Forever and a Day (21 page)

Georgia rose to her feet and turned toward him. The shaft of gray light from the outside world illuminated the other half he had not earlier seen. “The Robinson I know would have never done such a thing.”

His throat tightened. “I know.”

She sighed, glancing away. “What fools you and I make. You, who seeks to remember a past that is best forgotten, and I, who seek to create a lofty future that is as ridiculous as I. We ought to both be hanged.”

Roderick stepped back, sensing she was already pulling away from him due to what he had so honestly confided. “I would understand if you no longer wish to associate with me.”

She was quiet for a moment and met his gaze. “What do you really want for us, Robinson? Be honest.”

He stepped toward her. “In ten days, I leave for England. Come with me. I want you to share in everything I have for the rest of our lives whilst we learn to love each other more. That is what I want. Say you will go with me.”

She gawked at him. “You want me to go to England?”

“Yes. To London, in particular. That is where my former life appears to be.”

“London?”
She feigned a laugh. “’Twould be like throwin’ a wee Irish pebble out into vast Brit water and watchin’ it sink on impact. I’m not exactly what you would call respectable society. Even I know that. Aren’t most Brits Protestant? I’m bloody Catholic. Emphasis on the
bloody.
”

“Does it matter? You will learn to become one of us and earn their respect. Just as you learned how to read and write despite barely holding up a quill.”

“And what if I disappoint you? What if I can’t learn to be anythin’ more than what I already am?”

The ache within his chest only seemed to grow with his need for her. “You could never disappoint me, Georgia. Wealth is meaningless if its holder has no integrity. And you have enough integrity to fill not only my heart but an entire kingdom.”

She searched his face, her features softening. “Do you mean that?”

“I do, and only hope that my former life doesn’t disillusion you or hurt you because I have no idea what awaits us in England. None.”

“As long as you continue to be the man standin’ before me, I’ll stand beside you.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “You will come? Regardless of whatever my past holds?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He swallowed. “I… Why?”

“Because I have faith you’ll not disappoint me or yourself. I have faith you’ve already learned how to be a better man but have yet to see it yourself.”

He softened his voice, honored to no end that he had somehow earned the love of such an incredible woman. “I vow that you will never regret having faith in me.”

She eyed him and intoned half-seriously, “They’d better have apple trees in London, Robinson. Or you and I are finished. You got that?”

A gruff laugh escaped him. “I will have them shipped in and planted in the front yard the moment we arrive to ensure we last.” He held out his hand. “Come. Let us not stand here in the shadows of a crypt.”

She hesitated and slid her cool fingers into his own. “Whatever shall I call you?
Roderick?
”

“No. Call me Robinson. For I am he at heart.” He tightened his hold on that hand and led her up the small stone steps of the crypt and out past the gate leading them back into the churchyard. “Georgia. There is something else you must know. Something that will complicate our lives.”

She glanced toward him, her bundled wet hair hanging adorably lopsided. “What?”

He fingered her small, calloused hand, thankful she would never touch another pail again. “Though I am wealthy, I cannot sever my father’s favor, for in doing so, I would be sending us both into poverty. As such, we cannot marry until I am able to prove your worth to my father. Is that something you can accept given that we might not be able to marry for what may be months? Or even…years?”

She enthusiastically shook his hand. “Don’t you worry. I’ll prove my worth. However long it takes.” She poked at him. “But you’ll have to teach me how to be a lady, in turn.”

“You are a lady.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you be givin’ me that. I know what I am, and if we’re goin’ to impress your father, we’re goin’ to have to work piss hard.”

He laughed. “I suggest we start by having you use more respectable language. If you think I offend easily, the duke offends worse.” He brought her hand up to his lips, kissing her hand. “Now come. My father awaits.”

She paused, bringing them both to a halt and gesturing toward her soaked gown and muddied bare feet. “I can’t meet him like this.”

He scanned her gown, which clung almost indecently to the curves of her small breasts. “I rather like what you’re wearing.”

She smacked his shoulder. “For all the wrong reasons, you rake.”

“Right you are.” He grinned, tugging her by the hand toward the entrance where one of the marshals still stood waiting. He called out to the man, “Inform His Grace that I will be escorting Mrs. Milton back to her tenement, so she might properly dress before our departure.”

The man inclined his head and disappeared into the rushing rain beyond the wall.

Roderick tugged her forward. “Come. Patience is not a virtue of this man who is apparently my father. Whilst you put on a new dress, I will stall for time and poke about his character to better understand what we are up against.”

She drew them both to a halt. “I’ll have to do more than pull on a dress. I have to wash my feet and pack.”

“Pack?”

“Yes. I have all of my pots, cups, plates, linens and such. I’m also not about to leave my box in the wall for the next person to find. There’s a good ninety-eight dollars and ninety-six cents we can make use of. Not to mention all of the gold coins your father gave me. We’re goin’ to need it.”

Roderick drew closer, bringing her cool, callus-roughened hand up to his lips again. He kissed it several times, allowing the warmth of his lips to seep into that skin, and said mockingly, “I am heir to a dukedom, my dear. Do you know what that means? Or do you need me to expound it?”

