Hold Me Close Page 14

  “But he shouldn’t have!” she cried. “It’s—its wicked!”

  “Oh, come, my dear. Who amongst us can control what the heart feels? It would only have been wicked had he tried to woo you away from your husband. And far from doing that, he put oceans between you, and never breathed his secret to anyone. He’s a good man.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yes,” said Eleanor firmly, giving Julia’s knee a pat. “There’s no better man on this earth.”

  On this earth. Fresh tears skimmed down Julia’s cheeks, and a surge of emotion nearly choked her—fear mixed with hope, shame and grief with a rising swell of need. “But how can he love me? He scarcely knows me!”

  Eleanor chuckled. “How long did it take Christopher to come to love you? An afternoon?”

  “That’s different!”

  “Is it? The two of them were so alike, in so many ways, despite how dissimilar they looked on the surface. They were true brothers of the heart, if not of the flesh. Is it so surprising they would be drawn to the same woman?”

  Julia could scarcely breathe. Could it be true, what Eleanor said? Eleanor didn’t seem shocked in the slightest by the idea that Holsworth might love her just as Christopher had.

  Then again, Eleanor didn’t exactly see the world as other English ladies did.

  Nothing shocked Eleanor.

  Still, Julia’s body felt weightless, floating upwards—all except for the golden bracelet around her wrist. That felt solid, and real, reassuring, a sort of anchor keeping her from drifting away. Her free hand reached for it again, her fingers spreading out along the smooth, curved surface. It felt warm, as always, to her touch.

  Eleanor gave her back another pat. “Tell me, Julia—am I wrong about his behavior toward you? Did you know of his feelings before today? Did Marcus ever give you the least sign of passion? While Christopher was alive, did Marcus flatter you? Engage in flirtations with you? Proposition you?”

  “No! Of course not! Never. He—I thought he disliked me, in fact.”

  “There! Isn’t that the sign of an honorable man? A man who loved unselfishly, wanting nothing in return? A man who would never so much as let his suffering show? Listen to me, Julia, I watched you, too, this morning—very carefully. When I first arrived in the breakfast room, and when Mr. Maji told you the story of Bharati. And I think perhaps you might not be as indifferent to Holsworth as you might have the world believe.”

  Julia startled, felt the weight slam back into her body. “Aunt!”

  “And why should you be indifferent, dear? Marcus is a remarkable man. A most attractive man. Christopher Grantleigh isn’t an easy act to follow, I’ll admit that—but Christopher would not wish you to spend the rest of your life alone. Nor would he have you marry some other man who is his inferior. Marcus Holsworth is not Christopher’s inferior, not in anything but the rank of his birth. In every other way, Marcus is Christopher’s equal. Possibly more.”

  Julia jumped to her feet, alarm vibrating through her chest. It was one thing to consider that Holsworth’s passion for her might not be dishonorable, but to consider abandoning Christopher, to give her loyalties and love to another man—well, that was an another thing entirely. The rules and restrictions of a lifetime bore down on her heart with inexorable force. “This isn’t an appropriate thing to discuss!” she cried. “I—I can’t. It’s impossible.”

  Eleanor rose, too, with a heavy sigh, and took a few quiet steps about the room. “In what way is it impossible? You are widowed, he is unmarried. The world may judge you for making such a marriage, but the world knows very little about happiness. Dear girl, I may not be a model for proper behavior, but I am most certainly a model for knowing how to be happy. You’ve lived through terrible pain in the last two years, I know. But happiness is once again within your reach.”

  “It isn’t! Christopher was my life, my soul. I owe him—”

  “What? Being miserable for the rest of your existence? How does that honor him?” Eleanor strode over to Julia’s dressing table, where all her gifts from Christopher were arrayed—the teak tray, the picture frame, the little carved bowls—and lifted the rosewood hairbrush, idly, or so it seemed. “Look at all these lovely things,” she said. “It’s like a shrine, but all the treasure made of wood.”

  “Christopher gave all those to me,” said Julia, hurrying over and plucking the hairbrush out of Eleanor’s hand. She held it to her chest. “They’re precious to me. Beyond precious.”

