I snapped my fingers at Vespertine, and she trotted obediently at my heels as I made my way up to the snuggery. I stripped out of my ruined clothes and washed, gingerly, removing the worst of the blood but revealing the blossoming bruises. I replaced my elegant ribbon corset with one meant for athletic activity. It fastened in the front, permitting a lady to dress without the assistance of a maid, and the support provided immediate relief from the pain in my ribs. I pulled on a fresh white shirtwaist and my spare hunting costume, this one of dark green tweed tabbed in dark leather. With my long boots under my skirt, I felt much more myself. I buttoned the parcel into my pocket and descended after only ten minutes.
Harry was sitting, feet propped on my desk and crossed at the ankle, dangerously close to the box of Pamphilj cameos. He was devouring fruitcake straight out of the tin. “Ambrosial,” he pronounced through a mouthful of cake.
I swatted at his foot. “Take your feet down before you damage those cameos,” I ordered. “And give me some of that cake.”
He settled his feet to the floor and handed me a slice, thick with currants and dried peel and sticky sharp with brandy flavored cherries. I ate it quickly, without tasting. It was coal for my engine, I reflected, and nothing more. I gave him a dark look and he leapt to his feet.
“We can go now,” he said obligingly. We doused the lamps and left the way we had come, slipping out the back gate of Bishop’s Folly and into the darkened streets. This time we had no luck in securing a hansom and made our way on foot, arriving at the station with just enough time to board before the train left in a cloud of steam and smoke.
I was more exhausted than I had been on the previous trip, but I was wakeful, too conscious of the fact that every passing mile, every passing minute, brought me nearer to Stoker. I had not dared to think about what might befall him in my absence, but I was entirely certainIsabel MacGregor would not be pleased to find one of her birds had flown the coop.
I sat forwards on my seat, urging the train faster, while Harry sat opposite this time, watching me with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“What?” I demanded.
He shook his head. “I was merely wondering if I should be jealous. I don’t know that you would ever have cared so much if you thought I was in peril.” He attempted lightness, but there was a lash of bitterness in his tone.
“I did think you were in peril,” I reminded him.
“How did you... Never mind,” he said. “I do not think I want to know. No answer could possibly make me feel better. If you were destroyed by losing me, then I am the greatest monster imaginable. And if you were not, then I am the unworthiest.”
“You are determined to think poorly of yourself.”
His smile was mocking. “I have had years of practice, my dear. Believe me when I tell you, no matter what you think of me, my own opinion is always worse.”
“That is a cold comfort, Harry. Besides, I mourned you.”
“The more fool you, Veronica,” he said lightly.
“I did,” I insisted. “I might have regretted our marriage. I might have misjudged the man you were, but I never hated you. I never believed you beyond redemption.”
“Then why were you so content to let me leave?” he challenged.
“Because it was not my place to redeem you. The only person who can do that is you.”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes glittering. “No, my darling girl. Even I am not capable of that.”
“Of course you are!” I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “It takes courage to live a good life, Harry, but it also takes courage to live likea blackguard. Both require difficult choices. Both require hardship and endurance and patience. There is, in the end, little difference between the good and the bad. Only one of these lives requires you to look over your shoulder all the while and the other one makes it a little easier to sleep at night.”
He gave a short laugh. “God, I cannot imagine what it would be like to live without that constant worry. I embarked upon this life for security, you know.”
“No, I didn’t,” I reminded him. “You never told me much about your family, and I am not even certain if what you did tell me was the truth.”
“I have no idea which story I spun you,” he admitted.
“Then perhaps the truth this time?” I suggested.
He shrugged. “Why not?” He sighed. “If you want a story of great tragedy and pathos, I do not have one. I was born to a gentry family in Norfolk. On the coast. I grew up with the smell of the sea in my nose and I never lost the love for it. My mother died when I was a lad and my father was busy, a common enough story. My brothers were at school so I was left in the care of my grandmother. A formidable old dame,” he added with a fond smile.
“Like Lady Hathaway, you said,” I ventured.
“Very much. Call me a sentimentalist, but staying at Hathaway Hall, even for a short while, made me feel like a boy again. Someone to fuss over you and worry if you’ve eaten your vegetables or wrapped up warmly enough for your walk on the moor. It was nice.”
“What happened to your grandmother?” I asked.
“Dead,” was the succinct reply. “I was fourteen. I’d been sickly as a child, so my grandmother indulged me, kept me at home with her. I’d never been to school before. When she died and Father sent me away, it was like being transported to a penal colony.”
I choked a laugh.
