she were prey to some strong emotion. But she mastered it as swiftly as it had come, and her face hardened.
“Perhaps there is nothing to find,” she said softly. She tilted her hand and a single crimson drop splashed onto the tablecloth, staining the linen with the finality of blood.
“Portia, leave off. You will ruin that cloth,” I scolded. The butler moved forward to scatter salt over the spill.
Portia put her glass down carefully. “I think perhaps I have had too much to drink.” She rose slowly. “Julia, do enjoy dessert. I will retire now. I must supervise Minna whilst she packs. If I leave her to it, she will hurl everything into a bedsheet and knot it up and call it packed.”
I bade her a quiet good-night and told the butler I wanted nothing more except a strong cup of tea. He brought it scalding and sweet, and I sipped it slowly, wondering why the trip to Yorkshire, which had filled me with elation, should now cause me such apprehension. It was not just Portia’s antics that alarmed me. I knew very well that Brisbane had not invited me to Yorkshire. Moreover, I knew his uncertain temper and how scathing his anger could be. He was entirely capable of packing me onto the next train to London, my purpose unresolved. I knew also his stubbornness, his pride, his stupid, dogged persistence in blaming himself for my brush with death during our first investigation together. I had told him in the plainest terms that the idea was nonsense. If anything, Brisbane had saved my life and I had told him so.
Whether he had listened was another matter entirely. The whole of our acquaintance had been an intricate, twisting dance, two steps toward each other, three steps apart. I was tired of the uncertainty. Too many times I had abandoned myself to the exhilaration of his company, only to be thwarted by circumstance or his own stubborn pride. It seemed a very great folly to attempt to force a declaration from him, but it seemed a greater folly to let him go. If there was a single chance at happiness with him, I was determined to seize it.
But determination was not enough to silence my jangling nerves, and as I put the cup onto the saucer, I noticed my hand shook ever so slightly.
Just then, Jane returned. She resumed her place, giving me a gentle smile. “I do apologise about Puggy. He is not a very nice dinner companion. I have often told Portia so.”
“Think nothing of it. With five brothers I have seen far worse at table,” I jested. Her smile faded slightly and she reached for her glass as I fiddled with my teacup.
“I wish you were coming with us,” I said suddenly. “Are you quite certain your sister cannot spare you?”
Jane shook her head. “I am afraid not. Anna is nervous about her confinement. She says it will give her much comfort to have me in Portsmouth when she is brought to bed, although I cannot imagine why. I have little experience with such matters.”
I gave her hand a reassuring pat. “I should think having one’s elder sister at such a time would always be a comfort. It is her first child, is it not?”
“It is,” Jane said, her expression wistful. “She is newly married, just on a year.”
Jane fell silent then, and I could have kicked myself for introducing the subject in the first place. Anna had always been a thorn-prick to Jane, ever since their father died and they had been cast upon the mercy of Portia’s husband. Younger than Jane by some half-dozen years, Anna had made her disapproval of Jane’s relationship with Portia quite apparent, yet she had happily reaped the benefit when Portia had insisted upon paying the school fees to have her properly educated. Portia had offered her a place in her home, an offer that was refused with the barest attempt at civility. Instead Anna had taken a post as a governess upon leaving school, and within two years she had found a husband, a naval officer whom she liked well enough to enjoy when he was at home and little enough to be glad when he was abroad. She had settled into a life of smug domesticity in Portsmouth, but I was not surprised that she had sent for Jane. Few people were as calm and self-possessed, and I hoped that this olive branch on Anna’s part would herald a new chapter in their relationship.
I almost said as much to Jane, but she changed the subject before I could.
“Are you looking forward to your trip into Yorkshire?” she inquired. “I have never been there, but I am told it is very beautiful and unspoilt.”
“I am not,” I confessed. “I should like to see Yorkshire, but I am rather terrified to tell you the truth.”
“Brisbane?”
I nodded. “I just wish I knew. It’s all so maddening, the way he drops me entirely for months on end, then when we are brought together, he behaves as though I were the very air he breathes. Most infuriating.”
Jane put a hand over mine. Hers was warm, the fingers calloused from the heavy tools of her art. “My dear Julia, you must follow your heart, even if you do not know where it will lead you. To do otherwise is to court misery.” There was a fleeting shadow in her eyes, and I thought of how much she and Portia had risked to be together. Jane had been the poor relation of Portia’s husband, Lord Bettiscombe, and society had been cruel when they had set up house together after Bettiscombe’s death. They had a circle of broad-minded and cultured friends, but many people cut them directly, and Portia had been banned from the most illustrious houses in London. Theirs had been a leap of faith together, into a world that was frequently cruel. And yet they had done it together, and they had survived. They were an example to me.
I covered her hand with mine. “You are right, of course. One must be brave in love, like the troubadours of old. And one must seize happiness before it escapes entirely.”
“I will wish you all good fortune,” she said, lifting her glass. We toasted then, she with her wine, I with my tea, but as we sipped, we lapsed into a heavy silence. My thoughts were of Brisbane, and of the very great risk I was about to take. I did not wonder what hers were. It was only much later that I wished I had spared a care for them. How much might have been different.
THE SECOND CHAPTER
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
—William Shakespeare
Twelfth Night
True to Portia’s intention, we left early the next morning, but we did not achieve Grimsgrave Hall by nightfall. The journey, in a word, was disastrous. Jane did not accompany us to the station, preferring instead to bid us farewell at Bettiscombe House. It was just as well, I thought. Between Portia and myself, there were two maids, three pets, and a mountain of baggage to be considered. Valerius met us on the platform, arriving just before the doors were shut and lapsing into his seat with a muttered oath and bad grace.
“Good morning, Valerius,” I said pleasantly. “How nice to see you. It’s been ages.”
The corners of his mouth were drawn down sullenly. “It was a fortnight ago at Aunt Hermia’s Haydn evening.”
“Nevertheless, it is good to see you. I know you must be mightily put out with Father for asking you to come—”
He sat bolt upright, clearly enraged. “Asking me to come? He didn’t ask me to come. He threatened to cut off my allowance entirely. No money, ever again, if I didn’t hold your hand on the way to Yorkshire. And worst of all, I am not permitted to return to London until you do. I am banished,” he finished bitterly.
Portia
