“I know him very well. I’ve read everything he’s ever written and everything that’s been written about him. I know him very, very well.”
“It was nice of him to help Leatrice that way. He was risking a lot. If he’d been caught, I’d hate to think what the old hag would have done to him.”
“It wasn’t kindness, it was—” She grimaced. “I don’t know why he did it. I’m sure he plans to write about it.”
“I thought you said he writes about everything. Did you see the cartoons he made of you?”
“Yes, I saw them.” Claire’s head came up. “When did you see them?”
“Yesterday morning. I went to see him and—”
“You what? Have you been seeing him?” Claire grabbed her sister’s arm. “After the vulgar things he said to you? I don’t trust him alone with you. He—”
“He’s a very nice man and he never touches me, if that’s what worries you.”
Claire released her sister’s arm and leaned back against the pillows. “No, I don’t think he would. He is an honorable man—in his own odd way.” She
paused. “How is he?”
Brat was thoughtful for a moment. “I believe he misses you.”
Claire sat up straight. “He does? Has he said so? I mean, not that it makes any difference to me, but what makes you think he misses me?” Claire thought that if she were put on a medieval torture rack, she wouldn’t admit to how much she had missed Trevelyan. He was impossible of course, grumpy, cynical, morose at times, always asking questions, often making her feel stupid and childish, but, heaven, how he made her feel alive. When she was with Trevelyan every nerve in her body was alive. He made her use her mind; he made her think about things that she hadn’t even known were in her thoughts. He’d made her put her thoughts about the Scots into words. He’d made her think that she could do something with her life, that what she thought and felt could make a difference.
“He hasn’t said that he misses you,” Brat said, “but I can tell that he does.”
“Oh,” Claire said and leaned back against the pillows. “I haven’t missed him at all. I have been quite happy with Harry. He’s going to buy me a pair of shotguns. They have silver barrels, or silver on them somewhere. And maybe a dog, too.”
Brat laughed at that in a way that made Claire blush. “You should see yourself when you come in from hunting. You look like a drowned rat and about the unhappiest person on earth. Everyone can see it except your precious Harry. He’s so dumb—”
Brat rolled off the bed as Claire went for her throat. Laughing, Brat stepped away from the bed. “You’re so funny that I almost forgot why I came here. Do you remember that man Jack Powell?”
“The man who says he went into Pesha when it was actually Trevelyan?”
“The very one. There was an article in the paper today. It said this man Powell was going to speak in Edinburgh and he was going to bring proof that he—not Captain Baker—had been into Pesha. The paper called it irr…irr…”
“Irrefutable.”
“That’s it. Nobody can question it.” Brat yawned. “It looks like your Captain Baker isn’t going to be remembered as the man who went to Pesha.”
“But he did go to Pesha. Only he went. Not the man Powell. They can’t—”
Brat yawned again. “I thought it didn’t matter to you. You’re going hunting with Harry. I guess I’d better go to bed. Vellie said he might come and read me a story tonight.”
“You have no right to call him that. And what kind of story is he reading you?”
“Did I say reading? He tells me stories. Wonderful stories, all about Pesha. You should get him to tell you. Oh, I forgot, you aren’t seeing him anymore. Well, good night. See you tomorrow.” Brat grinned. “But if you’re wearing your wet wool, I hope you don’t mind if I don’t get too near you.” With that, Brat took her candle, opened the portrait, and disappeared into the tunnels.
Claire sat where she was for a moment, then turned and banged her fist into her pillow. Trevelyan was an odious man. Really, truly odious. Brat had asked if she thought he’d ever marry. Him? The woman who loved Trevelyan enough to want to marry him would be condemned to a life of misery and loneliness. She’d be lonely because he’d leave her and go off traveling on his own. And while his wife was sitting home alone worried sick about him, he’d be…be doing all the things with women that he’d written about.
She punched the pillow a couple of more times, then tried to settle down to sleep, but she couldn’t close her eyes.
Heroes, she thought. It was one thing to adore a man from afar, but quite another to meet him in life. She remembered reading Trevelyan’s books as a girl and thinking how divinely interesting a man he was when he wrote that he always tried to wear native garb wherever he was. She used to imagine him in his exotic costumes and think how romantic he must look.
But it didn’t seem romantic when the reality was that each time she saw him he was wearing something different. One time he’d have on a long silk robe with brightly colored birds embroidered on the back, and the next time she saw him he’d be wearing the clothing of an eighteenth-century English gentleman.
No, spending time with a man like that was not what one should do. She was much better off staying with Harry and his family and her own family. Of course, she only saw her father in passing when she went out to hunt with Harry, and she saw her mother even less. Right now her mother was planning her wardrobe for Claire’s wedding. It was hoped that the Prince and Princess of Wales would attend, and Arva had to think about how she looked.
Claire punched her pillow again and tried to sleep.