Page 36 of The Devil’s Waltz

Hetty looked so displeased at this option that Annelise almost laughed. “Thank you, William, but I’ll be returning to stay with my godmother, Lady Prentice. I’m certain we can arrange to get my things from Chippie House without too much difficulty.”

“Perhaps,” Hetty spoke up. “My father has a vindictive nature. Anything I didn’t want to lose I took with me.”

“You didn’t look particularly well packed,” Annelise pointed out.

“Yes, but I have my jewels. They’re extraordinarily fine—if we have any difficulties they should keep us quite nicely.”

“We’re not living off your money!” William said, scandalized.

“Of course we are, if we have no other choice,” Hetty shot back, but her words were lost as the driver snapped his whip, bringing the horses to attention, and the goodbyes were swallowed up in a spray of mud as they drove off, leaving Annelise standing very still, fresh mud on her already bedraggled face, thinking of the false pearls that were supposed to be her eventual redemption.

You’re beyond redemption, old girl, she told herself, wiping some of the mud from her face and limping back inside.

She supposed she ought to go out and look for her lost shoe while the sun still shone, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

It was only going to be a few days, and with luck she wouldn’t even see her reluctant host the entire time.

She was no longer an entertainment, thank God, but a burden, and the sooner he got rid of her the happier he’d be. She was certain of it.

In the hours she’d already been at Wynche End she had yet to see a servant but a plump, motherly woman was waiting for her in the hallway, a concerned expression on her face.

“I’m Mrs. Browne, the housekeeper, Miss Kempton,” she said, curtsying deeply.

An absurd act given Annelise’s mud-worn appearance, but nice, nonetheless.

“I’ll show you to your room if you’d like. ”

“I would like that very much.”

“Master Christian has gone out and I’m not certain when he’s expected home, but he said you shouldn’t expect to see much of him during your stay.” Mrs. Browne sounded a bit doubtful.

“Yes,” Annelise said, telling herself that the sinking feeling in her stomach was a flood of relief sweeping over her, and not disappointment. It was, it truly was.

“I’ll be happy to bring a tray to your room if you’d like. The dining room is a bit...well, Master Christian usually eats in the library, but I could have my husband see if he could do something about the ceiling.

“A tray in my room would be lovely,” she said. Right now, she added mentally. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate.

But blessed Mrs. Browne was ahead of her.

“I’ve already brought up a tray of cold chicken, cheese and apples just to tide you over until dinner.

If there’s anything else you want you have only to ask.

Except I’m sorry to say none of the bellpulls are working.

You’ll need to come find me, but I’ll do my best to check at regular intervals in case you need something.

It’s just Browne and me and young Jeremy, the stable lad, so I’m afraid you won’t be as comfortable as I might have liked. ”

“I’m certain I’ll be fine.” Food was coming, but there went her hope of at least a partial bath if they were that short-staffed. It had started to rain again—maybe she’d just strip off her clothes and go outside. Then again, maybe not.

But she’d underestimated the divine Mrs. Browne. Not only was a tray of food waiting for her in the huge, shabby bedroom, but a full tub of steaming water. Annelise almost hugged her.

“I gather you didn’t bring much in the way of clothing, so I was bold enough to see what was on hand and came up with a few serviceable pieces belonging to Master Christian’s great-aunt.

She was a tall woman, and though the clothes are out of date I think they should fit.

At least you’ll be dry and comfortable.”

“You are a saint, Mrs. Browne.”

Mrs. Browne’s plump face beamed. “We’re glad to have you here, miss. We don’t often get company. And rest assured you’ll be treated with nothing but respect from everyone in this house,” she added darkly.

If anyone could make Christian behave it would be the sturdy Mrs. Browne. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Annelise said, pleased at how calm she sounded.

But Mrs. Browne looked doubtful. “Let’s hope not,” she said. “Dinner’s usually at eight. I’ll check on you in a few hours and see if you want something sooner, but in the meantime I thought you’d probably like a rest. Just leave your clothes and I’ll see what I can do to salvage them.”

“I’d be most grateful.” That was almost a lie. If she never had to wear the shapeless brown wool dress again it would be too soon, but then she couldn’t very well leave this place in someone else’s clothing. She could only hope that Christian’s aunt shared her sober tastes.

Once Mrs. Browne closed the door Annelise kicked off her only shoe and attacked the meal left for her.

She hadn’t realized quite how hungry she was, and she finished everything, including the pleasant glass of canary wine.

It surprised her that it wasn’t a French wine—she had some vague knowledge that part of Christian’s ancestry was French, and she would have thought he preferred that country’s vintage.

Like all good Englishwomen she considered the French essentially despicable, particularly when it came to the recent revolution, but they did manage to produce some very fine wines.

But the canary was good enough.

She began stripping off her clothes, wincing as the caked mud fell on the worn carpet beneath her feet.

