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She stilled. “What?”
“That.” He tilted his chin toward the pallet, not meeting her eyes. “We all have quirks, the men who came back from war. Some start violently at loud noises. Some can’t stand the sight of blood. Some have nightmares that wake them in the dark of night. And some”—he took a deep breath, closing his eyes—“some cannot bear to sleep in the open. Some fear attack in the night when they sleep and cannot . . . cannot help themselves. They must sleep with their back against the wall and with a lit candle so that they can see the attackers when they come.”
He opened his eyes and said, “It’s a compulsion, I’m afraid. They simply cannot help themselves.”
“I understand,” she said.
Her eyes were gentle, as if she hadn’t just heard that her husband was a lunatic. She bent and continued putting together the pallet. She seemed as if she really did understand. But how could she? How could she accept that her husband was only half a man {nlyt. ? He couldn’t accept it himself.
He poured some wine from a decanter on a table. He stood drinking it and gazing sightlessly into the fire for some time before he remembered what he’d been thinking about when he came to their room.
Jasper set his empty wineglass down and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “You’ll think me fanciful, but for a moment when we were first introduced to the Holdens, I thought Timothy Holden looked like he recognized you.”
She didn’t reply.
He tossed his waistcoat to a chair and looked over at Melisande. She was plumping the bedding rather overhard. “My lady wife?”
lapped her hands like an excited little girl, and Mr. Whippering beamed down at her fondly. Melisande set aside her plate and rose, but Aunt Esther was listing her guests on her fingers.
“Mr. and Mrs. Flowers—I’ve seated you next to Mr. Flowers because he’s always quite kind and knows when to agree with a lady. Miss Charlotte Stewart, who has the best gossip. Captain Pickering and his wife—he used to be in the navy, you know, and has seen the strangest things, and—oh! Here’s Meg.”
A maid, presumably Meg, had entered the room and curtsied.
Aunt Esther flew to her. “Show my nephew and his wife to their room—the blue room, not the green. The green might be bigger, but the blue is ever so much more warm. There’s a draft in the green,” she confided to Melisande. “Now don’t forget: seven of the clock.”
Vale, who had been sitting all this while, complacently munching muffins, finally rose. “Don’t you worry, Aunt. We’ll be down precisely at seven and with our best bows and buttons.”
“Lovely!” his aunt exclaimed.
Melisande smiled, for it seemed quite useless to try and say anything, and began to follow the maid from the room.
“Oh, and I forgot,” Aunt Esther called. “One other couple will be there as well.”
Both Melisande and Vale turned politely to hear the name of these new guests.
“Mr. Timothy Holden and his wife, Lady Caroline.” Aunt Esther beamed. “They used to live in London before they moved to Edinburgh, and I thought they might be a treat for the both of you. Mr. Holden is quite a dashing gentleman. Maybe you even know him?”
And for the life of her, Melisande didn’t know what to say.
SOMETHING WAS WRONG with Melisande, Jasper thought later that night. She sat on the farther end of the long supper table from him, between the kind Mr. Flowers and the punctilious Sir Angus, the latter already on his third glass of tongue-loosening wine. Melisande wore a deep brown dress with small green flowers and leaves embroidered down the bodice and around the sleeves. She looked quite lovely, her pale oval face serene, her light brown hair softly pulled back. Jasper doubted anyone else in the room noted her unease save he.
He sipped his wine and considered his lady wife, smiling vaguely at something Mrs. Flowers leaned close to say. Perhaps the company of newly met people intimidated Melisande. He knew she was a shy creature, as all the fey were wont to be. She didn’t like crowds, didn’t like long social events. It was opposite to Jasper’s own nature, but he understood this about her, even if he could never feel that way himself. He was used to her stiff reticence when they went out.
neight="0%" width="4%">But this unease was more than that. Something was wrong, and it bothered him that he didn’t know what.
It was a pleasant gathering. Aunt Esther’s cook was very good, and the supper was plain but enjoyable. The narrow dining room was intimately lit. The footmen were generous with the wine bottles.Miss Stewart was to his right. She was a woman of mature years, with powdered and rouged cheeks and an enormous gray-powdered wig. She leaned toward Jasper, and he caught the strong scent of patchouli.
“I hear you’ve just come from London, what?” the lady said.
“Indeed, ma’am,” Jasper replied. “Over hill and over dale we’ve ridden, just to visit sunny Edinburgh.”
“Well, at least you didn’t come in winter,” she retorted somewhat obscurely. “Travel’s dreadful after the first snowfall, though the city’s pretty enough—all the snow cloaking the dirt and soot. Have you seen the castle?”
“Alas, no.”
“You should, you should.” Miss Stewart nodded vigorously, making the wattles beneath her chin shake. “Magnificent. Not many English appreciate the beauty of Scotland.”
She fixed him with a gimlet eye.
