Shana Abe - The Deepest Night

“Forgive me,” Chloe said. She smiled, tremulous. “I know it’s frightfully scandalous of me to come up to your room like this. But I—I had to see you.”

Armand threw a nervous glance in my direction. “It’s late.”

“After two, actually. I couldn’t sleep.” She walked closer, noticed the maps on the floor. “What’s this?”

He bent down, scooped up all the ones he could reach, and snapped them into a pile. “Nothing. Just some research.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Chloe.” Exasperation crept into his tone. “Why are you here?”

She went stock still, her hands clasped before her as if in supplication. Her eyes got bigger and bigger; it almost appeared as if she would cry.

“Don’t you know?” she asked, hushed. “After all these years, don’t you know?”

Apparently he did. He took a step toward her but then stopped, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t say that. Don’t say it.”

“Listen, I—”

“No!” A single tear leaked down her cheek, perfect as a dewdrop. “Everything can still be fine between us. I know you have this—infatuation—with Eleanore. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I can accept it. Temporarily. Gentlemen have all sorts of wants, I realize that. Sometimes they make sense and sometimes they don’t, but even Mamá tells me it is our duty as wives to—to accommodate.” Her fingers began a slow, painful twisting upon themselves. “So I will, Armand. I swear to you I will. You can have me and her. And I won’t ask you about it, and I won’t bother you about it. Just—please, Mandy. I’ve loved you since we were twelve years old. Since the day we met. The hour. The very minute.” Another tear. Another. “How can that mean nothing to you?”

She was weeping openly now, doing it just as beautifully as she did everything else. Her nose was barely pink and her eyes glistened like jewels, and she never moved otherwise. Just her hands, twisting and twisting.

So he went to her, and stilled her by cupping his fingers over hers.

“Don’t you think you deserve better than that?”

She tilted her face to his. “I don’t want better! I only want you.”

“How could you want to marry a man who thought so little of you that he’d keep you at home while chasing someone else?”

“It’s not little. It’s how it is!”

“Not for us. Not for me, and, I hope, not for you. You deserve someone who loves you without conditions. Who would never look at another woman for the rest of his life with anything but indifference, because you are the sum of his dreams. The one girl whose eyes shine with all the days and nights he prays will come. His stars and his sun and his moon. His happiness, his true heart.” His voice roughened. “His everything.”

She gazed up at him, her lips trembling. “Is that it? Is that how you feel about her?”

“Yes,” he said, and dropped his hands.

She swallowed, looked around. Gave a pained nod. She licked the tears from her lips and turned about, walking back to the door.

Opening it, passing though. Closing it.

He only watched her go.

I hesitated, then poured back into my human shape. I picked up my blanket and held it to my chest.

“Armand …”

“Not now, Eleanore.” He spoke to the wall; I was granted only his profile, chiseled against the shadows. “Let’s continue this tomorrow.”

“I—”

“Tomorrow. Please.”

I nodded, realized he couldn’t see it, and murmured, “As you wish.”

Then, just as Chloe had done, I slunk out of the room.

I didn’t run into him the next morning or afternoon. I didn’t seek him out, though, figuring it a good idea to allow him his peace. Just remembering what he’d said about me to Chloe made me feel hot and awkward and disturbingly exhilarated. I knew I likely needed some time away from him as well.

 … his stars and his sun and his moon … 

Had he really meant for me to hear all that? How was I going look him in the eyes now?

In any case, I didn’t need him for the next part of our plan.

All I needed was Lottie Clayworth.

It was well known that Lady Clayworth enjoyed midday sherry and sandwiches in the gardens if the weather was satisfactory. A pair of footmen set up a table for her in the same spot at the same time every day, and sure enough, that’s where I found her: in a gazebo beneath a massive, droopy plum tree gravid with purple-frosted fruit, eating and drinking in regal isolation as various men and their nurses crisscrossed the grounds to take in the air.

I approached the gazebo with confident steps. It was important that anyone watching believe I was welcome.

“Good afternoon, Lady Clayworth.”

She peered up at me from beneath the brim of a hat adorned with stuffed canaries, a cucumber sandwich paused halfway to her mouth.

“Who are you?”