She didn’t want to make more work for the beleaguered Mrs. Browne, but she could hardly sweep it up herself.

In the end she stripped off everything, down to her chemise, and approached the still-steaming tub.

It smelled of roses, a faint, soothing scent, and there were towels nearby that carried the same pleasing odor. What Mrs. Browne was capable of doing in such a wreckage she did very well indeed.

At the last minute she stripped off the chemise, as well, stepping into the tub stark naked, not wanting anything to get in the way of that warm, wonderful water.

It wasn’t as if anyone was around, and she’d always preferred bathing in the nude.

In the more crowded households, with maids likely to walk in and out with little warning, she always bathed in her chemise, but right now it was a small, wicked indulgence she had every intention of taking.

She set her glasses down on the floor beside the tub, then ducked her head under the water.

It felt so blissful she almost didn’t want to come up for air.

The soap carried the same rose scent, and she scrubbed every part of her body, from her scalp to her toes, then stood up and rinsed with the jug of fresh warm water on the table beside the tub.

She stepped out of the tub, directly onto her spectacles, feeling them crush beneath her foot.

She let out a yelp of pain, barely managing to keep her balance as she hopped over to the table and wrapped one of the towels around her.

Her wet hair was streaming down her back, her foot was bleeding from the broken glass, and her temporary sense of well-being evaporated.

She collapsed in a chair, grabbing another towel to wrap around her foot to soak up the blood, using her most colorful curses under her breath.

“Bloody damn rutting pig cock,” she muttered. The last one she seldom used, but in these circumstances it was called for. What was she going to do without her spectacles? What was she going to do with a lacerated foot?

Fortunately the cut wasn’t as bad or as deep as she feared.

Her discarded chemise was free from mud, and the cotton was old and worn, quite easy to tear a strip off the bottom without destroying it completely.

She wrapped her foot up, quite handily, and then breathed a sigh of relief.

One crisis averted. She’d worry about being able to see later.

She hobbled over to the bed and the clothes laid out for her inspection.

The undergarments were wonderful—the softest silk, the finest lace, beautiful bits of needlework such as she had never worn.

The dressing gown was of white lawn, of the sort that used to be known as a powdering gown, Annelise thought.

Back when the older generation would powder their hair, they would wear these to protect their clothing.

She dressed quickly, wrapping the lacy gown around her, and climbed up onto the bed.

It was freshly made up, the velvet coverlet worn in some places, and she knew if she lay down with her hair still wet it would dry in ridiculous curls.

If she got up to search, she could probably find a comb or brush of some sort, and she could braid her hair into a tight knot of submission, but her foot was throbbing, her energy had fled, and in the end it didn’t matter.

No one would see her but Mrs. Browne, and she could always wet her hair again and set it to rights.

She leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling above her. And let out a gasp.

Josiah Chippie wasn’t the only person who enjoyed mythology. The ceiling above the bed was painted with a charming fresco in the Italianate style, and the painting itself was particularly unfortunate.

At first she thought it might portray the rape of the Sabine women, but as she focused on the details the reality was even worse.

It depicted Persephone, drawn down to the dark and dangerous depths of hell, lured by Hades, the god of Hell, who was both terrifying and beautiful.

And looked far too much like Christian Montcalm.

Persephone herself bore an uncomfortable resemblance to Annelise herself.

Her long, milky limbs were well exposed by the filmy piece of cloth she was wearing, and she was much more slender than the style of painting usually called for.

It took Annelise only a moment to realize that the two main characters of the ceiling fresco must have been patterned after the previous occupants of the room.

The Persephone could only be Christian’s over-tall aunt, and the demonic Hades could only be his ancestor, as well.

She rolled over on her stomach and moaned. If only her long-distance vision had suffered—the ceiling would then be merely a blur. But in truth she only needed her spectacles for minute details—she simply wore them because they suited her.

She could ask for another room, but wouldn’t put that much work on the good Mrs. Browne.

Perhaps later she could express her discomfort.

While the god of hell was more decently covered, she had a very strong suspicion that he was in the same state of Priapus, and having such a creature leering down at her while she tried to sleep was unbearable.

Except that she would bear it. And he wasn’t exactly leering.

And not at her. He was staring at the woman in his arms with a look of inexplicable longing, despite the fact that he clearly had her captive.

She’d never stopped to think about the Greek god’s thoughts in the matter, sympathizing more with Persephone’s plight and her mother’s loss than the villain’s desires.

But it was more than clear, in this painting at least, that Persephone’s surrender was of all-consuming importance to the dark god.

If worst came to worst she could have someone help her drag the bed from under the indecent ceiling fresco. If she could stand up to Christian Montcalm in the flesh, she was hardly going to let a hundred-year-old painting disturb her.

At least, not while she was awake.