Page 39 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

Wolf shoved his hands deeper, glancing anywhere but as his aunt. “No.”

“No…but you have reason to hope?”

Wolf redirected his gaze toward the floor, feeling like the green lad who had once so desperately craved his aunt’s reassurance. Finally, he looked up. “Hope hurts.”

“Oh,” Diana reached forward and grasped his forearm. Though she had to feel the low quality of the cotton tailcoat he wore, seemed far too concerned to ask why he was wearing such clothing. “I know it does, I know.” Wolf was seized by a fresh pang of shame as he realized she was likely referring to the hope and pain they felt at the prospect of his returning but was far too polite to say so. “But that hurt means that what you feel is real, love. And this…” Diana gestured at the books, glanced over at her husband who had collapsed into the armchair but was watching wife and nephew with great attention. “This here has to be one of the more romantic gestures I can think of.”

Wolf scoffed, “This isn’t a gesture. I just happened to be reading all of these.”

His aunt cast him a dry look before turning her attention to the scattered volumes.

“You never left notes in books before. Or left piles and piles of them together. You were more of a ‘one book at a time’ sort of lad.”

Wolf gave up, stalking back to the table of books his aunt was perusing and started to stack them, heedless of book size.

“Stop right there, Julian.” His aunt began to help him stack up the books. “I see you retreating into yourself. You, my boy, are not your father. There is no weakness in admitting love. In being kind. That is the excuse those who are cruel and empty use to assuage any moral quandaries they have for stepping on top of others to achieve their goals. You are better than that, Julian. This is amazing. If your lady ever saw this, she would marry you on the spot.”

Julian stared at his aunt for a moment as her deeper message sank into his bones. It was one he had been aware of, it had just been at war with the gentleman his father had molded him to be. The idea of a gentleman that Kemberley had dangled before him and he had so stupidly blundered into being. But he did not wish to be that gentleman anymore. He wanted to be someone worthy of Petra, even if she would never have him. He needed to do something to help free her from Kemberley’s power, to allow her to have her sanctuary without fear.

He sighed as the words swam around inside of him and something greater than shame took hold of his soul and would not let go. “I miss her.”

Aunt Diana smiled up at him. “With this treasure trove of books waiting for her here, I have a feeling she will be here sooner than you think.”

* * *

Petra had found herself in what her old governess, Miss Winston, would have called a peccadillo. Ever since Wolf returned to his London dwellings, Petra had been consumed by a previously unknown restlessness that stole her sleep, much as the mystery of the disappearing maids at Kemberley House once had danced through her mind late at night. That morning she had woken before dawn in her bed in the converted dormitory for the women who found refuge at the old theatre. With its lumpy mattress and creaky frame, it was a far cry from her bed at Kemberley House, with its canopy and damask curtains, but given that she had helped craft the space with her own drive, she relished the threadbare blanket on the cot she slept on.

For that moment between dreams and waking, Petra willed herself to return to sleep. In her dream, Wolf kept whispering in her ear, but the dream version of her could not make out if he was saying “Come for me” or “Come to me”. A shiver ran down her spine that forced her to sit up. Blinking at the sunshine surrounding her, she acknowledged she would not be returning to sleep that morning.

When she fled, Petra had purposefully selected practical day gowns that she could dress herself in. She did not want to be a burden to Cecile here, unlike at Kemberley House where she was Petra’s lady’s maid. Here Cecile had the important role of teaching the women to fight back, no longer an employee of her father, which she was currently doing on the stage, which was the largest open space.

Since the moment she had vacated her father’s townhouse, Petra had not set foot outside the sanctuary and had hardly seen the sun. As she peered into the old theatre mirror before her, she noted how pallid her usually honey-colored skin appeared now. Much to her father’s chagrin, she had inherited her mother’s darker Mediterranean complexion, which had always been a small point of pride to Petra. Another way she could silently defy him.

What would her mother think of her now? She wondered as she took in her plain gray day gown and her pale skin. Petra hoped that perhaps she would be proud of all that she had accomplished, although, sadly, she hardly remembered the woman who had given her life. She recalled a version of herself, though slightly altered, and she realized her mother had not been much older than she was now when she lost her life.

What would her mother think of Lord Wolfridge? Petra turned away from the mirror as her cheeks began to color, still unsure of how she felt about the man and what he had said to her before he left.

“Because that was before I realized I loved you.”

What did she know of love? The only people she loved were the ghost of her mother and a cousin who was now oceans away.

With a boldness that perhaps served as a distraction from her innermost thoughts, Petra donned her black paletot and veiled bonnet. While the quality of the outer garments stood out, she prayed no one would notice her in her dark colors as she left Cecile a quick note of where she was going.

Stepping outside for the first time in weeks, Petra relished the warmth of the sunlight on her skin, even through her veil. The rays restored something within her, the feeling only a sunny day could bring. The smell of hot meats wafted on the air as she made her way to turn right on Russell Street, where a large crowd surrounded what appeared to be a magician. As the crowd made an “ahh” sound, the man pulled a coin, then blew on it, sending a burst of smoke through the air. The next thing Petra knew, his hand was empty as he showed the crowd there was nothing up his sleeve. One man who had clearly imbibed too much ale raced forward to look for the coin, running into a couple ahead of her and knocking the belongings from their hands. Petra moved forward to assist the couple, who she judged to be her father’s age, as the man stumbled, and the petite woman tried to steady him.

“Please, let me help you.” Petra pushed back her veil as she picked up the books from the uneven cobblestones. Glancing at the cover of the books, she recognized several by her favorite author. “Mrs. Gaskell!” She explained, then sheepishly stood up.

The older couple regained their balance and had linked arms before. Petra stood back as the woman brushed the man’s morning coat, touched by the gentleness they showed each other.

“I…she is one of my favorite authors.” Petra held out the books, not quite knowing what to say.

“Oh, thank you dear,” the woman reached forward to take the books but then seemed to think the better of it as her husband appeared to wobble. “Mine as well.” From their clothing and manners, Petra judged they were likely not from London, but she could not tell their background from how they were dressed, which was informal but clean and with fine materials. Not that it mattered. Growing up as a witness to her father had forced her to learn how to read people quickly.

Petra cleared her throat. “You must let me carry these home for you. I could never let a fellow admirer of Mrs. Gaskell miss out on her work.”

“Oh, that would be too kind, how about you accompany us back to our carriage, which is this way? I am Diana and this is my husband, Elliot.” The woman patted her husband’s arm and smiled at her, linking her other arm through hers. Enjoying the informality of the introduction, so at odds with the usual standing on ceremony of the ton, Petra was overcome with a sense of familiarity that she had only ever attached to her own mother or Jillian as the woman went on, “I believe Mrs. Gaskell’s most recent is in Mr. Dickens’ All the Year Round periodical.”

“Yes, Lois the Witch, which was a bit mysterious and dark I suppose.” Petra tried not to reveal how much she enjoyed that darkness, that sense of wonder and dread that a mystery engendered in her, even as that work ended tragically.