph. "You shut your mouth."

She couldn't take it—couldn't stand his cold-hearted stance and arrogant attitude for one minute longer. Mrs Bradley had always been nice to them, had she not? She was a bore, but she was kind and a good employer. Megan wasn't going to let Joseph ruin the only decent job she'd had since coming to England. She yanked herself free from his grip and clenched her fists.

"You should know that Master Giatelli knew what Joseph had done, madam. _He_ was the one to save Joseph from the gallows. Because Master Giatelli needed someone like him, someone who had a backbone, someone who would know how to protect a woman, even if it would put himself in danger. You, madam. He was put here to protect _you_."

She closed her mouth, panting. Watched as Mrs Bradley took a step back, her face drained from all colour. The woman stared at Joseph, who shook his head, miserably. _He's going to be so mad at me,_ Megan thought, _but I don't care_. She wanted to put her tongue out to the painting of Master Giatelli. _This is your fault, you know._

"I'm not a dangerous man," Joseph said, finally. "I'm disappointed that you haven't already come to that conclusion. After all these years, after all my time in Master Giatelli's service. In _yours_."

Remarkably enough, tears welled up in the woman's eyes and she put a hand to her mouth to stifle the sob. Suddenly, she looked very young, barely older than Megan, and Megan, who'd always assumed Mrs Bradley was over thirty years old based on how she dressed and her stiff demeanour, wasn't so sure anymore. She wondered if Joseph knew and made a note in her mind to ask him later.

"I know it's difficult," Joseph said, softly. "It was a shock when he died, to all of us. Me too. We were... friends. I miss him. But you must miss him even more—not only was he your friend, but also your rock, your protector. It must be hard now that he's suddenly gone."

She nodded, still with her hand over her mouth. "I feel... like I'm standing... blindfolded next to an abyss," she whispered. "One step wrong, and I'll fall." Her eyes turned pleading. "I _have_ to be like this. I have to be this... hard and... and question everything, but I don't like it. I'm afraid that I'll turn bitter and suspicious. And alone."

"You're not alone, Ms Emily."

Speaking her old title was probably deliberately done, and when Megan saw the shiver run through Mrs Bradley, and the sense of peacefulness falling over her features, she felt a pang of jealousy, for here was obviously a connection that she knew nothing about, and that she wasn't invited to take part of.

"We're here to help you. It doesn't have to be bad. Different, definitely, but not bad."

"Different." She repeated the word, then smiled, without bitterness. "I think you're right in that. _Everything_ is different. Especially now."

"Indeed." Joseph shrugged. "For what it's worth, I'm still bound by my vow to Master Giatelli. I'm here to make sure that you and Daniel are safe, just like he did, when he was alive. That is my promise and that, I shall honour."

"Thank you." Her voice was thick. "I'm sorry. For not trusting you."

A smile touched his lips at that. Megan watched it in awe, and felt oh-so-proud that Joseph was her man.

"So, madam... Shall we pack our things, Megan and I? Leave this very evening? Or may we stay?"

Megan tugged at his sleeve, but his smile grew wider, as if he already knew the answer.

"You're staying," Mrs Bradley said. "If you don't mind."

"No, we don't mind it at all," Megan hurried to say, afraid that Joseph would get some strange idea to decline. "Thank you, madam." She curtseyed. "Much appreciated."

This might be a good time to mention what Daniel had been up to—in fact, the very reason they'd ended up in this mess to begin with—but on the other hand... it didn't seem like a good time at all. _Let them handle their own things_ , Joseph had said, and in a way, he was probably right in that. After this day, Megan didn't want to make more noise than necessary.

She took Joseph's hand again, and they walked to the door.

"Please close it behind you," Mrs Bradley ordered.

Even before the door was completely shut, Megan could see that she had slumped onto the nearest stool and hid her face in her hands. When she nudged Joseph to this fact, he placed his arm around her shoulders and steered her away from the room.

"Leave her be," he whispered. "She needs some time alone."

He was probably right in that.

# 14

The morning air, fresh and crisp, kissed Emily's face and nipped at her fingers as she left the house and quickly made her ways to the stables.

It was still dark, but the sun had slowly started to rise above the hillsides, leaving the fog that had collected on the grounds to shimmer in milky pink. A couple of deer, standing on the fields just at the borders of the yard, raised their heads to look at her. They stood there for a moment, stiffened in fear, before finally darting off, swift steps crunching against the frozen grass. Even now, her mind in turmoil, she stopped and smiled at the sight. Nature had always had a calming effect on her. Ever since she'd arrived at the farm, she'd felt it—she even remembered how she had opened the carriage window on their way there, to stare in awe at the breath-taking scenery. Later, she'd taken walks to soothe her mind, and later still, when she had learned to ride, she'd brought Bramble along. Bramble was long since gone. She had Amal now; the Arabian horse Giatelli had given to her.

It felt like the right thing to seek him up now, and already outside his box, she felt her heartrate go down. Amal... Her trusted friend and the only real connection she still had with Giatelli, a token of his love. She pulled off her glove and reached out her hand to caress the silken nose. He blew on her arm, tossed his small head.

"I have some carrots," she said, "but I'm not giving you them just yet. We're going out for a ride. How about that?" He nickered, impatiently. "I think you'll like it. It's early, I know, but I needed to come here before... before the others arrived."

Gerard. That's what she meant. She needed to come here before Gerard did. She couldn't really muster the courage, or strength, to face him yet. Yesterday's confrontation still haunted her, and the revelation still shocked her so much that she could hardly think straight. That was why she needed to go out for this ride. To gain perspective. Think about what had happened. And try to reconcile with Giatelli's betrayal.

She managed to prepare Amal all on her own, even though the animal got slightly annoyed at her insecure fumbling. This was normally something Gerard would do, and she didn't have the right touch.

"I'm sorry," she murmured to him as she took him outdoors. "I know it's different."

He pranced in the cold air, his ears moving in all directions. Even though the sun had started to leave russet orange streaks over the sky, the lingering darkness was something strange, something frightening, and he saw ghosts everywhere.

"It's alright."

She patted him and sat up. Felt his muscles twitch, the need to set off. Despite having been trained by the best—a claim Giatelli had made lots of times—Amal wasn't an easy horse to control with his volatile temper and strength, his insensitive mouth. This had always suited Emily, however. She liked the challenge, and enjoyed knowing that the animal listened to her; in fact, she was the only one who could ride him, and she reckoned this was a precious gift.

Riding out on the fields, her senses lifted for a bit, much like the mist rising from the grounds. Her shoulders relaxed, and the slight pain, like a band of steel around her forehead, that had plagued her since the night before, faded. It wasn't so strange that she had a headache. She'd spent most of the hours until midnight crying, and after that, she'd tossed and turned, before finally getting some sleep in the small hours before dawn. And why? Why did she feel this way? She couldn't quite tell. Mostly, it had to do with Giatelli's decision: that he'd employed a criminal to protect her from another criminal. Perhaps it had seemed like a rational solution, and perhaps it even _was_ a rational solution, but it was also a stupid thing to do. She remembered how scared she'd been of the raggedly handsome Gerard at first, and even to this day, his confident posture and scornful eyes filled her with dread, because he reminded her of things she didn't want to be reminded of, and she didn't feel _safe_ around him. As it turned out, her suspicions seemed to have been well grounded. A murderer...

She dug her heels into Amal's sides, made him leap forward. The ground rushed beneath her, and she turned her face against the wind. _Go_ , she thought. _Run as fast as you can, leave everything behind. Let's ride up into the clouds together._

They jumped small logs and across tiny streams, and Emily ducked under branches and dodged for the twigs, kept Amal going, felt his strength under her, the beautiful, untamed force, her nose filled with the scent of his sweaty body. Finally, when they were both as exhausted, she halted him. She gave him a hearty pat on the neck, let him drink from a stream and take a few mouthfuls of withered grass from the ground, while she caught her breath on his back. She felt better now. Less anguished.

Joseph was a murderer, but he was also a mild-mannered man. She mustn't forget that. Yesterday, Megan had barked at him to keep his mouth shut, and he hadn't even blinked. And Megan seemed to be in love with him. She was a sensible girl—would she be involved with a dangerous man? Emily didn't think so. She allowed her thoughts to wander, spent some time thinking about how they had clung to each other's hands, as if they collected strength from one another. Emily had been fascinated by this, and also sad. It was beautiful, somehow, but not for her.

She nudged Amal's head from the ground. He looked up, a patch of grass sticking out of his mouth. The day had now definitely woken, the sun quivering behind the treetops, the sky pink and orange. A crow flew over their heads, crossed the sky, its caws flat and lifeless in the silence. Joseph would be in the stable now, wondering where Amal was. Mrs Goodall would be in the kitchen, boiling eggs and making scones. Megan was probably awake too, tending to the beds. A normal day. Normal, and different—but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"Come," she said softly to Amal and turned him around. "Time to go home."

The first thing she noticed, was the carriage on the yard: a shining black coach connected to dark, powerful horses, not unlike the ones Giatelli had once owned. From behind it, Daniel stepped out and waved enthusiastically at her.

"Mother!" he exclaimed. "Come over here quickly!"

She frowned. "Calm down," she muttered to Amal, who pranced nervously under her, working himself up to a frenzy.

To keep from falling off, she dismounted and grabbed his reins close under his mouth, locking his head. Slowly, she approached the equipage. Daniel was gesturing to someone behind the carriage, as though signalling to the person to stay hidden for a little while yet.

"What is this, Daniel?" she said, sharply. "What are you doing?" Mr Radcliffe stepped out behind him. She didn't have the impression this was the person Daniel had been wanting to hide, however. "Who is behind there?"

Despite his smile—his ridiculous, ear-to-ear grin—she felt unease creep along her spine.

"It's a surprise, _Mamma_. Close your eyes."

"I will _not_ close my eyes. You tell me what's going on, this instant."

He looked a little sullen. "Sure. If that's what you want. Come out," he said to the person behind the carriage, and gestured grandly.

Emily saw boots moving on the other side of the carriage. The person entered her line of vision, a man, slender and with a majestic stature, his clothes dapper, the hat on his head gleaming in the sun. It took a moment or two before her mind had connected him with the memories, but then, like a snap in her head, she realised who he was. Those eyes, those translucent, piercing eyes, along with the cruel line of his mouth... They couldn't belong to anyone else.

She gasped, took a quick step back, stumbled over her dresses and almost fell, but managed, by holding on to the now frantic Amal, to stay on her feet. _No, no, no..._

From behind, Gerard appeared. He looked concerned, and she saw his lips move, as though he was asking something, which she couldn't hear since all sounds had turned into a grey-brown buzz in her head. He took Amal from her, to save her from getting kicked.

"Pat him dry with hay," she heard herself say. "H—he needs that. He mustn't be s—sick."

"Mrs Bradley..." Mr Radcliffe tapped his walking stick twice to the carriage side. "You are acting a tad strange, I must say. Are you not happy?"

"Happy?" She turned to him, slowly, as though moving through treacle. "I can't say I am."

" _Mamma_ , are you unwell?" Daniel ran to her and grasped her arm.

"I think she's fainting," a voice said—the very same voice she heard in her nightmares, where it mocked her, or told Paul to collect her.

In that moment, she understood. The man... He really was there. Daniel's father had found them.

"No," she breathed. "No, please..."

She heard Daniel call out for her again, before everything went completely black.

"Is she dead?" Mr Radcliffe immediately knew that his question was silly, even before his lordship turned to glower at him. "Of course not," he murmured, also to calm the boy, who was staring at his mother with tears in his eyes.

It was a mystery, all of it. Nothing seemed to be going to plan; the joyous moment when the two reunited had simply never occurred. Lord Charles had been annoyed ever since he'd arrived to the farm—playing games was certainly nothing he appreciated—and his mood hadn't improved much. While his meeting with Master Daniel had been quite touching, the rest had failed to live up to what Mr Radcliffe had expected. Mrs Bradley had stared at Lord Charles as though he was the devil himself, he had showed no sign of even recognizing her. Mr Radcliffe swallowed and met Master Daniel's gaze, saw the same question in his eyes. Why?

Lord Charles kneeled beside her.

"Unconscious," he concluded, after having pressed his fingers against her neck. He looked up at Mr Radcliffe, his eyes unusually dark with annoyance. "Needless to say, I have some remarks regarding how you managed this little spectacle of yours, Mr Radcliffe. And I would love to have some explanations, too. Shall we carry her inside?"

He moved to place his arm under her body, but a shout from the stable made him pull back. Mr Radcliffe raised his gaze and noticed that it was the stable groom, the one who'd been walking hand in hand with the maid, scandalously showing his feelings for all to see. He wagered they weren't married.

"Get away from her!" he called out. "Touch her and you'll have to deal with me."

How annoying. Mr Radcliffe wrinkled his nose. Lord Charles, on his end, had slowly risen, and stood, his head lowered, his hands clenched along his sides.

"Mind your manners, stable boy," he growled. "Do you know who you're talking to?"

"I know _exactly_ who I'm talking to."

"Who am I then?"

They were eye to eye now, almost chest to chest. The outcome of a potential fight would be uncertain: they were almost the same size, Lord Charles slightly slimmer, a bit neater in build and not as muscular, but Mr Radcliffe knew he didn't mind a good fight. Over the years, Mr Radcliffe heard of the fiery young man's rather extensive merits in this area. That, and duelling, seemed to be his favourite past-time. Apart from seducing ladies, of course.

"I asked you a question," he said.

The groom set his jaw. "You aren't welcome here, sir."

"That's no answer. Who are you to decide that, anyway? A stable boy?"

From the house, the little maid came running. She threw a frightened glance at Mrs Bradley, but seemed to deem the situation between the two men more pressing, and ran to them first.

"Joseph..." She took his arm, tugged at him. He didn't move. Stiffly, he stared at his lordship, who stared back. "Joseph, please. Don't start anything."

"She's right," Lord Charles said. "Don't start anything, _Joseph_. Especially seeing the ending won't be a very good one, where you're concerned."

"And you think I care?"

"Joseph, please!" The maid's voice carried shrill over the yard. "Don't do this."

Her desperation woke Mr Radcliffe, who realised he had to be the better man at this moment.

"Now, now, gentlemen." He shoved his walking stick between them and tapped the groom on the chest. To his relief, the man took a step back—though it might just have been because the girl forced him, by pressing at his chest. "Let's be sensible, shall we? It's cold and not healthy to leave Mrs Bradley on the ground like this. I'm sure, once she's inside, we can have a nice, balanced and rational discussion, all of us. Not you," he added, pointing at the groom. "You'll stay out here. We'll handle this."

"Yes, Mr Gerard," Daniel said, his face pale. "Please do as they say."

"But—"

"No." Lord Charles shook his head. "You are in no position to protest. Go back to the stables, where you belong. And you..." He pointed at the maid. "Take the boy with you for now. We need to speak to this... woman...without disturbance."

Master Daniel appeared to be wanting to refuse, but the maid shook her head, warningly, and grabbed his arm. Though he shook it off, he followed her, his head lowered, his eyes full of hurt. He too hadn't expected all this commotion. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"Rest assured that we will care for your mistress," Mr Radcliffe said nervously to the groom. "Now, give us some room to take care of her."

"You shouldn't have to explain anything to that man," Lord Charles snapped. "If he had been part of my staff, I would have flogged him for his impertinence." He stooped, and slid one hand under Mrs Bradley's neck, the other under her knees. She had begun to wake up, and struggled a little, without opening her eyes. "Keep that in mind for the future, stable boy."

Without caring to wait for a reaction, he scooped Mrs Bradley up in his arms and headed toward the entrance of the house.

# 15

She woke the same minute that the man placed her on the chaise longue, stared into his eyes, so close to hers that if he bent any closer, they'd be touching. With a gasp, she put her hand up and placed it over his face, pressed it away. He cursed, dropped her unceremoniously on the bolstered seat and moved back.

"What the hell," he said. "What's wrong with her?"

She tried to stand, but the dizziness forced her to sit again—she pressed herself against the backrest, her heart racing.

"Go away."

"Madam... Please pull yourself together." It was Mr Radcliffe's voice. He appeared behind the man's shoulder, peering over it at her. "You appear a tad hysteric."

"A tad?" Lord Charles murmured. "Try immensely."

"She's normally calm and composed." Mr Radcliffe said and tilted his head. Together they stared at her, as if she was an interesting piece of art. "I don't understand... She seems afraid of you?"

_Yes_. She tried to convey the message to Mr Radcliffe, but he wasn't receptive to her signals, much too occupied to ponder the mystery to notice anything around him.

"I can't understand how that can be," the man said, scratching his head. "I don't know her."

_What?_ Emily froze. Slowly, she raised her head and stared at him, and met a blank, unemotional stare. It dawned on her that what had happened had made no impact in his life. He'd moved on through his life, unaffected and free, while she'd been stuck in the prison he'd created by his actions. A welcome wave of anger flowed through her. _I'm glad I scratched you_ , she thought, with a dark glance at his cheek, where the thin, silvery stripes from her nails were still visible in the golden skin, the ghost of his past. _At least I left something with you, something ugly and shameful. Even if it doesn't mean anything to you, at least I did that._

"This doesn't make sense, my lord," Mr Radcliffe lamented. "It _is_ your son out there, isn't it?"

"I think so. It must be." The man frowned. "I don't understand it any better than you do. I just cannot remember... Perhaps I was drunk?"

"I suppose that is possible, my lord," Mr Radcliffe nodded. "Alcohol is the culprit of a great many forgotten adventures."

Emily clenched her fists. "How can you not remember me?" she blurted.

"Oh, look at that: she speaks coherently," Lord Charles said, tartly and clasped his hands in mock delight. "How exciting. Maybe now we'll get some answers." He leaned over her, causing her to sink back. " _Should_ I remember you? Or... wait..." His sand-coloured brows furrowed, and he seemed to stop breathing for a moment. Slowly, he raised a hand and placed it against his cheek, fingers touching the skin gingerly. "Ah yes... But it was a long time ago now."

"Eight and some years, my lord," Mr Radcliffe supplied, earning a swift, annoyed glance from the man before he turned to Emily again.

He moved closer, and she moved back against the backrest in an attempt to escape the unnerving gaze.

"Yes, it _is_ you. The girl who ran from me in that utterly foolish manner. But... What the hell are you doing _here_?" He straightened up as if stung by a bee. "Mr Radcliffe? What in the name of the devil have you cooked up this time? Is this a joke?"

"N-no, my lord. Would you care to explain why you would assume so?"

_My lord_. That was how Mr Radcliffe addressed the man, and he seemed to be extremely submissive—just like Paul had been. Maybe Paul had addressed the man in the same manner, but she couldn't remember anymore. All she'd known was that he'd been wealthy, but not more than that. A man of higher status, then? So what did he want with her?

"Who _are_ you?" she said, her voice feeble, but steady. "Why are you here?"

"Why he's here?" Mr Radcliffe interceded. He tapped his walking stick against the floor twice and pursed his lips. "Do you really have to ask? Does a man not have a right to see his own son?"

"No."

He blinked at her straight answer. "Well, in any case," he then said, raising his chin importantly, "this man, if you do not know it already, is Lord Charles William Herbert Stanford III, son of an Earl and a _very_ influential man. I'll have you know—"

"Please don't." The man shook his head, clearly irritated. "Mr Radcliffe, obviously, there is some brilliant thought behind this. I think you wanted me to meet the child, then the mother, and realise, in a fit of elation and immense joy, that they will be the solution to my problem. Is that so?"

"Yes." Mr Radcliffe nodded. "That was the idea."

"Did..." Emily grasped her skirt. "Did Daniel know about this?"

"Of course, madam. We liaised for the reunion. He has been eagerly awaiting this moment."

Mr Radcliffe's glare told her that he thought she'd ruined it by fainting and not acting grateful. She closed her eyes, briefly, and breathed in through her nose. Painful as it was, she wasn't surprised. Daniel must have thought about his father for a while—long before he confronted her about it—and probably took the chance when he saw it. She couldn't blame him, not really, but... it still hurt. Everything about this hurt.

"Can you tell me what's going on?" she pleaded. "You talk about me—about _us_ —like we aren't here, but we have a right to know." She tried to look the man straight in the eye, but didn't quite succeed: the memories were too strong and made her feel sick, so she had to look at a fleck on his right temple. "Are you here to take my son away from me? In that case, I will not allow it. I will fight you, with all my might."

There was a baffled second of silence, then a small chuckle from the man. "Fight me with all your might, you say? How cute. What makes you think you'd do better this time than the last?"

She looked down on her hands, hot in the face with disgust.

"Mrs Bradley," Mr Radcliffe said, a tone of confusion in his voice. "We're not here to take Master Daniel from you. We are not monsters. Besides, we need you both to accomplish our goal."

"Which is?" she said, flatly.

"To attain an inheritance. You see, Lord Charles is not capable of—"

"She doesn't need to know that," the man thundered, suddenly aggravated again. "Please stick to the essentials, Mr Radcliffe. And if you don't know what they are, I will tell you right now."

"Please do," Mr Radcliffe said, with a tired shrug.

"In that case, I will tell you that this is a ludicrous idea, and that we're further from a solution than we've ever been."

"But why, my lord?"

"Because she's a prostitute."

Mr Radcliffe drew his breath, sharply. "My lord... Really, such a language is uncalled for, and _very_ insulting."

"I know. But in this case, it's true. I bought this woman once, at a brothel in Old Woking, I think it was. We shared one night together, which obviously was enough to produce that miracle of a boy. I'm happy about _that_ , but needless to say, I can't be altogether happy about _her_. I'm not sure what your intentions were with this, Mr Radcliffe, but if it was what I'm thinking, then all I can say is that if I drag her to the altar, my grandfather will definitely disown me."

"Altar?" Emily felt the colour drain from her face. If she had any left. "Altar? As in... _marry_?"

Mr Radcliffe stared at her for a moment. His mouth was open, revealing a black hole with rotten teeth that was neither flattering, nor did it make him look very intelligent.

"Ah," he croaked, finally, "yes... That was the... idea..."

"You want me to _marry_ that man? No. _No_!" She gathered her strength in one single breath. "I've had enough of this," she snapped and stood, pointed with a trembling finger at the door. "Leave. Now."

"She's telling us to leave, Mr Radcliffe," the man said, amazed. "This little louse, this miserable creature, is ordering _us_ to leave."

_I hate you_ , she thought, so fervently it felt as though the emotion set fire to her whole body.

"Fine," she said, raising her chin. "If you don't leave, I will."

She strode off to the door, and had almost reached it when she was pulled back by a hard tug by her wrist. Between one breath and the next, she found herself face to face and chest to chest with the man, wrestled up against him, so close that she could feel his breath on her face. Images whirled through her head, impossible to stop, and she struggled in panic, but the grip was too tight.

"If you think I'm going to let you run off like you did last time, you're very mistaken," he hissed. "Now sit down and listen, whore, or I _will_ make sure you lose the boy, and I will not think twice about it. Understood?"

He shoved her back against the _chaise longue_ , where she fell. Shaking, she put her hands over her face and tried to escape the memories, but they attacked her from every corner now, vicious and black, so vividly that she for a moment couldn't tell if it was happening again or if she was only imagining it. _Stop it, stop it_... She fought with her breathing, but the panic held her body in such a tight grasp it felt like she'd been buried alive.

"Maybe... maybe you shouldn't have done that, my lord?"

Mr Radcliffe's voice reached her through the darkness. Mr Radcliffe... A person from her present, someone who hadn't been there then, and who was here _now_ —which meant, she had to be here now too, and that what her mind was doing, had nothing to do with reality. Slowly, the images faded, and her senses returned: the room at the brothel turned to Giatelli's library, the smell of cognac and cigar smoke transformed into the pleasant scent of baked bread and soap.

"At least I got my point across," the man said, coldly. "She knows who her master is now."

Emily took a deep breath, wiped her sweaty brow and felt her heart go back to a more normal beat. She shivered so badly her teeth clacked.

"Are you well, madam?" Mr Radcliffe asked. "May I get you anything? Some tea? Whiskey?"

The thought of putting anything in her stomach made it take an unpleasant loop, and she shook her head.

"Whiskey... Now there's an idea!" exclaimed the man.

From the corner of her eye, she could see him walk toward the drink cart—Giatelli's drink cart. He lifted one of the carafes, removed the crystal cork and sniffed carefully into the bottle.

"Ah yes," he said, with an approving tone, and reached for a glass. He offered Mr Radcliffe too, but the man declined politely. "How about you, sweetheart? Sure you don't want one?"

"No thank you," she murmured.

He shrugged, poured a generous amount into the glass and took a good gulp. It seemed to invigorate him: when he returned to them, his eyes were aglow with regained confidence.

"You know, Mr Radcliffe... It might not be so bad. I'm thinking that if my grandfather can play games, then so can we."

Mr Radcliffe made a slight grimace. "With all due respect, my lord, the stakes are a bit too high to engage in risky games."

"What do we have to lose?"

"Nothing, actually," Mr Radcliffe muttered. "You're right, my lord. What did you have in mind?"

"Well... I'm thinking that she's not completely hopeless. She seems to be well educated and her English has some class. She carries herself with dignity and doesn't look too bad, I guess. Good teeth, stunning eyes... She's not _simple_ , in any case. With a bit of jewellery and nice clothes, she'd turn almost noble. Almost."

"Hm," said Mr Radcliffe.

"Now think about it, Mr Radcliffe." The man gesticulated, eagerly, with the hand that held the glass of whiskey. "The contract didn't mention that I had to marry someone of my own status. It's not recommended that I go below, but my grandfather cannot _deny_ it. Only, she cannot be... who she is at the moment; he'd never accept a fallen woman as my future wife. We have to change that. Alter her background for a bit and create a plausible explanation as to why we already have a child together; some sob story about how we fell in love but lost contact when I was called to Ireland—whatever we can come up with. When that's done, we put some nice clothes on her, add a bit of glitter, a fancy necklace perhaps. Then, we take her and the boy to my grandfather for his approval. When we have that, we marry as quickly as possible. _Et voilà_! Success!"

Marry. Emily heard the word, but didn't understand the meaning of it—she refused to understand it. They couldn't be serious, and this couldn't be happening. Yet, it seemed as though it _was_ happening, right in front of her, and nobody was listening to her.

"I... I don't want to do this," she whispered. "Please..."

The man sighed.

"Still trying, are we? One would think you'd have learned what'll happen when you disobey me, by now."

"Madam," Mr Radcliffe said, his tone considerably softer, but not a whole lot more understanding. "A solution like this is not only beneficial for his lordship, but also for you. You will get everything you dream of, a life full of riches, and Master Daniel will get a father, _and_ a title to his name. His lordship is actually right: refusing to go along with all this will only result in bad things, which I'm sure none of us want. Right?"

The impact of everything that had happened had started to sink in, leaving her to feel vulnerable and exposed, and vastly tired. Without wanting it, tears rushed to her eyes and spilled over.

"Besides," Mr Radcliffe continued, "a woman of your sort has no right to make demands." He snorted, and his following words dripped with acid. "Didn't I know you were a questionable woman, the moment I saw you? Didn't I tell you so? That you were a fraud? I'm always right, you know. Not that I could have ever imagined that it was this bad. A strumpet..."

"Be quiet, Mr Radcliffe." Lord Charles glowered at him. "This is my future wife you're speaking to, and the mother of my child. Another bad word about her, or _to_ her, and I will shove that stupid cane of yours into your throat, understood?"

Mr Radcliffe gawked, then swallowed hard. "My apologies, my lord," he murmured. "I thought... I didn't mean to..."

"Bah." He flicked his wrist. "Just be quiet."

"Yes, my lord." He bowed his head, the imagery of a beaten dog. Then, carefully, he raised it again. "If I produce some documents that state she's the daughter to, say, some wealthy merchant—do you think that would be sufficient?" he continued, his voice servile. "We could make her Dutch. Dutch families have started to flood this country, and some of them are impossible to trace. I know this from personal experience. I had a case recently where−"

"I'm not interested in your recent cases, Mr Radcliffe," Lord Charles interrupted him. "So how would you explain the fact that she doesn't speak a word of Dutch? You don't, do you?" he asked, turning to Emily. Not knowing what else to do, she shook her head. He turned back to Mr Radcliffe and shrugged.

"We could say her parents died at an early stage in her life," Mr Radcliffe suggested. "That she was brought up by an English benefactor. We could never fool your grandfather into thinking that she's from a noble family; she's not nearly refined enough for that. But to present her as a wealthy merchant's daughter would at least be plausible."

_No, no, no_ , Emily wanted to scream, _can't you see this is absurd_? Everything about this was absurd, and she wanted to tell them to stop, to leave her alone... but she couldn't. Slowly, she wiped her sweaty hands on her dress, and glanced at the man, who flashed her a slanted smile. With a shudder, she looked away again.

"I think I have both the connections and the means to carry this out, my lord," Mr Radcliffe said, thoughtfully. "If things go well, the paperwork will be above reproach. Nobody will know."

"Make it so."

"Please..." Emily wrung her hands. Her brain had started to function, and the words were there, though frail. "Please, be... reasonable. I didn't ask for this; I didn't wish it. Please leave me and my son alone. Just... go away."

For a minute, all was silent. Then, the man drew his breath.

"Well done, Mr Radcliffe. You're not so stupid, after all. I suggest you set everything in motion as soon as possible."

"I will, my lord."

She covered her face with her hands, breathed in and out in an attempt to regain control. There was a knock on the door, the shuffle when it opened. An agitated voice:

" _Mamma_!"

She looked up. Daniel ran across the room toward her. He knew she normally didn't like to be touched, but didn't seem to care this time and ran straight into her arms. She let it happen, took comfort in his small and hard body and warm breath against her cheek. Worriedly, he gazed into her eyes.

"How are you, _Mamma_? You scared me when you fainted like that, and they wouldn't allow me in here."

"She's fine. And happy, but overwhelmed," the man said. "Let's leave her here to collect herself. Meanwhile, you can show us around, hm?"

The pressure of Daniel's arms around her neck disappeared. He beamed at the man—his father, and Emily could really see that he was filled with both wonder and awe over this amazing fact—and nodded eagerly.

"Let's start with my room."

He grabbed the boy by the shoulder and turned him around, ushered him out into the corridor. The door slammed shut behind them.

She stared at it until their voices had faded, too numb to feel anything at all.

Refusing to have anything to do with her visitor, Emily barricaded herself in her studio for the rest of the day. When Mr Radcliffe asked—through the door—if they could come inside and have a look at his painting, she told them to go away, and they didn't persist.

"She's really a good artist," she could hear Mr Radcliffe say as they walked off, and then his lordship's answer, muffled but perfectly audible:

"I doubt it."

The pair left Giatelli's farm later that afternoon. She watched them leave, her arms around her upper body and her face stiff, unemotional. When sure they were gone, she went to the kitchen, where Mrs Goodall was busy, furiously baking short bread.

"What is all this for?" Emily asked, viewing the trays that covered most of the work space and shaking her head. One would think, she thought in a moment of gallows' humour, that the cook was preparing for the wedding dinner.

Mrs Goodall stopped whisking the paste and blew a strand of greyish hair from her sweaty cheeks.

"I just need something to do, madam. I'm so... frustrated."

"I understand that."

Emily took a step further into the kitchen, grateful for the homey atmosphere. Next to her studio, this was her favourite place, and she'd always felt safe there, amidst the pots and pans, the fragrant dried herbs, and Mrs Goodall herself. The older woman struck out her hand holding the spoon, waved it about.

"Well, aren't _you_?"

"I don't know." She was a tad surprised herself, that she wasn't reacting harder, but couldn't bring herself to feel anything. Maybe because if she allowed it, everything would come at once, and she'd shatter in pieces. "I guess."

"You guess?" Mrs Goodall shook her head and placed the bowl on the workbench. "That _was_ Daniel's father, was it not? That silver-eyed devil? Megan told me he started out just _fine_ by having a row with Joseph. What a gentleman, eh?"

Emily noticed the shift in Mrs Goodall's opinion: Gerard was obviously forgiven, which meant Megan must have talked to her.

"I wasn't aware," she said, weakly.

"No, but it's true. And that's enough to tell me about the character of the man—but I also happen to know how he treated _you_ once." She put her hands on her hips and glared at Emily, her lips trembling with indignance. "He went from room to room, the beastly creature, nodding and humming as if he owns the place. Why did he do _that_?"

"I don't know."

Emily avoided Mrs Goodall's sceptical glance. It had been a mistake coming here, she realised. Mrs Goodall wouldn't give up until she'd had some questions, and all the answers held words Emily couldn't even voice in her mind.

"Will they come back?"

Emily closed her eyes. She couldn't really keep this from the cook. "Yes, they will."

"And then what? What do they want?"

"Please, Mrs Goodall... I don't... I don't want to talk about it."

Mrs Goodall stared at her for a moment, then picked up her bowl and started stirring again. What Emily had with painting, the woman seemed to have with baking: it was a way of calming down, of grounding herself, feeling secure.

"This is a cursed day, to be sure," she muttered. "I don't know what to do, madam. _Can_ I do anything?"

"No. Just..."

_Be here_.

" _Mamma_?"

She flinched and turned her head to the doorway. Daniel took a wary step over the threshold, his hand on the doorframe.

"How... how are you?"

"Your mother is not doing very well," Mrs Goodall responded, sharply. "If I understand it correctly, it has all to do with you, Master Daniel? You brought that man here?"

His eyes had widened—he wasn't used to such a tone—but then he squared his jaw.

"That _man_ is my father," he said. "And it was meant to be a happy surprise." He struck out his hands. "I don't understand... Why don't you like him, _Mamma_?" Thankfully, he continued, without waiting for her answer, and she understood why: he didn't want one. "He's a fine fellow. He said he was sorry to go, and that he longed for the next time. And did you know that he's an Earl? I will become one too, eventually."

"How is _that_ going to happen?" Mrs Goodall said, frowning. "Mrs Bradley, you don't mean to say...?"

"Indeed: my father has the intention of marrying my mother," Daniel intervened, tautly. "He has promised me to take good care of us, and I know he will do that."

The cook gawked at him. "Mrs Bradley? Is that true?"

Unable to form any words, or even a coherent thought, Emily shrugged and looked away.

"He loved Amal," she heard Daniel continue—a nervous ramble, meant to fill the silence and give it meaning. "He thinks it's a beautiful horse. The Emperor Bonaparte has one just like that. Did you know, _Mamma_? It's called Marengo, and he lets artists make paintings of him, just like Giatelli did once, remember? That's when he brought Amal back."

_Yes, thank you, I remember. The day I rejected him and broke his heart._ She was almost certain of that, and equally certain that it had sent him to an early grave. It hurt to think about. More than that: she couldn't bear to think about it, without her own heart breaking. If he had been alive, he would have been furious by what was happening. And, most importantly, he wouldn't let any of it happen.

"It's late, Master Daniel," Mrs Goodall said, firmly, "and you seem a little too elated and need to relax. Let me make some warm milk with honey and bring it to your room before you go to bed."

He made a faint grimace, but then shrugged. "Sure." His eyes slid to Emily's face. "Perhaps you should go to bed soon as well, _Mamma_? And... maybe you'll feel better tomorrow morning?"

_Or maybe never again?_ She nodded, however, stuck in some silly notion that she somehow, for some reason, needed to reassure him that she was doing well, even though she wasn't. He hesitated, his small hand grasping the doorframe, knuckles whitened.

"It's going to be fine, _Mamma_. We will be happy together, all of us. Like a family, a _real_ family. I will make sure of it."

She closed her eyes. Her throat ached, as though she could start to cry at any moment.

"Time to go, Master Daniel," she heard Mrs Goodall gently say. "I will bring you your milk soon."

Emily held out until he was gone. When she felt Mrs Goodall's hand on her shoulder, and heard her say that whatever happened, she would stay with Emily, she let go, and cried out her pain in the older woman's arms.

# 16

_Enniscorthy, Ireland_

* * *

_October 28th, 1806_

The Olde Fiddle, situated right outside the small town of Enniscorthy, held a certain rugged charm with its long, low stone building completely covered in vines. Even by the end of October, when all else in nature had started to wither and turn into dusky shades of brown and grey, the plant still glowed in red, framing the small, leadlight windows and inviting thirsty by-passers to stop by for a glass—and indeed, the place was always full. The impressive number of guests, however, had nothing to do with its charms. The locals had long since stopped going there, and few by-passers entered the premises. The men who went there cared more for convenience than they did its quaint appearance, which had all to do with the fact that most of the regulars were soldiers of the Enniscorthy infantry regiment, situated a mere ten-minute walk down the road. The thrifty proprietor had of course taken notice of this and offered a menu where, much to his guests' delight, all the dishes and drinks carried novel but tasteless names like 'Commander Lake's kidney pie', 'Rebel's Ragout' and 'Bold British Bitter'.

After two years, Colonel Lyndon Stanford had grown extremely tired of the place and even more tired of his rowdy comrades. It was always the same faces, and they were always too drunk... and he wasn't an ounce better, always drinking a little too much and ending up tired and miserable. At least until the next night, when everything repeated. Not going wasn't an option: Lyndon hated his quarters more than he did the alehouse. At least here, they had some decent food and drinks, and with regularity and blissful reliability, he was given the opportunity to forget, night after night.

This particular evening, he wished he could have been more drunk than he was, but also knew he'd probably reached his limit for now. He glanced at the still-folded note, deceitfully white against the coarse, ale-stained slab of oak that made one of the two refectory tables in the small premises. The boy who'd delivered it had known exactly where to go and hadn't doubted for a second to give it to him. _Your eyes, sir,_ he'd said. _I was told to look for them._

"You alright, Stanford?" bellowed his comrade on the other side of the table, sending him a skewed glance. "You look a tad green, mate."

He swallowed and nodded. Didn't care to reply with words, since no amount of screaming would override the drinking song that his comrades had just started. The noise, like a choir of horny bulls, vibrated in his ears and he wished fervently that he'd been alone—but he was stuck on the bench, lodged between two sturdy fellows.

With a sigh, he reached for the note, held it gingerly between his fingers. The wax seal, coat of arms fully detectable in the red blotch, was all too familiar, and so was the handwriting. Lyndon closed his eyes, allowing the bitterness to take over, wash through him, and fill him with its pungent heat. _You have no right. After years of denying my existence, you have no right to remind me of yours._

A body, warm and soft, plopped on his lap. He managed to save his tankard of ale from tipping over before he quickly snatched the envelope from the table and slid it into the large front pocket of his officer's coat. With an annoyed grin, he put his arm around the pleasantly rounded hips of the woman—the place boasted a rather substantial army of prostitutes, all there to accommodate the Englishmen's needs, and this particular one was always aiming for a go with Lyndon, to whom she had a good eye.

"Why, hello there, sweetheart," he said, to be polite.

She grinned back at him, revealing a bad set of teeth in an otherwise rather appealing face, plump cheeks flustered with the heat inside the large room, or perhaps the naughty suggestions of his comrades. "Not disturbing ye, am I, soldier?"

"Not at all."

"A bad liar, ye are. I think it has something to do with that letter ye just put in yer pocket." She touched said pocket, or at least in the area nearby—under his coat. "Bad news?"

_Yes_.

"I wouldn't know. Haven't read it yet."

"But ye think so." She pouted her lips, as though she could read the answer from his face. "Poor darling. Don't suppose this is the night that I manage to convince ye to let me cheer ye up for a bit? T'is no good to go lonely, ken. I've asked around about ye, and ye haven't been with any of us colleens. Why is that?" She leaned closer and put her lips against his ear, tickling it with her warm breath. "Ye don't have any wicked desires or anything like that, have ye?"

"Wicked...?" He suddenly knew what she meant and pulled away with a grimace. "No, of course not. I'm... I'm into women."

"Ah, good to ken." She chuckled, crept closer again and tickled his chin. "Into women... I like how that sounds," she purred. "So why don't ye come into me, soldier? I'll keep ye warm and satisfied. Ye can have it for free your first time."

_Oh God_... With a tired sigh, he pushed her on her feet and smacked her buttocks playfully, to take the edge of the rejection.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm not in the mood."

"As usual." She rolled her eyes. "I hear ye, handsome. Nay worries." She leaned over him, slid a hand under the table, and grabbed his crotch. He gasped but somehow managed to refrain from crossing his legs. "But let me ken when ye feel like having a go, aye?"

"I... sure will."

She winked again, and left his table, swaying her hips seductively on her way across the room, in an attempt to show him what he was missing out on. He was rather sure she would find distraction elsewhere.

The men around him continued to sing, this time a horrible song about a milk maiden and a merry soldier. They stomped along to the tune with their feet, and sweaty bodies swayed to the rhythm, pressing at him. He made a foul face, moved back on the bench to clear some space, and put his hand into his pocket, fished up the note. Slid his thumb under the folded edge of the envelope and broke the frail wax seal in half. The pieces fell down on his platter, sending a tiny splatter of gravy from the stew onto the table. Absentmindedly, he wiped it off with his sleeve, while reading. It was a very simple message—an intentional insult, no doubt.

* * *

_Dear Lyndon,_

_We request your immediate presence at Harcourt House._

_Regards._

* * *

No signed name: only a stamp, the Stanford coat of arms with its crossed swords over a ram. A stamp. Because he didn't deserve pleasantries or normal, bloody decency. Of course not. _Ten years_ , he thought. _Ten years of hurtful silence_ , of humiliation. And now, suddenly it was as though they didn't matter anymore. Or, almost didn't matter. He threw a glance at the note, obviously written by Buckley, who had probably enjoyed the opportunity to shove Lyndon's face in the dirt. _Typical Buckley. Typical Grandfather. Typical Charles._

What wasn't typical, was that they—whoever it was—had bothered to summon him. They'd gone so far as to send a messenger all the way to Ireland. One didn't do that, if it wasn't important. With a grimace, he threw the note on the floor, grasped the tankard, emptied it in two large gulps, and wiped the froth from his mouth. Decisively, he then stood and, with some difficulty, climbed over the forests of legs that impeded the exit.

* * *

The stillness outside the alehouse was a welcome respite after the brouhaha. He shoved his hands into his pockets, lowered his head and began the walk back to his lodgings. The air nipped at his nose, crisp and cold. The Irish weather was normally comfortably mild, but this year Jack Frost had swept furiously over the country, keeping it in a merciless grasp, and though it was still autumn and not even winter yet, it was almost unbearable _. As if the Irish need more trouble in their lives_ , he thought. He had seen much misery on his patrols during the last couple of weeks. He'd witnessed how men had cooked their leather belts, desperate for something to eat. He'd seen mothers bury their children, and some others offering to sell their bodies for a rotten potato or a piece of carrot. Truth was that the rebellions, which were the main reason for Lyndon and his company's presence, were greatly subdued, for the simple reason that the Irish were focused on staying alive rather than fighting for their independence.

The British Council of War knew this, of course. They were already preparing for a demilitarization of the area, and during the past few months, Lyndon's regiment had been reduced by several battalions. They had been transferred to the Continent, to Prussia, in order to put a stop to Bonaparte's fierce advancements. Within a year or so, he reckoned that the whole regiment would have demobilized from Enniscorthy. _That will suit me just fine,_ he thought. There was nothing left here to hold him, anyway. The question was, if there _was_ a place for him anywhere, at all.

His mind travelled to the note, made him halt. He wished for a second that he hadn't thrown the letter on the floor inside the tavern and had a moment where he considered going back to fetch it. He decided against it: by now, it had probably been stomped beyond recognition under wet soldiers' soles, so there would be no point in doing so, and he didn't really need the note to bring out his feelings of resentment. Any warmer feelings, if there had ever been any, for his so-called family had died violently ten years ago. There was no obligation for him to respond to his grandfather's request and he didn't have to go to his estate, because it likely wouldn't change the fact that he still was _persona non grata_ and as disinherited as one could get a man. His grandfather's urgent request had nothing to do with Lyndon—it was probably Charles who had come up with something, and they needed Lyndon to...

Frowning, he scratched his head. They needed him to do _what_ , exactly? Talk to Charles? Reconcile? Hardly. So what was it? Unless... A lump grew in his throat—not of worry, but of unease. Charles wasn't dead, was he? Was that why they wanted him to go there? To attend the funeral? But why not say so, in that case? _Because Buckley_. Buckley, the bastard, who enjoyed games like these.

It didn't take a lot of imagination to know that there had been a point behind the insultingly short message: to make Lyndon so angry that he disregarded the order. And then Buckley could run to Grandfather and lament about what a bad boy Lyndon still was. As the only good boy in the family, albeit not a proper Stanford, he had a good chance of attaining the inheritance, once Grandfather went belly up. Lyndon didn't have anything to say about _that_ , but still didn't want to give Buckley the satisfaction. Particularly not if Charles was indeed dead. Nothing would please Lyndon more than to look down on that face and tell him, once and for all, that he hoped his brother burned in hell.

"That settles it then," he said to the shyly twinkling stars.

His voice fell flat in the silence. It felt as though he was the last person on earth.

Smiling slightly, he resumed his nightly walk back to his regiment.

# 17

_November 7th, 1806_

Grandfather Stanfords estate, Harcourt House, towered at the end of an impressive linden alley. Three stories high, with two wings like huge arms stretching out on each side of the central building, and with the honey-coloured sandstone facade shimmering in the last rays of the November sun, it was nothing short of astounding.

"Pretty, isn't it?" said Mr Radcliffe.

Emily nodded, dumbstruck. There was nothing else to say. Up until now, she hadn't realised how powerful Lord Charles' family was, and the notion sent an unpleasant lump of ice to her belly; one that grew the closer they got. A family like this, one didn't disgrace. One didn't step on their toes, one didn't put up a fight. A woman like her—just like Mr Radcliffe had told her—had only to be quiet and obey, or she would end up being crushed by them. Or him, as the case were. Apparently, powerful families let others handle the crushing.

* * *

Lord Charles was expecting them. Having arrived to his grandfather's estate a couple of days earlier, he was already there, waiting for them on the large, circular-shaped yard. As they drove in, she heard Megan, who had been promoted to lady's maid for this journey, whisper that it was like being greeted by a king, outside his castle, and Emily could only agree. The majestic man, in front of the majestic house, his hair gleaming in gold and his eyes in silver, looked like a king from a fairy-tale, or a God from one of the Greek stories she enjoyed reading. Frightening, grandiose, almost other-worldly...

"My father," Daniel said, his voice warm with awe.

Emily swallowed. The month that had passed since the man's first visit hadn't changed Daniel's opinion the slightest—on the contrary. He lived in his own world, where the idea of a future marriage was splendid and everything was just fine. Somehow, he seemed to think that once she'd gotten used to the idea, she'd come to love the man. No amount of reasoning, even by the forceful Megan, could alter this notion.

They came to a halt in front of the house, and the valets quickly opened the door, allowing the fresh air to stream inside—Emily, who felt slightly sick, and not because of the bumpy ride, was relieved of that, at least. Daniel climbed over them all and slunk out like a sleek weasel, where his father immediately scooped him up for a hearty hug. Hand in hand, they waited for the rest of the passengers to disembark, which they did, one by one. His lordship's eyes shone with delight when he assessed them.

"Perfect," he said. "Well done, Mr Radcliffe."

Mr Radcliffe bowed, but it was clear he was content with the compliment. Indeed, he'd been busy during the past weeks, acquiring the necessary garments for a fine lady and her lady's maid, as well as for a young master. They were all dressed in his findings, Emily in a yellow dress and russet pelisse with decorations in gold along the hems, delicate gloves reaching to her elbows—an outfit that made her feel highly uncomfortable, especially when Lord Charles' eyes swept over her.

"Now," he said and clasped his hands together, "as we are all gathered, let's all go inside and meet my grandfather. Oh," he breathed with a look of utter revulsion, as he turned to the house. "But first it seems we have to suffer a meeting with my bloody cousin..."

Emily viewed the man who was waiting for them at the landing of the house. Large, he was, in fact so fat that the yellow waistcoat stretched precariously over the huge belly, the ivory buttons staying on by some strange, magic force. _He looks like Paul_ , she thought, her mouth suddenly dry. _That's it._ _I'm not going there._ She stopped and stood there until Daniel returned and nudged at her sleeve to start walking. Reluctantly, she trudged along, one step after another up the elegant staircase, until they reached the landing.

"My, oh my, what a charming troupe," Lord Charles' cousin said. He viewed Emily and Megan with an equal amount of amusement. "So which one is your fiancé, Charles? Knowing what you prefer, I'd say it's this one." He pointed at Megan. "Am I right?"

"Don't be stupid, Buckley," Lord Charles snarled. "You know full well who's who."

"Actually, I don't," the man said, utterly delighted, "but I guess it's the other one, then. An interesting choice..."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He shook his head. "If you don't have anything important to say, don't say anything at all."

"How about an introduction? Is that important enough?" He extended his hand. After a short moment, Emily understood that he wanted her to place hers in his. She shuddered when his lips, soft and moist, grazed her knuckles. Glittering brown eyes—by far his most beautiful asset, though unfortunately half hidden in pockets of fat—met hers. "I am Roland Buckley, Charles' cousin. On his mother's side only, which is a shame, but they have always treated me like one a true Stanford, have you not? At least I _deserve_ to be treated like one, for being such an invaluable support."

"In your dreams," Lord Charles muttered. "Emily van der Veer," he said, louder. "My future wife."

"Delighted." The fat man left her, his attention shifting rapidly to Daniel—so rapidly, in fact, that Emily knew that the boy had been his main interest all along. "And this must be the little miracle. Come here and let me have a look at you." He studied Daniel's face for a long time, then straightened up and shrugged. "Indeed, he's a Stanford. Seems to be yours as well, though it's difficult to tell."

"Don't be daft. Of course the boy's mine."

"He _could_ actually be Lyndon's, my dear Charles. We cannot know that for sure, as we don't know the story behind all this. To be on the safe side, I have summoned Lyndon to this event as well. Just to see his reaction."

"What?" Lord Charles' face went bright red. "What the hell are you saying? _Lyndon_? This is preposterous. Does grandfather know?"

"Maybe, maybe not. A little upset, are we? Or is it fear, perhaps?" He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. The amiable glimpse vanished, replaced by ice. "There is surely some trickery behind all this, Charles. Don't tell me this woman would suddenly appear, after all these years, just at a time when you need her—there are no such coincidences. I intend to find out what you're hiding from me. Lyndon is the first step. I have to rule him out, before I can move on."

"You're going too far, Buckley. It was you who was behind this bloody contract as well, wasn't it?"

Buckley shrugged. Lord Charles held up a finger and wagged it in front of his nose.

"A snake you are. Always have been. I swear, cousin, one day it'll come back to you."

"Don't hold your breath, Charles." Buckley smiled. "I make no mistakes. _You_ , on the other hand, usually _do_. And I will be there to dig them up, one by one. When you fall, and you _will_ fall, I will be the one to take over where you left off. Believe me."

Emily didn't dare to look at any of them. She could feel Lord Charles' rage, a simmering, radiating heat.

"Your grandfather is awaiting you in his chamber," Buckley said, lightly. "I will tell him you have arrived."

With a last glance at the small gathering of people, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the building. They stood there in stunned silence for a minute.

