Edith Layton (15 page)

His brother sat alone after he’d left, wearing a faint but growing smile. “Why, Daffyd,” he whispered to the empty room, “who would have believed it?”

Meg smiled at Daffyd when she saw him waiting in the main hall as she came down the stair at first light.

This morning he looked like one of his brother’s noble houseguests. He wore a neat white neckcloth and a tan jacket, obviously cut by a master’s hand. It went wonderfully well with his apricot-colored waistcoat, buff breeches, and shining gold-tassel-topped brown boots.

But he didn’t smile back at her. “Change,” he ordered the moment he clapped eyes on her.

She looked down at herself. She wore one of her old gray gowns. But it had been ironed and looked respectable again. “This is for traveling,” she said in confusion.

“Not today,” he said. “Put on one of the gowns my brother sent you. Today we take the main road. We also take the loan of my brother’s carriage, his coachman, and a post boy. We’ll be traveling fast and asking questions, and for that we need an impressive vehicle and an aura of respectability.

She frowned.

“What if we do find the Osbourne chit?” he demanded. “What if we have to rescue her? Or what if we have to drag her away from her lover? Fine chance we’d have to do anything like that looking like a gypsy and a drab. The locals would call for the militia. They’d toss us in jail—if we were lucky. No. It won’t do. I’m dressed to the teeth and so should you be. Ladies wear flimsy fashionable stuff no matter how hard or long they’re going to travel.”

She nodded. “I won’t be a second,” she said, turned, and secretly delighted, ran back up the stairs.

It had given her a twinge last night when she’d left the beautiful gowns she’d been given and packed only her own. She’d sighed especially hard when she’d abandoned two other new gowns, along with the bonnets and matching slippers that had magically appeared in her wardrobe as well. She’d never owned so many new clothes at once, not to mention so many beautiful ones.

When she returned to her room she saw the maids
had been in. The new gowns and their accessories had already been packed in her bag.

Meg was smiling when she came down the stair again, wearing a sunny yellow gown, sprigged all over with tiny pink flowers and tied with a pink ribbon at the waist. She wore a dashing pink straw bonnet, and carried a folded parasol. She couldn’t help but be pleased to see her new pink slippers peeping out from under her hem with every step she took. She felt she looked like the lady Daffyd asked her to be.

For a moment, she thought he thought so, too. Then his expression became impassive. “We have to eat breakfast and then go,” he said.

Two sleepy footmen leaped to attention in the morning dining parlor when Meg and Daffyd entered. They offered a sumptuous breakfast selection from the plates, tureens, and chafing dishes set out on the sideboards. The viscount’s guests always found food waiting when they arose, at whatever hour. But no one else joined them.

Meg and Daffyd ate quickly and silently, and then got up to go.

Daffyd paused, reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed Meg a paper. “My brother left a note for you.”

My dear Miss Shaw,
the note said in firm dark cursive script.

“He left me a note, too,” Daffyd said when he saw her bemused expression as she read it, and then noted how she carefully folded it afterward. “He said he didn’t want to get up and join us this early because that would cause talk. His servants are used to people coming and going at all hours. But they aren’t used to seeing him up at what he called ‘this un-godly’ hour, unless they’re putting him to bed.”

She smiled. “He tries to conceal all his better qualities, doesn’t he?”

Daffyd was about to answer when she added, with a shy smile, “Just the way you do.”

There was nothing he could say to that, so he frowned, and asked, “Ready?”

“Never readier,” Meg said. “Let’s go.”

I
t rained a chill, dank rain. It poured in the morning, mizzled at midday, and then came down in torrents by afternoon. The horses made slow going of it. By the time night fell, even the fine-sprung coach Meg and Daffyd were in pitched and swayed and slogged along the road like a galleon breasting rough seas.

“We lost a lot of time today, didn’t we?” Meg finally asked as she stared out the window at nothing but rain.

“So did they,” Daffyd said from his side of the coach, as he opened his eyes. He stretched, yawned, and looked out the window. “I mean, your Rosalind and her lover. Don’t doubt it. They’re probably tucked up warm somewhere waiting for the weather to clear. So we didn’t lose time at all.”

