Not Quite Darcy (8 page)

Knowing that she couldn't allow the conversation to skate so close to the edge of York and Lancaster's guidelines, she moved to stand. He stopped her with a warm, firm hand on her arm.

“No, please don't leave.” He bit his bottom lip, then looked at her with a hint of trepidation. “I…I'll tell you my secret. ‘Twould be a relief to let someone know, truth be told.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“For several days now, I've been trying my hand at being a pugilist.”

“A pugawhatsit?”

“A pugilist. I've been spending my afternoons in training, though I know many consider fisticuffs a vulgar and base activity…” He trailed off.

“I haven't the slightest idea what a fisting-cup is, but being raised in this repressed environment, I wouldn't blame you for turning to some kind of outlet. No judging here.” She raised her hands, palms upward.

“Ah, I'm not entirely sure you comprehend. I am engaging in fisticuffs. How to explain? Hmmm?” And with a wince he held his battered hands up, in a fighter's stance.

“Oh, boxing!” Eliza said with a relieved laugh. “That's what you do at your ‘club'?”

“Oh, my gentlemen's club is real, I assure you. It's just that lately I've been spending time at the Amateur Athletic Club as well.”

“I wouldn't have pegged you for a club-hopper, William.” She smiled at him and he gave her a shy grin. “But why are your hands so shredded? Do you need new gloves?”

“I borrowed gloves from a friend and they were ill-fitting.” He took another deep sip of whiskey. “I don't believe I'll need to purchase a set of my own, however. Tonight's debacle has me rather convinced to be quite done with it.”

“Why?” Eliza tied off the bandage in a knot.

“I'm afraid I'm rather dreadful at it.”

Eliza began dabbing alcohol on his other hand. It would be a pity if timid William gave up after his first fight. Boxing might be just the thing to help build up his confidence.

“It's too bad you're quitting. I think you'd be excellent at it.”

His brows raised in surprise. “You do?”

“Absolutely. You have the right frame for it. I imagine you're very quick on your feet.”

“Ah, but even quicker at hitting the ground, I confess. Tonight was my first official bout, and I did not fare well.”

“Which is pretty much expected in a first bout, don't you think?”

William took another long sip of whiskey and met her gaze.

“I really think you should stay with it, William. I mean, you like doing it, don't you?”

“I confess, I do find the physical exertion surprisingly appealing. Though Mother would be mortified at the baseness of fisticuffs.”

“Then I wouldn't bother telling her about it.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin.

He looked at her thoughtfully. When he spoke it was with a serious tone. “Very well. I shall persist, upon your insistence.”

He raised his glass in a toast. Even in the dim gaslight, she could see his sharp cheekbones tint with a blush.

“Your chin?” Eliza asked.

William sat back in the chair as she leaned up to dab at the cut. The wound was deeper than it initially appeared. He remained still, eyes closed, lips slightly parted as she swabbed the gash just below his lower lip. His warm breath whispered against the back of her hand, which betrayed her with a tremble. It was her loneliness, she told herself. It was her isolation that caused this strange reaction. She couldn't, wouldn't, feel attraction to this man. It was against the rules. Yet it was almost impossibly hard not to linger.

“And now that I've told you my secret, perhaps it's time that you tell me yours.” He peered at her through lowered lashes.

She stopped her ministrations and sat on her heels. “I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Brown.”

“I'm no longer to be addressed as William?” he asked, sitting up, his tone remaining light. “Very well. Mr. Brown I shall be. But remember, please, that I'm William Brown and not Alexander Walker.” He glanced toward the textbook, sizzling with sexism and forgotten on the floor.

Eliza could only stare at him. She couldn't tell him who she really was, even if it hadn't been listed in the Repairmen's rules. He'd think her crazy, or worse.

“I'd like to know the truth of it. You're not really Bessie at all, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

He smiled and tilted his head toward her. He should smile more often; it transformed his face entirely. “I've noticed that it often takes you a few moments to respond when I call you by the name ‘Bessie.'”

Not knowing her path in these murky waters, she nodded. “Back in California, I went by the name Eliza.”

“Then why did you change it to Bessie?” The gaslight flickered in his questioning eyes.

