Fool Me Twice

  Somebody screamed. She turned to discover a bird fluttering over the sofa; it must have slipped through the window Muriel had opened to wash.

  Polly stepped forward, thrusting her broom like a jousting lance. The bird winged upward. It collided with the ceiling and reeled drunkenly along the wall.

  Muriel screamed again. “Oh, get it, get it!”

  “I’m trying,” Polly snapped.

  “Stop it.” Olivia snatched up a sheet that protected the furniture when in disuse. “Let it settle.”

  “It shouldn’t have come in,” Muriel wailed.

  The bird veered abruptly toward a window—the wrong one. It smashed into the glass and dropped to the carpet.

  “It’s dead,” said Polly. “It killed itself!”

  “Hush.” Olivia dropped the sheet over it, then gently felt for the small body. Its warmth startled her. She scooped it up, then brought the edges of the sheets together to make a kind of sack, in which she carried it to the door. “I’ll take it to the garden.”

  “Its neck is broken,” Polly called as she left.

  She walked quickly, not understanding her sudden anger. But surely even a bird deserved a better end than to die in this house.

  In the garden, she laid her burden on the grass and carefully unwrapped the sheet. The bird lay there, stunned, twitching. Maybe Polly was right, and these were the death throes.

  She sensed that if the bird did die, she would feel angrier yet; that her temper might become explosive, and she would look for a way to take it out on someone who didn’t deserve it. Like Polly, who thought it perfectly suitable to bash at a panicked creature with her broom.

  And why shouldn’t Polly think so? It was only a bird. It was not a man.

  She straightened, appalled by herself. Was she so stupid, so deranged, that she now likened the Duke of Marwick to a hapless bird? He did not need her protection. If he was trapped, then the cage was of his own making.

  “Go,” she whispered to the bird. “You’re free.”

  Who else could say that in this house?

  A latch clicked. Marwick stood in the doorway, his face expressionless. “I would like to speak with you.”

  She had been anticipating, dreading, this moment all morning. Now it was on her, she found her anger had a purpose after all. It rose between them like a stone wall, rendering her indifferent to his order, to the calm authority with which he said, “Come inside.”

  “In a minute.” She focused on the bird.

  “Now, Mrs. Johnson.”

  Alas that he could not enforce his will by coming to get her. That would require leaving the house, which he could not do—not even to step into his own garden. How unfortunate for him that she was occupied.

  She knelt by the bird. It was not pretty—a wren, plain and brown, small enough to cup in her palm. But its eyes were open now, shining black beads that darted about wildly. “Hello,” she whispered. “Get up.”

  “Olivia,” he said quietly.

  The sound of her name on his lips ran through her like a hot jolt. But she refused to look up. Let him wait all day. He considered himself a very bad man, after all, and didn’t bad men tend to skulk? Let him skulk in the doorway to his heart’s content.

  She stroked the bird’s tummy, very gently, with her forefinger. The bird fell still. A mistake? Had she killed it?

  “Leave it be,” Marwick said. “It’s frightened.”

  It being an unusually mild day for December, perhaps she would find other things that required her attentions outdoors. Perhaps such distractions would keep her busy for the rest of the day.

  The bird’s wings twitched, then flapped once, twice. It could not turn itself over to regain its footing. Holding her breath, Olivia slid her hands beneath it. Sharp little claws briefly scrabbled across her palms. Then the bird froze again.

  “It’s playing dead.”

  “Are you an ornithologist?” Her voice was tart. “If so, come lend a hand. Otherwise, be silent.”

  His soft laugh startled her. But she did not let herself look. “Fly,” she said softly, and lifted the bird toward the clouded sky. But the bird cowered into itself.

  “Or perhaps it’s mortally wounded,” said the duke.

  “Fly,” she said more sharply, and lifted her cupped palms again, with more energy.

  The bird did not move.

  “It’s dead.” He spoke with an edge now. “Put it down.”

