The Architect of Song Page 18

  I paused to glance in the mirror, considering how to present all that his brother had told me. “Your name is Hawkings. Chaine Hawkings. Hawk is a sobriquet.”

  He moved to the bed and sat. “Go on.”

  “Wait.” My hand swept across the bureau’s smooth surface. “She who?”

  His brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

  “When you first reappeared, you said she took the petals.”

  He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “That would be the gypsy. My aunt. She was in your room.”

  Chapter 20

  Better the devil you know, than the devil you don't.

  English Proverb

  Aunt Bitti … here on the estate?

  I wavered, my legs as insubstantial as softened butter.

  Hawk pointed to the bureau’s chair, insisting I sit. “So what do you think of your sainted Lord Thornton now?”

  Trying to settle my stomach, I smoothed my skirts around me on the cushion. “I never thought him a saint. Far from it.”

  Hawk leaned on his elbows. His expression was haughty.

  “Why would your aunt be here? Your brother met you after you were adults. I assumed he didn’t know of her since he couldn’t access your grave.”

  “Apparently he knows her quite well.”

  “How did she get into my chambers? Miss Abbot gave me the key.”

  Upon this, Hawk sat up again. “I’m sure your viscount has an extra key, which he gave to Aunt Bitti. What I wonder, is why she was in your room.”

  “The journal!” I leapt to my feet and tumbled over my petticoats to get the trunk. Pushing aside some clothes, I found the book in its secret compartment, safe. Relieved, I glanced up at Hawk where he sat on the mattress, still balanced on my knees and the balls of my feet. “So, you saw her?”

  “She evoked me when she touched the flower,” he said. “Before she could see me, I dove beneath the bed, watched her from there as she stroked the petals.”

  “The withered ones?”

  “No. The flower itself, on the Secretaire. I read her thoughts. She remembered the plant from my grave and wanted to take it back. So I coughed. It must have startled her, for the darkness banished me when she released the flower. Upon my return, you stood at the bureau, and the withered petals were gone.”

  I shook my head. What purpose would Lord Thornton have for bringing the old woman here? Unless, since she was his aunt, too, he felt responsible for her somehow. Otherwise, why would he hide her in this holiday escape where a plethora of upper-crusts would soon be hob-knobbing and gaming? Were she discovered, it wouldn’t bode well for his reputation, or his Manor’s success.

  Perhaps Hawk had been mistaken who the visitor was.

  Or perhaps …

  My thoughts shifted to the viscount’s earlier advice of trusting only myself. It occurred to me that Hawk was a gypsy—descended from a long line of master story-tellers.

  “You’re calling me a liar now?”

  No sooner had Hawk flung the accusation, than he rushed toward me. His speed toppled me from my crouched position. I sprawled on my back as he levitated parallel to my body, inches above me, a diaphanous vapor with eyes of mist and fire.

  “One morning with my bastard brother,” Hawk growled—the potency of the sound at odds with his delicate, transient form, “and you are doubting every word I say. You don’t want to accept it. Because it means the viscount is in league with our aunt, the woman who guarded my grave. Which means he knows what you’ve stolen—both the flower and the journal—and he’s baiting you.”

  “Hawk, please. I am simply confused. He seemed so thoughtful, so introspective and gentle in the gardens. The opposite of all I expected him to be. And I am a master of reading faces and sincerity. It has left me at odds with myself. With my judgment on any matter.”

  He lowered himself, careful only to touch my clothing. Had he been flesh, his heaviness would have imprinted my form into the cushion of carpet beneath. And I would have welcomed the itch of the weave at my nape, the burn of the nap between my shoulder blades. Just to feel him cover me.

  “If the world would turn on a different axis … just for one day.” Hawk’s anger and hurt culminated to a hungry knell—a din of longing which echoed in his voice. “Hell, even one hour. One hour to make love to you, China Rose. I vow, you would never again be confused as to who my brother and I are, or to whom is the better man for you.”

  Seeing the love in his eyes, I wanted to forget everything that had transpired this morning. Hawk deserved my loyalty and my trust. I knew him better than I did the viscount. And I had already caught my host in several lies.

