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It was a fine evening, crisp and cool. The air didn’t smell as clean as it did by the ocean, but the coal smoke wasn’t overpowering because of the brisk breeze.
They walked along the street, the gas lighting casting pools of golden light. There was no one out. Everything was silent, as if the world was holding its breath.
He took her hand because he had to touch her.
“This one,” she said.
A town house like any of the others on the street. Stone, wood, bricks, and glass.
“This is where I grew up. My parents left me here when they traveled, which was most of the year. They were always traveling on the Continent. Once they even visited America.”
“What were their names?” he asked.
“George and Lilly. My mother loved to wear red gowns. I had one of her gowns altered.”
“The scarlet gown you changed into?”
“The very one. I believe you said it looked like a rose mated with a bawdy house sofa.”
“I didn’t know it was your mother’s gown.”
“No one would. The seamstress made far too many modifications, added too many frills. But the fabric remained the same. A memory from my childhood. She was always laughing, always chattering, she never stood still. In my memory she’s just this swirl of red, like a brushstroke on a canvas eternally caught in motion.”
That’s how he felt about Mina. That she was this swirling force that touched everything around her with renewed life. “And you wanted to be just like her when you grew up.”
“Of course I did. During their infrequent sojourns in London they held the most decadent and notorious at-homes with all of the dissipated artists, writers, wits, and adventurers. I used to sneak out of my bed and watch from the upstairs balcony. I saw Lord Byron drinking wine and reciting poetry.”
“I can tell you from personal experience that Byron was a donkey’s arse.”
“And yet you quoted his poetry to me.”
“I had suffered a blow to the head.”
“You must admit that his words hold power. The power to move our hearts.”
She had the power to move his heart. And that scared him. It was impossible to be in her presence and remain impassive. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “But you have to admit that his private life was a disaster. Much like Rafe’s life is now.”
He couldn’t resist pointing out the similarities. It still galled him that she’d ever considered his brother as a marriage prospect.
“Before she left with my father on their final tour of the Continent, my mother gave me a gift that I’ve only recently begun to understand.”
“A family heirloom?” he asked.
“Five words. It was the day my parents left. I was sullen all morning, plaguing my governess and refusing to do any lessons. My mother entered the schoolroom. I ran to her, threw my arms around her waist, and begged her to take me with them.”
“You were ten years old?”
“Yes, too young to go with them but I didn’t understand that. It was almost as if my mother had a premonition that she would never see me again. She dismissed my governess. I made a fuss and she let me cry and she didn’t try to quiet me. She let me cry myself out and then she smoothed my hair back from my face, and she looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Don’t be a good girl.’ That’s it. That’s what she said. And then she left and I never saw her again.”
“What an odd piece of advice for a mother to give her daughter.”
“I’ve asked myself so many times what she meant by that. Had I misheard? Had she actually said, “Be a good girl,” which would of course be what most people would have said, but I’m sure that’s what she said. And I think she was giving me her philosophy of life. Good girls are supposed to be rewarded—the good girls who know their place, the girls who don’t make a fuss, the girls who stay inside. She was telling me to break the rules, to not care what people thought of me.”
“Not an easy or popular philosophy.”
“Especially with my guardian. He always promised me that I could go to London when I turned sixteen. Then it was seventeen. Then eighteen. I made a vow when I was stuck in the countryside facing the prospect of a dreary spinster life as my uncle’s secretary, that if I were ever allowed to have a Season I would make it count. I would taste all the fruits of town, be they sinful or saintly.”
“You’re here now.”
