My True Love
Gave to Me
… eleven pipers piping …
Chapter Eleven
Anna Kittrell
Lady Dinah flicked open
her fan. Why was it so dreadfully hot in here? She feared perspiration would
dampen her green silk dress.
“Glass of water, milady?”
Her governess, Marie, creased her freckled brow. “You are pouring like a sieve.”
Dinah fanned faster.
“Thank you, Marie, a glass of water would be lovely.” She swallowed, her throat
burning.
She had hoped her
wooziness would go unnoticed, but hope never granted her favors. Naturally, Marie
had noticed her condition. She’d helped care for Dinah since infancy, then
quietly stepped into the role of fulltime caregiver nearly a year ago, when
Dinah’s mother died of influenza.
Dinah swept a bleary glance around the
enormous ballroom. Marie was the only reason she had accepted the prestigious invitation
to the Pemberton Christmas Ball. To afford her governess the opportunity to
dress up, socialize, dance. She loved the aging woman like a mother and felt
sorry for her. No fair for Marie, confined to the house, catering to a near eighteen-year-old
girl perfectly content to read books all day. Marie would never admit it, but she
must feel as if life were passing her by.
In truth, Dinah was not
content at all. Neither did she read books all day. She used the books as
shields, staring at the same blurred page for hours on end while her intoxicated
dazes slowly abated behind the covers.
At nightfall, she crept
from the back door—the hinges were meticulously oiled, of course. Through trash-strewn
alleyways, she wound her way to the secret dens of oblivion scattered
throughout the city, her only witness a scurrying rat or a starving, snarling
dog.
Far worse than the
journey was the destination. People, corpse-like, in opium-induced stupors
stared at the ceiling through sightless eyes. The dens revolted her, yet she
returned night after night to share the sinful pipe.
She had taken her last
draw from the pipe near twenty-four hours ago. The longest she’d been without
opium since the day her father, Dr. Henry Cooper, provided that first, small,
nerve-calming dose, following the death of her mother. Shortly after, he’d
revoked the drug, fearful she’d become dependent. Pity it was too late.
“Your water, Lady Dinah.”
Marie placed a hand gently on Dinah’s forearm.
“Thank you, Marie.”
Dinah stiffened her fingers as she took the glass, attempting to hide the
trembling. The rippling liquid gave her away.
“For heaven’s sake,
milady, are you all right? You are quivering like that ridiculous artificial
bird on the dowager Lady Sempill’s bonnet.”
“Yes, fine. I am quite
certain.” Dinah managed to bring the quaking glass to her lips without sloshing
water down the front of her gown. Hiding her face with her fan, she gulped
hungrily, the cold liquid soothing her dry throat and quenching her miserable
thirst. She stopped only when her gaze hit the ornate ceiling, then handed the
empty glass to Marie.
“Lord have mercy,
child,” Marie exclaimed, eyes bulging. Her expression was so comical, Dinah
would have laughed had she not been overtaken by an excruciating cramp in the
pit of her stomach. She pitched forward at the waist, belly roiling.
“You are ailing, milady,
let us take our leave—”
Dinah forced aside the
pain and stood abruptly. “Nonsense.” She cut her gaze around the ballroom, over
the glistening Christmas decorations, between the vast, garland-wrapped
pillars, through the pretentious gossiping geese who thought themselves better
than she. Where had he gone? Panic edged up her spine. She’d seen him but
moments ago. Or had she imagined it? Breath shot through her nostrils in
shallow puffs. Her head spun, colors swirled, the room turned into an enormous spinning
top.
Finally, her gaze swam
over his detestable face, just across the room. Mister Hugh Egerton, one of the
eleven pipers piping at the den that night on Ashire Lane, conspiring to steal her
innocence. The opium made the men lethargic and clumsy, and by the grace of
God, she’d escaped, body unharmed. She wished she could say the same for her spirit.
All
the more reason to dull the pain.
She licked her parched
lips, all but tasting the hot, thick smoke on her tongue. A mad craving snaked
through her. From where he stood, Mister Egerton met her gaze, nodded knowingly.
Her skin crawled, revulsion and anticipation sharing the cause. She pulled her
lips into a smile, masking the sensation. Soon everything would be all right.
“Marie, would you
please locate a footman? I require another glass of water.”
“Right away, milady.” Marie
scurried off, holding up the water glass.
Dinah took a step
toward the blemished excuse for a man leering at her from the far wall.
*
“I must have her,
Humphrey,” Owen said, glancing at his brother. “For God’s sake, would you look
at her? She is perfect.”
“In appearance she
fills your requirements. But what if she has never taken the stage?”
“It matters not. She is
the one. I feel it in my bones.”
“In that case, I
suggest you hurry, before the lady is spoken for.” Humphrey tipped his head
toward the sad-eyed girl crossing the room, the beaded train of her green silk
dress whispering over the floor behind her.
