“How do you do?” she murmured, glancing at Rhys as he introduced Mr. and Mrs. Feathergill to his mother. She sensed that he had once again donned a mask, the mask of the respectful son.
Lady Edward poured tea, her demeanor attentive and interested as she made inquiries about their journey from town and their plans for the coming weeks. When she stood up and crossed the room to hand Rhys his cup, he accepted it with a smile. “Waiting on me yourself, Mama?” he inquired lightly. “Why, how…motherly of you.”
“I’ve always done my best,” she answered, returning his smile with one of her own.
“Of course you have.”
Prudence watched them, sensing something else beneath this polite exchange, something almost violent, and as she observed them smiling at one another, she realized the truth in the space of a heartbeat.
They loathed each other to the very core.
Lady Edward patted her son’s shoulder with all the appearance of maternal affection, then took her seat and turned the conversation to wedding plans. She offered to come to town and assist with the nuptials in any way she could. Prudence, however, still watching Rhys’s face, decided that despite the demands the wedding was placing on her, she would not seek the assistance of her future mother-in-law. She murmured a polite, noncommittal reply.
Various cakes were handed around. Though everyone else happily partook of the offerings on the tea tray, Rhys refused, explaining he didn’t care for any.
“No cake? No scones and jam?” Edith laughed. “How unusual. Most men have such a sweet tooth, they are often very greedy over their tea.”
“Indeed?” Rhys said smoothly. “I’ve always preferred high tea myself. Boyhood memories, I expect.”
His voice was so cheery, his smile so friendly, and yet, the hairs on the back of Prudence’s neck stood up.
She strove for something to say. “I should dearly love to know what His Grace was like as a boy, Lady Edward. What foods did he prefer for high tea?”
There was a pause, then the other woman gave a little well-bred laugh. “I believe…yes, I think Toad in the Hole was always his favorite.”
“Amazing that you know that, Mama,” Rhys drawled, “since I don’t believe you ever had high tea with us. In fact, I don’t think you ever set foot in the nursery when my brother and I were boys. You were usually in Paris.”
Beside her on the settee, Prudence felt Lady Edward stiffen, heard her sharp indrawn breath. The tension in the air became a palpable thing, and a sick little knot formed in Prudence’s tummy, but she did not know why. Something was very wrong, but she did not know what.
“Uncle Evelyn, now,” Rhys went on softly, “he loved having high tea with us. Why, that summer we were here, he visited us in the nursery every chance he had. He played games with us, too. Especially Animal Grab.” There was a long pause. “Uncle Evelyn loved Animal Grab.”
The clatter of porcelain had Prudence glancing at Lady Edward’s hands. They were shaking as she held her teacup in its saucer, and the clink-clink-clink seemed to reverberate through the room like gunshots.
Rhys set his own cup and saucer on the mantel. “Forgive me, but I must walk the park and see what needs to be done. Things have been so neglected since I was last here.”
He once again bowed, turned on his heel and beat a hasty retreat. Prudence set down her tea, excused herself, and followed him. Somehow, she did not like the idea of him being alone.
Chapter 13
Miss Prudence Abernathy has embarked on a tour of her fiancé’s estates. We can only wonder what changes she will make, though from what we have heard, anything would be an improvement.
—Talk of the Town, 1894
It took only a few moments for Prudence to exit the drawing room, but Rhys had already vanished. She paused a moment in the corridor, listening, and thought she heard the echo of his footsteps on stone. She ran for that monstrosity of a staircase, and as she leaned over the railing, caught a glimpse of him descending—a golden seraph amidst the gargoyles. She grasped handfuls of her skirt to keep from tripping as she raced down the steps after him, calling his name.
He paid no heed. At the bottom of the stairs she came to a halt, for he seemed to have vanished. But in the distance she could hear the faint tap of his boot heels on those cold marble floors, and she followed the sound across the staircase hall and down a dim, narrow servants’ corridor. At the end, she found a door to the outside standing wide open, and when she exited the house, she could see him on the other side of a weedy herb garden, wading through a field of lavender toward a small stone building. When he reached it, he opened the door and went inside.
“Rhys, wait!”
The door slamming behind him was his only reply.
His desire to be alone could not be more plain, and Prudence paused, uncertain what to do. But as she considered the situation, she remembered the terrible look on his face when he talked about childhood things like high tea in the nursery and games like Animal Grab, his pain like a tangible force, and she knew she had to do something.
Prudence drew a deep breath and traced his footsteps along the flagstone path through the herb garden, evading the column and sundial in the center. She picked her way through the field of weeds and lavender, and when she reached the small stone house where Rhys had gone, grasped the handle of the weathered oak door. She half expected to find he’d locked it behind him, but when she turned the handle, the door opened, the hinges creaking as she pushed it wide. After the brightness of the late afternoon sun, the room seemed dark, and she blinked several times as she stepped inside.
Even though she could barely see, she realized at once she was in a lavender house, for the scent of that herb permeated the room. The slats of the shutters across the two windows were only partly open, and the windows themselves were small and narrow, to keep out as much light as possible during the drying process. Long hooks to hold bunches of the flowers after harvest were bolted to the ceiling beams. In one corner she saw a still for making lavender oil, and along two of the walls, shelves held dozens of green glass bottles, waiting to be filled with the fragrant oil. Everything was dusty from disuse.
“I always liked it in here.”
Prudence turned her head at the sound of his voice. He was sitting on a long, battered worktable against another wall, his back to the stone behind him, his boot heels on the table’s edge, forearms on his bent knees. The light through the partly open shutters slashed across him in stripes.
“It’s the only part of this damned house I ever did like,” he added. “It always smelled good in here. Like summer ought to smell. Fresh, sweet…” He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “Like your hair.”
She didn’t know what to say. Words seemed inadequate.
“Oh, God, I hate that house.” He leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands. “I hate it.”
Prudence could feel his pain, and knew she had to find a way to comfort him, drive away whatever was haunting him. She slowly walked toward him, as one might approach a wounded animal.
“I tried to forget what a nightmare it all was.” He leaned back against the wall, and as he lifted his head, she could see the weariness in his expression. “I tried so damned hard.”
Prudence halted in front of him and laid her hands on his knees. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. You should have told me you didn’t want to come here.”
“I had to come. I had to see if the ghosts were gone. It’s been twenty years, for the love of God. They ought to be gone. But they’re not.” His gaze looked past her and he swallowed hard, closing his eyes briefly. “I don’t think they’ll ever go away.”
“What ghosts?”
He looked at her and smiled a little, reaching out to run one finger along her cheek. “I thought it would be all right if you were with me. I thought it would be different somehow. That you could wash it all away—” He broke off and lowered his hand to his side. He gave a deep sigh. “Stupid,” he muttered, “to think it would be that easy. That it could ever be that simple.”
“But what ghosts? Why does this place trouble you so much? What happened here?”
His smile vanished with her questions, and a frown took its place. “You should go back to the house.”
“Rhys, I’m going to be your wife.” She curled her arms around his bent knees, her palms on his thighs the closest thing to holding him at that moment. “We have to be able to trust each other. I’ve told you things about my family, about my life. Won’t you tell me about yours? About this place?”
“This isn’t about trust, for God’s sake!” He sat up and grasped her by the arms. “I don’t want to talk about it, Prudence. I can’t. Don’t ask me to.”
The vehemence in his voice startled her. “All right,” she said quietly. “We won’t discuss it again.”
His grip on her arms relaxed and then his hands slid away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, and again leaned back against the wall. “I never should have brought you here.” With those words he fell silent, staring past her shoulder into space, seeing God only knew what.