"Well, that was Buckley," said Lord Charles finally. His voice only sounded a little bit strained. "Good old Buckley. Always the same. I don't suppose I have to explain to you why you should never be alone with him, Emily?"

The grandness of the estate made Emily faint-headed. Having only heard of such splendour from Giatelli, who'd attested to spending time in palaces and castles all over the world, she suddenly got a glimpse of what he must have experienced. It made her both humble and sad to think about: he'd often told her that one day, she'd be treading such extraordinary places herself—but this wasn't what he'd meant, and she knew he'd have been furious if he'd seen her now. _I wish you were here, Giatelli_ , she thought, as she shadowed the soldier-like man before her. _You wouldn't allow this. At the very least, you'd be able to give me advice how to get out of it. Or strength to try. Now, I'm nothing; I don't dare to say even a peep in protest, because I'm afraid they'll take Daniel from me..._ _and that Daniel will let it happen._ It hadn't escaped her that the boy was still annoyed at her for not going along with the plans. He reckoned he'd done something good and was waiting in vain for her approval.

"You look nice."

She blinked, jostled from her thoughts. Lord Charles had stayed behind to join her side. His eyes searched for hers, and when he found the contact, he smiled, a surprisingly friendly and insecure smile.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"That colour suits you. Mr Radcliffe did well." He hesitated, came a little closer. "Have you... practiced?" he murmured. "You know the material?"

Her new background, meticulously put together by Mr Radcliffe... She'd had time to study it every day, and had done so too, like a good girl, together with Daniel. By now, she knew it by heart.

"Of course."

"Excellent." He gestured ahead, to a white and gold double door with a footman waiting outside. "We're there now." He leaned closer, lowered his voice so that only she could hear, and whispered: "Behave, please."

_Behave_ , she thought bitterly, as they treaded into the dark room. As if she was some misbehaving child, in need of a correction. Or a dim-witted person he had to control at all times, to make sure she didn't make a fool out of herself. This was, she realised, exactly how he saw her. With a sigh, she wiped her sweaty hands on the front of her dress—this was probably the kind of behaviour he didn't find appropriate, so she stopped immediately—and focused on the large canopy on the other side of the room. It was so dark in there that she could only make out its contours, and with the lack of sight, her other senses sprang awake, double sensitive, which in here, wasn't to her advantage. _Oh dear, it smells_ , she thought, tempted to put a hand for her nose, but since that wouldn't be appropriate either, she managed to steer herself from it. However, Mr Radcliffe discreetly pressed a handkerchief in her hand. When she looked at him, she noticed that he was clutching one over his nose. Hesitantly she did the same, and felt the relief of rose perfume, clear and fresh, in her nostrils.

Buckley was there, a dark, bulky figure beside the bed. He introduced her, then motioned for her to step closer. She sent Lord Charles a questioning glance, and he nodded, sternly. Her fingers tightly intertwined to stop them from trembling, she moved forward, all the way to the headboard, where this relic of a man rested. With his waxen features and milky eyes, which were possibly directed toward her, he looked more dead than alive, but she curtseyed, deeply. When she heard Buckley chuckle, and Lord Charles sigh, she knew it had been the wrong thing to do, but the old man didn't say anything about it.

"Emily van der Veer," he said. His voice was surprisingly strong and sharp. "Your parents were from the Batavian Republic? Or Holland, as I hear Bonaparte wants us to call it nowadays. Is that so?"

"Yes, my lord." She managed to refrain from curtseying again.

"Do you speak Dutch?"

"No, my lord. My parents died when I was very young. I was raised in England by my benefactor." She recited what she'd been instructed to remember, and hoped there wouldn't be any questions she couldn't answer. A quick glance at Lord Charles revealed that he was nervous: there was a slight sheen of sweat on his upper lip, and he tapped quickly against his thigh with his fingers.

"Hm," said the old man when she stopped talking. "Emily is not a Dutch name."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, Mr Radcliffe cleared his throat.

"How are we to explain her parents' choice of name, my lord?" he said, importantly. "They were probably influenced by some of the countries they visited. Merchants do travel a lot."

The half-blind eyes turned slowly to him. "Did I ask for your opinion, Mr Radcliffe?"

"No, my lord."

"Then be quiet."

"Yes, my lord." He bowed. Even in the dim light, Emily could see he'd gone pale.

"Come closer and let me look at you, Emily, dear child. You intrigue me. I'm not saying you are a fraud, but it's remarkable how conveniently you popped up in my grandson's life just when he needed it. On the other hand, I have listened to your voice, and I find it pleasant and intelligent. Are you beautiful?"

"Grandfather," Lord Charles snapped. "That's—"

"Hush," the man snapped back. When he spoke again, his voice was mild: "Kneel by my bed, my girl. You don't mind, do you? It's just that I need to see you properly."

"Of course, my lord."

She felt Lord Charles's dislike almost tangibly as she sank onto her knees.

"Good," the old man murmured. "Now lean closer."

The odours of his body invaded her nose, stale fumes of sweat and disease, badly disguised by almost overbearingly strong perfume. She breathed through her mouth, endured the situation as stoically as she could. The man lifted his hand, ran it with surprising gentleness over her face: touching her jawline, her hair, her eyes... She endured that too, shaking with the effort of remaining still. It was an odd moment, intimate and private, and eventually, Lord Charles protested:

"You sure are taking your time with my fiancé, Grandfather. One would think you're the one who's going to marry her and not me."

"Oh, be quiet, Charles."

But he pulled back his hand, and gestured to Emily to stand, which she did, sighing with relief. The old man fell back against the pillow, his eyes closed.

"And?" Lord Charles said when he didn't speak. "Is she approved?"

Grandfather Stanford opened an eye. "Definitely approved."

"Really?"

He opened both eyes. "You sound surprised? Shouldn't I approve her?"

"Yes, but—"

"I like it. She has a sensitive, lovely face. Good structure. Firm skin. I can see why she captured your heart. Her own judgment I will say nothing about, but I guess you wooed the poor girl with promises to get her to do as you wanted, and then left her when you'd gotten it. Don't try to talk to me about love, Charles," he added, his voice growing both louder and sharper, as though he expected his grandson to protest. "You don't love this girl, and she doesn't love you. At least not anymore, if she ever did. You are together because of the contract, because it's convenient for you both. I'm sure you will learn to love each other in time, however, if that is indeed your goal. I see nothing wrong with that. Now let me have a look at the child."

Daniel underwent the same scrutiny as Emily, and seemed equally determined to endure it. When he was finally allowed to step back, Grandfather Stanford gave a very loud sigh, clearly stating his contentment.

"Bravo, Charles. The boy is magnificent. For once, it seems you have done something correct. Even though it may not have been your initial intention."

"You are being unfair, Grandfather," Lord Charles replied. "I intended to marry this girl a long time ago, but alas, I was sent to fight the Irish rebels. That's what happened."

"Yes, you told me. It might be true, but it might also be a lie. I don't care. I hope you killed a lot of them over there, by the way."

"You can be sure of that. Butchered them like lambs."

They all heard the sound—like a cat, being strangled. It came from Megan, who stared at Lord Charles, her eyes black with fury, her fists curled up to hard balls.

"Megan," Emily murmured. "Not... not now."

"Why not now?" Lord Charles eyed the girl, curiously. "Do tell, girl: what's wrong? You do not like it when I speak about killing Irishmen? Are you perhaps Irish yourself?"

" _You_." Her face twisted in pain. "What you put my people through... I will never forgive you for that."

"Me, personally? Funny, I can't remember running into you before?"

"Not you. B-but the English... army." The girl was so upset she could barely speak, her eyes ablaze with fury. "You killed m-my father..."

"Again, I can't remember doing any such thing. But whoever did, I'm sure it was well-deserved."

She took a step toward him, her fists raised. He didn't back away. Viewed her coolly, as though waiting for her to hit him.

"Please," he said. "Go ahead. But just so you know, for an Irishman to attack a man of the Crown is a crime punishable by death. Even for a colleen as pretty as yourself."

Megan drew her breath. "You _bastard_."

Emily realised that she had no idea about Megan's life before coming to the farm. She had a faint notion Mrs Goodall had once mentioned that the girl had been sent to England by her brothers to earn enough money to sustain her own life, and maybe bring some of it back to them—but apparently, things had happened before then. It felt strange that the always so bright and seemingly untroubled Megan had a past that tormented her; Emily would never have guessed, and almost felt ashamed for never having asked. This was, however, not the right time to bring it up. Not at all.

"Megan," she said, pleadingly. "Please stop."

"Oh, but why?" Buckley said. "We haven't seen this kind of entertainment for years. Not since Lyndon and Charles had a go at each other—funnily enough over another Irish girl..."

"Shut up, Buckley," Lord Charles said. "I don't find this very amusing, actually. Only tedious. Will someone remove this maid from the room, please?"

"No need." Megan's voice was thick, but the trembling note wasn't from the crying: it was from anger. "I'm leaving."

Before anyone could stop her, she'd swirled around on her heel and left.

"Incredible," Lord Charles mumbled. "Just what I needed." He sighed. "I'll deal with her later."

Cold snaked its way down Emily's back. "No," she heard herself say. He looked at her, his mouth a sullen, straight line. "She's my maid. Let me do it."

For a moment, she was afraid he'd refuse her, but then he nodded. "Very well, then. Just make sure she never annoys me again."

"I promise." She curtseyed, which made Buckley chuckle from his corner.

"Lovely little menagerie you have there, my dear Charles," he said. "But let's not waste more time on this nonsense, hm? We have more pressing things to discuss, I believe."

# 18

Lyndon held back his horse by the end of the lime tree avenue and stared at the house, brooding in the dusk a few yards away. To find it unchanged, as if he'd left only yesterday, although it was ten years ago, felt as absurd as though he'd been subjected to a bad joke—but on the other hand, he shouldn't be surprised: this estate had looked the same... always. Maybe it was better this way, an efficient way of preparation. Nothing had changed on the outside, so nothing would have changed on the inside. _You're not here because Grandfather wants to take you in his arms and forgive you for everything you've done, Lyndon._ At least he didn't think so—but hope, or whatever it was, was a treacherous comrade, and as he urged his horse forward, it was there again, bubbling up to the surface. It was almost the only thing he was hoping for, a kind of recognition, or reconciliation. He had never really wished for Charles' death—not _really_ —but rather for his own absolution. It would be great to attain that, for one very particular reason.

The horse halted, nickered and bobbed its head, ears flicking. She had been with him for a long time, and such a behaviour was enough to make him wary.

"What's the matter, girl?" He dug his heels in her sides and clicked his tongue. "Forward please."

Despite his efforts, she wouldn't take another step.

"What on earth...? Is there something out there?" Curiously, he straightened up and squinted toward the house. A couple of windows burned cosily on the upper floor, but all else was dark. "See, there's nothing... there..."

Except a figure, moving on the front stairs, a dark grey blotch against the black. Despite the lack of light, he could clearly see that the shape was human—he saw a flowing skirt and what could be long hair, fair in the pale light. Heat rushed to his face. _The grey lady?_ he thought, while his heartbeats pounded inside his head. _Had they ever had a ghost story like that in this place_? He tried to remember, and, sure enough, Buckley had sometimes tried to scare the boys with his stories, but they hadn't been _true_. Or had they?

Now, he could clearly hear sobs in the silence. They floated to him, rising and falling, utterly sad and sickeningly haunting. Whoever this grey lady was, she wasn't very happy... but was she dangerous? His hand moved to pull the horse in the opposite direction when he froze, his head getting showered with heat once again.

_Eileen?_

His mouth formed her name. Was _this_ where she was? The thought filled him with grief and disbelief— _why would you come back here, Eileen? Why the hell would you do that?—_ but also with a strange sense of relief. She was here, which meant she could take him with her. He couldn't take it anymore; called out, in a low voice:

"Eileen?"

The sobbing stopped immediately. The figure, who had sat down and slumped on the stairs, straightened up and moved back against the door.

"No, wait..."

Quickly, he urged his horse forward, but even before he was there, he saw the shimmer of blond hair, like a rich waterfall over her shoulders, and the gleam of a white cap on her head, and he knew instantly that this wasn't Eileen. And whoever it was, she wasn't a ghost, either, for she seemed just as aware of him as he was of her, and immensely afraid, too. He stopped almost by the foot of the stairs, dismounted and walked the last few steps, squinting up at the figure. Large eyes in a very pale face met his, and while he couldn't see any distinctive feature in this darkness, he could at least tell she was both young and pretty. Her hair was amazing, thick and curly—the kind of curls one wanted to wrap around the finger and play with. She was clasping something at her neck, which he assumed was a religious symbol, a cross, maybe.

"I'm not dangerous," he said.

"How do I know that?"

"How...?" He took a step closer. Let the weak light flooding out from the window by the door lighten his features. It didn't help, however—rather the opposite. The girl's eyes flew wide open and she jumped back against the door with a yelp.

"Stay where you are," she whimpered. "I am protected by the Holy Mother and you may not touch me."

"Oh..." He blinked. "I wasn't planning on it..."

"Why have you come? Just so you know, I'm free of sin. At least sufficiently," she added, after a moment's consideration, and crossed herself to be on the safe side. "I'm a good person of the right faith; I go to church and I pray regularly. You may not take me. There are enough dark souls in this house to last you a lifetime, though. Help yourself," she added, with an inviting gesture to the door. "If you want, I can lead you to them."

"Er..." He scratched the bridge of his nose. "Who do you think I am, exactly?"

She raised her chin a little, putting her impish little nose in the air. "Why, Old Nick, of course. Are you going to deny it?"

Old Nick? The Devil? He shook his head. "Of course I'm going to deny it," he said, only just managing to hide his irritation. "It's not true. Why on earth would you think I'm him?"

"First of all, you're limping." She pointed to his leg. "That's the first sign."

"First sign of what?"

"That you're hiding a hoof." Her voice was patient, but like him, she was irritated, possibly because he, for being the Devil, was so dense.

He lowered his head to stare at his leg. He had a limp, yes. Normally, he wasn't very bothered by his defect, as it was part of him and nothing he thought much about, but now... This was the first time someone had made him feel ashamed of it.

"It's an old injury," he said, shortly. "No hoof. I could take off my boot to show you, but I have no mind to freeze my toes off to show you something so obvious."

She contemplated this for a while, before she seemed to make up his mind. "Very well then. But explain to me why you look exactly like the man in there? And I _know_ he's in there, because I left him there," she added. "Are you a shape-shifter, sir?"

Shape-shifter. The word, unexpected, yet familiar, made his heart jolt. A shape-shifter, he knew, was an Irish soul-sucker, and Eileen had been terrified of them. Many were the nights where he'd had to help her to the chamber pot, because she'd been too afraid to walk in the darkness on her own. This girl was Irish, just like Eileen. Though she spoke almost perfect English, there was a faint lilt in her voice that revealed her origins.

"I am no creature of the night; no demon, nor a shapeshifter, nor anything else," he said, his voice considerably softer. "My name is Lyndon Stanford. The man you mentioned and that is still in the house is my brother. We look very much alike, but I can assure you that I haven't assumed his apparition to lure you into trusting me."

"Good." She snorted slightly. "You'd have to try something else to get me to trust you," she said, her voice bitter. "I will _never_ trust that man."

_Ah_ , Lyndon thought. Charles never denied himself, it seemed.

"What has he done? I saw that you were crying before you noticed I was out here. Did that have to do with him?"

Her mouth turned thin and determined. "Might've."

"What did he do?"

She looked at him for a moment, a curious mix of curiosity and distrust on her face. Then, she let go of what she had been holding in her hand—he saw a glimpse of a small crucifix—and smiled, without really looking very happy.

"I've been here long enough and I'm starting to get cold," she said. "I think I have to go back now."

He wanted to tell her to stay but couldn't think of a reason, so she pulled open the heavy door and slunk inside, leaving the night to feel even colder and lonelier than before.

It was strange how one could get so detach with one's own memories. How he, who had lived in this house for more than half his life before he'd been thrown out, felt as estranged to be standing in the hallway as someone who'd never been there. Yet, nothing had changed in there. He looked in wonder at the mahogany table with its tortoise shell and silver inlays, the huge mirror with its gilded frame and brass sconces on each side and thought about how they must always have been there—but he couldn't remember them. The floor, he remembered. Where he was now standing, was exactly where he'd fallen when Charles had struck him down. The beautifully polished wood had been flecked by his blood; he did remember spitting it out, the metallic tang in his mouth and the pain of his bruised lips. And there, on the first landing of the grand old oak stairs, Buckley and Grandfather Stanford had stood, watching everything. Smirking, enjoying the show to the fullest.

_No, Lyndon,_ he thought, releasing his breath. _You won't receive any absolution from them today. But maybe some peace of mind for your own sake._ Which was just as important, come to think of it.

At the sound of a door opening in the adjacent wing, he raised his head and took on a more attentive stance, but he didn't feel a whole lot nervous. It was, he thought, as though that part of him where all those feelings resided, had died and left him with a mild, peaceful curiosity, as if none of this had to do with him. Maybe he should be nervous. After all, the distinct click-clacking of shoes, sounds of a man with confidence, and sounds that appeared to be coming closer with each step, were very familiar. _Charles_ , Lyndon thought and folded his arms across his chest. _I wonder what he will say when he sees me_.

Not much, as it turned out. When Charles entered the room and saw Lyndon, he froze with shock, and dropped his jaw too.

"Well, hello, brother," Lyndon said.

Charles had always been good at hiding his emotions. The shock vanished, replaced by a smirk.

"Lyndon... I heard you were coming. Alive and well, are you?"

"Indeed. As are you, it seems," Lyndon replied. "And here I thought Grandfather called me here to attend your funeral."

"Sorry to disappoint you." Charles shrugged. "This was Buckley's idea."

"Always Buckley... Where is he? And what does he want?"

"You'll see, soon enough."

* * *

Charles placed Lyndon in one of the drawing rooms, while fetching their cousin. Seeing the fat blob sent a shiver of unease along Lyndon's spine. It wasn't so much the man's bulk—Lyndon wasn't that shallow. It was that other thing, the feeling of something that was not quite... _right_ with the man. He was sly, had always been that way, and had used it in a way as to cause as much harm as possible. Older than the brothers by quite a few years, they'd spent a good part of their childhood trying to avoid him and his often-cruel trickeries and elaborate mischiefs. Lyndon had no reason to think he'd changed, but at least now, he shouldn't be prone to painful pranks anymore.

"Lyndon, my boy," the man said and approached Lyndon with his large arms outstretched, as if to embrace him. Lyndon made no attempt to get closer. "Look at you! Ragged and interesting... You look like the tragic hero, returning from the war. Absolutely dashing."

"He looks like a gritty peasant," Charles intervened, sourly.

"And you look like a dandy," Lyndon replied.

They glared at each other.

"There now," said Buckley soothingly, though it was clear he enjoyed the squabbling. "You are both handsome young men. Always have been."

Lyndon rolled his eyes. "Can we stop this please? Why am I here?"

"For one very simple reason." Buckley squinted at him, one bejewelled finger on his nose; a gesture of amused contemplation. "They're waiting just outside the door. For _effect_."

"Effect?" Lyndon exchanged a glance with Charles, who shrugged, his lips compressed.

Apparently, Buckley hadn't turned away from his old ways... "What's going on here?"

"Hold on."

Buckley hobbled from the room. Lyndon heard low voices, and then he returned—but this time, he wasn't alone. Behind him, closely in his trail, was a dark-haired young woman. Despite the beautiful dress and modern pelisse, she looked strangely stern. Maybe it was the rigorously pulled back hair, or the long hands, resting like pale spiders on her abdomen, but her appearance was that of utter wariness, and her eyes, resting on Lyndon's face, only showed a mere glimpse of surprise—for the rest, it was all disapproval. Buckley studied him as well. Closely.

"You do not recognize her, Lyndon?"

"Should I?"

"Only you can answer that."

"In that case, I'll answer that with a no, before I ask what the hell is going on. Is this a joke?"

"Not at all. Lyndon, this is Ms Emily van der Veer. Charles' wife-to-be."

Lyndon cocked a brow. Surprised? Yes, he was surprised—especially since he knew Charles' taste and this was absolutely not what he preferred. And why would this be interesting to Lyndon?"

"I see," he said, dryly. "Congratulations, Charles." He bowed. "Ms van der Veer."

She nodded, only slightly, but remained silent. Behind her, he spotted the little fair-haired maid. When their eyes met, he saw the ghost of a smile on her lips, but also a faint shake her of head. _Sure_ , he thought. _I can be quiet_. It was nice to see her again, however—at least it felt as though he had one friend, among all those who weren't.

"You should also meet someone else," Buckley continued. "Daniel, my boy. Step in here."

Through the door, came someone else. A slim, blond little boy with eyes of polished silver and the penetrating gaze of a Stanford. Lyndon heard himself exhale—a strange, huffing sound, as though someone had kicked him in the chest. Buckley asked if he knew the boy, and he managed to shake his head, before his legs folded under him. Kneeling, he fell over and covered his face, his breaths shaky and fast. _They'll think I'm insane_ , he thought—his only coherent thought, but also one that had no substance, because he could do nothing about himself at this moment.

"What's wrong with him?" he heard Charles ask. "Buckley, what the hell have you done?"

"I didn't do anything." Buckley's voice was as innocent as one could get it.

"Get out of here," Charles barked—obviously to the woman and child. Suddenly he was there, next to Lyndon, grabbing him by the shoulder for a brusque shake. "Get yourself together," he hissed. "You're embarrassing yourself."

Embarrassing himself? The outrageous reasoning snapped Lyndon out of his condition, almost as effectively as a slap in the face. He managed to draw his breath, deeply, and collect his thoughts. On shaky legs, he stood up and brushed off his brother's hand.

"I'm fine," he said. "I just... got a bit overwhelmed."

"A bit?" Charles shook his head. "Like I said, it wasn't my idea, this," he said, as if apologizing for giving Lyndon such a shock. "I think Buckley wanted to see if you knew the woman and the child, which of course you _don't_."

Lyndon shook his head.

"Are you happy now, Buckley?"

"I guess so," the man said. He sounded a little dour. "It's that little matter of the inheritance, you see," he told Lyndon. "Charles needed to prove that he's been capable of conceiving that little miracle you just saw. Daniel."

"Now you know," Lyndon said, between his teeth. "I had nothing to do with that."

"Obviously not. By the way..." Buckley's eyes glittered. "How _is_ our dear Eileen, anyway?"

"Go to hell," Lyndon barked. He was so angry he could barely get the words out. "Just... go to _hell_."

"I might one day. But not today." Buckley grinned, then fell serious. "In any case, I realise you have been riding all day to get here and that you're both hungry and tired. For your help in settling this important matter, we're willing to let you stay the night. I will send some refreshments to your old boy-room, and a maid will give you some warm water for washing up. The rest of us will go to the Grand Hall and rejoice over a delicious meal. I'd love for you to join, but you're not invited. Nothing has changed, unfortunately—you're still the black sheep of the family, dear Lyndon."

He nodded, without really having the strength to come up with a sarcastic reply. Charles eyed him, as though he'd been expecting one, and as though the lack of it made him disappointed, or worried, even.

"We can ask Grandfather," he said, curtly. "Maybe—"

"Out of the question," Buckley cut him off. "Charles, are you suddenly getting soft-hearted? I didn't see _that_ coming."

Neither did Lyndon. "Thanks," he murmured, with a straight address to Charles, "but I'm too tired anyway. Good night."

* * *

It was with heavy steps he walked up the stairs to his old room. As everything else, it looked as if he'd just left it—a sad shrine full of both good and bad memories. On a whim, he dived under the small round table, onto his knees, and found the carving on one of its rounded legs: L.N.A.S—Lyndon Nicholas Alexander Stanford. The letters were ugly and slanted, both from the awkward angle with which they'd been carved, but also because he'd never been very good at getting the letters elegant. Gingerly, he slid his fingers over the rough pattern. He'd been twelve years old at the time, full of mischief. Had wanted to put his mark there, a forever sign that he'd been there. Back then, he'd had the idea that he'd live forever.

Lyndon's hand fell to the floor, his eyes grew remote. _Forever_. No one lived forever, and he certainly wouldn't. Not anymore. But Charles, who didn't deserve it, suddenly had a beautiful little son, seemingly almost of the same age as...

The pain shot through his body, scorching him from the inside. He gasped and folded his arms around his upper body, rocked slowly.

"Not now," he whispered, but knowing that pleading most definitely didn't help. The pain spread through his chest, to his arms, wrapped itself around his lungs like a band of steel. "N-no please..."

He fell on his side, under the table, curled up like a child and pressed his hands against his face, while his heart continued to race, faster and faster, until it threatened to break his ribcage. The sounds of his own heartbeats roared in his head, drowning everything else, filling him with red, flashing fear. He bit his tongue, vaguely felt the tang of blood in his mouth.

"G-God... S-stop it..."

It did stop, eventually. Pulled back, as always, like a tidal wave, leaving him as limp and weak as a stranded jellyfish. He rolled over on his back and stared up on the table above him, grimacing slightly over his cramping back, quivering from the chill of his sweat-soaked clothes.

_It's getting worse_ , he thought. _These attacks are harder and harder to control. They're stronger now too. I'm sure they will kill me one day._ One day, soon, his heart would explode inside his chest and that would be the end of him. Not that it mattered, but to die in that manner, in such pain, frightened him.

He crawled onto his bed, immobile and exhausted, and counted the beats of his treacherous heart, until the butler knocked on the door to bring him his food and light the fireplace. Less than an hour later, he fell asleep, still in his grimy clothes.

* * *

When he woke again, the room was still dark, almost night-like, and the house lay quiet in peaceful slumber. He crawled out of the bed and tip-toed over the ice cold floor to sneak a peek at the gold clock on the mantel piece. To his surprise, the clock was already half-past six in the morning. He couldn't remember when he'd slept through a whole night like that before. Taking his time, he changed to a clean shirt and washed his face in the water left from the night before. The crisp coolness of the water lifted the cobwebs of sleep from his mind and made his thoughts clearer, and he felt even better after having stuffed his stomach with the evening's left-overs. The bread was a bit dry, the cheese had curled up around the edges, but he'd had worse.

When he was done, he snuck out into the house. Since everyone, save some of the staff, were asleep, this was the perfect opportunity to take a little tour through it, which he did—and he was especially interested in visiting the library, which had been his favourite room as a boy. He'd spent plenty of hours there, frowning over Newton's _Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica_ , or the latest editions of _Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society_ —whatever works had caught his fancy, really: in those days, unlike Charles, he'd grasped any opportunity to study, or he read just for fun. From what he heard, he shared his father's love for technology and science.

Lyndon pushed the door open and entered the silent room. Walked up to the rosewood desk, where unsurprisingly, everything had been left just as it always had been. One by one, Lyndon touched the objects: the brass sextant, the astrolabe... He set the earth globe in motion and watched it spin slowly, thinking about how he'd used to do that as a boy, too. It hadn't been bad to live here, in this house, with his grandfather. Grandfather Stanford hadn't always been... bad. He probably wasn't now. Stern, eccentric, running on principles and rules that had been brought onwards through a great many centuries and was as much a part of the Stanford family as it was of the whole stuffy world in which they'd grown up—status was everything, names and titles and blood of utmost importance. Grandfather Stanford hadn't had another choice but to treat Lyndon the way he had, and Lyndon understood that. He only wished Grandfather Stanford would understand that _he_ had had no choice but to do what he did, either. But, alas... They hadn't reached that stage, and probably never would.

He stopped the earth globe, took a deep breath. Time to go.

As he turned around, he noticed that someone was coming in through the door, and he knew within an instant that it was the woman—Charles' woman. She walked slowly, almost hesitantly, through the room over to one of the shelves, where she stopped, her head tilted back as she studied the rows of books. After a minute or so, she seemed to have found what she'd been looking for, for she reached out and pulled out a volume, pressed it to her bony chest. As she turned around, she noticed him. The book fell to the floor and she flew back and landed with a thump against the shelf so that he, himself, took a step forward, afraid that the heavy piece of furniture would fall over her head. It didn't, and no books fell out either, but his heart still pounded, both from fear and embarrassment over the awkward situation. She must think he was preying on her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Really sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Oh... That's... that's quite alright," she stuttered, which was clearly a lie.

She remained pressed against the shelf as though she wanted to disappear into it, and he had seldom seen such terrified eyes on anyone who hadn't straight out been his enemy and had been threatened by him with a pistol.

"I'm not dangerous," he felt obliged to say. "I don't know why you would think that."

The woman drew her breath. "I... I don't think I should talk to you. They told me not to. But... they didn't tell me why." Her brows furrowed, and her eyes lost its glimpse of terror. "Are you not welcome here?"

"No." He shrugged. "I married the wrong girl and Grandfather disowned me. That was ten years ago, but they still hate me for it."

Simply put—very simply—but also very true. Emily van der Veer took a tiny step out from the shelf.

"Oh... Who...?"

"Who she was?" He smiled, momentarily warmed by the imagery flying through his mind. "A beautiful, Irish girl called Eileen. I loved her dearly."

"Loved...?"

So, she picked up on that wording? He nodded, tiredly.

"She's dead. It's four years ago now. There..." He rubbed his nose to hide his grimace of pain. "There was an... an attack on our homestead. They k-killed her and m-my daughter. Sarah Anne was her name. I think she would have been the same age as your boy, if she'd been alive today."

"Goodness..." The woman placed her hand over her mouth. He could see that her eyes were filled with tears, and knew his own were, too. "How absolutely horrible. How did you cope?"

"I didn't. Don't." Lyndon decided to be completely honest. It was always easier to say one was fine, when asked, as a protection of one's own vulnerability, but he was through with that now, and ready to embrace the pain. It wouldn't make things worse anyway. His life since it had happened had been hell, and there was no sense in denying that. Nothing felt appealing, nothing made him happy. Which was why he'd come to this place. He understood that now: not for absolution. For goodbye.

He shrugged, caught the gaze of Charles' woman. "That's why I reacted so strongly when I saw your son. It felt..."

"Unfair," she filled in, quietly. She shook her head, her lips trembling. "I'm sorry for reminding you."

"It's not your fault. It was nice to meet him. My nephew."

She nodded, somewhat absent-mindedly. "Have you... Have you found the people who did this to your family?"

"No." Not that he hadn't tried, but there were simply no traces to go by. A band of Irish rebels, they thought, who had seized the opportunity when they saw it—unluckily for his wife and child. "It won't help. They're gone."

That was how he tried to rationalize it to himself. Revenge was a dish best served cold, as the old saying said, but he tried to tell himself it was a dish better not served at all. It could only destroy; never build up. But he knew that if he got the chance, he would strike down at the ones who had done this, without any hesitation. Even though he always felt too tired to do anything at all nowadays, at least he'd find the energy to do _that_. The day would never come, however, and he felt fine with that.

He drew his breath and managed to smile a little to Emily van der Veer.

"Don't mention any of this to my brother," he said. "He mustn't know."

"But..." She shook her head. "Shouldn't he know? Your closest family?"

"He's hardly close anymore. And he keeps things from me as well. Obviously," he said, and motioned toward her. "I had no idea he'd met you and had a child."

Her cheeks turned a little red at that, and she swallowed. "No," she said, averting her eyes. "He didn't either, until recently. It wasn't... meant to be known."

"No? Were you trying to keep it from him?"

She didn't answer, merely pressed her lips together.

How odd.

Everything about this was odd. He knew Charles, and this wasn't the sort of woman he fancied—Charles went for carefree girls; beautiful girls; girls with alluring curves and eager smiles. This woman had nothing of that, and to add to it, she seemed to be intelligent in a quiet, sharp way, which absolutely wasn't to Charles' taste.

"It's none of my business, obviously," he said, to make it easier for her, and because he meant it. "As long as you're happy."

"Happy?" The word was spoken in a hollow voice, and her eyes looked equally empty. "No, I can't say that I am."

Perhaps he should have asked her why not. Perhaps he should have pressed her for the truth, made her confess to what was going on, how she'd ended up there—and why the hell did she look like she was barely twenty years old, when she had a son of seven or eight years already? But he didn't want to know, and he didn't care, and every answer would only increase the pain in his own heart.

"Seems like we both have our crosses to carry, madam," he said and bowed, politely. "In any case, I wish you good fortune in your future."

"Thank you. I... wish you good fortune as well. Wherever you're going."

Wherever he was going. Indeed.

As he stood there, she suddenly moved. Approached the desk, where she reached swiftly for a drawing paper and a piece of graphite. When noticing that he was staring at her, she stopped momentarily.

"One minute," she said. "I want to give you something before you go."

"I'll stay," he said, full of wonder.

He watched as her hands flew swiftly over the paper, making black lines, stopping sometimes to soot them out. The clumsy girl was suddenly gone: he saw a glimpse of someone else, of a confident woman with graceful and precise movements, her face aglow with passion. In that moment, she was breathtakingly beautiful and oddly sensual. When at last, she straightened her back and went up to him, the sensation was still there, and with her eyes shimmering and her lips slightly parted, he almost felt ashamed to admit it, but she looked newly kissed—or even worse, newly bedded.

"Here," she said and placed the drawing in his hands. "This is for you."

It was, he noticed with a pang in his heart, a portrait of him. Very, very crude, but in all its simplicity, so exquisite and vibrant that he felt tears prick his eyes. How could she, in that short moment, catch not only his physical appearance, but also the melancholy buried in his soul? Who was she? A sorceress?

"Where have you learned to draw like this?"

"I cannot tell. But I wanted you to... know."

"Why?"

She shrugged. Her eyes were cautious, yet again. "Because we share something, maybe?" she said and frowned. "But I'm not really sure of what..."

He was. Loneliness. Carefully, he rolled it up and put in the pocket of his coat.

"Thank you," he said, sincerely, to Ms Emily van der Veer, if that was, indeed, her real name. "I will treasure it for as long as I shall live."

Which, in all honesty, and if he could help it, wouldn't be very long at all. With a polite nod, he left her, and Harcourt House, for the last time.

# 19

After the meeting with Charles' brother Lyndon, with whom Emily thought she'd felt a strange connection, and for whom she'd also felt the most crippling pity, Emily picked up the book she'd dropped upon discovering him there in the library—she'd chosen Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe—and read the first few chapters, cooped up in her chamber. When she was sure Daniel had woken, she knocked on his door. Together, they walked downstairs to one of the smaller salons, where a hearty morning meal was served by the attentive staff. Charles spoke constantly, just as he had the evening before. With his eyes shining bright with confidence, and almost always resting on Daniel's face, he went through the agenda of the coming days.

"After our morning meal, I shall sit with Buckley and my grandfather and discuss the wedding plans. It's important that we hold the wedding soon, as we cannot jeopardize my inheritance by having grandfather die before we're married. You saw the state he was in," he added, waving his hand flippantly in the air. "I'm not going to risk _anything_ there. I asked him to rip the bloody contract in two, but he refused, and there we have it."

Since she'd already heard this a couple of times, Emily merely nodded. She tried to swallow down some bread, but it grew in her mouth. Eventually, she had to discreetly spit it out into a napkin, which she folded and placed next to her cup of tea.

"The seamstress must come to take your measures for the wedding dress," he continued. "Something pale blue, I'd say. Satin, with lace trimmings. My dear son needs something nice to wear as well, do you not? It's of course a little extravagant to purchase a whole new attire for such an occasion, but I want to make it special. Don't you?"

She woke up from having watched his face, in both amazement and dismay. This man, who at first had lamented over his misfortune, now seemed nothing but thrilled to make her his wife. As if she was someone else than Emily Bradley, as if she truly _was_ Emily van der Veer; a merchant's daughter that he'd once fancied and now reunited with. This change in him, based perhaps on his desperate wish for it to be true, was as scary as it was fascinating, but she seemed to be the only one who reacted on the matter. Daniel seemed to enjoy the pleasant atmosphere, and had problems to sit still when he thought about all this new and wonderful.

"Can Megan have a new dress as well?" he blurted out.

"Megan? Oh..." Lord Charles' face stiffened.

Emily looked down on her platter and swallowed. She had let Megan stay in her chamber today, stating that she needed to be corrected, but it was really only for Megan's own sake. Lord Charles slowly put his spreader on the silver stand and reached for his napkin.

"You must both understand one thing," he said, not looking at either of them. "Staff is staff. They are not your friends. Do not treat them as such, or they will start to take liberties. Like this maid, for example. I am not going to take measures for her impertinent behaviour yesterday, because obviously, you have both treated her with too much affection and she has been allowed to live and work thinking that she is one of you. This is what caused her to talk back to me in that outrageous manner—while it is unfortunate, she was only doing what she has been taught. Once we are married and I am the master of the household, we must strive to correct this behaviour. Staff will be staff, and they are not our friends. Understood?"

Daniel nodded; Emily didn't. Lord Charles dabbed the napkin against his lips and smiled.

"Having said that, however, I suppose a lady's maid must compliment her mistress. I will let the seamstress come up with something nice for her as well." He slapped the napkin onto the table and rose. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave now. Do take a walk around the premises, get acquainted with your surroundings and get a feel of this place. One day, when my grandfather is gone, you will rule it, you know."

Emily shuddered, but Daniel clasped his hands together in silent joy.

* * *

They decided to take a walk to the Stanford family chapel, which was located a small distance from the main building, by a beautiful lake full of swans. The day was cold and raw, with a fine mist that seemed to penetrate any layers of clothes, right into the skin. Emily was grateful for her pelisse and dug her fingers into the fur lining inside while she paced, eager to have the warmth return to her limbs.

"I think there will be snow," she said to Daniel.

He nodded, his nose snugly buried within the velvet trimmed lining of his jacket. They walked slowly along the small stone wall that framed the burial site, studied the rows of impressive graves, each stone and memorial bigger and more imposing than the other. The oldest stone reached as far back as to the 15th century, and the man's name had been Charles, too.

"Let's go inside," Daniel suggested, and so they did, pressing open the cast-iron gate with the Stanford coat of arms and stepping onto the crunching gravel path that led up to the large stone building.

Emily's breath came in cloudy puffs from her mouth and she shivered but was relieved to be out in the fresh air, away from the horrible Harcourt House. To think that one day, she'd roam those hallways as the mistress of the house, made her more than a little dejected. Until then, they'd be installed in Lord Charles' estate, called Greywell. She bore no hope that this would be an ounce better and felt the bleakness of the situation weigh heavily on her shoulders. One day, she must ask Lord Charles what his intention was with Giatelli's farm. Would she be able to keep it? She would plead for it but knew it would be difficult: there mustn't be any traces leading back to her past, or so Mr Radcliffe had said.

"He's kind, don't you think, _Mamma_?"

"Hm?" She looked down at Daniel, who walked beside her.

"Father, of course. He's treating us very kindly."

That was something she couldn't deny, at least. Since they had arrived, Lord Charles had been both attentive and behaved appropriately. His smile was polite, never lusty, and he made sure they were never alone in the same room—for decency and your good reputation, as he said. He never touched her, and if, by accident, it happened, he apologised immediately and took his distance. If this was an act, he played the part with excellence, and almost made her relax in his presence. Almost. But for her to trust him completely? The man who had wrestled her down on a bed without listening to her cries? Who had struck her hard in the face and laughed at her inability to fight back, and deliberately let her fall from a window?

No, she would never trust him.

"He's wise. He knows things," Daniel continued, "and we must listen to him."

"Knows things?" She looked at him in wonder. "What things?"

Daniel shrugged. "Things about the world. I know—so did Giatelli, but... that was different. And maybe he wasn't always right."

"And Lord Charles _is_? Daniel, I—"

But she couldn't continue: a faint, hollow thud from the chapel made her close her mouth. _Another day_ , she thought. This discussion had to take place another day.

A dark-clad man came out on the stairs and raised his hand to a friendly wave. When they approached him, he introduced himself as Father Nicholas, the chaplain of the Stanford family, and expressed his delight upon meeting them—he had already heard a rumour that she was his lordship's intended bride and had been curious to see her. Emily acknowledged the rumour, thanked him for the following exuberant congratulations, and accepted his invitation for a walk around the premises.

Chatting pleasantly, he showed them the inside of the chapel with its stained-glass windows and the masterfully decorated pulpit.

"The paintings on the panels are quite recent. They were painted a few years ago, as a matter of fact," he explained, while taking a step back to admire them. "There was nothing wrong with the old ones, but his lordship decided it was time for a renovation. Or however it was," he added. "I seem to recall that the artist actually turned up and offered to do the job. A very famous artist, he was, so that was a nice surprise. Maybe you have heard of him? Master Giatelli?"

Emily's heart fell to her feet and landed there with a painful thud. Daniel stared at her, and she stared back—there was like a silent scream between them. Giatelli? Here? Slowly, she turned her head to the pulpit and studied the artwork... and yes. Yes: she saw it. Every brushstroke, every little detail, breathed Giatelli.

" _Mamma_..." Daniel whispered, his hand grasping her sleeve.

She tried to collect herself, swallowed hard to take control of her voice.

"They are exquisite, Father. D-did he say _why_ he offered to do the job?"

"Not that I can remember, no. He was a very vivacious man, just like the rumours said. Pleasant to talk to, even though obviously, he was Catholic. I hear he died, some time ago. Very sad. The world surely needs people like him."

"Indeed," Emily said.

She wiped her eyes and stared at the paintings, filled with both awe and concern. Why were they here? After having learned that Giatelli had hired Gerard to protect her, she couldn't really think _this_ was a coincidence, could she? Had he come here to spy on the Stanfords? To see who his enemy was? Yet, she couldn't feel anything but the deepest sense of gratitude. She would be married in here, and this meant that Giatelli would indeed be with her. It was the ultimate gift, filling her with such relief it felt like her heart was going to break apart.

"Let us proceed, shall we?" the chaplain said, gently, with a sympathetic glance at her tear-stricken face.

* * *

They walked through the nave back to the refectory, and the raw chill turned the chaplain's words into small, swirling clouds. The clouds had thickened, and the wind carried a faint smell of snow. Father Nicholas stuck his hands into the pockets of his black robe and pressed his chin to his chest. It made him look like a small but plump, ragged bird, and indeed, just as the thought had passed through Emily's mind, a crow flew up from the nearby copse. With a flapping of dark wings, it swung itself across the graveyard, passed the chapel tower and continued across the plains behind it, its hoarse cawing fading in strength with the increasing distance. The chaplain followed it with his eyes until it had disappeared behind the trees.

""I'm happy our chapel will soon be put to good use again," he said, thoughtfully. "The news of your wedding came as a surprise, but a very welcomed one. It was about time his lordship settled down. We have all been waiting for it. It's also nice because... this place needs something pleasant. A joyous event. The good Lord knows we have had enough of hardship throughout the years. The last event in this place was the burial of young Lord Charles' parents."

Emily looked up, jostled from her thoughts, intrigued by the subject: she had wondered where Charles' mother and father were, and why there was only a grandfather as the closest in kin.

"It was a long time ago now, mind—they perished in a fire when he was but eight years," the chaplain said. "But it's like this place has lived under a blanket of sorrow since then. The world lost all its colour, if you know what I mean. It was a horrendous accident as well, the fire, and it's said that it was Lord Charles who started it. Awful, I know, and I am sure that if he did, it was unintentional. He was injured himself, and so was his younger brother Lyndon, and nobody knew if they were going to survive. In fact, I was called in to perform an ordinance on several occasions. Each time, they recovered miraculously." Father Nicholas shot a glance at the ceiling as if thanking the Lord for His heavenly assistance. Then, he turned his gaze to Emily and smiled. He had the kind of face that looked melancholic even when smiling. "Such an unimaginable tragedy... I suppose one must forgive him for straying off the righteous and virtuous path of the Lord at times—and it sure seems as though he's found his way back now. I couldn't be happier for him. Or you. Or _you_ , young Master Daniel," he added, with a smile, and placed his hand on Daniel's head. "It is a miracle indeed, that you have all reunited."

* * *

After the visit to the chapel, Daniel ran ahead of her on the way back to the house, eager to connect with his father again. Since Emily didn't share this wish, she lingered on the path, and entered the house some minutes later. By then, the boy was nowhere to be seen—supposedly, he'd found Charles. There was someone else there to greet her in the hall, however: Buckley, who had been on his way to the stairs. Upon seeing her, he stopped, and a smile touched his fat lips.

"Well, well, well... If it isn't the bride-to-be? Have you been out for a walk?"

She tried to hide the unease by pretending to get busy, pulling off her gloves. "Daniel and I took a look at the surroundings," she said. "It's very beautiful here."

"So it is. And while you have been busy looking around, I am happy to reveal that we have come a step closer in deciding the date for your wedding now. Very soon, all in accordance to Charles' wish. How about you?"

"W-what?"

His smile widened. "Is it your wish as well? To marry so soon? This must all have come as a shock to you, I mean. Goodness knows what you were doing before Charles swept into your life, but I hardly think you have lived in preparation for his homecoming since he left, have you?"

The way he was staring at her sent chills up her spine, and she heard Lord Charles' voice in her head, as he warned her about the man.

"I'd better see what Daniel's up to," she murmured.

"No, wait." He held up his hand, stopping her mid-motion. "Let's talk for a minute more. You intrigue me—I want to know more about you."

"Really?" Emily murmured. "Well, I don't think—"

"Are you enjoying Moll Flanders?"

She gasped. "Have you been in my room?"

"Not me personally, no," Buckley said, smiling. "I would never do that." Emily could tell he was lying and curled up her hands to hard balls. "A woman who reads is a dangerous woman, isn't that what they say? You seem to be very intelligent. I'm surprised you settled for a man like Charles—I'm sure he hasn't opened a book since his governess made him when he was eleven years old. He avoids everything that will demand some effort. Which makes it even stranger that he'd fall for _you_. Usually, his women are simpler, more straight-forward, but you seem like a woman one has to approach with care—someone to win over slowly. It's not his style at all." He took a step closer, studied her under lowered eyelids. "May I show you something?"

"What?" She shouldn't ask, but there was something about him—the way he spoke, the way he read her, while at the same time knowing exactly what _Charles_ was like. She wanted to know, as well. Her heart pounded in her chest. "I'm not allowed to go with you anywhere..."

"Of course not. I'm sure Charles is afraid I'll reveal things I shouldn't reveal. I grew up with him. I _know_ things."

She nodded. Threw a glance up the stairs. Everything was still—not even the staff was around: they seemed to be busy preparing for supper.

"And I know enough about _you_ to know you're in trouble," Buckley continued. Her heart jolted. "You look unhappy, and every time he comes near, it's as if you want to run away. A bride-to-be shouldn't look like that. She should long for her man's attention, pine for his touch—but you look like you'd rather die than have him close to you." Buckley put a finger to his chin. "I feel sorry for you. I want to help. Give you some... leverage."

"Leverage?"

"To control a man like Charles, one needs to understand him. Never hurts to know a secret or two about the man you are about to marry, right? It might come in handy one day."

She wetted her lips. "But why? Why would you want to do that?"

"I told you: to help. I think you need a friend right now and I want to be that friend. If you'll only let me. Will you... Emily?"

He used her first name—only that—and it made her shiver, as though he'd ran his hand along her neck. Everything about the man was repulsive, everything about him scared her... but there were also his words and the promise they held. She needed an ally. Desperately.

"So show me," she said, and regretted it when she saw his content smile.

But by then, it was already too late.

"Are we allowed to be here?"

She scurried after him, leaving her anxious question hanging in the air, unanswered. The chandeliers above her head twisted slowly in the draft, their ghostly shimmer moving like raindrops over the lovely, pale green walls. Buckley probably didn't see it necessary to answer, because it was another one of her stupid questions—why wouldn't they be allowed to move around freely in the house?—but this part seemed so closed off, so deserted, and she knew he was taking her to a place where they definitely were _not_ allowed. Or at least not she.

Despite his size, Buckley moved swiftly. He dashed through the corridors with a surprising vigour and Emily had to run to follow him, which made the old injury in her foot ache, and she felt warm and flustered. When he finally stopped, she was grateful for the pause, and discreetly drew her breath while he wiped the sweat from his thick neck with his handkerchief.

"Is this it?" She viewed the closed white door. There was a streak of dirt near the brass knob, as though someone had swiped over it with a smudged thumb.

"This is it." He looked around, took a swift step to the side to glance around the corner, then returned, his face closed and determined. "We're good," he said. "No one here."

"But where are we?"

The hallway looked exactly like all the others in the house, and there was nothing to reveal this was a secret or hidden area. As Buckley opened the door, the hairs stood up on Emily's body. _Maybe he's tricked you?_

"Come on." He reached for her and grabbed her wrist. Instinctively, she tried to ward him off, but the grip was too tight and he had the weight to add to it—without much effort, he hauled her inside the room and shut the door behind them.

All she could think about was the bed. It stood there, impossible to miss as it was the centre piece: a large canopy, vulgar in its excessive volume and bulging shapes. Emily moved back, but Buckley's arm hindered her from opening the door, causing her to go cold all over.

"Please," she breathed, "please let me go!"

Her mind raced, left Harcourt House, travelled through time and space to a small room that smelled of liquor and cigar smoke and where the bed creaked under her body as she was flung onto it. Buckley became Lord Charles, then Paul—their faces blended to one horrible, constantly changing mass until she didn't know who was who anymore.

Emily groped blindly at the arm that stopped her from fleeing, gasped in panic, her heartbeats soared inside her head, making her vision shrink and widen in a red, pulsating daze. _I have to get out, I have to get out..._

"What are you doing, you goose?" She was plucked, rather unceremoniously, from the door and slapped in the face. When she drew her breath and looked up, she saw Buckley's face glaring at her. "Why do you think you're here, anyway? To bed me? Don't be silly!"

The room... She blinked at the pale blue walls with gilded sconces, which all seemed to be dull in colour and hang oddly crooked. And the bed—she stared at the crumpled mess of linen and pillows on the large, smudged mattress and couldn't make sense of it, because while it looked used, it still _wasn't_.

"W-what...?"

Seeing she'd calmed down, he took a step from her, thankfully relieving her from the contact with his hot, quivering body. She took a few deep breaths, and noticed, with wonder, how the air stung her airways with an acrid stench. She started to notice more things: how the furniture was all tarnished, smudged— _black_.

"What is this?" she whispered, with a frightened glance at Buckley. Frightened—but not of him.

"Can't you guess?" He shuffled across the floor to the canopy, where he placed a hand on one of the bedposts. "Look here," he said and held it up so that she could see his fingers. They were black. With a look of dismay, he brushed them against each other. "Be careful not to touch anything in here. Not only because it's difficult to get off your skin, but because you mustn't leave any traces. I don't know if Charles comes here anymore, but he might."

"He comes _here_?"

She strived to understand, to put the pieces together. She'd already figured out that this room must have some connection to a fire... but was it _that_ fire? The one Lord Charles' parents had perished in? It could be. In fact, she was pretty sure of it. Slowly, she walked up to the _bonheur du jour_ next to the door. Its front drawers were all damages, the intarsia bubbly and discoloured. A large crack ran across the mirror next to it, its gilded frame dull and broken.

"Was this... their room?"

