Page 96 of The Music of Love

“I feel like I’ve been through at least that many,” Portia murmured. She wished they would leave the state apartments, which were decayed and depressing and made one think of better days.

“We can finish the tour in the minstrel’s gallery. From there it is convenient to go back to the main house through the east wing,” Rowena said over her shoulder as she led them down a particularly dank hallway which opened into a spectacular rotunda the size of a large ballroom.

“How lovely,” Portia breathed. The spherical room had a dizzyingly intricate black-and-white floor and an ornate balcony that wrapped around the walls about three-quarters of the way up to the ceiling. An enormous rose window illuminated the room like a blazing chandelier. She could imagine the scene: the minstrels arrayed in a semicircle on the balcony and playing for their wealthy, powerful patrons below. The guests would dance roundels and voltas while the musicians observed their peccadillos and machinations from afar.

“Oh no, look at this, Frances.” Emotion pulsed in the viscountess’s voice as she examined one of the casement windows that looked out over the knot garden. Portia could see several panes of glass were broken. While the two women examined the windows Portia went up to look at the minstrel’s gallery. As she climbed the narrow rickety stairs, she realized it would be a miserable trek for those carrying heavy instruments. When she reached the balcony, she saw remnants of once spectacular tapestries hanging from the walls, concealing storage nooks cut into the stone wall. There had been no pianos in those days, but perhaps there might still be a harpsichord or virginal. She’d only walked five or six steps when a blood-curdling scream stopped her in her tracks.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Portia stop! That section of the balcony is extremely unstable.”

Portia froze, her heart in her throat.

Frances wheeled on Rowena. “What happened to the barricade I had Thompson put up last year?” She didn’t wait for Rowena’s answer before striding toward the stairs. “Just stay right there and don’t move. That newel post near you is rotted, so don’t touch it. Now, if you look down you’ll see there are some broken slats beneath your feet.”

Portia looked down and then wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t far to the ground, but she became dizzy looking at the open air beneath her feet. How had she missed it? There were dozens of gaps, some as large as an inch, places where the decorative parquet had splintered and fallen away, exposing either the blackened beams below or open air.

“Can you reach that section near the wall?” Frances pointed to the spot she meant; she’d come up the stairs, stopping a few steps shy of the balcony.

The floor right in front of Portia looked the worst, but just beyond that it appeared solid, so she nodded. “I can reach it if I take a very large stride.”

Frances raised a staying hand. “No, don’t do that.” She looked down at Rowena. “Get Thompson and tell him to bring the tallest ladder, a good length of rope, and two footmen—the biggest. Hurry, Rowena!” She turned back to Portia. “Stay as still as you can, she’ll be back soon and we’ll take you down by ladder.”

They listened to Rowena’s footsteps recede until there was nothing.

Portia couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to; her body was rigid with fear. She might come away from the fall with nothing more than broken bones but it could kill her baby. She swallowed and exhaled slowly.

“Tell me something to take my mind off this, Frances. Tell me what it was like growing up here.”

“Our mother was wonderful. She was mad for horses and had us all in the saddle almost before we could walk. It was how my mother had been raised and she argued with our father about letting us roam the property without a groom.” Frances smiled. “She was the only person who ever argued with him.”

Even in the grip of fear, Portia ached at how haggard Frances looked.

“I never had a Season.” She gave a short, unhappy bark of laughter. “Who would look twice at a woman my size other than to stare? So when the opportunity came to take Stacy I seized my chance to raise a child. It was not easy at times, and it made my heart bleed to watch other children shun or taunt him. He was always strong and cheerful, but I knew he suffered. I worried that a part of him died when he overheard that dreadful Penelope call him a freak while gossiping with her friends.”

Something odd flickered across her face. “What my father did was wrong—beyond wrong, criminal—but I want you to understand that none of us had a choice. Constance and Mary should have had their chances to find husbands but they were needed here to raise Robert.” She lifted her shoulders, shrugging beneath ancient, heavy burdens. “I will never forgive my father for rejecting his own son but I can’t regret my life with Stacy. He is my brother, but I love him like my own child.”

Portia understood something about the love Frances was feeling now that she was standing fifteen feet above a marble floor, her mind fixed on only one thing: saving the life inside her.

“He loves you too, Frances. I know he will—”

A low, ominous groaning sound vibrated through the rotted boards beneath her and she screamed, reaching out for the balustrade by reflex.

“Portia! No—

The structure beneath her shivered almost lazily and the staccato snapping of wood cracking filled the air. The heel of her right foot tilted back and Portia staggered, the railing breaking like a dry twig as the parquet beneath one foot disappeared.

Later, when she would try to recall what happened, Portia couldn’t remember Frances grabbing her arm. The older woman must have moved like lightning to get up the crumbling stairs as the balcony disintegrated beneath Portia’s feet.

Frances held her in arms like iron bands and the two of them slipped and fell through crumbling steps before coming to an abrupt halt on a third step. The stop was bone-jarring and Portia bit her tongue, her mouth flooding with blood.

Above them, the balcony screamed like a wayward child and then pulled away from the wall with the ponderous slowness of a giant.

Portia pressed her body against the wall but skidded down another couple steps as the stairs pulled away from the wall. Frances tried to keep her upright, but they both slipped and staggered drunkenly as step after step collapsed beneath them.

Portia’s feet struck marble with another bone-jarring thump and Frances fell backward, pulling Portia down on top of her.

The deafening shriek of twisting wood that filled the room was followed by a moment of ominous silence as the balcony teetered almost gracefully.