  “Fly!” She threw up her hands and the bird exploded into flight, plummeting once before catching the way of it and winging rapidly over the high stone wall.

  Gone. She looked for it and could find no sign. “It wasn’t dead.”

  Silence from the doorway. She turned and found him watching her, something strange in his face, which made her chest ache. How beautiful he was. How terribly misguided. What did he see when he looked in the mirror? She saw him as a fallen angel. Did he not realize angels had the choice to rise?

  “Yes,” he said. “Not dead. You were right.”

  He stepped out the door.

  She goggled. Was he really going to—

  Yes. He walked toward her, and she gasped and clapped her hands together—and then wished that she hadn’t, for it caused him to smile blackly, and lift his palms in a gesture that said Behold.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” He approached, tall and lean, broad-shouldered, outside. “One would never guess I’d just left leading strings.”

  “Don’t joke,” she whispered. In the natural light, moving with animal grace, he looked the very last thing from a child.

  “Oh, believe me, I’m not.” He came to a stop, glanced around, and drew a long, audible breath. His long lashes dropped. He studied the ground beneath his feet, his full lips twisting as he scuffed the dirt with his boot. “Quite dead,” he murmured.

  She positioned herself between him and the doorway, determined to prevent any attempt at retreat. “The bird? Oh, the garden, do you mean?” For he was staring around at the brown grass. And he was outside. She barely knew how to speak for the waves of shock coming over her. He looked so much younger, suddenly, as though the house had been a weight on him, and now, at last, he could stand at his full height, liberated, strong and lean. “It’s not entirely dead,” she said. “There are several perennials planted hereabouts—”

  He smiled faintly at her. “Don’t give me any nonsense about the coming spring.”

  A strange sound slipped from her, something between a laugh and a sob. He sounded so well. He was not going to bowl past her for the house. “I won’t.”

  He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, as though to show his face to the sky. His hair gleamed pale in the light, flaxen, shining. She drank in the sight of him, noting every line on his face revealed by the light: the crow’s-feet around his eyes, the laugh lines at his mouth, the two faint lines above the bridge of his nose. Had she made him frown and smile often enough to have deepened those lines? Would she leave a mark on him there?

  The thought made her shift uneasily. She should go. Her main aim today had been to avoid him. But though she glanced toward the door, she did not move. These steps he’d just taken were too important, too extraordinary. He needed a witness for them.

  He lowered his face and smiled at her. The full shape of his lips riveted her. The strong column of his throat. He was dressed for public in a pin-striped suit; he looked now like any well-bred gentleman, only more expensive, for the gleam of his merino jacket, its elegant drape, and the effortless assurance with which he wore it, would mark him out in a crowd. He looked now like a man she could never hope to know.

  But last night, he had put his mouth to her most intimate place . . .

  “You were right,” he said.

  She was flushing; she put her hands to her cheeks to cool them. If he was going to pretend it had never happened, she would gratefully follow suit. “About the bird, you mean.”

  A breeze swept over them, and he turned his face into it, his eyes closing
again. “Among other things.”

  Confusion fell over her like a hot net. She wanted to ask him what he meant. She wanted her anger back, too; it was so much better than this unsteady feeling. She wiped her hands down her skirts. “I should wash. The bird was . . .”

  He turned back to her, his eyes searching, the color of sapphires, only deeper, bottomless, infinitely complex. “I wonder,” he said. “What is it you think to escape right now? Another assault? Or my apology? I am sorry for last night, you know. I never should have touched you.”

  She felt herself grow hotter. He had put what happened into words now. She wished he hadn’t. Stupidly, irrationally, his regret upset her. She would not have called it an assault. It seemed to strip her of her consent, belatedly, and she had consented. She had not been forced into anything.

  “It’s fine,” she said stiffly. “It was nothing.”

  “I envy your certainty.” And then, before she could think on that, he added, “A woman is coming today to interview for your post.”

