Sherry Thomas - His At Night

“Just so you know, I didn’t find anything of interest—except, as I said, I’d never seen a travelogue among a woman’s undergarments before.”

She sat down on the window seat, her entire person stiff and tense. “I’m delighted to have provided you a moment of diversion. And just so you know, the travelogue was only carelessly placed among my undergarments when my uncle was away. When he was in residence, it stayed hidden in a scooped-out volume of something Greek, on a shelf with three hundred other books in Greek.”

He read five languages other than English and had thought nothing of the dearth of English books in Douglas’s library. But to someone who had not been educated in continental languages, visiting that library must have been as tormenting as dying of thirst in the middle of an ocean.

Underneath every detail of her life was a history of oppression. And yet she’d emerged not only with her spirit intact, but with a capacity for joy that he had only begun to understand. That he would now never truly know.

The thought was a stab in his heart.

“The book in your drawer was a guide to Southern Italy. It had something on Capri, I imagine?”

“Not very much. There was a better book, but I lost it when my uncle purged the library.”

Memories of the night came unbidden: her arms holding him, her lovely voice speaking of her faraway island. He realized he’d never given any thoughts as to what his milk-and-honey companion would do when faced with his nightmares. He had simply assumed they wouldn’t exist anymore when he had his gentle, pure paragon.

She’d been looking out the window, but now her face turned toward him. “Why did you make me listen to you sing? You are a horrendous singer.”

“There was a safecracker working in your aunt’s room. Had to keep you away.”

“You could have told me. I would have held the light for him.”

“I couldn’t tell you. You looked very pleased to be living in your uncle’s house.”

“More fool you. You could have saved yourself the ordeal of this marriage.”

He tapped his pen against the desk. Suddenly all he could remember were the moments of surprising joy. Their nap together on the train; her outrageously erroneous soliloquy on jam making that had made him smile half the next day as he walked and walked; last night.

“I wouldn’t quite classify this marriage as an ordeal. It’s been more of a burden.”

She threw a small potted plant clear across the breadth of the room. The glazed terra-cotta container shattered against the mantel. The soil and the orchid growing from it fell to the floor with a resounding wump.

“You have all my sympathies,” she said. “And my sincere condolences.”

His ideal companion did not know what anger was. Her voice would never drip with sarcasm. And, of course, since she was not real, it was easy for her not to have strong emotions, to be only smiles and cuddles and wholesale perfection.

He gazed at the very real woman on his windowsill, battered but unbroken. All her emotions were strong: her anger, her disillusion, her despair—and her love.

He picked up the plate of sandwiches on the desk and approached her. “Don’t starve yourself. It won’t help you and it certainly won’t help your aunt.”

She grimaced as if the plate were full of live scorpions. But just when he thought she’d knock it to the floor, she accepted it. “Thank you.”

“I’ll ring for a new pot of tea.”

“You don’t need to be so nice to me. I won’t appreciate it.”

Of this he knew better than she. “Wrong: I’ve never met a woman more grateful for a little kindness.”

She glowered and turned her shoulders more firmly toward the window.

* * *

The afternoon post brought a letter from Aunt Rachel.

Dear Elissande,

On my way to London, I met an old school friend of mine on the train. Imagine my delight! We have decided to stop at Exeter and take in the sights. Mrs. Halliday desires to meet you. She suggests that you take the 7:00 from Paignton tonight and detrain at the Queen Street station. Call for us at the Rougemont.

Your loving aunt

    P.S. Come alone, as she is not fond of strangers.

    P.P.S. Wear your best jewels.

Elissande handed the letter to Lord Vere. “I have no jewels.”

It was the ultimate irony, as her uncle had made his fortune in diamonds. Jewels were an easily portable, highly liquid form of wealth; of course her uncle would not want her to have any.

“I have some of my mother’s pieces. They should do.”

She rubbed her temple. She hadn’t even realized it, but her head had been throbbing for quite a while. “So I present myself at the Rougemont and meekly hand over your mother’s jewels?”

“Not you, we. I’ll be there.”

“You saw what the note said. I’m to go alone.”

“You will seem alone to him, but I’ll be there. I’ll watch out for you.”

“But if we travel together—”

“You will take the seven-o’clock, as he instructed. I’m going to take an earlier train to Exeter and see what arrangements I can make.”

She hadn’t expected him to go before her. She did not want to be alone now. She wanted—she needed—never mind what she wanted. If there was anything he could do in Exeter to help her retrieve Aunt Rachel safe and whole, then he must go to Exeter.

“Right.”

He touched her lightly on her sleeve. “If anyone can handle him, you can.”

“Right,” she repeated, pushing away the memories of what had happened the last time she was alone with her uncle.

He looked at her a moment. “I have a few minutes before I must go. Let me help you prepare.”

Elissande exited Queen Street station at two minutes past eight o’clock. Exeter was probably a nice, ordinary place. Tonight, however, its unfamiliar darkness harbored an all too familiar evil. And she wished nothing more than that she could run back inside the station and take the next train home.

She looked about, hoping to see her husband, her ally. But among the steady stream of people going into and coming out of the station, there was no one who had his height and size.

Then her heart seized. There, by the second lamppost from her, her uncle stood squinting at a rail schedule in the orange light. His brown lounge suit had been sized for someone two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier. His hair had been dyed entirely gray, making him look ten years older. And he had a mustache when he had always been clean shaven before.

