Vivian Roycroft (10 page)

****

Wednesday, March 17, 1813 continued

"Your grace? Is anything wrong?"

He'd stood still too long, attracting the messenger's attention. And his mask had slipped. Under the memory's influence, he'd lost the strict self-control that kept Ernst hidden away, the persona of His Grace in place. A deep breath, another, and he forced the invisible mask back into position. "Wait here a minute. Have you eaten?"

Shifting feet. Yes, a clever young man, and he wasn't entirely persuaded by the resumption of casual conversation. "I've bespoken a meal at the inn."

"Then I shan't keep you from it much longer."

Upstairs, hand trailing along the smooth mahogany balustrade, cold polished wood that reminded him of the chill of that years-ago day. Past the full-length statue of Inigo Jones in its niche, equally cold marble staring off at the Corinthian colonnade and not fit company for man nor beast, despite its artistic balance. Through the back sitting room with its dado paneling to his bedroom and the antae bracketing the recessed, canopied bed, appreciating the valiant efforts of the little fire already burning against his bone-deep chill. To the narrow panel beside the northern anta. His Grace dropped to his knees, flipped the hidden catch, swung down the lower panel, pulled the key on its chain from about his neck, and opened the strong box secreted within the wall.

A flash and glare as firelight swept across the jewelry, mostly the gleaming red of flame-touched gold, but some very fine silver, as well. And the gems; nothing fancy, citrine, garnets, blue and green beryls, a collation of pale sapphires he hadn't been able to resist despite their greater cost. She had sent twenty pieces of jewelry to England with him; he'd had the stones removed and replaced with some of lesser value, as she'd intended, providing him with the means of living until his exile was concluded. Every year they exchanged tokens, hers of love, his of strict fidelity as he returned her jewelry — such an intimate item when coming from a woman — piece by piece. If he'd ever broken her trust in a serious way, he'd never have been able to bear sending the next token.

All were beautiful, although not top drawer. But without hesitation, he selected the sapphire brooch, a pretty little bluebird, paler now than it had been when he'd received it, with its beak open in song and wings lifted in flight. She'd remember the woodlark singing that day, as clearly as he did.

The day his world, and hers, had changed forever.

And while every young lady deserved for her dreams to come true, every young man needed to be kicked in the posterior a few times, to ensure he saw the beauty in front of him before the world tore her away.

As he wished someone had kicked him.

His Grace locked the strong box and fastened the secret door, then wrapped the brooch in a plain new handkerchief and tied it with twine. He'd send it home to her via the officer.

It seemed too much to hope that this token would be their last. But the yearning in his soul turned the simple wish into a heartfelt prayer.

Thursday, March 18, 1813

Rounder slowed to a walk at the long hill's base, grateful for a breather even as his neat hooves reached willingly up the slope. Fitz let the hunter set his own pace; after all, Rounder it was, doing the work, not him, and it seemed impolite to demand more than the good beast was willing to give. They'd passed Cheshunt and Wormley in the teeth of a chilly breeze that seemed determined to cut through his cape and drive him from the saddle, but now Broxbourne and the estate were less than a mile away. He rode the horse with one hand, held his cape closed with the other, and let Rounder carry him home.

There, halfway up — the last turnoff before the estate's lane, and on instinct Fitz stilled the reins. Rounder walked into the bit and stopped, nodding and shaking his head; he wasn't certain about any detours. But a half-remembered voice spoke in his head:

"Astonishing, how much damage can be achieved in only a few years of lazy neglect."

It was the lane to the Woodhouse farm.

And the prickle of an idea teased at the edge of Fitz's thoughts.

A twist of his wrist, a warble, and Rounder accepted the change of direction, abandoning the turnpike and pushing through the weeds choking the lane. Deep ruts hid beneath their cover; the hunter chose his footing carefully, lowering his head and watching his path. The lane needed clearing and leveling before any sane man or beast took up residence here.

Over a little ridge, and the deserted farmyard lay below. Not quite a sea of mud, but loads of river rock, evenly spread and filled between with good clean sand, wouldn't hurt the drainage. The byre was a shambles and blessedly empty of life, the pigsty just that, and the chicken coop not fit for laying hens, nor for some poor soul to enter and gather the eggs. But nothing there that couldn't be repaired, with the blessing.

The farmhouse, set back with a screen of trees sheltering it from the north wind, likely needed fumigating at the least. Repairs he'd accept as a necessary given, considering the missing shingle in the slate roof, and updates wouldn't go amiss, seeing the lone chimney. Larger than he'd expected, it was, not a typical four-room cottage but a substantial holding. Plenty of room there for a large family.

And why did his soul glow at that thought?