  Of course this was what had brought him to her. No doubt he considered himself to be doing a kindness; this was part of his apology as well. She took a steadying breath. “Do you need me to speak with her?”

  “No, Jones and I will handle it.” His smile seemed designed to remove any sting from his reply. “I’ve prepared a reference for you, and a list of suitable families you might wish to work for. My remarks last night—do forget them, please.” He took her hand. His broad, hot fingers bracketed her wrist as lightly as a breath. “I confess,” he said softly. “I would like to touch you again.”

  He meant a far more intimate touch than this. As she understood him, butterflies seemed to flutter—not in her stomach, but all along her skin, invisible wings whispering over her, leaving prickles of wonder. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  She wanted him to touch her.

  She wanted him to say, I am not letting you go.

  “But I won’t,” he went on. His grip slipped away. “You deserve better, Mrs. Johnson. For that reason, it is best you leave.”

  How had this happened? She had never lost her head over any man. But now, as he rescued her from the precipice, she felt how close she had come to stepping over it. Or perhaps she already had.

  And she wasn’t certain she wanted to turn back.

  She retreated a pace, clutching her arm, massaging it to rub away the last glimmer of desire.

  He watched her, his face impassive. “I am sorry, Olivia.”

  She gathered herself. Straightened her spine and took a hard, deep breath. She was not his victim, nor his scorned lover. She had not been cast off; she had come here for a reason, and she might still succeed.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said. Not for last night, but for what she must do today. This afternoon was her chance at last. Her only chance. His rooms would be vacant during the interview. She would search them.

  * * *

  Alastair thought he had acquitted himself well, honorably. He had apologized, and though she did not realize it, he had rendered tribute. She could not know the effort it had taken for him to step out into the morning light, to walk to her when she would not come to him.

  Outdoors, all at once, so simply.

  For a moment, stepping over the threshold, he had felt his soul part with his body and float somewhere above, while his flesh, piloted by some invisible hand, nothing to do with him, continued onward. It had been her astonishment, her gasp, that had jolted him back into himself. Leading strings, he had joked.

  A joke! His facility had amazed him. For a strange and disorienting moment, he had remembered that old part of himself that had never been at a loss, never discomposed. Outside, so easily, with no weight on his chest, no panic. Walking toward her.

  Of course, walking toward her. It did not even surprise him. He felt as though he had been walking toward her for months. Of course she had been in the garden.

  As he’d looked at her in the fresh air, he had felt himself waking from a dream. As they had spoken, the difficulty of the first step had seemed to recede into old history, becoming half remembered, dim at the edges, like a memory twenty years old. What had kept him inside for so long? The outdoor air felt like an electric shock, sharp and wild like liquor in his nose, his throat, his chest.

  This girl was beautiful. The garden was beautiful. He had kissed her once, and he could kiss her again. But he owed her better; he saw that, suddenly, for it was she who had drawn him out, her and only her whom he would have walked toward.

  She left the garden first, hesitantly, looking back at him from the door to check if he would be all right. Her generosity, her kindness of spirit, came home to him all at once; she did not owe him that look, or anything else. God save her from herself.

  “I’ll be all right,” he said, and she blushed and pretended not to know what he meant, and then walked on very quickly, soon swallowed by the dimness of the interior.

  A minute later, he followed—intending to go upstairs, to finish the letter to his brother, to write, perhaps, to propose a meeting. But the house was so dark. He wondered suddenly if the darkness might not grip him again. Where was she?

  He was letting her go, for her sake. He must do this by himself.

  And so, instead, he found himself in the entry hall, at the front door. The porter leapt up, goggling, but Alastair opened the door himself.

  He walked down the front steps onto the pavement. How easily this world he’d abandoned now received him again. He laughed. The ground beneath him felt solid, and his feet, his calves and knees and thighs, so flexible, so ready for the challenge. He stood a minute at the bottom of his stairs, surveying the empty park, the shuttered houses across the street. His neighbors, of course, had gone away for the cold season. Scotland, Italy, Cannes. He could do that, too, if he liked.