“I suppose something was messed up with the paperwork. Eliza, Bessie—they're all just forms of Elizabeth.” She was very proud of herself for thinking of the original form of both names so quickly.

“Eliza,” he repeated. Her name sounded so pretty when it came from his lips. “I quite like that. It suits you.” He smiled. From behind his glasses, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners.

She returned his smile.

“Eliza, not answering to your name wasn't the thing that convinced me that you're holding a secret.”

“It's getting terribly late.” She faked a yawn, stretching her arms for an added touch of authenticity.

“It's the fact that you call me William. Your way of speaking. Not knowing who was on the throne. The type of tunes that you sing when you believe yourself to be alone. It's everything about you.”

He lowered his chin and looked down at her, not as a stern employer trying to catch a maid in a lie, but with an expression of genuine concern in his eyes. “Your differentness is something more than ‘being an American,' isn't it?”

“I'm sorry. I don't know what you mean.” She edged toward the door as though she was walking on fragile spring ice that was beginning to snap beneath her feet.

He followed her. His bandaged hand moved to touch her shoulder tentatively. “I'm trusting you, Eliza. Not just with my secret. I'm trusting you with my mother, trusting you in our home. Is it too much for you to trust me—just a little? Tell me the truth of it.”

It was tempting to let her walls down and confide in him. There was something about the way he looked at her, the honesty blazing from his blue eyes, that told her he was a man she could trust. Besides, it really was the least he should expect—honesty from the person to whom he'd entrusted his mother. Tears stung little pinpricks behind her eyes and her view of him began to waver. She wanted to confide in him with an almost physical ache, but knew that it would sound so improbable to his Victorian mind.

And it would break the rules. Eliza didn't know what Lancaster and York might
do
if she were to break the rules, but she didn't want to find out. Lancaster didn't seem to be the sort of guy who would take that kind of thing lightly.

William's face changed then, his expression of concern turning to one of regret.

“Forgive me. Please. I did not intend to cause you distress in this matter.” Gingerly, he removed his hand from her shoulder. “I thank you for the excellent nursing care. And I thank you for your sound advice regarding my efforts as a pugilist.” He gave a self-depreciating grin and brought a bandaged hand up to tug on his hair.

Eliza lifted the latch and stepped out into the hall. When she turned around to close the door, he remained standing by the doorway. A tangle of brown curls had tumbled across his eyes and she couldn't begin to gauge his expression.

“I should bid you good night,” his voice rumbled. “And Eliza? I do believe you'll tell me one day. I hold this as my most earnest hope.”

“Thank you and good night to you…sir.” She added the “sir” far after the rest of the sentence. He sighed and shook his head.

Eliza continued down the hall, feeling as unsteady on her feet as he'd looked, though she hadn't the excuse of a boxing match and whiskey to cause the weakness in her legs. As she rounded the corner, she felt his gaze on her, curious and patient.

For now.

She trailed her hand along the wallpaper, murmuring, “He's nothing like Darcy.”

Chapter Nine

William opened the front door of his home, bracing himself for impact, just in case. For the last few days, every time he returned from his afternoons at fisticuffs, he opened his front door with trepidation, expecting Mrs. McLaughlin to greet him trailing a list of Bessie's grievances. Mercifully, the entrance hall was empty. He shrugged out of his frock coat and stretched a little as he hung it in the front closet. His arms were far less sore than they'd been at the beginning of the week. A good sign, by his reckoning.

He began to walk upstairs, when another idea took hold and he walked to the rear of the house instead and took the stairs down.

He entered the kitchen to find Mrs. McLaughlin at the range, her back to him as she frantically stirred at something.

“Excuse me, Mrs. McLaughlin?”

She jumped a little at the intrusion and turned to face him with a slightly alarmed expression. “Sir?” She quickly moved the pan off the burner.

“Could you please send Dora up with hot water so I can freshen up?”

“But sir, you always have a wash just before dinner.” Schedules were like children to Mrs. McLaughlin. She loved them and kept them close to her. Only an undisciplined mother would tolerate aberrations.

“I would like to wash now, if you please.”

Mrs. McLaughlin flashed a look at William that looked a little bit like one he'd seen earlier that afternoon, on the face of his opponent in the ring. After a moment, her expression faded and she dropped her gaze to the floor. “Certainly, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said. And before she had time to gather steam for a fresh round of questions or complaints, he spun and pounded up the stairs, humming a tune.

