Not Quite Darcy (27 page)

“Life is short,” William said. “Make it count.”

“Indeed,” Lord Churchill nodded. “Well said.”

Jennie reached over to squeeze William's arm. It was far too familiar a gesture for English society and he jumped a little, startled by her touch. He thought of Eliza, and her inappropriate Americanisms. Her wonderfully shocking, non-English ways.

“Give Eliza our best wishes, won't you?” Jennie asked.

“I shall be certain to. And thank you both.”

Lord Churchill inclined his head in William's direction and escorted Jennie from the room.

Once they departed, William could bear the crowd no longer. He didn't know the majority of the mourners and felt suffocated by all the bombazine. The only person he wanted to be near was Eliza. If he couldn't have her, at least he could gain some solitude.

As he began to head up the stairs, he heard a loud footstep behind and a bony hand forcefully grabbed his shoulder. He turned to find Uncle Thomas standing there, looking flustered.

“As chief mourner, it is your duty to remain until the final mourner has departed.”

While Uncle Thomas glared at him expectantly, William felt the last bit of glue holding his mask together crack and then give way. He was finished. Done. Done being the gentleman, and done being what he ought on behalf of all these people who didn't know his mother, not really. They hadn't been there through the long nights of her suffering. They hadn't held her hand, calmed her fears, coaxed her with soup on those long winter evenings. Who were they to dictate to him how to feel? How to miss her? How best to honor her?

Yet as he looked at Uncle Thomas, really looked at him, surprisingly he found himself at a loss. Now that his own facade was gone, he could see his uncle a little more clearly as well. Thomas was still a self-important, controlling toad, but just beneath that veneer, William could see the red-eyed older brother who was mourning the loss of a sister who had loved him unconditionally. Thomas would never know that kind of adoration again.

This ability to look at another through the eyes of love was the last present that Beatrix had left her son. And so, gifting Thomas with a generosity and grace that was far more than he actually deserved, William answered kindly, as his mother would have wanted.

“I'm sorry, Uncle. I know that you miss her as well.”

“Well boy, this doesn't concern your weakness. It concerns that which we must do, and what
you
will do is…” And just as Auxiliary Sermon Number Twenty-five was beginning to usher forth, they were interrupted by the sound of a horrific crash coming from just around the corner. It startled Thomas long enough to loosen his grip. William stole up the stairs, all the while grasping his little black pouch—his only comfort at the end of this endless day.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Eliza surveyed the damage. A shattered vase and broken lilies lay at her feet. When she'd heard the little confab that Uncle Thomas had forced his nephew into—treating William as if he were a twelve-year-old—she'd hastily selected the ugliest of the floral arrangements and smashed it to the floor.

Uncle Thomas rounded the corner, his face flushed red. “You again.”

“Me again,” Eliza said cheerfully.

“Another of your accidents.”

“That one was on purpose.” She shrugged and grinned at him. “Well, honestly the whole pudding thing was a ‘my bad' as well.”

“You think yourself immune? Your position with this family might not be as secure as you assume it to be.”

Eliza gave a bark of laughter. “Might not be. But in the meantime, I'd advise you to stop fucking with William.” After seeing the stunned expression on his face, she quickly added “Sir” for good measure.

Uncle Thomas worked his jaw, perfecting his carp impression, but before he could come up with something substantial, she took advantage of his stunned condition and slipped downstairs into the scullery, to begin her assault on the pile of dirty dishes.

Several hours after the last of the mourners departed, Eliza had finally cleared away the small mountain of dishes. As she climbed the attic stairs, she rubbed her tired neck muscles. Every time she walked past the shrouded mirror, she felt as though it was watching her through the quilt that covered it.

Eliza creaked open the door to her tiny shared room to see Dora on top of the covers, apparently too weary to even bother undressing. After changing into her nightgown, Eliza twisted the knob on the gas lamp until it flickered and died. She carefully slid under the covers, so as not to disturb Dora—to no avail.

“He's not going to leave, you know. He'll be here the big end of a month at least,” Dora said in a monotone.

Eliza was going to ask who, but she knew. Yeah, she knew.

Dora continued, “I heard Mr. Waring telling…well anyone who'd listen, that he's going to ‘set things to rights,' as he tells it. Thinks Mr. Brown needs him. As if anyone wants him here!”

Eliza had been naively assuming that once the funeral was over, the various relatives would fly back to their coops and life would return to normal. Well, Victorian normal.

“How much longer does this go on? I mean how long does this mourning thing go on?” Eliza asked.