"Not quite, but... almost." His voice had a note of appreciation over her guess. "The original room had to be renovated and rebuilt. It happened in this house, however, and these are the furniture. Grandfather Stanford stored them in here. He hasn't even changed the sheets, so what you see, is the way the bed was when they found Charles' parents there. Dead, of course."

She put a hand to her mouth, tried to escape the imagery of the two bodies, but couldn't, and her breathing grew laboured.

"Hard to understand, isn't it? And even harder to think that a grandfather would force his grandson in here to look at it. Every day, at first, then with weeks in between. But regularly. Charles didn't get away from _that_. It started the minute he was well enough to stand, after he'd healed from his injuries, and stopped when he was old enough to fight back. I think he must have been around fifteen."

Emily stared in horror at the bed.

"I... I don't know what to say."

She really didn't, couldn't even fathom what the young boy must have experienced, dragged in here by his grandfather, forced to look at the bed where his parents had died. There was only one thing she could say:

"Why?"

"Because Grandfather Stanford blames Charles, of course. They found the device with which the house had been set on fire next to the boys. It could only have been them, and of those two, it could only have been Charles. He was eight years old at the time and already a naughty boy. That's how it is." Buckley shrugged, then smiled, acridly. "Oh, don't feel _sorry_ for him, Emily. He doesn't deserve your sympathy."

"Maybe I think he does?" She wiped her eyes, where the tears had started to blur her vision. "How can you do that to a child?"

"Child," Buckley snorted. "He was never a child. He was a demon already back then. If you knew what he did to me over the years, you wouldn't feel sorry for him. No, my dear... Pity Charles, and that will be your first mistake. And your last. I wanted to show you this to make sure you understand how twisted his soul is. This is his mind: a destroyed, thwarted ruin. He will never understand love. He's _sick_. Why would you—a nice girl—want to marry a man like that?"

_I don't._

"I don't think you do."

She stopped breathing, almost afraid that the man was able to hear her thoughts.

"And I don't think he loves you either," he continued. "This is a charade, something you put up to trick us into thinking you're marrying not only because he _has_ to, but because you are in love. Am I right?"

The floor swayed slightly under her feet. _I can't faint here,_ she thought, and bit her lip so hard it started to bleed. It woke her, sharpened her senses.

"I don't know what you are, or how you ended up with Charles, but you must know he's a Bedlamite, distinctly a madman. He will make your life hell. He will make you suffer. You see, for Charles, there is only one person who matters, and that is Charles, himself. If I were you, I'd get away from him as quickly as possible."

Buckley's eyes held hers, locked her in. His voice had turned soft, almost a purr.

"I think you want to. You wouldn't be here if you didn't. But for some reason, you can't. Why?" He tilted his head, curiously, his eyes narrowed. "What is he using to press you into this? You don't have to answer," he added, again reading her mind, "but you should know that I'm a powerful man, in my own way. I have contacts, important contacts." He flicked his wrist. He had a ring with a ruby: the stone caught the light from the window and shimmered in intense red, like a drop of blood. "If you'd only let me, I could put you somewhere safe. You and the boy. Nobody would find you, and you would live freely and without fear. Doesn't that sound nice?"

It did, but his words also filled her with the deepest sense of despair.

"Daniel," she whispered. "He would never agree to this."

She regretted saying anything: she knew Buckley had noticed the shift in her person—it was clear she'd given up, and was now actively thinking about his words. It wasn't a confession, but almost as good as one, and suddenly, as though she'd woken up from a dream and realised what was real and what was not, she regretted coming there.

_Lord Charles will be furious_ , she thought, her hands breaking a sweat. _He told me not to be alone with Buckley, and I have broken that promise, and then some._ She had revealed that something was wrong with their intended marriage. If that came out, she'd lose Daniel—they'd take him from her. That was what she feared most of all; not the marriage to Charles. Losing Daniel.

Raising her head, she looked into Buckley's eyes and saw for the first time how cold they were, like pieces of shimmering glass. In a flash second, she saw Paul standing there instead—Paul, who had promised her safety and protection, and failed her. Buckley had the same glimpse in his eyes. She didn't matter to him: money did. Getting his bothersome cousin out of the way, and causing some chaos along the way. Buckley had revealed some of his motive already: he probably loathed Lord Charles for what he had put Buckley through in the past. Wouldn't it be fun to throw Lord Charles off course? Ruin his life and take his money?

_Never compromise your own integrity_ , Giatelli had told her, when she'd been prepared to marry him to make him happy. She'd promised never to do so—but stood there, with this man, on the verge of doing exactly that. Well, she saw clearer now, and knew what she had to do. Drew her breath and squared her shoulders.

"Thank you for your concern," she said, almost without faltering. "But I cannot accept this proposition."

"Why?" Buckley's face didn't reveal anything. "Because you're afraid?"

"No. I'm not afraid. I—I _am_ afraid, but what girl wouldn't be? I have never been married before. What's important is that I... l-love him." Could he hear her voice tremble? Did he see the pain in her face when she uttered the words? She thought so, but she also thought she managed to hide it well enough. "I intend to be his wife and you cannot stop us."

Buckley cocked a brow. "That's quite a swift change of heart, my dear. And it rings very false in my ears."

She looked away. "You may think what you want. I stand firm in my decision. I don't need your help."

"Obviously not," Buckley said, dryly. "Well then, my little brave, strange and absolutely senseless girl: I think we're done here. Just remember what I've said. And know that I will be one step behind you. I will find out what's going on, sooner or later—and when I do, you are going to regret not accepting my help when I offered it." He passed her and opened the door, letting in a stream of welcoming fresh air—air that didn't reek of soot and smoke, fear and rage. "Better run to your fiancé so he doesn't wonder where he is."

# 20

The little inn on the outskirts of Bristol was decent, clean and tidy. Not in any way luxurious, it was, however, well maintained and surprisingly homey. Lyndon paid a few guineas extra to get a room in the part of the building facing the forest and found it suitably quiet and peaceful. The bed, with its crisp sheets and the soft smell of lavender, along with the etchings on the walls and the simple furniture, felt right.

It was, at the very least, a good enough place to die.

* * *

He sat on the bed, pistol in his hand. He'd cocked it so it was ready, and he'd stared at it for a long time; long enough to make his eyes water, long enough to make his head buzz and his back ache. Waiting, but not hesitating. He'd made up his mind—it was only that he wasn't sure this was the best place for his departure.

Initially, he had planned on making the crossing to Cork and end his miseries on Irish soil. After an increasing amount of attacks along the route, and with a darkness that slowly enclosed him like a heavy and wet blanket, his fatigue was now so extreme that he'd had to accept that he wouldn't make it that far... but he still had the piece in his mind that told him not to do it like this. Whoever would find him—the innkeepers wife, most probably—would be in for a ghastly sight, and he felt sorry for her for that. There wasn't, however, another alternative. Someone would _have_ to find him: he didn't want to die and be left to rot alone. Slowly, he placed the barrel into his mouth. The steel was cold and rough against his lips, the taste of metal and gunpowder sharp, but not unpleasant.

_Time to go. On three._

He closed his eyes.

_One._

His finger convulsed slightly, tensed against the trigger.

_Two._

He increased the pressure.

_Thr—_

The knock on the door was not a gunshot, but may just as well have been. With a gasp of shock, he flung open his eyes and shoved the gun under the pillow, just in time for the proprietor's wife to stick her rosy-cheeked head through the opening. She was a friendly matron of the kind that made one think of warm embraces and jam tarts—at least one didn't picture her scraping up pieces brain from the wall—and seemed to have taken an immediate liking to Lyndon.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," she said, her Bristol accent almost too thick to understand. She threw a curious glance at the bed, which caused Lyndon to discreetly pull out his hand from underneath the pillow. He braided his fingers on his lap and tried to assemble his features to a look of detached friendliness.

"Yes?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, but my dear husband told me you'd headed straight up to your room without having something to eat first, and after a long ride and all. Not good for your health, so I brought you some broth."

She took another step into the room, nodded at the tray in her hands that held a bowl of steaming broth, some pieces of fresh bread and a couple of thick slices of farmer's cheese. He stared at it, dumbstruck. _Good for my health._ If the situation hadn't been so severe, he would have laughed at the absurdity.

"On the house, of course," she added, with a smile. "We take care of our guests here, you see."

"Thank you." His voice was hoarse, and he coughed, to clear it. "But I'm not very hungry, and... er... I do believe I paid extra not to be disturbed?"

"Oh, yes, sir, you did and I'll leave you alone soon enough. It's just that going to bed on an empty stomach is never a good thing. I couldn't have that on my conscience, could I?" She put the tray down on the small table under the window. Delicious fragrances of cabbage, chicken stock, and bread travelled to his nose, and, as annoying as it was, made his stomach grumble. "If you don't eat, your sleep will be light and you'll wake up feeling like you haven't had enough rest."

"I doubt it," he murmured but nodded just the same. "Thanks."

She nodded too, somewhat importantly. "Don't mention it, sir. Like I said, we take a pride in caring for our guests at this place. Best inn in Bristol, we are. Perhaps in the whole of England."

The blue eyes peered at him under the crisp, white cap. Though neatly tucked on her head, a few strands of grey hair had escaped from its confinement and curled merrily around her cheeks. "If you don't mind me saying, sir, you remind me of my son."

"Really?" He knew he sounded indifferent, but couldn't bring himself to adjust his disposition. _Leave_ , he pleaded. _Leave and let me finish this in peace._

"Oh yes, sir. He was fair-haired as well, handsome like yourself. A true angel, he was. But he had a good, healthy appetite, indeed he had. Always woke up in the mornings, hungry as a bear, even if he'd had a proper meal the evening before. And he ate like a horse and made a mess of it like a proper pig, as we always used to say." She chuckled for a bit and softly added, "God rest his poor soul."

"He's passed away?"

"Why yes. Lost him in an accident down the stream some while ago, we did. Tree fell on him. He was no more than twenty-three year of age when it happened."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes." Her eyes grew dreamy. "A sad day, it was. You never really get over the death of your children. Eight of them I had, and only four survived their weaning stage. One of them was Benjamin, of course. My pride and joy." Slowly, her words worked themselves through the dark fog in Lyndon's head, seeping into his system like warm liquid. "Oh yes, sir, Benjamin was my hope, but.... That tree sure put a stop to it. I have three daughters left, mind." She slowly wiped her hands on her apron-covered belly. "They have all married well, so I suppose we are lucky, after all. But..." She shrugged.

"My daughter is gone." He spurted it out, spoke fast so that he wouldn't have time to regret it. "She was four when... when... she..." He bit down on the word, clasped his hands together, hard, and lowered his head.

"Ah," said the innkeeper's wife. "Was she sickly, the poor babe?" He nodded, the lump in his throat obstructing all attempts to speak. "Well, that's how it goes," she sighed. "It's hard, no doubt about it. But they will always be with us, no? You know...." She hesitated, but when he looked up, seemed to make up her mind to continue. "Sometimes, if you would allow me to be so bold, I sometimes like to think that they come back to us. Not as ghosts," she added and crossed herself swiftly. "No, sir, not at all like that. But I'd like to think they come back in the form of the beautiful things around us. Sometimes when I see a bird sitting in a tree, and the bird is a'singin' very prettily, I like to imagine it's one of my little ones. Or, when I walk across the yard and there is a wind rustling the grass, then I say to myself, why that's Benjamin, telling me hello. Yes, indeed, that's how I think, and it helps. It's blasphemy, of course." She shrugged and scratched her ear under the cap, wistfully. "Don't think the good Lord cares much, though, and I would never tell the minister of our parish, so where's the harm? We all have our way of dealing with loss, and this is mine."

She directed her eyes to him, straight onto him, as though piercing him right through his soul. He shifted uneasily, felt the barrel of the pistol poke his thigh, cool through the fabric of his breeches.

"You will find your way too, sir," she continued. "It will take some time, but it will come. Just be patient."

Patient. He'd heard that word before, and it had never made sense. Patience assumed a notion of time, and time was a concept that only existed for those who had never had their lives and worlds shattered. To hear her say it, felt almost like a mockery. She, if anyone, should know how it felt, and know better than to spit out banalities as if what he had gone through was worth nothing. But he had no fight left in him to counter her words.

"Thank you," he muttered and drew a hand over his face. _So tired_. "For... for the food."

"My pleasure." The matron walked back to the door and placed her hand on the knob, but lingered there, with a glance at his face. "Peace be with you, sir," she said. "And I really mean that."

She opened the door and was gone.

He took out his pistol. Put it on his lap, stared remotely at it. The metal gleamed, but not anymore in the way he had found so comforting moments before. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back. His room was situated in the back of the building, where the stables were. He could hear the trampling of hooves, voices from newly arrived guests; a pleasant commotion. This was a well-visited, popular inn.

_What shall I do?_ he thought. _What the hell shall I do?_

A small ping against the window made him look up. To his surprise, it was a bird—a red robin—that had landed on the windowsill. It sat there, at rest, beady black eyes peering through the glass. Most probably it had been confused by reflections on the window, or maybe lured there by something: maybe the smell of bread, maybe... something else. It tipped his tail, once, then again, and quickly took off, going to wherever it was small birds went on ice cold winter evenings.

Lyndon held his breath.

_No_ , he thought. _Absolutely not. That's absurd._ But it was there, the shivering sliver of hope. The 'what if'.

He sat there for a while, staring at the window, breathless, helplessly exposed to a swirl of thoughts and emotions. Like an autumn storm, they raged through him, cleansing and confusing at the same time. When at last they'd lessened, he carefully took the pistol, uncocked it and put it on the bedside table. On stiff legs, he rose and went to the table by the window, where he lifted the spoon and put it in the still steaming broth. It tasted rich, full, better than most things he'd eaten in a while, even during his stay at Harcourt House. To his surprise, he was so hungry that he finished everything, to the very last crumb.

He returned to the bed and stretched out on the white, crisp sheets and stared up at the ceiling, feeling nothing but tiredness and the heavy, warm fullness of his stomach. No fatigue. No stinging, raw grief. Light, where just recently, there had been none.

Before he fell asleep, a thought flew through his mind, as quickly as a small bird.

_Perhaps it isn't time to go, just yet._

# 21

_November 25 th, 1806_

They'd stayed at Harcourt House for almost a month—a month of deliberations, planning, dress fittings and getting to know each other. It was the latter that Emily hated the most: the forced mutual meals, where she had to listen to her future husband boasting over his wealth and status, while she pretended that she was humbly impressed by his merits on the battlefield. Daniel was, but not she.

It was almost a relief when the wedding day was there. The day was suitably grey, with heavy clouds that dropped masses of thick, rain-filled snow on the ground, making the short trip to the chapel a slight nightmare.

"The sky is crying," Megan said, as they entered the building. She tilted her head back and squinted at it. A large snowflake landed on her nose, but quickly turned to water. "I hope it's not a bad sign."

Emily didn't reply, merely shuddered and pulled the much too light shawl tighter around her shoulders. She hadn't slept all night, and had been unable to eat or drink all morning, which together with her anxiety had resulted in a pounding headache. Megan's observations weren't welcome, and nor were her feeble attempts to cheer them all up with small talk.

"Now why would you say that?" Daniel answered in Emily's place, scolding her lightly. "Hold your tongue, Megan. This is a happy day—I won't have you spoil it with your sour remarks."

Megan scowled at him but couldn't reply, as Father Nicholas appeared, interrupting all other exchanges. He greeted them in his usual, gentle manner and showed them to the antechamber, where Emily was asked to get ready for the ceremony. She sent out everyone except Megan, then sank onto a small wooden bench and stared emptily in front of her, her hands resting on her lap, on top of the shimmering, pale blue dress that Lord Charles had chosen for her. Pale blue had never been her colour.

"Oh madam..." Megan shook her head. "This is really dreadful, isn't it? I know it's a good arrangement, but it's still dreadful, because I know you don't care for him. Do you think it will change?" Without asking for permission, she sat too, leaned forward and scrutinized Emily's face. "You know," she said, "sometimes, it's better to just adapt. I've had to do that all the time. When my brothers sent me to England to work, I didn't know what to do or where to go. I managed to get my first job as a scullery maid, and that was awful. Beat me every day, they did, and I barely got fed—but it was a job and I had a place to stay and I always had this idea that it wouldn't last forever. I never got used to it, but I held out until I found something better. Not that it was a whole lot better," she added, on a second thought, "but a bit. Maybe it will be the same for you, madam? If you make an effort?"

As if it was that easy. Maybe for Megan, carefree and easy-going, it really _was_ that easy—but Emily wasn't Megan. It felt like she had a huge thorn stuck in her flesh, like her soul had been pierced and hollowed out, and as if there was no hope left. Daniel's betrayal weighed heavily on her, and so did the knowledge of what kind of a person Lord Charles was.

_I remember,_ she thought, staring at the door, where she heard Father Nicholas voice, instructing Lord Charles and Daniel. _I remember how you told Paul to fetch me, even as you knew I was injured. For your own pleasure, without an ounce of compassion. No matter how nice you are to me now, I will never forget that, never forgive you and never trust you._

"I'm glad his lordship agreed to hire all of us to the new household," Megan continued, while reaching out to take Emily's shawl and replace it with the crème-coloured pelisse with lace trimmings. "He could just as well have let us go."

"I asked him not to."

Indeed, Emily had pleaded for Lord Charles to keep Megan, Joseph Gerard and Mrs Goodall. Initially, he had refused, saying that she shouldn't have any connections with her past. Then, he'd reluctantly agreed to keep Mrs Goodall and eventually Megan. Joseph Gerard, however, had been banned. In this, Daniel had actually supported her, and told Lord Charles how important this matter was for his mother. Eventually, and under protest, he had succumbed. Emily suspected it was only because of Daniel.

"That's great." Megan plucked the small silver tiara from the tray on the table—apparently, the intricate piece of jewellery had belonged to Lord Charles' mother, and he wanted Emily to wear it now. It was beautiful, more beautiful than anything Emily had ever worn, or owned, and as Megan approached her with it, she felt her heart go heavy with the burden of his request. "At least you won't be alone, right?" Carefully, the girl pinned the tiara to Emily's artfully decorated hair. "We will be right there with you, madam. We promised Master Giatelli, didn't we?"

Emily noted, with a sad smile, that Megan sounded as though she had known Giatelli, and as though the promise Gerard had done, was also hers. It seemed as though Emily had some people who actually cared about her and were willing to stand by her side—she hadn't realised that before, and felt a pang of guilt for having missed it all this time.

"There." Megan took a step back to view her work. "For what it's worth, you look beautiful."

"I don't want to look beautiful," it slipped out of her. She drew her breath, but it turned to a sob. "I don't want to do this," she whispered. "I can't go through with it."

"Oh, madam..."

Megan kneeled beside her. Shoulder to shoulder, they stared at their reflection in the mirror, and saw them stare back; two girls with large, frightened eyes and pale complexions. They didn't look like sisters—not at all—but at this moment, Emily wanted to imagine that they were.

"I can't say that everything will be fine, madam," Megan said, quietly, "because I don't know that. But you're strong. You will find your way. I really think so."

There was a discreet knock on the door. It opened slightly and a maid peeked inside.

"It's time," she whispered. "Father Nicholas want you to get ready and come out to him."

* * *

An hour later, it was over.

If the guests saw the panic in her eyes, she didn't know, but she didn't think they did, since she somehow managed to hide it. She heard the whispers as she passed them on the way to the altar and knew that they were all touched over her youth and beauty, and amazed at the young boy waiting by his father's side—young Daniel was indeed his spitting image. The notion that Emily had bedded Lord Charles and that Daniel was born outside wedlock appeared to be more or less unimportant: instead, the made-up story of their reunion touched people and made them sigh tearfully and offer their very best wishes for their perfect future. The act was in place, played to perfection by Lord Charles. As he took her hand and gazed into her eyes, she could have sworn she saw real affection in his smile, and he gave his vows without faltering the slightest, proud to become her husband. It was easy enough for him to pretend: in her beautiful clothes, her jewels and not least her new background, he saw her as Emily van der Veer, the wealthy daughter of a Dutch merchant, and probably refused to think of her as anybody else. Yet, she was who she was, and she knew it well enough. Her past shone visible behind the chaplain's back, captured within the strokes of a painter's brush. She was Emily Bradley, the daughter of an unfortunate prostitute.

There was a small reception dinner held at Harcourt House, and then—all of a sudden—a valet addressed Emily, saying that it was time to accommodate her new husband in their chamber. This was the moment she'd feared the most, and when reminded of it, she realised just how well she'd managed to push it from her during all this time. Stiff with terror, her heart almost pushing through her chest, she walked to the bridal suite, where she was asked if she wanted assistance with putting on the nightgown—she didn't, and was instructed to put it on as soon as she could. Then, with a faint click of the door as it closed, she was alone to await the arrival of her husband.

She stood there for a minute, trying to keep the tears at bay, her legs trembling. Someone had made an effort to make the room warm and comfortable. A fire crackled pleasantly in the open fireplace, and a few candles burned on the small round table next to the bed—the bed she refused to look at, yet she knew it had been lavishly made with a brocade and lace cover, temptingly folded from the pillows.

Hesitantly, she approached the nightgown, a simple chemise in silk which looked oddly old-fashioned. When she lifted it, she noticed the initials, intricately embroidered at the hem, and understood: this had belonged to Lord Charles' mother. For some reason, the realization made her feel light-headed, and she wondered, briefly, if she really had to put it on—but of course, she must, just like she'd been made to wear his mother's tiara.

Fumbling miserably, she untied the laces of her dress and let it fall to the floor, where she picked it up and arranged it neatly on a chair. The nightgown felt cool and slinky against her skin. She slipped it on, buttoned the tiny buttons at the neck, turned to the mirror and studied the ghostly shape of her body. Tall and thin, she'd never looked very lush, but the garment made her look even scrawnier, like a dressed-up little girl. The illusion grew as she unpinned her hair and let it fall in soft tresses to her shoulders. _There_ , she thought, staring at her image. _You look exactly like you did that night. A frightened child._

It hadn't stopped him from ravishing her, but on the other hand, she didn't think it had mattered, either. _I was a non-person, there for his enjoyment._ Maybe she still was, by the way. Maybe that was why he had been able to look so lovingly at her during the ceremony—because she was someone else in his mind; someone he'd created, and who was worthy of his love.

There was a faint knock on the door, and immediately after, it opened. Lord Charles stepped inside, almost shyly.

"May I come in?"

She didn't answer, merely stared at him, and he continued, closed the door carefully behind him. He had removed his waist coat and tailcoat, wearing only a white muslin shirt and pantaloons, shiny leather shoes, which made him, too, look very young—she realised, rather startingly, that she had no idea how old he was. There was a significant change from how she'd seen him previously, however, which became even clearer when he took a step closer to view her.

"You..." He cleared his throat, his eyes flickering. "You look pretty."

"T-thank you."

"You're welcome. I mean it." He cleared his throat again. "Well," he said. "I suppose there's not much else to do than to... um... start?"

Her fingers twitched. She tucked them into the layers of silk. "H-how... How do you want to...?"

He stopped, scratched his head briefly.

"Maybe you can undress, while I blow out the candles? Or, no, wait..." He swallowed. "Maybe keep the gown on. Or... no. Don't, by the way." With a deep breath, he made up his mind. "Take it off."

Dumbfounded, she stared at him as he walked across the room to the _secretaire_ , where he cupped his hand and gently blew out the first candle. _I don't understand this_ , she thought, heart thumping against her ribs. _What's happening? What shall I do?_ Whatever she'd expected, this had had no part of it. It was almost scarier to see him like this, insecure and ambivalent, than have him ravish her, making the procedure short. She's been prepared to be completely still, letting him have his way and avoid injuries. Now? She didn't know what he wanted; not at all.

"Didn't I tell you to undress?"

He'd straightened up, and was looking at her, brows furrowed. A small glimpse of annoyance, but not in any way severe.

"Of course." Her hands flew to her neck. "I'm sorry."

"No need," he said, dryly, and leaned over the next candle to blow it out. "It's a strange situation for both of us. But we have to do it."

Her hands, ready to unbutton the dress, froze. "You... You don't want to do this either?"

"Not really."

"So..." She bit her lip. "Why are we doing it?"

"Because we have to." He threw her another annoyed glance. "Maybe you see this as a charade, but it isn't, and you shouldn't. This is real, and it's important to me that we do it right."

"Real?" Her lips felt numb. "You think it's real? This marriage?"

"Of course." He lowered his head, angrily. "Don't you?"

It wasn't a question, not really—or at least, there wasn't the option of several answers.

"Yes."

His shoulders slumped. "Fine. So let's do this." He flicked his hand to her. "Undress, please." She hesitated, and he sighed. "What?"

"Could you... turn your back?"

She half expected him to refuse, but to her surprise, he obligingly turned around and stood like that until she'd climbed into bed and pulled the duvet to her chin. The room was now almost completely dark save from the reddish glow from the fireplace: it shimmered in his hair and the shirt as he walked across the room to the bed. There, he sat down and removed his shoes, placed them carefully there, under the side table. He continued to take off his pantaloons, before turning to her.

"May I...?"

He pointed at the vacant spot beside her.

"Oh..." She blushed, felt warm, then cold. "If you must."

What a stupid thing to say—and he thought so too, for he said nothing, lifted the duvet and came under. Their naked legs touched, and she jolted, badly so.

"I'm sorry," she stuttered. "I just..."

"Never mind." He drew his breath. "May I touch your hair?"

"Yes... Of course."

How odd. She closed her eyes as his hand slid carefully over her cheek to her head. Gently, he removed a couple of strands from her face. His fingers curved around the back of her head and closed softly around her hair.

"So soft," he murmured and moved a tiny bit closer to bury his nose in it. "You smell nice. Roses and lavender."

His fingers left her head to caress her neck, then her collarbone. She kept still, didn't even dare to breathe, and her chest burned from the lack of air. _What is he doing? I don't understand this._ Her skin tingled, in a most unpleasantly pleasant way—a completely new way, that she had never experienced before. Then, his palm cupped her breast. She gasped and jerked away.

"Please!"

"I'm being gentle," he said, a hint of accusation in his voice.

"I know, but... it's... I don't know..."

He sighed, and lowered his head a little, his warm and moist breath tickling her neck. "Do try to control yourself," he murmured. "I don't intend to hurt you, but you must try to be a bit more accommodating."

"I'll try," she whispered and forced herself to be still when his hand returned to her breast. She closed her eyes when his fingers lightly closed around her nipple, making it stiffen. He slid his other hand to her stomach, circled her navel for a moment, and then continued downwards to trace the contours of her thigh. She stared wildly at the ceiling over his shoulder, terrified and confused. _What on earth is he doing?_ His touch sent her heart racing, and something new and frightening drizzled through her bones and flesh, creating hot ripples that all seemed to concentrate around a certain, shameful point of her body. _Oh dear good Lord, what is this?_

Unable to endure it, she placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. He pressed back, warningly.

"Not now," he said between his teeth. "I'm ready."

"Please," she said. It was a meek sound, like a small kitten. "I'm scared."

He paused, sighed a little. "Would a pillow help?"

"A... a pillow?"

He hesitated for a moment, then stood up on his knees. Resolutely, he brought one hand underneath her buttocks and pushed her hips upward. With his other hand, he grabbed one of the pillows beside her head and shoved it in under the small of her back.

"Better?" She nodded, even though it wasn't: instead, it made her feel awkward, exposed and vulnerable. "Now lie still," he commanded.

He used one knee to nudge her legs apart while easing himself on top of her. He was warm and sweaty, muscles tense under the damp shirt. He took her head between his hands, held her still while pressing his mouth against the soft spot beside her ear. His breath, suppressed and shallow, tickled her skin. And—

The sharp pain made her moan, and she tried to scissor her legs to shut him out. Immediately, he let go of her head, and his hand swiftly slid between her thighs, forcing them apart. She winced, and perhaps he realised how he was hurting her, for he let go, almost as if he'd burned himself on her.

"Please be still," he hissed between his teeth. "I can't do this if you keep squirming!"

"I'm s-sorry." Her voice trembled. "I don't know what to do."

"I told you, be still."

He placed his hands on her hips and lowered his bulk on top of her again, more determinately this time, as if her disobedience had sparked something in him. Again, he was inside her, but it didn't hurt as much this time. At least it was a pain she could endure, a sort of sweet, dull ache which seemed to ease with his every thrust. She pressed her face against the side of his neck and put her hands on his damp shoulders, felt how tense he was, as if he had to put great effort in detaining himself.

A few thrusts more, and it seemed to be over. He arched his back, groaned, and, in the moment after, rolled over on his back, put his arm over his face and muttered something she couldn't hear.

"What did you say?" she asked.

He removed his arm. "I said 'it's done.' We're wife and husband."

"Yes." Her voice mirrored her surprise. "We... are."

Easier than she'd thought, yet at the same time, harder, more confusing. After this, she most definitely didn't know who she was anymore. Perhaps she never would.

He fell back against the pillow and sighed, contently.

"All will be fine." He reached for her hand and pressed it briefly before he turned around. "Get some sleep. We've been in this place for far too long. Tomorrow we'll rise early, and I will bring you to Greywell. Your new home."

She too rolled over on her side, curled up into a ball, as far away from him in the bed as she could. Her thighs chafed against each other, unpleasantly hot, slippery with his seed. No crying, she told herself. With trembling breaths, she pressed her eyes together and waited until she heard his breath turn deep until she finally released her tears.

# 22

Greywell. Charles' estate; a gift from his grandfather—an old, square and absolutely massive hunting lodge with large amount of land stretching in all directions.

"I'm not particularly fond of it," he said, wrinkling his nose somewhat as he showed her around, "because I think I'm worth more than this, but it's good enough for now. I could buy any estate I wanted, of course, or even build one, but what's the point when I will inherit Harcourt House one day? _That's_ where I really want to reside, not here."

Emily shared his opinion about the house—she didn't like it either—and treaded with heavy steps through the dark corridors, peeking into gloomy salons and chambers that didn't seem to have been in use for decades.

"The leisure room," he said about one such salon, gesturing to the dusty spinet by the window, and the sowing table in the other corner. "All yours to use freely. I'd imagine you'll spend quite some time in here, when you are not entertaining guests for your upcoming little soirees."

He'd already arranged one such event, which was to be held later during the week. Emily didn't look forward to it in the slightest, but had succumbed—it was, after all, what the lady of the house needed to do. She had no problem overseeing the staff or keeping an eye on the purchase of commodities for the household either. It was this—this dreary room with its silent expectations—that she couldn't accept. That's why, when he moved to close the door so that they could continue their tour, she stopped him.

"What's the matter?" he asked, one brow inquisitorially raised.

"I... I was just thinking..." She cleared her throat. "Well, it's more of a request, really..."

"A request?" As if sensing this was something to be said in private, he carefully nudged her into the chamber and half closed the door. Curiously, he turned to her, his silvery eyes large and attentive. "Do tell me, dear wife."

_Dear wife_... She shivered inwardly. He liked to call her that, or _beloved wife_ , or _treasured wife_... and she wondered if he believed in it himself. Admittedly, it now worked to her advantage.

"Yes, dear husband," she said. "Before... our marriage, I was engaged in art. I think you learned from Mr Radcliffe that I enjoyed painting? Maybe you even saw the portrait I made of him?" She drew her breath, slightly concerned by the suddenly ominous expression on Charles' face. Maybe it was this expression that caused her words to stumble as she continued: "I would really like to pick up my painting again. Not... not on commission, of course. Just for my own sake, and I would be very careful not to let anyone see my works, but—"

"Stop." He raised his hand. "Are you serious?"

"Well... Yes?"

He exhaled, walked over to the window and looked out. The woodbine climbing over it made the daylight feeble and faint, but his hair still shimmered in silver and gold. Emily watched his straight back, her heart pounding. It hadn't been that bad, what she'd just said, had it? A modest request, nothing to get upset over. Primly, she entwined her fingers, and waited. At last, he spoke.

"I did see your paintings." He didn't turn around, and his voice was slow and flat. "They're not bad. They are, however, rather... shall we say... improper?"

"W-what?"

She didn't understand what he meant, wanted to point out some of the paintings she'd seen in this house during their walk, of naked, lustful women. Some motives—especially those in his private study—were very indecent. _Her_ paintings had none of that.

"Improper." He turned his head, glanced at her over his shoulder. "Not something a good wife would make. And you are a good wife, are you not?"

"I want to be, but..." She shook her head. "I would be very careful. No one would see them."

"Can you guarantee that? People talk, Emily. The staff included. If anyone saw your paintings, they'd know you aren't a merchant's daughter. They'd wonder, and eventually, it would reach my grandfather. Can you imagine what he'd say? Or Buckley?"

"But—"

"I said no." She stared at him, and he sighed. "Please don't do this. Exhibit your wild nature, I mean. I thought you'd rebel, sooner or later, but not _this_ soon after our marriage, and obviously, it makes me very worried to see it. And can you imagine what will happen if I allow you to paint? You might get ideas; might think you can continue to be defiant, following your impulses and yield to your wicked ideas. How could I, as your husband, allow such a thing to happen? Correct: I couldn't, and I _shall_ not."

Could he have killed her more sufficiently? Yes, by shooting her. Strangling her. Drowning her. But would that have been more painful than what she felt now? A whole life, without doing what she loved the most... She blinked away the tears, but they filled her eyes, burning hot. Charles shook his head, gently.

"Dearest Emily," he said. "I don't mind it if you paint smaller paintings, of flowers, fruits and other such harmless objects. I believe there is a name for it?"

Her reply was reflexive. "Still life."

"Still life, that's it. As I recall it, my mother used to take quite a lot of pleasure in making those, and she was quite talented. As a matter of fact, I think there is one made by her in the drawing room. I'll go and have a look, shall I? Maybe you could learn something from her?"

He left, the soles of his shoes hushing in the silence. She stared at the window, at the impenetrable mass of dead foliage, and tried to feel something, but was much too numb, and remained like that until he returned.

With a content smile, he handed her a small, square painting in a heavy, gilded frame. She grabbed it with both hands, afraid that her stiff fingers would drop it.

"Isn't it beautiful?" he said and took a step back to admire it. "Such a lovely image."

The painting showed a blue, slender vase with neatly arranged roses and lilies against a pale-yellow background, with the hint of a window in one corner, and blue skies and fluffy clouds. It wasn't bad, from a technical point of view. His mother had had a certain knack with composition. It was, however, a dead and lifeless picture, with no traces of either originality or passion. If Giatelli had seen it, he'd have laughed and snorted in dismayed amusement. _This is not art, Piccolina_ , he would have said. _It is a naïve rendition of a completely uninteresting object._ Emily thought it was worse than that. _It's hideous_ , she thought and felt her body tighten in protest. _Hideous, horrible and ugly. I hate it_. She raised her head and looked at Charles, who, still mesmerised by the painting, didn't look back. She wanted to claw at his shining eyes, wanted to erase the expression of delight from his features. _You cannot ask this of me_ , she wanted to scream. _You cannot be so cruel._

"My mother was very talented," he said, and took the painting from her. "She loved flowers and gardening and expressed that in her art, which I think is how a true artist must work. These paintings are very decorative and they make a suitable diversion in any lady's life. Apart from this, there are several other endeavours you could keep yourself busy with while I'm away, like crocheting, reading, or playing the spinet. Everything you wish to do is right here, in this room."

She didn't answer, and he slowly put the painting on the table, then straightened to look warningly at her.

"I see you disagree, but this is as far as I can stretch my generosity. And do remember it for the future as well. _Noblesse oblige_. Not only are you my wife, but you have a title to go with it. A rank. You cannot run around doing things for your own pleasure anymore. Daniel told me you like riding—he says the Arabian horse is yours?"

"Yes..." She nodded.

"Not anymore. It's not suitable for a lady to ride an animal like that: it's an animal for a man. And besides, I don't want you near that stable groom. I know he's got a keen eye for you."

"What? No!" Emily shook her head. "That's not true."

"Oh, really?" Charles' eyes gleamed with scorn. "Don't you think I know why you were so desperate to bring him into the household? When we arrived to the farm that first day, guess who was the first to try to keep me from coming near you? It's obvious that you two are lovers."

"That's absurd." She nearly laughed. "We have never—"

The blow of his open hand silenced her, an impact so great her neck snapped back. She flew from him, took refuge behind a chair, hand on her cheek, trembling from the shock.

"Don't lie to me," he pressed through gritted teeth. "You are a confused soul and that your guidance in the past has been next to none. Therefore, I'm being very mild, and you will not suffer any punishment for your immoral behaviour. But it ends here." He raised his finger, warningly. "You shall never approach him again. Or any other man. No more... _whoring_. No more spreading your legs for strangers. And no more bloody _rebelling_. Do you understand me?"

She closed her eyes. The tears pricked her eyelids. No, he hadn't forgotten. He knew very well who she was, what she was, and he wasn't going to let her forget, either. Only temporarily, for as long as she did as she was told.

"Emily?" His voice was sharp. "Do you understand or not?"

"Yes." She opened her eyes and looked at him, steadily. "Yes, I do."

"Excellent." His eyes travelled over her cheek, bright red from the slap, and he smiled, lightly. _Is he enjoying it?_ she thought, horrified, and took a step back. _Does he enjoy seeing my fear, and the hurt he's causing?_ "Let's behave from now on, hm?" he said. "Or I will have to punish you again—and trust me: you wouldn't want that." He went to the door, opened it. "We still have some rooms left to see, treasured wife. Come with me and I will show you."

A few days later, a message from the War Office in London arrived to Greywell. The Whig administration had long since been focused on keeping an eye on France, and if Bonaparte's decision to create the Duchy of Warsaw hadn't been worrying enough, the fact that he was now turning north to confront the approaching Russian armies, was even more so. The Crown had approved Charles wish for some time from the army to get married, but as that was all over and done with, he was now free to return—something all parties looked forward to, and perhaps Emily most of all.

On the day of his departure to London, she stood by Daniel and tried to look suitably regretful, though failing miserably, which rendered a hard glance from Charles.

"I cannot say when I will be back," he said, looking down at them from his horse. "Guess it all depends on what they decide at the War Office."

"Will they send you to fight?" Daniel asked, his lips trembling. "I don't want you to. They say Bonaparte is the Devil himself."

Charles smiled. "I've met worse people than Bonaparte. A flea, he is, a bug. I hate bugs." Emily shivered, which he noticed. "You'd better head inside, both of you," he said. "Be good, my lovely family, and wait for me."

"We will, father." Daniel's voice was choked. "We will."

He remained on the yard, a small boy in much too thin clothes, with lips bluish from the cold, waving frantically at his father as he trotted off on his horse. Emily pressed her lips together, swallowing her bitterness, and returned to the warmth of the house.

* * *

While the deliberations proceeded in the protected atmosphere at Whitehall, the Russians and French met in Pultusk for another fierce encounter. The battle reached its culmination on the 26th of December, and when both parties withdrew, they'd both suffered tremendous losses, causing France to go into winter quarters. This was a temporary retreat, however, and the English Crown feared that it was only a matter of time before Bonaparte showed his muscles once again. Charles was kept in London, and later, sent to the eastern front to scout and glean information about the going-ons.

On the evening that Emily received the message of his transfer, she sent all the Greywell staff off for the night, and gathered Daniel, Megan and Mrs Goodall in the dining hall for a hearty meal. They laughed, talked and shared memories of the time before the wedding, and for the first time in months, Emily finally felt completely at ease, and utterly free.

# 23

On February 8th, a massacre at Eylau in East Prussia between the Russian and French armies left the French army severely shattered, and a content British army, who had been present to aid the Russians, withdrew their forces. After a few bloody weeks on the battlefield, Charles was granted temporary permission to turn back home to Greywell. It was Daniel who spotted him on the roadside and ran into the house to tell Emily the good news. When she didn't smile, or give him the obvious cheer he deemed suitable, Daniel put his hands on his hips and glared at her.

"You could be a bit happier," he said. "We are a family."

Family—this was the golden word, the Holy Grail, which he clung onto with all his might. Undoubtedly, it was a word that had been imprinted in him by Charles, who, before he left for the battlefield, had made sure to spend as much time with Daniel as possible, and thus had been able to propagandize his goals, with splendid results to follow. The weeks of his absence had been wonderful, but it couldn't be denied that Emily had still been restricted in everything she did: Daniel had watched over her to make sure she followed her instructions. When she'd gone to the stables to ride Amal, he'd warned her that it wasn't appropriate and that she should try to do something else. At this point, he had also hinted that Charles had spies in the staff, who kept a close eye on what she was doing and who wouldn't refrain from reporting her obedience at his homecoming. Heavy-hearted, she'd returned to the house, but in an act of rebellion, she'd used the bleak watercolours to paint a portrait of Megan, as she was arranging flowers in a vase. The painting, she'd tucked away in one of the drawers in the sowing table never to be seen again, but she had felt a lot better afterwards. During the following weeks, she'd painted some other small paintings of motives she knew weren't allowed, and for each one she'd finished, she'd felt stronger and more assertive.

That was now over. Her world, which for a while had had a bit of colour, had now returned to black, and she wasn't going to pretend otherwise, even to Daniel. Since she hadn't answered, he now sighed and let his arms fall to his sides, a look of disappointment on his face.

"Why don't you like him, _Mamma_? He's trying his best and you should be grateful. I know you had your mind settled on being alone on the farm and making your portraits and earn money, but it's not the way of a lady, you know."

This wasn't Daniel talking. She heard Charles, even _saw_ him, in the boy. And because of that, she couldn't reprimand him, or defend herself. Daniel only knew one thing at the moment, and that was that his father was right, and she was wrong—and if it was one thing she couldn't do, was to shatter his illusion with the truth.

"Let's go and greet him," she murmured and avoided his gaze as she passed him to the door.

These conversations were more painful than anything else. From now on, she decided, she would have to avoid him, just as she avoided Charles, in order not to end up in that situation again.

He stood in the hallway, peeling off his riding gloves. When he heard them, his face brightened and he stooped to embrace Daniel, who had ran straight into his arms, the word _father_ , breathed with the utmost joy, muffled against his coat.

As Charles straightened up, Daniel didn't want to let go of his hand. Together, they turned to Emily, who was waiting by the stairs, her body taut and uncomfortable.

"Ah," Charles said, sweeping his gaze over her. "Fallen back to those horrible old bombazine dresses, have we? What's wrong with your new wardrobe?"

"I... find these dresses more sensible."

That was true, but the real reason—because she didn't like the flimsy garments he'd picked out for her, all in colours that didn't suit her—she said nothing about. Perhaps he knew, for he cocked a brow, pointedly.

"Well, now that I'm back, I expect you to dress appropriately and not like a dull, old spinster."

"She hasn't always worn these dresses while you were gone, father," Daniel intervened, anxiously. "You wore the yellow dress just the other day, didn't you, _Mamma_?"

After a bit of hesitation, she nodded.

"Perfect." Charles exhaled and clasped his hands together, his smile brightening his features. "How wonderful it is to be back! I never expected to be gone this long, and I certainly did not expect to participate on the field—but they needed me, and I contributed with a lot of valuable experience, which is a good feeling, indeed."

"You have to tell me about it, father," Daniel said.

It was easy to tell he was fascinated, which made Emily shudder slightly. Before Charles, they had both been spared the horrors of war, and the only scenes she'd seen from a battle was from paintings—which in truth weren't very ghastly at all, and probably not faithful to what it was like in reality. Giatelli had said it was a nightmare, and that a great many men coped badly with the aftermath, some even taking their own lives, because they couldn't stand the memories. Looking at Charles' glowing eyes, however, Emily knew there was no risk of him ever suffering: this was a world he understood and enjoyed—and it seemed Daniel was fascinated to hear all about it.

"I will tell you all," Charles said, and handed his coat to the steward, Wilkins, who folded it neatly over his arm. "Oh, it was glorious to see those French bastards surrender... They had nothing to put up against the Russians. Those Hussars sure can fight. Very impressive, and splendid horse-riders they are, too. You should have seen them. My only regret is that I didn't get close enough to stab that dog Bonaparte through his black heart. I didn't even see him, to be honest, but I suppose he's hiding behind his men, like the coward that he is."

Emily thought to herself that this was probably a false image—she'd heard from the ladies at the tea parties she was forced to attend once a month, that Bonaparte often participated actively in most battles, and that when they were over, he would walk among the wounded and dead to offer comfort and to grief. Most of the ladies talked about him in wide-eyed fascination, saying that he was supposedly very handsome and quite a ladies' man.

"Enough about me, however," Charles said, and turned his gaze to Emily. "What have you been doing since I left, dear wife? Have you attended your tea gatherings?"

She refrained—with effort—from curtseying. "I have."

"Good. The house looks well-maintained at a first glance, so it seems you have kept a deft eye on the staff. Very good." His eyes seemed to search her face for something—signs of disobedience, perhaps. She couldn't think of any, other than the small paintings, but lowered her gaze just to be certain he wouldn't pick up on anything. "It seems you have managed well without me. I'm glad." He nodded, smiling. "This evening, I'd like to celebrate this happy day. I will keep it simple and invite some of my hunting friends, no more than ten. Your cook will make some nice food, I'm sure." He struck out his hands. "I have to say, Emily, that I was quite against the idea of bringing her into this household, but she is quite the gem, isn't she? Her cooking is exquisite. No doubt she'll be able to arrange something for me and my friends tonight—there is a few hours left, after all." He pulled open the top button on his shirt, stained with sweat and dust, grunted slightly from relief. "Tell the cook about my plans, will you, and have her prepare a tray with refreshments for now. It's been a long journey, and I'm famished. Then tell the staff to set the dining hall table for twelve. The nice silver-wear, and fresh flowers from the orangery for decorations."

"Yes, sir," she murmured. "I'll get straight to it."

As she left the room, she could hear Daniel's eager voice as he asked his father about the war, and at which age one could join the army.

"Emily, may I talk to you for a second?"

She was busy giving the serving maids instructions for the evening—the table had to be perfectly set, and there must be no spots on the silver-wear, so she'd given them the task to polish everything one extra time. Looking at Charles, she could see an oddly tense expression on his face, a darkness to his normally lucid eyes, and her stomach folded into a tight knot.

"What's the matter?"

He tossed his head with an impatient glance at the maids. "Not here. My study; now."

Something was definitely wrong.

"Start with this," she told the maids, all lined up and waiting for her directions, and then set the table with the good linen cloths."

Charles walked behind her to his study, reminding her a little of a gaol guard, watching his prisoner. No, this wasn't good at all. If she only knew what was the matter...

When he opened the door and let her inside, she understood, with a tug to her heart. On his rosewood desk, lay the small paintings. Innocent enough, at least in her mind, but they weren't of flowers and fruit like she'd been told. She'd disobeyed his orders.

"Yes," he said, following her gaze. "Care to explain this?"

Who had told him? One of the maids? She'd been careful not to show them what she'd been doing, and she'd hidden the offending artwork in the sowing table, under the embroidery she pretended to be working on. But it _had_ to be one of them, for who else could it be? Daniel? She shook her head, her heart pounding. Charles saw the movement, and misunderstood.

"You _can't_ explain it? It just happened?" He folded his arms across his chest. "I didn't expect this of you, actually. I thought telling you once would be enough—you're both smart enough and timid enough to follow my instructions, or so I thought."

"I..." She cleared her throat. "I thought... They're watercolour and not very big. I thought it wouldn't be so bad."

"You thought. You _thought_." He walked over to his desk and lifted one of the paintings—the one of Megan—between his thumb and index finger. "It's the little Irish maid, isn't it? The brazen one? Did she agree to this? Or even encourage it, perhaps?"

"No!" Emily shook her head. "She didn't know. She... she thought I was making a painting of the flowers. Please... She has nothing to do with it."

Charles' pressed his lips together, briefly. With his nostrils widened, as if he sensed a horrible stench, he then walked over to the fireplace, in which the embers were glowing. The fragile material flared up immediately, curled up around the edges and crumbled in a small inferno of fire and smoke.

"There." He brushed his hands against each other. "Needless to say, I will do the same with the rest."

She bowed her head. "Yes. Of course."

He snorted. "A bit too late to be submissive now, don't you think?" His face grew serious, and his eyes narrowed. "I wonder what else you've been doing in secrecy while I was gone. Care to tell me?"

"I don't know what you mean."

In a few steps, he was in front of her, so close they almost touched. When she wanted to pull back, he grabbed her wrist and wrung it so she had to stand still, lest he'd break it. She tried not to wince, but felt the panic crawl down her back, causing her to sweat.

"I think you know full well what I mean," he growled. "That groom... Did you visit him? Did you let him hold you? Caress you? Did you bed him? I want to hear you say it."

His fingers were relentless around her wrist, and he pulled her so close to his body that she could feel the contours of him—and with fear spiking through her body, she suddenly felt a hard bulge press against her hip.

"Please..." she whimpered.

"What are you begging me for?" He placed a hand around her neck and pushed her face to his. Nose to nose, eye to eye. She struggled to break free, but it was hopeless, and only hurt her more than anything else. "Is this what you like, hm? A real man, who takes what he wants. Do you want me to do that? Here? Now?" He released her with a jerk, so that she stumbled backwards, and viewed her with disgust. "I know you. A carnal creature, blinded by your filthy desires and low needs. The question is, why you act like this, when it's clear what it is you want."

"Because you're a monster!" It slipped over her tongue like a mindless burp, but staring at him, panting with fear and hate, she couldn't stop herself anymore. "You speak to me about filthy desires and low needs, but you're the one who's forcing me to go along with something I don't want to just to gain that stupid inheritance. _You're_ the one who tries to pretend everything is fine, when it's not. _Nothing_ is fine. I don't want to be here, and I don't want to be your wife—I just want you to leave me alone. Do you know what I'm sorry for? That you came back. Every day since you left, I've prayed for you to die on the battlefield. Don't you understand? _I don't want you in my life_."

They stared at each other. One minute, two minutes. Maybe three, but by then, Emily had lost of notion of time. She shook, from anger but also fear: his face was like a mask, unrecognizable, waxen and completely pale, and she knew she'd definitely crossed the line, and that he most definitely was going to punish her for it. Oddly enough, she didn't mind it so much. In all the fear, she also felt a certain degree of relief, for having told him what she'd wanted to say from the moment he sat his foot on Giatelli's farm.

"Well, then." Only that: a dry statement. He nodded, his eyes cold. "I suppose I should be grateful that you're honest, but I find it rather difficult to experience any greater joy at the moment." He struck out his hand. "I've tried to make it up to you, what I did in the past. I was gentle on our wedding night. I left you to care for Daniel on your own. Tried to make an effort, thinking you'd warm up to me eventually. I see now it won't work. You're too stuck in your old ways. Debauched. Ruined. A fallen woman with a twisted mind."

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply to calm herself. He hadn't understood at all, and still blamed her for this failed situation.

"Fine." He shrugged. "Suit yourself: if this is how you want things, then that's how it's going to be. I'll just have to adjust, won't I? But I can assure you: it won't be at all pleasant, so prepare yourself." He sent her a hard glance. "Make sure you stay away for the dinner party tonight, and for the rest of the day, too. I don't want to see your ugly face for a minute more than I have to. Now leave."

