The Crimson Gown

Chapter Seven

Thread. Needle. Scissors. Pins. Lydia repeated the words over and over, out of fear her anxiety should cause her to forget her purpose. She collected all that she needed, moving through the back of the house with furtive glances, her every breath held a moment longer than necessary in case someone happened to find her and question her task. But no one graced her with more than a passing glance, and she soon found herself again before the door to Lord Cailvairt's room, her fingers flexing before she reached for the knob.

She did not knock. Her heart, she believed, would not be capable of bearing the strain of waiting for his call on her to enter. And so she slipped into the room, a rustle of skirts and the catch of her breath the only sounds to mark her return. Her gaze moved first to the fire, brighter now than it had been before, crackling over several fresh logs that had been added during her absence.

She looked towards her host. He remained unchanged, still in the same clothes as before, his jacket, breeches, and neckcloth showing no sign of having been disturbed. The tray had been removed, she noticed. By another servant or by Lord Cailvairt himself, she could not guess. If by another person, had they noticed the evidence of a meal consumed by two individuals? She swallowed, remembering Mrs. Latimer's narrowed eyes, the hard set of the woman's jaw...

Lydia shook the memory from her head and moved forward. He stood there, his back towards her, a poker grasped loosely in his right hand. At the sound of her approach, he turned, and the heated air of the room hovered over her tongue before she could draw another breath.

He was all in darkness, his face set in shadows, while the light from the fire flickered with a renewed ferocity behind him.

"Ah, Miss Hunt."

"M-My lord." Her mouth remained open, and she sought for some sort of speech with which to continue, but nothing came, and so she sealed her lips together, her teeth seeking out the tender flesh inside her cheek.

He looked down at the implements she held in her hands. "Of course," he said, and gestured towards a chair, the one set nearer to the fire. "Allow me a moment to find something to which you can put your skills to good use."

Lydia remained standing. She watched him as he walked away from her, towards a chest of drawers that stood against one wall. He opened drawers at random, sifting through their contents, all manner of linens and clothing surveyed and then summarily tossed aside before he set upon another stack.

"It seems I am in possession of nothing that requires repair," he announced, while still turned away from her. "Wait." He snatched up another shirt from the top of a pile only recently discarded, held it up to the light of the fire, and pinching a seam between his fingers, tore a large expanse of the fabric in two.

"Will this do?" He brought the damaged shirt over to her for inspection.

She said nothing. What was there to say? Astonishment prevented her from anything more than plucking the shirt from his hand before she lowered herself onto the chair he'd indicated only a minute before. A flush of warmth suffused her cheeks, so she tucked her chin into her chest, her head tilted towards the fire and away from his vivid blue gaze.

Her hands shook as she threaded the needle, and as she examined the destruction he'd wrought on his own garment. An act performed with no other purpose than to give her an object with which she could bide her time while keeping near to him.

Her first stitches were poor and uneven. She struggled not to prick her own finger and possibly stain his clothing with her blood. A few feet away, he returned to his own chair. She heard the creak of the embossed leather as it took his weight, the scrape of his boot on the floor as he stretched out a long leg in front of him.