But she knew him by the way her blood congealed.

If anyone can handle him, you can.

She couldn’t, but she must. She had no choice.

She looked around once more for Lord Vere—no sign of him. She uttered a silent prayer and walked toward her uncle.

“Pardon me, sir. You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find the Rougemont?”

The man she’d known her entire life as Edmund Douglas stuffed the rail schedule into his pocket. “Good evening to you too, my dear Elissande. Did you truly come alone?”

“I would have liked to think I had a few more friends in the world. But you have seen to it that I have no one besides my aunt, sir.”

“And what about your much adored husband?”

“Does it amuse you to see me married to an idiot?”

Her uncle laughed softly. “I can’t deny there is, shall we say, a certain je ne sais quoi to the situation—he is no doubt the biggest cretin since Claudius himself, and you shall have a passel of moronic children. But other than that, I am delighted to see you so happily and profitably settled.”

“You certainly do look pleased. The fugitive life seems to agree with you.”

He looked faintly surprised by her biting tone. Then his expression hardened. “To the contrary, it irks me a great deal. I’m too old to be constantly on the move, and your aunt likewise—we should be settled down in peace and comfort. And this is where you will play your dutiful role, my dear niece, and supply us with that dignity that at our age we cannot do without.”

“That would depend.” Her unyielding tenor astonished even herself. If anything, she’d thought she would fall back on her falsely smiling ways. “Is my aunt well?”

“Of course. And overjoyed to see me.”

“I very much doubt that. Shall we go see her then?”

Her uncle’s gaze turned harsh; his voice grew even softer. “Such concern. You need not worry: Who could better care for a woman than her devoted husband of twenty-five years?”

She said nothing, her fingers clutching hard at her reticule.

“Do let us go someplace more cordial to talk,” murmured her uncle.

* * *

The Rougemont was practically across the street from the railway station. But Edmund Douglas hailed a hansom cab. They drove away from the center of the city, descended toward the River Exe, and turned onto a bedraggled-looking street.

The houses were old here; the entire street smelled of mildew and ill-maintained plumbing. He took Elissande into a narrow three-story house that must have sat vacant for a while. The light of a single candle revealed thick layers of dust on mantels and windowsills—though the floor seemed to have been recently swept.

Behind her the door locked. Now no one would hear her scream when he pummeled the stuffing out of her. She perspired.

But her voice, for the time being, held steady. “Where is my aunt?”

“You think of her so.” Her uncle ambled across the narrow entry hall, his shadow long and stark behind him. “One wonders what she has ever done for you. Has she devoted herself to your welfare? Has she instructed you in the womanly arts? Has she actively sought you a good match? No, she has done nothing for you—other than making you a slave to her invalidity, that is. Yet you come running when she leaves you for a few hours.

“I, on the other hand, have supplied you with a beautiful home and a fortunate life. But you did not bestir yourself to visit me once the entire time I was in custody.”

“I have been on my honeymoon,” she said. “I would have come to your trial, though.”

He gave her a smile that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “I hope you have brought proper jewels.”

“I want to see my aunt first.”

“But I need a token of good faith first.”

She handed over the diamond-and-emerald necklace her husband had given her. It was the most extravagant thing she’d ever seen in her life, the emeralds bigger than sovereigns, the diamonds as numerous as stars in the sky.

Douglas, accustomed to gems, merely took the necklace from her and slipped it into his pocket.

She was on a heart-ripping state of alert. But still she did not react in time. Her uncle’s punch sent her reeling backward. Had he broken her jaw? She could not tell. The entire left side of her face was on fire.

“Get up, you treacherous bitch.”

She rose unsteadily to her feet. His next punch made her see black. She crumpled again.

“Get up, you worthless chit. You thought you could leave me rotting in jail, didn’t you? You thought you could repay my kindness by turning your back on me. And you thought I wouldn’t notice? Get up!”

She remained on the grubby floor, limp as a piece of waterlogged paper.

Her uncle bent down and gripped the front of her dress. “You don’t learn, do you? A lifetime and you still haven’t learned the kind of love and respect you owe me.”

This was as good a chance as she was going to get. She swung her reticule at his head with all her strength. He screamed—for they had prepared well, she and her husband, and the seemingly delicate reticule held nothing less than a one-pound disk of iron from her husband’s dumbbell set. She had spent her entire train journey reinforcing the reticule’s seams and straps.

He stumbled, bleeding from his temple. But she did not stop: She swung again, hitting him squarely on the other side of his face.

He grunted. Her third swing he blocked with his arm. She hoped she’d broken a bone in his forearm, but he came at her, his face contorted with anger.

“How dare you? You stupid girl!”

Suddenly she too boiled with rage. Of course she dared—did he not know, stupid man who thought himself so clever, that she dared almost anything, when it was her freedom and her aunt’s well-being that were at stake?

She swung her reticule at him hard and fast, at an angle, so that it caught him on the chin. He staggered backward. Now she swung it high, with all her revulsion and loathing behind it. For everything he had done to Aunt Rachel and herself, robbing them of the best years of their lives, keeping them confined and suffocated, and feasting on their fear and anguish like a vampire at an open vein.