“I’m not going to fall in love; it’s not the sort of thing I do.” This sounded so unintentionally melodramatic that I was embarrassed, and felt the need to laugh and add, “Nor am I going to sleep with him. Not that I’d mind, if he weren’t a research subject.”
Liam stopped walking and gazed down at me, blushing, hesitating. I marveled at how I’d ever found him homely, for even his flaws now charmed me: his slightly crooked nose, his excess of chin, the habitually gloomy expression in his beautiful eyes. The rain had passed the drops stage, was more of a drizzle, but we ignored it.
“What? I’m just being honest. He’s handsome and he’s funny and he’s Jane Austen’s brother. Sure I’m attracted. Is that so terrible? I have no tender feelings for him. I don’t do tender, either.”
“All right then,” Liam said, taking his eyes off me with what seemed an effort and starting to walk again so abruptly that he disturbed a knot of crows; they scattered, fluttering and shrieking, from a loaf of bread they’d been working on. “Is there anything else I should know, while we’re exploring the subject?”
I took a breath. Maybe this was my opening. “Is there anything else you want to know?” I asked playfully, putting a hand on his arm.
“Rachel!” he began, turning toward me again, now with the same look of dismay he’d worn back at the house. “You are heartless, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” I let my hand fall away.
“Don’t—just don’t—I’m not—Don’t mock me. Please.”
“Who was mocking you?”
But the rain could no longer be called drizzle; the sky opened up. We wheeled and started back at a brisker pace, too late. Before we reached home we were running and breathless, sped on by gusts of wind that flung sheets of rain at us. Water squelched in my half boots, my shawl was sodden, the lower half of my dress clinging suggestively and weighing me down, my bonnet a wreck. Jencks and North, with towels and assurances we’d catch our deaths, hurried us off to our separate rooms and into dry clothes.
WHEN WE RECONVENED IN THE DRAWING ROOM, I HAD THE SENSE of a danger averted. We drank tea and said nothing that could not be overheard; I had no proof, had never caught him at it, but I felt that Jencks listened at doors. It was a way he had of seeming busy in the hallway when I sometimes came out of the drawing room stealthily; he would be straightening a picture that always hung crooked or running his finger along the wainscoting in search of dust. Nothing a servant might not reasonably do, yet why just then?
Liam, reverting to his old air of formality, looked anywhere but at me, which was something of a relief. I was mystified by exactly what he’d said on our walk, yet its general sense was clear: he was warning me off; he had some scruples, perhaps connected to his fiancée. I hadn’t given up hope, but I needed to rethink my approach.
We discussed the Henry Austen problem, elliptically.
“It’s awkward,” I said. “A definite no will close doors with the sisters. But something must be said. Sooner or later. How long do I get, to think?”
Liam, staring into the fire, shook his head. “Take as long as you can, is my advice. But once the thing with the bank happens—” He did not finish his thought.
“I wish I’d managed to forestall this. I shouldn’t have let myself be alone with him.”
His eyes met mine for an instant before he dropped his gaze and muttered: “Maybe I should talk to him. Tell him you’re thinking. Have the money chat.”
I was briefly tempted; it would appear to move things forward, without the need for me to face Henry.
But then I shook my head. “I need to do this myself.”
If Liam talked to Henry, Henry would know I had told him what had happened. But could he imagine that I would have told everything: my own indiscreet behavior, his eager response? Impossible, yet the idea gave me a chill: the two of them talking about me, one knowing what the other merely suspected.
THE WET WEATHER CONTINUED FOR SEVERAL DAYS, GIVING ME AN excuse to stay home from Hans Place. Liam went, reporting that Henry’s health was continuing to improve, that he had said nothing about wishing to marry me, and that Jane sent her regards.
Then one morning she came to visit, a thing she’d never done before.
“Henry left me here,” she explained. “I told him I would catch up to him in Henrietta Street; I must do some shopping and then we will go home; he is not yet strong enough to spend a full day at the bank.”
It was an honor but a surprise too; I knew she had to be busy with the proofs of Emma.
“I shall order the carriage; I can take you to Henrietta Street myself. Or perhaps you prefer my brother as escort; or we can all three go. He is still upstairs dressing; he will be down soon.”
“Does he take longer to dress than you?” She looked amused. “But it is as well; I am always happy to see him, but it is agreeable to have a quiet coze with you.” There was a pregnant pause as I debated whether Henry would have told her he’d proposed. “You are not affronted that Henry did not stop in but merely left me here?”
“Not at all. He has a bank to run.”
“He does.” She paused again. “He did not wish to seem to tease you.”
“Oh, he would never do that.”
He must have told her, then.
She studied me with her bright eyes, so much like her brother’s. “If there is anything I can tell you, Miss Ravenswood, to set your mind at ease, please do not hesitate; ask me.” A creak of footsteps came from the floor above. “Your maid has the dressing of your hair?” she went on quickly, and I nodded, whipsawed by this abrupt change in subject. “She must be more than usually gifted, for I always think you have the most enchanting curls, so natural-looking. How does she contrive to make them so springy and variegated?”
“Nature, madam, made them so.” I was disconcerted; in her world personal compliments are rude, except among the closest of friends. This newly intimate tone meant what?
“So it did! I see now.” She leaned closer for a look. “I was misled, for your brother’s hair, though equally dark, is so straight.”
At that moment, to my relief, Liam walked in.
CHAPTER 11
DECEMBER 1
En Route