Without straining his imagination at all, at all, he could see the farmhouse repaired, the kitchen garden weeded and heavy with the harvest, oats and wheat folding with a gentle breeze in the distant fields. The fences and hedges trim in their orderly ranks. The tumbledown byre replaced with big loose boxes in a brick stable yard, gleaming horseheads leaning over the open half-doors. Children playing in the farmyard, chasing each other around a little flowerbed, the oldest son clumsily picking out hooves under a watchful paternal eye. And in the doorway, or sitting in the garden, or most likely riding in a nearby paddock and teaching a saddle horse to behave for a lady…

Not surprising, the lady he imaged by his side.

And not a home for old, sick horses. At least, not entirely. His father would never stand for it, and he'd be bored within a week. But a training center for fine hunters, ladies' mounts, carriage horses, matched pairs and fours, even sixes… yes, that he could see.

Blind, yes, and stupid. How many times had Father lamented the waste of a young man's life, gallivanting about town and doing nothing productive for his soul nor the world that sponsored him? It hadn't been Lord Phillbush he'd been discussing at the breakfast table those few days ago.

Fitz reined Rounder back to the road and pressed into the chill breeze for the estate. He'd stay overnight, give the hunter a rest, and return to Dover Street tomorrow.

He couldn't let her go, not without a fight. Not now that he had a plan.

****

Friday, March 19, 1813

After her tears, Nan had bundled her from Papa's arms, deposited her in a steaming tub, wrapped her in the thickest towel ever made, and coaxed a blissful cup of oolong down her throat. And then Beryl and Papa had talked. Not the easiest conversation they'd ever shared, but the words had refused to be dammed, even more than the tears, and she'd poured out her heart if not the exact occurrences behind the shrubbery in Hyde Park. Some things a girl simply didn't tell her father; that experience, wondrous and agonizing and overwhelming as it was, surely qualified as such.

And then all the words had been said, all her yearning hopes detailed and aired, and without answering, Papa had again swept her into his arms. Only after a long, mutual, satisfying hug did he say, "If Fitz is the man you want, my girl, then he's the only one we'll consider." A kiss on her forehead, the gentle, lingering salute that warmed her the final little bit. "I love you too much for anything else."

She'd giggled. "Although a duke might have been nice."

"Too much, Beryl. Too much."

Again and again she'd relived that moment, sitting beside the drawing room fire with her embroidery needle flashing in and out of the golden satin. One apology granted, its tension released. And one remaining.

A big one.

Where on earth had she gotten the ridiculous notion that love was only a serious, solemn matter? Love was also laughter and childishness and play. And adults fell in love, not children, and so adults laughed and carried on and behaved in silly fashions, just as children might do.

Like she'd done with Fitz before she'd grown-up. If that was what she'd actually done. She'd changed, certainly; they'd both agreed on that point. But had her changed behavior sprouted from a newfound maturity, or had she locked her usual enjoyments away behind a wall of ice in some doubly childish game of make-believe? Doubly so, because not understood? Had she, in her foolish quest for a necessary husband, neglected her heart and true soul?

And Fitz… beautiful, beloved, child
like
Fitz. He hadn't changed, nor had he changed toward her. Love did not alter when alteration it found, nor bend with the remover to remove. No, it was an ever-fixed star, so absolute a sailor could always be certain of his location, and while her love had been enduring, it had been cold and unseasonable. Because of that, his measurement had been off. She'd stopped playing with him, and he no longer knew where he stood.

No wonder Fitz tried to jolly her along. Her coolness must have grieved and bewildered him. And amidst their floundering, she'd missed the obvious. Yes, his teasing had gone to extremes. Yes, he'd forgotten his manners and infuriated her and misused her. But in their normal relationship, she'd have blithely done the same to him in return.

Rather than turning him away.

Even if that had finally —
finally!
— gotten his attention. Made him jealous, even just a little bit.

She snipped off the last thread, removed the wooden hoop, and smoothed the golden satin bodice on the settee cushion beside her. In place of the austere lines of the fashionable opera dress, a ring of pink and red roses, nestled amidst fresh green leaves, encircled the round neckline. Far more fitting for the sort of entertainments she preferred; opera wasn't one she ever cared to experience again.

Although if Fitz asked her…

He wouldn't, of course. He'd suffered through that evening with her and they'd giggled together over that suffering the next day. That was how friends behaved, laughing and accepting of each other's tastes, follies, foolishness.

Friends, yes. And surely lovers, as well. Surely lovers
loved
. With more than hidden, internal emotions. With actions; with words.

With everything within them.

And then they reached for, and found, something more.

Such a disaster. All she could do now was hope that His Grace's mischief had turned their tide.

His Grace. She owed that fascinating man so much.

But the next move in their dance had to be Fitz's.