Jacqueline Navin - The Sleeping Beauty

“That’s harsh, sir.”

“Indeed. So they will know how serious I am about this matter. My daughter’s secret is to be kept.”

“Very good, then. I’ll tell them.”

“And have Charles fetch another bottle, will you?”

Her frown creased her face. “Yes, my lord.”

Adam spent the better part of the afternoon in the stables, as his room had to be “aired.” Judging from the din coming from the house and the sight of several windows flung open to disgorge huge amounts of dust, the term “aired” was a euphemism for a full-fledged scrubbing.

While they worked, he enjoyed the company of horses and was surprised to find some astonishing specimens of horseflesh housed in the stalls. There were the work animals, and two fine Arabians whose sagging bellies bespoke of overfeeding and no exercise. With nothing better to do, he took them out to the paddock and trotted them a bit, then brushed them down when a quick-rolling thunderstorm drove them inside.

Tired and having worked up an appetite, Adam wandered into the house. The kitchens were deserted. Pilfering a smoked sausage from a string of links hanging on a peg, he munched as he sauntered out of the room and roamed the halls.

He smothered the smug sense of proprietorship that came over him. The place was nothing short of magnificent—underneath the dirt. It would be his someday. It felt good, and this surprised him. After all, he didn’t even expect to be living in it, save those times he was obligated to visit.

Yet his mind couldn’t help but create images of what the Romanesque busts would look like without their layer of grime, and just how brilliantly the gold leaf would glimmer if the filth-lined windows actually allowed in some light.

His good mood dwindled, however, as he passed through room after room of moth-eaten draperies and dust-dulled furniture. The Sleeping Beauty…yes, he felt like he was in an enchanted castle, and it was starting to send creeping tremors of disquiet up his spine.

The eerie effect was worsened by the loud patter of rain on the windowpanes. It sounded like bony fingers tapping, begging entry. It followed him as he wound his way through the house.

There was a music room, a portrait gallery, a column-lined portico overlooking a large ballroom that was now used for storage, apparently. In a small parlor, a painting caught his eye.

He moved closer, stopping when the sound of scurrying mice overrode the soft brush of his footsteps. Looking up, he studied the face framed above the fireplace.

It was her—Helena. Squinting, he looked again. Wasn’t it?

The woman in the painting looked like her, but the eyes were colder. Empty, maybe, and devoid of fire. Her face was perfect, however, with high cheekbones blushed just right with the color of roses, and that pouting mouth that was slightly overfull and far too lush for her otherwise serious face. Her nose was perfection, her brow flawless. Dressed in an elaborate costume more suited to the last decade than to this, she was looking haughtily off into the distance, as if the laboring of the artist were of no consequence to her.

Oh, yes, this was Helena. That arrogance was unmistakable.

He let his eyes wander over the painted bustline, pushed up and flowing nicely over the straight line of the stomacher. It was a daring dress. Her breasts were exposed nearly to the nipples.

Low in his belly, a snake of desire stirred to life, coiling tightly like a cobra right before it struck. The artist had rendered her thin, but not as thin as she was now. The elegant length of her neck and the willowy repose of her bared arms showed enough flesh to make his mouth go dry. The difference in her face was also noticeable, fleshing out the promise of her otherworldly beauty.

This was undoubtedly an exquisite woman. Adam wondered if the artist had been flattering his subject, or had Helena once exuded that incredible blend of austere coolness and promised sensuality?

Immediately following these ponderings were the obvious questions, the questions that a man who had not come all the way to Northumberland for money alone would have asked first thing. Why?

Why did this incredible house resemble a tomb?

Why did the mistress dress and act like a common servant?

Why did a great and celebrated beauty shrink among the shadows and hide from the world?

He had told himself it didn’t matter, but he was interested now.

“Mr. Mannion, sir,” a woman’s voice said from the doorway.

He started and spun around. A middle-aged woman in a checked muslin skirt and shawl knotted around her hunched shoulders smiled at him. She was pleasant looking, with bright eyes and a scooped nose that made her look a bit impish. “I am Mrs. Kent, the housekeeper,” she said. “Your room is done and your things have arrived from the village. They’ve been unpacked. Would you like me to show you the way now?”

“Very well,” he said, following Mrs. Kent out the door. Before he left, he cast one quick glance over his shoulder at the portrait and felt a renewed rush of curiosity.

What had happened?

Pausing at the threshold of the dining room, Helena took a bracing breath and squared her shoulders. But when she entered, she found only her father, seated at the head of the long polished table.

She was a bit taken aback by the fine linens and sparkling crystal and china settings. Looking about, she took in the improvements to the drafty place.

“Mrs. Kent has been busy today,” she commented, taking one of the places set on either side of his.

“It is a time of great change,” her father muttered into his glass. Although he had a wineglass at his place setting, he had his large fist wrapped around a tumbler.

“Indeed,” she said, sitting stiffly and shaking out the linen napkin. “Here we are having dinner together, no more trays in our rooms. Just like civilized people.”

“Helena, please. Not now.”

“Of course, Father. Pardon me for troubling you. It’s just that being bartered off to a complete stranger moments after setting eyes on him has put me a bit out of sorts…but, no, I must not speak of such things, mustn’t I? I always should remember my manners.”

“My God,” he swore, and guzzled the drink down to the last drop.

“Isn’t that what I was always taught—deportment above all things?”

“That was your mother.”

“And where were you when I was being instructed in this treatise and all the rules of haute société? Off hunting?” Leaning forward, she gripped the edge of the table until it cut into her palm. “I remember wanting to go with you so badly. Once, when I was six years old, Mother had me dressed in a perfect white frock trimmed with delicate pink satin bows all along the hem. It was a beautiful dress, and costly. I know because she told me so, reminding me to take care, hounding me, really. I hated the thing, hated the prison I was in when I wore it. Trapped into being a lady when I wanted to run and jump and yell like a Red Indian.

“We were going to tea at a neighbor’s. I always hated that, having to sit there perfectly still, perfectly silent, perfectly deported. When I saw you going to the stables, I ran out of the house and asked you to take me with you. I cried, ‘Pick me up, Papa!’ and held my arms out to you.”

George Rathford hunched over in his seat, shielding himself from her words as if they were physical blows.

“You looked at me and smiled. I wonder if you remember. I thought for a moment you were going to lift me up and carry me off to a grand adventure. I knew at that moment you were my absolute hero and that you’d rescue me.” She paused a moment before continuing, sotto voce. “And then Mother came. She scolded me and sent me inside, but I defied her, sure you would tell her that we were going hunting together, sure you would stand firm. Sure you would take me with you.”