Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (12 page)

“Thank you for your vote of confidence, Sir Seymour. Your support is instrumental to my campaign.” He clapped the man’s shoulder, stepping around him. “And thanks to you as well, Lady Beaufort.” He executed an elegant bow, nothing like the endearingly unpracticed gallantries Elsa was used to from him. “Your hospitality has given me a warm and gracious welcome to Fleck. I might relocate to the inn here in the village, though, as my associate Mr. Alderly is expected this very day and we wouldn’t want to inconvenience—”

“Here I am, Wyn!” A young gentleman broke through the crowd, which had migrated closer to Norman—hands extended to press flesh with the man of the hour—and straightened the lapels of his coat. He was dressed to the height of dandy fashion, clothes tailored to within an inch of their life and lethally sharp collar points that rose alarmingly close to his vulnerable eyeballs, a total contrast to Norman’s nice-but-not-worth-mentioning style.

There was something familiar about Alderly’s face, but Elsa could not place him.

Then he spotted her and flashed an insolent grin. “Lady Fay! What a charming surprise. Don’t suppose you’ve any of your uncle’s finest to hand, do you? Can’t imagine there’s much to do ’round these parts in the evening. A bottle of that’d be just the thing to alleviate the boredom.”

Uncle Seamus’s whiskey. The revels. He was one of the young bucks dressed as minstrels—the very one who’d caught fire, if she could trust her hazy recollection of that night.

Her eyes cut from Mr. Alderly to Norman.

That night. That horrible, shameful night. Laughing and dancing and spinning so dizzy; Norman telling her to stop, his face that delicious anguished blend of wanting her to stop and
wanting
; hands on her now, two men’s worth, she was shocking them all and she was glad for it, glad to ruin herself so flagrantly; fire fire
My God, a fire!
help Norman have to help
my duty
water will quench that fire; time coming undone after that, strands unraveling in little flashes of kissing and cursing but the pattern is gone, gone, gone.

Suddenly, she was trembling. The giant broke away from his friend, took a determined step toward her. His eyes, soft and kind, had seen the very worst of her, knew the squalid underbelly of her soul, had borne witness to her shame. Shame. And Guilt. Voices she’d not heard in weeks now rang in her inner ears:
RUN.

He reached for her. Elsa stumbled back, arms wheeling. Laura caught her hand.

“Lady Fay?” Norman said. Asked.
Are you sober, or reeling drunk?
was the unspoken question.

Elsa didn’t have to answer. Not to him, who had abandoned her when she needed him most.

RUN
repeated the twins.

And so she did.

Elsa went; Norman followed—or tried to, in any event. Sir Seymour placed a staying hand on his elbow. “Allow me to introduce you to some of my neighbors, Mr. Wynford-Scott. Here is Mr. Martin, our cabinetmaker. Mr. Thomson you’ve met already. Hello again, Freddy, good of you to come out. Thank you for contributing to the conversation. Nigel, come and say hello to Mr. Wynford-Scott. Now, Nigel here, Mr. Steedmond, that is, is a first-rate thatcher. You’d think thatched roofs would be a thing of the past these days, but not so, not when you’ve a craftsman like Mr. Steedmond in the neighborhood.”

Norman shook hands and said hello and desperately tried to commit to memory the name of each person he met. It was a lost cause, for his mind kept returning to Elsa, how she’d appeared at the back of the crowd like a fairy queen, raven hair loose down her back but for a dainty ribbon woven through the sides. His heart had leaped into his throat at the sight of her, and he’d forgotten his place in his remarks. The baker’s interjection had saved Norman from wrecking his inaugural campaign speech.

“Mr. Mattingly,” he repeated after Sir Seymour, pumping yet another hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. This must be your wife? Mrs. Mattingly. My pleasure, madam. How do you do?” He inclined his head in the way Sheri had shown him, slowly, allowing the recipient to feel the full presence of his attention for a moment.

After several minutes more, Robin Alderly sidled up and reached high to clap Norman’s shoulder. “Wasn’t that a fine speech?” Alderly said to the man shaking Norman’s hand. “Excuse us, sir, I need a word with Fleck’s next member of Parliament.”

Alderly jerked his head, leading Norman across the square to a tavern housed in a two-story building with stone on the first story and stucco on the second. Old wooden buckets and a ramshackle wheelbarrow had been repurposed as planters arranged near the entrance, their abundant floral display giving a very untavern-like perfume to the air. Above the lintel, a carved sign bore the name Rabbit’s Glen, and a shingle beside the door was painted with the image of a fluffy, large-eyed bunny surrounded by green grass.

