The Death of Jane Lawrence(41)

She wondered what Augustine would say if he returned to Lindridge Hall and found them all here. How would he act, how would he dissemble, how would he excuse himself? Could he even handle the pressure of it, or would he simply collapse?

And as if it had been summoned by her thoughts, she caught sight of his carriage upon the road. Jane started, and Hunt asked after her, only to look and see the carriage herself.

“Our good doctor?” she asked, and Jane nodded.

Hunt capered away with a delighted shout, and Jane tried to draw on her good humor, rising from her seat with a thin smile. “Let us go to welcome my husband,” she said, and led the assembly back into the foyer.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


AUGUSTINE’S CARRIAGE PULLED to the top of the drive despite the crowd of other carriages that his houseguests had abandoned. Augustine alighted from it in a rush, his face pale, his hair more disordered than its normal gentle curl.

Jane had not expected the sharp pang of desire that came with seeing him again, the heady rush of wishing that he would take her hand in the crowd of his colleagues and make her feel less adrift. She had steeled herself for the rising of her rage, but it lay stunned, still nascent, still uncertain. Its lassitude left her vulnerable.

A wife, she repeated to herself. A dead wife.

Looking at Augustine, she was certain he knew what she had learned. It was subtle, but Augustine was wild in front of her—afraid of the coming night, afraid of his lies being overturned, afraid of Jane left alone with these men and women who did not have the common decency to heed a rejection. He hid it well, through some great practice or effort of will. Behind her, Hunt was indifferent to it, and Vingh, too, and all the rest. They cried out greetings happily, and only Jane saw his panic.

He came straight to her and took her hands, pulling her close. “How long have they been here?” he whispered. “I swear I did not know they would come. Are you all right?”

Jane was silent, because the only words that wanted to come from her lips were, And why should you be so afraid of their presence here?

“They cannot stay the night,” he said. “We don’t have the beds, and—” He faltered, hesitated.

Say it, say it, she willed, but he did not.

Instead, he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I will take care of this.”

She jerked away, as if his touch burned, and twisted to look at their guests. Insolent perversion made her say, “And here is our good doctor, here to join us for the dinner that Mrs. Luthbright must no doubt be conjuring for us even now.”

Augustine’s hand tightened on hers, a question and a plea, but then he stepped away and bowed to his guests. “My dear friends,” he said, once more the confident, kind man she had known, tempered by just the barest edge of the haughty pride that all assembled seemed to wear as a second skin. “I bid you welcome, though I would beg you to read my letters more closely next time. Lindridge Hall does not have rooms grand enough for you.”

Hunt laughed and closed the small distance between them, looping her arm with his and urging him into the house. “You don’t need to stand on ceremony; we are well aware that Larrenton cannot offer the amenities of Camhurst. We have come prepared to rough it, if your gracious servant—Mrs. Purl?—can locate blankets.”

Jane feared they did not have even that, and, following the group back inside, watched Augustine, trying to guess how direct he would be.

“The inns in Larrenton are much better, and your drivers would prefer it, I’m sure. Lindridge Hall has no stables of its own, not anymore.” The horses were presumably tethered around the side of the manor and grazing on the unkempt fields, their grooms watching the darkening sky and wondering if they were to return to town before nightfall.

“Then I will send the drivers to the inn,” Vingh said, peeling off from the group. “They can come back in the morning.”

“Doctors,” he said, and though he must have been afraid, she could not hear it in his voice. “I wish to be a good host. Please allow it.”

“Augustine, your company is all we require. And when have you known us to sleep a whole night away when games await?” Hunt said.

Augustine’s thumb worked at the ring on his finger, and Jane saw the bone pull tight.

What games?

“You should leave,” Augustine said, patience wearing thin.

Vingh, by the door, broke out into laughter. “Augustine! You would not send us away! And your surgery is no place to host company; I hardly wish to drink amid drained boils and whatever chickens you’ve operated on today.”

“We will not judge you in the slightest,” Hunt added.

Jane opened her mouth to add to their protest, only to find Dr. Nizamiev regarding her. She watched Jane—Jane, not Augustine, not them together—as a hawk watched difficult prey, and Jane recoiled instinctively. She stood, frozen, as Hunt clapped Augustine on the shoulder and led him firmly into the sitting room, as Vingh slipped out the door and the rest of the doctors once more took up posts by the fire or the window.

“Careful,” Dr. Nizamiev said, bringing up the rear of the procession, just far enough behind to murmur so quietly only Jane could hear her. “You wouldn’t want to appear unsociable.” Her skirts whispered past.

Jane’s cheeks burned and her hands trembled. She had not been subtle with her shock or displeasure; she had forgotten she had any need to be, in front of such an oblivious audience as these doctors. But she was watched by at least one, and she did not want Dr. Nizamiev to read into the symptoms of their discord. She watched as Augustine poured new rounds of brandy, as he pressed Mrs. Purl to encourage Mrs. Luthbright to produce small finger foods, ahead of the dinner that must surely be straining her and Lindridge Hall’s pantries to the breaking point already. He had pulled himself back together quickly and gave no further sign of unease. He laughed off his earlier stridency.