Regency Surrender: Notorious Secrets. Marguerite Kaye

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      ‘Jack, I—’

      ‘No, don’t say another word.’ He rounded on her. ‘You! That is what is behind this. Ever since you— As if I didn’t have enough on my mind without having to lie awake thinking of you and your damned kisses and your damned questions. Why can’t I eat? Why can’t I sleep? Why do I— What did you call it?’

      ‘Disappear.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper. His anger was not directed at her, but it terrified her, the depths of his anxiety. Though he loomed over her, she stood her ground. ‘Jack...’

      He threw her hand from his arm. ‘Don’t pity me. I neither require nor desire your pity, Mademoiselle. I want—I want...’ He flung himself back on to the sofa and dropped his head into his hands. ‘Hell’s teeth, I don’t know what I want. I’m sorry. I’m better left to my own devices at the moment. Best if you leave.’

      Celeste turned to do as he bid her, remembering her own desire yesterday to retire to her bedchamber and lick her wounds, but then she stopped, and instead sat down on the sofa beside him. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, Jack. I don’t know what I feel for you, to be honest, but I know it’s not pity.’

      He did not look up, but he did not turn away either.

      She wasn’t sure what it was she was trying to say. She was reluctant to say anything, especially if it was an unpalatable truth, but she knew she couldn’t leave him like this, bereft and seemingly lost. ‘You were correct,’ she said, though it made her feel quite sick to admit it, ‘when you said that Maman’s death was— That it meant more to me than I thought. You were right.’

      Jack lifted his head. Celeste had to fight the urge to run away. She dug her feet into the wooden floor. ‘I blamed you yesterday for what I was feeling. I thought, if it hadn’t been for you, I would not be feeling—’ She broke off, raising her hands helplessly. ‘I don’t know what. Something, as opposed to nothing.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I had no right to pry.’

      ‘No more than I did, but it didn’t stop me either. I am sorry too.’

      ‘I never used to have such a foul temper, you know.’

      ‘Moi aussi, never. Perhaps there is something in the air at Trestain Manor.’

      Jack’s smile was perfunctory, but it was a smile. ‘I don’t know what Charlie is playing at, telling Robert those stupid stories, making it sound as if war is some great adventure.’

      ‘Isn’t that what you thought at that age?’ Celeste asked carefully.

      ‘Precisely.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘And now I know better.’

      ‘Jack, Robert is just a little boy. He doesn’t need or deserve to have his illusions shattered at such a tender age. Why not indulge him a little? What is so different, really, from telling him the kind of stories you once told your brother?’

      ‘I only ever told Charlie the kind of things he wanted to hear.’

       ‘Exactement.’

      He was silent for a long time. Finally, he shook his head, pressed her hand and got to his feet. ‘I need some fresh air, and you are probably wanting to get on with your work. I’m going to try to manage an hour on horseback without falling off.’

      ‘But your arm...’

      ‘Will recover faster if I use the blasted thing. I’m not made of glass. Besides,’ Jack added with a grin, ‘you’ve no idea how embarrassing it is for an officer of the Dragoons to fall from his horse. If any of my comrades knew, I’d never be allowed to forget it.’

      * * *

      The next day, as Jack had predicted it would, it was raining. Not the kind of polite, soft rain that Celeste had imagined would fall in an English summer, but a heavy downpour rather like the kind of summer storm in Cassis that turned the narrow streets into raging torrents. Gazing out of the windows of her studio, it was as if the sky consisted of one leaden grey cloud that had been sliced open. Water poured from the gutters on to the paths, cutting new channels into the flower beds. The branches of the trees bent under the weight of the deluge.

      Celeste shivered, wrapping the shawl she had fetched after breakfast more tightly around her, for the flimsy sprigged-muslin gown she wore was no protection against the cold, damp air. She looked longingly at the small fireplace, imagining the comfort of a fire. In August! She doubted that the hardy Lady Eleanor would think it necessary.

      It was too dark to work, and too wet to go outside. Sir Charles, fretting about the harvest, was planning on a tour of the closest farms, though when his wife had quizzed him on what he thought could be achieved, other than a thorough drenching, he had been unable to supply her with an answer. Lady Eleanor was to spend the morning in the kitchen making jam. A task she and her sisters used to look forward to every year when they were growing up, she had told Celeste over the breakfast table. She hoped to pass her receipts on to her own daughters, when they arrived, but in the meantime, she would be sharing the task with cook. She did not ask Celeste if she wanted to join them in the kitchen.

      ‘And I am glad she did not, for I know nothing at all about making jam or pickles or any of these things the English take such pride in,’ Celeste muttered to herself. The truth was, she thought, looking despondently out at the garden, she knew almost nothing about French cooking either. Frowning, she tried to recall if she had ever seen her mother in the kitchen, and could not. They had always had a cook. Her mother planned the meals, she recalled, writing out the menus for the week in the book in which she kept painstaking household accounts, but, no, not once could Celeste recall her actually shopping for food or preparing it. Then, at school, the kitchens were out of bounds, and in her Parisian garret, she could make coffee, but nothing more substantial.

      She leafed through her sketches, which were laid out on a large table set against the wall. She didn’t even like jam, but when Lady Eleanor talked about sharing the task with her sisters, Celeste had felt quite envious. There had been a softness about her ladyship too, as she speculated about a time when her yet-to-be-born daughter would join her in the kitchen. Celeste cast her sketches aside and returned to the window. Was there nothing, no small domestic task she and her mother had shared?

      Painting. Yes, there were the painting and drawing lessons, though there were so many that, to Celeste’s frustration, the memory was blurred. She could remember spending hours and hours trying to draw a cat. She could remember struggling to hold her brush in the correct manner. She could remember painting endless bowls of fruit. But her memories were all of her hand, the paper, the paints, the result. She could not recall what her mother had said of any of her work. Could not remember a single occasion when her father—Henri, she corrected herself—had passed any opinion at all on her talent. In fact she could not remember him being present at all.

      Outside, the rain was easing. Sir Charles would be relieved. The grass looked much greener, almost too glossy to be real. The trees too looked freshly painted. They reminded her of the idealised pictures in a storybook that her mother used to read to her. She had forgotten that. Returning to the sofa, she sat down and closed her eyes. Her mother was reading the story, her finger pointing to the words so that Celeste could follow along. The book was in English. Where had it come from? Had it been her mother’s as a child? The pages had been worn. The book contained several stories, each beautifully illustrated. An expensive book.

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