Page 15 of The Heir
Lehzen blew out a long breath. “Very well. I will see if I can go speak with him as soon as I can get away.”
“Thank you, Lehzen.”
“Now, ma’am, you must lie down and rest. I will make a poultice for your back. It will keep the muscles from stiffening and make it easier for you to stand straight for the dinner tonight.”
“I don’t think I can manage the dinner,” murmured Victoria. Shame filled her, and fear.
“I’m afraid you must. If you try to beg off, your mother will say you invented this story of seeing a dead man to get out of your duties. And Sir John . . .”
Lehzen did not finish. She did not have to. They both knew what he would say. He had already said it.
It is the taint of her father’s blood.
Victoria let herself be undressed and lay down on her bed. Lehzen unlaced her corset and shift to bare her back. Dash was absolutely forbidden to be on the bed, but he stretched out on the floor beside her and rolled over onto his back so she could lay her hand on his warm belly.
Victoria squeezed her eyes shut. She made herself picture the grassy slope, the gray sky, the rippling curtains of rain. Made herself remember how she pulled back the reins to slow Prince, how she felt his gait falter. She remembered that she struggled to keep her seat, to guide her horse, to look ahead for holes, for stones, and other hazards.
She remembered the world turning over. The pain and the stars. She remembered twisting around to try to sit up.
It was then she saw the black figure crumpled on the ground. It was unmistakably a man. It was not a hillock. It was not a shadow. She saw the man’s head, saw the blue-gray skin through the disheveled, thinning hair. Saw the hand flung out at an unnatural angle. Saw the way the whole body seemed deflated.
I saw it. I did see it.
Except she now also saw a mound of dirt and a pile of gray stones stained green with lichen. Involuntarily, she imagined how they might lie close to each other, creating the illusion of a prostrate man.
Sir John said it could be. So, her treacherous mind now wondered how it might be, and tried to construct it. And the more she thought about it, the clearer the construction became. The memory—the true memory—began to blur, like the view beyond the dirty windows.
I must think of something else. I must not deceive myself because Sir John has lied. But . . . could he be right? If Hornsby didn’t see anything—No. Sir John was not there. I was. I saw it.She squeezed her eyes more tightly closed.
Lehzen was humming and moving about the room. A warm towel, thickly plastered with herbs and goose grease, was laid on her aching back. Victoria, exhausted and lulled by the warmth and Lehzen’s familiar, secure presence, felt the world begin to slip away.
I did see it. Him. I did.
She kept repeating this to herself as darkness dragged her down into sleep.
Chapter 7
“Jane? Is that you?”
Jane had hoped that once she reached home, she’d be able to run straight upstairs to the rooms she shared with her sister. Unfortunately, the door to the blue parlor was open, so Mother heard her entrance.
“Jane?”
“Yes, Mother!” Jane called back.
“What are you doing home?” called Mother. “Where’s your father? Oh, do come in here. I’m too exhausted to be shouting.”
Betty’s smile was triumphant, and her pointed glance at Jane’s muddy hems and soiled boots was positively pitying.
Betty whisked away Jane’s coat, bonnet, gloves, and bag with smug efficiency, leaving Jane to bat feebly at her skirts. Her hair was surely a ruin, as well.
She told herself not to worry. Mother disliked any sort of bother, and the list of things that bothered her frequently included her younger daughter. She would make a few dismayed remarks and then let Jane go upstairs.
“Jane?”
Jane slunk into the parlor.
Somehow, Mother always managed to look like a painting. Just now, she lay back on the sofa, as prostrate as her corset permitted. A froth of ocean-blue skirts spread out all around her. Despite her seeming swoon, her hair remained fetchingly arranged, with her curls draped perfectly across one white shoulder.
