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“I see. I will retire to our rooms after dinner, then and wait for you.”
“Thank you.”
He lifted her hand, and pressed a kiss to it, then led her into the house, where a silent footman waited, holding the door for them.
>>>
Leon could feel his heart breaking, with every moment. Iris was being determined, and strong, but he could see how much Maggie’s words and actions had hurt her. He had been mad to think that this could work, that he could have a true marriage, while Maggie still walked this earth. Now, having been foolish enough to allow Iris to stay in that music room with him, at Lady Gillieston’s, foolish enough to allow his musical connection to her to carry him along into marriage, and to this moment, the harsh truth had become obvious – despite the fact that he had come to admire her, to love her, he had to expect that, after today, she would despise him for what he had done to her.
He pressed a kiss to her hand, then led her into the house. Through the introductions to the staff, she carried herself magnificently, as if the scene on the forecourt had never happened - pride rose within him then, and respect for her courage. Dinner was strained, and they spoke little – he suspected that his mother was beginning to wonder if him marrying had really been the right thing, no matter how much she had previously advocated for it.
As he went up to play for Maggie, he wondered if he would ever be allowed untrammelled happiness.
Chapter Eight
The faint distant sound of music had died away some minutes ago, and Iris sat, attired in her nightrail and wrap, her book forgotten in her lap, the candle beside her near guttered out, and the glow of the fire gilding everything around her with a red gold burnish. The small parlour she sat in adjoined their suite of rooms – a different configuration than the rooms in the Townhouse, but with just as much private space and convenience. It was also simply decorated in blue and cream, but this room had a window, and deep burgundy curtains closed out the night.
She listened to the sounds of this house, so different from any house she had ever lived in – the soft creaking of floorboards in the hallway the only indication that someone approached. For a moment, fear assailed her, then she pushed that aside. Surely, it was Leon, coming to their rooms now that Maggie slept and he had been released from playing.
But the shiver of disquiet remained.
She turned sharply as the door opened, then sank back in relief.
It was Leon. He closed the door behind him, and clipped the lock into place. Curious, she watched. This house had the most modern locks she had ever seen, and she wondered why. And why he locked the door – did he think that someone might attempt to enter, uninvited?
That thought brought another shiver of disquiet.
“I thought that you might have gone to your rest by now. It took far longer than usual to soothe Maggie into sleep tonight.”
He walked across to her as he spoke, and settled onto the couch beside her. She set the book down on the small side table, and met his eyes.
“I wanted to talk with you, to understand more of Maggie, and what I can reasonably expect to happen over the coming weeks. I would hope to avoid scenes like that which we suffered on the forecourt today, if I may.”
He took her hands in his, and she shivered again, but this time, from pleasure, feeling heat spread through her at his touch. Would he kiss her again?
“I wish that I had spoken to you of this when we were in London. I apologise again for my selfishness in not doing so. I… I just wanted that few days of my life to be separate from all of this…”
“Now that I have met Maggie, I believe that I can understand that desire. But… tell me more – how did she come to be like this? When did it start?”
“Truthfully, none of us are sure. When I was very small, Maggie seemed normal – to me, at least. She was always a little intense, but not irrational. We played together, as children do, and she learnt music with me. But it was never easy for her.”
“Did she play the pianoforte?”
“Only a little, yet she loved to share it with me. For a while, at least. She soon decided that I played so well, she was better just to listen to me. I only really began to see that something was not right when I was about ten years old, and she twelve. Before that, she had clear preferences for things – like the colour of her clothes – but was amenable to variety. At twelve, she became less tractable, and more obsessed with certain things. My father allowed it, spoiling her, for he had always been easily swayed by her smiles. But those obsessions grew, and her health faded away. She became progressively more frail, suffering congestion of the lungs each winter, and being easily prone to sores on her hands and arms. The only thing that settled her, even then, was her own rooms, filled with her own things – which became, over time, utterly dominated by the colour green. I have quite come to hate the colour green.”
“But… the irrationality… the… madness?”
“The madness. Yes, that is the correct word, sadly. That came slowly too. Over a number of years, she was less and less sensible, less and less willing to leave her rooms for any length of time, and more prone to fits of temper. When father spoke of possibly sending me away to school. She became inconsolable – so much so that it was decided to simply arrange tutors for me. When it came the time that we should have been preparing for her coming out, we were, instead, planning how best to keep her away from society, and protect her. By then, her health was very fragile. The times when Father took me to London, to meet my peers and to prepare me for the day when I would inherit, we only ever stayed away a few days before coming back here, or Maggie would become impossible to manage.”
“Then this last week…?”
“Made her quite distraught, and has no doubt left Mrs Withercombe utterly exhausted.”
“Is there no hope of improvement?”
“I do not think so. We have consulted the best physicians, but they all shook their heads and wanted to bleed her – which would only weaken her further. None could offer an explanation of the illness, or any real suggestions which might promote healing. So we have done our best, by observing the times that she is better, and the times that she is worse, and drawing our own conclusions. All we have been able to determine is that, if we can get her to walk outside in the grounds, it is better, and if we can get her to eat more meat, she is strengthened – but she will not walk outside in autumn or winter, and she barely eats, usually refusing all but green vegetables.”
“I have never heard of such a condition before.”