“The staff is to wear full black for a year. Mr. Brown as well, naturally. No social activities at all. On top of well, all the other changes.”

“Like what?” Eliza forced herself to ask.

“With Mrs. Brown gone, Mrs. MacLaughlin will need to move in permanently. It wouldn't do to have a single female in the home alone with Mr. Brown. And he won't be needing all this staff for just himself. Some of us will have to be let go.”

Eliza was too heartsick to respond. The mirror was just a short distance away, lurking beneath the blanket, reminding her that Lancaster and York were still waiting, as was her life in California. A dead-end job, a cramped apartment and friends that she mostly stayed in touch with via Facebook updates. It wasn't much, but it was hers. Besides, staying here was never part of the deal. She knew that. Lancaster would have an aneurism over “mission parameters” or some other anal-retentive detail.

Even if she didn't have an obligation to return to her own time, she had no place in this one. The message was crystal clear. Being with William was impossible. She'd have to go and she knew it. Soon, very soon, she'd have to step through the mirror and shatter both their hearts.

But not tonight. Not now. She didn't have the strength for it.

Gripping her pillow as though it was a kind of tether to this world, she fell into a fitful sleep.

The next few days were busy ones in the Brown household. Various relatives departed for Victoria Station, guest rooms were cleaned out and the staff began to resume their normal schedule.

Eliza only caught rare glimpses of William. Even being able to exchange a few words in quickly stolen moments seemed like a gift now. And every time she saw him, he was carrying the small black pouch she'd given him. He'd look down to it, and then catch her eye and give her a furtive smile.

Most days William spent holed up in the library, successfully avoiding his uncle by meeting with a constant parade of visitors—accountants, solicitors and other assorted gentlemen.

It was four days after the funeral when Eliza had her first chance to leave the confines of the Brown home. She'd gone to the market with Mrs. MacLaughlin because Dora had begged off due to a headache—named “Davy,” Eliza suspected. Mrs. MacLaughlin needed to stop at a neighbor's to return some linens she'd borrowed for the funeral. She sent Eliza on ahead with some things she'd picked up at the green grocers. When Eliza rounded the corner to the Brown home, she was surprised to see Dora sitting on the front stoop, wide-eyed and bouncing in place.

Dora popped up, Jack-in-the-box style, and greeted Eliza with “Oooh!”

“Dora?”

“You just missed it, Eliza. Just by five minutes! Mr. Brown? His uncle? Oh it was a right proper swipe up!” Dora excitedly looked down at the trail of blood which led down the front porch steps and out to the street.

“Whose blood is that?” Eliza asked.

“Mr. Waring's.” Dora's voice burst with pride. “Left here with his mouth in a sling, he did.”

“Oh shit.” Eliza shoved the shopping bags into Dora's unsuspecting arms. “Stay here and, oh dear god, try to stall Mrs. McLaughlin for as long as you can. Poor William.” Eliza tore open the door and dashed up the steps, following a thin trail of blood all the way to the library.

She burst through the door to find William sitting calmly behind his desk, his concentration focused on writing a letter. Though his hair was a tangled mess, he appeared undamaged. He looked up as she entered the room. A tender smile spread across his lips.

“Eliza, I was just finishing a letter to you, and here you are.”

She looked down at the floor, to where the small droplets of blood had dripped a pattern on the carpet. When a small white object caught her eye, she bent down to pick it up for a closer look. It was a slightly bloody tooth.

“William?”

“Oh, it's not mine, my love. That would be Uncle Thomas's tooth.” He blew on the letter, then folded it. He walked around the desk and plucked the tooth from her hand, then placed it in the small wastepaper basket beside his desk. “I don't believe he'll be returning for it.”

Eliza tried to remain calm.

William gave her an apologetic smile. “I will confess, I hadn't expected my conversation to go very well, but I hadn't quite anticipated this.” His gaze flickered toward the splatters of blood decorating the library carpet.

“Is Mrs. McLaughlin with you?” he asked, casting an eye toward the door. “I'd rather expected she'd accompany you.”

“She's right behind me. We don't have long.” She took a step toward him.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. “It's why I thought to write you this letter, you see.” He held out the folded sheet of paper to her with a shy smile, then pressed it into her hand. “When things turned out so badly with my uncle, I feared I might be unable to speak with you alone, to explain…”

“Your uncle told me he'd try to get me fired the day of the funeral. But William, you have to believe me, I never thought it would come to this.”

William pressed his lips together, his expression oddly serious. “We did not discuss firing you, my love.”