“I did,” she said softly. “I only had three days, and now, it’s two.”

He didn’t answer right away. “Again,” he finally said, “you can go now and leave it to me. Two days is long enough to get you to your governess’s house. I’ll let you know what I find as soon as I do.”

“Again,” she said wearily, “you might not recognize her. I will, immediately. Anyway…I’ve made my bed. You know?” she asked in a little voice, “I suppose I’m glad for the delay today. The weather’s been too fine, almost supernaturally so. Who ever heard of such balmy English weather? It deceived me. Being forced to sit here and think has been good. I left in a mad rush and followed Rosie willy-nilly. Now, I can see how foolish that was—but at the same time, how inevitable. I had no choice. So if I fail at the last, what’s the worst that can happen? I return to what I escaped from, that’s all.”

Daffyd frowned. “I can’t think of anything worse than returning to what I escaped from. But I’ve been in places the devil would be ashamed of. Still, I know what a blow that would be to you. No need to give up yet. Two days is forty-eight hours, a lot can happen in that time. She might even be at the inn we stop at tonight.”

He smiled at her so broadly she could see his teeth gleam white in the dim light. “The rain’s got your soul soggy, is all it is. I know what. Let me try to make love to you so you can flare up at me. It will do you a world of good and take your mind off your troubles.”

She didn’t smile.

“I won’t lay a hand on you until you ask me to,” he said piously. “And you will. You’ll see. I’ve never really tried my gypsy wiles on you. You’ll be helpless in no time. I’ll do it all without putting one paw on you. I’ll do it with the music of my words, a little Romany magic, and the purity of my heart’s deepest desires.”

He thought he detected a flickering of her lips, quickly suppressed.

“Yes, a good game,” he said comfortably as he settled back. “Now, where should I begin? Your body? It’s always on my mind, but if I talk about it you’ll think I’m just being lewd. We’ll save that for later, after you see how impressed I am with the rest of you. Now, let’s see.

“Your face? That’s where everyone starts, but it’s too comprehensive. So let’s take your face in parts, as they appeal. What tempts me most right now? The light’s dim, but I can see your smile. Yes, that definitely lures me. Should I tell you that you have the most enticing lips? No, really, you do. Fashionable females purse their lips to make them look like rosebuds, or at least that’s the idea. I think it makes them look like carp in a fishpond. Have you ever gone to a
ton
party? I almost expect to see air bubbles rising from their mouths. I think it would be like kissing a carp. Not appealing.

“Mind,” he added, “I don’t kiss every available female even if she has nice lips. I wouldn’t have time for anything else if I did. And I do have standards.
Speaking of mouths, I hear some girls bite their lips to make them look swollen. I think it looks as though they’ve been punched in the mouth. Even if it doesn’t, having a fat mouth makes a female look lustful or greedy. Nothing wrong with either thing, understand, but it’s not my cup of tea.

“By the way,” he commented, “did you ever notice that some people have the reverse—hardly any lips at all? Men, usually, and it gets worse as they get older. It’s as though their lips decided to leave their faces and are drawing in. That’s usually the case with mean men, as though they’ve been so busy trying not to smile that their lips just quit. But some females have hardly any lips to speak of as well. I imagine that would feel like kissing a seal. Nice animals, but not kissable.”

He saw her smile.

“Yes, definitely,” he said. “Lips are a barometer of the soul.”

She looked at him.

He grinned wider. “Not my quote. I’m not given to thinking about souls. But I heard a fellow say that once. It’s true. Laughter and pain make your face what it is as much as your mama and papa did. It shows in the eyes, of course, and everyone talks about that. Don’t worry, we’ll get around to your eyes soon, I’ve got lots to say about them. Still, it’s interesting that people always say they can read a person by the eyes. They ought to have a look at the lips, too.

“Now, your lips!” he said enthusiastically. “Yours
are pink and plush, and best of all, they bow up in the middle as though they were etched like a face on a cameo ring. Makes a man want to know how they’d feel against his own…”

“You know already,” she said quietly.

He hesitated. “Yes, I do. But I want to know more.”

