found a black lacquered box, large enough to take up the entire base of the bag. The enameled wood was smooth to the touch and when she had completely removed it, her reflection was somewhat hazily visible on the surface. She sat down, placed it on her lap, and opened the lid slowly.
Because of the weight of the box she had suspected what the contents would be. She was only left to be surprised by the beauty of the weapons.
Like exquisite stones, the pistols lay in a bed of dark red velvet. Mercedes had no doubt the setting was deliberate. It was the proper background to display weapons that ended life in a pool of blood.
She knew something about pistols. Her father had had a large collection of them. At one time the present earl had added to their number and then, when fortune reversed itself, had begun selling them off one by one.
These weapons were American flintlock pistols. The handles were maple, oiled and shined so they had the warm red and brown tones of a polished chestnut. The fittings on the butt and trigger guard were brass; the barrel was steel. These were pistols made for dueling, for responding to questions of honor and slights against one's reputation—real or imagined.
How often had they been used? she wondered. And by whom?
Feeling sick to her stomach, Mercedes closed the case and set it back in the valise. She carefully replaced the trousers and book, the shirts and stockings, then returned the valise to its place on the floor. Because she was sitting so still she could feel the fine tremor in her hands without seeing it.
It was some thirty minutes later that Colin returned to his room. He didn't knock or ask permission to enter. He figured his footfalls in the corridor were fair warning.
Except to lift her head slightly, Mercedes didn't move when he entered. She was much in the same position as when he left her, and at first he thought she hadn't made any use of the tub and water at all. On closer inspection he saw that she was no longer looking quite so gritty as when she had arrived. Her complexion was essentially colorless but the gray cast had disappeared along with the streaks and smudges of dirt. The bruise along her jaw was a shade more evident and to accompany the faint discoloration was the beginning of a swollen line.
Colin pulled out the top drawer of the dresser a fraction of an inch and hung Mercedes's cleaned and mended stockings over the edge. Her shoes, which had also been scrubbed, he placed on the floor. He held up her gown just long enough for her to see that he had done his best to remove the stains, then he thrust it at her for her closer inspection.
His stitches were neater than her own. The shoulder seam was flawlessly repaired. The neckline, a more difficult thing to make right since the material itself had been rent, was mended with all but invisible stitching. The small tear on the skirt had disappeared and at the waist another seam had been restored.
For reasons she couldn't fathom, she felt the unfamiliar ache of tears in her eyes and throat. The pressure subsided almost as quickly as it had come and she remained curiously dry-eyed. The lump in her throat was merely swallowed.
Still sitting, she held the dress in front of her. "Thank you."
He didn't acknowledge her gratitude. Instead he indicated the cedar box in his left hand by raising it and pointing to her petticoat with the torn flounce. "Take that off and I'll fix it as well."
"Oh, no. You don't have—"
"Take it off."
"Must you always interrupt?" she asked, regaining some spirit. "At least allow me to finish my protest."
"Miss Leyden," he said, drawing out her name with exaggerated patience. "When a fly alights on my nose I don't wait for him to finish his business. I brush him off as soon as I can."
"Are you comparing me to—"
"I don't believe I could be any clearer." He watched her lower jaw sag a notch. "You're gaping, Miss Leyden. It's not very flattering."
"I have no intention of flattering you,
Because of the weight of the box she had suspected what the contents would be. She was only left to be surprised by the beauty of the weapons.
Like exquisite stones, the pistols lay in a bed of dark red velvet. Mercedes had no doubt the setting was deliberate. It was the proper background to display weapons that ended life in a pool of blood.
She knew something about pistols. Her father had had a large collection of them. At one time the present earl had added to their number and then, when fortune reversed itself, had begun selling them off one by one.
These weapons were American flintlock pistols. The handles were maple, oiled and shined so they had the warm red and brown tones of a polished chestnut. The fittings on the butt and trigger guard were brass; the barrel was steel. These were pistols made for dueling, for responding to questions of honor and slights against one's reputation—real or imagined.
How often had they been used? she wondered. And by whom?
Feeling sick to her stomach, Mercedes closed the case and set it back in the valise. She carefully replaced the trousers and book, the shirts and stockings, then returned the valise to its place on the floor. Because she was sitting so still she could feel the fine tremor in her hands without seeing it.
It was some thirty minutes later that Colin returned to his room. He didn't knock or ask permission to enter. He figured his footfalls in the corridor were fair warning.
Except to lift her head slightly, Mercedes didn't move when he entered. She was much in the same position as when he left her, and at first he thought she hadn't made any use of the tub and water at all. On closer inspection he saw that she was no longer looking quite so gritty as when she had arrived. Her complexion was essentially colorless but the gray cast had disappeared along with the streaks and smudges of dirt. The bruise along her jaw was a shade more evident and to accompany the faint discoloration was the beginning of a swollen line.
Colin pulled out the top drawer of the dresser a fraction of an inch and hung Mercedes's cleaned and mended stockings over the edge. Her shoes, which had also been scrubbed, he placed on the floor. He held up her gown just long enough for her to see that he had done his best to remove the stains, then he thrust it at her for her closer inspection.
His stitches were neater than her own. The shoulder seam was flawlessly repaired. The neckline, a more difficult thing to make right since the material itself had been rent, was mended with all but invisible stitching. The small tear on the skirt had disappeared and at the waist another seam had been restored.
For reasons she couldn't fathom, she felt the unfamiliar ache of tears in her eyes and throat. The pressure subsided almost as quickly as it had come and she remained curiously dry-eyed. The lump in her throat was merely swallowed.
Still sitting, she held the dress in front of her. "Thank you."
He didn't acknowledge her gratitude. Instead he indicated the cedar box in his left hand by raising it and pointing to her petticoat with the torn flounce. "Take that off and I'll fix it as well."
"Oh, no. You don't have—"
"Take it off."
"Must you always interrupt?" she asked, regaining some spirit. "At least allow me to finish my protest."
"Miss Leyden," he said, drawing out her name with exaggerated patience. "When a fly alights on my nose I don't wait for him to finish his business. I brush him off as soon as I can."
"Are you comparing me to—"
"I don't believe I could be any clearer." He watched her lower jaw sag a notch. "You're gaping, Miss Leyden. It's not very flattering."
"I have no intention of flattering you,
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