William had always been a man of habit. Whenever he'd needed to request a deviation from the norm, he'd done so timidly, with nodding apologies. First the new maid had disrupted Mrs. McLaughlin's routine, and now her employer was making fresh demands. The poor woman.

Once upstairs, he paused at his mother's room. Eliza's voice carried through the wooden door. He felt a slight twinge of guilt, but listened all the same.

“‘So much the worse for me that I am strong,'” Eliza said. “‘Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—Oh, god! Would you like to lie with your soul in the grave?'”

What on earth could she be telling his mother? He placed his hand on the latch, prepared to open the door. He hesitated for a moment, and she continued.

“I never noticed before now,” Eliza said, “but Heathcliff is kind of a Gloomy Gus.”

His mother laughed. The sound was sadly unfamiliar to his ears. “I'd never quite heard it put like that, Bessie. I suppose you're right.”

“Maybe we could read something a little cheerier,” Bessie suggested.

“No, thank you. I'm feeling quite tired, to tell you the truth. Perhaps I'll take a nap until tea time.”

“Very well. I'll leave you alone then,” Eliza said before adding, after a long pause, “ma'am.”

William turned quickly and continued on to his room. As he removed his coat, a small scrap of paper rustled. He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew it.
James Lancaster, 112 Windowne Street, London
was written on it by his own hand. He'd copied it off Eliza's paperwork days ago and every day since then had intended to stop by the place following his boxing lesson. Since she was clearly hiding something of a rather serious nature, as master of the house it was up to him to get to the bottom of it.

Only thing was, he didn't quite have the heart for it. Whatever her secrets, they could hardly be of a harmful nature. Should he arrive at her employment agency, full of questions, it could cast her in a bad light with this Lancaster fellow. Since Eliza had done nothing wrong, such an action seemed unfair to the girl.

His mind flashed back to her standing on the porch in the rain. Sopping wet, but still burning with that surreal flame of hers.

Perhaps he'd do it tomorrow. He knew he ought to. Trouble was, regardless of who she really was, she was a delight to be near. She had electrified the household with her presence. Every day when he returned from his club, he found his mother chipper and talkative, having spent an afternoon in her maid's company. Eliza was quite beyond invigorating. She was otherworldly.

He was turning the bit of paper over in his hand, considering what he should do, when he heard Dora coming down the hall. He nearly slid the paper back into his pocket, but at the last moment he crumpled it and threw it into the bin in the corner.

Dora stepped into his room and set a pitcher of hot water and a basin on his washstand. He thanked her and closed the door. After a quick wash, he changed into a fresh shirt and peeked in on his mother who was fast asleep. Should Mother nap for a few hours, it would give him the perfect opportunity to go through some paperwork and tend to neglected correspondence.

He slipped into the library and settled in behind his desk. There were several invitations to various social gatherings. With mother so ill, they received few of these of late—though she was always insistent that William attend. The letter on the bottom of the small stack bore the postmark of
Colne, Lancashire
and William couldn't help but feel dread. He didn't have to look at the handwriting to know it was another missive from his uncle. Thomas Waring was his mother's older brother and, due to a complicated legal arrangement, the keeper of the family fortunes. Uncle Thomas held onto money with a tight grip and even looked to his sister's medical expenditures with a frugal eye. Interactions with him were always a trial.

William delayed opening his uncle's letter. He leaned back in his chair and tapped the envelope on the edge of his desk. When a faint sound of laughter echoed down the hall, it was a welcome diversion. And a puzzling one. His mother had sent Eliza on her way some time ago.

He slipped out from behind his desk and walked down the hall, seeking the source of the sound. It led, not surprisingly, to Eliza's closed door. Giggles came from within the room.

William shook his head.
A gentleman doesn't listen at doors.
It was such a basic truth that no one ever need speak it. Yet here he was lurking outside a door for the second time within the hour. It was shameful behavior, really.