“Good lord, even the tavern is picturesque,” Norman commented. Fleck was like a child’s idyllic vision of a village, where the craftsmen were second to none, the houses were all quaint and in good repair, and the flowers never stopped blooming.

“Dastardly, ain’t it?” Alderly drawled. “Give me a dank drinking hole and grimy pavement beneath my feet. I can’t wait to get back to Town.”

Norman scowled. “You’re free to go whenever you’d like, Alderly.”

“Pfft. If only. I’m as exiled as you, so we might as well make the best of it.”

Norman swung open the tavern door to find an interior as neat and charming as the exterior. Lace curtains fluttered around sparkling windows, and the ten or so tables all had the warm, satin gleam of a fresh polishing. At one, two old-timers sat with tankards at their elbows and a backgammon board between them. A serving girl polished spoons behind the counter, a white mobcap topping golden curls. Her round face broke into a smile when Norman and Alderly entered.

“Afternoon, gents. You was just out there on the hustings, yeah?” she nodded to the open window that afforded a clear view of the village green and the platform. “I listened a little—hope you don’t mind.” She clutched a spoon and rag to her middle.

“Not in the least, Miss ...?”

“Dove, sir. You spoke real well. I liked what you said about the wheat and such. Freddy Thomson’s my brother-in-law, and don’t we all hear him bellyachin’ about the cost of corn! Don’t know how you do that, sir, get up there so brave. I’d never have the courage to talk in front of a crowd. Cor, my knees are knockin’ right now just thinking about it!”

“Bigger chance you’d never
stop
talking, Dove,” came a gruff voice as a door behind the barmaid swung open. “Have you so much as offered these gentlemen refreshment?”

Dove’s mouth popped open in an
O
. “Sorry, Mr. Denny.” She hustled out from behind the counter. Mr. Denny caught Norman’s eye and rolled his gaze skyward in silent, male communication.
Women!

As they took their seats at the corner table, Sir Seymour entered the tavern and called a greeting to Denny before joining Norman and Alderly.

The squire clapped his hands and rubbed them together in an excited fashion. “That went superbly, Wynford-Scott, it really did. I admit to some trepidation beforehand, but you pulled it off with aplomb.”

Dove brought a pitcher of ale and mugs. Alderly did the honors. “I only just caught the end, but I could hear you clear at the back of the green. Guess everything we learned at Gray’s wasn’t a total waste, eh?” he asked with a rueful smile as he handed over Norman’s drink.

Norman had not been the only Fellow censured as a result of the catastrophic Christmas revels. Robin Alderly and his medieval-dressed mates had been found culpable for the fire to a lesser degree. Alderly, the literal torch that sparked the conflagration, had been screened for a period of one year, while the other men were out for two terms—though none were banned from the Inn’s premises as Norman had been.

When Alderly had come to retrieve the Inn’s record books from Norman, he’d inquired about Norman’s immediate plans, seeing as he too had been cut loose and was looking for inspiration. Norman told him about the Commons seat he intended to stand for, and Alderly jumped upon the idea and offered to coordinate Norman’s campaign. He’d had such a desperate expression, Norman hadn’t had the heart to turn him down; and frankly, he needed all the help he could get.

Fortunately, Sheri had known just who else to contact on Norman’s behalf, Sir Seymour Beaufort, a neighbor of Elsa’s and a man who had kept mum about his progressive leanings owing to the Fay family’s influence in local elections. The Fays always threw their weight behind Tories, and their favored candidates had been unopposed in every election going back fifty years. Like Alderly, Sir Seymour had eagerly latched on to Norman’s proposed candidacy, and the men had exchanged letters at a furious pace, hammering out the finer points of Norman’s stance on various issues and the whens and hows of his introduction to Fleck’s electors.

Sir Seymour took a pull of his beer, then gestured with his mug. “A bit stiff on the meeting and greeting after the speech, but I daresay that’ll come easier with practice.”

“With your assistance of course, Sir Seymour,” Norman smoothly replied. “I’d have been lost without your introductions.”

He did not add that the largest factor contributing to his unease was how rattled he’d been by Elsa’s appearance and abrupt departure. Encountering her was inevitable, and he’d imagined their reunion a hundred different ways, but still had been unprepared for the electric shock that had snapped through his body and turned his brain to mush the instant he laid eyes upon her. How could it be that after only one intimate encounter months ago, his body thrummed with desire at just a glimpse of her tumbled hair? How could it be that after she’d made it abundantly clear he meant nothing to her, his heart still kicked faster in her presence?

