Learning to Waltz (27 page)

The next morning they found some grouse to shoot and in the afternoon they fenced. They had often dueled each other at school, being well-matched and similarly fascinated by the sport. Woodyard had added an unfortunate amount of weight to his frame, which slowed his movements; on the other hand, he was in better practice. The sweat, and the scrape of steel, and the intense concentration cleared Evan’s head of the detritus, and he actually enjoyed himself.

The evening looked to be more arduous, particularly when the two invited neighbors turned up for the predictably excellent dinner with a friend apiece
.
Evan found, however, that the larger numbers worked in his favor. It was a raucous group, and with so many voices, the reticence of his own was hardly noticed.

And when, later, he found it impossible to concentrate sufficiently on his cards, it was easy enough to withdraw from the game. Instead, he searched Woodyard’s shelves for
The History of the Kings of Britain
and sat down to review old Geoffrey’s version of events surrounding King Arthur’s birth—he expected to find himself at Tintagel at some point on this journey.

They were discussing the innocuous, impersonal topic of Arthurian legend in the course of a leisurely ride the next morning when Woodyard expressed an inclination to join him on his visit to Tintagel. “I’ve not been down that way since I was a lad. And St. Ives as well. And Penzance. We could do the Grand Tour of Cornwall together. Gads, that would be something! Like being twenty again. Except we know what to do with a whore now, eh?”

Evan could think of nothing to say. Certainly nothing encouraging. On some days he could hardly resign himself to poor Grady’s company. Hell, on some days he could not bear his own. “Well, I must warn you that I intend to take my time. I want to spend time at Bideford and perhaps Clovelly.”

Woodyard laughed heartily. “And you can’t stand the thought of it. Pining away after some female, no time to spare for your old friends.”

Evan shook his head. “I find I’m angry, actually.”

“That’s the ticket, Haverfield! Don’t let the bitch bring you down. You’re in luck, in any case; I can’t do it. My sister’s coming next week, and I have some other obligations I can’t miss. Tomorrow, though, you’re mine. We’re going to see a fight—just got word today there’s a match out east of Barnstaple—and then we’ll go to the best inn in town for some sustenance. Who knows what the evening might bring.”

It brought a fine dinner of duck stuffed with apple and sweetbreads and glazed with plum jelly. “But you know, Woodyard, your own cook would do it better.”

“Mm. She
is
a gem, ain’t she?” Evan suspected she warmed her employer’s bed as well as his ovens. “But she deserves a day off now and then, and besides…  Well, there’s a house a couple of blocks from here where the girls’ll knock your britches off. There’s a pretty blonde, name of—hell, I forget her name. If she don’t make your pecker stand up, then you’re only good for the stewpot!”

Evan tried to look interested.

“I can see you don’t believe me. But trust me, it’ll do you good. I’m paying…  I’ll even let you have the blonde!”

What the hell
. Clearly Woodyard had his heart set on it. Or some part of his anatomy. And perhaps he was right. It was Deborah he craved, but it would be a relief to get her out of his mind for an hour.

The young woman in question—Portia was her name, or at least the name she used—was everything Woodyard had promised. She was young enough, pretty enough, curvaceous enough, and eager enough. But he felt no inclination to take her upstairs. “I guess it’s the stewpot for me, old friend.”

Sir Allan shook his head in disgust, but he got the blonde after all while Evan sat in the parlor and got drunk—quietly, unhappily, inexorably drunk.

A dark-haired girl brought his third glass and a bottle to refill it from. She seated herself beside him on the sofa and introduced herself as Rose. She wore a low-cut bodice, barely laced across her breasts, attached to a thin muslin skirt, and nothing else at all. Beyond thinking that she must be cold, Evan hardly noticed.

“Wouldn’t you like to forget your troubles upstairs?” Her voice was soft and, either by breeding or training, genteel.

“What makes you think I’m troubled?” Evan responded, annoyed at her intrusion into his brown study.

“I’m sorry, that looked like a cloud over your head. But perhaps you’re one of that rare breed? A loyal husband just keeping his friend company?”

Evan snorted in self-derision. “I would be if I had a wife. Unfortunately, she’s rejected me.” He took a gulp of brandy and gasped as the fire ran down his throat. “Twice.”

Rose curled her legs up beneath her and gave him a frank appraisal. He was not at his best in any way—dressed for a boxing match, drunk, and disagreeable. But Evan supposed a prostitute developed the ability to assess a man, both for his wealth and his character. Oddly enough, it seemed she was pleased with what she saw.

“Looks to me like you’d have plenty to offer a girl.”

“A widow, say, one step up from the workhouse? You’d think so, wouldn’t you.” He spoke in bitterness, and she scrutinized his face quizzically.

“Did she give you a reason?”

He grunted. “Said she doesn’t like me well enough.”

“You seem quite a nice man.”

“I
am
a nice man,” Evan replied. “It hasn’t got me very far. Into her bed once. And she’s not the type to take that lightly.” It was cheap brandy, and it burned like gall all the way down. “I must have been mighty disappointing.”

“I have a hard time believing that.” Rose nibbled on a finger. “Do you love her?”

“Love her?” He turned toward her abruptly, really seeing her for the first time. “I suppose I do. I can’t seem to live without her.”

“Have you told her that?”