  “Juliet,” Hawk whispered my name sweetly. Furrowing the fabric of my sleeves, he urged me to lift my hands over my head. I knew what came next, and craved it. Craved any contact, no matter how ambiguous or fleeting.

  His touch shifted my dress until my corset wrinkled and clenched my right breast tight, like an eager hand. Arching toward him, I begged for more. He dragged the fabric, rippled it along my abdomen, then stopped atop my skirts between my thighs where layers of petticoats formed a barrier no amount of ghostly concentration could manipulate.

  Sunlight streamed through the French doors in multiple colors, illuminating our differences. A whisper of vulnerability shuddered through me. Our games had always been played beneath the veil of darkness and shadow. To enact the fantasies in broad daylight left us exposed—bared to the limitations of reality.

  I tilted my spine to increase the pressure of Hawk’s fabric manipulation. “Do you not know how much I long to be with you?” I wrung out the words, squeezing them from my weary heart. “I would spurn all the wonders of this place, everything that calls to me in this world, if it would bring you into my arms. I would embrace death for you, Hawk.”

  I’d never allowed myself to think it, and I couldn’t ignore the mortified turn to his features—the obvious concern. He started to answer, then lifted away and gestured to the door.

  I had time to push to my knees, smooth my skirts, and feign searching through my trunk before Miss Abbot entered carrying a tray of steaming chocolate and Shrewsbury cakes. After setting the food atop my bureau, she dumped a basket of coke into my fireplace.

  She motioned to an envelope on the serving tray, with Lord Thornton’s seal affixed. “His lordship requests you read that.”

  I stood to take it. The viscount’s scent radiated from the parchment.

  Upon starting a fire, Miss Abbot started to leave. She paused. “Do you require anything else?”

  I frowned, flipping the envelope’s crisp edge between my fingers. “I did not ask for the chocolate, nor the cakes.”

  The maid shrugged. “Lord Thornton was insistent. Said you would want to drink it while you read.” She turned toward the door but I caught her arm.

  “Miss Abbot, did I not make it clear that my door remained locked this morn while I toured the grounds?”

  Her thoughtful expression brightened to a yellow glow as flames shook the turquoise walls in tremors—like sun refracted off of water. “You did. And I abided.”

  I glanced at Hawk. We needed to be sure his aunt had been responsible, since he didn’t see her take the petals with his own eyes.

  Chewing my lip, I met the maid’s gaze again. “Does the viscount have a key of his own?”

  Miss Abbot appeared befuddled. “He gave me his extra one.” She patted her apron’s pocket. “I know of no other.”

  My attention shifted to the bureau then back again. “Did you come in … did you straighten my room in my absence?”

  “No.” Shadows of distress settled in Miss Abbot’s hollowed cheeks. “Is there something amiss?”

  I shook my head, convinced by the honest confusion in her face.

  Hawk sighed. “That leaves only my aunt.”

  “Everything is in order,” I assured the maid. “Thank you. Oh, might I ask you one last thing?”

  Her hem fluttered where she tapped a
foot, either eager to leave or annoyed with the questions.

  “You’ve known Lord Thornton for some years … came with the viscount from his father’s estate, correct?”

  “Yes. I’ve known him since his childhood.”

  “Did you know his brother at all?”

  She seemed hesitant, but responded. “I knew of him. He died before any of us could meet him.”

  “What can you tell me of his death? It seems to have affected Lord Thornton quite deeply.”

  The maid’s tiny lips grew even tinier, as if they might vanish from her face completely.

  “Miss Abbot, bear in mind I’m soon to be viscountess of this estate. I shall be deciding which help is extraneous, and which is necessary. The relationship we forge today will surely have a bearing on my decision.”

  A worried line crossed her brow. “Lord Larson wouldn’t give my master any details of his brother’s death. It has haunted him.”

  “I see.” I offered a nod. “That will be all for now.”

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Hawk propped himself against the bureau. “Look at you, pulling rank.”

  I frowned, refusing to feel guilty. “At least she substantiated your brother’s claim. I wonder if perchance your aunt is here to help him make peace with the loss of you?”