She walked off, and for every step she took back to the dining hall, raised her head a little bit more, until it had the proud lift from the days when Giatelli had been alive.

# 24

"Pigs."

Mrs Goodall's voice was low enough for the other servants not to catch her words. Only Megan heard, and now she nodded, echoing her dismay. She wasn't even supposed to be there. She was her ladyship's personal lady's maid now, and serving food or helping in the kitchen wasn't for her. The only reason why she'd agreed to do it, was because Mrs Goodall had pleaded so desperately. _I can't do this on my own,_ she'd said to Megan when she'd found out that his lordship would be hosting a party the same evening. _It's too much on such short notice. You have to help me_. So she had, but she still wasn't happy. The other maids had been snickering at her, asking pointedly if she'd been degraded forever or making other not-so-funny jokes, and Megan had had to bite her tongue not to lash out. She wasn't doing this for them. Or for his lordship, or even for _herself_. This was for Mrs Goodall, because Megan didn't want her to end up in trouble for not being able to give his lordship what he wanted.

Judging from the voices and rumbling of laughter from the dining hall, the guests were happy, but Megan had a nagging feeling they would have felt the same even if they'd been served the food straight on the floor. They couldn't care less about the meticulously polished cutlery or the multitude of Mrs Goodall's exquisitely prepared dishes. All they cared about was the spirits. And women, much to the maids' dismay—the whole night, the girls had been complaining about the pinching of buttocks and other body parts. Megan had been spared, so far: she had only worked in the kitchen. But she knew what it was like, had been through it before, and felt the frustration build up like a band of steel around her forehead. _Pigs_ , she thought, darkly. Fortunately enough, Lady Emily wasn't there to see it, for she had retired very early.

Megan threw a glance at Mrs Goodall. After a whole day of preparing the food, she looked worn and pale, and her hands trembled from exhaustion.

"It will be over soon, don't you think?" she said, soothingly. "They're too drunk to carry on much longer."

"I hope you're right. But there's still the pudding to serve." She threw the lavishly decorated trays a dejected glance. "I doubt they'll know what it tastes like by now."

"Oh, Mrs Goodall..." Megan shook her head with sadness.

The cook had really gone out of her way to make it special, and almost magically produced both sugar biscuits and _gimblettes de fleurs d'orange,_ sweetly quivering blanc-manger and refreshingly tart lemon cream, which zingy scent alone was enough to make Megan's mouth water.

"If they won't eat it, I will," she promised, and reached for a sugar biscuit, only to be readily slapped by Mrs Goodall.

"Oh no you don't, young lady. Paws off my sweet meats."

"Megan..." Wilkins was at the door to the dining hall. He looked a tad flushed, his pale-yellow skin hinted with a shade of pink. "I'm sad to say another serving maid has just been seen off to her chamber."

"Pigs," Mrs Goodall snorted. "Didn't I tell you?" She flapped her apron over the tray of ratafia cakes, her movements so hard that Megan feared the pastries would fall off the tray. "They can hardly keep track of where their mouths are, spilling food all over the place, but they sure know where they have their hands – exactly where they _shouldn't_ be. The poor girls. Is this the third or fourth who has left?"

"Fifth," Wilkins said, stone-faced, and Mrs Goodall tut-tutted angrily. "It's not our duty to judge," he continued, stiffly. "What we have is a problem to solve. We are understaffed for the serving. I need Megan to help with the pudding."

"Oh no." Megan shook her head. "I will _not_." It wasn't so much the nuisance of having to handle guests groping her; she would manage. It was the additional humiliation of once again being shoved around between different household positions. "I'm her ladyship's maid," she said and stomped her foot. "Not a kitchen maid, and I certainly will _not_ do serving. I agreed to help out because Mrs Goodall asked me to."

"Well, that's as may be, Megan, but I am in charge of this household and I require for you to lend your assistance—or you will find yourself with no position at all by the end of the evening."

The nerve! Megan stared at him, until Mrs Goodall shoved her to the side with her voluminous hip. The woman grabbed the silver tray with sweetmeats and cookies, and carried it to Megan, placed it with determination in her hands. "Do as you're told, girl. Be quick about it, and perhaps soon, we can all go to our beds and leave them..." she hesitated, threw Wilkins a shrewd glance and shrugged, "them _gentlemen_ to fend for themselves."

* * *

At first glance, the men gathered around the table made a rather elegant sight, dressed in dapper tailcoats and starched collars, their hairs meticulously plastered to their sweaty foreheads in fashionable curls. When one came closer, the deterioration was obvious. Vases of flowers had obviously fallen over, spilling water over the fine cloth, with petals spread over the table like blotches of blood. The air stank of sweat and perfume, a most rancid odour, and the cacophony of voices was enough to make her head pound.

The sweet meat, or maybe the presence of yet another frightened row of serving maids, seemed to cheer them up to no end, and they applauded, cheered and whistled with a fervour that made her think of hungry wolves. _Holy Madonna_ , Megan thought and rolled her eyes slightly. _I have seen a lot in my days, but this takes the cake._ There wasn't even any room to put down the tray: the table was littered with sad flower stalks and crushed glass from an unfortunate accident. She hesitated, hovered over it while searching for a good spot.

"Ah, darling, let me help you." The man to her right swept his arm gallantly over the table, sending a shower of glittering pieces of glass onto the floor. He then turned around and grinned at her with a bad set of teeth. "There. Plenty of room."

She curtseyed. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it, love." The merry word was followed by a hard smack on her bottom. She yelped and took a step back, but he caught her with his arm, wrapping it hard against her waist and pulling her to him. She landed with a surprised _oof_ on his lap. "You're not in a hurry, are you? Why don't you sit down for a bit?"

"Let go..." She struggled to get up on her feet, but he laughed and pressed his mouth against the side of her neck. A whiff of foul breath brushed her face.

"Oh, don't be such a sourpuss," he said, holding her down. "Entertain a man, will you?"

"No!" She dodged for the next kiss, and dug her fingers hard into the soft spot underneath his chin. It was painful, and as his grip lessened, she sprang to her feet and put herself at a safe distance.

"What a wild-cat," the man said, grimacing slightly, though with a smile, while rubbing the sore spot. "Watch out for that one."

With hands shaking from anger—not fear, certainly not fear—she smoothed out her hair and turned on her heel. _Bloody idiots_ , she thought, gritting her teeth. _Pigs_.

"Where are you going, sweetheart?"

It could have been a call to anyone, but somehow, she knew it was for her—and because the tone was so demanding, even though the ruckus in the room made it impossible to catch any nuances, she also knew it was his lordship who was calling for her. When she turned around, she immediately met his gaze: he was watching her intently, one arm over the back of his chair, his legs comfortably splayed. When he saw he had her attention, he pointed to his lap.

"Come."

"I'd... rather not, my lord." Her heart thumped uncomfortably at the base of her throat. "They're expecting me in the kitchen."

Strange, how the brouhaha suddenly seemed to fade: her voice carried perfectly all the way to him, and she almost thought the gathering of men could hear her swallow in the silence that followed.

"I'm sorry," she murmured with a curtsey. "Of course, my lord."

She lowered her head and walked to him.

Grandly, he stretched out his arm, folded it snugly around her waist as she sank down onto his lap. The humid heat of his body clung to her back, but she didn't dare to distance herself. It was clear in her mind that she mustn't argue with him: the scene from his grandfather's chamber still played uncomfortably strong in her mind, and even though she was still furious at Lord Charles for his flippant words about her kinsmen, he was the man who decided whether she'd stay with Lady Emily. One wrong move, and she would be out in the cold, faster than she could count. So she endured his whelp-like pawing, fuming on the inside with anger, wishing fervently Lady Emily was there to stop it—or Joseph, for that matter, but he would probably add insult to injury.

"Isn't this nice?" In those words, she noticed just how drunk his lordship was: he had problems talking without slurring, and this close to his face, the smell of spirits from his breath was more than a little intrusive. "Aren't you my wife's maid? What are you doing here? Not that I mind a whole lot, actually... You're pretty to look at." His finger poked at her chin, lifting her head. "Very pretty, actually." He smirked. "For being Irish."

She turned her head away. "I was asked to help tonight," she replied, curtly.

"Asked? By whom? My wife?"

"Mrs Goodall."

"Ah, the cook... Tell her she's an excellent one. From all of us." The men hummed in unison. "Do tell: what are you doing next?"

Megan looked into his eyes. Even now, red and glazed by the alcohol, they were beautiful—like shimmering jewels. And yet, something in his gaze made her shudder.

"What do you mean, my lord?"

He shrugged, in the kind of bombastic way that once again revealed how drunk he was. "It's a simple question, I think. What are you doing next? Will you be staying here to entertain us?"

"She can entertain me all night, that's for bloody sure," one of the men shouted, which made the others guffaw.

"See?" His lordship pressed her closer, nuzzling his nose into her neck. "They like you, too. Won't you stay and make us all happy?"

"No." She leaned forward to get away from his touch. "I'm... I'm going to bed."

It was the wrong thing to say—or maybe the correct thing: it resulted in an explosion of laughter, and wild speculations of what she was going to do there. His lordship laughed too, and in the relaxed atmosphere, she was able to squirm herself free from his grip and stand up almost without him noticing. She brushed her skirt with jerky movements and raised her head.

"May I return to the kitchen, my lord?"

He flicked his hand, an amused smile still on his lips. "You may."

She curtseyed and turned around, walked stiffly toward the exit, mindful of his gaze, which seemed to be plastered to her person. The guests had turned their attention to the puddings, were laughing at a joke about the resemblance between breasts and Mrs Goodall's blancmange, and had already forgotten all about her.

_They_ had forgotten about her. But not, she feared, his lordship.

She told Wilkins she had a headache and asked to be dismissed for the rest of the evening. He took one look at her face and accepted without any protest, and she slunk off, ran out of the house and across the dark yard.

The good thing about Greywell, was the fact that Joseph had acquired his own cottage, without a need to share it with any other workers. The downside was that it was situated far from the main house, and one had to cross several glades and shrubberies to get there. At the rustles of the leaves, she grabbed her crucifix and paced up, her breath caught in her throat.

Finally, she reached the little cottage, resting under the foliage of a large chestnut tree. She threw a nervous glance over her shoulder—all appeared to be quiet—then banged so hard on the door her hand stung from the impact. _Oh, come on Joseph, open_. She heard the rustle of bed sheets, footsteps over a hard dirt floor, and the hard, scratching sound of the latch being pushed aside. And then, there he was, a beloved shadow, clad in a white nightshirt.

"Megan?" His voice was raspy from sleep. Scratching his chin, he moved to the side to let her pass, before he gently closed the door and turned to her. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to see you."

"At this hour? What's happened?"

"Nothing. Just... missed you, that's all."

She raised herself on her toes to place a kiss on his lips and enjoyed the sensation of his warm skin, the smell of sleep and man. When she put her cold hands inside his nightshirt, he gasped and grabbed them, laughing from the shock.

"Goodness you're cold," he breathed. "Would you like me to warm you?"

"From the inside and out," she said. "And do a proper job of it, please."

"Oh, don't you worry about that, hen. I will."

Gently, he pushed her backwards onto the bed and eased her down on her back. His hands travelled up underneath her skirts, and continued along her thighs, tickling the sensitive skin so that she drew her breath and giggled.

"I'll do anything in my power to please my lady," he murmured, with his lips against her stomach. "You know I will."

"Mm..."

She squirmed out of her shift and helped him get rid of the nightshirt. Naked, he rose over her, proud and hot, eager to claim her. She opened her legs, reached out for him with her arms. "Tell me I'm yours, Joseph."

"You're mine," he murmured, with his mouth against her.

"No. For real, like you really mean it."

He froze, amused and surprised at the same time. "I _did_ mean it."

"Yes, but..." She sighed, and her hands dropped from his shoulders. "I want to be yours completely, Joseph."

"You are mine completely."

"Not really. Not in the eyes of our good Lord in heaven."

He made a small, grunting, disgruntled noise. She knew the sound very well. It was something he always did when he didn't like the conversation. "Does the good Lord in heaven even have eyes?"

"You know what I mean. We're not married and..."

"Oh for goodness sake. Do we have to talk about that now?"

His hips sank down between her thighs, and now she felt, clearly, just how little he wanted to talk about it. His member had turned flaccid. Warm and limp, it pressed against her leg. She felt the lust in her die as well, slowly and relentlessly.

"So when do you think we should talk about it? Tell me."

"When the time is right."

"When the time is right?" she repeated. Her heart thumped hard inside her chest, making her slightly nauseous. Or perhaps it was the subject. "What does that mean? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year?"

"No. When it feels right. Some day. But not today." The note of irritation in his voice was obvious. "For goodness sake, Megan. It's not really fair to try to press me into proposing to you just before a fuck, is it?"

She drew her breath. "Joseph! You mustn't use words like that."

"I will use whatever fucking words I want."

He rolled off her, twisted around on his side. The curve of his back was such a sad sight, and she regretted her words, yet at the same time, she wanted to shake him, force him to understand, scream at him. _I need to belong to you; I need to prove to others that it's us, you and me_. The collision of needs made her do nothing. Instead, she turned her back on him, pulled the blanket over her body and tucked it under her chin, tears scorching hot under her eyelids.

"Goodnight then," she said, voice thick.

The hay inside the mattress rustled as he moved, turning around half way. "Megan..."

"No," she said, decisively. "I don't want to talk about it. Let's sleep. Goodnight."

"You're not being fair."

"Neither are you."

"So—"

"Good. Night."

She pressed her eyes together and held her breath while waiting for him to give up. Perhaps he was right, perhaps it wasn't fair of her to refuse to talk about it, now that he wanted to, but she couldn't bring herself to it. She was too hurt, too vulnerable. Besides, she couldn't even explain to herself why it suddenly mattered so much, so how could she demand of him to understand?

At last, he rolled over on his side, and, very soon, his breaths turned heavy and deep. He had, of course, been exhausted after a long day. With a sigh, she turned around. She hesitated for a moment, then, very carefully, pressed herself against his warm back and placed her arms around his upper body. _I'm sorry, Joseph_ , she thought, leaning her cheek against the flat, silken smooth shoulder blade.

_I love you_. With that, her body relaxed and the tiredness slowly crept into her senses, numbing them sweetly and sending her into a deep, dreamless slumber.

* * *

She woke with a jolt, without knowing why.

With a pounding heart, she blinked and blinked, while trying to make sense of her fluttering heart and curled up fists. It took a few seconds to realise that Joseph was sitting up beside her, and another couple of seconds to realise that it was his abrupt movement sitting up that had woken her.

She pushed herself up on the elbow. Immediately, he put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down again.

"What?" she breathed. "What's wrong? Joseph?"

Then she stopped, interrupted by loud bangs on the door. _Bang, bang, bang, bang_. Again and again, a tirade of aggressive knocks.

"Who—?"

But Joseph grabbed her hand and held it, warning her. _Keep quiet_. As a groom, Joseph was always on duty. He had to be there when a horse fell ill, or when one of the mares were foaling. This could be such an occasion, of course, but—

"Stable boy." She flinched at the sound of the voice, and squeezed Joseph's hand, tried her hardest to catch his gaze, though his attention was focused on the door and the visitor. The question, a bloody good question, she reckoned, was what Lord Charles was doing here in the first place? "Stable boy," he shouted again. "I know you're there. Open the bloody door."

"Stay there," Joseph whispered, and touched her shoulder. "Don't move."

She nodded and made herself as small as possible while Joseph moved across the room to the door, pulling on his breeches in the process. A gush of cold air streamed through the cottage as he opened it.

"About bloody time," Lord Charles said, obviously relieved. "What took you so long? I thought I'd have to knock down the damned door."

Joseph folded his arms across his chest. "What are you doing here, my lord?"

"Is that a way to greet your master?"

"It's the best you will get at this hour."

"You sure have an attitude." Lord Charles took a step over the threshold. The bluish gleam from the moonlight caught in his hair and made it shimmer. He swayed, pulled a hand over his face and burped. "You be glad I'm too drunk to be bothered to do anything about it."

Joseph sighed and closed the door. "Please, my lord. I hardly believe you're here to pay a friendly visit, are you?"

"I have a problem and I need your help." With that, he nearly fell over. Joseph grabbed his arm to steady him. "Bloody hell," Lord Charles said. "I'm drunk. You wouldn't have a chair, by any chance?"

"No, I don't."

"But you have a bed... I can sit on the bed."

"No."

But it was too late. His lordship had already moved over to it, and upon sinking down, he nearly sat on Megan, who had to quickly withdraw her foot as not to be crushed under his weight. The movement caught his attention. He froze but didn't remove himself from the bed.

"Company?" he said. "You have company? A little lady friend?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Maybe not, but I'm curious. Who might it be?"

"For God's sake, leave it."

But he ignored Joseph's protests, took hold of the cover and tugged at it, hard. Despite Megan's effort to hold it in place, it slid off, and during an absurd few seconds their eyes met, and they stared blankly at each other. Then, his lordship's lips twisted in a mocking smile.

"Well, what do you know," he said, slowly. "The little maid. Should've guessed, of course, but I think I was hoping she'd have a bit better taste."

Joseph sighed again. "Why are you here?"

Lord Charles slowly turned his head. "You're asking me why?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Can't you see that?" He made a gesture toward his clothes. It wasn't easy to see, given the darkness, but the moonlight outside the shutters provided enough light, if only scarcely, to reveal some details, and it became clear that something had happened. The light grey jacket was smudged with dirt, and he had a tear in the fabric of his breeches, showing glimpses of a bloody knee underneath.

"It's the bloody horse," he said. "It... it went down." When none of them said anything, he shrugged. "One of my comrades and I decided to go for a ride. A bet," he added. "Call it a race, if you will. I wanted the horse to jump, but it was dark to and it slipped. I think the leg is broken. You have to come with me and finish it off."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. You have a gun, don't you?"

"I do."

Joseph reached for his shirt, pulled it over his head, jerkily. It was easy to tell he was furious, and easy to guess why. The horses meant a lot to Joseph, and were, in a way, his life. She knew he was going through them in his head, wondering which one it was.

"Shall I go with you?" she said.

"Oh yes, come with us, why don't you?" Lord Charles answered in his place and rolled his eyes. "Can't think of anything better than to bring a hysterical woman along. As if I won't have enough with my dear wife, once she finds out," he added, under his breath.

"Finds out what?" Joseph's hands froze, where he was pulling on his boot.

"That her precious horse is dead, of course." Lord Charles went past him to the door, which he flung open, letting in a new gush of cold air. "Don't forget the gun."

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

"No." Megan shuffled from the bed, grabbed her shift and pulled it over her head. "You can't do this." She caught his arm, held him back from the cupboard to keep him from reaching his weapon. "Please."

Gently, but decisively, he moved her to the side. "I have to."

"But it's Amal. Amal. Her ladyship would never allow it. She got him from Giatelli. It's the only thing she has left from him."

"Don't you think I know that?" He forced the words out through clenched teeth. Jerkily, he pulled out the gun, reached for the ammunition. "I know that, Megan. But what choice do we have, if his leg is broken?"

"So let _him_ do it," she said and pointed, fervently, to the door.

"No." He shook his head. "If I do it, at least I will know the animal hasn't suffered."

"But her ladyship will never forgive you."

Joseph sighed. "Megan..."

"No. Please..." She tried to catch his eye, but he looked away and threw the gun over his shoulder. "Joseph, please."

He sighed, and his shoulders slumped some. It was as if the air of determination left him. She reached for him, opened her mouth again, to comfort him, but was interrupted by his lordship, shouting from the other side of the door.

"Stable boy? Where are you? Did she pull you back to bed?" Short silence. "May I join in?"

Megan closed her eyes, breathed in. Joseph's thumb brushed her cheek, gently.

"I need you, Megan. Come with me."

And so she did.

The lantern swayed and wavered like a will o' the wisp, and sent vicious, black shadows over the small trail, creating illusions of roots moving, of bushes growing and shrinking, moving beside them. Megan held her cross tightly in her hand. The night was so terrifyingly quiet, so very still. To think that Amal was out there made the tears well, blurring her eyesight and making her stumble on the uneven ground.

She paced up to join Joseph, sticking her arm under his.

They walked or stumbled, through the darkness until they reached an area where Megan had never been before. Between the treetops, she could only barely make out the main house in the distance. They weren't too far away, but far enough to make her shudder.

"Over there," Lord Charles said, and pointed to a spot further ahead on the ground. Joseph stopped, and held up his lantern.

There he was, Amal, lying flat on his side on the cold, damp ground, a dark, glistening shapeless bulk. His sides heaved and his pelt shimmered in the pale light. At the sound of their voices, his ears turned only so slightly in their direction, and he snorted, sending out a cloud of smoke into the air.

"Hey," Joseph said, softly, and squatted next to him. He slid his hand gently along the front leg, and the horse groaned, flung its head in pain. Joseph rose again and turned to Megan. She knew then, what his decision was.

"No," she whimpered, but he shook his head.

"We have to. I'm sorry."

"Save the romantic drivel until you're alone, please," his lordship said. "Be quick about it, stable boy. A clean shot to the head will do the job."

"Yes." Joseph sent him a dark glance. "It certainly will."

The man stiffened, his eyes narrowing some. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounded like."

"Only you didn't mean it for the horse, did you?"

"That's up to you to decide, my lord." Joseph pulled the gun from where he'd tucked it into his trousers and loaded it with short, decisive movements. "But you tell me who is worth the bullet more? The fool who forced it to run in darkness, or the horse that has to suffer for his idiocy?"

Megan felt the air stir when Lord Charles moved past her. He leapt toward Joseph and struck Joseph over the cheek with an open hand. With the other, he grabbed the gun, took a step back and pointed it to Joseph's head.

"I can only take so many insults before my patience runs out," he said. "And you have certainly had your chances, so tell me why I shouldn't pull the trigger now?"

Joseph shrugged. "Be my guest," he said, coolly. "If you need to make a point, then you must do so."

"No!" Megan took a step forward and pressed the barrel away from his lordship. She stomped her foot to the ground, and glared at Joseph. "Are you out of your mind, Joseph?" she said, voice quivering from anger. "And you too," she spat, pointing to Lord Charles, who raised an eyebrow. "You... bloody... _men_. The horse is suffering, and all you can think about is your stupid pride. Well, I won't have anything to do with it. Shoot the horse now, or I'll bloody do it."

There was a minute of silence before Lord Charles chuckled. "Well, well," he said. "Seems like someone has a temper. But she's right, of course." He shoved the weapon back in Joseph's hand, who grabbed it, without a word. "Remember to thank her for saving your life, stable boy."

* * *

Megan held Amal's head, patted the silken nose, his rapid breaths hot against her palm. While Joseph put the gun to the spot right behind the animal's ear, adjusting the barrel to find the cleanest angle, she kissed the smooth skin, looked into the dark, gleaming eyes and whispered to him that it would soon be over.

Then, gently, Joseph urged her to stand back.

She stood so rigidly that her back ached, with her hands over her ears and her eyes closed. Still, the shot made her jump, and while it rang out in vibrating, nauseating pulses, she fell to her knees, buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She sensed Joseph kneeling down beside her and she leaned against him when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

"It's over now," he whispered. "He's not suffering anymore."

She nodded, tried to draw her breath. Gently, he helped her to her feet, brushed off her skirt and wiped her cheeks.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, and kissed her forehead. She nodded. She had no voice left to answer.

"I see you're well enough to walk back to the house," Lord Charles said, coolly. He stood some feet away in the glade, watching them, face expressionless, a frightening figure with his silver eyes and golden hair. "Bring the girl to her chamber, stable boy—not your cottage: I will not allow it. Tomorrow morning, I want you back here to remove the carcass."

"Yes," Joseph said. His voice was neutral, but Megan knew—felt—the fury, simmering inside him. "You can count on it."

"I am, don't you worry about that. And you, little maid, will tell my wife what's happened."

She stared at him. "Me?"

"I think it's better that she hears it from you. All decided then?" He sent them both a pointed glance. "Good." He turned from them and started walking, throwing a nonchalant goodnight over his shoulder. A short moment after, he was engulfed by the shadows, and they were left only with the faint sounds of the still night.

Joseph took her hand, squeezed it tight.

"Let's get you back to the house. You will need your sleep for what'll come tomorrow."

"Sleep," she said, bitterly. She was freezing now, shivering like a leaf. The wind seemed to run straight through her clothes, into her bones. "How can I sleep after this?"

"Do your best. We must be strong for her ladyship now. She needs us."

Megan hardly dared to think about how she would take the news, that her beloved Amal was dead. She shuddered, and grabbed her crucifix with one hand.

"Come," she said, ill at ease, and pulled at Joseph with the other. "Let's go back."

The next day, Megan told Lady Emily what had happened. Lord Charles wasn't present at the time, which was as expected, but Lady Emily, pale and shaking, immediately sent for him, without caring the slightest that he was still in bed.

"Get him," she said, her voice low and pressed. "Get him this instant."

Megan sent for Wilkins to fetch his lordship and retreated to a corner, unsure of what to do. Lady Emily didn't seem to notice: she'd walked up to one of the windows, where she stood, arms wrapped around her upper body as if she was very cold. It didn't seem appropriate to say anything, and it would be even more inappropriate to offer her ladyship a warm embrace, so Megan bit her lip and waited. It was almost a relief when the distinct sound of Lord Charles' boots filled the room.

"He's here now," Megan said. Though the information was unneeded, it felt good to break the silence.

"Thank you, Megan."

Lady Emily turned around, stiff in her movements, her face pale. She looks like a ghost, Megan thought, lump of ice forming in her belly. She'd seen Lady Emily like that once before, when confronted with Joseph's past. She's furious, she thought. Grief-stricken and furious.

Lord Charles entered the room, sloppily dressed in shirt and pantaloons, his hair tousled, his eyes puffy from the alcohol and lack of sleep. He sent Megan a swift glance, as though asserting whether she'd done her duty properly, before directing his attention to her ladyship.

"What now?"

No sign of regret, no sign of acknowledging her pain. It seemed, Megan thought, almost deliberate.

"You killed my horse."

A small smirk touched his lips. "Your horse? Not so, my dear—he was _my_ horse. When I married you, all your possessions became mine. What can I say?" He shrugged. "It was an accident. Why are you so upset, anyway? It was just a stupid animal."

It happened very quickly: Megan had never seen Lady Emily move so swiftly, and clearly, Lord Charles wasn't expecting it either, for he did nothing to stop it. Lady Emily's palm landed on his cheek, the smack exploding in the silence.

"How dare you," she hissed and made another attempt to reach for him, this time with her nails. " _You killed my horse_."

"What the..."

He caught her wrist, twisted it behind her back, containing her. The lock was painful—Megan had experienced it a few times when play-fighting with her brothers—but Lady Emily glared at him as if she didn't feel anything, with not so much of a moan leaving her lips and her eyes ablaze with hatred. As if he was afraid to have her so close, Lord Charles pushed her back, so forcefully she almost fell. She didn't attack again, but glowered at him, panting, her head lowered like that of an angry bull.

"You bitch," he said, raising his hand to his cheek. "How dare you do that to me? And in front of the staff, too? Are you mad?"

Lady Emily shook her head. "You killed my horse," she repeated, pressing on each word, and for the first time that morning, Megan could see tears shimmering in the thick, dark lashes. "You killed Amal. How could you?"

"Like I said, it was an accident. If it means that much to you, I'll buy you a new one. One that's more suitable for a lady."

"I don't want a new horse!" She screamed it, and Megan flinched. "I don't want anything from you. I want you to leave; go away." She drew her breath, and then spat: "May you rot in _hell_!" While he stared at her, she straightened her back, wiped her face free from tears and raised her finger. "I hate you," she said and pointed at him. "I hate you so much that you'd be scared if you knew."

"The feeling is mutual." He nodded, slowly, his lips pressed together. "I will remember this, Emily. Just another thing to add to your already tarnished list. It's getting very long. Soon, I will have to take action."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Lady Emily watched the closed door for a while, stiff and immobile. Megan had once seen a death mask made of wax, and thought about how her ladyship resembled that with her pale face and stiff features—she didn't seem real, and there was no sign of her even breathing. When she finally moved, Megan jolted from surprise, and curtseyed as her ladyship's gaze slowly met hers.

"You are free to leave," she said, her voice hollow. "Go to the stables and tell them to take good care of Amal's..." Her lips trembled, and she put her hand over her mouth. With an extreme effort, she removed it again. "I need to be alone for a minute."

"Yes, my lady."

Megan curtseyed again and left, her body aching with sympathy.

Joseph had told her how Lady Emily had handled Giatelli's death—with eerie calm and without really showing too much emotions. Maybe, Megan thought, the loss of Amal, Lady Emily's last real connection to Giatelli, had caused that last bit of self-control to finally break. Hopefully she would be able to recover, but after she'd peered in through the door and seen her ladyship kneeling on the floor with her face in her hands, shaking with grief, she wondered if her mistress would ever be whole again.

# 25

The months went by.

February turned to March, and March turned to April. The transition to spring, with its budding flowers and trees, the lighter days and the warmth of the sunlight, made life easier for most of the people at Greywell. Not so much for Emily—but somehow, she made it through the days and weeks, surviving only because she refused to feel anything at all. After that moment when she'd learned Charles' had killed Amal, and the initial, tearing outburst of grief and pain, she'd picked herself together, encased her heart in stone, and tried to move on. No more bursts of rebellion, no defiant outbreaks: she played her part of a good wife to perfection, much to Charles' content relief. It wasn't so much because she was afraid of what he'd do—he'd already done the worst—but because she didn't have the will to fight, or even care. And sure enough, it made her life easier. After a while, with the pain of Amal's death fading some, it got easier for her to breathe. But something else had changed as well. After Amal's death, Daniel's attitude had become less cheerful, and much less optimistic. He now kept more and more to himself, taking comfort in the presence of his dog. When it became clear that one of Charles' mares was carrying a foal that was suspected to be Amal's—some months prior to his death, he'd managed to break free from his pen for a visit to the mares—Daniel spent almost all his time watching over the horse, intent on a safe birth. _He will be yours, Mamma_ , he said to Emily. _I will ask father to give it to you_. She had tried to look at least a tad enthusiastic, but really wasn't. Amal could never be replaced.

However the case was, her life went on, hour by hour, day by day. It wasn't bad, but not good either. She existed, which for now, was enough.

That day when the carriage pulled in on the yard, gleaming in the sharp April sun, she'd been overseeing the rose bushes in the garden—a task that she at least appreciated slightly. She rounded the corner of the house and stopped at the sight, her heart strangely fluttering, but without knowing why. It was a rather plain carriage, though discreetly elegant, pulled by two horses that, despite being dusty, looked strong and exclusive. Nothing special about it: Charles, as well as herself, had visitors on a regular basis, all of whom came in the most elegant carriages. But at the same time... Her mouth dry, she looked at Charles, who'd approached it. He waved his hands about and his voice, strangely shrill, carried through the clear air all the way to her: apparently, he was yelling to the man who'd stepped out on the gravel—a dark stranger, fashionably dressed.

While standing there, drenched in Charles' upset verbiage, the man raised his head and seemed to search the area, until his gaze finally landed on her. Their eyes met, causing a jolt to speed through her heart. _I know him_ , she thought, though it was impossible, for she had never seen him before. Yet...

She started to walk. Collected her skirts, lifting them from the ground to move faster, and sped to the carriage. Charles noticed, and held up his hand.

"Stay there," he called out. "Go to the house." She didn't. Stopped, but remained where she was. "I said, go to the house," he repeated, his eyes warning her to disobey.

"Let her stay."

The stranger had an accent she'd never heard before, but she knew it had to be French, and her eyes widened. A Frenchman, here? Not just at Greywell, but in England? He smiled at her baffled expression, before turning to Charles.

"I'm here for a peaceful purpose."

"Are you now?" Charles had calmed down, but his voice was still sharp as broken glass. "Is that your ship that is moored in Dover?"

The man nodded, obligingly. " _Oui,_ Monsieur _._ "

"I hope the Crown seizes it. You have no business coming here with your French ships."

"They cannot seize it, Monsieur," the stranger said. "It's protected. Just as I am."

"Protected?" Charles shook his head. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"I am Monsieur de Ste Germaine. I am the courier of—"

"I do not care who you are. You shall leave my premises at once."

"I cannot do that, Monsieur. I am on a mission."

Charles guffawed. It seemed, Emily thought, as though he was secretly impressed by the stranger's way of holding his own. "Are you now?"

"I am."

"Must be important then, to have you walk so boldly into the arms of the enemy. Do you know who I am?"

"I do. But I also know who I am. I have a decree that guarantees me safe passage through England—signed by the British Crown. Care to see it?"

Charles' throat and neck turned red. "I don't bloody care to see it. You think I care if you're a diplomat?" he spat. "You are an intruder, and it's an insult that you even dare to set your foot on English ground, not to mention _my_ property."

"That's as may be, Monsieur, but I have my mission and my instruction is to come here."

"Instructions by whom?"

"I will tell you, Monsieur, but perhaps we can go somewhere a little more private to discuss it?" The stranger sent a sweeping glance over the yard, where some of the staff had gathered. "We can go inside, perhaps?"

Charles glared at him, but sighed with exasperation and waved his hands.

"Fine. Follow me," he said and turned around.

"And your wife as well."

"My...?" He swirled around again. Looked first at the stranger, then at Emily, as though she was to blame for everything. She held her breath. "Why on earth for?"

"I will explain everything, Monsieur."

They stared at each other for a minute or so. Then, finally, Charles lowered his head.

"Alright," he muttered, "but don't expect this to take long. I will listen to what you have to say, but after that, you will be on your way again."

"Now," Charles said, when he'd closed the door to his study and made sure they were alone. "What is this for foolishness? What do you want? And most importantly, why does my wife have to be present?"

Emily knew what he must be thinking, and swallowed hard. France was currently keeping a low profile, concentrating on setting up trade blockades and securing their borders—which in its own way was both threatening and insulting to the English Crown. She didn't see exactly why he would think so, but knew that Charles suspected her of being involved with the French somehow. Espionage, perhaps, which was a very serious matter and not something he would take lightly upon. The stranger eyed her curiously. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, and framed by the most beautiful, dark lashes.

"Your wife is an artist, _n'est-ce pas_?"

The question took her by surprise. From the corner of her eye, she could see Charles stiffen with aversion. A minute went by before he replied, curtly:

"No. She is not."

"Ah, but Monsieur," the stranger said, amused, "that is not what I have heard."

"Well, perhaps you have been misinformed," Charles snarled. He moved, suddenly, swishing past Emily who jumped aside, and ripped the door open. "Leave now, before I kill you."

"That would be a most unfortunate decision, Monsieur."

"I don't care." He swung around and glared at the Frenchman. "How dare you come to my home and... and ask these questions!"

" _Alors_ , I only asked one question."

"And the answer was clear, I think. My wife is not an artist."

"I do not believe you. Madame?" He turned to Emily, who had been staring at them both, heart pounding against her ribs. She blinked, taken aback. "I think you remember Master Giatelli?"

"I, ah... H-how...?"

"Maybe you remember that he was away on trips? To France?"

"Among other places... Yes." She didn't dare to look at Charles, felt his fury like a wall against her side. Strangely enough, she didn't care too much. Her life didn't have much meaning anyway, and the strength in the Monsieur's eyes made her strong, too.

"Did he ever tell you he was connected to the French court?"

Another surprise. She shook her head, full of wonder. "No, he didn't. I knew he told me he visited castles and men in high positions, but never... never..." She trailed off, then said, feebly: "The French emperor?

Though it was an incoherent question—not _even_ a question—the Frenchman nodded, enthusiastically.

"And the Empress Joséfine. _Sa Majesté_ took great pleasure in his art."

"Oh..."

Emily clasped her hands together, her heart pounding excitedly. The French empress was a legend even in England, an icon, worshipped just about everywhere for her grace and beauty, her lively character and her good taste in fashion. The dresses Charles had picked out for Emily, were based on dresses that the empress wore.

"He never told me he knew her," she said, "but I am glad to hear it. It seems just like him. However, I regret to inform you that he has passed away just recently."

"I know, Madame." The Monsieur bowed. "It must have been a sad day."

She bowed her head as well, and as silly as it was, her eyes pricked with tears. "It was."

" _Sa Majesté_ was saddened by the news as well, and not only because Master Giatelli was a good person, but because she wanted to have her portrait done by him."

"I see."

Charles sighed, impatiently. She clasped her hands so hard her knuckles whitened, begging him in her mind to let the Monsieur finish, while knowing such a plea was highly self-defeating.

"She remembered that Master Giatelli had mentioned a pupil of his; a female painter who apparently had a talent superior to his own. My mission is to find that pupil and bring her to the Empress Joséfine to paint her portrait."

"What?"

Charles and Emily spoke in unison, the very same word but in very different tones.

"This is a joke, is it not?" Charles finally said. His voice trembled with fury.

" _Non_ , Monsieur. Your wife will join me to France, where she will paint the portrait for _Sa Majesté_."

Charles laughed. The sound exploded in the silence, and made Emily jump.

"A joke," he repeated. "Surely you cannot think for a second that I'd let you bring my wife to France? How can you even suggest such a thing? You must be mad. Crazy." He pointed to his head. "It's ludicrous."

The Frenchman bowed. He seemed a little on his edge, but still sufficiently relaxed to let Emily see the shadow of a smile.

"The Bonaparte family is most particular about their arts and always see to it to collect the finest painters. This time, they have decided it's your wife."

Charles snorted. "Well, they can't have her. End of discussion."

_No... No, no, no_... Emily bit her lip so hard she could taste blood. To protest now would be equal to death—at least figuratively—but every fibre in her body told her to stand up for herself. To paint for the Empress of France, to _paint_ , full stop...

_I want this_ , she thought, _I want this so badly. Oh please, Monsieur, fight for me._ She tried to catch his eye and convey the message silently, through her gaze. Almost invisibly, and perhaps only in her imagination, he nodded.

"Monsieur," he said, his voice turned majestic. "I regret to inform you that you have no choice."

"What was that?" Charles stared at him, mouth open. Then, he laughed, and shook his head, pointing to the door. "Leave now. I will respect the diplomacy, but my patience is wearing thin and if you linger, I cannot guarantee your safety."

"You will not do anything, Monsieur," said the Frenchman tightly. "My patience is wearing thin also. _Sa Majesté_ wants your wife to paint her portrait and that is how it will be. I must tell you that a refusal will have consequences."

"What kind of consequences?" Charles sighed. "Don't tell me your precious emperor is prepared to go to war over a measly portrait?"

"I cannot tell you what he will or will not do, but like I said, _l'Empereur_ takes his art very seriously, and he stands behind _l'Imperatrice_ in her decision. I am not here to talk politics, Monsieur, because it is not in my interest at this moment. But, as we both know, important negotiations are underway, not least regarding the trade embargo. It is clear even to me that it would not be very good for you if these negotiations broke down because of your unwillingness to cooperate, _non_?"

He guffawed. "So you're telling me the fate of Great Britain rests on my shoulders?"

"I hope not, Monsieur, but I cannot guarantee it."

Charles fell silent, and Emily finally dared to peer at him. Noticed how pale he was, his face glistening from a thin sheath of sweat, his body trembling. She knew how important his work was to him, and how important his reputation was. Commissioning artists to paint portrait was a strange game, she knew—Giatelli had told her that it surpassed the political game, and that it was so important that all parties, even in war-times, allowed it to take place. The best artists were protected almost by the same rules as the diplomats. Charles probably knew this—but he also knew the consequences of outing her. Everything they'd worked for, the lie of who she was, would be destroyed, and possibly spill over on his chance to inherit.

It was a delicate dilemma, putting high-strung politics against his own personal gain, and knowing Charles, it wasn't obvious which would come out the victor. She pressed the fabric of her dress in her hands, hard, hard, twisting the fabric until the blood stopped and made her fingers tingle.

"Are you fine with leaving immediately?" the Frenchman asked. After a moment, she realised he was talking to her.

"Don't answer," Charles barked. She stared ahead. "Emily," he said warningly.

_I hate you. I hate you so much and you killed my horse and destroyed my life and you expect of me to be obedient. I won't be. I refuse to be. This is what I have dreamt of since I learned how to paint and I will not be stopped._

"I think we must," she said.

"What?" Charles reached for her wrist, but she managed to take a step away so that his fingers only brushed it. "What is this, Emily? Are you listening to yourself? And Daniel?" His voice turned triumphant when he saw her quick, frightened glance. "Yes, Daniel. What mother would leave her child for her own selfish pleasure?"

"It will only be for a few weeks," the Frenchman said. "When you are done, we will of course bring you back to your son."

"I—I think I need to ask him."

She wasn't afraid that Charles would take out his anger on the boy—Charles was a horrible person, but she had to admit he loved Daniel intensely and without reservations. She wasn't afraid of that. She was, however, afraid of how Daniel would take it, that his mother disappeared.

"To paint a portrait for an Empress is an immense honour, Madame," the Monsieur said. "It is a dream for many, but a privilege for only a few, and you were chosen. It is an opportunity that will never return."

Indeed. The fragile taste of freedom had been so heady she'd not, until now, considered the task itself, but now she heard Giatelli in her head, telling her how she was meant to paint for kings and queens and that she must never settle for anything less. She had vowed to follow in his footsteps, and had been _prepared_ to do so... and how could she now decline the opportunity? For all the fear and hesitation that filled her, this weighty task held none of that—only joy of the most intense kind: it felt like her chest was going to burst from it.

She looked at Charles again. Knew, in an unpleasant stroke of insight, that either way, she would be punished. If she said no, he'd still discipline her for even considering it. But the mere thought of painting again sent her blood rushing through her veins. She felt it with every heartbeat, a strength flowing into her arms, her torso, tingles to her flesh as if awakening. Her fingertips touched her skirt and she was aware of the texture, of every single little thread in it, how they were woven and intertwined to form a smooth surface. She felt the seams against her skin, chafing, and the cool breeze that seeped from underneath the door and to the windows because someone in the house had left a door or a window open. She felt all that, small things she hadn't felt, or cared to feel, in months.

_So... What will be your answer, Piccolina?_

She raised her head.

"I accept the offer, Monsieur. Just let me talk to my son first, and have my maid pack some things for me. Then, we must leave. At once." She didn't look at Charles, but knew he was one step from lashing out. _Do it_ , she thought. _Give me one more reason to leave._

" _Je comprends_ , Madame. Do what you need to do. I will wait in the carriage for you."

"You will regret this," Charles pressed through his teeth. He turned around on his heels, flung the door open, and was gone.

* * *

Daniel listened to her explanation, then went with her to the carriage, had a serious but polite conversation with the Monsieur, who told him he would take good care of his mother. They bowed at each other, and Daniel turned to Emily.

"This is what you have to do," he said, with a side-ways glance at Charles, who was watching them from the house. His wrath stood out from him like a black cloud. "It is your calling and you must follow. Don't worry about father. I will take care of him."

The proud lift of his chin sent a rush of tears to her eyes. He was so grown up, so mature... When had that happened? She took a step closer and embraced him—a rare sign of affection—for a long time.

"I will miss you," she whispered. "Are you sure about this?"

"Are _you_?" he whispered back. They smiled at each other. "You deserve this, _Mamma_. I know... you haven't had an easy time lately. And I know it's..." He swallowed, then pressed on: "My fault."

"Daniel..."

"No, I mean it. I'm happy to have a father, but I know you don't feel the same way and sometimes, I think he treats you unfairly. You need to be free. That's what Giatelli said... and lately, you haven't been, and that's my fault." His lucid eyes glazed over, and she realised he was about to cry. Quickly, she closed him in her arms again.

"I love you, Daniel," she murmured. "Always. Never doubt that."

"I won't. I love you too, _Mamma_." They drew apart, and looked in unison at the carriage, where the Monsieur was patiently waiting. Discreetly, Daniel leaned closer to Emily again and had her stoop so he could put his lips to her ear. "I know everything will be well. He reminds me of Giatelli, you see."

"I am sorry you had to leave under such stress, Madame."

They had been on their way for a while, and the silence had been pressing. Now, as the road had made more bends than she cared to count, the Frenchman seemed to find it fit to strike a conversation. She threw a searching glance at the valet sitting by his side, then at the female chaperone who was sitting beside her, but they were asleep, heads resting against the windows, and didn't seem to take any notice of the conversation—she suspected they didn't even understand English. The chaperone was for her, the Monsieur had explained, but as they arrived to the castle Fountainebleau, she would be equipped with a proper train of lady's maids, who would see to her every hunch. Ardently, she wished she could have brought Megan—at least she'd offer the comfort of a familiar face—but it had been impossible, for several reasons, of which one was the lack of space. Emily's body ached from the effort of trying to avoid bumping into her fellow passengers, as the vehicle jostled its way on the bad roads.

"Are you worried?"

She turned her head, glanced at him, unreasonably annoyed to be disturbed in her thoughts. "Wouldn't you be? Of course I'm wondering if I made the right choice."

In fact, her stomach was a tight knot with regret and anxiety, and more than once during the more than hour-long journey, she'd had to bite her tongue to step herself from ordering the carriage to turn back.

"Your husband will survive," the Monsieur said, with a shrug that starkly reminded her of Giatelli's vivacious gestures.

"Yes, he will. But will I?"

He cocked a brow. "Really, Madame? You are worried he will kill you?"

"One can die in other ways than purely physically, Monsieur."

That was what she feared the most. Physical punishment was one thing, but he had a knack for breaking her mentally, which was harder to recuperate from. For example, she was rather sure what he had done to Amal hadn't been merely by accident. He'd wanted to take her down, and had gone for the thing she cherished the most, aside from Daniel—whom he naturally would never touch. Oh yes, he'd known what he was doing, when riding Amal to his death. The question, however, was how he would administer his revenge this time. There wasn't much left for him to destroy, after all.

"I am sorry," the Monsieur said again. "I'm sorry that your husband is so very pathetic."

She guffawed, surprised. "Pathetic? Yes, maybe. I've never thought of him that way."

"He is," the Monsieur said, with certainty. "Only a coward would treat his woman like that. _Ton mari est un abruti_. Pardon my French."

"That's... quite alright." She inclined her neck, surprised over the sudden urge to laugh. Nobody had ever called Charles an idiot before.

They fell silent for a while, until the Monsieur spoke again.

"Would you like to turn back?"

A direct question, the one she'd asked herself a hundred times during this journey. Yet, when spoken aloud, it suddenly came out sounding absurd, and her whole body recoiled at the idea.

"No," she said, with determination. "No, I don't."

" _Alors_." He smiled. "So we continue. Excellent. _Vous êtes une femme courageuse, madame_."

For the first time in a long time, Emily dared to smile as well, a shy smile, barely noticeable. " _Merci_ , Monsieur."

It felt almost as good to be called brave, as it did to hear someone call Charles a coward.

# 26

Darkness fell, and soon it was too perilous to continue. As they passed an inn, the Monsieur called for a halt, to give the horses some rest and themselves some much needed sleep. Emily looked forward to that. Her body ached from the uncomfortable position on the far from comfortable seat, and she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. The inn looked inviting, its windows softly lit and the sound of laughter from within the small taverna. On the weather-beaten signed, was a crudely painted picture of a wild boar and a fair-haired girl. _The Boar and the Maid_ , it said underneath, in red, bold letters. Emily sniffed with delight in the air, drawing in the lovely scent of food. She hadn't realised how hungry she was, and placed her hands over her grumbling stomach.

"I can't wait," she said to the Monsieur, who nodded, and stepped forward to talk to the proprietor, who happened to be a stout, pig-like man, with an enormous belly hanging over the belt of his breeches, and small eyes that regarded them with open hostility.

_A boar_ , Emily thought, curiously. She wondered if his wife was a small and fair-haired maiden.

"Looking for somewhere to lodge?" the man said, his thumbs inserted at the brim of his breeches. He viewed the carriage with suspicious curiosity, then the Monsieur in the same fashion.

"Yes. For one night only."

Not even in those few words, the Frenchman could hide his accent. Emily held her breath as the innkeeper stiffened.

"We don't serve animals here," he snorted, and spat on the ground. "You be lucky there are ladies travelling with you, good sir, or I'd have cut your throat right on the spot."

The Monsieur withdrew slightly, but Emily, hungry and desperate for a night's sleep, decided to show her courage and stand up for them.

"Good sir," she said, as demandingly as she could. "I am English and the wife of a high officer in the English army. This man is protected by diplomacy rules—a decree signed by the English Crown—and I will not stand for threats against him."

The innkeeper's small eyes flew swiftly over her. "Wife of a high officer, you say? What are you doing dallying with a French bastard, then?"

Shocked, she stared at him. "Why, I'm—"

"Spare me. Now be gone, all of you. Do not soil my property with your filth."

His raised voice had attracted the attention of a few guests, who had gathered around them, swaying shadows and flashes of pale faces, gaping mouths.

"But we have money," she heard herself say. "We can pay you decently if you only give us rooms. Please..."

"Madame..." the Monsieur murmured.

She looked at him, surprised over his submissiveness. As she opened her mouth to tell him she didn't think they deserved such treatment, a shabby looking man from the crowd suddenly grabbed her arm, interrupting her. He jerked her toward his body and held her against him, staring at her with watery eyes. The stench of sweat, stale ale and piss made her gag.

"You can stay in my room, darling. I'll show you what a proper Englishman feels like."

He grinned and pressed his groin against her, ignoring her struggle to break free.

"Get away!" The Monsieur shoved the man from her and pulled her behind him. Shaking, she took shelter behind his back, pressed her hands against her mouth and tried to calm her breathing, but the fear made everything spin. " _Est-ce que vous allez bien_ , Madame? Are you well?"

"Y-yes."

Without taking his eyes from the men, he turned around and took her arm. "Come with me. Quick."

She nodded, hurried back to the carriage, fearing an attack from behind at any moment—but none came. The murmur among the crowd was loud, and within it, like the low buzz of an insect, there was the unmistaken note of enmity, but also of insecurity. They stayed where they were, flashed their teeth in anger, raised their fists as a warning, but they didn't move. Perhaps it was her words about his diplomacy that prevented them from coming after. Emily hurried into the carriage, hunched and with her throat tightened with fear. The Monsieur threw himself in beside her and banged on the wall to the coachman.

" _Allons-y_!"

Though she should have been prepared, Emily jolted as the carriage jerked to a start, then hid her face in her hands, her breaths quick and shallow.

"Are you well, Madame?" The Monsieur's voice floated to her, soothingly calm. "I'm sorry about what happened over there."

She raised her head a little and nodded. "So am I. I—I think it was me who... started everything."

With a shudder, she thought back at the man who'd held her—her wrist still detained the pressure of his hand, her body still felt the heat from his body. She knew, without a doubt, she'd suffer nightmares from this.

"I started it, Madame," the Frenchman said. "I should have let you talk. My English is obviously not as good as I think it is."

"Your English is perfect," Emily assured him, though it wasn't.

"Another thing is my looks. I do not look English." He touched his head, with the shimmering black hair. "But it would be impractical to walk around with a bag over my head to hide it, _non_?"

