Almost a Gentleman (36 page)

They found themselves a bit shy with each other at supper later, and hesitant—even befuddled—the next morning. Everything seemed new, heightened, shining and delicate as the tree branches that were edged with ice from the storm. An accidental touch of a hand—when she gave him his coffee or he passed her the newspaper at breakfast—seemed freighted with confused, dreamy intimacy.

They laughed stupidly at nothing, lost the thread of the simplest conversations, stumbling together through mazy crystal palaces built of their shared thoughts and entwined gazes.

They fell silent for long, meditative stretches but when they did speak they were able to communicate volumes. Slowly and haltingly, Phoebe managed to describe her most nightmarish memories.

The moment when she'd known for certain that the phaeton would overturn.

The sickening feeling of losing her hold on Bryan's little body.

The sight—blessedly brief, for she'd been thrown out of the carriage herself the next moment—of him lying, still and broken (and oh, so tiny!) on the gravel path.

"It's as though someone had made pictures of those moments—not paintings, more like horribly precise engravings, drained of color, etched by a flash of light—and affixed them eternally in my thoughts. Thank heaven there's no machine that can create such pictures—only my accursed guilty memory. I've never tried to describe this to anyone before, David."

"Mr. Blake once told me that you suffered the torments of hell."

She shrugged. "Yes, I suppose Mr. Blake would be able to recognize that. And it didn't frighten you away?"

He shook his head and put his arm around her.

She didn't say anything for perhaps an hour afterward and neither did he. The skies were heavy, uncertain; Phoebe and David trudged across snowy pastures as though in a dream—until finally the sun made its way through the clouds and they somehow woke from their dark reverie to find themselves in the midst of a raucous snowball fight.

"You started it," she gasped, almost overcome with manic laughter, "but I got you a good one there at the back of your neck, didn't I?"

"
I
started it? You lying little witch, you know quite well that this titanic battle is all your doing. Ah, but look out, I've got you now… No, wait, hello, who's there?"

The young cowherd was clearly discomfited by having to deliver a message to the earl when that gentleman had just finished rubbing a lady's face with a clod of snow.

He begged Lord Linseley's pardon, and the lady's too, for disturbing them, but it looked like the red cow with the straight hocks was going to have her calf. Way too early, of course, but Mr. Goulding had resolved to get the little creature out alive. They were there in the barn now, Mr. Goulding and that new fellow that's staying with him. It looks like it's going to take some time, too, sir.

"Blast it, I knew we should have trouble there. No slope to the pelvis on that cow at all. And she'll be in extraordinary pain, too, poor thing," David said. "But you can find your own way back to the house, can't you, Phoebe? For I expect this will take quite a while."

"Of course I can find my way. But must I? Can't I come with you?" She didn't want to leave him yet, no matter where he was going. And anyway, it would be a chance to see how Billy was faring.

"A difficult, premature calving is a nasty business. The herd isn't due to give birth for more than a month, you see. But of course you can come if you want to. This boy will bring us all some hot cider from the house, won't you, lad? It could be a long wait."

It was a nasty business. Bloody too. And loud—horrible how the cow was suffering.

"It's all turned round in there, poor little thing," Mr. Goulding told them from the stool where he sat. For it wasn't he, as Phoebe had expected, who lay on bloody, filthy straw with his arm plunged up inside the terrified, suffering cow. It was Billy, his broken leg stretched out alongside of him in what surely couldn't have been a comfortable position.

"The lad knows what he's doing," Mr. Goulding explained proudly. "Begged me to let him have a try at it. Well, why not? I quizzed him on the best way to pull the little creature out.
He
knowed it all quite exactly."

"Got clever hands, too," he added.

Clever enough to have kept him alive on the London streets during five years of pickpocketing, Phoebe thought. But Mr. Goulding wouldn't have to know that unless Billy wanted him to.

She shuddered for the poor cow, but it was Billy she was watching. Even in his bruised and broken condition, he was clearly the calmest person in the barn. She marveled at how adult he looked, how skillful, throughout his repeated, frustrating, failed attempts to maneuver the calf's nose into the birth canal so that he could pull the poor little thing out.

He kept missing. He kept trying. An hour passed. It was growing dark outside. The young cowherd lit the lanterns; Mr. Goulding puffed on his pipe. The hot fermented cider helped keep everybody warm, but the situation was beginning to look quite hopeless. There were ways to kill the calf and save the cow; David and Mr. Goulding had begun considering them.

"Just one more try," Billy said.

He knit his brow and rotated his arm. Phoebe could tell from the sudden spark that lit his eyes that he'd finally made a connection.

"And it's alive," he called. "Here it comes."

She wanted to hug him afterward, but merely smiled and congratulated him. David shook his hand, Mr. Goulding clapped him on the shoulder, and everyone toasted him with what was left of the cider. And now, they all agreed, it was best that that he go warm himself and get some rest. After a good wash, of course.

"I'll discuss it with Mr. Goulding first, of course, but I want to offer Billy a position here," David told her as they walked back to the house. "He's extraordinarily skillful. Cool headed, too—well, that's a big part of the job, confidence, patience. He'd be an immense help to Mr. Goulding, who's getting on in years, much as hates to admit it. What luck to have brought him here."

What luck for Billy to be able to stay here.

Even after she'd returned to London.

"But you're pale," he exclaimed. "You look exhausted. I shouldn't have let you stay through all that nasty business. Lord, what was I thinking?"

"No, I'm glad I stayed. It was wonderful, to… to see Billy succeed so brilliantly. I had no idea that he could do such a thing. I simply need a little rest… the cold air, you know. But do come wake me for supper, won't you?"