“I asked her to marry me, for God’s sake.”

“It’s not the same thing, though, is it?”

Evan opened his mouth to say something rude. How could a whore expect anyone to take seriously her advice on romance?

Mercifully, Woodyard appeared before he could do so, looking happier if no more sober than his guest, and Evan had a moment to collect himself. Instead, he apologized for his temper and thanked Rose for her company, slipping her a sovereign. He’d been quite aware of the proprietress, scowling upon their conversation. Couldn’t blame her. The girl’s time was worth money, after all, whether he used her in the conventional way or merely talked her ear off.

Evan left her well-satisfied, disbursing a generous sum to pay for the liquor he had consumed and the flesh he had not.

Grady arrived in his room late the next morning to find him sitting on the bed, dressed only in his breeches, his head in his hands.

“Bad night, sir?”

“I can’t remember the last one that was not. Did I used to have good nights?”

“I believe so, sir. But sad to say, I have trouble, too, these days when we’re on the road, sleeping in a different bed every night.”

“That’s part of it. It’s aging, Grady.”

Grady busied himself assembling his master’s morning attire and shaving gear. “It’s right comfortable here at Sir Allan’s, though. I’ve been sleeping like a babe.”

That sounded like heaven. But no amount of walking or wine seemed to help Evan sleep. On the road, he dreamed of ruts and potholes that rattled his teeth and woke him with a headache each morning. In the absence of those grievances, he dreamed of Deborah. It was torture of a different sort, but it was still torture.

“I’ll give you one more night’s sleep, Grady. But only because it’s nearly noon already. And it’s raining. We leave tomorrow.”

Grady
tsked
his disappointment but asked cordially enough, “Would you like me to shave you this morning, sir?”

“I would, thank you. Just don’t cut my throat. Not that I would entirely blame you for doing so.”

Maybe because he’d complained about beds, the master followed a more relaxed timetable upon leaving Barnstaple. They spent several days in Bideford, and in Clovelly, and two or three in Bude as well. Grady would have liked to say they extended these visits because Mr. Haverfield found so much to see and do there.

It probably looked that way from the outside. The scenery was breathtaking, right enough, and they climbed the steep stone stairways to hike along the clifftops where primroses bloomed. But Grady wasn’t sure Mr. Haverfield saw any of that. And there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He just rolled his eyes again, discreetly, and followed along.

Distraction had a powerful hold on Mr. Haverfield, making him forget all sorts of things that should’ve been second nature with all the traveling they’d done. Grady found himself putting Master’s boots outside the door for blacking overnight, bespeaking his breakfast at an appropriate hour the next morning, keeping a wary eye on the weather and roads as Mr. Haverfield drove too fast and too far.

And at the end of the day, ordering ale to counteract all the wine and brandy his master drank, sitting alone in the private parlor of some inn, staring into the fire or pretending to read.

Evan felt like Mistress Mary, quite contrary. Having found fine weather at last, he wished it were foul. Not cold—heavens, no. And rain would have barricaded him indoors, which would not do at all. But dreary weather befits a dreary mood, and heavy dark clouds, with perhaps some bluster, would have suited him better than the bright sunshine that reflected painfully off the water and made everyone in these damned picturesque villages smile so damned happily.

At Tintagel, at least, the weather was cooperatively miserable. How
could
one contemplate all that passion and duplicity on a sunny day? Evan suspected it was always windy on this desolate rock so tenuously connected to England—the elements had certainly done their worst on whatever fortress had been Igraine’s refuge here.

A poor enough refuge it had been, no match for Merlin’s cunning, or Uther’s determination to have her at whatever cost. How did she feel, later, when she learned the truth of that night? Had she hated the man who had fooled her so completely? Had she been forced to marry him? Forced by convention, of course. But quite possibly she had been thrilled to trade old Gorlois for a young, forceful king whose son she was carrying. To a more modern mentality, the notion that magic could have disguised Uther so thoroughly seemed like nonsense, in which case it must be inferred that Igraine had known of the deception all along.

It was harder these days to force a woman into marriage—and what man would want an unwilling bride in any case? But in fact, the conventions had not changed very much at all. An unmarried woman, finding herself with child, was still compelled to marry, if she could…

He abruptly stopped his restless perambulations among the rocks. It was hardly a new idea, but he had not allowed himself to think of it: Deborah could be carrying his child. Would she feel compelled to marry him, if so? Would he
want
her to, if that was her only motivation? For good or ill, he was no Uther, and he had practiced no deception. But saving the life of her only child, and then gifting her with another, might well back her into a corner between obligation and trepidation where she felt she had no choice. As much as he wanted her, he did not want to get her that way. Yet he, too, would be compelled by the need to protect her and their child.

Would she let him know? He had received one scrupulously polite note two weeks ago, ostensibly from Julian, thanking him for the dog…  No, this was not something she would set down in a letter. By the time he arrived back in Whately, it would be three months from conception. So easy to calculate, it would be hard to forget.

The first night of every month would be an anniversary of sorts, and every New Year’s eve—well, that did not bear thinking of. Three months would be soon enough, he thought, though he knew little about such things. She must know he would be back for the weddings, and it would be a blackguard indeed who would not make certain of her welfare. There was nothing to do about it in the meantime except worry.