  “Because Christopher chose them so well? Knew just what you would like? Treasures of value not because they’re made of jewels or precious metal, but because they are carefully, beautifully crafted by human hands?”

  “Yes. Precisely. That’s the sort of man he was, and he knew I would adore these things.”

  Eleanor gave her a rueful smile. “Did it ever occur to you how Christopher came by those things? How exactly he chose them for you?”

  “I don’t know. He always had one ready for my birthday—just after Parliament closed for the summer. Many London shops sell imports from India.”

  “Oh, child. Let me tell you something. I recognize every item here. Every single one. I saw them all before—in Calcutta.”

  Julia’s brow furrowed. “Did—did you purchase them there? Did Christopher ask you to?”

  “Not me, darling,” said Eleanor, shaking her head. “Marcus. Christopher asked Marcus to find you treasures, and ship them home for him.”

  “Marcus?” Julia gasped. “How—how do you know that?”

  “I’d go with him to the bazaars, and watch him hunt for hours. He rejected all sorts of geegaws and fancier things, things other Englishmen went wild for. Marcus searched each time until he found the one perfect thing. Something he knew you would love.”

  Oh. Julia couldn’t speak. Her fingers trembled as she turned the hairbrush over in her hands. All these years, she’d held this, brushed her curls out night after night, thinking of Christopher’s love for her, thinking this was proof.

  But Christopher did love me. He did know me, down to the deepest core of my heart.

  She laid the hairbrush down, gently, and the bracelet bumped gently against its handle.

  Oh, the world was more complicated than she had ever imagined.

  Much more complicated.

  Even breathing in and out suddenly seemed very strange.

  “Hear me, Julia,” said Eleanor. “If you feel nothing for Marcus, that’s one thing. Send him away if you can’t love him, can’t love with all your heart and soul. But if you think you could have feelings for him, if there’s any chance you could love him as truly as you loved my nephew—well, then, life is long, my child. It should not be spent alone.”

  Julia stared down at the familiar array on her dressing table, all of it suddenly shifted into something unknown, unfamiliar, and the only coherent thought she could manage was the picture of Marcus Holsworth’s hands—those strong hands, those gentle hands—sorting through heaps of gold and silver stacked on the tables of some faraway bazaar, and finding these, choosing these.

  For me.

  Eleanor bent close and pressed a kiss to Julia’s temple. “One thing more, dear girl,” she said, “and then I’ll leave you in peace. It’s another of Bharati’s poems. Will you let me recite it to you?”

  Julia nodded numbly. She might as well.

  “Good,” said Eleanor. “This one comes from early in her story, when she was newly fallen in love with that unsuitable young man, and told she couldn’t marry him. She was still trying to be a dutiful daughter—doing as her father demanded and staying away from the man who held her heart. But when night came on, she yearned for him, wished she could get a message to him, and call him close to her once more. She describes herself like this:

  I stand on the balcony of my father’s house,

  Begging the wind to carry my voice to my beloved.

  I offer my necklaces as a bribe,

  My most costly rubies,

  But the w
ind cares nothing for riches,

  And it has no pity for a heartsick girl.”

  Heartsick? Julia’s own heart gave a throb. The storm winds outside sounded suddenly more harsh and unforgiving than they had before, and she felt terribly empty inside. “Bharati’s story doesn’t end happily, Aunt. You told me so yourself.”

  “No, it didn’t end happily. Not for her.” Eleanor touched a finger to the rim of the bracelet, and gave it a meaningful tap. “But she herself held out hope that others might do better.”

  Julia stared down at the circlet of gold about her wrist, at its rich gleam in the lamplight, warm as the temptation it represented. And her whole body shook. “That’s—that’s a fable, Aunt. A fairy tale. I don’t—I can’t believe in that.”

  Aunt Eleanor sighed, but she said nothing. She gave Julia’s arm one last, quick squeeze, and turned to go.