  It was too much. He would think only of this square block for now, everything within his view.

  He walked across the street into the park. Here, beneath the shadow of the bare-branched elms, he sat and watched the wind play in the grass, which somehow was still green, though the leaves had all gone. The bird had not been dead. Nor was the garden, really. Other birds still inhabited the branches. Bugs crawled through the grass. A rabbit had slipped through the bushes near the wall as Mrs. Johnson had asked him if she was needed at the interview.

  She deserved his respect. He would find her an excellent place, and remove her from his reach as soon as possible—today would not be too soon for her. For her. Not for him.

  A flock of birds passed overhead, bound for warmer climes.

  A superstitious man would have believed that she had brought the bird back to life. Ages past, she might have been called a witch.

  He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts away from her. He focused on his own house rising before him, its somber, elegant face. It had looked just so since his boyhood. It had looked just so through all the havoc that had transpired within it during this last year. Here was the face shown to the world in his stead. Passersby, glancing at this house, would not have guessed the state of the man within it. He realized this with some surprise.

  It had a good face, this house. Dark brick, shining windows, gargoyles in the eaves.

  He felt her presence in it like a lodestone, a talisman against the dark. But she was not his to keep. She deserved a good life, a good man, an honorable arrangement, for such things still mattered to her. And if she stayed, ah, God, but he would ruin her; he would willingly, instantly, ferociously, joyously—

  He rose. He thought about walking farther, but decided against it; it felt safer to keep the house in his sights. He looked up at it again, seeing it as himself, feeling its solidity as an extension of his own.

  A hackney drew up. It disgorged a single passenger, a woman hunched by age, in mourning weeds. Not Mrs. Wright, alas. She had refused to resume her old position; had chosen instead to accept Marwick’s offer of a pension, and live out her retirement in Shropshire. But
she had recommended an old friend, who had lost her home when her nephew had died. Mrs. Denton, this woman was called.

  Mrs. Denton did not notice him as she climbed his steps. She was shaped like a barrel, exactly as a housekeeper should be. He would offer her the post as a favor to Mrs. Wright, by way of atonement for that shoe he’d hurled at her.

  But most of all, he would offer her the post because he didn’t want to. It was for Olivia Johnson’s sake that he would offer her the position.

  * * *

  Olivia began the search feeling calm, numb even. She did not wish to break the chest unless she had to, and the quantity of papers had multiplied in her absence, appearing on the nightstand, taking up a new shelf on the bookcase. But as she searched, heedless of what she knocked over, or pages she ripped in her haste, her actions began to summon a different mood. She tore through the papers as though she were in the grip of some silent, unfolding hysteria.

  This was a nightmare. Betraying him, stealing from him. She must get through it as quickly as possible. There was no saying how long the interview would last. He might appear at any moment. Or Vickers, or Jones.

  The collection on the nightstand proved useless. She moved to the bookcase, where new papers sat haphazardly stacked, or sandwiched between volumes by Melville and Aurelius, Plato and Cervantes. As she drew out the new bunch, she recoiled, recognizing the handwriting. It belonged to the late duchess.

  She flipped through the letters quickly to confirm they were all of a kind. She tried to blind herself to the words, but she could not help but see that none of them were addressed to the duke.

  How must it have felt for him to read this filth? In her letters to Bertram, the duchess had boasted of how easily she coaxed Marwick to reveal his political secrets; how her single miscarriage had so frightened him that he never protested when she demanded to sleep alone; how he nursed not a single suspicion that she looked elsewhere for pleasure. She reviled him as a gullible, impotent fool.

  Yet Olivia had never seen those faults in him. Other faults, certainly: too much pride, too little faith in himself, and perhaps, once upon a time, too much faith in his wife. But cruelty? No. An easy dupe? By no means; his eyes saw far too much. And as for impotence . . . Olivia had felt evidence to the contrary.