My Last Duchess, стр. 60
She knew the moment Mr. Berwick—or Wick, as he’d insisted she call him—entered the room. It was as though the air changedsomehow. He always found her in the middle of the night. He’d look for her in the nursery, or the gallery, and walk with her.When they encountered each other during the day, usually at dinner, they talked courteously enough of Jonas, of the castle,of whatever . . . but never of their nocturnal rendezvous.
All of that polite daylight conversation and observance of convention melted away in the soft glimmer of moon and candle.It was as though the obscurity of the night gave them sanction to be their true selves. The way he looked at her was nothinglike the way Rodney used to look at her. Oh, Wick desired her. She could see a demand in his eyes, a hunger that he couldn’tmask.
But more than that . . . he liked her. He thought she was funny. He actually enjoyed listening to her. It was intoxicating, it was bewitching, it was everythingRodney had never demonstrated and never could.
Philippa turned around to see Wick walking toward her, his step unhurried. He was smiling, that lopsided grin that made herfeel warm all over.
“How do you manage to always look so impeccable?” she asked, when he was near. “Do you never sleep?” She wore a nightdressand a wrapper, and her hair tumbled down her back every which way. After the first night or two, when the baby had cried allnight long, she’d stopped worrying about what she looked like at night.
“I don’t sleep in my livery, if that’s what you mean,” Wick said. “How is our princeling tonight?” He peered at the baby’slittle head. Seeing that he had a new audience, Jonas let out a howl but quieted again.
“I think he’s better,” Philippa said, rubbing the baby’s back. “He won’t let me sit down, though, or even stop walking.”
In the last nights, they had talked about everything from Shakespeare (she liked Romeo and Juliet; he thought Romeo was a tiresome melancholic) to lawyers (she thought they ought to donate their time to poor widows; hethought that was unlikely) to dissections (she found the idea disturbing; he was of the opinion that it was the only way toreally identify the kind of illness a patient had suffered from).
Now he picked up their conversation directly where they’d left it the night before.
“I thought of another reason that dissection is important. How else are we to learn of the body’s systems if we don’t investigatethem thoroughly?”
“I wouldn’t want to learn about the body if it required cutting one open,” she said with a shudder.
“Why not? I think it would be fascinating. I wouldn’t want to be a surgeon; I don’t like causing pain. But if the person hasalready left his body, why not try to find out how he died, and why?”
“All those blood and guts,” she said. “Obviously.”
“Entrails,” he said, almost dreamily. “Back when I was at university, I read that there are enough entrails in the human bodyto stretch all the way down an average street. I can’t imagine.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Philippa told Jonas, who had woken. “You’ll feel queasy and start crying again.”
Jonas burped and closed his eyes once more.
“I’m going to stop walking and sit down, Jonas,” she told him. “Just for a little while.” Then she sank carefully into thesofa that Wick had ordered placed in the portrait gallery after it became clear it was prime walking-Jonas territory.
“Why don’t you go and dissect some dead bodies, then?” she asked, trying to ignore the fact—and utterly failing to do so—thatWick had sat down beside her. Her pulse instantly quickened. For one thing, his leg was touching hers. For another, as soonas they sat down, it felt as if the world drew in and became as small as the three of them. As if she and Wick and sleepingJonas were utterly alone in the whole castle.
“Me?” He seemed startled for a moment. “Nonsense.”
“Why nonsense? My uncle told me that there’s a terrible shortage of doctors in England. You told me the other night that you’dbeen at Oxford; did you take a degree?”
“Of course.”
“A good degree?” she persisted.
“A double first. Is that good enough for you?”
“Goodness. Well, then, all you have to do is attend the university in Edinburgh for a year,” she said. “I suppose it wouldbe better to go a little longer, but my uncle told me that many doctors attend for only a year.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Well, because Gabriel and I—because I’m here.”
“I can see that it’s quite nice for your brother to have you as his majordomo,” she acknowledged, “but if you wish to healpeople, I think every sick person would feel that you should forfeit the butler’s pantry.” She heard her own voice and wincedwith embarrassment. It was something about him. He made her feel joyful and slightly cracked.
“My father—”
“Your father isn’t here,” she said, cutting him off. “I know you’re a grand duke’s son, Wick, but it doesn’t seem to havedone you much good. Why not just forget about that and do what you wish?”
“As I wish . . .” There was a tinge of wistfulness in his voice. “I would wish that my father had never seduced my motheralthough that would have had unfortunate consequences for myself.”
“I meant realistic wishes,” Philippa said, sitting up straighter so she could rock back and forth in her place, in hopes ofkeeping Jonas asleep.
His reply came with a rueful smile. “I cannot believe that it would surprise you to know how many doors are closed to bastards.”Philippa met his eyes, and the pain in them was unmistakable.
“Those doors hold only fools,” she said softly but fiercely. “You should be judged for the man you’ve become, not by the circumstances of your birth.”
He was silent for a moment, his eyes still on hers. The expression in them