Surely, the melancholy
beauty Owen had been admiring wasn’t advancing toward the suspicious-looking man
leaning on the wall. Owen’s jaw tensed, reacting to the uneasiness settling
into his middle. The man had a bad complexion, a greasy smile, and a jagged
scar that testified he’d almost lost an ear. Not the type of gent that stepped
aside while another man made off with his woman.
Humphrey cleared his
throat and tapped his top lip. “You will be needing your handkerchief, brother.”
Owen frowned, tugged
the handkerchief from inside his sleeve, dabbed the corner of his mouth. “Wine,”
he concluded, examining the red smudge. “Better?”
“Indeed.” Humphrey
nodded.
“Good.” Owen flashed a
smile at his brother. “Wish me luck,” he said, turning away.
He tucked the
handkerchief into his right cuff, then, changing his mind, switched to his left.
With quick, calculated steps, he veered into the young woman’s path,
intercepting her journey to the far wall.
Owen’s
breath caught as he gazed at the girl’s face. The pale, dewy skin, the sad,
violet eyes, the soft pink lips. She was
Rose, the lead in his latest play, The Rain
Garden, the tragic tale of a dying girl.
“How
do you do?” he asked, extending his hand. His eyes widened when his silver pen—a
gift from a theatrically pleased dignitary—flew, as if winged, from the sleeve of
his tailcoat to the floor, just as the lady took a step. Time slowed while her
slipper rolled over the pen and she stumbled. He lunged, catching her at the
last possible instant, saving her from a fall.
Good
Lord, but she was hot. She burned in his arms, as if with fever. A heady aroma
of tropical flowers, perhaps hibiscus, radiated from her, the scent strengthened
by the elevated temperature of her skin. She gasped weakly, struggling to right
her feet.
“I
beg your pardon, milady,” Owen said, an excessive amount of heat rising to his
own cheeks. “Seems my pen escaped its holster—the loop of string sewn into my
cuff. It appears it dislodged when I tucked in my handkerchief…”
She
wasn’t listening. Her lucid, purplish-blue eyes stared past him. He turned
slightly, following her gaze to the seedy character against the wall, his
rat-like eyes crawling over Owen’s Rose.
“Milady?”
Owen said, still holding her by the arms.
She
blinked a few times, then snapped her gaze to Owen, sliding her elbows from his
grip.
Owen
fell to one knee to retrieve his pen. But where was it? He glanced over the
polished floor, then turned his gaze to the hem of Rose’s gown. The silver pen
peeked from under the flowing skirt.
“Excuse
me, sir, I must take my leave.”
He
gazed up at her. Dark tendrils escaped her hairpins, sticking to her damp skin.
She was perfect. Already on his knees, he considered begging her to be his
afflicted Rose.
“My
pardon, but I believe you are standing on my pen.”
Her cheeks
reddened more deeply as she took a step back.
“Thank
you.” He stood, tucking the pen into his cuff, slipping it into its holster
beside the tiny vial of ink. One never knew when inspiration would strike. A
good playwright must be prepared.
*
Will he ever stop rambling? Dinah
wondered. Her brow tensed further with each syllable. She took a step forward,
then halted, locked in place. Her gaze shot to the floor to find the man’s boot
planted firmly upon the hem of her dress. Already, he’d toppled her with his
blasted pen, must he ruin her gown as well?
“Perhaps
I should introduce myself? I am Owen Fletcher,” he continued on, not allowing
her time to answer. “I realize we have not been properly presented, but feel we
are acquainted already. For you are my Rose Trellis, I have dreamt of you, and
written of your life many times.”
A
nerve pinched between her eyes. She fastened her gaze to his lips, so overly
filled with words.
“Sir,
you are mistaken. I am the Lady Dinah Cooper. My father is Dr. Henry Cooper.
Now, if you will excuse me—”
He
didn’t budge.
“Mister
Fletcher. If you will kindly remove your large boot from my hand-beaded train, I
should like to part company now.”
“Terribly
sorry.” He stepped off the delicate fabric. “Of course. Goodnight, Lady Dinah.”
He offered a short bow.
“Goodnight,
Mister Fletcher.”
Dinah returned her gaze
to Mister Egerton. His rodent-like eyes were filled with glee. Obviously, he
enjoyed the notion of her searching him out, begging for his remedy. She strode
a mere three paces toward him, finding her steps once again interrupted by the
impudent Mister Fletcher.
“One more thing, Lady
Dinah,” he said, his unyielding tongue giving his lips a quick lick. “You have
yet to answer, about my play. You see, I wish you to have the lead part—
starring role of Rose Trellis—the beautiful, dying flower.”
“You wish me to play
the part of a dead girl?” She stepped around him.
“Ahem, let me explain. She lives!
The girl battles a life-threatening bout of pneumonia and prevails. The Rain Garden is a tribute to Rose
Trellis’s courage. The story of how she fights back against the illness that is
killing her, and wins.”
“Hello, poppet,” Hugh Egerton cooed, his eyes
roving over Dinah’s body, his fingers twitching, as if urged to do the same. “A
bit low on the medicine?”