She scrunched her nose. “It means I don’t need to pack. Is that what that means?”

“Exactly. Only pack your clothes, as there won’t be time to properly clothe you until we get to London. Leave everything else of worth to Matthew.
Especially
the money. He could use it.”

She gasped. “I’m not leavin’ that bastard my money.”

Roderick leaned toward her. “Georgia. Just imagine what one hundred and ninety-eight dollars and ninety-six cents will buy us, given how much Matthew has done for us for a mere four and forty dollars, what with him running around to banks, letting me grope his stepmother and even giving me clothes?”

She gawked up at him. “He’d bend over for all of England wearin’ a smile, is what.”

He grinned. “Exactly. And the more friends you and I have supporting our union, the more likely everything will fall into place.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The only thing that stops God from sending forth

a second Flood is that the first one was useless.

—Nicolas Chamfort,
Caractères et anecdotes
(1771)

D
RESSED
IN
HER
BEST
S
UNDAY
gown, which she’d stitched herself with great pride, Georgia pushed out a breath and glanced around her tenement one last time, lingering in the small kitchen of what used to be her life. Smoothing her still-damp hair, which she’d assembled into a coif she hoped looked respectable, she wandered over to the small wood table and emptied the contents of her box upon it for Matthew to find.

Leaving the box open, she hurried to the wall and reached up and over the doorless cupboard for her mother’s rosary, lifting the wooden beads off the nail. She kissed them, thanking the Lord in heaven for all of her blessings, and let the beads fold down and into a pile at the bottom of the box before pressing the wood lid back into place.

Aside from all of her gowns, which she’d bundled up in a large sack, her father’s box and her mother’s rosary were the only things she cared to keep of the life she was leaving behind. One day, when her own children were old enough for stories, she would show them the roots of her past and take pride in it for what it was. Tucking the box into the wool sack, she knotted the material into itself to hold it closed.

She slid the brass key off the table, grabbed up her sack and opened the door, stepping outside. After turning the key in the lock, she pulled it out and sighed. No more worrying about counting pennies. Imagine that.

She lingered before the door, touching the well-worn wood panel one last time with the hand holding her key and hoped that the path she had chosen for herself would be everything she had dreamed of and more.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

She jumped and whirled toward John, who lingered in the open door of his own tenement. His darkened blond hair was matted against his forehead from the rain he had yet to dry from. His shirt and trousers were still as wet as the rest of him.

She drifted over to his side of the door, bringing her sack against her hip, and paused before him. “Who needs the west when I found all four corners of the world in one man?”

He folded his arms over his chest, lowering his gaze. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I swallowed too much whiskey.”

She sighed. “I’d rather we not even talk about it. I’m on my way out. I need to drop off this here key to one of the neighbors and leave instructions for Matthew.”

John held out his hand. “I’ll do it for you.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not givin’ it to you.”

“He’ll get it.”

She pointed at him with the key. “Do you promise to deliver this with the
right
instructions?”

“Aye.” He set his hand against his chest. “Upon me mum’s grave and soul. That I swear.”

Knowing his mother had once meant everything to him, Georgia sighed and held out the key. “Tell Matthew to cancel the room, unless he wants the cheaper lease, and inform him that everythin’ I left behind is his to do with as he pleases. He also needs to gather the laundry from the front room, and take it over to the priests over on Barclay, Mott, Sheriff and Ann lest they arrest us all for stealin’ their shirts and trousers.”

She drew in a breath and let it out. “Tell him that although I’ll miss him in a morbid sort of way, that I’ll not write, because I’m goin’ into respectable society and can’t be associatin’ with thieves. He knows I’ve always felt that way, even prior to Robinson, so it shouldn’t surprise him.”

John hesitated, reached out and slid the key from her hand. “I’ll tell him.” He shifted closer toward her and lingered, the scent of rain and must clinging to his skin and clothes. “Take care of yourself.”

“Oh, I will.” She stepped back, cradling her sack up and against her chest. “One last thing. It involves you.”

He quirked a blond brow. “What?”

“Remember my good friend Agnes Meehan? The one with the bright blue eyes that always lingered about your mother’s door a few years back?”

His grin faded. “What about her?”

“She still isn’t married, despite her father’s grumblings. I know you once had a hot eye for her before she moved west. Get the address from her cousin and buy yourself a stagecoach ticket.”

“I doubt she even remembers me.”

“I bet you she does. In the last letter, she asked about whether or not you were still lookin’ to marry.”

He glanced up, eyeing her. “When was her last letter?”

She bit back a smile. “A month ago.” She leaned toward him and poked his chest. “Just stay away from the whiskey and razors thinkin’ it’ll impress her. Because it won’t.”

He reached out his other hand and skimmed her arm, his features twisting. “I’m sorry, Georgia. I didn’t mean to make a mess of things. I just—” Grabbing her, he yanked her hard against himself, awkwardly squelching the sack between them. He buried his wet head into the curve of her shoulder.

