For a man who positioned himself in continual combat with the world, with her, his generosity knew no limit.
Yet still, some part of himself he kept locked away. She could not fathom whatif she had any questions about himself, he answered. No evasions or half-truths. Not that she could sense. Beneath it all, though,
he still seemed as much a stranger as he had been on their wedding day. And the more intimacy they shared, the greater this discrepancy felt.
She might be able to discover more about him through knowing his friends. As the conversation fell into an amiable lull, Anne directed her words at John. Leo tells me you are active in politics.
Rather a passion of mine, he answered. The era wherein the king held all the power is long over. This country is controlled by ministers and secretaries.
God help us all, muttered Leo.
Johns mouth curled. God is not part of the process.
Not with your hands in everyones dealings.
Anne asked, What lies on the horizon? Peace, I hope. The war with France had been costly, both in terms of money and human lives. As she spoke, she saw Bram absently rub at the scar along his throat, and she recalled that he had been a soldier in the Colonies, fighting in that very war. He had paid a price, as well.
Theres to be a treaty, and an exchange of territories in the coming months. Some secretly oppose the treaty, but they shant provide an obstacle, for all their cabals to prevent it.
Secretly? You must be kept in confidence, to know this.
In a manner, he drawled.
Bram gave an amused snort but, at her questioning look, merely drank his wine.
She felt as though two conversations occurred simultaneously, yet she could understand only one of them, the other spoken in a language too subtle to be grasped.
More courses followed, more talk. The cook had been eager to display his talents, and Anne felt some comfort that her guests would not leave her table hungry. There were French ragoos, and beef collops, cakes, and fruits out of season, and Anne could only pick at her food. A fine tension tangled in her belly. Something hung over the table, something billowing and shadowed, that drew its strength from the four men who ate and laughed with hard animal gleams in their eyes. Was it only fancy? Or was it more?
Surely Lord Whitney had written his letter with a branding iron rather than a quill, for his words seared her, even now. Bargains with the Devil. Sinister magic. Phenomena reserved for sermons and lurid tales.
When, at last, it came time for the women to adjourn to the parlor, Anne did so with an inward sigh of relief. The men got to their feet as she stood. Rosalind watched with that same overbright smile, yet she did not rise.
Beloved, murmured Edmund. Go with Mrs. Bailey.
Of course, my dearest. Rosalind stood and glided after Anne.
As Anne crossed to the door, Leo never took his gaze from her. She felt it like a trail of fire between her shoulders as she left the room. A new sensation, and an uncanny one.
Tea and ratafia awaited them in the parlor. The room felt hot and small, confining where the dining room had been a chill cavern. Rosalind sat placidly on a settee and stared off at nothing.
May I offer you something to drink? Anne desperately wanted some of Leos potent brandy, but it must wait until later. When Rosalind did not answer, only continued to gaze into the air, Anne asked louder, Tea? Spirits?
Oh ... tea, I suppose. Do you think thats what Edmund would want me to have?
Im sure he wants you to have whatever it is you want. Yet Rosalind stared at her, blank as snow. So Anne poured her a dish of tea. For herself, she took the ratafia.
Moments went by as she and Rosalind sat together silently. The other woman took sips at regular intervals, like a wound-up automaton that mirrored human movement, yet without thought.
How are your writing endeavors?
Rosalind blinked. Writing?
Some time ago, you hosted a levee. You were gracious enough to invite me. I remember you read an original composition, some verses about the war between the sexes. It was much admired amongst the company for its acuity and imagination.
I do not remember.
This was ... before. During your ... other marriage.
Yet Rosalind merely shook her head. I do not remember anything, really, before Edmund. She smiled.
Anne attempted to return the smile, but her efforts did not succeed. Fortunately, Rosalind did not notice. She merely returned to drinking her congou, placid.
This, from a woman renowned for her wit? Again, Lord Whitneys letter reverberated through her, its many assertions that she had been so quick to dismiss as the work of a faulty or devious mind. How could Anne possibly believe him? How could she trust him?
Nearby candles guttered, the flames turning to smoke.
Valeria Livia Corva. The name wove into her thoughts. A Roman womans name.
Anne had burned Lord Whitneys letter, but rather than
destroying it, the contents of the missive became stronger, more potent. Like an offering to a dark god.