“Daffyd?” she said in a queer little voice, “You know, if the world were different, I would want to make love to you, too.”

He sat absolutely still.

“I imagine you do know how to make love, and beautifully,” she said. “And I’m not dead. But I am—me. And so I can’t. I’ve thought about it. Did you know that? You
are
attractive. You have the most amazing dark good looks. Speaking of faces, yours is not soon forgotten. You move with grace, you’re quick of mind, and so very charming—that is, when you want to be. You’ve educated yourself far above others who had better beginnings. I admire you tremendously for raising yourself from such a sad and desperate childhood, and in such dire circumstances. Your brothers adore you, as does your grandmother. I can see why, you have so many good qualities. You are, in your fashion, honest, and you’re compassionate, which is amazing, considering what you’ve had to go through.

“I
do
like you, too,” she said sadly, “But I’m wary of you because you’re dangerous to me without even meaning to be—sometimes,” she added with a smile in her voice. “Other times I think you mean to be, but
then, you warn me. Still, I don’t think we could be friends, and certainly not lovers.

“We
are
from different worlds. I’m no fine lady looking for sport with a gypsy lad. I can’t sport at all. I’m simply not able to fly free. What constrains me? I’ve thought about it. I guess it’s habit and upbringing, as well as reality. You see, if we were friends, there would always be that urge to be lovers. If we made love, however safely, however charmingly—
especially
if it was wonderful, as I suspect it would be, I’d never forget. Long after you were gone on your way, I’d pine for you. I know I’d never find your like again. And I’d ruin myself for a proper husband. Because apart from having an experience I’d have to explain away one day, I know that as time moved on I’d forget the joy and only remember the shame. So, please, if you care for me, at all, in any way, don’t ask me again. It’s too tempting.”

He sat stunned, and said nothing. There was nothing he could think of to say.

She nodded, and then turned her face to the streaming window again. “Will we be there soon?” she asked.

The inn where they at last stopped was old, and cold, because there was a problem with the chimneys. It was being worked on, the landlord assured them. But the dinner was hot, and the landlord apologetic, and every bed was heaped high with blankets.

Daffyd and Meg sat in a private dining chamber after dinner, because the hearth in that room had the
one flue that drew perfectly. The blaze in the fireplace sent out light and some heat, and the draperies were closed tight across shutters drawn against the slashing rain. But the fire didn’t seem to lighten either of their moods.

“I’m sorry,” Daffyd finally said, to the walnut he held in his fingers.

Meg looked up. “About what?”

“About teasing you, pursuing you, even when I knew that a lass like you isn’t for me.” He scowled. “Listen, Miss Meg. I haven’t a good opinion of marriage, or of fidelity, or of love itself. I’ve seen too many things called love, and little of the real thing. And though I’ve loved some people in my time, most of that love wasn’t a physical sort. I spent a lot of time in the company of men, and there’s a kind of love involved, that’s true enough, but it’s…ah, what’s that word I learned? Yes—it’s platonic love. As for females? Well, I love my grandmother, admire many women, and desire a whole lot more. But I have a hard time finding a woman to trust as I would a man, and still want to love as I would a woman.”

He stared down at the walnut turning in his hand. “The earl bemoans that. But that’s how I’m made. I enjoy females but I don’t think I could be tied down to any particular one of them. You’re smart and sweet and a treat to look at, game as a pebble, and full of unexpected laughter. And you need a husband. Truth for truth: I find I’d like to be him. Aye, really. But it would be folly. I’d be the devil of a hus
band, and no kind of father, and matrimony hasn’t ever been in my plans.”

“I don’t want you to marry me!” she cried.

He shrugged. “I’m not saying you want
me
. I’m thinking about what you need. You need a husband and that’s the bald truth. The world’s no place for a female alone. It isn’t much of one for a man alone either, but at least we have the law on our side—if we have money enough to call on it. We have the ability to earn a wage anywhere. Our safety lies in our muscles, and we can train to protect ourselves. Now, a female, unless she’s either wellborn or a Billingsgate fishwife, has none of that. I know, I’ve seen too many lasses unprotected. I’ve been in places where women had to trade themselves in order to live, and it’s not a thing you’d want to see.”