Despite her edginess, she had to smile at that. "Very impractical."

He smiled as well, then fell grave. "You must be both hungry and tired."

Why did he have to remind her?

"I am, but so are you, Monsieur. Will we stop elsewhere?"

"We will have to see. I don't think it's worth it to try another inn, and it is risky to stop on the road. But the horses are tired too, and the coachman will be soon enough." He sighed. " _Je ne sais pas_ , Madame. I simply do not know."

She sighed too. Even though the air in the carriage wasn't too cold, warmed up by four bodies as it was, it was still chilly enough to make her shiver. Or maybe it was the aftermath of their experience by the inn. She pulled the shawl around her shoulders and wondered, yet again, whether this was a good idea. Perhaps the universe was trying to tell her something?

"Try to get some sleep, Madame," the Monsieur suggested, softly. "Hopefully, when you wake, we will be in Dover."

Obligingly, she leaned her head against the smudged window and closed her eyes. Not too long after that, she was asleep.

"Madame?"

The dark voice startled her. She straightened up, winced at the pain in her stiff joints, and stared at the Frenchman. His face was barely visible in the darkness, but since his face was a lighter blotch, she could make out his eyes, and she noticed straight away they were full of concern.

"What is it?" she rubbed her eyes, tried to rid her mind of the fogs of sleep. "Are we there?"

" _Non_. I am sorry to have to wake you, Madame, but we have encountered a bit of a problem."

His words snapped her back to sharpness. She leaned closer to the window and peered outside but couldn't see anything except compact darkness.

"What's the matter?" she said, turning to look at him again. Now that her eyes had adjusted and she was awake, she saw the contours of his face, and oh, how she hated that look. Her heart paced up, drummed like a galloping horse in her chest.

"Do not be alarmed, Madame, but... it seems we are being followed."

"And you're telling me not to be alarmed?" She stared at him, then back outside, hating the darkness for its ability to hide what was out there. "Who's following us?"

"I do not know that, Madame."

"How do you know we are followed then?" She gestured toward the window. "It's impossible to see anything."

"I can hear them. And the way the coachman is pressing the horses tells me the same thing. It seems likely, as well."

"Why would it be likely? Why—"

He stopped her by putting a finger to his lips. " _Ça suffit_ , Madame. We must not speak now. We must act."

"But—"

" _Ça suffit_ ," he repeated. That's enough.

With a hammering heart, she watched as he leaned over his leg. She trembled so much she could hardly get the words out: "W-what are you doing?"

"Preparing."

"Preparing? For what?"

"Hopefully nothing." He straightened up, this time carrying something in his hand that he had removed from the shaft of his boot. It shimmered slightly in the bluish night, a dangerously revealing gleam.

"A _knife_?"

"It's just a precaution. We also have two pistols."

He turned to the two servants, a quick harangue in French, impossible for her to follow, but whatever he said, it seemed as if the two servants took it well. The woman uttered a determined _je n'ai pas peur_ —I'm not afraid—and leaned over to grab Emily's hand, squeezing it hard, while the man reached for his own dirk, a grim look on his face telling Emily that he was even looking forward to a confrontation.

Numb, her mind swirling with thoughts, Emily looked out through the window again. Her mouth was dry, funny-tasting. What would happen if she died? She'd promised them she'd be back, but what if she didn't? Charles would probably be happy, and within soon, he'd have Daniel forget all about her. _Never_. She clenched her fists _. I won't die_.

The darkness, the creaking of the carriage suspension and clattering of hooves prevented her from hearing or seeing anything. Still, she thought she could sense the pursuer closing on the carriage, and the realization made the hair stand up on her neck. The Monsieur said something to the servants, who both nodded. The male servant loaded the pistol.

"They are after you, Madame," the Monsieur said, matter-of-factly. "So we need to protect you."

" _Me_?"

" _Oui_. I think when you mentioned that you had money, you attracted the wrong people." Even in the darkness, he must have noticed how she blanched, for he shook his head. "It is not your fault. You tried to help. But now we have to help you."

As he said it, the carriage stopped, and Emily fell against the Monsieur, sitting opposite of her. He grabbed her arms and helped her back into her seat. Stiffly, breathlessly, they then listened out into the night. Horse hooves clomped toward one side of the carriage, followed by a voice.

"Stay there, coachman," it said. "We're only interested in what's inside that carriage of yours."

Emily met the Monsieur's gaze, and the alarm in his eyes scared her more than anything else. He put a finger to his lips, then signalled with his other hand toward the door on the opposite side of the carriage. The valet instantly reached over the seats, pulled down the handle and pushed it open a sliver only, allowing fresh air to stream in. Emily stared at the Monsieur, who was now signalling to her to move toward the exit. When she shook her head, he shook his head back, resolutely. _Do as I tell you_.

Holding her breath, she gathered her skirts with one hand and crawled toward the narrow opening, through which she squeezed herself. She slipped onto the patch of grass underneath. The Monsieur followed, slick as mercury. There was a small shrub next to the roadside. He pulled her down behind it, placed his hand on the small of her back and pressed her firmly to the ground. The raw chill seeped through her clothes, the scent of moss tickling her nose. She stared at the carriage, visible as a black shadow against the dark blue sky, and the movement and swaying shadows next to it. The highwaymen had opened the carriage door.

"What the hell? Where is she? The Englishwoman?"

That voice... Emily sent the Monsieur a startled look and knew that he'd caught the same: this was the man from the inn. The one who had held her.

"No use. They don't speak English." It was another rough voice, with a local accent so heavy Emily had trouble hearing what he was saying. "They must 'ave jumped out further down the road. I'll turn back and 'ave myself a look. You stay here and loot the carriage."

The first man swore. "I told you we couldn't just go after them like that. Why the hell couldn't we wait for them to stop? We could have taken them down while they were asleep."

"And what if they _wouldn't_ have stopped? Quit moaning. I'll find them. You take care of these ones. Just make it quick."

"My pleasure. French bastards..."

Emily winced, crept forward, panic clawing at her guts. _Run_ , she wanted to scream to the valet and maid. _Run and save yourself_. A hand caught her skirt and tugged her back. The Monsieur stared warningly at her. Full of grief, she nodded and sank back. If the highwaymen heard them, they would face the same fate.

The woman screamed when they dragged her out on the ground, and Emily moaned in desperate sympathy, pressed her hands over her ears to close out the sounds. The Monsieur moved closer, eased his body to hers and whispered something in her ear. It was in French and she couldn't understand it, but it was meant to be soothing.

At the loud bang that followed, she jerked and curled up on her side, hands over her ears. The Monsieur threw his arms around her. She didn't protest. She pressed herself against him, pressed her eyes shut and shivered with the shock.

There seemed to be a fight and a series of shots followed. One of the bullets hit a stone next to the Monsieur, sending a cascade of yellow sparks over them. The woman screamed, a high-pitched wail, followed by silence. Over it, Emily heard the highwayman's voice, flat, anguished, quivering with pain.

"Bloody hell. Bloody friggin' hell," the highwayman said. "The bastard shot me. I'm bleeding. Jesus Christ. But I got him, I bloody got him." He fell silent for a few tense-ridden seconds. "Robbie?" he shouted. "Where the hell are you?" No answer, or at least, it was impossible to hear anything over the screams of the woman. Emily huddled together, her hands cramping from holding them so tight over her ears, but she couldn't keep out the sound; not entirely.

"Oh, bloody hell, shut up," the highwayman shouted, but to no avail. "Right. Time to let you join the others. Come here."

Emily pressed her face against the Monsieur's jacket, and he held her hard against him, his fingers digging into her back. She welcomed the closeness, needed it. They heard the screams turn into a yelp and the yelp to a helpless gurgle. Then, silence.

The Monsieur relaxed. It was as though the air left him, and Emily knew, in that second, it was over. The coachman, the valet and the chaperone, alive just minutes earlier, were no longer with them. She curled up into the Monsieur's arms and cried silently against his chest.

* * *

He moved first, gently prodding her back to reality by touching her chin and making her look up at him. His eyes gleamed, black behind dark lashes.

"It is not safe to stay here," he whispered. "They're searching for us already. We need to move." She nodded, her heart pacing up again. She had been so caught up in the grief over the dead that she had almost forgotten the robbers were still there. "Come," the Monsieur said. "Keep your head down and move as quietly as you can."

She nodded again, slowly backed out through the thorny shrubbery, turned around and crawled along the grass toward the forest a bit further away, following his lead. Stones and branches cut into the flesh of her hands and knees, and her legs tangled up in the wet skirt made her fall forward, but she scrambled herself up on all four again and continued forward.

"Good," the Monsieur whispered. "Now get up and run."

Get up and run? She could hardly stand up.

"Please..." She sobbed. "I can't do this."

"You can, Madame." He came back, took her arm and put it around his waist. "You're strong."

With his help, she managed to stand up. He helped her run, half crouched, over the small scrub brush field to the forest. Branches whipped her in the face, stung her arms, and her breaths were painful gasps.

"A little bit further," said the Monsieur.

With her vision reduced to a narrow field of black dots, they rushed on until finally, she called out for him to stop, and at last, he did. Patiently, he waited as she folded over and emptied her stomach on the ground next to a beech.

"I'm sorry," she said. Trembling, a foul taste in her mouth, she wiped her face with her hand. "I couldn't..."

"You do not have to explain, Madame. It is a natural reaction. Do you feel better now?"

"Better?" she said, bitterly. "No, can't say I do."

He watched her for a moment, as though contemplating what to do, but then gave a small shrug. "I think we are safe here. Maybe we should rest for the night?"

For the first time, she took in their surroundings. They seemed to be further away from the roadside than she'd thought. Trees, everywhere trees, and some stones. The ground was softly padded with moss and fallen leaves and grass.

_I've never slept outdoors_ , she thought, staring at the ground. Her teeth chattered. She had to press her jaws together to stop them.

"Perhaps over here?" he said and pointed to a small, moss-clad glade some feet from where she was standing. "This would be good, _non_?"

"I... suppose." She blinked, tried to see what he was seeing, but her head spun and her legs trembled so badly she could hardly focus. Still, she found herself able to form the correct response. "It will be fine, Monsieur."

" _Bon_." Resolutely, he strode across the glade, squatted and placed his hand on the ground. "I think it's soft enough."

"Yes."

She saw him look up and eye her, warily. "Madame?"

She didn't answer because she couldn't. _Too much, this is too much_...

Her knees folded, and she huddled up on the ground, hid her face in her hands, shaking, fighting for breath.

"Madame?" He sounded closer now. Had he run to her?

"No," she gasped. "No... Leave me alone."

" _Non_ ," he said. "That will be the last thing I do. Do not be ashamed. It is not strange that you react like this."

She nodded into her hands. _Breathe_ , she told herself. _Breathe. In, out_. Focusing on her breathing helped. The light-headedness subsided some, even if the shaking did not.

"I have the same, _n'est-ce pas_?" he said. "I am very shaken."

"Are you?" She looked up at his face. Though dishevelled and sweaty, streaked with dirt and blood, where a branch had cut through his skin along his cheek, he looked poised and collected, but there was also a haunted expression in his eyes, and when he held up his hand, she saw that it was trembling. "I—I thought you were used to these things."

"Used to them? Why would I be?"

"Well, I thought... because you're a military man..." It was easy to assume so: couriers were often non-commissioned officers. His movements, clean and precise, his speech and the constant preparedness for problems, also spoke of a time of drilling within the army. "I just thought you were used to... to these things." She realised he was staring at her, and shook her head, devastated. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I didn't mean to offend you."

He sat silent for a while. "You do what you must to survive, Madame," he said, finally. "Sometimes, to survive, you must set your emotions aside. For a while, at least, until you're safe. But not forever. No man should ever get used to despair or suffering. The day you do, it has been on the cost of your sanity."

"Yes," she said and thought of Charles. "Or at least your humanity." She looked away from him. "We survived, Monsieur. But, those poor people." Her voice broke, and she had to wait for a moment before being able to continue, but she had to admit the guilt that gnawed at her heart. "I k-killed them, Monsieur. It was my fault. They died for me, while protecting me. And I'm... I'm so sorry." She folded over again, hid her face in her hands. He let her cry, not moving, saying nothing. When the crying had subsided, he spoke again, his voice low.

"You are right to grieve, Madame, but do not blame yourself for what happened. The only ones to blame are those men, who came after us. _They_ are responsible, not you." She didn't answer. "Guilt is a dangerous thing. It is pointless and weakening and leads to nothing good. It will certainly not bring people back from the dead. Grieve them, but do not give up. Honour them by fulfilling your mission. If you do not, then, _oui_ , they will have died for nothing. _Comprenez-vous_?"

She nodded, feebly. Head bent, she sat on the ground, fighting her fears and guilt and fatigue while the Monsieur silently rose to search the area, probably for food or water. When she finally stood up, the first early bird had started to sing in a nearby tree. The morning was about to break. The Monsieur returned.

"There is fresh water," he reported. "And some hazelnut trees. Perhaps there are some on the ground we can eat. I do not know the English forests, but I would assume so."

She nodded. "Maybe later, but I am exhausted. Do you think it's possible to rest for a bit first?"

"Ah, of course."

He removed his coat, shook it and placed it on the ground, then gallantly gestured toward it. "It is the best I can do. I trust you will not be too uncomfortable."

"I am too tired to even feel my body," she admitted. "And where will you sleep, Monsieur?"

He looked at her, expressionless. "I only have one coat, Madame."

She froze. "You're not saying...?"

" _Oui_ , Madame, I think I am. I know it's not _comme-il faut_ in your normal life, but this is not normal, and I would also like to add that it would have made a difference if I was interested in something other than sleep."

"But... I..."

She stared at him, battling her emotions. Maybe it was the shock that caused her to react like this over something so banal—a notion that she'd reached a point where she just couldn't take anymore, but the way he gazed back at her, sternly, annoyed even, made her realise just how silly she was. The ground was cold and damp, and the coat would offer protection against that, and it wouldn't be fair of her to deny him that.

Decisively, she nodded. "Please, Monsieur. You take your coat. I'll sleep on the ground."

His eyes narrowed. "What are you afraid of, Madame?" he said, gently. "You do not need to answer, by the way," he then decided. "I will sleep on the ground. It is no problem for me." When he saw her reaction, he smiled. "Really," he said, softly. "I do not mind it. I have done it before."

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much."

She pretended to bend down to brush off her skirt, to conceal the tears in her eyes.

* * *

Undoubtedly, the Monsieur was used to army life, for he didn't seem very bothered by the situation. With his arms under his neck, he even looked at ease on his spot a bit further away from her. She knew it couldn't be very comfortable, however. Most probably, the moist and cool were seeping into his clothes and chilling him to the bone. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry for having taken his coat, but knew it would just be a repetition, and besides, she didn't have a solution for it, for she didn't want him to share her place.

Her stomach churned with a thousand worries, with guilt, with grief, with regrets and the burdening knowledge that she'd made the wrong decision. The universe _was_ trying to tell her something... but on the other hand, she couldn't stop now, or those poor people would have died for nothing.

She buried her nose in the coarse fabric of the Monsieur's coat, and breathed in the soft smell, finding some comfort in it, like one would sniffing at a kitten or baby. _I won't break_ , she told herself. _I will continue. Giatelli would have wanted me to._

At the thought of Giatelli, she relaxed some. Her mind drifted off, made no sense anymore, and very soon, the world faded away, as she fell into much needed sleep.

Charles was there. He towered over her, one hand on each side of her body, pinning her to the bed. His eyes were completely white and burning as though they were on fire, cascading their hatred toward her, his face twisted in a lusty grimace. Behind him was Mr Radcliffe, who hissed at him to punish her. She felt hard hands digging under her skirt, squirmed to break free. Charles face transformed, turned into a stranger she'd seen only once, and who grinning told her he'd love to share a room with her. _Do it_ , Mr Radcliffe chanted, _do it—she's just a whore, she needs to be punished._

" _No_!"

Emily sat up and stared wildly in front of her, gasping for breath, struggling to understand where she was. The shock of facing trees, hundreds of them, giants covering the sky, and the feel of cold rain against her skin, made her curl up and hide her face like a child, her breaths shivering and fast. She sat like that until her memory had caught up and her senses had returned, then carefully looked up and slid her gaze over the glade. Everything was still, the rain a gentle, straight drizzle, and the grey light that sifted through the foliage of the trees soft and forgiving. The spot where the Monsieur had been was empty, with only a slight decompression in the moss where he'd lain. With her gaze she traced him to a spot behind a couple of trees, where he was standing with his flask of water, apparently having filled it from some natural spring in the ground.

"Ah, you are awake," he said when noticing she was looking at him. He approached her, and carefully handed her the flask, along with a few hazelnuts that he'd picked from the ground. They were dark and looked unappetizing. "Morning meal," he said with a regretful shrug. "It's not much, but it's the best I can do."

" _Merci_ ," she said. After some hesitation, she put the hazelnuts in her mouth. As she'd expected, they tasted vile, but she managed to swallow them down together with the water. She shook her head when he asked if she wanted some more.

"I know what you mean," he muttered. "English forests do not have a lot of food in them."

"I suppose not." She peered at him. "Do you know where we are?"

"Not completely." He extended his hand. "Let me help you up, Madame."

She shook her head. "I'll manage, thank you."

He didn't insist. Watched her silently as she stood up, unsteady and with aching joints, and brushed off her clothes. The rain seemed to have started during the night, and her skirts were heavy with moisture, hampering her every move. When she stepped on the moss, the water slurped to the surface and immediately seeped in through the thin fabric of her shoes. She sighed, bent down and picked up the coat, plucked it free from twigs and moss.

"I hope we will soon find shelter," she said, trying not to sound too whiny. "I'm a bit cold."

" _Oui_ , I can see that." He sent her a troubled glance. "Your face is _un petit bleu, non_?"

She handed him the coat, but he shook his head. "Keep it. Put it on."

"Of course not, Monsieur. It is your coat. Besides..." She stopped and eyed his ensemble. His shirt clung wet on his shoulders and chest, and the breeches that had once been a creamy white, were now green and brown and grey. "You must be freezing, too. You should wear it."

"Madame..." He snorted—a Gallic noise—and shook his head again. "If _you_ do not want it, I will not take it either, and then it will be left here for the little animals of the forest. I cannot see them making good use of it, so what is the point? You might as well take it."

He wasn't going to change his mind. _Giatelli_ , she thought, once again. _He's as stubborn as Giatelli._

"I'll take it, then," she said, and held out her arms, so he could drape it on her. It was surprisingly warm, and when she burrowed her nose into the collar, she felt his scent, soft and comforting. "I'm not happy about it, just so you know."

"And I do not care, Madame, as long as you are warm." Despite his hard tone, she could see the trace of a smile on his lips. He fell silent and stood for a while, obviously scouting out the direction, before glancing at her. "Are you able to proceed? Or does your foot require more rest?"

She blinked in surprise. "My foot?"

" _Oui_. You are limping. Did you hurt yourself running, yesterday?"

"Ah." Her face grew hot. "No. It's an old injury. When I walk a lot, I feel it. It's... nothing."

It was her heel, torn after her escape from Charles. It didn't normally cause her any trouble, but in cold weather and when exhausted, she'd sometimes feel it. She had thought she'd masked it well, but apparently, the Monsieur was sharp-eyed.

"You are not very heavy, so if it gets worse, I can carry you," he suggested.

_God forbid_. She managed to constrain her shudder and raised her nose into the air. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary. Let's start walking."

He bowed his head, humbly. "As you wish, Madame."

* * *

The birds seemed to be wanting to make up for the lack of sunshine and were busy around them. The explosion of sounds, the twitter and chirps, the constant moving between the trees, the flapping of wings, made her feel a little better, despite the horrible drizzle from above their heads. She followed the Monsieur without hesitation, without questioning his choices of paths. There was no need for it, though, since he walked with confidence and apparent knowledge. On one side a man who belonged to nature, on the other a dapper gentleman who carried himself well in salons and among nobles. It made her wonder who he was.

"Pardon my curiosity, but do you have a title, Monsieur?"

He slowed down for a bit, allowing her to take the few steps to join his side. " _Oui_ , Madame. I am born a viscount."

"Ah. So I should really refer to you as Lord de Ste Germaine? Or perhaps Vicomte de Ste Germaine?"

He chuckled. "You are not obliged to call me anything. Especially not in this place. The animals and plants do not care about nobility, hm?"

"We will hopefully be out of the forest soon," she reminded him. "And then maybe I will have to address you like I should?"

"Ah, _non_." He shook his head. "I do not like titles. I reckon I am a simple man. That is how I want to see myself, in any case."

"But you are not a simple man," she insisted. "You're the courier for the Emperor of France. How were you awarded that honour?"

"It follows with lineage. The male members of the family de Ste Germaine have been employed at the French court as couriers for centuries, so I'm simply following the path my ancestors put up. It is not always easy, and sometimes very dangerous—during the French revolution, not least... My father had to flee not to be killed. We spent some years in Sardinia before _Sa Majesté_ called us back. By then, it was my turn to take over my father's duties—and I did."

"That must have been a horrible time for you," Emily said, her heart tightened with sympathy.

"It was, but at the same time, we were safe where we were. And now I'm safe and live a very good life. _Sa Majesté_ has done a lot for our country and our people."

"I see." She peered at him. "Are you married?"

Hopefully, he wouldn't take her question as coquetry—it certainly wasn't meant that way. She was only curious about his life, wanted to know more about him, and, maybe, hear about the woman who had captured such a man's heart. But he shook his head.

"I am not. The opportunity has not yet presented itself. My mother had it in her mind to get me a wife a long time ago," he added with an amused grimace. "But I do not listen to her in these matters. She has awful taste."

"You are lucky you can choose."

" _Oui_ , Madame," the Monsieur replied, with a compassionate glance at her. "I think I am."

She looked down on the ground, at bleeding moss and sharp needles, all of which made her each step difficult to take—but there was no point in complaining, and she refused to do so. "Do you think the right lady will turn up one day?"

He didn't answer straight away, as though giving the question extra thought. " _Oui_ , Madame," he said at last, "I think she will."

After this, he changed the subject, and they conversed about light and impersonal, but pleasant things, about books they'd read and art they liked—Emily talked so much she finally excused herself, blushing with shame, but he merely laughed and said it was nice to hear her thoughts, as she had great insight and her mind an exceptional depth. It delighted her to hear that, and it also delighted her to hear his thoughts; she realised she hadn't been able to discuss about these things with anyone since Giatelli was alive. The lively conversation made her forget about her situation, and sooner than she'd imagined, the rows of trees ahead thinned out, and the light became brighter. There was a change in the air, and additional tang of salt to the gentle breeze, and seagulls sailed the milky grey sky with stiff wings. _We must be near_ , Emily thought, her heart pounding. _We made it. I made it._ She was full of wonder over that—that she, weak little Emily, had managed to survive an attack by highwaymen, and a perilous journey through the forest—but she also had to remind herself that it wasn't over yet.

"Is that a road, up there?" she asked and pointed ahead.

"I think so. I'm only wondering if we should follow it or keep to the forest."

From having looked forward to walking on good, solid ground, the idea of trudging along in wet moss made her unreasonably dejected. "Why?"

"Because of me." He touched his black hair and shrugged, his smile slanted.

"Ah..." She nodded, and sighed. "Very well, then. The forest it is."

"It is not far to the sea now," he said and pointed to the seagulls. "We must be very close."

"I'm glad," Emily said. "Let's continue."

His smile turned warm and genuine. "I like your attitude, Madame," he said with an appreciative nod. " _Alors, allons-y_!"

It was a little easier to walk after that, almost as if his words had given her extra power.

# 27

"He hasn't eaten since she left."

Mrs Goodall put her hands on her voluminous hips and studied Megan with as much worry one could expect from someone who had most likely never gone hungry for more than a day in her life. Since Megan _had_ —she knew very well what it was like to starve—she wasn't as bothered. His lordship would most likely survive at least another day without food. It was more likely that he choked on his bitterness.

"And he hasn't come out of his study since then, either. That's almost two days now," Mrs Goodall continued her lamenting. "Can't be healthy, I'm telling you."

"Oh, Mrs Goodall... He's in a bad mood and wants to be alone," Megan snorted. "Wouldn't you, if your spouse had taken off with a Frenchman?"

Megan's words struck the right cord, and Mrs Goodall's eyes widened at the thought of the sensational event. It was the gossip of the household, the thing that all the staff was talking about.

As it was, the period that had elapsed since Lady Emily had left the house had been both troublesome and strange. Nobody knew what to think. Megan had caught a glimpse of the Frenchman before they'd left, and had found him fascinating and incredibly handsome with his exotic looks and dark flashing eyes. When she'd told Joseph about him, he had laughed. _You are describing Giatelli_ , he'd said. _Let's hope this man is worth the hassle._

Megan hoped so as well. Her mistress wasn't a woman to take risks, but she sure had this time, and in such a shocking way that people would be talking about it for years to come. Then again, before locking himself up in his study, his lordship had already collected the entire staff and told them that if they dared to even breathe a word about it to anyone, he'd flog them all. They weren't even allowed to talk about it amongst themselves... but of course, they'd all forgotten _that_ warning. He couldn't control it, and he couldn't ask of them to pretend as though nothing had happened.

"I still can't believe it," Mrs Goodall said and shook her head so fervently her cap nearly fell off the steel grey locks. "Her ladyship isn't very adventurous. To leave with a stranger like this? And to France of all places? I cannot even fathom what went into her head."

She rolled her eyes, displaying her disbelief. She didn't seem too upset, however—almost the opposite. Megan knew the woman didn't care much for their new master, and secretly, she was probably happy that her ladyship had rebelled, especially after hearing that the man who had made her do so, was a dashing stranger with exotic looks and an even more exotic accent.

"I think it's romantic," said Megan, following this trail of thought, and snatched another biscuit from the tray. "He was incredibly handsome."

"Oh, be quiet," Mrs Goodall snapped and turned around, but not before Megan had caught her smile. "Lady Emily is a decent woman. She would never do anything _indecent_ , I'm sure of it. But what she _will_ be doing is a mystery. What do you think?"

"She didn't say. Daniel won't say anything either. A mystery, as you say." She turned to Wilkins, who'd just entered the kitchen. "Do _you_ know?"

The steward sent her a blank look. "Why would I?"

"Maybe his lordship told you. You have been his lordship's butler since he was born, haven't you?"

Wilkins looked mildly insulted. "Certainly not. How old do you think I am, anyway?"

"Ancient," she replied. "And you know him better than we do."

"No one knows his lordship," Wilkins said, tartly. "Is the tray ready, Mrs Goodall?"

"Yes." She nodded at it. "Bring it away before the tea gets cold."

"Why would you think he's hungry?" Megan grumbled, but moved to it just the same.

"At least we can try to give him _something_." Mrs Goodall raised her chin. "I can't just watch a man starve to death, now can I?"

"You are quite right, Mrs Goodall." Wilkins nodded. "Bring it to him, Megan, and then come to me. We need to prepare for Mr Radcliffe's arrival."

Megan's eyes darkened at the mention of the solicitor's name. She still hadn't forgotten the hush-hush between him and Master Daniel, and she hadn't forgiven him for it, either. His lordship had now sent for him, urgently.

Then, she realised what Wilkins had said.

"You want me to take it to him?" She shook her head. "When will you learn that I'm not his maid? I'm _her ladyship's_ maid."

"And with her gone, you have no function at all," Wilkins replied, firmly. "Do you really think I'd let you drift around to your own liking until she's back? I think not. I've assigned you to be part of the serving staff. You will bring his lordship his tea."

Megan sighed, but she was in no position to argue. Sourly, she grabbed the tray.

"Save some shortbread for me until I'm back," she said to Mrs Goodall, and nudged the woman with her hip, as Mrs Goodall plucked a hot tray scattered with honey brown, sweet-smelling treats from the oven. "Don't let Wilkins eat them all."

"Oh, you cheeky girl," snorted Mrs Goodall. "You have a big mouth and no sense to your head."

But Megan saw that she and Wilkins were both smiling as she left the kitchen, and despite her gruffness, Megan smiled for a bit, too.

She knocked on the door to his lordship's study, but there was no answer. Carefully, she turned the knob and pushed it open. The room came into view, silent and gloomy. The stale smell of an enclosed space struck her nose and made it itch. She'd never felt at ease in this room with its dark furniture and tasteless paintings, and now it was even worse, the atmosphere closing in on her like a dark presence, making the hairs on her arms stand up. For some reason, she didn't dare to call out, didn't dare to make any sort of sound—or maybe, it was more a case of self-preservation that made her sneak into the room. By the wall, she saw the remains of a vase, thrown against it with force, spreading pieces of delicate porcelain everywhere, carnations and roses sadly dying in puddles of water on the floor. Stiffly, she looked ahead at the desk, her goal. _Just leave the tray and then be gone_ , she instructed herself. _Be quick. Don't hesitate, don't wait_. Why this felt important, she didn't know, but there was just something in there that made her skin crawl. A sense of something? A smell? Yes, that was it: underneath the powerful stench of sweat and liquor, there was something more that she couldn't distinguish, and that sent her heart racing.

The tray was on the desk. She fumbled with the cup and saucer, which had to be arranged neatly before she could go, or Wilkins would take her by the ear, for sure. There. Done. With a sigh of relief, she straightened up to turn around.

"I haven't ordered food."

She jumped and cried out from shock, swirled around on her heel. Lord Charles stared at her from the chair by the unlit fireplace. The backrest had completely hidden him, and she realised he'd known about her presence all along, which made her feel incredibly silly.

"I was told to bring it to you, my lord," she stuttered.

"Why?"

"Because..." _Because Mrs Goodall thought you'd starve to death?_ She couldn't say that. Tentatively, she curtseyed. "Would you like me to take it back to the kitchen?"

He contemplated it for a brief second, then shook his head. "No, I think I'll have some. Serve me."

"Yes, my lord."

She curtseyed again, turned back to the desk and leaned over it to prepare the tea. Bloody Wilkins, who'd sent her here. Next time, she'd refuse.

His lordship left the chair to come over to her. Arms over his chest, he watched dispassionately as she filled the cup. His gaze burned through the fabric of her dress, all the way to her skin. She felt as though she shrunk and shrivelled up, like an ant underneath the scorching ray from the sun through a thick lens.

"There you go, my lord." Relieved to be done, she turned around and gestured toward the arrangement. "Tea is served."

"Aren't you going to hand me the cup?"

"Oh... Of course." She reached for it.

"I was only joking," he said, gravely. "Leave it."

Slowly, she withdrew her hands. Curtseyed again, but mostly because she didn't know what else to do. Her hands were sweaty, and she hid them in the folds of her dress. He viewed her, intensely.

"Refresh my memory... What was your name again?"

"M-Megan."

"M-Megan?" He smirked. "Strange name, I have to say. Mind if I call you Megan? That's nicer. Simple, but you're a simple girl, are you not?"

What to say to that? She chose not to say anything at all, hoping he couldn't see the pulse beating at the base of her throat.

"A simple, Irish girl..." His eyes swept over her and landed on her face. "Are you afraid of me, Megan?"

_Yes_. "No, my lord."

"No?" He tilted his head. "Why not?"

"Why?" She blinked in confusion. "I—I don't know?"

"Is it because you have no respect for me? Are you laughing behind my back, like the others?"

"The others, my lord?" she asked, cautiously. "I do not know that anyone is laughing behind your back."

His reply came swiftly and sharply as the lash of a whip: "Don't lie to me. You're all laughing at me. I'm a cuckold; the deceived husband. Isn't that what you all say?"

"No," she said, horrified. She glanced at the door, which looked dishearteningly far away. "I'm sorry, my lord, but... um... I think I'd better be going."

"And you get to decide that, you think? I think not. You're staying until I say so."

Anxiously, she waited. He passed her, close enough for his arm to brush against hers, and reached for the cup but didn't lift it, just twisted it around by its ear on the table, while sending her a sideways glance. His eyes appeared almost translucent, as if they were made of alabaster.

"I think you know I cannot let her get away with this, don't you? You agree with me there?"

"I... I don't know, my lord."

Suddenly, she knew what it was, that indiscernible scent that lingered in the air, just beneath the fumes of alcohol and sweat. It was fury. Simmering, glowing fury. _Get away from here_. She took a step toward the door, slid closer, hoping he wouldn't notice, but knew, when he let go of the cup, that he had. She froze to the spot, her arms straight, fingers splayed, a prey locked in the hunter's trajectory.

"Do you think she's bedded him yet? The Frenchman? She's probably on her back right now, enjoying his body, entering hers. Don't you think?"

"No," Megan said, because she really didn't think so, but when seeing his sullen expression, she corrected herself: "Maybe. I don't know."

"What _do_ you know?" He turned fully to her. They almost touched, and she wanted to take a step back, but didn't dare to. His eyes kept her prisoner. "Do you find me handsome, Megan?"

She trembled now, her teeth clacking. "I-I... don't—"

"Oh for God's sake, don't say you don't know," he snapped. "Don't even dare! _Say_ it. Say that I'm handsome. Say that you want me."

Tears rushed to her eyes. "I can't do that, my lord."

"You're defying me?" His face hardened. "Really?"

_Oh Holy Mother of God_. She shook her head. "I must go now, my lord," she stuttered.

"You're not allowed."

He raised his hand and placed it around her neck, tugged her close so she fell to his chest. With the other arm around her waist, she was caught in a vice-like grip, unable to stop him from kissing her. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, their teeth clashing, his alcohol-drenched breath washing over her. She tried to pry him off with her elbows against his chest, but he merely pressed her closer, laughing at the feeble attempt.

"Lovely," he murmured. "Go on, Megan. Fight me."

She put a hand against his chin and pushed upwards. When he grabbed her wrist, she lunged at him. Her forehead met his nose with a meaty smack.

"Hell," he shouted and put his hands over his face. "You bitch!"

Free from his grip, she darted across the room toward the door, but he was just as swift and caught her by the waist before her fingers had even reached the knob. Clasping her so hard she could hardly breathe, he dragged her back into the room and pushed her against the desk. The cup tipped over the side of the table and fell to the floor, splashing tea against her legs. He punched her under her ribs, one swift blow that made her fold over, gasping from pain. Dimly, she sensed him pick her up and steady her.

"Irish whore," he said through his teeth and struck her across the face. "Did you really think you'd get away from me?"

"No," she whispered when he raised his hand again. "No, please."

"Please? What are you begging me for? Hm? Tell me, Megan... What do you want?" He wrung her hair around his hand and kissed her again. This time, she only resisted feebly, trying to get some air—there was no point in fighting back now: he'd shown his strength, and her only chance to get away reasonably unscathed was to do what he wanted. "Good girl," he murmured when he noticed her submission. "Good, lovely Megan..."

Without further ceremony, he turned her around, pushed her down against the table and leaned over her, while lifting her skirts with his free hand. His breath washed over her neck, hot and damp.

"You're mine now." He removed a strand of hair and kissed her behind her ear. "You're going to leave that stable boy and be with me whenever I require it. Understood?"

Megan closed her eyes and focused on the sound of her crucifix against the table, a repeated, faint tick, tick as the silver hit the wood.

* * *

There was a shudder, followed by a low, deep groan, and it was over.

Lord Charles pulled down her skirts, grabbed her shoulders and turned her around to face him. She felt like a ragdoll, following his orders without any resistance.

"There," he said. His eyes were cold, relentless. "That's better. I expect you to come to my chamber this evening." She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a sound, he'd gripped her chin, hard. "Do you still dare to talk back to me, Megan?"

She tried to shake her head. "No."

"That's fine, then."

Jerkily, he let her go, brushed his hands against his shirt and straightened the collar. Despite a slight swelling of his nose and mouth, he looked just as perfect as before. She, apparently, didn't.

"Make yourself presentable," he said, viewing her with dismay. "Don't walk back to the kitchen looking like that."

She curtseyed on trembling legs. Smoothed out her hair and adjusted her bodice. As her hands touched the collar, his eyes narrowed.

"What's that?"

She followed his gaze. The crucifix. "It... It was mother's, my lord." She clutched it, but he reached out and removed her hand.

"Ah yes, you're one of those, of course. It's precious to you, I suppose?"

He wrapped his fingers around it. The warmth of his hand burned her skin, but she didn't dare to pull away from him.

"Please." Her teeth clattered so much the word was barely understandable. "Please..."

"Be quiet."

He snatched back his hand. The snapping sound when it broke preceded the pain on the back of her neck, a sting that lasted for only a second, at least physically. He drew back his hand, and the crucifix hung there, frail between his fingers. She held back the sob, stared at it and wished she'd had the courage to snatch it back from him.

"A love token," he said. "So you'll know who you belong to." He nodded to the floor, at blotches of brown tea between shards of pure white china. "Clean up this mess and then leave."

He went back to the chair by the fireplace and sat there, staring into the ashes, until she left.

# 28

Close, Emily noticed, was a relative concept. They walked for hours through the rain, stopping momentarily to drink water and get some rest. Emily was close to tears from the pain in her heel, her muscles were stiff from cold and she was soaking wet down to the skin, but she tried her best not to show that she suffered. _I must keep my spirits up_ , she told herself, mindful of what the Monsieur had said about the poor souls who had lost their lives for her sake. The Monsieur tried to keep the conversation alive, but he was tired as well, and soon they turned to dogged silence, focusing on moving forward. They put miles and miles behind them, stumbled and struggled through harsh forests and over bogs slurping with water. When she was almost ready to give up, they reached a hill surrounded by scrub brush fields. The Monsieur gently touched her shoulder.

" _Regardez_!"

"Oh."

The relief was so strong that her knees almost buckled. A village, and behind it, glittering water and boats with cream coloured sails. Life, people. "And there is a road," he said.

It was just close to them, and almost as if they no longer could resist, they walked to it. The hard soil under her feet was pure bliss. She plucked moss and needles from her dress, while the Monsieur took out the bearings.

"I don't think it's Dover," the Monsieur concluded, which made her heart sink for a bit. "But I do not think we are that far away. Maybe it is a neighbouring town? We can get some food here, perhaps?"

Emily looked longingly at the houses with their slowly smoking chimneys and thought of freshly baked bread and smoked kippers. But...

"Money," she said, with regret. "We left all of it behind."

"Ah _non_. I have some, Madame." He patted his side, where a small bulge indicated a sewn-in pouch of some kind. "Maybe it is enough for something. Some bread and milk, or..."

_Hot tea_ , she thought. _Hot, sweet tea and small triangles of golden-brown toast, with creamy butter and Mrs Goodall's wonderful quince marmalade._

" _Alors la_ , but how shall we manage? They must not see me, _n'est-ce pas_?"

A drop of rain travelled from her forehead, tickling her as it moved along her nose. She wiped it away with frozen fingers. "I'll go there," she suggested. "And you wait here."

He shook his head, with a faint crease of his aristocratic nose.

"You are very brave to offer such a thing, Madame, but I promised to protect you, and that means I cannot let you wander off on your own. We must..."

He raised his head, his eyes gleaming. Emily listened as well but heard only the seagulls and a faint, soaring sound that must be the waves of the English Channel.

"What is it, Monsieur?"

"Do you not hear it?"

"No."

Just as she said it, she did hear it: a faint, rhythmical, creaking sound, along with a steadfast clapping, snorts from large nostrils. The sounds seemed to increase in strength with each second. She met the Monsieur's eyes, couldn't hide her panic. They were close to the roadside now, and with the open sky behind them, there was nowhere to hide.

He tried to smile reassuringly, but the worry was there in his voice when he said, "I think we are a bit unlucky, Madame. There seems to be town people coming our way now."

* * *

It was a small cart, with only one person containing a thin, sullen man who reminded Emily uncomfortably much of Mr Radcliffe. The horse and the man were a miserable lot, dirty and hollow-eyed with fatigue and when the man saw Emily in the Monsieur's large coat and the Monsieur himself, he halted his skeletal horse and looked down on them, saying nothing. Raindrops fell sporadically from the brim of the man's hat, onto the large nose where it hung, shivering in silver for a moment, before continuing its path, down onto his hands.

"Sir," said Emily and placed her hand on the side of the cart. "We were on our way to Dover but were attacked by highwaymen. We lost our luggage and our horses and we're cold and wet. Would you have mercy on us and take us there?"

The man shot a swift glance at the Monsieur.

"Nope." His hands tensed around the reins, ready to usher the horse forward.

"Oh, but please... We have money."

The hands relaxed some, sank down to his lap. "How much?"

"Enough." She certainly hoped it was enough, in any case. "Can you show him?" she said, upon which the Monsieur nodded, his lips slightly compressed.

The coachman watched as the Monsieur silently plucked the pouch from the inside of his breeches. "Where are you from?"

"He doesn't speak, sir."

"Why?" The coachman scratched his head, small eyes dark with suspicion.

Emily swallowed and exchanged a quick glance with the Monsieur, who merely looked as dumb-struck as she felt.

"Heard there's a French ship waiting in Dover," the man continued, slowly. He spat over the edge of the gig. Emily had to jump back not to be hit by the brown glob.

The Monsieur stretched out his hand presenting the pouch, which, indeed, looked encouragingly full. But the coachman shook his head. "Keep your money," he said. "I should report you to the militia," he added. "Really I should. If you don't move away from here, I will, too."

Emily drew a hand over her eyes as a hopelessness sunk through her limbs and made her body feel heavy. She felt how desperately much she'd relied on this ride to take them safely to Dover.

The coachman smacked his lips, and the horse jerked, neighed and tossed its head, moved its hoof for a first step. Two crows, watching them from further away on a field, made a clumsy departure from the ground, croaks echoing in the silence. Crows... The idea flew swiftly through Emily's head, and almost at the same time, she called out:

"He's not French, sir!" The coachman tugged at the reins and stared at her. "He's my brother."

"Brother?" The man snorted. "And I'm King George."

"No, really. You see..." the frantic beating of her heart made her voice tremble, "there's a reason he's... he's not quite like you and I, sir."

"That so?" The coachman gave the Monsieur another, more appraising glance. "What's wrong with him, then?"

"It was our mother. God rest her soul. She was with child when one day, she startled a single crow unknowingly and it flew at her, frightening her dreadfully. When the child was born, it was marked by the... incident." Where did this tale come from? So easily? And her courage? If the man found out she was lying, he would surely call upon the militia to fetch them. Dover was a garrison town, and she didn't doubt there were soldiers patrolling the whole area. But it was her fault they were in this situation, and her responsibility to save them. She wanted, more than ever, to prove her worth. "He has no voice, save a very... horrible... um... sound. Like a... er... crow. Which is why I must stay with him, speak for him. And that's why he's so dark, sir. Dark as a crow. He is indeed not one of those horrible Frenchmen. If I ever met one, I would kill him myself. I have heard they're very evil." The Monsieur coughed into his fist, but she ignored him. "Please accept our money, sir. It is the last we have, but we would much rather give it to you for a safe journey to Dover than have the robbers who attacked us come back and steal it. Or a Frenchman," she added, feigning a small shudder.

The man sat still for a while. His jaws were moving as if he was chewing on something, a piece of straw maybe, or perhaps it was a sign that he was thinking hard.

From the corner of her eye, she could see the Monsieur, rigid dark shadow, his face wet and shiny from rain, his eyes viewing the carriage with concern.

"Explains it," said the coachman.

She blinked. "What?"

"Your brother." The coachman pursed his lips. "Two crows are harbingers for good luck, but a single crow brings the bad, as you know. Always told the wife to stay indoors when with child. Don't know what'd happen, I told her. I've heard about these things. Once, there was a woman who... Ah well, never mind." He shrugged. "Your brother's a poor sod. I'm not one to deny the help of someone in need." He stretched out his hand, calloused and grimy. The Monsieur placed the pouch in it. When seeing the coins, the coachman grunted with satisfaction, and nodded to the back of his gig. "Get in."

The man, who introduced himself as Mr Collins, was a fisherman. His occupation, however, was obvious even without an explanation.

Emily climbed carefully between the neatly arranged fishing nets and barrels of salted fish, choked slightly from the strong, pungent smell of sea and fish guts. The Monsieur didn't reveal what he was feeling but from the green tinge in his face, she suspected he wasn't too pleased with it either... and without expecting it, she was overcome by an almost overwhelming urge to giggle. She had to press her hand to her mouth to stop it, but it rushed over her, unstoppable like a wave, and she slumped on the grimy floor, next to gleaming hooks and spots of fish-blood and shimmering scales, and shook helplessly from laughter.

The Monsieur touched her shoulder, anxiously, but when she looked up and he met her eyes, the corners of his mouth started to twitch as well, and soon they were both squirming from the effort of not revealing to Mr Collins what was happening at the back of his cart.

Emily ascribed the laughter to their extreme fatigue, for it was certainly not like her to behave like that. When it had mercifully subsided and they'd collected themselves, they sank back against the back wall of the cart and closed their eyes.

The Monsieur sat so close that she could feel the warmth of his body, but she was too tired to move away, and when he put his hand over hers, she didn't remove hers. He pressed it once, slowly, a silent thank you, and then carefully withdrew. To her surprise, she didn't think she would have minded it, had he kept it there. _I must be either out of my mind, or very tired,_ she thought, closed her eyes and drifted off into sleep.

# 29

The journey to Dover was torturously slow: a few hours it took, and by then, Emily was both awake and so hungry her belly was screaming with hunger. The sight of Dover, its myriad of houses, people, and horses, ships and seagulls, cheered her up some. The coachman dropped them off by the docks, and then left, without so much as a word. Emily watched him take off, and even though famished and exhausted, she couldn't help but smile. _We made it,_ she thought and wanted to turn her head to the still cloud-ridden sky and cry out with joy. _We're safe._

The Monsieur seemed less inclined to cheer. Loudly, he cursed at the seagulls that were taking dives at them, obviously enticed by the stench of old fish.

" _Merde_! No wonder they attack us," he said. "They must be very confused when they find we are only humans and not delicious little fish." He lifted his arm and put his nose to the sleeve, then wrinkled his aristocratic nose. "Ah," he huffed, his voice tinged with dismay. "I can stand a lot, but not that smell."

"At least we are here now," Emily said.

"We are." His eyes glittered. "Thanks to you."

"Oh." Her cheeks grew uncomfortably hot. "I think not."

"It is true. I am impressed by your quick wit and your courage."

She shook her head. "No, Monsieur, you are mistaken. _You_ are courageous, not I."

"And I beg to differ. But I am too hungry to stand here and argue," he added. "Will you not join me, brave Madame, to the ship?"

The giggle was there again, just as uncontrollable, and just as confusing, as earlier in the cart. She placed a hand over her mouth, stifling it—if she was lucky, he'd think she was stifling a yawn—and followed his gaze.

The frigate, moored to the dockside with large ropes, was anonymous-looking and could very well be taken for an English ship, but the attention it had drawn, and the soldiers flanking it, told her the English authorities had it under surveillance, just like Charles had implied. The dark hull glistened, she heard the creaking of the wood as it chafed against the dock, the gentle sound of lapping waves against its huge bulk. Giatelli had told her about how, on his journey to North Sinai, he had suffered seasickness of a kind that had made him want to take his own life. Though the English Channel surely was smaller than the waters he'd sailed, it worried her almost as much as the thought of being separated from the depths of the sea with only a few planks. She couldn't swim, had never learned it. _You heard the Monsieur, Emily_ , she reminded herself to settle her nerves _. You're brave_. Besides, a night on a ship could hardly be worse than what she'd already gone through.

"Indeed, Monsieur," she said, drawing her breath. "Let's board."

She tried to avoid looking at the rough-looking crew as she walked over the gangway to the deck, but she still felt them looking at her: the activity seemed to have ceased altogether, and now they were just staring at her and the Monsieur. She heard them talk, swift, scornful exchanges in French. She couldn't understand any of it, but then again, she didn't want to, either. With a shudder, she recalled how Paul had once said that sailors were his best customers. _After weeks of being at sea they all become animals_ , he'd said. _They would pay to get it on with a goat, if that's the only thing offered._

"Just continue, Madame," the Monsieur said, pleasantly, and nudged her forward with a slight touch on her elbow. "They will not come near. They are only curious."

Curious? Involuntarily, she looked up and met the gaze on one of them. He grinned, flashing a row of tobacco stained teeth, and she looked away. Took a step closer to the Monsieur, seeking his protection. He smiled in sympathy and slid an arm under hers, tucked her hand into the warm crook of his arm. Her first inclination was to pull away, but with an intake of breath, she managed to supress the urge, and found, to her surprise, that the touch was comforting.

"Thank you," she murmured.

" _De rien_." He sent her a warm glance, then looked ahead. "Ah, there is Captain Gombert now."

The man who approached them seemed to have been put together on a whim, like a paper doll with arms and legs pinned to his body. He hauled out a slim and hairless arm and pounded the Monsieur in the back, to which the Monsieur replied with a grin of friendly recognition and a few, well-chosen words. Captain Gombert eyed her for a moment, then wrinkled his long nose and pointed to her dress. The tirade in French that followed, emphasised by expressive gestures, seemed to be related to her appearance and her need for new clothes.

"But I don't have anything else to wear," Emily said in English, frowning.

" _Ne vous inquiétez pas_ , Madame." The Monsieur shrugged. "Do not worry. I will arrange it."

"How?"

"Do not worry," he repeated. The Captain bowed, turned on his heel and set off to the hatchway. "We will set sail very soon," the Monsieur said, with a note of delight to his voice. "Soon, Madame, you will be at Fontainebleau."

She sighed. "At this moment, I think I am looking forward to it."

"Oh, but of course. Why would you not? But there is another thing, Madame." He hesitated for a bit. "Captain Gombert just told me... Once we are on French ground, I will have to set off for another assignment. We will probably not see each other again."

"Ah..." She blinked, surprised at the surge of disappointment that overtook her. "I see. I'm... I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes, I am also sorry, Madame. But you will be in safe hands. An entourage awaits you in Le Havre and I will order them to take care of you. Even if I am not present, you are still my responsibility, and I would never let anything happen to you."

"I... I understand." She took a deep breath and forced herself to think rationally. Why did it matter to her that she wouldn't be seeing him more? She should be happy, relieved. "I didn't expect you to be there all the time, of course," she added, eyes on the shimmering white cliffs on the opposite side of the bay.

" _Non_ , it would be impossible." He sounded slightly dejected, and she glanced at him. When he noticed her gaze, he smiled, a slanted smile that formed a long, curved dimple along his cheek and made him look dashingly handsome, almost like the pirates she'd read about in books. "But I have enjoyed your company, and I hope you have enjoyed mine. If we look past the problems during the journey, of course," he added.

"Oh, that goes without saying."

They fell quiet for a while, before he said, " _Have_ you?"

"Have I what?" And then she remembered what they'd been talking about and blushed. "Oh..." she cleared her throat, "I... I have enjoyed your company too. Despite the hardship."

His smile grew broader. " _Merci_ , Madame."

She looked away, didn't dare to keep her eyes on his anymore. " _De rien_ , Monsieur."

The crew had started pulling the halyard, sail slowly rising to the sky, white and shimmering in the sun, like the wings of a seagull.