He turned back toward the library, then paused for a moment. Although under usual circumstances a gentleman wouldn't engage in such an activity, in an unusual situation, it might be quite understandable. For instance, he reasoned, if one's maid behaved very peculiarly, that would give the master of the house a good cause to listen at her door. Though Eliza had not confided the truth of her origins to him, perhaps she would be more forthcoming with Dora. And this method of finding out who she was would be far less damaging to her reputation. Put that way, eavesdropping rather seemed like a moral imperative.

Another round of giggles crept out to the hall. William tucked his protesting conscience to the back of his mind and scooted a little closer to the door.

“And Davy was payin' me no mind a'tall,” Dora said. “So when Fred came by—”

“Wait a minute. Who's Fred?” Eliza asked.

“The dairyman. Deliveries on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. So anyway, Fred comes by with his usual, and while he's unloading all the milk, I go and
accidentally
spill a bottle of cream all down my front. I step out in the kitchen, with cream all over my dugs and—”

“Your dugs?” Eliza interrupted.

“You know,” Dora said. “My dairy!”

“Your…breasts?” Eliza asked.

“Well, yes,” Dora answered, her voice barely containing her laughter.

Eliza gave a most unladylike snort. “No way! You call them a
dairy
?”

“Got a lot of names for 'em. Some call 'em diddies or bubbies.”

Eliza laughed harder.“Any more?”

“My favorite. Cupid's kettle drums.” Dora dissolved into a round of fresh giggles.

Dear god. Dora was teaching Eliza—well, there was no other name for it—dirty words. Specifically terms for a woman's—bosom. How very shocking. And intriguing. William leaned in.

“It's not half so bad as the names that they give their own bits.” Dora was clearly delighted to take on the role of the authority on the matter.

“Oh, you have to tell me.” Eliza managed to ask, through a fresh volley of laughter.

“Oh, I couldn't say.”

“Couldn't or shouldn't?” Eliza asked.

“Well…” Dora drew it out, relishing the moment. “There is Nebuchadnezzar.”

William felt a flash of heat warm his cheeks. He bit his lip and pressed his ear nearer to the door.

“How grand!” Eliza sounded pleased. “But such a complicated name for such a—well, simple thing.”

“Some call it a plug-tail or a whore pipe.” Dora sounded quite pleased with herself. “My cousin told me that fancier fellows call it the
arbor vitae
.”

When their conversation paused for a moment, it was just enough time for William to feel a rush of shame. Standing outside her door, eavesdropping like the worst sort of cad. It was unconscionable. No true gentleman would…

“What about the other bits?” Eliza asked.

The scraps of honor he'd just begun to gather fell to the floor, forgotten. He placed his ear to the door.

“You mean the whirlygigs?” Dora asked, clearly delighted.

The girls burst into a fresh volley of giggles. Eliza gasped for breath. “More!”

William felt a warmth spread through his chest. It was a most pleasant sensation.

“Dozens of names for their ballocks,” Dora said. “You'd think they were cherished pets for the names they're given. Bawbles, tallywags, twiddle-diddles, thingambobs, trinkets—”

“Trinkets?” Eliza interrupted. “Like a prize?”

“That would depend, I suppose.”

Another gale of laughter blew through the room and out to the hallway. Eliza sounded so full of life, so gay, that he pressed his hand to the door. His touch was not as light as he'd expected. The door creaked faintly, cutting off their laughter in an instant.

Oh dear god. What had he done?

“Hello?” Eliza called. “Is someone there?”

William swallowed, horrified. No. Only the Lord of the Manor—lurking outside your door like a madman.

“Must have been the wind,” Dora said.

William turned, but carefully—so carefully—and took a step back toward the front of the house. The floorboards were merciful and did not betray him. He took another step.

“And we really should be off,” Dora said. “Mrs. McLaughlin will be back from the butcher's any moment and if we've not started on tonight's dinner, she'll twist my ear right proper.”

The floorboards creaked as Dora stepped toward the door. William's heart thundered in his chest as he rushed down the hall toward his room. If the women opened the door to catch him lurking about, it would be most distressing. His actions had truly been inexcusable.

He rounded the corner, safe from discovery. His breath whooshed out in a relieved burst.

William adjusted his trousers, which had grown uncomfortably tight, and slipped into the safety of the library, closing the door securely behind him. His legs felt rather unsteady and he collapsed into the chair behind his desk. He pulled open his desk drawer, hoping it still held a bottle of whiskey in the back corner.