“Well, that's a relief.” Eliza took a shaky breath. “Why did you punch him, then?”

“Things became rather heated between us when I was discussing my future plans with him.” William tugged on his hair and looked down at the carpet.

“And so you punched him?” Eliza shook her head. This sounded so out of character for William that she couldn't quite picture it.

“No. At that point in our conversation I invited him to have carnal relations with poultry, but in the slang term of which you would doubtlessly approve.”

“And then you punched him?” Eliza asked, growing even more confused.

“Not exactly.” William spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “He spoke very cruelly about someone I love. Used rather vulgar language. It was then that I punched him.”

“Oh god. It was about me, wasn't it?” she asked. William was trying to be kind, but she knew what the fight had been about. Or
who
it had been about, rather.

He reached out to clasp her hand. “Darling, please be assured that you were blameless in this.”

“Uncle Thomas isn't going to do anything rash over this, is he? He'll calm down eventually, right?”

William laughed and shook his head. “You mustn't worry, love. As far as the staff is concerned, as far as it comes to you and I, things will be—what's the word again?—okay.”

“And Uncle Thomas isn't going to be a dick about controlling your money because of this?”

He squeezed her hand. “Not exactly. He's cutting me off from my inheritance. But as you can see in this letter I've written to you, I—”

“What?” She released his hand and stepped back. What insanity was this? “Jesus, William. Just fire me. It's not worth—”

“It wasn't about firing you, my love. Surely you must know that.” He took a shaky breath, and a hint of a blush stole across his cheekbones. He gave her a timid smile, then bent down on one knee and looked up at her, his blue eyes shining bright with sincerity.

Oh no. God no.

This was what the dust-up with his uncle had been about? Not about firing her. It had been about marrying her.

And to be with her, he'd have to give it all up—everything.

She didn't know much about this world, but she knew that. Thomas had the power to take it all away, and William was willing to make that sacrifice.

“No, William.”

His eyes dimmed and he swallowed hard. “No? But Eliza, I haven't asked you a question yet.”

The sound of women's voices carried in through the open window. Mrs. McLaughlin had at last arrived. No matter how talented Dora might be, the sight of blood on the front walk meant that Mrs. McLaughlin would be joining them in the library, and soon.

“William,” she interrupted, “I can't—I don't want you doing the
honorable
thing here. I'm not that girl. I love you, I do.” She reached out to cup his cheek in her hand, before catching herself. She clenched her fist and held it at her side. “But I can't. We can't. You would be doing it out of obligation. Out of a sense of honor. I know you'd willingly play the hero for me, but for your sake, I can't let you do this. I won't let you throw away your life.”

She walked toward the door and he followed her.

“Eliza, please. You cannot—” His voice broke. The pain in his eyes tore at her heart. “I've written it all down. My plans.” He reached up to yank on his hair. “A true gentleman would take care to protect your reputation.”

The front door banged open and footsteps, heavy and determined, pounded up the steps.

“We'll talk about it,” he said. “I love you too much to give up just like this. You love me. I know that you love me.”

“I do.” She longed to take him in her arms. “But love means doing what's right for a person. Not simply holding onto them.”

“Mr. Brown?” Mrs. McLaughlin burst into the room without knocking, probably for the first time in her life. “Are you all right, sir?”

William struggled to compose himself. “I am quite fine, thank you, Mrs. McLaughlin.”

“What is going on, sir? Dora here just told me that there had been a disturbance.”

Dora stood in the doorway looking nervous.

“I will explain it to you and you too, Dora. I need to speak to Davy as well.” William cast a regretful glance toward Eliza. “Goodness, this is all happening rather quickly, isn't it?”

“Sir?” Mrs. McLaughlin was determined to not be put off for a second longer. “What is going on?”

“Some rather profound changes are going to happen,” William said, looking at Mrs. McLaughlin. “But it is nothing I haven't prepared for. Please, allow me to explain.”

Eliza knew better than to stay to listen. She had to slip out of the room while he was busy with the staff. It might be the only opportunity she would get.

She knew what she had to do. It was time. Long overdue, actually. Staying with William wasn't a matter of breaking the Repairmen's rules any longer. It wasn't even a matter of her not belonging to this place and time. The awful truth was that as much as she loved William, as much as he might love her, they could never be. His uncle would see to that, even
if
the rest of Victorian society would allow it. She'd turn him into an outcast, and a penniless one at that. After the loss of his mother, she'd be damned if she'd cause William to lose everything else.

Tears streamed down her face as she turned to walk up the attic steps.

It was time to go home.