  “Or to get revenge. It’s possible he doesn’t know she’s here. She could’ve picked the lock. Remember the blood on my brother’s fist yesterday at the tavern. He is violent. Prone to rages. And he knows more than he’s admitting about the circumstances surrounding my untimely demise. That much is loud and clear, however you refuse to hear it.”

  His pointed reference to my deafness on another level than physical did not go unnoticed. Awhirl in confusion and gloom again, I sat at the bureau and poured some chocolate. Balancing a cake on my palm, I took a bite. The velvety texture melted to a zest of brandy and coriander on my tongue. As I chewed, I pried off the seal from the viscount’s letter.

  Hawk crouched beside me, his head level with my shoulder. “Why do you think he wished you to drink chocolate as you read this?” he asked. “Seems an odd request.”

  Holding my cup at my lips, I sucked in a breath as realization struck. “In the garden, he promised to tell me of his mother some afternoon when I sat in front of the fireplace, drinking a cup of chocolate.”

  Hawk and I both looked at the cheery fire.

  “His mother?” Hawk said. “That means …”

  “Your mother.” I set down my cup. It was time to meet her, at last.

  Chapter 21

  A drink precedes a story.

  Irish Proverb

  “Hurry! Open it.”

  Hawk’s enthusiasm spread through me like a contagion, but I unfolded the note with utmost care, afraid on some irrational level the script might slip off the page along with its precious secrets. After I’d nudged the serving tray aside, I spread the parchment on the bureau.

  Hawk and I read the first sentence together:

  “Dearest Miss Emerline, our time in the garden left me bewildered. For too long, I’ve erected walls around my heart. But as I hope to one day win your hand and share a family with you, I must brave tearing them down.”

  “What the hell?” Hawk glared at the words. “He already has you married and plump with his seed. Bloody assuming.”

  The viscount’s next line left us both aghast. “If you would like a visual of my heritage, consider the portrait on the wall. It is my mother, Gitana Kaldera—a gypsy queen. My brother painted it before his death.”

  Hawk gaped as we both stared over our shoulders. So Miss Abbot had been mistaken. Lord Thornton didn’t paint the portrait, his brother did. And upon closer inspection, I could not believe I’d missed the resemblance. The almond-shaped eyes cloaked by limitless lashes, the high cheekbones and full lips—both sons hailed these gifts from their mother. No wonder she’d looked familiar to Hawk upon our arrival.

  I turned back in my chair, finding my place again in the note.

  “Chaine and I were born to royalty. Our mother married Tobar Kaldera, the Romani Roi—king of the gypsies. Understand, there is little prestige in the gypsy hierarchy. A king is exclusive to the camp in which he resides. The title is self-appointed and allows it bearer to put on airs to impress outsiders. The other Romies of the camp assent to the charade as it protects them from reaping dues for any crimes they commit. Only the most vain and power hungry of the gypsies take the Roi title, for when outside authorities come to seek retribution, the king becomes the scapegoat. Tobar Kaldera was just such an ambitious fool.”

  I paused to consider the noble profile and strong physique of my phantom companion. “You are a prince.”

  As if the force of discovery had nailed them in place, Hawk’s eyes refused to stray from the parchment again.

  “There is no delicate way to put this, Miss Emerline. So I shall be blunt. Tobar was not our blood father. Our mother seduced an English clockmaker from Worthington who had a temporary assignment for Lord Larson here at this estate. My mother’s gypsy clan worked the ochre mines. The clockmaker’s name was Merril—whom you know as the elderly Viscount Thornton, my father. Before you judge my mother harshly, you must understand. By gypsy law, a marriage is not valid until the wife conceives. Gitana loved Tobar. She had grown up alongside him, wanted no other man but him. Yet after he tried to conceive a child with her for two years, he threatened to marry another woman should my mother not give him an heir.”

  Prying my gaze from the letter, I glanced at the portrait again. The flickering glow from the fireplace highlighted her dark eyes, giving them a poignant depth. What unusual beliefs they had. Then again, what would they think of the English model of sexuality with all its hypocrisies and areas of gray? It appeared it was all a matter of perspective.

