FeverFantasy

Phoenix: (reference, Egypt, Herodotus) a large bird of brilliant plumage having an exquisite voice, often associated with the worship of the sun. From statements of classical and postclassical authors ranging from the fifth century B.C. accounts are obtained indicating that the Phoenix had an unusually long life-span, from 500-1700 years. The commonest account of the life-span is 1,461 years, which is an Egyptian Sothic period. At the expiration of that time, the Phoenix would make itself a nest of twigs of spice trees, upon which it would die by setting the nest on fire and burning itself alive. From that bed of ashes, the Phoenix would rise anew, and according to historical sources, untainted by time, flawless and stronger than ever before. ~The Encyclopedia Britannia

Rafe sighed as she closed the book. She had been to Egypt at nine, her hand tucked into her father’s strong grip. She still retained a vivid memory of feeling so small, gazing up at him, his hair already silver in the shimmering sun of the desert. It had been bright, almost too bright to see, his face shadowed with the sun at his back. She had seen only his smile against the dark bronze of his skin, felt the warm protection of his hand. He had led her beneath the shade of the Sphinx and told her about the Phoenix. He’d woven a story about the incredible bird, and fallen silent at long last after speaking about the creature’s trial by fire, death by choice, only to be reborn stronger. The tale had captivated her, and she had committed it to memory.
She felt a kindredness toward the bird, not in its glory, but in its need to be reborn.

And so she was now, formally, Lady Rafaella Bennington of Grosvenor’s Square, London. A woman determined to be a new person, no lying, no impetuous behavior. Simple and direct, and always truthful.

Rafe smiled. It had been long since she’d smiled. But she was eighteen now, and free. A woman grown, a woman with choices and chances to right old wrongs. The sun streaming in her bay window cast a golden glow on the polished hardwood of her library. Her library! Not Sacred Heart’s, but hers.

“Oh, my dear, what is that expression on your face? A smile? Now really, that’s going a bit far,” Abbey teased.

Rafe grinned. “Thank you so much for coming with me to London! I need you, you know.”

“I know,” Abbey said with a pleased smile. “Besides, I could hardly drop Rafe Bennington, liar extraordinaire and urchin of the high seas on her ear, not to mention loose her on an unsuspecting London without a chaperone, now could I?”

“I’m not like that anymore," Rafe protested.

“More’s the pity.”

“It seems I can never make you happy! Either I’m too carefree and unmanageable, or I’m too serious!”

“Precisely. Decidedly a woman prone to extremes. Is it to much to ask that you select a reasonable, mediocre, in-between for a change?” She studied Rafe a long moment. “You finally feel better don’t you?”

“Yes Abbey, I do. And thank you for referring me to Mr. Culver. He has already hired a half-dozen of London’s finest investigators to locate Trina. That alone provides a world of relief. He feels quite certain that within less than a month he should have some word of her whereabouts.”

“No letters since the first two?”

Rafe shook her head sadly. She’d received two letters from Trina, then nothing.

Eighteen months since Land’s End, and it was as if Trina had disappeared from the face of the Earth. Eighteen long months in which Rafe had retreated into a dark and gloomy silence, distancing herself from her friends, retreating into the library, reading, devouring everything she could to still her frantic mind and silence her bruised heart. She blamed herself completely. Her innocence, her naiveté, her damnable lying. Oh, if only she’d told the Marquis the truth, had warned him the Trina was planning to leave! Or, if only she hadn’t been so bent on petty revenge, hadn’t hidden in his closet, hadn’t pushed him, he never would’ve left Land’s End that day, and Trina couldn’t have eloped so easily. The list of “if onlys” was endless, and Rafe heaped each accusation on her own head. Mea culpa, she brooded. Stupid, stupid, she chided herself. How unbearably, innocently foolish she had been.

But it was May, 1814 now, and she was a free woman at last. She had inherited a considerable sum on her birthday, less than three weeks ago, and was now in command of a fortune which could be used to find her friend. To regain her own pride and self-esteem. To one day face the Marquis without flinching, without seeing his icy condemnation. To eradicate the eternal guilt.

Abbey’s eyes missed nothing, as Rafe’s smile was replaced by an all-too frequent and pensive expression. Quickly Abbey said, “I do wonder what might be keeping your father? Mr. Culver advised me that the weather has been unusually calm this spring. He should have made an easy and timely voyage.”

Rafe sighed and shook herself mentally. “He will come, won’t he?” she asked in a small voice. When her father had failed to appear at Sacred Heart by the third week of April, Abbey had decided to wait one extra week. By May fifth, however, Abbey had reluctantly commenced preparations for the journey to London, loathe though she was to depart and possibly miss him in transit. It was now May twentieth, and still no word from her father. It was becoming a concern to both women.

“Certainly, Rafe. Of course he will. In the meantime, however, there’s no need for this passive waiting. There is much to do. We must hire a full staff of servants. Why, you’ll need maids, a butler, a cook, a valet for when the duke arrives, and a housekeeper. And of course, you’ll be needing a new wardrobe in the latest fashions. There is a ball at Almack’s Wednesday next, and I will be accompanying you there, with or without your father. Although,” Abbey paused thoughtfully, “if Mr. Culver could suggest a respectable house steward, he could arrange all the hiring. I do so hate to interview.”

Rafe smiled at Abbey’s rambling list, “Things are finally looking hopeful, Abbey. It might just be that I can see things straight again. That is, of course, if Trina has not suffered harm. You don’t think she has, do you?”

