Miss Beecham did not follow. Blank disbelief coloured her expression as she stared after the couple. She flashed a glance his way and Jack averted his eyes, pretending to be scanning for a seat. He looked back just in time to see her slipping away into the hall.
Jack’s heart began to pound. She was clearly distressed and probably sought a quiet moment to herself, but this was it—his chance to get her alone and talking about her family. He had to take it. He edged towards the door and followed.
The tinkling and tootling of tuning instruments followed him into the hall. The few people left out there began to move past him, into the music room. Jack could see no sign of the girl. He glanced up the stairs. Several women still moved up and down, seeking or leaving the ladies’ retiring room. No, not there. Instinct pointed him instead down the dimly lit hallway leading towards the back of the house.
He found her in the bookroom. Only a small pair of lamps fought the dark shadows here. Her head bowed, she stood, poised in graceful profile at the window. One hand stretched, holding the heavy curtain aside, but she did not look out. Jack’s breathing quickened. Flickering light, reflected from the torches set up outside, danced like living flames in her hair. He stopped just inside the door. ‘Miss Beecham? Are you all right?’
For a long, silent moment, she did not respond. Then she simply drew a breath and looked back at him, over her shoulder.
Jack, about to step closer, froze. There it was again, in her eyes. Pain, sorrow, loss. It had been the first expression he had seen on her face and it had struck him hard then. Now, when he could so closely contrast it with the joy and animation that had shone from her all evening, it hit him a staggering blow.
‘Good God,’ he said involuntarily. ‘What’s happened?’
She dropped the curtain. ‘I … that is … Nothing, thank you. I am fine.’
The urge to know, the compulsion to help her, fluttered in his breast. He realised that it happened every time he was with her. She forged in him a disturbing and unfamiliar yearning for a connection. He had to ignore it, to find a way to remember his purpose. To regain control.
‘Come, Miss Beecham, I’m not a fool. I can see that something has upset you.’
A china shepherdess graced the table next to the window. She avoided his gaze and touched the delicate thing with the lightest touch of her fingertips. Jack watched them glide over the smooth surface and swallowed.
‘It’s just … some disturbing news from a friend, I’m afraid,’ she said, still not looking at him.
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
Now she looked up. She set the figurine aside. Her chin rose and the icy coldness of her glare held him fast. ‘I should think you’d be happy to find that I am following your advice.’
‘Advice?’ Once again she had him at a loss. Ancient Sumerian was easier to translate than this girl’s fits and starts.
‘Yes. You see—here I am, hiding away, keeping my unsuitable emotions private.’
Stunned, Jack stared at her. Was this the reason for her hostility? Had he hurt her? He considered stepping closer, taking her hand, but he felt inept, clumsy. ‘I do apologise. If you thought I meant to criticise … I hope you will understand, I only meant to help you.’
She crossed her arms defensively in front of her. ‘Help me what?’
He took a moment to answer. ‘Protect yourself, I suppose.’
Her arms dropped. Her eyes grew huge and some emotion that looked dangerously like pity crossed her face. ‘Protect myself from what, Mr Alden?’ She gestured towards the door. ‘In there is a roomful of people come to pass a pleasant evening and enjoy some good music. It is not a den of monsters.’
She was so young. So naïve. Jack wanted to wrap her in swaddling and spirit her away, to somehow keep her safe in this pristine, happy state.
He took a step back. He was doing it again. She was doing it again. This was not why he had come here. He sketched a quick bow. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to insult you.’
She inclined her head a little. He took what he could get and forged ahead. ‘Your mother, she is well? I hope that was not the nature of your news?’
‘Oh. No. Mother is fine. I had a letter from her yesterday. She and Lady Ashford appear to be enjoying themselves. They have met many new people and even approve of a few of them.’
‘And the rest of your family?’ he persisted. ‘I hope they are well, also?’
‘Thank you, but I have no other family. Mother and I have been alone since my father died.’
Jack’s fist clenched. His breath caught. It could not be. Please. He did not want to have been wrong about her connection to Matthew Beecham. ‘Just the two of you alone in the world?’ he asked past the constriction in his throat. ‘That is sad enough, in and of itself.’
‘Just the two of us,’ she said. ‘Unless you count my cousin Matthew—but he lives in America now.’
Jack almost slumped in relief. Almost. He grinned at her. ‘An American cousin? My brother’s wife boasts such a connection. I hope yours is not so, ah, vibrant a character as hers.’
He’d actually drawn an answering smile. ‘Oh, Matthew is a character, without a doubt.’ She laughed. ‘You would never believe me if I shared half the antics we used to get up to.’
‘Are you close, then?’ He held his breath.
She sighed. ‘We were. Matthew lived with us for several years after his parents died. I was just a girl and I thought the sun rose and set with him.’
‘I hope he returned the sentiment.’
‘He did, or close enough to please me.’ She smiled. ‘He taught me the most unsuitable things! And I loved him for it.’
‘Hmm, now he sounds like my brother Charles.’
‘Oh, I’ve already heard a few of the tales about Charles.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t think we could have kept up with him, even on our best days.’
‘Nor could I.’
She glanced sharply at him and Jack wondered if he’d revealed too much.
‘Matthew was special to me. Other than my father, I would say that he may be the only person in the world who has ever truly known me.’
Jack fought a twinge of conscience. He was too close to back down now. ‘Was special? Do you not keep in touch any longer?’
‘We exchange the occasional letter.’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘I confess, although I have altogether less to write about, I am far more likely to write him than vice versa. And though his correspondence has always been irregular and infrequent, it is always a delight when it comes.’ She grinned again. ‘American life has some rather droll differences from ours, based on his descriptions.’ Jack watched, hopeful and more than a little enchanted, as a tiny frown of concentration creased her brow. ‘But it has been months and months since last I heard from him. I don’t think I realised until now just how long it has been.’
‘And how does he find America, besides droll? Does he not miss his home?’
‘Not at all, as far as I can tell. He’s quite happy there. He’s a shipbuilder and doing tolerably well.’ She cocked her head. ‘Perhaps his business has increased and that is what keeps him from writing.’
Disappointment and hope warred in Jack’s chest. For a moment he considered telling her the truth, but cast the thought quickly aside. She obviously knew nothing of the trouble her cousin had tangled himself in. Matthew Beecham might just contact his cousin and ask for help. It would behoove Jack to stay close as well.
It was a sobering thought. She was damned perplexing. He didn’t know if he could win her confidence, and, more