  Hawk took over reading as I continued to regard his mother’s portrait.

  “For a month, Gitana had a secret tryst with the young clockmaker. Then one morning, the gypsies left for the season and Gitana went with them, offering not a word to Merril. He never saw her again. Brokenhearted, he finished up his business with Larson and went back to Worthington. Gitana’s deception reaped a reward, for she conceived. The first seven months of her pregnancy were blissful. Until Tobar’s sister learned of Gitana’s betrayal while reading cards, and told her brother everything. He became violent, attempted to beat the truth out of my mother as to who fathered the unborn child.”

  Hawk clamped his mouth shut. The firelight filtered through him and his face reflected a fierce stirring of emotions. Though I couldn’t read his mind, I knew we shared the same thoughts. Could this be Aunt Bitti? The woman Hawk had grown so fond of for her part in his escape from Tobar?

  “Perhaps we should not read the rest, Juliet. You’re too sensitive for such violence.”

  I sensed it was Hawk feeling vulnerable, but I also knew he needed to know everything. “Lord Thornton is expecting me to read it. He’s entrusting his secrets to me. This gives me power over him. Do you not agree?”

  Hawk sighed and nodded. “Gitana refused to admit our father’s name, infuriating Tobar. Upon seeing the extent of her brother’s rage, our aunt feared for the unborn child in her sister-in-law’s womb. She laced her brother’s food with a sleeping dram then helped Gitana escape the gypsy camp into a cottage hidden away in the hills. After two months in hiding, my mother bore twin boys and named them Nicolae and Chaine. When we were six weeks old, she prepared to carry us to Merril. But Tobar found her. As she held the door against his entry, my mother begged our aunt to hide one babe in the cellar, choosing to save the one with the deformed foot. In her wisdom, she anticipated Tobar’s wrath upon another man’s offspring and knew the weaker child would have no chance of survival. After Tobar forced our mother and Chaine back to the gypsy camp, our aunt escaped with me, leaving me on Merril’s doorstep with the note our mother had prepared. The missive did not specify two babes, so Merril never knew of Chaine’s existence … never knew to
search for him.”

  My heart sunk. To think, all of this had been brought about by Hawk’s aunt. It must be the same woman. It would explain why she kept watch over his grave. Why she had helped him escape. All these years, such a weight of guilt to bear—such a penance to fulfill.

  I could no longer look at the painting on the wall, or the woman’s sad gaze.

  “It says here,”—Hawk’s baritone soothed my aching spirit—“that Tobar never knew his wife bore two sons. Nicolas writes that on our fifth birthday, the grief of giving up one of her babies along with that bastard’s relentless abuse, killed our mother. Bitti became my only solace at the gypsy camp. As I grew, the lighter turn of my skin and my unusual eye color reminded Tobar of Mother’s infidelity. I became the object of his hatred until my aunt could no longer stand by and watch. She helped me run away.” Hawk met my gaze, the light gone from his eyes—having slipped somewhere deep within him. “In the gypsy tongue, ‘hawking’ is the term for selling homemade goods. Apparently, that had been my mother’s livelihood. According to the last lines of this note, she was a gifted artisan. That must be why I chose the surname. To honor her.”

  There was strength in my ghost’s voice, despite the pain filling his eyes. He strode toward the portrait on the wall. His boot’s toe touched the bottom of the frame where it met the floor’s baseboards. He stood face to face with her, the woman who died to give him life, and ran a finger along the delicate turn of her jaw.

  The intimacy of the moment moved me, to witness the tender side of such a powerfully built man. It reminded me of the viscount in the winter garden, when he released the butterfly from his grasp.

  I couldn’t help but envision Lord Thornton in Hawk’s place now, paying homage to this missing thread in the tapestry of his past. He must have stood before this portrait countless times once he learned of her part in his salvation—her excruciating sacrifice which bought him a better life than his brother. No wonder he carried such remorse for his ideal upbringing. Could that be what I had seen in him that day at the cemetery? Not anger, but unbearable regret and sorrow for his brother’s broken childhood?