Abbey sighed, “If she has, you mustn’t blame yourself. You were no more responsible for her actions than she---”

“I could’ve stopped her.”

“Perhaps. But how do you know that?”

“Because she was always so…so…”

“Wishy-washy? Passive? Oh, Rafe, you didn’t know your dear friend so well if that’s what you think. Trina was a very determined young woman in her own way. Merely because she had a stutter and a passive demeanor, many underestimated her mettle. I didn’t. You’re piling all the blame on yourself, when in truth you don’t know if you could’ve made any difference at all.”

“I was such a fool, Abbey,” Rafe exclaimed. “When I think of how impetuously I behaved, I could just die!”

“Impetuous has long been your middle name. Guilt is a wasted and egotistical emotion. One must think oneself terribly important to blame oneself so severely. There are many other factors that may have been responsible in part, or in full, for Trina’s behavior. You didn’t do anything to intentionally bring harm to Trina.”

No, only to the Marquis, Rafe thought darkly. And it turned out it was I who was harmed. I was the fool. God, how the man hates me!

“Besides,” Abbey continued, “you’re doing everything you can. That’s all one can expect. Now, back to the issue of your wardrobe, and of course, this house will require redecorating. Really! All this oriental stuff gives one the shivers! Dratted dragons staring down at me! Pagan gods and the likes!”

“I like the dragons and gods,” Rafe protested.

Abbey cocked her head, “You still can’t get him out of your mind, can you?” she asked softly. When Rafe had finally talked, she’d told Abbey all. Of the East Wing she’d spoken glowingly and at length.

“No,” Rafe replied honestly. “And I don’t think I will until I fix things. Until he doesn’t view me as a terrible little girl. Until I can face him with dignity. It’s unfinished and I must see it finished.”

“You are still drawn to him,” Abbey warned. He’s a rake. Notorious, devastating, and ruinous for any woman.”

“I’m not interested in him that way!” Rafe said quickly.

“Oh yes you are. Beware Rafe, lest your guilt over Trina couch a more dangerous motivation.”

“Verily, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!” But she did. How many thousand times had she played out the fantasy in her head? The one where she found Trina and took her back to the Marquis, of course looking ravishing and totally grown up. The one in which he was dazzled, not only by her ability to fix the situation, but by her womanhood, by her, Rafe. The one in which he fell in love with her. No, she had never gotten him out of her mind, or out of her dreams. She doubted she ever would.

“Lying to others is one thing. Lying to yourself is unforgivable. Lie to me if you must, but tell the truth in your heart.”

“Yes, Abbey.” Rafe sighed.

“Now that we’ve resolved that you needn’t bear such guilt, can we move on to important issues, like your wardrobe, and this dratted rug?”

“I like this rug!”

“Rafe, you must admit--” Abbey broke off abruptly and raised a brow as the knocker tapped lightly on the ornate door. “Really!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet, a nervous flush rising to her cheeks, “Who could that be? And we really must get a butler!” She rushed to the door, Rafe close on her heels.

“It’s father,” Rafe said expectantly, knowing Abbey was thinking the same. She held her breath as Abbey slid the bolt and opened the door. She was crestfallen when she saw a tall young, and unaccompanied, man.

“May I help you?” Abbey asked imperiously. It was inappropriate for a gentleman to come calling at a young woman’s lodgings, and unless there was a good reason, word of the transgression would quickly spread through the gossipy ton.

“You might,” the young man replied stiffly, removing his hat and holding it securely in his clasped hands. “Might I inquire if Lady Rafaella Bennington is present?” he asked, trying to peer around Abbey.

“And who might you be?”

“She wouldn’t know me ma’am, I’ve been sent by her father, the Duke of Bennington.
Permit me to introduce myself. I am Terrence Bryce.”

Rafe peered around Abbey and studied the man. Tall, slender, his dark hair in a sleek tail, he was nondescriptly attired in somber charcoals, and worthy of no particular note, but for his cherubic face. Good English skin, a complexion a woman might have liberally dabbled lead powder and blush to achieve. But natural, and no powdered wig, all in all, a very serious young man.

“The Duke! My father, where is he?” Rafe asked quickly, her heart beating in staccato.

“If I might step inside…?” Mr. Terrence Bryce raised a questioning brow.

“Good sir, we have only just arrived in London, and I’m afraid our staff is busy organizing the household. Another time would be better,” Abbey said, using her body to bar the doorway. “Of course, what word you have of the Duke’s arrival you may deliver herewith, and in all haste,” she added.

Mr. Bryce shuffled his feet, and studied his hat for a moment. He cleared his throat and studied his hat a bit more. Rafe felt the first fingers of apprehension chill her spine, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to slam the door on this recalcitrant young man.

As Mr. Bryce raised his eyes, Rafe gasped aloud. His expression was so sad and resolute.

“What of my father?” she cried.

“My Lady, I do not wish to deliver this news to you on the doorstep of your home.”

“I’m afraid you must. Do you bring news of the Dukes arrival?” Abbey insisted.

Terrence Bryce cleared his throat again. “I’d prefer a gentler method, but can plainly see you will not relent. I do bring word of the Duke's arrival, but not such as I would wish. I’m afraid, ma’am, that I must tell you that the Duke has, is….ahem! Er…” He sighed. Gritting his teeth, he continued in a rush, void of inflection, “His Grace the Duke of Bennington is dead, My Lady. He was killed in a hunting accident on the island of Tobago. I was chosen to notify you of this and other things. Now may I please step inside?”