  But before she reached the door, a circle of lantern-light came bobbing up from the direction of the staircase, and Julia’s maid Peggy came rushing into the room.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Peggy said, dropping a quick curtsy, clearly short of breath. “But the footman says we’ve got visitors. He says it’s most urgent that you come down straightaway.”

  Visitors? At this time of night?

  Julia and Eleanor exchanged a glance. But there was nothing else for it—they hurried down the stairs with the maid.

  And, indeed, a small group of travelers was gathered in the foyer, a man, a woman, and two children, all bundled in wool cloaks, looking decidedly rain-soaked and windblown.

  Julia’s eyes seemed scarcely able to focus on the man—on his familiar face, and the familiar auburn color of the hair peaking out beneath his beaver hat.

  But try as she might to blink the sight of him away, she could not escape the simple fact: the man standing just inside the front door of her home was no stranger to her.

  He was George Brayles.

  11

  George Brayles, here at Grantleigh.

  Good God—when would life stop feeling like a dream she’d somehow blundered into while awake?

  She wasn’t aware she’d stopped dead midway down the stairs until Eleanor’s hand at the small of her back gave her a nudge. Anxiety prickled through her, but it would do no good to let it show. Holsworth might be right about this man, but he just as likely might be wrong.

  Brayles hardly looked threatening. What sort of murderer came straight to the front door, all bedraggled, dripping wet, with mud on his boots and a leaf stuck to his hat, and his little daughter asleep in his arms?

  Right beside him stood his sister Abigail, a proper gentlewoman if ever Julia had known one, wrapped in a cloak of fine green wool with a well-trimmed bonnet on her head. Clutching her hand was the older daughter—Georgina, that was her name—a rose-cheeked girl of about eight years old, her face still as sweet as it had been in infancy.

  Certainly, none of the females seemed a likely candidate for the role of evil co-conspirator.

  Good gracious, Julia was in her own home, surrounded by a veritable army of servants. And she was an Englishwoman, not some sniveling coward. The role of gracious hostess was ingrained in her down to the bone, so she let that carry her forward, as she offered a smile and an outstretched hand.

  “Mr. Brayles, Miss Brayles,” she said, drawing the woman and young Georgina into quick embraces. “You are home from India! Has there been some trouble? What brings you to Grantleigh at this hour?”

  Mr. Brayles, as it turned out, wasn’t even paying attention to her. He was staring up the steps at Eleanor, apparently disconcerted to see a woman who should be in Calcutta standing on a staircase in Devonshire. “Lady Eleanor!” he exclaimed, and then seemed to have nothing more interesting to add.

  Lord—not exactly a clever man.

  His sister answered for him. “Lady Grantleigh,” she said. “We do beg your pardon. We’ve just come from London, and I’m afraid our carriage cracked an axle half a mile from here. The storm blew a branch down, right in our path, and when our coachman tried to avoid it, we went into a ditch.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  “Edgerton Park’s too far on foot, with the wind so high and more rain on the way. George sent one of the footmen ahead on a horse to let them know of our troubles, and that we’ve sought shelter here. If you don’t mind having us.”

  For a moment, Julia thought of offering a Grantleigh carriage to take them the rest of the way home, but the children were clearly at the point of exhaustion. The stable hands and coachmen were all asleep by now, and till they were roused and dressed, the horses harnessed, and the journey made over roads that could prove treacherous in the wet and dark, it would be well past midnight, at the very least.

  No decent woman could make the suggestion.

  “Of course I don’t mind! You are very welcome,” Julia said. “You must be terribly chilled, and famished.” She turned quickly to Peggy, whispering instructions to wake the housekeeper so she could direct servants to ready rooms and bring something warm to eat.

  Eleanor led the way into the parlor. “I’m afraid it will just be Lady Grantleigh and I to entertain you,” she said. “The rest of the family has gone to bed.”

  “You are too kind, truly,” said Miss Brayles, blushing a little. “I’m sorry to keep even the two of you from your beds.”

  Julia paused. Perhaps it would be wise to wake at least Mr. Maji, to have a gentleman aware of what was going on. But, given Eleanor’s claims about the Brayles’ attitudes towards ‘natives,’ it might only create more difficulties.