She stiffened but realized the poor man was only looking for comfort. She wrapped an arm around him, adjusting the sack between them, and patted his back with her free hand, her fingers sticking to his wet linen shirt. “There, there. I forgive you. So go on and forgive yourself.”

He nodded against her shoulder, tightening his hold.

Footfalls bounded up the stairs and paused on the landing somewhere off to the side.

Sensing it was Robinson, she stepped outside the embrace and pointed at John one last time. “Write Agnes. Don’t sit about Orange Street waitin’ for somethin’ better to come along, because it won’t. We Irish have to align our own stars given that everyone else seems to think they own the goddamn sky.”

“Right you are in that.” He nudged his shaven chin out in the direction beyond her. “I suggest you leave. Your Brit is waiting.” John held up the key, assuring her Matthew would get it, and put up a hand in farewell, before quietly disappearing into his tenement. Lowering his gaze, he shut the door.

Georgia lingered, hoping John would someday know happiness. With a sigh, she swiveled toward the direction of the stairs and hurried toward Robinson with her sack. “We can go.”

Robinson met her gaze. “You cannot be holding men like that anymore, Georgia.”

Her brows rose. She jerked to a halt and thumbed toward John’s direction. “I barely kicked that one to the pavement. Don’t you be next.”

He glanced away, adjusting the wet linen shirt that clung to his wide chest. “This isn’t about jealousy. In my circle, from what little I do remember, men and women do not touch each other like that unless they are married. And even when they are married, such things are only done in the confines and privacy of their home. I just don’t want my father to judge you.”

Her heart sank knowing that most likely his father might
never
accept them. But at least they would be together and in each other’s arms every day and every night. “I understand.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “I actually came up here to clarify some etiquette before I formally introduce you to my father. When you and I are alone, you may freely call me Robinson, but in the presence of others, especially my father, you must refer to me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Tremayne.’ It is a sign of respect. Will you be able to remember that?”

“Of course. You are ‘Robinson’ when we are alone and ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Tremayne’ when we are not.”

“Very good. Whenever you speak to my father, regardless of whether you and he are alone or in the presence of a thousand, always refer to him as ‘Your Grace.’”

She blinked. “As in the
grace
of God?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that a bit sacrilegious?”

He let out a laugh. “I suppose it is. ’Tis something we will both have to swallow. The man is staunch and therefore you’ll need to play into his idea of respectability when in his presence.”

“You mean you want me to act like this?” Thrusting out her chin, she stiffly held out both hands before her, ensuring her sack didn’t fall from her hand, and wobbled about for him from side to side.

He leveled her with a stare. “Are you being serious?”

She laughed, hitting his arm with her free hand. “I was tuggin’ your rope. I know exactly what you mean.”

He laughed and dabbed her nose with a cold finger. “I want you to spend as much time with my father as possible. That way, he will get to know you for the queen that you are. Make your time with him count. Do you think you can impress him with intelligent conversation devoid of all things crass?”

“Of course I can. I’ve seen plenty of upper-circle women converse with upper-circle gentlemen over on Broadway. Watch.” Georgia regally set her chin, softened her lips and kept her features calm and poised. Demurely meeting his gaze, she intoned in her best prim and most civilized voice, “I do believe I shall faint from displeasure knowin’ this foul weather is goin’ to ruin not only my lace parasol but my bonnet.”

Robinson boomed with laughter, his features twisting in merriment. He staggered backward, bumping against the wall behind him, before falling forward again. He laughed and laughed and laughed until there were actually tears emerging from the corners of his eyes.

She blinked. By Joseph, she’d never seen him laugh so hard and couldn’t help but feel offended knowing that her best attempt at being civilized was being mocked. “Did I do it wrong?”

Still laughing, he waved toward her face with a forefinger as if attempting to rearrange her features and choked out, “That wasn’t exactly what I call…intelligent conversation.”

“It wasn’t
that
bad.”

“Oh, yes, it was. Don’t ever do that again.” Still laughing, he yanked the sack from her arms and held out his other hand. “Come. The marshals guarding the carriage are soaked to the skin and my father is as restless as they are. Even worse, people are gathering out of curiosity.”

Grasping his hand, she quickly followed him down the stairs and out into the rain, which had lessened to a soft mist. She nervously gathered her beige cotton skirts, lifting them above her ankle boots to keep them from touching the mud. Clean. She had to stay clean.

Just as she was about to step off the pavement, Robinson grabbed hold of her waist and scooped her up and into his arms, balancing her and the sack all in one sweep.

“Oh!”
Her heart skipped as she grabbed on to his soaked coat to steady herself within his muscled arms. She glanced up at his well-stubbled face, which hovered barely above her own. “Whatever are you doin’? I can carry myself, you know.”

“I’m ensuring you don’t touch the mud.”

She grinned. “Where, oh, where have you been all my life? You could have saved many a gown for me.”

He grinned, in turn. “I regret not having been able to arrive into your life sooner, madam, but I intend to save every last one of your gowns from here on out.” Carrying her toward the open door of the carriage, he leaned her up and toward the landing within the carriage, righting her effortlessly.