Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(97)

Jeremy shook his head slightly. “Your brother and I did not part well. I think a visit would be ill-advised.” He cleared his throat and picked up his fork again. “Besides, I can’t be absent overlong. Estate business, you realize.”

Lucy let her fork clatter to the table. “Estate business. Yes, of course.” She could taste the acid in her voice, and she knew he had to hear it. “Well, it was only an idea.”

Jeremy sat back in his chair and regarded her. The cool detachment in his gaze froze Lucy’s heart. “Perhaps,” he said calmly, “you would prefer to visit on your own. I can deposit you at Waltham Manor after the wedding. The carriages will be available to retrieve you whenever you wish.”

Deposither?Retrieve her? What was she to him? Just some bothersome parcel to be shuttled about from place to place?

She stared at her husband. There he sat, His Lordship, positively monolithic at his end of the table. Ever calm and composed. Suggesting their indefinite separation over the fish course, in the same tone of voice he might speak of the weather. Lucy wanted to pick up the plate before her, hurl it against the wall, and watch it smash into as many pieces as her heart.

Instead, she curled her fingers around the stem of her wineglass and bit her lip until she tasted the coppery tang of blood. “If that’s what you prefer,” she finally managed. “I’ll write to Henry tomorrow.” She looked into those ice-blue eyes, scanning his gaze for any flicker of hurt or disappointment. Even a flash of annoyance would be welcome. “Perhaps,”—she swallowed slowly—“perhaps I should just stay until the babe is born.”

Nothing.

“If you wish,” he answered, returning his gaze to his plate. Lucy stared at him in disbelief as he casually forked a bite of salmon into his mouth. “I’m going to London tomorrow.”

“To London? Tomorrow?”

“I have some business there with my solicitor, regarding another of the family properties. I’m riding instead of taking the carriage, so I shan’t be gone long. I’ll return on Thursday.”

“I see.” He was leaving for London,tomorrow , to be gone for the better part of a week, and he’d tossed that bit of information at her like one throws a crust to a dog. Lucy supposed she should feel fortunate he’d bothered to inform her at all. Her eyes burned. The dishes swam before her in a miasma of welling tears. She blinked furiously. She wouldnot cry.

She laid her napkin down on the table. “I expect you’ll want to retire, then. You’ll need an early start.”

He drained his wine slowly before responding. “Indeed.”

Lucy let him go.

The next morning, she woke with the dawn. Even so, she stayed abed late and kept to her chambers until she was certain he must be gone. There was no sense in bidding him farewell. After dinner yesterday, any goodbyes they might exchange would feel redundant.

The Abbey did not seem quieter in his absence—it could scarcely become more silent than before. But for once, it wasn’t the outward silence that oppressed her. It was the stillness inside her that ached. A strange, quiet void that she might have described as hollow, except that nothing echoed there. Each beat of her heart, each word, each breath was instantly dampened, smothered by this weightless burden of silence in her chest.

And she couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t crawl out from under it or break free of its spell, because she carried it within her. Out on long, rambling walks. Through dark, foggy dreams. Around the vast stone confines of the Abbey, which she took to haunting during the day, wandering through the ancient chambers in aimless fashion.

One afternoon, while drifting through the music room, she wandered into Aunt Matilda.

“Aunt Matilda!” Lucy wrapped an arm about her aunt’s indigo-draped shoulders. “Where is your nursemaid?” Familiar scents—spice and chocolate and snuff—opened a cache of fond memories. She felt a sharp pang of homesickness for Waltham Manor. “Never mind,” she said, hugging the old lady close. “I’m glad to see you.”

Aunt Matilda wandered over to the pianoforte and opened the instrument. The housekeeper had insisted on having it tuned Lucy’s first week at the Abbey, no matter how much Lucy insisted she didn’t play. Aunt Matilda sat down, touched her fingers to the ivory keys, and launched into a lively reel. Her blue turban bobbed in time with the music, and a helpless giggle burst from Lucy’s throat.

Music. Laughter. For the first time in weeks.

The last strains of the reel stretched out into silence, and Aunt Matilda’s hands dropped to her lap. Lucy went to sit beside her on the bench.

“Thank you, Aunt Matilda. That was lovely.” The old lady smiled up at her with the same benign expression she’d worn every day in Lucy’s memory. If only Lucy could borrow that unflagging optimism. Lucy grasped her aunt’s papery hand in hers. “What’s to become of me, Aunt Matilda? I’ve changed somehow. And I can’t go back home, I just can’t. I miss the Manor desperately, but I would miss him more.” She gently laid her head on her aunt’s shoulder. “I miss him now.”

A turbaned head settled heavily against hers, and Lucy squeezed her aunt’s fingers. The bony hand lay limp and cold in Lucy’s grasp.

“Aunt Matilda?” Lucy straightened, and her aunt’s frail body slumped against her own. Lucy lifted the old lady’s head, pressing a hand against her clammy cheek. “Aunt Matilda?”