" _Alors la_ ," the Monsieur said, cheerfully. "Time to see if there is any soap on this ship, do you not think so, Madame? Before we get eaten by birds, I mean."

The Monsieur showed her to her cabin and left her there to acclimatize. She spent some time walking around in the tiny space, touching each rare item with a feeling of detachment, wondering again if it was true that she was actually there. So far, everything had felt strangely much like a dream. _I feel things,_ she thought, her hand resting on the coarse surface of the only small table. _I feel the wood against my skin. When I breathe, I sense the tar and salt in the air. I hear seagulls and the voices of men. Surely, no dream can be so vivid?_ Yet, it was all so inexplicable. She, who had always been so afraid of everything, was suddenly and all-defiantly, on her way to a strange country, to rub shoulders with kings and queens as if she was Giatelli himself. She remembered that he'd told her she would, one day, and had just as hard a time to believe it now, as she had back then. _I'm Emily Bradley, insignificant and afraid—this is not for me._ But maybe that was exactly what it was? She'd surprised herself before, in small ways, but still—she had dared, and her bravery had been there. First, when she'd fled from Charles. Then, when she'd dared to ride Brambles. Then again, when she'd defied Charles by painting things she wasn't allowed. All those things did spoke about courage, did they not? She mattered, and she had a mind of her own. So why should she think she didn't deserve to be here?

Smiling slightly, she reached out to touch the round window, studied the yellowish tinge of the brass surrounding it, wondering which pigments to use if she was to paint it. Or the thick, salt-smudged glass—how did one paint such a thing? Her fingers tingled from the urge to try. _Soon_ , she thought, closing her eyes to the deep, almost shameful sensation that surged through her body. _Soon, you will be painting again._

When the door opened, she jumped, but it proved only to be her assigned lady's maid, a brown-haired, buxom beauty with fiery green-brown eyes and a brazen, dimpled smile, carrying an armload of clothes. With fearless efficiency, she immediately took on the daunting task of pulling off the stinking, grimy dress from Emily's body.

"Oh, Madame, it is not good," she exclaimed in French. Emily, with her limited knowledge of the language, tried her best to follow. The maid grabbed the dress between her thumb and index finger and readily threw it in a corner of the cabin. "And your hair..." She lifted the braid, which was lank and dull from days without attendance, and smelled almost as bad as the dress. "This is a catastrophe, _non_? If we don't do anything about it, it will fall off, _comprenez-vous_?"

The girl pursed her lips while she undid the braid, her sighs telling Emily how horrible she thought it was. Emily tried to endure the touch of the efficiently hard hands, and for a moment, she desperately missed the swift-fingered, gentle Megan. In fact, she missed them all: Megan, Mrs Goodall. Even Joseph Gerard. But most of all, of course, she missed Daniel. She tried to keep him from her thoughts not to break apart, but now, it rushed over her, filling her with the utmost sense of grief. It didn't help to tell herself that he was probably doing very well—she missed him sorely, and wished she could be with him.

Thankfully, the maid's voice jostled her from her thoughts, before she'd given way for the tears.

"Your journey must have been a nightmare, hm?" she said and pulled at Emily's hair so hard she winced. " _Très horrible_! You were lucky that Étienne was there with you, _non_?"

"Étie...?"

" _Oui_ , that is his name. Le Comte de Ste Germaine."

"Oh." It was the first time she'd heard his name, his full name. Somehow, if felt as though he couldn't have been named anything else. "I was fortunate to travel with him."

"I'd say. _He is un homme de courage, non? Et très bel aussi, n'est-ce pas?_ "

"I wouldn't know," she lied and blushed.

The girl laughed. "Ah, but you have eyes in your head, _non_? I can see on your red little cheeks that you think he is a beautiful man, _comprenez-vous_? _Alors_..." She dropped the subject, not allowing for Emily to respond, and pointed invitingly to the floor where a simple metal trough had been placed and filled with hot water before she'd entered. Beside it, a small stool supplied a cake of lavender soap, a bottle of rose oil and soft, neatly folded sheets to dry her body. "Now, let us make you _irrésistible_ , Madame." She winked. "In case you meet Étienne again, I mean."

* * *

When she had been scrubbed free of dirt, the girl helped her dress in a plain, cream chemisette, flesh toned pantaloons, and a plain, light blue muslin dress with a mauve pelisse to go over it. It was a simple ensemble, a bit too colourful for her taste but nice and, above all, clean. The maid helped her braid her hair again and tied it with a dark blue ribbon. When done, Emily drew a deep breath of relief.

" _Très bonne, n'est-ce pas_?" The maid said. "Those were my best clothes."

Emily frowned. "Are they yours?"

The girl curtseyed. " _Oui_ , Madame, they are mine. Now yours."

"Oh, but you shouldn't have."

"Ah _non_." The girl waved her off. "It is no problem, Madame. _Le Comte_ de Ste Germaine will compensate me for it."

Emily shook her head. "I couldn't possibly let him pay for this. Will you please let me do it? As soon as I have money, I can—"

" _Non_ , Madame." The girl cocked a brow. " _Le Comte_ will take care of it, _oui_? We have, how do you say, an arrangement, _comprenez-vous_?"

At first, she did not understand what the girl meant. When the full extent of her words sunk in, her face turned hot. "Oh..."

" _Oui_ , Madame," the maid said and ran her hands lustily along the sides of her body. "You see? I give him what he wants, and he gives me what I want."

In a sudden fit of anger, Emily wanted to tell her to keep her mouth shut. She didn't need to know this, she told herself—it was none of her business and she didn't care to know where he took his pleasure, and she shouldn't even bother to think about it. It did hurt for a bit to learn that he was so careless in his judgment, but really, it was none of her business. _I thought he was different,_ she thought, returning, despite her promise not to think about it, to the subject, like a tongue to a broken tooth. She glanced at the maid, who was busy folding the towels and humming a French song under her breath. She was so pretty, so curvaceous and vibrant in her ways... No wonder Étienne found her attractive. _Well then_ , Emily thought, setting her teeth. _I'm glad I will never see him again, and he's probably just as relieved. Good riddance._

"Madame?" said the maid. "Do you need anything else?"

"No. I'm tired." Her voice was short, abrupt. When she continued, she tried to add some softness to it: "I would like to rest, if I may."

The maid nodded and curtseyed.

" _Mais oui_ , Madame. Then I will go to Étienne and tell him that you appreciated my dress."

The bitterness nearly choked her, but she managed to reply: "You do that. Have fun."

"I'm sure I will," the maid said and flashed her a dimpled smile. " _Merci_ , Madame.

Alone at last, Emily sat down by the small table, leaned her chin in her hands and stared angrily at the wall. _I'll just sit here then_ , she thought, darkly, _while the Monsieur is seeing to the payment of my dress._ She wanted to rip it off, hated the feel of it against her body. _I hate her, and I hate him too._

For the first time during the trip, she realised she really and truly regretted leaving Greywell.

The houses opposite the dock in Le Havre were tall, slim and in the hazy sunlight, their pastel colours shimmered. Bright orange and pink flowers of a kind Emily had never seen before, climbed the cast iron balustrades and flowed like lush waterfalls to the ground. In the gardens, lovely roses bloomed, and their citrusy scent blended with the salty air, creating a heady, yet elusive perfume. Emily leaned over the ship's railing, her face against the wind. Behind her, on the other side of the dramatically flapping sail which was now being hauled in by the seamen, the English Channel lay glittering for as far as the eye could see. The coastline broke the monotony, chalky white cliffs diving into the turquoise waters. She'd never seen anything so beautiful, and even with her frazzled nerves and the lack of a good night's sleep, her heart swelled with humility and awe.

"You may want to move a bit, Madame." She jolted, and met the Monsieur's gaze—she hadn't noticed that he'd approached her, and now scolded herself for not keeping attention to it, seeing how she didn't want to meet him at all. He pointed behind her. "You're blocking the gangway."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and did as she was told.

"Don't be, Madame. It is obvious that you admire the sight, and I am happy for it. After all, it is my country, which I am proud of."

Stiffly, she stared ahead again, felt his presence like an unpleasant itch along her back as they walked down the gangway. Though she hadn't suffered during the journey across the water, she was happy to feel solid ground under her feet, and a delightful surface it was too, with small, smooth cobblestones, warmed by the sun.

"You will like Fontainebleau," the Monsieur continued, no doubt to break the silence. "It is a stunning place."

She knew he expected her to reply, but she didn't want to. He was different, and she didn't know how to respond to that, or if she even _wanted_ to respond to it. With his clean-shaven face, his dashing clothes and glittering eyes, she felt estranged from him, and it didn't help to know that those sensitive fingers that were now adjusting his collar, had recently been touching places that was surely beyond his dignity to touch. She wondered if they'd woken up together, he and the maid. If they'd kissed before she left. Emily glanced at his face, and couldn't hide the darkness in her eyes. He frowned.

"Are you not well, Madame?" When she didn't answer, he shrugged. "You look very nice today," he said. "The dress suits you."

"Do you really think so?" Her voice held a note of bitterness. "I think it was prettier on its owner."

"It is perhaps not your colours," he replied, "but I don't agree."

Oh, the lies... Had the man no decency at all? She dug her fingernails into her palms and refused to meet his gaze.

"Madame?" He touched her shoulder. She jerked and he withdrew, quickly. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, Monsieur. Nothing at all."

"Something. You are angry with me, and I do not know why. Can you not tell me?" He waited, viewing her face. "Madame?"

_Alright_. She swirled around and glared at him, hands on her hips. "The dress," she spat.

"What about the dress?"

"How did you pay for it?"

He shook his head in wonder. "I gave her a small, how do you say it? Reimbursement?"

"I do not know what _you_ call it, Monsieur," she said, and by now her cheeks were glowing with anger, "but in _my_ world, we call it something else, and I don't like it one bit. If I'd known, I wouldn't have accepted this stupid dress."

Her voice choked up and she turned around again, fighting her emotions, which, to be honest, surprised her with their strength. What was wrong with her? She didn't even know, herself, and that made her even angrier. Tears welled up in her eyes, blinding her. He rounded her, but she turned her face away.

"Don't look at me," she said, but of course, he wouldn't listen.

"What is this, Madame? Why are you so upset? What's with the dress? What have I done?" He stood silent for a few seconds and then drew his breath. "Ah... You thought I...? Oh Madame." There was a soft chuckle. "It was certainly _not_ that kind of a payment."

Angrily, she wiped her eyes. "I don't want any details."

"But I will give it to you, nonetheless, because you seem to have the wrong impression of the situation, _and_ of me, and I do not like that. Look at me, please."

Reluctantly, she did as she was told. Found that his eyes were friendly, full of warmth, and that he didn't look angry or resentful.

"Why would you think I paid her with anything other than money?"

"Because..." She struck out her hands. "You had no money, and the maid implied that she and you had an... an _arrangement_. What am I supposed to think?"

" _Je vois_." He shook his head, annoyed and amused at the same time. " _Oui_ , for your information, _la petite fille_ was very friendly to begin with, but I told her _non_. I happen to know she has at least one _objet d'amour_ in Champagne, and besides, she is not the kind of woman I fall for. As it was, I borrowed money from Captain Gombert, and that was what she had to settle for as payment. Nothing else. _Certainly_ nothing else."

Heat spread through her body and concentrated to her head. How embarrassing, and what a fool she was...

"My apologies," she stuttered. "I... I don't know what got into me. I should not have said anything."

"Don't think about it, Madame. I am glad you approached me, for a number of reasons. Mostly, I like it because if you hadn't, your doubts would have cast a shadow over our friendship, _non_?"

Friendship? The word startled her: she hadn't ever thought she'd be friends with anyone, and least not a man—but that was also foolish, for she had been friends with Giatelli, had she not?

"Yes," she said, without looking at him. "I... I suppose so."

He gave a warmly amused snort and there was humour in his voice when he spoke again. "Now Madame," he said and pointed to the narrow road between the row of houses. "I believe that's your carriage."

* * *

Emily had never seen such a magnificent equipage before. The carriage was large and black, with the French Royal insignia in gold on its sides and gold-brimmed wheels. It was accompanied by a cortege of six guards on large, black stallions. The sight made most activity on the dock come to a halt. People moved to the sides and gaped at it, and even the fishmongers fell silent, removing their caps in signs of reverence.

"I'm glad to see they have put some effort into it," the Monsieur stated. "It is one of the best carriages at the castle. Latest suspension, very modern and comfortable. And fast. You will be at Fountainebleau very soon, Madame."

"I don't know what to say."

"Then say nothing," he smiled. "Just enjoy it."

She met his gaze, but the warmth in his eyes made her slightly breathless and she had to look away again.

When the carriage stopped, the Monsieur presented her to the entourage and explained the situation. He then turned to her with a gentle smile.

"A great adventure awaits you, Madame. It is time to go."

"Yes, I think so." She threw a nervous glance at the open door. "And you, Monsieur? Will you join me for at least a bit of the journey?"

"I am afraid not. I have a mission further south. Our paths part here."

"I see." She told herself it wasn't important and tried to smile back as well. "Well... Thank you for your help, Monsieur de Ste Germaine. I will not forget it."

He bowed. " _De rien_ , Madame Stanford. Have a pleasant journey. _Et_ ," he hesitated, " _j'espère qu'un jour nos chemins se croiseront à nouveau_."

He spoke quickly and she could not quite make out what he said, so she merely nodded.

" _Merci_ , Monsieur."

After the carriage had started rolling, and they had been on their way for a bit, she realised, with a jolt to her heart, what he'd said. _I hope that one day our paths will cross again_.

A strange, but not unpleasant warmth spread in her chest at that, and she felt a slight regret that she hadn't told him that she hoped so, as well.

# 30

Two days later, after a comfortable journey through a beautiful France in full bloom, they arrived at Fountainebleau. On this journey they had been greeted at a lovely little inn along the route, and Emily had slept in a bed so exquisite it had been like sleeping on clouds. It held a shimmering promise of what was to come, but still, not in her wildest dreams, she could have guessed what luxury awaited her at her arrival.

The castle building appeared immense, but not imposing: the elegance of the softly coloured façade paired with its beautifully curved stairs and large windows made it seem welcoming and warm. Surrounded by the most splendid, emerald green parterres that were studded with shimmering marble statues that couldn't have been shaped by anyone other than the greatest masters, and ponds that bubbled with brightly coloured fishes, their backs shining a bright orange in the sun, it appeared as a paradise on earth. Emily pressed her hand against her mouth not to burst out in exclamations of wonder and stared at the magnificence until her eyes burned. If only she could have shared this with someone; Daniel, most preferably, or Giatelli, or—and this she only reluctantly admitted to herself—the Monsieur. It felt like such a waste, not to talk about it with anyone, to keep all this bursting joy within herself.

A full entourage met them on the yard. There were six lady's maids, four _valets_ _de chambre_ , four pages, two soldiers on horse and six on foot, along with the _Intendant de la Cabinet du Roi,_ Monsieur __ LaSalle d'Avigny, who was an elderly, tired-looking man, assigned to supervise her during her stay and make sure to fulfil her every wish.

"It is an honour to meet you, Madame," he murmured in French and gave a non-committal bow. "We shall now install you in your chamber and prepare you for your audience with _Sa Majesté_ this afternoon." He snapped his fingers to the footmen to remove her luggage from the carriage, then took a step back and wrinkled his long nose. "You have something a little more appropriate to wear for this occasion, _oui_?"

" _Non_ , Monsieur, I am afraid not." She peered at the carriers, who had frozen by the carriage and were looking back at them in confusion. "There is no luggage," she said, in her broken French. "Our carriage was attacked by highwaymen on the way to Dover. We... we lost everything. And the servants... They..." her voice broke and she shrugged, unable to continue.

Monsieur LaSalle d'Avigny pressed his lips together and sighed.

"I am sorry to hear this, Madame," he said, "but you cannot look like that; it is not decent. Ah, _ne t'inquiète pas._ We will have to arrange something for you." He turned on his heel and snapped his fingers again. " _S'il vous plait_."

He led her up the magnificently rounded staircase through the main building, with all its exquisite chambers, hallways and galleries. Emily had never seen such lavish luxury and stared at it with a ferociously pounding heart. _They must be mistaken_ , she kept thinking for every gold-decorated room they passed. _I'm sure I'm not supposed to see this_. She wagered not even Charles had ever seen such extravagance, and she realised with a start that Harcourt House, which he claimed was the very height of luxury and fashion, was actually a dull and dreary place, its lavishly decorated salons and chambers tasteless and garish. _This is style_ , she thought, looking up at the breathtakingly painted ceilings and the excess of carefully crafted details in the walls and floors, with artwork of the finest artists priding every little corner, _this is beauty and grace and pompous extravagan_ ce. _And I'm just Emily Bradley, but I'm allowed to walk here, and they treat me like I'm the queen herself._ Or, maybe not: she was still a stranger, and could feel the distance, but nonetheless: everyone was courteous and correct, addressing her like a person of great nobility.

Eventually, they came out on an inner courtyard, which they crossed to another building with even more astounding galleries. They stretched out in all directions, blinding her with magnificent decorations and paintings _,_ superb __ sculptures and pieces of brocade so intricate she could barely believe they had been crafted by a human hand. Her apartment was not any less excessive. It consisted of a large antechamber in white and gold, with a shimmering white marble fireplace guarded by fleur-de-lis firedogs in purest silver, and a gold and ivory clock on its mantelpiece. When they entered the room, this clock struck two; the sound was so frail and otherworldly that it sounded like the laughter of elves. Her bedroom was decorated in light pink with decorations in gold, and a large canopy bed with pale pink velvet drapes as the centrepiece. Fresh, pale pink roses adorned crystal vases and filled the air with a vague and pleasant scent. Nothing had been spared in terms of expenses, nothing held back. She tried to look as though this was normal, but couldn't help but slowly walking through the rooms, her eyes wide with wonder.

"You will be hungry, Madame," said Monsieur LaSalle d'Avigny. "I will call for refreshments. These will be brought to you and you will eat them here, in your chamber. You may not leave without notifying me or the soldiers on guard. Please respect this rule during all your stay. It will not be very pleasant for you, otherwise."

She nodded. Though she wasn't a prisoner by any means, it was clear that they wanted to keep her separated from the rest of the palace inhabitants. It crossed her mind that it was the very same separation from their own kind that the English showed the French, but with a difference. Here, she felt completely safe.

" _Merci_ ," she said. "I'm sure I will like it here."

He bowed. "I hope so, Madame. _Au revoir_."

* * *

When he was gone, she went to the drawing room and opened the door to the small balcony. The view was splendid, with its gorgeous parterres and pathways of crushed white marble. Fountains and lakes glittered in between, and further away were the hunting grounds with their dark green, lush forests. Miles and miles of land, drowning in the early spring haze.

She leaned over the cast iron balustrade and drew in the scent of hundreds of spring flowers in full bloom. The afternoon sun still warmed her face, and from a nearby cypress, she heard the sombre tune of a blackbird. It was strange to think about how she a few days earlier had been at Greywell, existing—here she was now, living fully, and watching her dream unfold in front of her eyes. It wouldn't last forever, and soon, she'd return to her normal, dreary life, but it had given her hope and a joy she hadn't counted on ever experiencing again. Could she ask for more? She didn't think so, and she decided not to be greedy by longing for the persons who couldn't be there with her. Giatelli had faced the same dilemma, she realised, on his journeys, and he'd made it through, had he not? She would too.

A servant brought her a tray of refreshments that included hot cocoa with lots of sugar, intricate _petit fours_ and delicious pastries. Her new clothes were carried out by another couple of servants, along with the train of maids who were assigned to dress her. She ate under their surveillance, while footmen filled a large bathtub with hot water. When they were done, the maids took on the task of undressing and washing her. Rigorously, their hands scrubbed her from top to toe with rose scented water, massaged her with oils, then powdered her gently. They arranged her hair neatly in tumbling tresses on her head and dressed her in a pale silk dress that seemed to have been chosen to compliment the rich brown of her hair and eyes. Her feet were clad in delicate little shoes, her hands covered with elbow-length silk gloves. A cream-coloured pelisse added the finishing touch.

The maids giggled when they presented her to a mirror—her shocked expression seemed to amuse them. She tried to ignore them, staring instead at herself, wondering what had happened and when the grave, old-looking woman had disappeared, to be replaced by this young lady, with her large, expressive eyes and glowing skin. What surprised her the most was that the dress suited her. Though it resembled the dresses Charles had tried to make her wear, this was different: it was tasteful, and made her look and feel feminine, not cheap and strange. She'd heard that Napoleon Bonaparte and his wife didn't allow anything but the very latest in style, and in some cases, they were known to set the standards themselves, but never had she imagined she'd ever look good in anything fashionable. Yet, she did.

_I look... I look..._

"At last you look presentable," said Monsieur LaSalle d'Avigny when he saw her. "Now follow me, _s'il vous plait_."

* * *

He escorted her across the courtyard, the _Coeur Ovale_ , into a new building, through breathtakingly beautiful hallways and into a room which outshone all the other rooms she'd seen so far. It seemed to have been dipped in gold, and the ceiling boasted a painting that brought tears to her eyes. At its far end, was a chair in gold on a podium dressed in velvet and silk. Eleven ladies-in-waiting, whispering and giggling behind elegantly gloved hands, the Grand dapifer and dark clad soldiers from the Royal French guard were already present, standing at attention along the walls.

The dapifer gesticulated to Emily to stand in front of the chair, before he barked a short command. The ladies-in-waiting fell silent and sunk to the floor in humble curtseys.

"You too, Madame," the dapifer said to Emily, showing her with a gesture. She obliged, bent her neck and stared straight at her own reflection on the shiny wooden floor. "Do not get up before you are told to, and do not make eye contact. Eyes on the floor. _Comprendez-vous?_ "

" _Oui_ , Monsieur."

Her legs had started to shiver from the effort when at last she heard footsteps echo against the floor. A short moment after, the dapifer announced the Empress' presence.

"All rise," he exclaimed, which made Emily draw a sigh of relief.

And then the Empress appeared, seemingly floating through the room in her crème coloured silk dress, an ethereal creature with light brown hair and sparkling eyes. She was carrying a small pug, which she carefully placed on the floor in front of the chair, while other valets helped her to sit down and arrange her dress. When she thought it sufficiently done, she dismissed them with a wave of her hand and stretched her neck, curiously regarding Emily, who tried her hardest not to look back at her but couldn't help but glancing at her from under her lashes.

"You are the English lady painter, _oui_?"

" _Oui_ , _Votre_ _Majesté_."

"In that case, I do not understand why you huddle like a little frog against the floor. Do get up and step closer."

Emily obliged, her heart fluttering at the base of her throat. She'd heard Giatelli's stories about how he'd met kings and queens and popes, and how he had regarded them all the same, how _they_ had regarded _him_ as one of their own. _They are people like me, Piccolina. Nothing special_. But Emily was not Giatelli, and to be standing in front of the legendary Empress of France made her knees wobbly.

"You have permission to look at me," the Empress said.

Obligingly Emily raised her gaze. The stories of the Empress' beauty and her interest in fashion flourished even in England. The person on the chair was indeed beautiful with her petite frame, intelligent eyes and pleasant smile, her air of aloof friendliness.

"I had not imagined you to be so young, Madame," she said, with a teasing smile. "Or so beautiful. It is most fortunate: an agreeable appearance is an asset, _non_?"

Emily curtseyed. " _Merci_ _beaucoup, Votre Majesté_."

"Ah, _non_." She flicked her wrist. "It is I who should thank you, Madame. _C'est très charmante et fashionable_ to have a female painter and I am indeed grateful that you accepted my invitation. Your husband must be very generous and kind to allow his wife to travel to the enemy to paint. I did not think he would."

There was something strange about those words. Emily stared in surprise at the Empress, until the dapifer took a step to her and touched her shoulder, reminding her to bend her neck appropriately. She obeyed, her heart pounding. Monsieur de Ste Germaine had said that the Empress and her husband had _demanded_ her to come and that declining had not been an option—but the Empress' words didn't imply anything of the sort. In fact it sounded as though the request had been general and not very serious at all...

"In any case, I am glad that you are here," the Empress said, drawing Emily from her thoughts. "I am looking forward to have my portrait painted. And you shall paint Fortune as well."

Upon hearing his name, the pug lying at her feet woke with a snort, yawned and stood up to stretch. Stiffly, to the giggling pleasure of his mistress, it stepped down from the landing and approached Emily, where it stopped to look up at her with black eyes, the stump of his tail wiggling merrily.

"You may pet him," the Empress said.

Emily slid her hand down the dog's thick, sturdy body, unable to suppress a smile as it squirmed under her touch, apparently delighted by it.

"He is a very nice dog, _Votre Majesté_ ," said Emily as she straightened.

" _Oui_. He seems to have taken a liking to you. Are you accustomed to dogs, Madame?"

"My son has a dog, _Votre Majesté_ , but he is a Scottish deerhound and not allowed in the house." At least not anymore, since her marriage to Charles. "I have no dog myself."

The Empress looked mildly scandalized. "Oh, but every lady must have one!" she exclaimed. "Fortune is so very dear to me. I do not know what I would have done without him. I will give you a little dog that you can bring to your own country, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"That... That is most kind of you, _Votre Majesté_." She wondered what Charles would say. Probably, he would have it killed. She swallowed. "But... But perhaps the trip would be too dangerous for a small dog?"

"Ah, of course." The Empress frowned. "You have a point, and we shall not give you one. I have heard about your unfortunate journey, _ma_ _chére_. It is what one would expect of the barbarian Englishmen, and so very unfortunate. I am sorry you had to go through this to come here, and I am very sorry for my husband's courier as well. He is a kind man and very loyal to my husband." She let her eyes wander over the crowd. "Where _is_ Le Comte de Ste Germaine? I would like to thank him." The dapifer bowed and stepped forward to inform her of Monsieur de Ste Germaine's whereabouts. " _Ah_ , _bien sûr_ ," she sighed. "Busy times, of course... These wars are tiring. _Alors la_." She dismissed the subject with one short clap of her elegant little hands. "My dear Madame, when shall we proceed with my sitting? I am curious about your talent. I have only heard from Le Comte de Ste Germaine that it is outstanding."

Emily curtseyed. "I will do my best not to disappoint you."

"I hope so. How long does it take you to make the portrait? I have scheduled twelve sittings, and I'm afraid I cannot extend this time limit. Will that be enough, you think?"

Twelve sittings? Almost two weeks? She tried to hide her surprised smile. This was a luxuriously long time—normally, she needed four sittings for a portrait—this was a luxuriously long time.

"It will be enough, _Votre Majesté_. I am at your disposal at all times during this period."

"Excellent. Then we start tomorrow?"

" _Oui_ , _Votre Majesté_. Early in the morning, perhaps? I prefer it, because the light is better." The dapifer touched her shoulder. When she looked at him, he shook his head, disapprovingly, and she realised what she had done. One never commanded royalty to do anything. Pale, she sank to the floor in another curtsey. " _Pardonnez-moi, Votre Majesté_ , I did not mean to..."

"Ah, _chérie._ " the Empress Joséphine laughed, "You are a breath of fresh air. I think you will be my new pet, instead of Fortune."

" _Merci, Votre Majesté_. And... I have to..." She sent the stern dapifer a frightened glance. "I'm very sorry, but... I must make a request."

" _Oui_ , _ma petite_?"

"Well, I do not have any painting materials. I cannot paint without them."

The Empress laughed again. "Oh, you are so very charming with that frown on your face, but there is no need for it. This is Monsieur LaSalle d'Avigny's specialty, you see." She gave a quick glance at the dapifer _._ "I think everything has already been prepared for you. He will bring your painting things to you this afternoon and you must immediately tell me if you are not satisfied with his efforts, hm?" She called her dog back. It jumped up in her arms, where it fell to rest like a baby. "Now I am tired, _ma petite_ , and I wish to retreat. Let us speak more tomorrow, yes? Tomorrow _morning_ ," she corrected herself, with a smile.

" _Oui, Votre Majesté_."

"This audience is adjourned," the dapifer exclaimed. "Bow to the grace of the honourable Empress, our most gracious ruler of France."

* * *

Later that evening, Monsieur LaSalle d'Avigny had two large rosewood boxes delivered to Emily's apartment. He was present as she opened them, a looming shadow in the background. She snapped open the silver lock shaped as a bee— _click_ —and opened the lids, one first, then the other. A faint but pleasant whiff of linseed oil wafted to her nose while she stared at the contents.

"Oh my goodness," she said in English and had to steady herself against the table, "this is... this is too much."

"Pardon, Madame, but I do not understand your language," Monsieur d'Avigny said. "Is there something wrong?"

" _Non_ , Monsieur, everything is perfect."

It _was_ indeed perfect. Everything was there, all she could wish for and more. One of the boxes contained brushes, palettes, linen cloths and a small bottle of turpentine. There were brushes: flat, round, filberts, angles, riggers, and stipplers, and their bristles were made from squirrel, sable and hog. She picked them up and tried them all against her hand, almost laughing at the tickling touch against her skin. In the other, smaller box, were the colour pigments. She lifted each jar and lined them up on the table, breathless and teary-eyed, as she read the labels. Carmine, madder, ultramarine, cobalt blue and Indian yellow, pigments that Emily had never even heard of, rare pigments that Giatelli had mentioned and that she had never thought she'd see because they each cost a small fortune. Her hands shook when she put them back in the box, both from fear of dropping them and from sheer emotion.

"So, it is to your satisfaction, Madame?" Monsieur LaSalle d'Avigny's eyed her dispassionately.

" _Oui_ , Monsieur." Gingerly, she closed the lid. "Everything I need is there. Thank you."

He bowed. " _Pas de problème_ , Madame. Now I bid you a pleasant evening and I plead to you not to be late S _a Majesté_ would not appreciate it."

"I will be there." _I wouldn't dream of missing it._

"Excellent. _Bonne soirée_ , Madame."

When he had left the room, she slumped into the nearest chair and cried openly. They were tears of happiness, and she wasn't ashamed of them in the slightest.

Her studio was situated in the same building as the very famous _Le Galerie de Francois_ , and overlooked the _Jardin de Diane,_ for inspiration, as Monsieur d'Avigny dryly expressed it—clearly, he had no greater expectation of her talent, but seemed to have decided to pretend so, most probably on the expressive order of the Empress.

"Do not forget the symbols," he said. "The royal bee, for example, must be included. And the dog, of course, you must put extra effort in, because it depicts loyalty."

She nodded, absentmindedly. Giatelli had taught her well in this area, and she was used to implementing symbols in her portraits.

"I will make sure everything is done accordingly," she said. "Thank you."

They had arranged an easel and upon it mounted a painstakingly prepared linen canvas. Next to it, they had placed a large table, where Emily could put her brushes and paints. She spent a good deal of the morning arranging everything to her liking. Shortly before noon, the Empress entered the room together with her large entourage. She was magnificently dressed in a shimmering white dress with purple and gold details, which had to be arranged exactly right at her place on the throne. This took an hour of discussing and deliberations, and then another hour of fixing and adjusting. Finally, Fortune got upset by the commotion and decided to take his aggression out on the dapifer by biting him in the foot. The Empress sent the dapifer off and comforted Fortune, leading to yet another hour arranging her dress.

When at last Emily could start, she was already frustrated, and the giggling and whispering and moving around of the ladies-in-waiting was almost unbearable. Annoyed, she asked the Empress if she could send them off as well. The Empress was delighted by this request and immediately demanded that everyone leave the room. When silence prevailed, she turned to Emily and clasped her hands together.

"Painter's temper," she sighed. "Ah, Madame. Keep this up, and you will soon become a legend! _"_

* * *

During the period that followed, everything in Emily's life was art. She was a prodigy, they said; a painter whose talent had not been seen since the very heyday of the _École de Fontainebleau_. Though Emily suspected this to be a lie—the French court had always been and still was crawling with talented painters, and not all of them male, either—she was flattered by the attention. The Empress saw to it to safeguard her new and fascinating pet, making sure to preserve the mystery surrounding Emily, and even enhancing it: _you may not interact with people here_ , she declared at a session during one of their first days together, _and you may not speak too openly about your life. I want you to be my very own mysterious English lady painter._

Emily didn't mind the secrecy. Though she was sure the rumour of her would eventually reach England, this way, at least it wouldn't travel too fast.

Life was, indeed, a good one, and with each day, she felt freer and bolder, her confidence strengthened both by the attention and the passion streaming through her whenever she stood by her easel, brush in hand.

# 31

One evening, when the sun was about to slowly set over Fontainebleau, drenching the parterre in honey and gold, Emily saw him again.

She'd finished the fifth day of painting the Empress' portrait and had arrived at her apartment, where she'd opened the door to the balcony to catch a breath of the sweet, soft air. This was one of her best moments of the day, save for when she was painting. Even though she was allowed to take walks around the premises, this could only be done in the company of Monsieur D'Avigny and her assigned chaperone, and so she preferred to enjoy the evenings from her little balcony. The blackbird sang from the nearby glade, as it did every evening, and she heard the soft purling from the fountains and the gentle grating sound of feet against the crushed marble. Two men walked slowly beneath her. Their voices hummed pleasantly in the stillness, a comforting sound. But also... strangely familiar.

She frowned, her heart beating a little faster. When leaning over the balustrade, she managed to spot the source of the voices: two men dressed in crème breeches, black boots and dark jackets decorated with gold braids, medallions and military orders. Sheathed swords clung to their thighs, revealing that they were soldiers. They were both slender, both dark-haired, but one was slightly taller than the other, his hair shimmering like the wings of a crow. She held her breath. _Turn around_ , she thought, commanding him through her mind. _Look at me_.

Finally, as though he'd heard her silent plea, he turned his face. She caught a glimpse of the pure, straight-nosed profile, before he turned away again, but it had been enough. _Monsieur de Ste Germaine._ Without thinking further, she ran through her room and out into the corridors, through the chambers and hallways into the garden. The soldiers meant to survey her while in the castle followed her, not inclined to intervene, but clearly puzzled—they called out for her, but she wouldn't hear them, refused to hear them, and dashed onwards.

As she reached the garden, they caught up with her and one of them reached out and grabbed her wrist. Though she fought back, protesting the treatment loudly, he hauled her back to the castle without much effort. The commotion made the two men halt and turn around. The Monsieur ran to her.

"What on earth...? Madame Stanford? Leave her alone," he commanded the guards. "I know her. She is no threat to anyone."

"But—"

" _Écouter_ ," barked his companion. "Listen to him." To her relief, the guard holding her immediately took a step back, obviously confused, but standing sternly at attention. " _Laissez-nous_ , _s'il vous plait_ ," the Monsieur's companion continued. "Leave us, please. We don't need your services here."

She followed them with her eyes as the guards left, then turned to the men and curtseyed.

" _Merci_. Thank you both for your help. I was just... I thought I'd..." She trailed off and blushed slightly, feeling silly. She truly had made a spectacle of herself, and there was no way to explain it in a decent way. She sent the Monsieur's comrade, who was watching her with apparent delight, a hasty glance, and felt even sillier. "I'm sorry... I am interrupting something, am I not?"

"Well." Monsieur de Ste Germaine cleared his throat. "I do not mean to be rude, but—"

" _Pas de tout_ , Madame," his comrade said, the amused grin still on his lips. "Le Comte de Ste Germaine is only concerned because he thinks I mind your presence, but there is always time to converse with beautiful ladies." His look of pleasure shifted to one of curious intensity. "Madame Stanford, are you? Where have I heard the name before? _Ah_ , _oui._ " he exclaimed, with his next breath. "You are the English lady painter, am I right?"

" _Oui_ , Monsieur."

She recognised his features as well—the sharp, hawk-like profile, the brown, intelligent eyes and the decisive curve of his mouth felt all too familiar—but couldn't place him.

"Well, Madame." He nodded, tilting his head a little to admire her. "It is true then, what they say about your beauty. Though in reality, you are even more beautiful."

She slid her gaze to the Monsieur, who was looking back at her with a stiffened face, obviously concerned.

" _Merci_ , Monsieur," she said, confused. "That is a kind thing to say."

"Not at all, _ma belle_. I am only speaking my mind."

The air of impatient energy, of majestic presence... The Monsieur's odd behaviour... With a stark jolt to her heart, she realised who the man was, and her eyes widened in the shock of it.

"I am _L'Empereur_ Bonaparte," he said, helping her. His bow was courteous, his smile mischievous—clearly, he'd noticed that she now knew who he was. " _Enchanté_ , Madame."

" _Votre Majesté_ ," she stuttered and sank down in a deep curtsey, bent her head to the ground. "Your Grace. My sincerest apologies, I didn't realise..."

" _Pas de probleme_ , Madame." His hand lightly touched her shoulder, urging her to stand up. She did, her face blushing with shame. "Do not apologise, _mon chére_. Like I said, I always have time for beautiful young ladies, and I was amused by your sudden enthusiastic appearance. This place is otherwise choked by etiquette, and it is always refreshing when someone dares to break it. I have heard about your rebellious nature already, and you do not disappoint. I do suspect I am not the reason for your delightful presence, however." He blinked and continued, softly: "It seems as though my courier has left quite an impression on you, _ma belle_. I am a little bit jealous, but not much, since I am very fond of him myself and understand why you have these feelings."

She stared at him, not knowing what to say. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her fingertips.

The Monsieur came to her aid. "Madame Stanford and I have a very special connection, _Votre Majesté_. We were unfortunately attacked by highwaymen on our way to France. We only just survived, and Madame Stanford was very courageous. She may very well have saved my life, and for that I am grateful. I am sure when she rushed out here it was to make sure I am still doing well."

"Ah. Is this true?" The Emperor caught her eye, grave now. "These are sad news, _ma belle._ A delicate flower like yourself should not be put through such terrible events. Would you care to fill me in on the details, my dear Monsieur de Ste Germaine, while we walk together through the garden? You will join us I hope, _ma chére_?"

It was more a demand, than a question, and she nodded, without looking at the Monsieur.

* * *

Despite everything she'd heard about him, she found the great Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte surprisingly pleasant and attentive. He listened to the Monsieur's story, asked them questions about the murdered servants and what had happened to their bodies, if their families had been cared for afterwards and how the Monsieur and Emily were feeling after having witnessed this dreadful deed. His interest was genuine, his concern real, and she thought about how the rumours of him remaining on the battlefield to care for the dead and wounded had to be true. _And this man, Charles regards as a beast,_ she thought, bitterly. _I know who the beast is._

"Madame?"

She blinked and looked up. The two men were eyeing her, curiously. Had they spoken to her? She curtseyed.

"My apologies, _Votre Majesté_ ," she said. "My mind was adrift."

"Oh? In that case, I hope you were thinking about me, _ma chère_ ," the Emperor said, merrily. "Or was it perhaps my dear courier that occupied your thoughts?" He laughed and put a hand on the not-so-amused Monsieur's shoulder.

"I... I was actually only thinking about how lovely my stay has been so far," she said. It wasn't a complete lie. "And how I'm going to miss it."

It hit her, the full impact of what was going to happen within a few days. She couldn't quite cope with the thought of going back to Charles, to his terrifying reign and her horrible existence at Greywell. Then again, she missed Daniel something terrible. Sweet little Daniel who so bravely had told her to go to this country, promising her that he would deal with Charles himself. _Why is it so hard?_ she thought. _Why is life always so difficult, so full of choices?_ The flurry of thoughts constricted her throat and made her sob—a meek sound that she managed to half hide behind her gloved hand.

"Ah _ma chère_ ," said the Emperor, voice warm from concern. "Indeed, I can see that you mean it. Come, let us proceed."

Silently, hands clasped at his back, he shepherded them onwards through his grandiose garden. The evening air was sweet and velvety, the pleasant scent of soil and grass tinged only faintly by the scent of rotting plants from _L'etang des Carpes,_ the carp pond.

"You are gifted, Madame," he said after a while.

He stayed at the edge of the bank, leaned slightly forward and stretched out a bejewelled hand towards the water. Hungry fishes came up to the surface in the hope of getting some food, slick heads bobbing in the dark swirls so that it looked as though the water was boiling.

"I have heard your style is unique. The few people who have seen your painting of my wife says it is a grand piece, on par with some of our most esteemed masters. It will be finished soon, _n'est-ce pas_?"

" _Oui_ , _Votre Majesté_."

"Hm. I will have to have a look at it before I make up my mind, but I do not think I will be disappointed in you." He straightened his back and sent her a quick, skewed glance. "I think very highly of painters, Madame. Painting is a language that can be understood by everyone, and a good painter can convey any message."

"I agree, _Votre Majesté_." She raised her head. "That's what my master always told me. There is power in art and if you handle it correctly, you can touch people as you can in no other way."

"Wise words. He seems to have understood these things. I am glad you carry forth his legacy."

"I try, _Votre Majesté_."

"So, would it be possible to commission you again for more paintings?"

The direct question took her aback for a moment, made her stutter when she replied. "I... I..."

"I think she's trying to say yes, _Votre Majesté_ ," murmured the Monsieur, whereas Bonaparte laughed and impulsively grabbed her hands.

"I think you have put your spell on me, Madame," he sighed and kissed them, passionately. "You are enchanting, indeed. If I like what I see from your painting, I will employ you, _ma chère_. You will be under the wings of the great Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte as one of his royal artists. Does this sound good?"

"It does. _Merci beaucoup, Votre Majesté_." She held her breath while he kissed her hands again. The closeness wasn't wanted, but she couldn't pull out from his grip, as it simply wasn't done to a man like him.

"You must let me do something for you before you leave," he said with fervour, his dark eyes locking her in, taking command of her. "Let me arrange _un_ _petit_ _bal_ in your honour. Ah _oui_ , _une_ _fête_ , where you are the guest of honour. Say you will attend, Madame?"

"Oh but _... Votre Majesté_ ," she stuttered. "You are much too generous."

He laughed again, more of a soft chuckle this time. "Not at all," he said, and finally let go of her hands. "We haven't held a _bal_ at the _château_ for quite some time now, which is such a shame, for life should be enjoyed, _n'est-ce pas_? My wife loves such events and she will enjoy planning for it, I am sure. And I shall make you beautiful, _ma petite_ , and pick your outfit. Something blue, I think. _Non_ ," he corrected himself. "A delicate pale green, to go with your lustrous hair. And gold, there must be gold somewhere, for your beautiful eyes bear the shimmer of deep amber, which will be enhanced with a hint of gold." His gaze travelled over her, apparently dressing her in his mind.

She curtseyed again, a knot in her stomach. She didn't even dare look at the Monsieur, afraid that he would be laughing at her, or, even worse, be upset.

" _Merci beaucop, Votre Majesté_ ," she murmured.

" _De rien_." He flicked his hand, dismissively. "Monsieur de Ste Germaine, you will attend _le_ _bal_ _aussi_ , _non_?"

He bowed, stiffly. "It would be my honour, _Votre Majesté._ If I am able to."

"I will see to it that you are available, _mon ami_. It's the least I can do." The Emperor nodded, pleased with his decision. " _Alors la_ , Madame. Much as I've enjoyed this conversation, I'm afraid I must now leave you dear young people. But do not despair, we shall enjoy each other's company at the ball, _n ést-ce pas_? I will leave Monsieur de Ste Germaine with you now, to take you safely back to the castle. _Au revoir_."

* * *

They followed him with their eyes, as he briskly walked the path to his castle. The Monsieur shook his head, smiling slightly.

"He is an extraordinary man, _non_? Like the strong wind, _n'est-ce pas?_ You cannot stop him. Even if you'd sometimes like to," he added under his breath.

She sighed, felt her shoulders slump for a bit, and realised how tense she'd been. She was overwhelmed by the Emperor's energy, pleased, but worried at the same time.

"He has taken a liking to you," the Monsieur continued, sending her a quick glance. "You might want to take care, hm?"

She looked at him, startled. "Care? Why?"

He sighed. "Shall we walk to somewhere we can sit, Madame?"

"Of course."

* * *

The pond was surrounded by small, elegant benches. The Monsieur chose one and sat down. After some hesitation, she sat down, too. The carp had sunk back into the depth and the water was now still, a patch of dark gold in the last shivering gleam of sunshine. The willows bowed deeply into the still surface, touched it gently. They reminded her of the brook behind Giatelli's farm and sent a pang of longing through her.

"It is beautiful here," she said, quietly. It seemed a safe thing to say, a good way to resume their conversation.

"It is," nodded the Monsieur. "I trust it you have enjoyed your time at the palace?"

"I have. It's like a magical place. I feel... free."

"I hope you would. You are a person who needs to be free." He break a twig from the blooming spiraea bush behind his back, and broke it further in small, small pieces that he dropped to the ground. "You are already surrounded by myth, you know. You heard the Emperor, yourself. People are fascinated by you." He threw her a quick glance. "Have you noticed anything of that?"

She shook her head in wonder. "Not really, no. What are they saying about me?"

"That you go your own way. And that the game you play is exquisitely refined."

"Game? What game?"

"These contrasts between fiery passion and great impulse on one side, and complete aloofness, bordering to indifference, on the other. It spellbounds people."

Heat pushed itself to her cheeks. "Are they really saying that? But I haven't... I don't..." She trailed off. "I don't even know what to say."

"I suspected as much." The Monsieur smiled, threw the last pieces of twigs on the ground and brushed his hands against each other. "Part of your enigma is your innocence. They _think_ your contrasting nature is a game, but it really isn't. Do not put yourself in situations you cannot handle."

"I do not quite know what you mean."

He sighed, half amused. "You're not making it very easy for me, are you? I mean that it seems like the Emperor has taken a liking to you, which is also true to most other men at the palace."

"Really?" She sent him a panicked glance. "I can't see why they would."

" _Non_ , and that is just it. Your lack of etiquette paired with your shyness is refreshing. Everyone sees it, and everyone wants a part of it, and they think you are in on it. Remember that everything around here is a game."

"But what shall I do? How do I protect myself?"

"I don't know, Madame." He shrugged, looking somewhat dejected. "If I did, I would tell you."

This made her forget about herself. "Have you ever... taken part of these games yourself?"

Was that a blush on his cheeks? He'd turned his face away, so she couldn't quite tell.

"In the past, I did. It was fun to compete for the attention of someone, and win—and likewise, it's a thrill to be won. But the aftertaste is bitter, and now that I am older, I do not like it. I avoid it. That's why I am never present at this palace, or at any other gatherings."

"You are here now," she reminded him.

_"Oui_ , I am here now," he said, softly, the long dimple appearing along his cheek as he smiled. "Because I was hoping to see you, and maybe talk to you for a bit. I must say your transformation is quite stunning—not for the clothes, although they are nice enough, but for your appearance. There is happiness in your eyes now, and you're glowing with confidence. I like that. You're very beautiful." He sighed in disgust at her mortified face, touched his forehead lightly. "And I should probably keep my big mouth shut..."

"No, I..." She cleared her throat. "I..."

"You what, Madame?"

_Yes, what_? She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She had never expected to talk to a man again, like she had Giatelli. The closest she'd come was with Charles' brother, but Lyndon Stanford had been preoccupied with his own problems, and hard to get close, just as she hadn't been receptive to letting him close to her. This was different. Sitting there next to the Monsieur filled her with a sensation she'd never experienced before, not even with Giatelli, and while it scared her because she didn't know what it was, it filled her with an almost overflowing sense of joy and tingling warmth that spread from her head down to her toes.

"I don't wish for you to keep your mouth shut," she whispered, staring down on her hands. She'd always thought them ugly, big and pale, but like that, against the pale fabric of her dress, they looked slender and graceful. "I like it when you... give me compliments like that. I think."

"I like to give them to you," the Monsieur replied. "And it makes my heart happy to hear you say it. It means you trust me."

"Yes," she said, surprised. "Maybe so."

" _Oui_." He reached behind them, searched the bush and found what he wanted: he broke off a twig and presented it to her. On it, was a small snail, its head tucked into its shell. "You are like this little animal, _comprenez-vous_? See how it, when it feels safe, will stick its head out. There is no use in forcing it to keep it there, because if you try, it will only return into its shell and stay there." They watched it for a little while, and sure enough, soon it stuck out its head, carefully investigating its surroundings. The Monsieur smiled and put the twig back among the others in the bush. "That's how I see you. _Comme un petit escargot sensible."_

"A sensitive little snail," she repeated. "Maybe so." She laughed, helplessly. "I think you are very observant, Monsieur."

" _Merci_. But so are you."

The sun sunk down behind the trees beyond the lake, leaving them to bathe in a bluish light, but the air was cool, not cold, and it wasn't unpleasant at all. From a tree somewhere close, a willow warbler started its frail serenade.

"What will you miss the most about this place, Madame?"

She threw him a glance, but he wasn't looking at her. Just as well: then she could admire the proud profile with its clean lines and the long lashes over dark eyes. _You_ , she thought. _I will miss you._

"Everything," she decided to say.

He sighed a little, as though she'd disappointed him. Had he expected her to reply what had been on her mind just a second ago? Her stomach knotted up, from fear but also, strangely enough, pleasure. While she was contemplating whether to tell him, he rose and brushed off his knees.

"Shall we go back?"

"Yes... Yes, let's go back."

They walked the first bit in silence.

"I am looking forward to _le bal_ ," he said, at last. "I haven't danced in a while, but this time, I think it will be fun. With you."

And there it was: the knot in her stomach grew to a huge lump. She halted.

"Monsieur..."

His dark eyes viewed her curiously. "What is wrong, Madame?"

"I..." She exhaled. "I might as well tell you... I... I cannot dance."

"Everyone can dance. With various degrees of success, but still. I will not even care if you step on my foot."

She knew he was trying to lighten her mood, but it failed. When she spoke again, her voice broke.

"I'm..." _Frightened. Terrified._ On a few occasions during her wedding and after, she'd been forced to partake in dances. She'd seen Charles ill-disguised dismay at her clumsiness and heard the giggle of the present guests, and had decided never to put herself through that again. Dancing was an intricate matter, and there was no doubt in her mind that the dances at the French court would be difficult to learn. Not to mention the touching, which was another thing she hated with a passion. "I don't want to," she blurted, knowing she sounded like a petulant child, but caring not.

"Ah Madame," the Monsieur said, his voice warm with compassion. "So say that you are incapable of dancing, because of..." He paused and viewed her, thoughtfully, then lit up. " _Oui_ , of course... Your injury!"

She raised her brows. "My...?"

He nodded to her feet. "In the forest when we were running, you were limping, _n'est-ce pas_? You pretended it was not bothering you, but it was. It pained you and when I asked, you told me it was from an old injury. And I saw it again, when you were running from the soldiers. So did the Emperor, I am sure. We will say that you are not capable of dancing at the ball, because of this injury." His eyes glittered with joyful mischief.

"Well, I..." She trailed off. A distant memory, so vague it might just as well have been her imagination, flew through her mind. There was a voice, dark and rich, with a strange accent. _So she will be able to dance again_? That time, Dr Bedford had replied to Giatelli that if she cared to, she would. Well, she didn't.

"I think it's a very good idea, Monsieur."

" _Bon_. I will notify _sa Majesté_."

"Thank you so much." The relief made her smile. "You saved me."

The Monsieur smiled back. "Like you saved me, Madame? Do not worry about it. I hope it will enable you to enjoy the ball."