Uneasily, he reconsidered the wisdom in coming here, in pitting his ambitions against hers. Now that he’d seen her, he couldn’t deny the frisson of attraction that hummed through his bones. Ruthlessly, he squelched those wayward impulses. This was the woman who had carelessly upended his life. He had to forget her, couldn’t allow this infatuation to once again spell his ruin.

More men trickled into the tavern for a midday pint and a bite to eat. Norman tipped back the remainder of his beer and plunked the mug onto the table. “Could you introduce me around the room, Sir Seymour?”

The squire smiled shrewdly. “I think I can do better than that.”

Together, the three men made a round of the tavern. Norman recognized one of the men he’d met at the hustings. “Mr. Mattingly, sir, pleased to see you again.” The man brightened at Norman’s recollection of his name. “But where is your wife?”

“Shopping for bits and baubles at the mercantile,” answered Mattingly.

“No business for a man to involve himself in, eh?” Alderly ribbed.

“Just so, sir,” Mattingly agreed.

“How about a pint for Mr. Mattingly?” Sir Seymour called to Mr. Denny at the bar. “Put it on my bill.”

Norman’s smile froze in place. He grabbed the squire’s arm and quickly turned so their backs were to the room. “I can’t do that,” he whispered in a rush. “I won’t win this election by buying votes with food and drink.”

“Of course not!” Sir Seymour answered, affronted. “I am buying the beer, Wynford, not you. Your nose remains perfectly clean. But the electors do expect to be courted.”

Norman frowned, uncertain. Did Sir Seymour’s reasoning pass muster? Before he had a chance to collect his thoughts, Alderly called Norman to the bar to meet a laborer slouched on a stool. Soon every hand in the tavern clutched a pint compliments of Sir Seymour, but only after Norman had shaken them.

“... an’ that’s why I never come to the hustings,” declared a Mr. Jonas, cordwainer by trade and politically apathetic by inclination.

Word must have gotten out that there was free beer to be had, for men, and quite a few women, were pouring into the Rabbit’s Glen all the time. According to the borough’s electoral registry, there were 437 men eligible to vote in the upcoming by-election; by Norman’s estimation, all of them were stuffed into Mr. Denny’s taproom.

“You make a fair point.” Norman raised his voice over the clamor of thirsty patrons. “But consider, Mr. Jonas, how fortunate you are—how bloody lucky—to have the franchise at all. In much of the world, power still rests solely in the hands of those born to it. It’s your civic duty to exercise your franchise, to make your voice heard!” he ended on a shout of necessity, rather than oratorical theatrics.

“Why bother?” piped in another man. “The Fays pick our MPs, and the rest of us are s’posed to just line up and do what they say, like good little bootlickers? And feel honored to do it?”

“At least his late lordship was around a good bit, God rest his soul,” said Mr. Jonas. “Y’always knew he was interested in the community, like. And Lady Fay, the dowager, she’s been good to every one of us. Heart of gold in that one.”

“But where’s our present viscount?” returned the second man. “Not cut from the same cloth as the last one. He’s kicking up his heels on the Continent, has been for more’n a year, and it’s his bloody brother Lady Fay wants us to vote for.”

Mr. Denny shouldered through the press to collect empty tankards. “Enough, you bellyachers. Mr. Wynford-Scott’s going to think Fleckers do nothing but complain.”

Determining there was no more complimentary ale to be had, a number of men wandered out, granting Norman a little bubble of breathing room. Across the way, Alderly was tickling Dove beneath her plump chin. Sir Seymour stood at the door calling farewells to some and inviting others to come in for a drink, his treat, and
oh, while you’re here, have you met Mr. Wynford-Scott?

A pair of men—gentlemen, judging by their dress—replaced the working-class grousers. “Tell us a bit about yourself, sir,” said one of them. “Your friend, Mr. Alderly, mentioned you studied at the Inns?”

Apprehension writhed in Norman’s gut. He gathered his wits, recalling Sir Seymour’s advice on handling this particular question. “Correct, sir. I studied at Gray’s Inn for seven years and also took a degree in civil law from Oxford. The law is a particular passion of mine, which is why I’d appreciate speaking with you about my ideas for reforming—”