Another step and he was past her. Another, and he was to the last tree, then out, out of the woods, onto the back lawn.
“Jane,” he said, that wonder sharp in his voice. “Jane!”
“Coming, sir,” she said, and there was a tremble in her voice. She shoved the mask into place, buckling it firm against her now-tangled hair. A blue flash zipped along the ground, back into the woods, and vanished out of sight.
She stumbled from the woods, shivering, and suddenly his arms were around her, holding her close.
“I should never have put you in danger, oh, Jane.…”
“I am fine”—gulp—“I am fine.” The sharp adrenaline and rage were draining now, lessening until she was very aware of his arm around her shoulders, his hand holding her upper arm tight.
Perhaps he realized it at the same moment, for he released her.
He shook his head as if grounding himself in the present, and some of the old color returned to his face. His face closed off, became the familiar sardonic mask. He ran a hand unconsciously over his side where the blue had been and no longer was, tucked the thick satchel under his arm. From a distance he said, “I owe you a rather sizable debt, Jane, do I not?”
“Sir?”
He cast around for something to do, reached to pick up one dry branch blown free from the forest by the windstorm. He turned it to study the thorns, then tossed it into the undergrowth. “I frequently walk here to throw back the branches,” he said, and there was a self-mocking note to his voice that suggested he was trying to lighten the situation. “If I let them, the trees would come right up to the house.”
“Sir, how is your ankle?” said Jane.
“It is well; never mind it.” He picked up more branches and hurled them into the forest. “It is the trees that must concern you. This is Birnam Wood, and as in Shakspyr’s tale of madness, it is creeping toward me. But this wood is alive; it will catch me before my time is through.” He was retreating again—closing himself off behind archaic, formal ways of speaking and dark thoughts.
Then he turned and saw her expression, and his mouth twisted in a sort of smile. “Forgive me,” he said. “It is but a wild fancy. For aught I know this stretch of yard has the same measurements as when it was laid two centuries ago. But you did not come out here to let me lean on your arm like an old man and hear me talk of moving trees. No, there is something of far greater import on your slim shoulders. Speak, Jane, what would you have me do? Now and forever, you must see I am in your service.”
She shivered at his talk of moving forests, and said, “I could almost agree with you that the trees move, sir.”
“Edward,” he said. “I could almost believe in your ridiculous fancies, Edward. If you were not so clearly a raving lunatic, Edward.”
“You’re not!” she said. “I saw the blue on your ankle!” She startled at her own outburst and stopped herself, though deep inside ran the frightened thought: five years, they had been gone five years. They were gone for good, weren’t they, weren’t they…? She could feel her boots sinking into the mud in the silence.
“I’m not mad, eh?” He scoffed at himself. “It is gone now, Jane. Just a passing madness of a madder wood. What proof have you that I am not a lunatic, or worse?”
She was silent another moment, and then suddenly all her thoughts seemed to burst forth and off her tongue and she said, “I think you carry a dark burden, sir—Edward.”
“I do?” His tone mocked her worry, but she pressed on, her brain making previously half-formed ideas into connections on the spot. It was not just the burden of his craft; no, there was more.
“I think you blame yourself for Dorie’s manner of birth,” she said. “And further … and further I think you go—you went—into the woods secretly, to try to find the fey, so they will undo what they’ve done to her.”
“Isn’t that rather dangerous of me? To seek out the fey? Besides, what could one little fey do to help me, even if I found them?” The dry branch broke in half under his grip. He tossed half aside and his hands closed around the remaining piece, his fingers weaving through the black thorns.
She thought back to the stories. “The Queen, then. She can make bargains. You’re looking for the Queen.”
“A lofty ambition,” he mocked. “And when I find her?”
“You’ll bargain for Dorie’s soul,” she said.
But this guess seemed to fall short.
Mr. Rochart tossed away the stick and clasped her shoulder, steering her back toward the house. “The guests will arrive soon,” he said, as lightly as if they had been only talking about the weather. “For this tedious chore we call a ‘party.’ We pronounce mingling with uninspired souls ‘charming,’ and talking of unimportant topics ‘delightful.’ Oh, I despise it. Pity me, Jane, for I must smile and play the artist for all these women with their expectations.”
She shuddered. “I couldn’t do it.”
“And yet, Jane, if I bring this fortnight off perfectly it could be a great thing for us—for all of us.” Mr. Rochart shook his head and she saw the financial worries laid over him like a glove.
She remembered Miss Ingel in her aquamarines, Nina in her furs, and briefly she wondered why his situation was so dire. Surely the money was coming in—where was it going to? But merely she said, “I will do what I can to help, sir.”
“Will you?” He turned his strange amber eyes upon her. “Then you must bring Dorie down to mingle with the guests.”
Jane twisted away. “No,” she said immediately. “She’s not ready.”
“She’s not?” Edward stopped her in the middle of the mud-splashed lawn. His amber eyes shadowed and focused on hers. She felt caught, like prey. “You must. Every night, you must. Don’t think I don’t know what they say of my daughter. And of me—that I lock her in a garret like some madwoman, that I keep her hidden. She must come and be normal. You must come and make sure that she is.”
“But—”
“Please,” he said, and she was still. He studied her. “I see thoughts whirling behind your eyes,” he said. “You feel like a trapped animal; you are desperate for any excuse not to sit in a dark corner of my drawing room for a couple hours each night. Am I such an ogre?”
“No,” Jane said reluctantly.
“Then what are you frightened of?”
She did not answer.
Finally he said, more lightly, “I foresee one objection—you are going to tell me you and Dorie don’t have any dresses suitable for evening soirees. I have brought her a new one from town, and for you I have a new pair of dancing shoes.”
“You shouldn’t have,” she said, overwhelmed, but he held up a hand.
“No, do not thank me. I saw your sister in town and she sent them. She said specifically to tell you that they were commissioned for you—I gather she often sends hand-me-downs?”
“Very nice ones,” Jane said, but it was true, the thought of Helen having specifically made these for her was a spot of gladness in her heart. “Did she send a letter?”
“No,” he said. “But she spoke of doing so soon.” He hesitated. “Does she speak of being often alone?”
“No,” Jane said, surprised. “Her letters are endless descriptions of parties and compliments.”
“Oh.” He was silent for a moment, and then he took her arm and moved on, irrevocably leading her back to the house. “I have sent Martha to the attic to fetch one of Grace’s stored gowns and clean it for you. You do not have to wear them. I know how women like up-to-the-minute fashions”—with an ironic lift of his lips—“but perhaps having a choice will ease your mind.”