As though, she thought, staring at the flames leaping in the green bedchamber's tiled fireplace, there existed the slightest chance that she'd be able to sleep. As though she could shut out the thoughts that plagued her. Or the images—even the pretty ones. Even—or especially—the lovely sight of the cow nudging and prodding her baby, licking off the birth mess with her strong, rough tongue until the calf blinked its eyes, stumbled to its feet, and began nosing the swollen udder, rooting about for a teat to suckle at.

She and David, the cowherd and Mr. Goulding, and a rapt, prideful Billy had all watched, quietly spellbound by the spectacle of new life. It was hardly something special here on a farm, of course, but one couldn't help be thrilled and fascinated by it all the same.

In a month's time, she thought, all the cows would have calved. And soon afterward David and his crew would begin plowing and planting the corn—and the hemp, woad, oilseed, turnips, and sugar beets as well. They'd shear the sheep and cut the hay in the spring, while the days grew longer and the rest of the crops ripened.

And in late summer they'd begin the harvest. Skin burnt brown by the sun, sleeves rolled up and collar unbuttoned, David would be out abroad in his fields from morning till night.

She'd give anything to be there beside him, to be part of the cycle of unfolding life, the turn of the rough wheel that fed and clothed the people of Britain. But it was impossible. She needed to return to the city as soon as she could. To take up Marston's endless, futile round of calls and dinners, balls and appointments. To pronounce the subtlest, cleverest judgements upon those matters of style that constituted the Polite World's raison d'être. To participate in the Season—as if the word "season" could mean anything at all when abstracted from the earth's cycles of dark and light, heat and cold, sun and rain. As though there could be any "world" except the natural one, turning on its axis in the heavens.

She had to return to sooty, poisoned London, and absolutely as soon as she was able. She'd stay for the Plough play, of course; she couldn't leave David to celebrate his cherished ritual without a companion. But she'd take herself away soon afterwards, after having made it absolutely clear to him why this course of action was the best thing—the only thing really—for them both.

Oddly, she began to feel a bit better for having reaffirmed her resolution. Having faced it squarely, she could take comfort from the knowledge that she wouldn't be leaving as precipitously as all that. There remained a full week between today and Plough Monday. And Lord Crashaw would be arriving two days after that; best to stay until
that
business had been resolved. Not that she felt in any danger from the author of the hate letters; it didn't seem that anything bad could happen here in the country. But one never knew, and Billy's wounds were a reminder that it was best to be careful. It was only responsible to let David speak to Crashaw and put an end to the threats and intimidation, as she was quite sure he would.

And so, adding it up, she had nine more days here. Nine days in which to live so deeply and happily and consciously—at his side and in this place—that she'd be able to remember it forever, every moment engraved upon her memory and her heart. For after all, she thought, she deserved a few
good
memories, too.

"I sent the letter off to Linseley." Admiral Wolfe handed Lady Kate into his carriage and sat down beside her, closing the door behind him. The opera had been delightful, he thought, but rather
long
, especially since it wouldn't have done to sit as closely beside her in the box as he'd longed to. He moved a bit closer to her now. Ah yes, much better.

She smiled up at him as the carriage started up. "I'm glad, John. Because even though I know I shouldn't worry, I do anyway."

"You worry far too much about your friend Phoebe."

"Perhaps because I haven't had anyone else to worry about."

"But now you do. You should worry about me."

"It's difficult to worry about someone who came through the Battle of Trafalgar so heroically, but I shall try if you'd like. I
think
about you constantly, though. Isn't that sufficient?"

"It will suffice quite nicely. Because I take your point: I'm really not the sort of person one worries about. But how about children, then? I'm told that children are life's biggest worries, and the best as well. You would like to have children, wouldn't you, Kate?"

"Indeed I would, John."

"Good. I want them too. I've always envied Linseley that son he adores so exceedingly. Nice young chap, by the way; I've invited him to dine with me tomorrow. And I'll bring him around to call sometime as well; you'll like him too. All the same, Linseley probably can't wait to start a household full of new ones now that he's found someone to give them to him. But what's wrong, dear?"

Lady Kate's lighthearted smile had faded.

"He wants more children, John?"

"He's mad about them. I think the desire for more children was probably what brought him to Almack's in the first place."

"Oh dear. Yes, I can see that now. He's just the sort of gentleman… oh, but I should have realized."

"Kate, will you please explain what's upsetting you so."

"It's Phoebe. Forgive me, John, but this time I truly can't stop myself. Because it will be so difficult… so painful, for her, and for the earl too, to resolve this… disappointment. Well, maybe she's told him about it already. At least I hope she has.

"You see, she lost a baby when they had that accident in the phaeton. And the doctor… well, after the accident the doctor said…"

"Ah, I do see. Hard on her, that."

"Yes, he said she'd never be able to bear another child."

"The door's unlocked, David. Please come in."

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her, tall and serene, and smiling at a small painting on the wall.

"Do you know," he told her, "I was quite worried about you. You looked so fragile two hours ago."

Still smiling, she turned her graceful neck to look at him. "Yes, I'm much better now."

"I expect you were right about the cold air. Anyway, your little rest seems to have set you up wonderfully."

"That and the entertainment of this picture gallery. I take it that the truculent little fellow in curls and petticoats, gripping his pail and shovel so determinedly, is you?"

Absurd picture, he thought, the sort of thing only a woman could enjoy. His mother had loved it too. He nodded, trying not to wince.

"Are you hungry for supper?" he asked.

"No, not quite yet."

"Oh well, supper can wait then. A brandy, perhaps?"