Silent In The Grave. Deanna Raybourn

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СКАЧАТЬ situation. It was not a pleasant exercise. I had a home, but it was a draughty, gloomy sort of place now that I was alone. It had always been Edward’s home rather than mine, and had always reflected his personality. With his charm stripped away, it was a shell, and a theatrical one at that. Edward’s taste had been grander than mine, and all of the rooms had been decorated thematically. From the breakfast room with its birdcage stripes, to the drawing room with its Wedgwood-blue walls, Edward had expressed himself exuberantly. There had been no room left for my personality. Even my bedroom and boudoir had been decorated for me, as a wedding present from Edward. They were Grecian, all white marble and blue hangings. The effect was beautiful, but cold, rather like Edward himself, I thought disloyally.

      Only my tiny study, tucked at the back of the house, an afterthought, had been left to my whims. I had brought in an elderly red sofa from March House, its velvet beginning to shred at the seams. There were needlepoint cushions embroidered by my legion of aunts, a cozy armchair that had been my mother’s. The pictures were not particularly good; Edward had commented with wry humour that they were just the thing for an old cottage in the Cotswolds. They were landscapes and portraits of animals, things I had found in the lumber rooms at Bellmont Abbey. They were not valuable, but they reminded me of the country where I had grown up, and I often found myself daydreaming my way into them, walking the painted green hills or petting the fluffy sheep. It was absurdly sentimental of me, but I was deeply attached to Sussex and the memories of my childhood. My mother had died when I was young, but the rest of my life there had been easy and uncomplicated. It was only in London where things seemed difficult.

      So, aside from my untidy little bolt-hole, I did not much like my house. Of course, I still had my family, I thought with some cheer. Ranging from the mildly odd to the wildly eccentric, they were some comfort. I knew that they loved me deeply, but I also knew that they understood me not at all. I had never fought a duel or run away with my footman or ridden a horse naked into Whitehall—all acts for which Marches were infamous. I did not even keep a pet monkey or wear turbans or dye my dogs pink. I lived quietly, conventionally, as I had always wanted, and I think I had been something of a disappointment to them.

      That left my health and my fortune—both of which could disappear overnight as I had seen often enough. I rubbed at my eyes. I was becoming cynical, and not doing much for my state of mind, either. I put my head down on the desk.

      “Darling, is it really so awful?” called a voice from the doorway. I looked up.

      “Portia. I did not know you were here.”

      “I told Aquinas not to announce me. I wanted to surprise you.”

      My sister entered, trailing black scarves and feathers and a cloud of musky rose perfume. She was the only woman I knew who could make mourning look glamorous. She settled herself into Mother’s armchair, cradling her ancient pug against her chest.

      “Did you have to bring that revolting creature?”

      She pulled a face and nuzzled him. “You shouldn’t speak so of Mr. Pugglesworth. He quite likes you.”

      “No, he doesn’t. He bit me last month, remember?”

      Portia clucked at me. “Nonsense. That was a love nibble. He loves his Auntie Julia, don’t you, darling?” She cooed at him for a minute, then settled him onto my favorite cushion.

      “Oh, Portia, please. Not that cushion. He’s flatulent.”

      “Don’t be horrid, Julia. Puggy is nothing of the sort.”

      I put my head back down on my desk. “Why did you come?”

      “Because I knew you would be contemplating suicide in some highly uncreative fashion and I wanted to help.”

      I raised my head just enough to see her. “No, not yet. But I will confess to being completely anguished. Portia, what am I to do?”

      She leaned forward, her March-green eyes sparkling. Portia had always been the most beautiful of my sisters, and she knew just how to use her charms to greatest effect.

      “You can begin by leaving off the self-pity. It is unbecoming,” she said, her tone faintly reproving. “And don’t pout, either. I tell you these things because someone must. You have had a chance to accustom yourself to Edward’s loss. It is time you admitted it is not a crushing blow.”

      I sighed and rested my chin in my hands. “I know. It just feels so awful, so disloyal to admit that I actually feel rather liberated by it.”

      “Not at all. How do you think I felt when Bettiscombe died?”

      “A bit of a different situation, I think,” I put in, remembering her aging, infirm husband. “It was a merciful release when Bettiscombe passed away. He’d been malingering for years.”

      “So had Edward,” she said, a trifle acidly. “We both married sickly men, my darling. The only difference was that we all thought Bettiscombe was hypochondriacal.”

      He had been, poor thing. Always taking his temperature and palpating his pulse. He had been forty-five when Portia married him, and he had seemed robust enough at the time. We all thought his throat drops and chest plasters a charming affectation. But during their first winter together at his home in Norfolk, he had taken a chill and promptly died, leaving Portia a rich widow of twenty.

      Of course, Portia was not quite as distraught as she might have been. In London, Bettiscombe had been charming and waggish, ready for any jape, so long as he was well wrapped against draughts. In the country, he was a perfect mouse, rising at six and retiring by eight. He fretted over everything without the whirl of London distraction, and had left Portia too often in the company of his spinster cousin and poor relation, Jane. He died before the true nature of their relationship became apparent, and Portia lost no time in returning to London and bringing dear Jane with her to set up house together in the elegant town house Bettiscombe had left her. I knew my widowhood should not prove half so interesting to my family as Portia’s had.

      “But you must have felt a tiny prickle of guilt,” I prodded her. Portia frowned. She never liked to be reminded of things she had tucked neatly away.

      “Not guilt, not precisely,” she said slowly. “It was rather more complicated than that. But I had my sweet Jane for compensation. And I think you would do rather better if you counted your own advantages rather than mooning about trying to convince yourself that you have lost your one true love.”

      “Portia, that is unspeakably cruel.”

      Her eyes were sympathetic, but her manner was brisk. “I know that you wish to mourn Edward. He was a lovely person and we were all quite fond of him. But the man you buried was not the child you played with. Do not make the mistake of climbing into his grave and forgetting to live the rest of your life.”

      My fingers were cramping and I realized that my hands were clenched. I rose. “Portia, I do not wish to speak of this now. Not to you, not to anyone. I shall conduct myself as I see fit, not to please you or Father or anyone else,” I finished grandly. I swept to the door.

      “Hoorah,” she said softly, still not moving from Mother’s chair. “The little mouse is beginning to roar.”

      I slammed the door behind me.

      I spent the rest of the day in a high sulk, pouting about the evil treatment I had received at my sister’s hands and trying not to think about the possibility that she might have been correct. Edward had been СКАЧАТЬ