Or was he overreacting? Had she merely been embarrassed and distressed to see a man who might recognize her and see her in the lowly position of governess?
Who was she? Who and what had she been? At first he had not been particularly curious about her. Her story had seemed plausible enough. But she had lied to him about her parents. If her father had died in debt, it had certainly not happened recently. But something had happened recently.
And why did the not knowing matter to him? Had he ever wondered about Houghton’s past or that of any of his other servants? Fleur Hamilton’s past was her own business.
But why had she lied about her father? Why had she lied about not knowing Brocklehurst? Equally intriguing, why had he lied about his acquaintance with her?
His wife, he saw without looking, was paying court to both Shaw and Thomas.
FLEUR WAS IN THE music room early the following morning, playing Beethoven—not at all well. She had not tried any of the new music that morning, but had only tried to steady herself, lose herself in the old. But the magic had deserted her. She stumbled, played mischords, forgot her place.
She would have banged her hands in frustration across the keyboard if the door to the library had not opened earlier as it usually did, but as it had not the morning before, to reveal briefly the figure of his grace.
She had not slept at all. Though she must have done, she reflected, or there would not be the remembered nightmares—the dead face and staring eyes of Hobson, the discomfort of traveling in a coach with her wrists bound in rusty chains at her back, the trapdoor and the knowledge that below it was emptiness and a waiting coffin, the scarred hawkish face above her and the long-fingered hands beneath her buttocks to hold her steady, Matthew with a strawberry-red rose across his dead face, blood running from the puncture made by a thorn.
Yes, she must have slept.
How long would it be? How much longer did she have?
Was she playing Beethoven or Mozart?
She heard the door from the hallway open, though it happened very quietly and the door was behind her. She took her hands from the keyboard and folded them in her lap. She knew who it was. She did not have to look around.
“Ah, Isabella,” a familiar voice said. “No, I beg your pardon. Fleur, is it not?”
She got up from the stool and turned to face him. He was smiling, as Matthew so often was. She placed a finger over her lips and pointed in the direction of the open door into the library. He nodded his comprehension. And she led the way from the room.
“There are lawns at the back of the house,” she said. “I believe it has stopped raining.”
It seemed appropriate that the long spell of warm, sunny weather had broken sometime during the night. The clouds were heavy and low and the grass glistening with the drizzle that had fallen on it, she had seen in a glance from the window of her room earlier.
And it seemed strange now to hear her own voice and to note that it sounded just as it usually did.
“A few questions revealed to me your morning habits,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “They are no secret.”
She took him to a back entrance, avoiding the great hall. She did not go for a cloak, though it was chilly outside. But she scarcely noticed.
“I will come quietly,” she said, walking on ahead of him past the kitchen gardens to the lawns beyond, leaving him to catch up and fall into step beside her. “I don’t know if you brought assistance. I don’t know if you plan to put fetters on me. I don’t know what the law is. But you will not need them. I will come quietly.”
Even the clouds were beautiful. Even the wet grass soaking its moisture into her shoes felt wonderful. And she remembered her first sight of Willoughby and her first weeks there. She remembered her buoyant feeling of hope and happiness. She remembered the visit to the Chamberlains and their return visit. She remembered walking this very lawn with Mr. Chamberlain, the children rushing on ahead with a ball. She remembered playing with the puppy in the paddock. And she remembered waltzing on a lantern-lit path.
“Murder is a hanging offense, Isabella,” he said.
“I know.” Her pace unconsciously quickened. “I also know, as do you, Matthew, that I am no murderer. What happened was an accident caused when I acted in my own defense. But of course that will be an irrelevant point when we both speak in court.”
“Poor Hobson,” he said. “He was merely stepping up behind you to prevent you from tripping over the hearth yourself, Isabella. It was unfortunate that you were in such a temper because I had been forced to admonish you for your own good. He would be alive now.”
“Yes,” she said, “it sounds convincing even now, Matthew. And I was foolish enough to panic and run—the actions of a guilty person. What is the procedure? Am I to be bound?”