"For sure. And..." _Be brave, Emily, do not recoil into your shell._ Somehow, it wasn't her own voice that spoke those words: it was Giatelli. She wondered what he would have thought of the Monsieur. "I'm... looking forward to it. And... maybe mostly to... see you again."

"I am glad to hear it, for that is my sentiment exactly."

She was caught for a moment in his warm eyes. Then, her face aglow, without another word, for there was nothing more to say, she started to walk back to the palace.

# 32

"My pet, you are wonderful, and I enjoy watching your pretty little face while you are working, but I hear that you are near completion of my painting and I think my husband wants it to be ready for unveiling during your ball tonight. Will you not tell me you are ready anytime soon, and that the paint will dry enough to at least show it to the public?"

The voice of the Empress of France made Emily hastily straighten her back. She glanced at what she'd been touching up in the thick layer of paint on the canvas and drew her breath. The large clock on the mantelpiece behind the Empress told her it was already past noon.

"I'm..."

She met the eyes of the dapifer, who was standing beside the Empress, and felt a wave of heated embarrassment flush her face. They knew. They all knew she was putting off the inevitable display of her work. It wasn't very strange, and she recognized this from her past sessions, but it was far worse this time. Still, she had to admit defeat.

With an inaudible sigh, she put the brush on the ledge of the easel and curtseyed.

" _J'ai fini, Votre Majesté_. I'm done. The painting is complete."

The Empress clasped her hands. "Oh, that's marvellous. Just like I thought. I don't _mind_ that you are meticulous, my dear," she added, soothingly. "It shows me you are serious about your work. It's just that I was getting worried that it would never be done."

"I understand, _Votre Majesté_. My apologies." She curtseyed again, deeply, eyes on the floor. "I only wanted it to be perfect."

Mostly, it was true. Offending the Empress of France with anything less than a portrait that both flattered and yet portrayed the precise truth would be a grave mistake. Yet there was another reason she continued to re-paint strokes and lines that were already fast in place. Regretfully, she reached for the bottle of turpentine, drew in the sharp, lovely scent far into her nostrils and knew that this was a rare treat, or at least it would be, for an unknown time to come.

"I'm sure it's good enough," the Empress decided. "Let me have a look at it and judge for myself. As amused as I am that you have been refusing me to see your progress, I tire of being kept in suspense, _non_?"

"Please."

Emily gestured faintly to the painting. _Done_ , she thought. She felt strange, as one did after having been dragged from one's bed amid a beautiful dream. Her body tingled and she felt slightly sick. Done meant that her dream was over. Done meant going back to England to face Charles' wrath. She'd told herself so many times that she didn't care what he'd do to her. He could beat her black and blue if he wished, and it still wouldn't take away what she had experienced, the love, admiration and happiness that had showered over her since her arrival in France. Nevertheless, now that she had admitted to herself that she was done, the fear crept over her, clawing at her guts with fervour. Charles' fists could be very hard, and so could his words.

"Oh Madame." The exhaled exclamation woke her up again. The Empress had moved behind her and was studying the painting, and... She has tears in her eyes. Emily curtseyed, looking away not to embarrass her.

"Is it to your liking, _Votre Majesté_?"

"Is it ever? Exquisite!"

She'd known it, but the words were both reassuring and delightful to hear. Personally, Emily thought that this painting was her best piece; better, even, than the one of Giatelli. _That is because you have painted with your soul, Piccolina,_ Giatelli would have said. _All your feelings are there, like a colour nobody can see, but everyone can feel._

* * *

The Empress' wish had been to be depicted sitting down by a window, but after a bit of coaxing, Emily had convinced her that the painting would be more alive and vibrant if the Empress was standing up and placed in a garden. After a lengthy discussion, the Empress had finally agreed, but Emily knew she had not been very pleased with Emily's stubbornness. With this in mind, the Empress' reaction at the finished result was a relief, as much as a triumph.

Dappled sunlight fell in through the bay leaves over her head, forming a delicate pattern over her face and hands, which were holding a white rose, around which a bee was circling. Her eyes looked back at the viewer with the full confidence and wisdom of a queen, and on her lips lingered the smile of a woman who had just met her love. In the background, on the green field behind her, one could just about detect a small figure of a horse and its rider, Napoleon Bonaparte, and further behind him, shimmering in white, were the contours of Fontainebleau. Fortune played at the Empress' feet. It wasn't a traditional portrait and it was more than a tribute to the current fashion trend, something for which the Empress was known—this was an organic, fresh, vibrant painting that depicted a sensitive, beautiful Empress, which was exactly the way she wanted to be seen.

Emily was proud of her achievement, but also how she had handled it. In all honesty, she knew she could never have compromised with the setting she'd had in her mind, but it took some strength to rebel against the wishes and inhibitions of an Empress. All this was now part of her own enigma. Like the Monsieur said, she was already a cherished legend at Fountainebleau, and this even before anyone knew her work.

"Oh Madame," the Empress said again and wiped her eyes free from the tears. "I think we all must love you. Even the dapifer, who has complained about your tardiness." She turned to him. "Hm? I am right? You love her, _non_?" He nodded, with compressed lips. " _Bon_." She nodded too. "It would be foolish not to appoint you as one of our royal painters, Madame. With your beauty and eccentric ways, you are already a success here at Fontainebleau. But when people see that you are also so talented, all doors will open for you."

Not if Charles has something to say about it... But Emily bobbed a curtsey and smiled, without inhibition. _I have earned this_ , she thought, _and I will enjoy it while I can._

" _Alors_." The Empress tilted her head. "The painting will be displayed at the ball tonight. Do not worry, Madame, they will handle it very carefully. I hear my husband has vowed to arrange for your ensemble for the night? I hope it is beautiful enough because you must shine, _ma chére_ , anything else is unheard of. I heard from the Monsieur that you do not dance?"

"Oh... I..." Her cheeks turned hot.

The Empress smiled. "You need not worry, _mon amie_. We understand your predicament, and it is not worth it if you are going to be in agony. Personally, I think it will make you even more desirable. Please promise me not to mention anything about that old injury to anyone, hm, _cherie_? Injuries are not very romantic, _comprenez-vous_? It will do wonders to your already legendary reputation if you give the impression you don't dance because you simply do not want to. Everyone already thinks you are eccentric, and your temper is well known. It's a marvellous idea, is it not?" She clasped her hands. " _Alors la_ —the malevolent painter, _je l'adore_! Now return to your apartment and don't come out until you are ready to dazzle us all."

With the strangest feeling of having been both insulted and complimented at the same time, Emily was finally sent off to prepare for the evening.

Three valets arrived to deliver her ensemble, which proved to be a green silk dress of the very latest fashion, delicately light, its hems decorated with Egyptian borders embroidered in gold. The maids spent two hours preparing Emily for the evening and another half hour dressing her. They sprayed her with perfume, powdered her hair with gold dust, helped her pull on the exquisite crème coloured silk gloves, and crowned her artistically arranged hair with a shimmering tiara to match the pearl eardrops.

When Monsieur LaSalle d'Avigny came to collect her, he bowed deeply at the sight of her.

"Presentable as usual, Madame," he murmured. "Now, follow me to _La Salle de Bal, s'il vous plait_."

She couldn't decide what she felt, walking through the corridors and hallways to the ballroom, joy or dread? Both, probably, and by the time they reached the huge gilded double doors guarded by strict footmen, her hands inside the exquisite silk gloves were cold and damp and her head spinning.

She was showed into a ballroom that took her breath away with its stunning beauty. The supporting pillars running through the room were covered with the most astounding paintings and the ceiling swung high in a honeycomb pattern, shimmering with gold, but the assembled crowd seemed not to notice them at all, chatting and conversing lightly, their voices bouncing against the walls, colliding with the tunes from the orchestra; she recognized Paisiello's _La Molinara—_ ironically, or fittingly, a composer and song that Giatelli had greatly admired. It felt almost like a nod to her, as if Giatelli was there with her, telling her to relax and have fun. So she tried. Drew her breath to relieve herself of her light-headedness and raised her head as she walked through the parting sea of people, who by now had recognized her and was pointing at her. At first, panic prickled her skin, but with each step and for each face she saw, it became clear that they were pointing at her with admiration and that their murmurs were those of delight and awe—and finally, she could relax and even smile at them as she passed.

The dapifer showed her to the podium at the room's end. On it, propped up on an easel, covered with a silk sheet and flanked by two sombre servants, was the painting. The familiar shape of it made her heart settle down even more. _I'm enjoying myself,_ she stated, with some surprise. _I always thought I was shy, but this is... fun._ With as much pride she could muster, she gazed out over the crowd, allowing their admiring looks to caress her body.

An elegant man, dressed in dark clothes with glimpses of colour on the waistcoat underneath the black frock, approached her. He proved to be the Master of Ceremonies and explained briefly that it was his responsibility to oversee the arrangement. He gave sign to the orchestra to cease their music and gestured to the crowd to be silent. The murmur died out, and all eyes were now on her.

"The crowd expects you to say something, Madame," the Master of Ceremonies murmured. "Keep it short, because you do not speak French very well, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"Of course." She swallowed, closed her eyes briefly, heard her heartbeats in her ears. Then, she opened them, took a step forward and struck out her hands in an elegant gesture. "Thank you all for being here tonight—I'm very pleased to see you all here. I hope you like my painting and I look forward to this evening. May it be one of joy and laughter. God save the Emperor and Empress of France."

The crowd cheered, raising their glasses. Overwhelmed, relieved and smiling broadly, Emily curtseyed and upon the Master's instruction, left the stage.

"You are not the Emperor, Madame," he scolded her, though gently. "It was wrong of you to speak as though you were their leader. But very well, it is what one can expect from someone like you. Now wait until their Majesties arrive and try to behave."

* * *

She didn't have to wait long. Within soon, their Highnesses arrived, dashingly beautiful, surrounded by an air of majestic elegance. The Emperor held a small speech, where he introduced Emily as one of the new, fashionable painters at Fontainebleau. After this, and some more cheering, he signalled for the servants to unveil the painting. She held her breath when they slowly lifted the thin cover. The crowd seemed to collectively hold its breath, and then it was released in a unison sigh, and an applause started to ring through the room. It seemed never to end, and when the Emperor gestured for her to enter the stage, she did, without hesitance. There, she received their cheers once again, and the Emperor had her kneel in front of him, where he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Your talent is without comparison," he said. "It exceeds your beauty, your intelligence and your grace, and that is truly an achievement. I cannot even fathom who must have taught you to paint like this, but that person must be a genius. Now stand up and receive your acclaim."

She stood up, her head buzzing with thoughts, of which none made sense—for a moment, she wished the music and the cheers would be silent, so she could concentrate—but then, she forgot everything, her heart jolting in her chest, for there was Monsieur de Ste Germaine, leaned against one of the pillars, watching her with uncandid interest and a smile on his lips. Her eyes were still in his as the Master of Ceremonies nudged her from the podium. When she aimed to walk over to him, however, she was stopped by a footman, who offered her a sheer, beautiful glass topped with the white, bubbly wine they called champagne.

" _Merci_..."

She kept her gaze on the pillar where she'd spotted the Monsieur, but had already lost sight of him. Hesitantly, she took a sip of the beverage instead. It fizzed on her tongue and the taste, fresh and crisp against her palate, made her draw her breath with surprise.

"Be a bit mindful if you are not accustomed to it, Madame," said a voice in her ear. She turned around and met the amused glance of Monsieur de Ste Germaine. "It has a tendency to rush to your head."

"Thank you, but I am not one to lose it that easily, Monsieur."

" _Je sais_ , Madame. It was just a friendly warning." He moved to the side to allow people to pass. His arm brushed against hers. She felt the touch straight through her silk sleeves and felt strangely giddy at the sensation but didn't move away. _I'm enjoying myself_ , she thought defiantly, to hush her always so anxious mind, and took another sip of the delightful drink. "So, how do you find your ball so far? _Sa Majesté_ has not spared any expenses, I believe."

"I am humbled, Monsieur. It is all astonishing. I don't ever think I've been this happy." She meant it, and the Monsieur seemed to realise this as well, for the smile he flashed her was so warm it brought tears to her eyes.

"Do not forget to thank him, Madame. He expects it."

The first few notes of the orchestra filled the air and were so loud that his voice was drowned. The crowd parted, some to the side, while others took their positions in a square formation for their first dance, which the Monsieur explained, was called a _Cotillion_. Beautiful ladies in ethereal dresses curtseyed toward handsome men in dark frocks, who bowed gracefully in response. The music started, sheer tunes to which the couples moved in star formations and with such intricate steps she felt dizzy just watching. It looked entertaining, but difficult.

The Monsieur was drawn from her to participate in the dance. She watched him, amazed at his grace, and blushing with pleasure at the way his eyes never seemed to leave her. A few men came up to her and asked her to dance, but she declined them. It seemed as though someone, the Empress, perhaps, had managed to spread the rumour of her disinclination to join in such leisurely endeavours, for the guests would pass her, discreetly, send her curious looks and point to her, yet with some respect, as if they were afraid that if they were too obvious, she would tell them off. Other guests wanted nothing but to converse with her. For several hours, she found herself engaged in interesting discussions on painting and arts and received sincere congratulations and expressions of admiration for her talent. She also received a few inquiries for sittings and politely declined them all, saying that she had to return to her own country and didn't know when, or if, she'd ever return.

By the end of the evening, her heart was aglow from the purest sense of joy, and she was hardly nervous at all. It was, however, a welcome respite to be left alone for a while. She stood by the wall, sipped her champagne and watched as couples took their positions for one dance after the next.

"Deep in thought, Madame Stanford? I do believe you are a little thinker, hm?"

She jolted and turned around. There he was, Napoleon Bonaparte, looking at her intensely, an amused smile on his lips. She sank down in a curtsey, but he gently took hold of her hand and pulled her up.

"You are truly beautiful tonight, Madame," he murmured and kissed the back of her hand. "The dress was an excellent choice, just as I knew it would be. You may keep it after the ball, and I have decided I will also equip you with some garments to take home to your country. I do not think the poor Englishmen know anything about fashion, so I will do them this favour. I cannot think of anyone to better lead the way than you, Madame."

She didn't even dare to imagine what Charles would say, but decided she wouldn't care. Nothing she did was good enough, anyway.

" _Merci, Votre Majesté_."

He smiled, apparently content. "So tell me, my treasure, are you enjoying yourself?"

" _Oui, Votre Majesté_. It is a lovely event. The ovations and kind words warmed my heart." She remembered the Monsieur's words and curtseyed, deeply. "Thank you so much for arranging it."

"Well-deserved," he said and flicked a glove-clad hand. "Now that I have seen the portrait, I am even more determined to bring you here to do more assignments. The next one will be of me."

"It would be my honour."

"I am already looking forward to it." He leaned forward and locked eyes with her. The scent of him, strong perfume mingled with sweat and powder, made her hold her breath. "You are indeed a pleasant acquaintance, _ma belle_. I wish I could keep you here for a bit longer. I would like you to stay here and add your shimmering colours to our world."

"Oh..." She swallowed. "I wish I could, _Votre Majesté_... but I'm afraid I am tied up by obligations back in... in England."

To this, he laughed, a loud, thunderous sound that made people turn their heads to look curiously at them.

" _Ma chére,_ you are a lovely, innocent rose," he chuckled. "Of course I understand that you have obligations and I know I can only enjoy your presence occasionally. I'm fine with that. Just as long as you are here from time to time, hm? And, when you are, do remember that Fontainebleau is a world of its own, with its own rules... and lack of them." He winked, crudely.

He was now so close she could feel his body heat, but she couldn't back away and tried to keep her face in check so he wouldn't notice how ill at ease the forced contact made her. When he caught her hand and raised it to his lips, she couldn't contain the shudder, but from his smile, she knew he thought it was one from delight.

" _Oui_ Madame." he murmured. "I feel the same."

There was a short stinging pain against her palm as he pressed something hard into her hand, but before she could pull away, he'd folded her fingers around the object and squeezed them tight. It was over in a second, and then he withdrew again, with a small bow.

" _Je t'en prie_ ," he said. "You're welcome. _Au revoir_ , Madame. For now."

With that, he turned around and was gone, engulfed by the sea of guests.

* * *

She turned her hand and looked at the object he'd left there. It was a small, rectangular card made of thick paper that smelled pungently of his perfume. Both sides were blank but one of its corners was neatly folded into a tiny dog's ear. She stuck it inside her dance card and searched the room for Monsieur de Ste Germaine. He was dancing, but soon noticed her anxious glance and went to her. She handed him the card and looked anxiously at him as he turned it over, examining it.

"I don't know what it is," she whispered. "But it worries me."

He looked up. For once, his dark eyes were not smiling, and his mouth was a thin line from displeasure. "I am glad to hear it, Madame."

"What do you mean?"

"Hm," he snorted. "Did I not warn you? Did I not tell you to be careful around him?"

"No, you told me to talk to him and thank him and I did." Her voice grew shrill. "What have I done wrong?"

"Hush Madame." He put a finger to his lips, still annoyed. "He might hear you."

"I don't care," she hissed. "What is it? You must tell me."

"I will tell you Madame." It was apparent he had trouble keeping his tone civil, and his jaws swelled when he pressed them together. He forced the words through his teeth. "By accepting this card, you have agreed to share His Majesty's bed."

"What?" She swayed but managed to stay on her feet and stare at him. The sudden gush of cold sweat made the dress cling to her body. "I have done no such thing."

He waved the little card in front of her face. "According to this, you _have_."

"But he placed it in my hand before I had any idea what he was about to do, and then he left before I could even look at it or ask. Please, Monsieur, you have to believe me."

"Even if I _do_ believe you, it doesn't help. I guess I must congratulate you, Madame," he said, dryly. "It's considered a great honour to share the bed of a monarch."

"Not to me," she moaned. "Not to me. How can he do this? How can he even assume I'd do such a thing? I'm married."

The Monsieur shook his head, dejected. "Do you think anyone here cares about your marriage? Or, for that matter, their own marriages? The fact that you are married only makes it easier for you to indulge in the game. No commitments, no worries, hm?"

"But I don't _want_ to." She grabbed his arm. It was a fervent gesture, so unlike her they both stared at her hand, before she withdrew it. "What shall I do, Monsieur?"

His dark eyes searched her face. "You do not wish to share his bed, then?"

"Of course I don't." She shook her head, lips trembling. "How can you even think such a thing of me?"

"I didn't; not really. I just wanted to be sure."

"Well, now you are," she said, her voice breaking. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she wiped them away. "Please... I don't know what to do..."

"Madame..." The Monsieur glanced worriedly over her shoulder out over the crowd, searching for Bonaparte. "It is not so good if His Majesty sees you in this state _, n'est-ce pas_? You must not insult him. Try to pull yourself together."

"I understand that, but... I cannot go through with this. I _cannot_." She pressed her hands to her mouth, drew a few shaky breaths to calm herself down, but without succeeding. "Please, Monsieur, you have to help me."

The Monsieur viewed her thoughtfully for a moment. " _Alors_ ," he said, at last. "I shall talk to him."

She smiled from sheer relief. "Thank you so much."

"Do not thank me before we know if it will work." He flicked the card with apparent dismay. "These things tend to be quite irreversible, _non_? Especially when issued by a king." When the colour left her face, he sighed and rolled his eyes, briefly. "Do not worry. I will try to sort it out. Wait here for me."

Emily stood stiff and with a pounding heart, watching the two men on the other side of the room as they discussed her situation. She could only imagine what they were saying, or rather, she didn't want to imagine it. The Monsieur pointed in her direction, then gesticulated, shook his head and explained with even more gestures and headshakes. Bonaparte listened, grave but seemingly not very upset. He peered at her, curiously but without moving much. _What is he saying?_ The champagne and _hors-d'oeuvres_ she'd had during the evening turned in her stomach, and she had to swallow multiple times to keep it down.

Now, the Emperor laughed, with such gusto it carried over the buzz of the guests. The Monsieur, in turn, shook his head vigorously, which made Bonaparte put a hand on his shoulder for a hard pat. The Monsieur pressed his lips together, then slumped some, as if the air left him, and nodded. He bowed, turned around and walked off. Bonaparte seemed already to have forgotten all about him, his attention turned to a young, pretty mademoiselle who had been with him for a great portion of the night.

"Well?" Emily said to the Monsieur. To her relief, she noticed that he'd returned the card to the Emperor. "What did he say?"

The Monsieur drew his breath. "As expected, he was at first greatly insulted. I had no choice but to explain why you did not wish to share his bed."

"Oh?" She felt cold and warm at the same time. "What does that mean?"

"It means..." the Monsieur cleared his throat, "it means that I had to come up with a good reason; one he wouldn't challenge."

"And that is...?" She was close to grabbing his arm in desperation, wanted to shake the words from him. Instead, she curled her fists into hard balls and stomped her foot. "Please, Monsieur. I have to know. At least it can't be worse than sharing his bed."

"Are you sure about that?" He smiled, albeit briefly, and very tensely. "I told him that the reason you do not want to bed him, is because you are already engaged elsewhere."

She stiffened. "Engaged?"

" _Oui_." He sent her an apologetic look, his cheeks deepening in colour. "With me. I told him that we had already made plans to... to be with each other."

" _What_?"

The Monsieur shrugged. " _Sa Majesté_ congratulated us and said he had not expected it, since we had told him we were only friends, but he was not angry with us. He was actually delighted. In fact, he was so delighted that..." He paused and coughed into his palm. "He offered us one of his best _apartements_ for the night."

The words wouldn't quite settle in her head: they swam around like confused fishes, like the carps in the pond. "Offered...?"

" _C'est comme ça_ , Madame. A place to spend the night together. I am sorry, but I could not refuse it."

"What?" She stared at him. "What?" It felt like her whole body had stopped, as though her heart wasn't beating, and her mind had shut itself down. This can't be happening. Frantically, she tried to search in his words for a way out, for a sign that he was joking, for something that would make what he had just told her... untold. But the Monsieur was watching her with sympathy and graveness, and there was no sign of humour in his eyes. _No, no, no._

She shook her head. "I... I can't," she said, breathing in. "I just... can't."

"I understand, but I think it would be very stupid of you to decline. If you do, you risk insulting _Sa Majesté_. In best case, he will force you to his bed. In worst case, he will have you arrested. He is a pleasant and kind man, Madame," the Monsieur added, gravely, "until he risks losing his face, _n'est-ce pas_? Trust me, Madame, it was the only way. I hoped you'd find it safer to spend the night with me, rather than with a man you do not know."

_I don't know you either!_ Logically, she knew the option of sharing a room with the Monsieur must be better, but what place did logic have, when panic engulfed her whole being? She didn't even know where she was anymore. Suddenly, she was back at the brothel, the people around her were Paul's guests, the music not one from an orchestra, but from the piano by the bar. And now, Paul would force her to... to....

The sounds, even the loud cackle from the group of ladies-in-waiting nearby, faded off into a faint buzzing, like that of a stream, moving toward the ocean. The Monsieur placed his hand around her elbow, steadying her. She brushed him off.

"Don't touch me," she breathed. "Please."

The Monsieur's eyes were dark with concern. "I am so sorry," he said. "I understand how difficult this must be."

"No, you don't." She straightened her back and drew a deep, painful breath, glared at him. "You _don't_."

"You do not have to be afraid for your husband finding out, Madame. These matters are dealt with very discreetly, I can assure you."

"I'm not worried about _that_ ," she snapped, then closed her eyes and took another deep breath. _Stop it, Emily, stop it now, before you lose it altogether_.

" _L'escargot_ ," She opened her eyes and stared at the Monsieur, who stared back, intently, but with a friendly smile on his lips. "We have all seen you free and passionate and full of happiness, but now you are returning into your shell again and it is my fault. I could tell you that you will be as safe with me this night as you were with me during the night in the forest, but I do not know if you will believe it."

She didn't answer, but his words sent a fresh, cool breeze of sanity into her feverish mind—at least the panic faded, but the fear did not. The Monsieur was so masculine, so sure of himself, and therefore, she feared being alone with him—and in a bedroom, of all things? Alone together? The mere thought made her throat constrict. In the forest, they had been wet and hungry. In the garden, they had been surrounded by people. Here, in the ballroom, nothing could happen. Alone in a bedroom—she just didn't know. Maybe he'd use his strength to hurt her, and how would she be able to survive that? The betrayal, the humiliation... She drew her breath, felt how it tore inside her chest, as though she'd breathed fire. The room felt too small, the crowd too threatening, the smell of perfume and sweat too intrusive, and the music... The music assaulted her ears, the sound of violins cutting through her like knives.

Desperately, she turned for the entrance.

"I have to get away from here," she moaned. "I... I have to...."

" _Ne t'inquiète pas, Tout va bien aller_." The Monsieur grabbed her arm again, keeping her on her feet. This time she didn't pull away, she had no strength to. "Don't worry," he pleaded. "Please Madame, I will not hurt you. You have to trust me."

"I—I'm sorry," she stuttered. "But I cannot do that."

A valet interrupted them, bowing deeply. " _Madame et Monsieur_ ," he said. "You are requested by _Sa Majesté_ to follow me."

Her heart jolted. "Already? But..."

"Those are my orders, Madame."

"But..."

Emily looked at the Monsieur, who shrugged, a regretful gesture of _I think we must_.

It was almost midnight. The orchestra was still playing, but she noticed that there weren't as many people in the ballroom. She saw Bonaparte indulging in a deep conversation with the enchantingly beautiful Mademoiselle Saint-Hilaire. Their heads were bent, so that no one around them could hear their words. His hand rested on her back, one thumb gently stroking the thin fabric of her dress. Seeing Emily's stare, he smiled and nodded, before he resumed the conversation. Undoubtedly, the pair would withdraw soon; the glazed eyes and rosy cheeks of the Mademoiselle told Emily that she was more than ready for the night. With his attention diverted, Emily was safe, but it didn't mean she didn't have to fulfil the Emperor's demand. _Be brave_ , she thought, and strangely enough, it wasn't her own voice she heard, but Giatelli's. _I'm with you, Piccolina. Don't be afraid._

Tiredly, she drew a hand over her eyes, then straightened her back, lowering her shoulders.

"I'm ready," she said. "Please show the way."

# 33

Indeed, the Emperor had chosen one of his best chambers. Upon entering, Emily's eyes were immediately drawn to the magnificent tapestries, and walking up to them, forgot everything else around her. Gently, she touched the silken threads, marvelling at the colours, the deep, shimmering crimson and the blue that reminded her of the sky on a bright summer morning.

When the Monsieur coughed, discreetly, she started and swirled around, finding that he was watching her from beside the door leading to the bed chamber. Behind his shoulder, she saw a glimpse of the canopy bed, heavy velvet curtains draped luxuriously over the opening, and she felt herself blanch.

"Let's stay out here for the moment," the Monsieur said, smiling slightly. "There are two comfortable _fauteuils_ there, _d'accord_?" He pointed to two curvy armchairs with deep blue seats and gold trimmings. Between them, a slender table had been set with a silver platter full of fresh fruit—fruit she'd never even seen before—and shimmering crystal glasses, along with a carafe with ruby red wine. He walked to it and lifted it up. "Would you like some?"

She hesitated some, then nodded. "Yes please."

He poured them one glass each and put them on the table, gestured to the chairs.

" _S'il-vous plait_ , Madame."

Even sitting close to him felt threatening. She shook her head. "I will stay here, if you don't mind."

"I do mind, actually. Your feet must be very tired?"

He was right. Even though the dainty silk shoes were the lightest she'd ever worn, her feet and legs ached from standing up the whole evening, and her head spun from exhaustion. The Monsieur looked so comfortable where he sat, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. For a flash second, she saw Giatelli in her mind, relaxing by the fireplace, a glass of grappa in his hand and Lachie by his feet. The image sent a sting of sorrow through her. _I wish it was you who sat there now_ , she thought. _My friend. I'm so alone, Giatelli._

But... was she really? The Monsieur had called her his friend, too, and when being with him, she felt as free as she'd ever done with Giatelli. Guilt washed over her, for doubting the man sitting there. He was always so kind and attentive, while she was aloof and stiff, afraid of everything, stupid and unimportant. Why did he want to be her friend? Why did _anyone_? She didn't understand I and had to breathe deeply not to lose herself to the sudden shower of gratitude that washed through her body. _What's wrong with me?_ She thought, her breaths trembling from the held-back tears. Too much champagne, maybe. She should have been more careful, of course, but it wasn't easy, when servants placed new, topped-up glasses in your hands every time the old one was empty.

"I... will sit for a minute," she decided.

It couldn't hurt, in any case, and he seemed placid enough, almost asleep where he sat. She sank down on the edge of the bolstered seat and put her hands on her lap, her back straight. The air, heavy with the scent of beeswax and rose water, comfortably warm, settled over her shoulders like a soft blanket. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she couldn't for her life lean her head back and close them.

"How are you feeling, Madame?" She knew without looking at him, that he was watching her.

"Fine," she replied. Not a complete lie—she was doing better than she had before entering the room.

"That's good." He hesitated a little. "I don't like to see you so agitated."

A swift glance at his face, before she turned her head back to stare stiffly at the opposite wall. "I'm not agitated, Monsieur, only... not comfortable with the situation."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" She exhaled to the pang of annoyance shooting through her, and had to look at him again. His eyes, sincere and dark, met hers. "You're _really_ asking that?"

" _Oui_. I believe I am. If you are afraid that this will reach your husband's ears, it will not."

"I'm not afraid of that."

"So what is it then?"

"You."

She blurted out the word without thinking. Heat flushed her cheeks, no doubt turning it bright red. He was silent for a while. A long while.

"Me?" he asked, at last. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" She inclined her head and stared down on her hands without answering, but he didn't give up. "Why would you think that? Will you tell me?"

"No." She rose, paced across the floor. "Please stop this."

"Stop what?"

"Asking... all these questions..." Halting, she struck out her hands and glared at him. "It's not fair."

"Why is it not fair?" He straightened up in his chair, leaned forward and squinted intensely at her.

_As if I wasn't uncomfortable enough already_ , she thought in a fit of desperate humour. _Can he see straight through me now?_ She folded her arms across her chest and raised her chin. "I don't like... questions."

"So I've noticed," he said, with a gentle smile, and leaned back again. " _Alors_... This is a nice room though, do you not think? I saw that you looked at the tapestries."

"They're amazing," she breathed. "I love the art in this room. That painting there..." She pointed. "I think it's painted by Toussaint Dubreuil—he was a painter of _l'Ecole de Fontainebleau_. I never thought I'd see a painting of him, or Dubois for that matter... There are just so many paintings in this palace that I've only heard about, and I've learned so much during my time here. More than Giatelli could ever teach me."

The mention of Giatelli's name sent something through her mind, like a snap, as if she suddenly woke up. She fell silent and stared at the Monsieur, who frowned.

"What is the matter, Madame?"

"Giatelli," she said, her lips stiff. "I just remembered. During the ceremony, when his Majesty spoke about my work, it sounded as though he had no idea who Giatelli was. And... I when I arrived at the palace and was introduced to her Majesty, I got the same feeling. But _you_ said they did know him." When seeing him guiltily press his lips together, she drew a shaky breath. "Was that a lie?" she asked, feebly.

"Not a lie, Madame. It wasn't a lie."

She walked back to him and sat down, her eyes on his face. "Who are you?" she said, gently. " _Really_?"

He smiled, as though she'd revealed something important. "I am who I told you, of course," he replied. "Napoleon Bonaparte's courier."

"Yes." She shook her head with impatience. "But there's more, isn't there? Things you haven't told me?"

"You are very observant." His gaze was shy, but amused. "Well done, Madame."

Then, he didn't say anything more. "Well?" She stomped her foot, angry but also, like he, amused. "Don't keep me guessing! Tell me!"

" _Alors_..." He grabbed his glass of wine and offered the other one to her, and she accepted. "Giatelli was a good friend of my father's."

Her jaw dropped. "What?"

" _C'est comme ça_. He visited our home in France a great many times. _A person trés extraordinaire,_ whom I remember very well. We weren't very close, but he always had a good word to say to me, and we had nice conversations."

_I can't believe this._ Emily was glad she was sitting down. Her heart hammered against her fingers, hard and fast.

"Some years ago, my father received a letter from Giatelli where he explained that he feared he had not long to live. It was his heart, _n'est-ce pas_? He was in a lot of pain and had a feeling it wouldn't end well."

Tears flooded her eyes. "He never told me," she whispered. "I didn't know."

"Because he didn't want to worry you," the Monsieur said, his voice friendly. "You meant the world to him and he wanted to protect you at all cost. Hence this letter to my father. He said that when he died, you would be alone. Since he trusted my father more than anyone, he asked my father to keep an eye on you after he was gone. Discreetly, of course. My father has a great many contacts, stretching over the borders—Englishmen in high-up positions with insight in the aristocracy. Which was what Giatelli needed."

Because he'd known who Charles was. Emily nodded, bleakly. In everything Giatelli had done, he'd made sure to keep a close watch over the Stanford family, and over Emily to keep her safe.

"Then Giatelli died," the Monsieur continued. "I don't think you noticed that my father was present at the funeral. You greeted him but you were too grief-stricken to take any greater notice."

She tried to remember seeing anyone who'd looked similar to the Monsieur, but couldn't. He was right—she hadn't really seen anything or anyone at that point, noticing nothing, acting mechanically.

"I'm sorry if I was rude," she said. "I didn't mean to."

"Ah, _non_." The Monsieur flicked his hand. "My father understood, and he also found you enchanting. When he came back home, he told me about you, and he also said that if anything was to happen to him, he trusted that I'd honour the wish made by Giatelli to protect you."

"Oh..." Her face flushed with heat again.

"Well, as it was, my father died just recently."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You loved him a lot, I think?"

" _Oui_ , Madame, I did. And I miss him every day."

"Like I miss Giatelli."

Her eyes pricked with tears and she had to fight the urge not to reach over and take his hand—which strangely enough felt like the right thing to do. It was as though they were connected in this, their grief, their losses, and it was a powerful, almost beautiful feeling.

" _De toute façon_ , I had my own life and didn't have time to keep an eye on you as I had promised. Not until lately, when I discovered, to my great horror, that you had married the man Giatelli was trying to protect you from. I did not understand it at all..." He leaned closer and looked searchingly at Emily. "Did you _want_ to marry him?"

"No." She shook her head, her throat constricting. "I was forced. He... needed me and my son to get to his legacy."

" _Ah, alors c'est comme ça_!" He threw himself back in the chair again and breathed out. "I wondered why you would willingly give yourself to such a _canard_. In any case, feeling I had let my father down, I had to travel to your country to personally see how you were doing." He rubbed his nose, tentatively. "The Empress didn't know."

"Really? But..."

"She had mentioned that she was looking for someone to paint her portrait, but it was a loose idea and she certainly wasn't searching actively for someone. My trip was purely private, out of duty. When I met your husband and I saw how unhappy you were, I just..." He sighed. "I came up with the idea that she had sent for you and that you must come with me. But it was not true."

Emily drew her breath. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. The decree of diplomacy...?"

"The decree is there. In the line of my occupation, I am allowed to travel freely between our countries. God knows for how much longer," he added under his breath, "but for now, it is valid. That was not a lie."

She nodded. Drew her hand over her eyes, tried to take in what he had told her. Orchestrated. Everything had been orchestrated, arranged to protect her. Her merits, the rumour that had caused the Empress to ask for her—it simply hadn't been there. And all the while, she'd walked around, thinking she was someone; a celebrated artist. The humiliation crushed her, made her feel sick. Nothing. She was still worth... nothing.

"Talk to me, Madame," the Monsieur said, worriedly. "You are so pale?"

"Yes, I... I guess I am. I'm just... trying to reconcile with the idea that... nobody..." Her voice cracked up, and tears rushed to her face. "I thought I was somebody," she blurted. "I thought I came here on my own merits, not... because I'm a weak person. I just..." She leaned over, hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

"Madame!"

Painstakingly, drawn to it by the strength of his voice, she gazed up. Through the blur, she made out the blotch of his face, but even then, she could see he was angry.

"What are you saying about yourself?" He shook his head. "You think you are here because of my will?" His snort was very French. "Think again. Initially, _alors_ , I may have helped, but now they don't even want to let you go, and I have nothing to do with it. _You_ did that." She didn't respond, looked down at her hands, her breath contained. "Were you not at the ball? Did you not hear the Emperor and Empress? Did you not hear the cheers? You are a legend, Madame. And that is not all: you have also charmed everyone with your complex personality, your intelligence and beauty. You made a king want to sleep with you."

She made a grimace, half amused, half dismayed. "Don't remind me."

"But I will remind you, until you realise that who you think you are in your head, is not what anyone else sees. Oh, _je sais_ , Madame—I have noticed how you never want to talk about yourself, and how you turn pale when you get a compliment. It is not only shyness, is it? It is because you do not believe in yourself and you don't think you are worth the praise or anyone's attention." He struck out his hands. "Who made you that way, Madame? Have you always been like this?"

She thought back. Thought about Giatelli, who had sometimes shown the exact same frustrated anger over her inability to see her own worth.

"Yes," she said. "I'm afraid I have."

"Right."

The Monsieur rose and held out his hand. She stared at it.

"Time to go to bed, Madame."

" _No_!" She drew her breath and flew up, put herself in safety behind the chair. "Don't touch me!"

"I will not touch you. But I mean it: we should go to bed. Not only because we are both tired and because we are expected to use the bed in some way, but also because I think it's the perfect place for a talk."

"I don't think so." Her pulse had gone down, but she was still panting as though she'd been running. "Why don't _you_ go to bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

"Impossible. I will not accept it. Neither will the Emperor, if he finds out."

"But I don't want to," she squeaked. "You cannot make me."

"True, I cannot. But I can make it easier for you. Somehow." He scratched his chin. "Oh, I know! Wait here, _s'il vous plait_."

He disappeared into the antechamber, where he rustled about for quite some time, pulling drawers, murmuring under his breath. Then, finally, he seemed to have found what he was looking for and came back to her, carrying something in his hands. Triumphantly, he placed it on the table. It was a sheet of fine, handmade paper and a chubby, black Conté stick for sketching.

" _Et voilà._ "

She picked up the stick, turned it in her hand. It rested comfortably between her fingers, this modern tool that she had only just learned to use during her stay at Fontainebleau and already loved.

"What is the meaning of this, Monsieur?"

"Well, I say we go to the bed—still with our clothes on, of course. We talk, you draw whatever you want, and when you decide you are sufficiently relaxed, we sleep."

It was, in a way, a most genius solution, and it surprised her to know that he knew her so well, but the idea was still frightening—and not because of the most obvious reason. No, she realised, it was frightening because it _wasn't_ frightening.

Carefully, she glanced at the man beside her, drank the clean lines of his face and the powerful frame of his body. If he had wanted to hurt her, he would already have done so, and now, they even had that connection: they shared Giatelli, and they shared the grief of irreplaceable losses... and not to mention, her heart fluttered a little when she looked at him, because she enjoyed his features and his whole person. _If I don't do this, I'm a coward_ , she thought. Decisively, she grasped the utensils and walked off to the bed chamber, where she, as gracefully as she could—but it was a high bed and her dress made it difficult—climbed up. He followed, his eyes both concerned and glittering with humour.

"That's quite a change of heart, Madame," he said.

"Yes." She felt breathless. "But I trust you."

" _Merci_."

He pulled off his shoes, a simple thing that still filled her with an unexpected panic, with strange reminiscences of Charles undressing for their wedding night playing through her mind. As the Monsieur climbed up onto the bed as well, the images grew stronger still, and in addition, she realised he blocked the way out. Trying desperately to regain control of her shivering breaths, she pressed herself as far against the wall as she could and hoped he would stay where he was.

"Draw, Madame," he murmured.

"What?" She blinked. "Oh... Of course..."

Cautiously, careful not to touch him, she adjusted herself on the bed, so that she sat up. He remained lying on his back, his eyes closed and features relaxed. Maybe he was already sleeping. Maybe she could draw _him_?

She put the tip of the Conté-stick against the paper and drew two lines in a faint cross across the paper. The support lines, wherein which she would sketch out the contours of his face. She waited a little with that, concentrated on the shadows of the background. With the familiarity of what she was doing, her pulse had already gone down, thumping in her chest with steady beats. The room was quiet, a woollen, comfortable silence, all sounds dampened by the lush velvet drapes and woven tapestries.

"How are you doing?"

She started and stared into his curious eyes, now opened to watch her face. "Fine..."

"You look a bit more relaxed, _mon amie_. I'm glad it's working."

"I think it is, yes."

He raised himself on the elbow. Though it disrupted her whole set-up, she didn't tell him to lie back again. It didn't matter.

"May I call you Emily?"

The unexpected question made her start again—it annoyed her that she was so jumpy, but she couldn't control herself.

"That is your name, isn't it? Emily?"

She liked how it came out, liked the sound of it, the melody. _Emil-ee_.

"That's my name," she said. Her hands moved over the drawing again, filling in the support lines so that they became a sooty cross over the paper.

"It's a beautiful name. It suits you."

There was a note in his voice, a strange tremor. She raised her gaze, her hands falling still. Her heart started to pound in her chest, hard and fast, each drumming beat tingling in her fingers.

"Emily, I... I think I love you." He sat up a little more, eager to explain, or maybe calm her—as if he expected his words to have upset her. "I'm sorry for saying it, but I have to. Soon, you will return to your country, _n'est-ce pas_ , and then it will be too late. I don't expect you to return my feelings and I don't _need_ you to; I know you probably don't feel the same way about me. It's just... that I had to say it."

Frozen, she sat there, aware of the beating of her heart, the quiver of her body.

"I'm sorry," he said, at last, and bent his head. "I shouldn't have told you."

She cleared her throat. "I... I don't mind."

"You don't?"

"No. Because..." She wetted her lips. "I... think I... feel the same." When, breathless, he raised his head, she shrugged, meekly. "I don't know. I have never been in love before. But I know that when I see you, something happens inside me that I have never... known with anyone else."

His eyes glittered. "What do you feel?"

"I don't know... It feels like... I have wings, and am standing on the edge of a cliff, prepared to take the first step out into the air. It's silly," she added, shaking her head, "but—"

" _Non_ , it's not silly. Don't say that." He tilted his head, curiously. "When did you realise?"

"Just now." She smiled. "I don't think I have understood before, how I felt about you. But maybe it was already there, when we left England. I know I was angry at you for the... the thing with the dress, but I didn't know why. Now, I think I was jealous. I hated the maid for getting your attention."

He laughed, softly. "She never did, believe me. For me, it was earlier. During our flight through the woods, I realised what a brave person you are. Intelligent, kind, and beautiful... It's difficult _not_ to love you."

She sighed, both with contentment and because the situation was now even more hopeless than before.

"So what do we do now?" she asked, without looking at him. "It has to stop at words. I'm not... able to give you more. I don't want to."

"Why? Won't you tell me?"

She fumbled with the Conté stick, almost dropped it. "No. No, I cannot."

"I am not blind, Emily. I met your husband. I know how fervently Giatelli hated him. Something happened in the past, something that shaped you. How old are you?"

The direct question demanded a direct answer. "Twenty-three. I think."

"You _think_?"

"Yes. I'm not sure." Her voice disappeared in a whisper.

" _D'accord_. And how old is your son?"

"He turns nine this June."

His silence told her he'd made the connection. She dropped the Conté-stick. It rolled down along the paper and landed beside her leg, leaving a black, sooty mark on the white sheet. She picked it up, trembling. _Draw, Emily, don't think: draw_. So she did. She added some more lines to the existing ones, forming squares. Her hands were quick now, flying over the paper. Seconds passed quickly as her pencil laid down lines, her fingers scratched, blended, her mind a blank as she worked.

"Your husband forced you, a _jeune fille_ , to share his bed. That was how it happened?"

The stick snapped between her fingers.

" _Calme-toi_ , Emily. You're safe."

"I-I know. I'm sorry." She tried to get some air into her lungs but it felt as if she was drowning. "I've never..."

She'd never even talked about this with Giatelli. The Monsieur seemed to understand, and maybe he didn't want to press her, for he leaned closer—not too close—and pointed at the drawing.

"What is that? A window?"

Confused, she glanced at it, and found he was right. _How did I do that? Where did it come from?_ Yet, she knew. Her heart had done that, while her mind had been busy being afraid. Her heart, always aware of the truth, delivering it to her in nightmares and reminding her of it daily—it knew this window with its next-to rotten sash bars and thick, bubbly lead glass. It remembered the argand lamp and also, illuminated on the sill, the remains of the dead fly. One wing had fallen off, its legs pointed sadly up in the air, crushed, destroyed. _I hate bugs._ Charles' voice, full of contempt.

"Is this a window you know?" the Monsieur coaxed.

"Yes." _Talk, Emily, just talk._ She couldn't tell why it felt important, but it did—maybe because she didn't want to hide anything from him, as if she'd giving up trying to safeguard her secret, or maybe because of a need to share, to make herself less lonely. "It's in a town called Old Woking. There is a tavern at the bottom floor where they serve drinks and food. The proprietor is called Paul. I—I don't even know his last name. He is a fat, ill-tempered man and everyone is afraid of him. All the guests are men. Most of them are there to... b—buy women."

"Were you one of those women?"

She heard the surprise in his voice, but also a lack of judgment: he wasn't putting any value to her story, didn't tarnish it with neither opinions nor prejudice.

"Yes, and no," she decided to say. "My mother died when giving birth to me. Paul wanted to hand me to an angel maker, but from what I heard, he was talked into keeping me. I think he promised my mother to, actually, but promises never meant much to him." Her voice turned dark with bitterness.

"I see. So you grew up there? With the other ladies?"

"I did. It wasn't that bad. They treated me well and were careful not to let me know what they did for a living. Or I didn't understand it. Didn't want to understand it, maybe." She shrugged. "Paul was around from time to time, but I didn't have much to do with him. If I was quiet and did as I was told, he didn't bother me. Later, when I was around ten years old or so, he put me in the bar to serve drinks. Not even then, I understood what the men did with the women. I served the food and the drinks and tried to stay clear of their hands." She smiled, joylessly. "They were always there, of course—pinching and touching. But no one ever tried to... buy me. N-not until C-Charles..."

Her teeth started to clatter.

" _Du calme, jeune fille_ ," the Monsieur murmured. "Charles? The man who is now your husband?" She nodded. "He paid for you?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes, felt the tears burn behind her eyelids. "I think he saw me serving, and decided he wanted to have me. Apparently, he paid a large sum—I was a virgin, so I was worth more. When Paul told me I h-had to go with him, I wondered why he'd chosen me and what he wanted to do. It didn't feel right."

The feeling when she saw Charles waiting by the stairs, had struck her like a hammer to the chest: the glimpse in his eyes, the smile... Instinctively, she knew it wasn't good, and she wanted to run, but Paul had held her from behind, and steadily pressed her onwards. _You must be a good girl and do as you're told, Em. No ideas, or I will be very cross with you._ She knew how hard he could hit, and decided that whatever would happen, couldn't be worse than his fists.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

Charles lead her upstairs, his hand tightly around her wrist, and tightening even more if she hesitated. With one foot, he pushed the door to the room open and hauled her inside. That's when the panic hit, full force.

"I-I tried to run from him, but he caught me and carried me back to the bed. When I fought him, he beat me, and... it seemed to arouse him. He told me to fight harder, and l-laughed at me when I did."

The rest of her memories were in fragments, like shattered, sharp glass, distorted and jumbled. The taste of blood in her mouth, the searing pain, his hand over her mouth and the absolute terror of being weighed down by a man twice her size...

"I thought he was going to kill me," she said, feebly.

" _Merde_..." The Monsieur drew a hand through his hair. " _Ma pauvre chérie_... It's even worse than I imagined; I don't have words. You must have been so terrified."

Carefully, she peered at him, noticed his ashen face and the fury in his dark eyes. Strangely enough, it made her feel stronger.

"When he had finished, he left me for a moment to fetch a drink from downstairs," she continued, calmer now. "I got up and... The window was there." She pointed at the sketch. "I opened it and climbed out. My plan was to jump down on the roof of a shed nearby, and then flee to safety, but... Charles came back and found me there. He tried to force me to get back into the room, but I fought him and scratched him in the face. He... dropped me from the window."

Dropped. Let go. She still heard his voice, the baffled tone followed by the glimpse of cruelness in his eyes before he let go.

"I injured my foot when I landed."

"So that's how it happened? The limp?"

"That's how it happened." She shrugged. "I fled to a nearby house and hid there, under a staircase. Giatelli found me and brought me to a friend of his, who was a physician. The rest you know."

"I guess so." He sighed. "I understand now why you are on your guard. And then to have to marry the man..."

"I hate him," she admitted, emptily, "but in all honesty, he treats me like he thinks I should be treated. And who knows—maybe he's right." Steadily, she met his eyes. "That's what ails me. Knowing who I am and where I am from. How can anyone love this... _creature_? How can I love myself? Charles knows the truth, and maybe I am wrong to believe I deserve something better."

"But you do. Emily... Please don't say these things about yourself. I cannot even stand to hear it. I don't care where you came from—it's your past and it is part of you, but _you_ decide who you want to be. You decided it on the day you ran from that house. You decided it the day you took a brush in your hand and learned to paint, and when you continued to learn to get better. Like circumstances shaped your past, _you_ , yourself, shaped your future. You're an incredibly brave and strong woman, and I admire you even more now that I know. Giatelli admired you as well. He thought you were worth fighting for, and you _are_."

She nodded, quietly, tears dripping down on her hands.

"I know he loved me," she whispered. "But he didn't know where I came from."

"No?" The Monsieur pressed his lips together. "He knew more about you than you think. He was a clever man, _non_? And determined. With his connections, and my father's, they probably knew your whole story. Did that stop him from loving you? And my father from thinking you deserved help and protection?"

She contemplated this for a while, an almost overbearing sensation running through her body. _He's right_ , she thought, fighting her breathing, shivering from the effort of holding herself together. _Giatelli knew, and still, he loved me._

" _Chére_... You're not alone. And you never were."

Carefully, the Monsieur reached out his hand. She stiffened at first, then allowed him to pull her close. She crawled into his arms and buried her face against his chest, felt the same comforting scent that had been on his coat and realised with a shock that it was like coming home. That's when the tears came. She let go completely, cried fiercely into his shirt, cowering in the safety of his arms, protected by his body.

When at last she drew a long shivering breath, they both knew it was over. Shyly, she pulled away, and he let her go with a small, regretful sigh. The drawing had been squashed between them, a crumpled mess, wet from her tears. She laughed a little.

"It's ruined."

"It doesn't matter." He took it from her and threw it on the floor. "That's your past, where it belongs."

"Yes," she said, surprised and delighted. "You're right. Thank you." She looked up at his face, still so close. "Étienne." His eyes widened. "That's _your_ name, is it not?" she said, softly. "Étienne."

" _Oui_."

Her gaze wandered to his mouth. It was near perfect, and her stomach tingled again. The free fall. _But I will land softly—not with my own wings, but with his_.

