Barbara Samuel Lucien's Fall (pdf)

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Rosewood with me."
So it was he went to live at the picturesque but tumbledown cottage of Rosewood.
The Greens spent their days cleaning and fixing the stable, while Lucien chopped the
wild growth out of the garden, which was, of course, filled with roses. There was one
blooming that was the exact vivid shade of the one he d plucked at Whitethorn that
impossibly intense magenta that glowed against the gray morning. He touched it to his
nose and breathed in the musky sweet smell. At the power of it, he closed his eyes &
And was filled with a sense of Madeline, all around him. Her skin, like the petals
of the rose that he rubbed over his mouth. Her hair, smelling of sunshine and earth and
roses, her laughter, surprisingly robust. He thought of her struggling with the violin, and
thought of her struck dumb in the hall as Juliette and Jonathan made love in the library.
He thought of her in a thousand ways, a thousand lights, a thousand moods.
He could not move while the longing washed through him. Under his feet the
earth gave out the moist, rich smell of possibility, and he scented dew on grasses and
heard the bright twittering of hidden birds finches and sparrows, tiny and industrious,
seeking their breakfasts. Caught in the silence of his soul, with hunger so deep, he knew
he had to see her.
Lucien Harrow, late the worst rake in all of London, had fallen in love.
Too late.
&
One August morning filled with damp and heat, Madeline peeked in on Juliette.
She slept quietly, her breath rasping as she exhaled, the sound rattling in the quiet.
Madeline left her alone. Her condition was improving, but Madeline didn t want to risk
tiring her with the exhausting work of fittings and tussling with the dressmaker.
Instead, Madeline took a plump maid with her on her errands, a young girl
improbably named Electra. When Madeline asked her about the unusual name, the girl
shrugged. "Me mum is a great reader," she said, obviously not indulging the same
pastime herself.
For a while Madeline wondered about explaining the myth to the girl, but the task
seemed unbearably wearying and she did not.
A light drizzle fell from a very dark sky as they set out for the dressmaker. "We d
best get back early," Madeline commented, eyeing the clouds. "I expect there will be
more than just this muzzy rain before much longer."
"I expect yer right, mum."
Perhaps then, Madeline thought, she might be able to find an hour to visit Mr.
Redding, with whom she d been corresponding for several years regarding her
experimental plants. He had a great conservatory attached to his house and had extended
a standing invitation to her when he heard she was in London she was welcome to
visit. He did his gardening in the early afternoons, if she d care to come then.
She cared. The thought of going to the conservatory, even for a few hours, held
promise of refreshment. A feeling of defeat dogged her days, and she couldn t understand
it. Hadn t she triumphed? Wasn t Juliette her real mother? Weren t the gardens to be
saved?
But from some hidden place a voice cried out, LucienLucienLucien. Madeline had
given up on silencing it. All day and all night, it chanted there, a small voice crying his
name. She had no hope it would ever cease.
As the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the dressmaker s, Madeline saw from
the corner of her eye a man who looked remarkably like Lucien. Her heart jumped and
she turned her head quickly, peering into the milling crowd on the street, the men in their
top hats, the women in their cloaks. A sea of umbrellas moved in the gray mist, obscuring
faces. Madeline peered anxiously at them for a moment, but the man she thought had
been Lucien did not appear.
Only her foolish imagination.
With a sense of loss, she allowed Electra to lead her into the shop. The last group
of dresses was to be fitted today. At least there was that comfort she needn t be
burdened with the task anymore.
As they were about to enter the shop, Madeline spied in the glass the reflection of
a tall figure on a horse; a man with black hair pulled into a queue, his limbs lean and
long, his face
She whirled, but the man was gone. "Are ye feeling all right, milady?" Frowning,
Madeline turned. "Yes, I m fine." They went in. The dressmaker bustled over, exclaiming
happily about the gowns. Madeline was led into a curtained alcove where two young girls
stripped her of her day dress and settled a soft green baize over her body. The color lit her
complexion, and the fabric felt pleasant against her skin. It fit exactly right, not too low at
the bust, skimming her waist, clasping her arms. Examining herself, Madeline said, "This
will do nicely, but you must remove these flowers." In illustration, she tugged at the silk
flowers festooning the bodice and waist.
"But Madame will "
Madeline had heard this before. She waved it away. "Madame may put flowers on
other women s dresses. Not on mine."
She didn t miss the repressed smile one of the girls gave the other. Was she one of
those horrendously bossy and difficult customers who d so embarrassed her as a child
when she d tagged behind Juliette on fittings? No. What she d not understood as a child
was the great expense of such gowns. She had every right to see they were made to her
exact specifications.
Beyond the curtain was a small stir, but Madeline paid it little mind as the girls
carefully lifted the dress over her head and hung it up. One reached for Madeline s
wedding gown, a glorious creation of silk and beadwork, almost too fragile to be borne. If
there were fairies, Madeline thought, allowing them to settle the gown around her, this
was surely what they wore. Delicate beadwork edged the bodice, embracing her breasts
with an elegantly seductive hand. Silk swathed her waist and tumbled over her legs. It
was in the new style, not a saque or braced with panniers, but more closely fit.
It was more beautiful than anything Madeline had ever seen. As the girls tied the
laces, Madeline touched the beadwork over her body, taking a strange pleasure in the
cool glass beads over her warm flesh.
An alarmed voice from beyond made Madeline lift her head curiously. "Sir!"
cried Madame. "My lord! You must not go in there "
Something hot and expectant whispered over Madeline s heart and she turned.
One of the girls dropped a scissors and she stooped to pick it up; a shoulder of the dress
fell down Madeline s arm.
"Sir, I really must insist "
The curtain was flung aside. Lucien stood there, holding the fabric parted like a
conquering captain. He wore a black cloak and dark breeches, and his hair was damp
from the rain. His boots were muddy. Madeline stared at him, her heart pounding, and
curled her fingers into her palms so she would not reach for him.
He stared at her, and there had never been such a burning in his eyes. They
seemed to glow with some unholy light, the color a blue so vivid it almost pulsed. He had
not shaved in a few days, and the grim shadow of a beard added to his rakish look.
Hollows marked his eyes and the space below his cheekbones, and Madeline thought
wildly that he was dying.
LucienLucienLucien said the voice. Madeline backed up a step.
"My God," he said, dropping the curtain to move toward her. With one hand, he
touched her ear, and with the other he reached for her. She jerked away, but not quickly [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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