  She sighed, and walked into the parlor herself.

  Within minutes, the room was abuzz with activity, as housemaids swarmed in to light the lamps and build up the fire in the hearth. The Brayles family all sat down, looking quite relieved, unbundling themselves from their wet cloaks and handing them over to the footmen. Georgina curled up sleepily against her aunt, and the littlest one—Kate, that was it—now on her father’s lap, relapsed into slumber.

  Eleanor observed them all quite regally from her armchair. “Forgive our surprise at seeing you,” she said, addressing Mr. Brayles. “I had no idea you were leaving India.”

  “We did not know you were leaving, either, Lady Eleanor,” Brayles replied. “But Calcutta’s been full of commotion in the past few months, since the war ended. Everyone’s careening about like a table full of billiard balls.” He chuckled at his own witticism.

  Julia sighed. Brayles seemed so perfectly ordinary. Conventional, and rather dull. Were there subtle signs of treachery she was missing, in his face, in his voice, in the movements of his hands? How on earth was one to tell?

  It did seem odd that they’d arrive like this, purely by chance, so soon after Holsworth’s warning. And yet, how could one arrange for a carriage to break down? Surely Brayles hadn’t manufactured the sudden storm, or the mud that clung to all their boots.

  Despite everything, despite all her doubts, an urgent wish for Holsworth seized her. If nothing else, she knew he never intended to hurt her, and his strong, steady presence beside her would certainly have made her feel safe.

  She glanced over at Eleanor. Was she, too, wondering if Brayles had come deliberately, in hopes of destroying the records of his debts?

  Whatever she might be thinking, Eleanor seemed quite at her ease, settling in for a neighborly chat. “There’s so much new opportunity in Calcutta, though, don’t you think, Mr. Brayles?” she said. “No doubt a new wave of British citizens will soon make the journey there, to take advantage of it. I should have thought you’d choose to stay.”

  Brayles smiled again, this time a little sadly. “True, India will be bursting at the seams with opportunity. But the climate is too hard for the girls, I’m afraid, and in any case, it’s time for a change. We don’t even plan to stay long at Edgerton Park—such a sad place for me, since I lost Caroline. My elder brother Charles—you will remember him, I think, Lady Eleanor—has invited us to join him in the city of
New York, where he plays a diplomatic role. We’ve made a decent peace with that nation now, too, and Charles thinks he may have some respectable occupation for me.”

  “New York?” exclaimed Eleanor, laying a hand to her heart. “Such a godforsaken place!”

  Brayles actually laughed. “So says a lady who has lived several years in Calcutta!”

  Now Eleanor looked truly affronted. She drew herself up straight and skewered Brayles with a glare. “If you had ever joined the Asiatick Society, Mr. Brayles, you would know West Bengal has been a center of literary culture for millennia. Why, the manuscripts held at the Kalighat Temple alone would—”

  “Aunt,” said Julia delicately. “Perhaps now is not the time to debate the merits of the world’s great cities.”

  Eleanor glared at Julia now, bristling as if she could not imagine a time when one should not leap to the defense of her adopted home. But she quieted.

  “I’m sure you are right,” said Brayles, in a tone of conciliation. “But New York will be better for my family, I think, than Calcutta was.”

  At that moment, two more maids came in, bearing trays of biscuits and warmed beef and toasted cheese, as well as a cheerily steaming teapot. Even the children woke for that. They all seemed ravenous—as well they would be after walking a distance on a stormy night.

  Julia calmed herself with the little rituals of pouring and serving, and everyone ate in relative quiet—Julia, too, as her suddenly rumbling stomach reminded her she’d had nothing all day but a bit of breakfast toast and tea.

  Another interruption followed in the midst of their repast—four of Brayles’ servants arrived, muddy up to the knees, huffing and puffing as they lugged a sizeable traveling trunk and several small valises.

  “Oh,” said Brayles, shooting Julia an apologetic look, as the trunk was heaved into the parlor. “I hope you don’t mind that I had them bring our baggage here. I didn’t want it left unguarded by the side of the road.”