This night would never return. In only a few days, she would be back in England, and this night would be a memory. Most likely, she would never see him again. Slowly, she raised one arm and put her hand against his cheek. He didn't move an inch, as she moved her fingers along his jaw, to the curve of his lips, tracing them gently. _Please don't move. Don't say anything_. He didn't, merely watched her, intently, with eyes that were so warm, so full of love, that her breath hitched.

"Étienne," she whispered. " _Je t'aime, aujourd'hui et à jamais_."

With that, she edged closer and kissed him.

# 34

_Greywell_

Megan pulled the shawl snugly together over her chest to steal some of its warmth, but since her shivering had nothing to do with the fact that she was cold, it hardly helped. She stared out over the lake in front of her, gleaming dark beneath the slopes and wind beaten banks. Above her gleamed the stars and a small sliver of a pale moon. When she was young, the sky had filled her with hope. Now, it merely filled her with emptiness. The sky was a dark nothing, and the stars she'd once thought was heaven's light peeking through in slits on the eternal canvas, were merely cold, shimmering shards of broken glass. _There is no hope_ , she thought pulling her knees to her chest, and so she wasn't afraid of the fall of footsteps that she heard behind her. Nothing out there could harm her anymore.

"Megan?"

Joseph's voice shook with uncertainty. She closed her eyes and took a firmer grasp of her shawl. Slowly, he sat down beside her on the cold stone. She didn't move and heard him sigh at her lack of response.

"Please talk to me, Megan. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You haven't been to my cottage for over a fortnight, and you refuse to see me even during the days. And now this? Mrs Goodall asked me to see where you went—she's worried too. What's happened? What have I done?"

"Nothing."

"Megan. Don't do this. Look at me!" He took her by the shoulder and forced her to turn to him. She did, but passively, without reacting much. "Why won't you speak to me? Whatever it is, we can solve it. I just can't take this... this silence."

When she still didn't reply, he let her go and turned from her, hiding his face in his hands. She knew he was fighting the tears; she saw his shoulders shake. _Joseph_ , a feeble voice inside her said. _Joseph, I love you. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this. You deserve to know what's happened_. But she couldn't tell him, and it was too late for words. She'd kept them inside for so long they had turned into a great, heavy stone in her chest.

He straightened up with a deep breath. "Is it over then? Just tell me."

"I..." She shook her head, pressed her hand against her mouth.

"Fair enough." He stood, turned and strode toward the pathway.

She stood up and ran after him, caught him by the sleeve and pulled at him. Reluctantly, he stopped and turned around.

"Joseph."

_It's us forever,_ she thought. _That's how it should be, Megan, but if you don't say anything, he will walk away, and you will be alone._ She drew her breath and closed her eyes:

"I... I think I'm with child, Joseph. B-but... but I... I don't think it's yours."

He stared at her for a long, dreadful while. Centuries passed in a second. She aged, her soul shrunk and shrivelled, turned black and dead. She slouched under the burden of his unspoken questions, his utter shock.

"I couldn't stop it," she whispered at last, twisting the shawl in her hands. "I can't stop it. He m-makes me do it and I don't dare to say no."

"Who?" His first question, spoken coolly, was without a hint of emotion.

"His lordship. It started when her ladyship went to France. H-he r-raped me. In his study. H-he beat me."

"You can't stop it." His voice was still controlled. "That's what you said. You said you can't stop it. So it's still going on? Now? He's still doing this to you?"

She swallowed. "Yes."

Silence again. Somewhere on the lake, a bird took flight, and landed a bit further away, water swishing under it. Then, Joseph left her side, stumbled from her like a wounded man. The grass sighed when he fell on his knees and threw up.

She remained where she was, unable to move, too paralyzed to take even the smallest step. After a while, he stood up and came back. He was wiping his face with his sleeve, shaking and pale.

"How far gone are you?"

"I don't know. But what was supposed to... arrive... hasn't and so.... You know I've never missed it before, even by a day."

He nodded. "Why do you think it's his?"

She stared at him. "B-because. It was after he had... after we..." She clenched her teeth and looked away. "You and I have done it so many times and yet nothing has happened, so it must be his."

"No. You're wrong."

She stared at him. "What?"

"It _can't_ be his." He pressed the words between his teeth. "Do you understand me? He can't have children, he's not capable of it." He didn't wait for her response. "I've heard the rumours, and I know they're true. That's why he had to marry Lady Emily, because the bloodline would die out otherwise. The bastard has been bloody sterile for years!"

Megan stared at him. The baby was Joseph's? _Their_ baby? For the first time in a long while, she felt herself wake up, felt how her body slowly filled with a shimmering, almost overbearing sense of joy. She didn't resist when Joseph pulled her closer, but without his arms, she would have fallen. Fiercely, brutally, he pressed her to his chest, and placed one hand against her stomach, dug his fingers into her flesh.

"The child is mine, Megan, not _his_." Then he flung his head back, and cursed, loudly. He filled his lungs with air, gasped for it and shouted to the plains. "Jesus Christ, I'll kill the bastard."

"No." The thought of Lord Charles slapped her back to reality. She pulled free and grasped his arms. "Please leave it. Don't do anything."

Baffled, he relaxed under her hands. "You can't be serious?"

"I am serious. The mistress will be back soon, and it will stop. It's part of it, don't you see? It's his revenge. If we wait—"

" _Wait_?" He stared at her. His eyes gleamed. He was still furious, but most of it had been quenched temporarily by astonishment. "You want me to wait, while he uses you for his own damn pleasure? You want me to _wait_ while he rapes my wife?"

In the despair, she felt a pang of joy at the wording. Wife. He regarded her as his wife.

He pulled her close again and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. "He will pay for this, I swear on it."

"No, Joseph..."

But it was too late. He'd already turned around and started walking briskly, decisively, toward the house. Megan stared after him, hand on her belly, sensing a small, small bulge underneath her fingers, feeling the joy of life, of Joseph's unwavering love even in the face of...

She frowned and stared out into the darkness, held her breath to force back the panic. What was Joseph up to, anyway? What would he do, in his rage? He'd already killed once. Could he do it again? She, too, wished Lord Charles dead, but Joseph would be arrested, sent to gaol and hanged, and there would be no one there to save him. Giatelli, with his connections and social power, wasn't there anymore, and Joseph would be left to his fate.

She wanted to race after him, protect him, but her stomach contracted warningly, sending a slight sliver of pain along her back. _I have to calm down_ , she thought, _I can't lose the baby... Our baby_. But she had to go there and talk to them. Stop them. She started walking, as quickly as she could, but carefully, her hands over the bulge. _I'll protect you_ , she told it, _and I will protect your father too._

When she approached the house, the yard was empty and the house closed and dark. Had Joseph been there or not? She couldn't see any signs of commotion, and when entering the hallway, everything was silent. Had he changed his mind? She threw a glance over her shoulder, where the front door was open and offered a view over the yard and the glade where his cottage was situated. It was dark, as well. _So where is he_? She wiped her sweaty hands on her skirt and tried to listen for sounds but heard nothing. _He has to have gone to his lordship's bedchamber._ But what had happened after that? _Where are you?_

* * *

She headed for the stairs. In her hurry, she forgot to hold her skirts and fell forward, hitting both her legs badly. Heart pounding, she continued up to the silent gallery. As she rounded the next corner, she saw the dim light from his lordship's bedchamber. _They are there_ , she thought, certain of it. Her every sense knew it was true: she felt Joseph's presence. But why was the whole building so silent? Why was it as though everything was holding its breath? _What have you done, Joseph?_ she thought, running the last bit. _Please tell me you didn't kill him._

He hadn't. Running into the chamber, she immediately saw him, sprawled on the floor, and she ran to him, kneeled by him, placed her hands on his body. It was warm, but held no breaths, no movement, no heartbeats. His blood, so much of it, terrifying amounts, was everywhere. Her hands slipped on his skin when she tried again to nudge him back to life. She moaned his name, called out to him, pleaded for him to answer, but he stared up at the ceiling, his eyes glazed, dull and unseeing. She bent over him and cried out her pain.

* * *

Someone grabbed her under her arms and lifted her to her feet. She fought them, believing for a second it was his lordship, before she noticed it was a maid.

"He might wake up," Megan gasped. "I have to be there for him."

"No, dear one," said the maid, gently. "I'm terribly sorry, but he won't wake up. And you've been sitting here for several hours already. We need to take care of you now. Clean you up for just a bit. You want that, don't you, sweetie?"

They led her away and someone undressed her. Her head spun, her every breath was a painful sting, she didn't even understand why she was still breathing, when she should be dead. They put her in a bath, then dressed her in new, clean clothes, combed her hair and gave her something to drink. It was strong and she coughed and gagged, woke up, remembered where she was and why.

Joseph – dead? Killed? She would never see him again? Never hear his voice? Never be kissed by his lips, held in his arms? Gone? _Gone_?

Something broke in her, shattered her like a bullet. An excruciating, red hot pain exploded in her head, continued through her throat down to her lungs, where it caught fire. She screamed, wailed, howled like a trapped animal. Hands reached for her, placed her on a bed and held her until she had no air left in her lungs and the screaming stopped. She curled up and hid her face in her arms, shaking, teeth clattering. There, they left her to grieve in peace.

Alone. She was alone, with his child growing inside her.

# 35

Letter to Col. Lyndon Stanford, Monmouthsire, 43rd Regiment of Foot.

* * *

_Greywell, May 27th, 1807_

_Dear Brother-in-law,_

_I trust you are well and that this Letter finds you in good Health. Unfortunately, I cannot indulge in small-talk, but I must tell this to you straight and without Hesitation: a little over a Week ago, your Brother attacked and killed our Groom Joseph Gerard. He was the fiancé of Megan O'Connell, my Lady's Maid. I do not know the Cause of this Foul and Detestable act because I was away at the time and only found out upon my Return two Days ago. My Husband is not inclined to speak about it, and I have not been able to glean any Information from Megan, who is of course incredibly shaken and distraught. I have later learned from Mrs Goodall that a Quarrel between Joseph and my husband led to Joseph's unfortunate Death, and it seems that this Quarrel had to do with Megan._

_Apparently, she has not been herself since it happened, and I have myself noticed the very same Thing. She does not respond well when spoken to or react with interest upon anything in her Presence. She performs her chores quietly and without showing Emotion. Yesterday, a Maid found her with a Fruit Knife in her Hand, staring at it as though she wished to stab herself with it. We removed the Knife, or course, and we are now keeping careful watch over any sharp Objects, as we fear that she might be considering joining Joseph in Death. Apart from watching over her we are all praying for her Soul, but it is not a very useful Aid. I feel she is my responsibility, as I brought both she and poor, unfortunate Joseph Gerard into the Stanford household upon my Marriage, and that I have to help her, but I do not know what to do._

* * *

_I know that you are a man of many Obligations and that your Brother's Life is neither of Concern nor Interest to you. However, I am hoping the plight of someone affected by your Brother may touch you enough to respond. Even if you do not know Megan, you too suffered a great Loss with the unfortunate Death of your Wife and Child. You know what it is like and also how to move on in Life. Perhaps you know how to handle her Darkness and what to say to bring her out of it? If you spoke to her and offered her your Advice and Consolation, perhaps she would see that there is always Hope? After all, over the years, I have learned that sometimes a Stranger can mean the Difference between Life and Death and my Feeling is that you are the only one who can bring the Light into Megan's Darkness._

_If you cannot manage to come here personally, a nice Letter would be appreciated._

_I look forward to hearing from you. Please be advised that your brother knows nothing of this Correspondence and that I do not wish for him to find out._

* * *

_Yours faithfully,_

_Lady Emily Stanford, Devoted Sister-in-law_

# 36

The ride to Greywell took a few days, during which Lyndon had time to think about what had been asked of him. The words in Lady Emily's letter, the desperate tone of it, had haunted his thoughts ever since he'd read it. It had, if nothing else, presented yet another reason to push on, to move forward for just one more day—like a constant divine intervention, it was there, hindering him from taking his own life. Maybe he could offer the same intervention for the maid? It felt as if he had to try, and moreover, as if it was his duty to do so. He only hoped it wouldn't be too late, and that was the feeling that nagged him as he approached the house. Everything was so still, so dark... Indeed, it was evening, but the stillness was almost breathless.

A shadow appeared from the stables—Daniel's dog, he realised, and petted the gray, ragged fur with a sense of silly relief, as if the animal was a reassurance that everything was well. _Very silly._

Absent-mindedly, he shooed the dog off again, his eyes on the house. Was Charles around? Probably, somewhere, but Lyndon guessed he kept himself cooped up in his beloved study, or perhaps his bed chamber, to sulk and brood. Whatever had made him kill the groom, Lyndon suspected he wasn't comfortable being around neither her ladyship or his son at this point—Charles was a coward, and by definition, cowards cowered.

The door opened. A flood of light streamed out over the entrance, and in it, stood the steward's bulb-shaped figure. One step closer, and Lyndon saw his face.

"Wilkins?" he said, both delighted and baffled. The man had been a manservant to his grandfather in the past—a young bloke back then, but now all the rounder and his hair all the greyer. "I'll be damned... Have you been employed by Charles?"

"A long time ago, sir."

"Do you remember me?"

Wilkins bowed. "Of course. Very well, actually. Welcome, Lord Lyndon."

"Thank you. I'm here to see her ladyship."

"Yes." A shadow crossed the steward's face, before he managed to arrange it to his normal, neutral one. "Please step inside and follow me to the library, sir. Her ladyship will join in a minute."

"Not my brother?"

"His lordship is asleep and shall so remain. All in accordance to her ladyship's request."

"So... she expected me to come here?"

"She _hoped_ for it. She has been waiting keenly for your response, either by mail or personally. She will be happy to see you."

"Hm... How is the girl? Megan?"

Wilkins pressed his lips together. "Not good, sir. She is getting worse by the day. I think... you arrived just in time."

A shudder went through Lyndon—a tasteless phrase flew through his mind: _someone just walked over my grave_. Indeed, he knew all about having someone arrive just in time.

They walked through the hallways to the library, where Lyndon was offered a comfortable seat in the leather armchair and a glass of whiskey, which he gratefully accepted. The steward withdrew, and moments later, Lyndon heard the lighter steps of a woman, paired with the gentle hush of her dress. He stood up, and Lady Emily entered. He gawked at her. Something... had happened to her, and he didn't understand any of it. Gone was the haunted girl from the library at Harcourt House—this was a woman, confident and glowing, her soft eyes full of compassion but also strength, and her clothes... He hadn't even seen such sparkling, amazing fashion on the streets of London, which were where the latest trends always appeared first. She was another person, dazzling and beautiful... and he wasn't sure he liked it. Maybe it wasn't so much for her appearance, but for that nagging, incredible strange but still strong feeling that this transformation had something to do with the death of Joseph Gerard.

"Thank you for coming," she said and bade him to sit again, while she tentatively sank down on the chair next to him, gracefully draping the exquisite silk dress over her knees. Wilkins appeared, and poured her a glass of amber-coloured sherry. "I've already sent a maid for Megan. I think you must talk to her as soon as possible, and... preferably without his lordship noticing."

"Ah," said Lyndon.

She averted her eyes. "He's asleep now, and I hope he will remain throughout the evening."

"I hope so too," said Lyndon, dryly. "Have there been any more attempts by the maid to...?"

She shook her head, slightly horrified. "We have someone watching over her all the time, so there haven't been any opportunities to do anything. Not that I don't think she'd jump to the chance if it appeared."

_How on earth am I going to save her_? He sighed inwardly, knowing how determination could make you blind for everything else, and that nothing short of a miracle could save you. _He_ certainly didn't present such a miracle. What would he say to her? _I know how you feel. Shall we hang ourselves together?_

"Tell me what happened," he decided to say.

At least, if he knew, he wouldn't be prone to say something wrong.

"I still don't know," Lady Emily said. "I know that Joseph ran into Charles' room, wielding a knife and screaming obscenities. I think they fought, and..." she broke off and took a few painstaking breaths. For a moment, Lyndon saw a glimpse of her old self again; the scared girl from the library at Harcourt House. Then, with obvious effort, she managed to regain her composure. "Megan arrived at the scene a few minutes after it was... over. She sat by his body for several hours, cradling him and—"

"Okay, thank you, I think I understand."

Lyndon swigged back his drink in one gulp and hoped she would think the tears in his eyes was because of the alcohol. He'd seen Eileen's body. Even though he'd hurried there, however, it had been far too late—he hadn't been able to hold her. He would have, if he could.

"We know Gerard and Lord Charles weren't... friends, to put it mildly. We knew they held a grudge, and people have heard them fight in the past, especially on the day that Lord Charles... rode my horse to death."

What? Lyndon shook his head in disbelief, but when he opened his mouth to ask, she interrupted him by continuing:

"We don't know why the conflict suddenly... exploded in this way."

"Are you sure?" He had to say it, and he saw her eyes widen with shock. "I can't help but noticing that you have changed radically since the last time we met. And you wrote in your letter that you'd been away. Does that trip have anything to do with this?" He waited a second, before pressing on: "You seem pretty desperate to save the life of a simple maid, is what I mean. Is that because you feel guilty over something?"

Lady Emily put a hand over her mouse, a strangled noise escaping her throat. She sobbed, a deep, helpless sound that made him regret his callous words.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "But it's better to admit it, also to yourself, don't you think?"

She nodded. "Yes," she said, her voice choked. "It is." With a huge effort, she managed to compose herself, but her eyes when she raised her head to watch him were vastly tormented, so much so that he felt his heart shrink. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what caused this, but... it might have been... that m-my husband wanted to get back on me f-for things I've done. And things he _thinks_ I've done, but haven't."

Ah yes. Lyndon leaned his head back and exhaled. Good old Charles—he never denied himself, did he? He'd always been like that, even as a boy. The slightest thing had, in his mind, grown to a huge injustice, with severe consequences to follow. Lyndon had been on the receiving end a few times and knew just how shrewd and cruel Charles could be.

"My lady?"

A maid had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed, her gaze nervously flickering between them. Lady Emily straightened up.

"Yes, Lucy? Where is Megan? I thought I told you to bring her?"

"Yes, my lady, but she isn't in her chamber." The girl swallowed. "I went to the kitchen, thinking she was there to have a glass of milk, but... she wasn't."

"But... who was watching her?"

"That would have been Abby, my lady... but she's not there."

"Where _is_ she then?" Lady Emily stood, her eyes sharp.

"She has a friend, my lady," the maid said and curtseyed. "One of the footmen. I think maybe she's gone to him."

Lady Emily pressed her lips together. "I can't believe this..."

"We don't have time to stand here and squabble," Lyndon intervened. "We have to find the girl." He stood as well. "Check the stables, every little cranny of it. We'll search the house meanwhile. Discreetly," he added, seeing how Charles shouldn't know what was happening.

They searched every corner of the house—except Charles' chamber—but couldn't find her. When returning to the kitchen, the maid who had supposed to be watching over Megan when she disappeared, returned, red-faced and regretful, and with bad news.

"I-I saw someone by the house when I crossed it just a minute ago. I thought it was a ghost because it was dressed in white and..."

"Megan's nightgown," breathed Lady Emily. "She must have hidden somewhere, and then walked off when we weren't paying attention."

Hidden... Gathering up courage, more like it. Lyndon rubbed his arms to get the hairs to lie down.

"I know it was her," Lady Emily said. "But where was she going?" She looked pleadingly at Lyndon. "Do _you_ know?"

"She was going in that direction," the maid said, pointing it out. "Isn't that where the duck pond is?"

"Yes," Lyndon replied. His heart was heavy. "It's called a pond, but it _is_ a lake. Deep enough to..." He didn't continue, but it wasn't needed.

After a moment's stunned silence, Lady Emily put a light hand on his arm. "Please go there," she said. "And... You should perhaps know before you go that... that she's pregnant."

As if one tragedy wasn't enough... He drew his breath and nodded.

"I'll bring them back."

"I know," said Lady Emily. "You're a good man."

He wondered if that was enough to make any difference but didn't say anything. There was no time for it, anyway.

He rode to the lake as fast as he could in the dusk and dismounted his horse some feet from the bank.

The swans that had been resting in the reeds on the lake bank stretched their necks and warned Lyndon with sharp, annoyed noises, as he made his way down the slope. He took a wider circle around them, respecting their huge bodies and snapping beaks. Reluctantly, they sank back into the high grass, shimmering ghosts in the darkness. He stopped by the waterline and stared out over the silent lake. These were familiar grounds, and he had spent a great many hours duck hunting there as a boy. The reeds whispered in the breeze, the water swished/whooshed gently against the beach. At this hour, the smell of rotting grass and mud wasn't as overpowering as it could be during hot days. He was grateful for that. He was also grateful he couldn't see where he'd placed his feet. In this area, the ducks moved frequently and crapped quite carelessly on the beach.

There was no sign of the girl, and he held his breath in apprehension. Had he been wrong? Or had she already drowned herself? He could only hope not, but the minutes that passed were crucial. For him, the intervention of a plump little innkeeper's wife had made the difference between life and death. A minute longer and she would have gone there to clean up the pieces of his brain. _I came here to repay her kindness_ , he thought, _but good Lord, I think I'm failing._

Tall reeds obscured part of his view. He walked closer, tried to catch a glimpse of the beach behind it. After only a few steps, he caught a glimpse of something light moving between the slender stems. He also heard, for the first time, the gentle swishing of water, as if someone was walking out into the lake.

Should he call out to her? Frantically, he tried to figure out the best approach. Call out and make her take a rash action, or just go after her and pull her away from there? He chose the latter, pulled off his boots and coat, threw them further up onto the grass and slogged out into the water through the reeds.

Even though the water wasn't too cold, the mud seeping in between his toes made him gasp, but he pressed on. When the water reached to his thighs, he got a proper view of the lake, and of her. She was further away than he'd thought—the darkness had played a trick on his sight and the water already reached to her waist. The lakebed was treacherous, shallow at first, then dipping steeply, to a depth of at least nine feet. He knew, because his father had once had to pull up Charles, after they'd played on the banks one hot summer's day. They'd lost sight of him and—

The memory vanished, as the figure in front of him suddenly disappeared into the depths.

"No," he breathed, and ran, pushing through the water.

He stopped at the spot, not sure if it even was the spot, for the darkness made him disoriented, and stared wildly into the black water. _Bubbles_ , he thought, _bubbles, look for bubbles_. And there, a little bit further to his right, they rose to the surface, silvery, shimmering, spookily bright in the darkness. He took a large gulp of air and dove down. Now, if not before, he felt just how cold the water was. His scalp prickled from pain, and his ribs seemed to tighten around his ribcage, cramping up as if someone was squeezing him with a steel hand. For a brief second, he struggled to return to the surface, before he managed to control his reflexes and kicked himself down to the bottom.

He couldn't see anything. His hands searched, scrabbled for something to grab... Nothing. His lungs started to burn, he went up for air. He bobbed for a moment at the surface, blinking and spitting out the murky, foul-tasting water.

_Bubbles. Bubbles._ He looked around, searched for shifts on the now calm surface. There, behind him, not too far away. He forced a gulp of air, went down again, fingers splayed against the cold, searching. Almost immediately his fingers touched her shift, soft and billowing. He grabbed for it, but it slipped from his grip. With lungs aching for air, he tried again. This time, his cramping fingers folded around the skirt and held tight. The girl bounced against him, a hard shape underneath the flowing layers of fabric. He wrapped his arms around her waist, snatched her tightly against his chest.

_Up now!_ His lungs had begun to burn fiercely as he kicked against the murk, her weight adding to the effort. He burst through the surface, gasping, flailing in a circle to spy the dark shore. It wasn't too far away, but far enough to make the swim there a struggle. The girl was limp in his arms, her wet dress flowing up to the surface and plastering itself over his face so that he thought he'd choke. He swallowed water, gagged and paddled with his feet. _Maybe we'll both drown,_ he thought in a fit of gallows' humour. But the next time he stretched his neck for a glance at the shore, he found that he was almost there and when he put down his feet, he noticed that they touched solid ground. How long had he been swimming around like a panicky idiot in knee-deep waters?

He clambered toward the beach, then managed to crawl up onto it, dragged himself through stinking ducks' poo and rotten reeds to the dry ground some feet above it, pulling the bulk of the girl along with him.

Panting, he turned her on her back and studied the pale face for any signs of life. None. Was she breathing? He shook her. Her teeth went clack, but her eyes remained closed.

"Damn... Damn, damn, damn..."

What to do now?

He placed his hands over her chest and pressed down, hard, once, then again. She jerked so violently that he flew back in shock. She curled up on her side, shaken by a spastic cough, retched and threw up violently on the sand. When her stomach was empty, she rolled over on her back, pulled up her knees and moaned slowly. Lyndon leaned over her and looked down into her face.

"Hello."

It was probably his good reflexes that saved him. He ducked, or the blow would surely have cracked his nose. Thanks to that, her fist missed him by just an inch, but before he'd had the chance to retort completely she was over him like a wildcat, clawing at his face, screaming like a banshee.

Why would she react like that? Then, he realised why.

"For... goodness... _sake_." He grabbed her arms, pinned her down on the bank with his body, and barked at her. "Calm down! I'm not Charles. I'm Lyndon, his brother."

She went limp. Carefully, he released her, eased her onto her back to allow her to catch her breath. She stared up into the sky and whispered something. He leaned over her, asked her to repeat it. She did.

"You should have let me die."

# 37

A small group of people was waiting for them at the house as they rode up together. To Lyndon's relief, Charles wasn't one of them.

"Megan?" said Lady Emily. She sounded breathless, as if she was fighting off her panic. "Megan, are you well?"

"Not quite," replied Lyndon, in her place. "She needs dry clothes and something warm to drink."

"So do you," Lady Emily said, with a glance at his dripping clothes.

"The girl first."

He dropped her into Wilkins arms, expecting Wilkins to immediately carry her inside, but he didn't, merely looked at Lyndon with anxious eyes. In fact, they were _all_ looking at him, helplessly, waiting for him to tell them what to do. __ He tossed the reins to a groom.

"Right... I'll bring the girl inside myself," he snapped.

"Oh yes, I think that's best," Lady Emily said with obvious relief. "I think she trusts you."

_I'm not so sure about that_ , he thought, but as Wilkins placed her in his arms, to his surprise, she leaned her head in the hollow between his jaw and collarbone, like a little kitten seeking comfort. For some reason, it touched him to the extent that his eyes pricked with tears.

"Show me to her chamber," he said, harsher than he meant it to sound.

Wilkins led the way. While Lyndon sat her down on the narrow bed, the steward placed some more sticks in the little stove and then quietly withdrew, closing the door behind them.

"You need to change into something dry," Lyndon said, with a glance at her white hands, resting on her lap. "Shall I send for someone to help you?" She didn't answer. "I will help you, then," he decided. He opened the drawer underneath the window, searched through it and pulled up a simple shift. "Here."

He handed it to her. She took it but fumbled so badly she dropped it. Lyndon picked it up again before it got wet, sighed a little. This wouldn't work: the girl was completely apathetic. Wilkins appeared at the door, carrying a tray with whiskey and tea.

"I am not sure it's appropriate for a lady, sir," he said with a nod to the drink. "But it warms better than sherry."

"To be sure. Thank you."

_I'm not opposed to having a dram myself._

Wilkins bowed. "You'll be needing warm clothes, my lord."

"I'll take care of it later."

"Of course." He bowed again. His small eyes flickered toward the girl, who was still sitting unresponsive and hollow-eyed on the bed. "How... is she?"

"Not too well. As you can see," he added, somewhat tartly.

"Ah yes..." He lingered by the door.

Lyndon sighed. "What is it, Wilkins?"

"Oh..." The steward jumped. "I'm sorry, but... It's just that... I'm thinking back to things that have happened lately, and... I'm wondering if... his lordship doesn't have more to do with this than is obvious."

Since this was Lyndon's feeling as well, he merely nodded. "I will talk to him later," he promised.

"Thank you, sir."

The steward withdrew, leaving Lyndon yet again alone with her. "I will turn around now, so you can change," he said, and did that.

It took time, but finally, she was done. She made a pitiful sight sitting on her bed. He poured her some whiskey and handed her the glass, hoping it would help her to stop shivering.

"Drink," he ordered her.

Though he saw that she didn't particularly like it, she obligingly emptied the glass and handed it back.

"Excellent. And now..." He pulled out the room's only chair and sat down, facing her. "Now we talk."

"Talk?" She looked up at him, blankly. "What about?"

"Why you did this, perhaps? Isn't that a good start?"

She lowered her head again.

"It _is_ hard to lose someone you love," he said. "Especially in such a way. You don't think there's a life without him, am I right?" Her eyes filled up with tears; they stuck to her lashes and shimmered in the soft glow of the candle. "Joseph, that was his name, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"And you miss him." Her hands grasped the fabric over her knees. "You realise you're alone in the world, and it's dark and cold, and you think it's never going to change. The only way out is death."

Hastily, she glanced at him, a note of surprise in her eyes. Then, miserably, she lowered her head again.

"I'll never see him again," she whimpered. "Why should I live when he's not here?"

"Because you have to." Taking a chance, knowing it wasn't quite _comme il faut_ —but what did it matter?—he reached out and touched her abdomen. She flinched and stared at him. He withdrew. "Isn't _that_ something to live for? Your child? It's his too."

"I know, but—"

"You know, Megan..." He hesitated, but decided to continue: "There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about my family, wishing they were here. But they're not and they never will be. They were killed. Murdered." She held her breath. "I wasn't even there when it happened. They were just there one day, gone the next. My whole life... Erased. Just like that."

"When was this?" Megan asked, hoarsely.

"It's five years ago now, but they're constantly on my mind. Every day, I've tried to reconcile with the fact that they won't come back—and just recently, I couldn't take it anymore. I... I took my pistol, and I prepared to shoot myself in the head."

She stiffened, but still didn't look at him.

"It was very close that I pulled the trigger, but I was stopped by a stranger, who reminded me that life is rare and beautiful, and that I'm not alone at all." His voice wavered a little. "Joseph hasn't gone away, Megan. He's still around. So is my wife and my child. We carry them with us, all the time, in our hearts. And you're having a baby, too—a part of him. His child. That's something to live for."

He refrained from telling her that he'd give anything to get his own child back—she probably understood that, anyway.

At last, she looked up. Her eyes were dark, full of anguish.

"We were supposed to marry. I loved him. And have lots of children. Now, I'm..." She swallowed and looked down on her belly. "I'll be an unmarried mother. And the worst part is that it's _my_ fault."

"Your fault?" He strived to understand—her fault that she wasn't married, her fault that she got pregnant? Then, he understood. "That he died?" he blurted out. "How can it be?"

She drew her breath, and then, in a rush of words, like she couldn't hold it back anymore, she blurted: "I told him about the baby, and... and that I thought it was his lordship's. I... I didn't know his lordship is impotent, but Joseph did, and when he found out that his lordship had done this to me, he went... mad. It's my fault he's dead. _My_ fault."

Her voice drowned in her sobbing, leaving Lyndon to sit there, his heart pounding in his chest. _So that's why_... His ears grew hot from the mounting anger.

"What did Charles do?" he said, hoarsely. "Surely, you didn't bed him freely?"

She shook her head with fervour. "No! I didn't want to, b—but... he..."

Rape, then. _Oh dear Lord_. Lyndon rose, somewhat unsteadily.

"Will you stay here for a little while?" he asked the girl, his voice pressed. "Just... stay? Don't go anywhere?"

"Yes." She nodded, and he believed her. After the ordeal in the water, the crying and the whiskey, he was rather sure she wouldn't try to move more tonight.

"I won't be long," he promised and was gone before she could ask where he was going.

# 38

Lyndon flung Charles' door open with such force it went crashing into the wall with a bang. He strode through the dark room, aiming for the black shape that must be the bed. He could see the lighter contours of his confused brother, as he sat up and tried to grasp what was happening.

"Get up."

Lyndon plucked the man by the collar, dragged him from the bed and threw him against the wall. _Thunk_. His body made a hollow sound at the impact.

"Where is it?" Lyndon hissed and shook Charles, so his teeth clattered. "Where _is_ it?"

"What the hell!" Charles pried his arms under Lyndon, breaking free from the grip. Quickly, he moved away to the other side of the room, where he viewed Lyndon, puzzled and angry at the same time, his hair tousled, a rosy imprint of the pillow on his cheek. "What are you doing, you idiot? Why are you here?"

"Take a good guess." He spat the words, sprinkle of saliva falling to the floor. "You bastard."

"I'm guessing you've lost your mind." Indignantly, Charles brushed off his nightshirt. "Answer me. What are you doing in my house?"

"I came to sort out your bloody mess."

"My mess? What mess?" His eyes narrowed. "Is this my wife's doing? What would she have to complain about? I've been civil enough to that bitch. Not that she deserves it, mind."

It was a strange comment, and for a moment, Lyndon was so taken aback he didn't know what to say.

"You know what I'm talking about," he chose to say, gruffly. "You bloody coward."

" _I'm_ a coward?" Charles glowered at him. "Since when is attacking people in their sleep courageous, may I ask?"

"Be glad I didn't kill you instead."

"You wouldn't have stood the chance."

"Like Gerard, you mean?"

For a moment, Charles' eyes widened. Then, he quickly resumed his lofty expression.

"You don't know a damn thing about that," he said. "The man was insane. He attacked me. I had to defend myself."

"Defend yourself, yes. But I wager it wasn't at all on your mind. You wanted him dead. Why? Because you wanted his girl?"

Lyndon didn't understand the look on his brother's face. Not guilt, not regret. Shrewd calculation? It sent a prickle down his spine, as though someone had let loose an army of spiders. What on earth has happened in this house? The niggling sensation came back, crawling through his body like an army of ants: this had nothing to do with Megan. It had all to do with Lady Emily.

"Whatever it is, it's over now," Lyndon said. "I won't allow you to destroy any more lives."

"Is that so?"

"That is indeed so." Lyndon closed his fists. "And if you're not convinced it's a good idea, I'd be happy to try to persuade you."

Charles snorted, but his gaze flickered to Lyndon's hand, and there was a tense line around his mouth when he replied: "It's too late in the evening to fight. In fact, it's too late for any of this. Are you done? May I go back to bed?"

"No, you may not. I want the crucifix."

"The what?"

"The crucifix. Megan's cross. I need it back."

Charles gaped at his brother. Then, just as swiftly, his face changed, turned flippant, amused.

"Did she tell you she wants it?"

"Yes." It was almost true. Lyndon knew it was hers: he remembered how she'd clutched it on the night he came to Harcourt House.

"She can't have it," Charles decided. "It was a token." He grinned. "A token of her love."

_Snap_.

Lyndon heard the sound in his head, the sound of his self-constraint as it broke. With a roar he grabbed for Charles with one hand, getting hold of his shirt while sending a short, stabbing blow to his face with the other. The sickening crunch when Lyndon's knuckles met his nose was followed by a spatter of blood: Lyndon felt it spray his face, and it fuelled him further. He seized Charles by the throat, pushed him back and nailed him against the wall with his body.

"Where is the goddamn cross?" he hissed into Charles' face.

"Go to _hell_."

Charles kicked Lyndon hard on the shin and used Lyndon's temporary imbalance to pull himself loose and retreat to the other side of the room, where he slumped on the floor to rub his throat.

"You bastard," he said, hoarsely. "You broke my nose."

"Next time, it'll be your neck. Now give me what I want."

Charles didn't answer. Gingerly, he examined his nose, cursed the blood that smeared his hands.

"Goddammit," he muttered and looked up at Lyndon. His pale eyes glittered with hatred and fright. "What is this even about? What do you want?"

"I told you what I want."

"A crucifix?" He gaped. "You beat me half to death over a _crucifix_?" He scrambled to his feet and wiped his still running nose with the sleeve of his shirt. "You're insane," he muttered.

They stared at each other. A couple of buttons from Charles' nightshirt had been ripped off, leaving the neckline open, and revealing his chest. Lyndon swallowed at the sight of the raw, pink flesh, the glistening scars. Charles looked down as well, but didn't do anything to cover himself.

"What binds us together," he said, voice tinged with irony.

The change in tone, so sudden, so unexpected, along with the sight of those horrible marks... It drained Lyndon's anger, made his hands fall to his sides.

"Sometimes, I have nightmares about it. Being trapped in the fire." Charles closed his shirt, held it together at the base of his throat, his voice oddly distant. "When I wake up, I can smell my flesh burning." He peered at Lyndon. "How about you?"

"I don't remember anything," Lyndon said, and it was partly true.

"How convenient. It's funny, isn't it, how one innocent action can have such an impact on a life, or a few." Charles laughed, a dry, snorting sound. "Reminds me of my marriage, come to think of it. A bad choice, leading to chaos and mayhem."

"Don't blame her," Lyndon said. "Blame yourself. Blame your bitterness and hatred. You've always wanted what you can't have, and tried to destroy it if there was no other way to gain it. Is that what's happening now? Is your wife not dancing to your tune? Does she refuse to love you? So you're trying to break everything and everyone around her?"

He knew he'd hit the spot when Charles looked away.

"I never wanted to marry her," his brother said, between his teeth. "I had to. It's a farce, and she continues to..." He drew his breath. "Never mind," he muttered. "You're luckier than I am. I'm a hostage to someone else's whims. At least you're free from that."

"I don't feel sorry for you. You chose this path yourself."

Charles made a half amused, half annoyed grimace. "So it seems."

They looked at each other for a little while, without anger, for it had gone weak and toothless from the revelations, seeing in each other, perhaps, all the years that had been lost, because of their choices. At last, Charles pushed himself from the wall and walked across the room to his bedside table. He opened the drawer, plucked something from it. It jingled in the silence. The crucifix.

"Take it," he said and pressed it deliberately hard into Lyndon's hand. "And now get the hell out of here."

With a pounding head and aching heart, Lyndon opened the door and left.

Megan was still sitting on the bed when he returned. She didn't seem to have moved at all, and when he appeared at the door, she only sent him a swift, but uninterested look. Not even the fact that his face was splattered with his brother's blood seemed to wake her from her passive state.

"Open your hand," he said, softly.

Obligingly, she turned her palm upwards. He placed the cross there and took a step back, watching the shocked look on her face.

"It's yours, is it?"

"Yes." She cleared her throat and looked up. "How?" And now, she seemed to notice the blood. Her eyes widened.

"It's alright," he said. "It's not mine."

At least not all of it. The girl nodded. The first tear rolled down her cheek, and it woke his hope. Tears were needed, for releasing a soul.

"I hope it will bring you some comfort. And faith."

More tears; she let them fall, freely, onto her hands.

"I miss him," she whimpered.

"I know." Carefully, he sat down next to her. "I know."

"Why did he die?" She drew her breath, fiercely, as if she was drowning. "I don't want it to be like this. I need him here, b-but he's g-gone. He left me. I'll never see him again."

"No, you won't." There was no point in pretending otherwise. "But you will have his child. A little one, who will look like him. A nice blend of you both."

"Yes," she said, in an anguished puff of air. "I still can't... I can't..." She drew her breath. "If I hadn't told him I thought the baby wasn't his, this would never have happened."

"You can't... blame... yourself..."

Lyndon trailed off. _Wait_ , he thought, his breath caught in his throat. What was it she'd said right before he'd gone to beat up Charles? That Charles was... impotent? Lyndon hadn't reacted then, caught up in everything else around them, but... _Oh goodness_...

So Charles couldn't have children? When had that happened? After he'd made Lady Emily with child, obviously, but... Was that why he had been so intent on marrying Lady Emily? Because he'd found out about Daniel, and known the boy would be his only way to secure the bloodline? But why had it been so important to do _that_? Had Grandfather Stanford forced him, somehow? It wouldn't surprise Lyndon, because that was the kind of man their grandfather was, and it rang true, after hearing Charles' words—it was a farce, he'd said. But... If this was all true, then who _was_ Lady Emily? What secrets did _she_ carry?

_Something_ , Lyndon thought and swallowed to rid the foul taste in his mouth, _is very wrong here._

With tremendous effort, he managed to shake the thoughts from his mind.

"It's not your fault," he said to Megan. "You did what you thought was right—how could you have known things would turn out the way they did? You need to let go of those thoughts, _a chailin mo chroi_."

She looked up at him, her eyes sending him a question, _how do you know my language_?

"My wife was Irish," he replied. "She taught me to speak Gaelic. Not well, but I tried and I picked up some. I used to talk to my daughter in Gaelic."

"Oh..." Megan nodded. "It sounds... good."

"Thank you." He smiled. "" _Beidh gach rud ceart go leor_." Everything will be alright. "Not right now. Not tomorrow. But later. It will get better, I promise. _Bíodh creideamh agat_." Have faith.

Her hand closed around the cross. "Help me."

After a bit of hesitation, not sure if it was appropriate, then deciding he didn't care, he scooped her up in his arms. She buried her face against his chest, put her arms around her neck and clung to him, desperately crying. He murmured all the phrases in Irish that his wife had taught him and that he'd spoken to his daughter to make her sleep, or comfort her when she was sad, and he knew the girl in his arms took comfort in them, just as Sarah Anne had.

When finally, Megan's tears ceased, he gently eased her onto the bed, where she curled up into a small, vulnerable ball. He pulled the cover over her, patted the golden hair, and then quietly left.

* * *

He notified Wilkins that the girl was safe and should be allowed to rest until the morning, then walked on heavy, tired feet to the room that Lady Emily had assigned for him. He pulled off his humid clothes, too tired to even hang them up properly, leaving them as a rather sad trail from the door to the bed. Then he slumped on the bed and pulled the covers over his body.

A mere minute later, he succumbed to the lovely land of heavy sleep and sank down in a landscape of dreams, where his wife was alive again and playing in the sun with his daughter.

# 39

Lyndon woke scandalously late, arriving for his morning meal around noon. Rubbing his sandy eyes, he sank down on the chair, still exhausted, as if the long sleep still hadn't been enough. His knuckles were bruised and sore after the blow to Charles' nose and his back muscles cramped, making each move difficult. He noticed the curious glances from Lady Emily, but she was too polite to say anything about his appearance and only nodded courteously.

"Good morning," she said. "I'm glad to see you up. The girl is still asleep, and the maids say it's a lovely, deep sleep. Whatever you did, it seems to have had a positive effect."

"I hope so."

He sighed with pleasure as Wilkins poured him the tea. During the kerfuffle last night, no one had remembered to give him food—merely drinks—and he was famished. He reached for a piece of toast and heard his stomach rumble discreetly with approval.

"Let her sleep for a little while longer," he decided. "But then I need to talk to her."

"Of course." She offered him the jar of raspberry marmalade. As she did, her gaze swept lightly over his knuckles. "Charles left the house very early," she remarked. "Did you... um... speak to him yesterday?"

"Might have."

"I see." She bit her lip. "And... did he say anything of interest?"

_Are you afraid, dear sister-in-law_?

"Can't say that he did," Lyndon replied. "But I told him some truths, and I hope he understood the message."

He covered the bread with a thick layer of the black currant marmalade and topped it with clotted cream. The first bite sent tiny explosions of sweetness and tartness to his palate, and he closed his eyes in delight. When he opened them again, she was still looking at him, wide-eyed and strangely attentive. And then, he understood.

"You don't have to be afraid of him," he said. "My brother is a pathetic coward. He just likes to have you think otherwise; that's how he stays in control. I think he's learned his lesson by now, but if you run into any trouble, send for me and I will set him straight."

Her smile was immediate, almost sunny.

"I will, thank you."

He smiled back. "That's quite alright."

They ate in silence, and meanwhile, he peered at her discreetly. Finally, he couldn't resist:

"Dear sister-in-law," he said, attaining her attention. "You mentioned you have been away. May I ask where you went?"

She flinched, dropped the butter knife in her cup and rose. Wilkins rushed to her, fussing and dabbing the blotches of tea on the cloth.

"Oh dear," she said, "oh dear, I think we have to wash the entire thing..."

"I will take care of it right away, my lady," Wilkins assured her.

"Thank you. I think I got some on my dress as well..." She rubbed a spot ferociously with her napkin, but Lyndon couldn't see a trace of anything at all, and cocked a brow. "Oh dear... I'd better go and change," she breathed. "Will you... will you excuse me?" She sent Lyndon an apologetic glance. In her eyes, he could see the panic, the fear of having him ask her to stay and explain.

"Yes, of course. I'll manage," he said with a friendly grin. Point taken, and really, he didn't care much. "If the girl is awake, send her to me."

Megan showed up, pale but composed. She listened to Lyndon's idea, which he had spent most of the morning mulling over, and sat in silence for a long while, contemplating it. Lady Emily, who was also present, was carefully optimistic, but also a tad sceptic.

"What you are proposing is a huge undertaking," she said. "And a great sacrifice on your part. Are you sure of this?"

"It's not a sacrifice," he replied. "I have to return to Ireland, to my regiment, and it doesn't really matter if I have one person extra with me. Or two," he added, after a second's thought, glancing at her belly. "Megan needs her family, and I reckon she will be safer there than here. I'll leave her in her brothers' care and continue to my regiment."

"Even if it adds extra miles to your journey?"

"I don't mind. The most important thing is the girl's safety. I think we can all agree there, can we not?"

"Indeed." Lady Emily nodded. "You haven't said anything, Megan. What do you think?"

"I'm... not sure," she said, feebly. "I... I suppose it's a good idea. If they'll have me."

"Why wouldn't they? They're your brothers." Lady Emily smiled. "I'm sure they want to see their sister again. Take care of you."

She didn't answer.

"And don't be afraid to go with my brother-in-law," Lady Emily said. "You can trust him. After all that's happened, it may sound daunting to head out on a journey with a stranger. But..." She grew still, and her eyes glazed over with tears. "Just look at him and ask your heart to tell you what you need to know. That's the advice I got, a long time ago, and I've never had to regret trusting that person."

Megan looked up, suddenly attentive. It was as though they were communicating between themselves, wordlessly, like a vibrating cord that only they could understand—Megan questioning, Lady Emily providing the answer. It was a strange moment, but touching, and it seemed to be enough for Megan, who exhaled and nodded, her eyes darting to Lyndon.

"Alright," she said. "I will come with you to Ireland."

# 40

Two weeks after Megan's departure, Daniel came running into the house, stopping breathless at the door to the drawing room, where Emily sat with a book and a cup of tea.

" _Mamma, Mamma_ ," he exclaimed. "Guess what?"

She half rose, stressed by his tone until she saw his face, at which she relaxed.

"What?" she asked. "Has something happened?"

She almost didn't have to ask: his happy face could only mean one thing. Since Amal died, Daniel's biggest concern had been for the mare that Amal had managed to impregnate before his death, and the foal she was carrying. He'd spent almost all his hours in the stables, buzzing around them like an anxious bee, his attention almost bordering to obsession. As Charles eventually grew tired of the constant fussing, he'd tried to convince Daniel to stop with it, but Daniel had flat out refused, saying that Charles could beat him if he wanted, but Daniel stayed where he was, and nothing could make him change his mind. Of all the things Charles was capable of, beating his son fortunately wasn't one of them—he genuinely loved Daniel and seemed intent not to harm the boy—and so he'd muttered something or the other, and left Daniel alone. Perhaps this meekness of his, which was quite rare, was an attempt to patch up with Daniel. The atmosphere had changed lately, and Daniel wasn't quite as enthusiastic about spending time with his father, nor did he talk about him in the same starry-eyed way as he had before Gerard's death. He preferred to keep to himself, showering the horses and Lachie with care and affection. At this point, Charles would probably do anything to gain back the boy's trust and admiration.

"Oh yes," Daniel replied to her question. "Good news!"

Slowly, and with a faint smile, she put her book on the table and rose. "Does it... have anything to do with a certain horse?"

His eyes glittered. "You have to come with me and see for yourself."

* * *

Daniel skipped ahead, Lachie skipping next to him. When was the last time she'd seen him this carefree? She couldn't remember, but it was nice to see. Life was beginning to return to normal. No more tearing emotions, not more difficult choices or life-changing decisions: Emily was content with the peace and quiet that had settled over Greywell since Lord Lyndon's visit, and didn't even mind the tedious chores or dull activities bestowed upon her in her role as the mistress of the house: they even felt soothing. It wouldn't last forever, and she knew that, but for now, it was good. She needed the calm.

That Charles wasn't quite as much at ease was nothing she cared much about. She knew he worried. He'd spent quite some time in confidential meetings with Mr Radcliffe, and always when they left the study after any of these deliberations, the atmosphere in the house was so thick it could be cut with a knife. They were trying to lessen the damage, of course, and to make sure the news of her journey to France wouldn't reach his grandfather's ears. So far, so good, it seemed, but she knew the uncertainty grated on his nerves.

" _Mamma_?"

She looked up from the ground, realised that she had fallen behind and smiled at Daniel, who was eagerly waiting for her to catch up.

"I'm coming," she called out.

She collected her skirts in one hand, lifting them from the ground, and scurried after him. Into the stable they went, Daniel walking backwards, eagerly studying her face, his features bright with joy. She tried to look as happy, but it wasn't altogether easy—she hadn't been in the stables since before the journey to France, and the memories were difficult to handle. She saw Gerard move along the walkway, saw Amal sticking out his head over the box—now empty—to be scratched behind the ears, and her throat ached with sorrow. Both were gone, perhaps reunited with Giatelli somewhere. _Take care of them_ , she thought, _and one day, I will be there with you._ _But not for a while; I have so much to live for, so much more to discover._

Before they'd parted, Étienne had told her he'd come for her one day. She'd told him, without hesitation, that she wanted that too. How they were going to organize it, she didn't know, but at the moment, she didn't care: it was the promise in itself, the possibility of seeing him again, that kept her going and that warmed her heart when everything else seemed cold. She was loved and she loved, and that was the most beautiful feeling in the world.

"Come," Daniel waved to her. "Here."

At first, she saw only the mare, glaring at her with black, defiant eyes. _You look like any human mother would_ , she thought. _But don't worry, I'm not going to hurt your babe._ Her gaze left the mare, slid to the pile of hay on the floor, and...

"Oh." She smiled, despite herself. "He looks just like...." She trailed off, but Daniel understood what she'd been about to say and nodded.

"Doesn't he just?"

And yes, with its dark, fuzzy body, long legs and small head, the little foal was a perfect copy of Amal. She leant over the edge of the door and stared down at the small creature.

"It's a he?"

"Yes. Can we call him Amal as well, _Mamma_?"

She nodded, not caring if he saw her tears. "Let's do that."

He studied her, somewhat cautiously. "Giatelli told me once that the name means 'hope'. It's fitting, don't you think?"

She nodded, still smiling, even if there was a bit of sadness behind it, too.

"Very fitting," she said. On a whim, she pulled him to her, put her nose to his hair and breathed in the scent of boy and sun and hay. "What do you say you we go back to the house and grab a little something to eat? I haven't had Mrs Goodall's pasties in ages!"

"I'd love that, _Mamma_. I'll run ahead and ask her to prepare some."

He took off at a run, out of the stables, leaving her there. She stood for a while, her hands grasping the edge of the box door, staring at the horses, her vision blurred. Then, she raised her head to the air, and said, straight out and with all the warmth she could gather:

"Thank you."