He shook his head. “But that’s not to the point. What is, is that you need a husband. You need one who’ll be faithful to you. What with my mother and my father, I don’t know if that’s bred into me. I doubt it. And I’ve seen how it hurts if a fellow swears constancy and then cheats. Seen it in a man when a wench does the same, and I’m not just talking about my mother.”

He looked down into his hand, as though the walnut held the mystery of life within it.

“I’d like to help you. But I wouldn’t want to try to do good and do evil instead. I can’t swear to constancy, and I don’t think you’re a lass willing to put up with a rover. You need a man with a serious mind. That’s definitely not me. I’ve had too much serious
ness in my time. I plan to live my life lightly from now on.

“Even so,” he went on as she stared at him, aghast, “if I thought I could help you by marrying you, I would. So I think what we ought to do is to find your wretched chit Rosie. Then, soon as we do, you come with me to the earl’s house, and we’ll let him find you a likely lad.”

She rose to her feet, her hands clenched. “I’m not a difficult parcel that you’re trying to see where to deliver. Whatever I’ve done, however foolish or misguided I’ve been, I did it all myself, and I’ll take the responsibility for it. If worse comes to worst, what will happen? I won’t starve; I won’t be thrown out into the cold to fend for myself. There’s no work-house in my future, only my aunts’ house. Even if my reputation is gone, well, especially if it is, my aunts will take me in. They’re not good company, but they’re terribly responsible, and…” she paused and permitted herself a ghostly little smile, “I think they’d actually love the chance to tell me how good and sacrificing they’re being by taking me back.”

Her lips trembled, and she turned to leave.

He was at her side in a moment. He put an arm around her shoulder, and held her. “You’re not a parcel,” he said, as she turned her head away from him. “You’re not an obligation. By now, you’re a friend of mine, and if I were a better man, you’d be more than that. In fact,” he added on a whisper, “If I was a worse man, you’d be more than that, too. But I’m not. So, sit down. We’ll work it all out. Anyway,” he
added as he steered her to the settee by the fireside. “Why run off to an icy bed? Time enough to do that. For now, come sit by me. Don’t despair. We might bump right into the runaways tomorrow morning at breakfast.”

He guided her to the settee, and then sat himself beside her. He never took his arm from around her shoulder. And he never stopped talking, slow and low. “Sit back, breathe deep, put your head on my shoulder. Loosen up; I won’t do anything but sit beside you. I’ve been in your place too often to betray you. Come, lean on me and let the fear flow away,” he said softly.

It wasn’t hard for him to do. He told her the truth. He knew the way of this, he’d done it many times in the darkness of prison cells, in the rocking dark on prison ships, in the darkest of bleak nights in the face of impending disaster. If there was one thing a prisoner knew it was how to help another against despair, especially if he’d been so helped in his own past.

He didn’t stroke her soft scented hair, though it tickled his nose, he didn’t touch her in any other way. He didn’t move his hand at all. He just sat beside her and let her absorb the warmth of his body and feel his slow, deep, even breathing, so she could unknowingly match hers to his.

“Hush,” Daffyd said as she finally let her head lean against him. He settled her more comfortably. “Here, rest against my chest. They say ‘lean on my shoulder,’ but they don’t know what they’re talking
about. Shoulders are hard and bony. A chest’s like a pillow, however rocky. There. Comfortable?”

She nodded. But he could still feel how stiffly she held herself.

“Breathe in and out, think of nothing but the breathing,” he said. “Of course, you’re upset. It’s worse at night. That’s the way of problems in the night. They grow, because the dark magnifies fear and terror. It’s a natural fact. Makes sense, because night is the opposite of day. Well, you know that if you hold a glass to the sun on a fine bright day you can start a fire in dry grass underneath it? You can. That’s because the sun sends heat and light and the glass magnifies it. The night does the same, only in reverse. See? It makes everything dark bigger. Instead of starting a fire, the magnification of the night starts to suck out your soul, and it empties you of energy, it makes your thoughts darker than they were to start with. If you remember that, you can stop it from happening. Remember, by morning light, your problems and fears shrink back to size again.”