I put on my best you-can-trust-me smile. “Miss Jones, of course. We met the other night, when your nephew was still here.”

“Who?”

“Miss Jones.”

“Ah, yes.” Up came the spectacles; she gave me the up-and-down. “Your looks are somewhat improved.”

I sank into a half curtsy. “I am dressed for tea, my lady.”

“Hmph.” She took in my frock and was apparently none too pleased that she couldn’t find fault with it. I’d chosen my best day dress—the best I’d been able to find ready-made in the village, that is—which was collared and beribboned and utterly inoffensive. Even the color was inoffensive, a bland shade caught somewhere between gray and dun.

“What is it you want, young lady? As you can see, I’m busy.”

“Why, only to sit a while with you.”

She heard that well enough, and smiled in triumph. “Alas. There is but one chair, and I am in it.”

“True,” I said breezily. “So I’ll just rest here against the railing, if you don’t mind.”

Her lip curled; she ate chippies like me for breakfast. “But I do.”

“No.” I scooted until I was very close, close enough to lean down and capture her eyes and speak darkly, deliberately. “No, you don’t mind.”

“No,” she confirmed, with faint, offended disbelief. “I … I don’t.”

A butterfly landed on the beveled rim of the sherry glass, a teal-and-brown striped tigress. Her wings opened and closed and opened, absorbing the sun.

“Lady Clayworth, listen carefully. You have a cousin. A dear, dear cousin who’s taken ill. You must go to her at once.”

“Oh, my,” she said, her brows wrinkling.

“You will find her back at your own home. And that is where you will go. Tell me, where is your home?”

“Tewkesbury. Just north of the Severn. Oh, my. Oh, my.”

“You’ll find her there. What is her name?”

“It’s … is it Gracie? Is it my own Gracie?”

“Yes. Gracie needs you, but you do not feel quite right about going there alone. You need me to come along as your companion. Do you understand? You’ve invited me to come with you. To stay with you. Until Gracie is better.”

“Oh, I’m so grateful you can come,” she said, and took my hand.

I patted hers lightly. “One does hate to travel alone these days.”

Lottie nodded, and the canaries on her hat nodded with her. “One does hate to travel alone.”

“We’ll leave on tomorrow’s train. Is that time enough for you to be packed?”

“Yes. I shall have the maids attend to it at once! My Gracie!”

“Very good.” I reached around her and grabbed two sandwiches, sending the butterfly aloft. “I’ll see you soon. Enjoy your meal.”

I’d bought a new travel case when I’d gotten my new clothes, an arbitrary purchase, like all the rest. The sleepy fishing village that served Tranquility wasn’t precisely known for its haute couture, and I’d had to make do with whatever was available. But at least all my garments now fit, and the case was sturdy, if ugly, with leather sides and thick-stitched seams and brass brads holding everything together along the edges. It looked as if it might survive a sinking ship.

Perhaps it’d have to.

“Eleanore Jones. I think we ought to have a chat.”

I looked up from folding a blouse over my bed, discovering Sophia sauntering past the door.

“I thought ladies knew to knock before entering someone else’s boudoir.”

“That eliminates the element of surprise.” She was dressed for dinner in the sort of gown that wouldn’t be for sale around here in a million years, a long black satin sheath, tight metallic lacework over the bodice and sleeves.

Dinner. The clock on the desk informed me I was about to miss it; my stomach growled.

In perfect counterpoint, a rumble of thunder came from beyond the windows. It was miles off still, but the sky above Tranquility had gone a bubbly deep soot, leaving only a feeble, jaundiced wedge of light stuck between the sea and clouds.

Sometimes I heard that rumble and it wasn’t thunder at all. It was the sound of the Germans bombing cities and towns far, far down the coast, a sound that only I could perceive. But tonight it was just thunder.

Rain was coming. Bad timing, but it was too late to switch things up now.

“What is it?” I asked absently, realizing I was going to need to change my dress yet again. Morning dresses, tea dresses, dinner dresses, dance dresses, different wraps and hats and gloves for each … I was beginning to understand what upper-class women did all day.

My armoire was empty. I’d already packed nearly everything, so I went back to the case and began to rummage through it.