Dinah dropped her gaze
to the floor and nodded. She felt naked.
“So, what do you say to
becoming my precious Rose?”
She snapped her gaze up,
disbelieving. Had Owen Fletcher no bounds? She frowned at him. The nerve of
this…this…prattling playwright.
“Lady Dinah is engaged
in conversation at the moment. You will be running along now.” Hugh waved his
hand through the air at Owen, as if shooing a fly.
“Ah—but I await an
answer from the lady. Soon as my petition is met, I shall be traveling on. But
not before.”
My but he was stubborn.
*
Owen’s tongue tired
from constant chatter. But how else was he to distract the lady from the
unsavory rascal holding up the wall? Besides, all he said was truth—he
positively had to have her in his play as the wilting, yet victorious Rose.
He stood facing the
scoundrel, pustule-riddled skin and oily smirk even more wretched up close. The
way he looked at Lady Dinah got Owen’s hackles up. The man was downright
insolent.
“Forgive me, sir, but
the lady didn’t appear to be engaged in conversation. Plainly, her gaze was
directed at the floor,” Owen said.
The whites of the man’s
eyes reddened. He narrowed them at Owen, color climbing his neck.
“You will watch your
words around Hugh Egerton, or else find yourself choking on them.”
“That would be quite
unfortunate. But I am afraid I do not believe you.” Owen grinned. An arrogant
grin he reserved for moments such as this. He found it either silenced the
hecklers, or infuriated them. By the clenching of Hugh Egerton’s fists, it was
the latter.
“Care to step outside and
prove me wrong?” Hugh asked, his voice rough, as if his throat were packed with
gravel.
“Why settle outside
what can be settled right here?”
“No! Stop, this
instant,” Lady Dinah demanded, her words shaking. The older woman he’d seen her
with earlier rushed to her side.
“Step back, milady.”
Owen placed a protective hand on Dinah’s arm, gently setting her back.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hugh
snorted. “I arrived here in company of the Lord Morris Barlow, and refuse to embarrass
him by brawling inside Pemberton Hall.”
“Lord Barlow, you say?”
Though well-known and wealthy, Morris Barlow had a sordid reputation. Owen easily
assumed he had met Hugh Egerton over an opium lamp at the ill-reputed Ashire
den.
The
opium-eater and the noble…what a glorious premise for a play.
Owen yanked his
gleaming silver pen from his sleeve.
“A daggar!” Hugh
Egerton yelped, retreating into the wall as if he could sink through it.
“Not a dagger. Far worse.”
Owen tugged out and unstopped the vial of ink, dipped his pen. He returned the
bottle to his sleeve and retrieved a slip of parchment. “Your pathetic, smoke-filled
life, Mister Egerton, will be the inspiration for my new play,” he said,
scratching the pen along the paper. “I assure you, my productions are quite
renowned. I am certain the Lord Morris Barlow will be thrilled to be written in
as one of your fellows.”
Hugh swallowed, Adam’s apple
rising above, then falling below his collar. “What do you require of me?”
Owen turned to Lady
Dinah, reading the pain on her graceful features. His heart ached as he comprehended the depth
of her obsession. “Only that you leave this precious rose alone.”
“But she sought after
me—”
“Only because of her
dependence on your poison. You shall give a sufficient amount to me, that I can
wean her from it in a healthy manner.”
Hugh nodded. “Meet me
at the Ashire den in an hour.”
Owen tore up the slip
of paper, the pieces floating down like the Christmas snow beyond the window.
*
“Milady?” Marie touched
Dinah’s elbow.
Tears cascaded down
Dinah’s face. She hid behind her fan, confused by the foreign emotions stirring
her heart.
“My brother is in
control of the situation. As you were,” an older gentleman called to the onlookers,
his double-chin bobbling. Then, turning to Marie, “Would you care to dance?”
Dinah squeezed Marie’s
hand, then nodded as the gentleman led her radiant governess to the dance
floor.
“Thank you for rescuing
me, Mister Fletcher,” Dinah said, turning to Owen.
“My pleasure, Lady
Dinah.”
Dinah looked into his
eyes, for the first time, really. A beautiful blue-green, like the blown glass
ornaments on the magnificent Pemberton Hall Christmas tree.
“How did you know about
my…condition?”
He cleared his throat,
swallowed. “I too have suffered affliction. I am quite acquainted with the
dens.”
Her eyes flew open
wide.
“Had it not been for my
brother, Humphrey, I would have surely died in one. He saved my life.”
“As you plan to save
mine?” Dinah asked, studying his lips, so tempting now that they were void of
prattle.
“Precisely.” He brought
her hand to his mouth, placing on it a tender kiss.
Her breath pulled in sharply,
and she imagined herself being resuscitated, as if with her father’s bellows.
“By the way, my answer
is yes,” Dinah offered, hiding a smile behind her fan.
Owen’s eyebrows arched
high. “Truly? You will be my darling Rose?”
“Yes. I shall be your
courageous, victorious Rose. I have decided she and I have much in common.”
