Chapter 26

And I will come again, My Love,

Tho "twere ten thousand mile.

—Robert Burns, "Red, Red Rose" (1794)

She was the last to know.

Beatrice had spent the morning helping the vicar's wife Mrs. Spence hang and tie and tuck greenery around the pulpit and pews of St. Anastasius'. That is, Mrs. Spence had pointed and directed, while Beatrice and the sexton were the ones climbing the ladder and being pricked by the holly.

"Thank you, dear Miss Ellsworth," Mrs. Spence said in her quiet, firm voice when the task was done. "How very pleasant to have you back from your travels, and we will see if our good Hampshire air and some peace and quiet cannot restore the roses to your cheeks."

Beatrice bore the kindly comment with what equanimity she could. She flattered herself that she had been her usual cheerful self since her return from London, but she could not help her complexion.

"Will all your family gather at Beaumond for a joint of beef and some roast goose?"

"I believe my oldest sister Mrs. Fairchild would like to host us at Hollowgate."

"And why should she not? All the former Ellsworth children gathered again under their childhood roof—what a pleasant occasion that will be. I remember Mrs. Fairchild's mother when she was Miss Baldric. Such an heiress, with every gentleman in pursuit of her for miles around! But it was your handsome father who won her hand, and look where we are now." The elderly lady smiled over her reminiscences, and Beatrice was glad the infamy of her father's four marriages and six assorted children had mellowed with time into a nostalgic neighborhood fairy tale.

When the adornment of the little church was complete and Mrs. Spence had pressed some surplus mistletoe and holly upon her, Beatrice made her slow way along the wooded footpath back to Beaumond.

"Who would have thought it possible?" she said to the bare-limbed trees and sodden leaves underfoot. "That I would miss the racket of London? That dear Winchester could seem so tiny and sedate? It won't be like this at the next Assizes, of course, much less during the races, but the Assizes and the races seem so very far away." At home there was peace and quiet of a different nature, of course. Despite the rumpus of her younger brothers (frequently joined by their cousin Peter from Hollowgate), at home Beatrice was spared the temper and changeableness of Marjorie Hufton. She was spared being clung to one day and attacked the next.

But not even to the sleeping trees would Beatrice say a whisper of Mr. Clayton. It was foolish, really, to miss him more because a day's journey now lay between them. In that last fortnight, how often had she seen him, though only a half-hour walk through Marylebone separated them? But in London there had always been the chance of seeing him, she realized now, and that chance had fed her hopes.

Mrs. Wolfe was in the kitchen, overseeing the mince pies. "Back so soon, Bea? How is Mrs. Spence today?"

"The same as ever. Did you wish me gone longer?" Beatrice asked, reaching for an apron.

Her stepmother blushed. "Of course not. Here. Would you rather chop the ginger or grate the nutmeg?"

"I'll do both."

She had reduced the ginger to a tidy heap when her stepfather entered. "Oh! Beatrice—back so soon?"

Beatrice frowned. "It wasn't that soon, and why did everyone wish me to stay away?"

"What nonsense," chided Mr. Wolfe, stealing a few of the dried currants to pop in his mouth. "Do you not think, Miranda, that one unfortunate consequence of our Beatrice's time with the Huftons is that she has become suspicious, imagining evil where there is none? A shame, and probably due to her cousin's influence. But if I might have a word with you, my dear wife, to discuss what may be done with her…"

"He's a hopeless one for teasing, miss," the cook Mortimer said bracingly when the Wolfes were gone, as she continued to shred the suet. "You mustn't mind him."

Beatrice knew this well enough and could have dismissed it from her thoughts, were there not other mysterious signs in the days which followed. Visits to her sisters, where conversation would come to an awkward halt when she entered. Her aunt Jeanne flitting from house to house and presenting her with various little trifles and adornments: a length of pleating lace, a sprig of silk flowers for her bonnet, a pot of lotion to restore those cursed roses missing from her cheeks.

On Christmas Eve, when Beatrice proposed walking into town to look in the shop windows, her stepmother replied, "What a splendid idea," only to have Mr. Wolfe clear his throat violently. When his wife jumped, he said, "Good heavens, Miranda—look at the time. How it flies."

"Oh, yes," his wife rejoined, with a glance at the clock. "Er—Beatrice, how can we possibly? We must deliver the Christmas boxes today."

"But I thought you said we would do that in the afternoon."

"Well, one of the boxes is for old Mrs. Jerome, and wouldn't you rather get done with such a task so that nothing remains but enjoyment? We can walk into town later."

Beatrice yielded, of course, but by the time the boxes were ready, it already was afternoon, and then Mrs. Wolfe said, "Dear me, Florence has asked if Mortimer and I might make up a dressing for the goose. It seems Wilcomb at Hollowgate turned her back, and the dogs made off with the entire chain of sausages. Could you possibly take the cart and deliver the boxes yourself?"

"Go alone, Mama?"

"Never mind about that. No one will think a thing of it because it will be obvious what your errand is. And now you might save old Mrs. Jerome for last and plead encroaching darkness to excuse the brevity of your visit."

"Back from gadding about in London, are you?" old Mrs. Jerome barked when young Mrs. Jerome admitted her and received the Christmas box with a curtsey and thanks.

"Yes, madam," said Beatrice, following young Mrs. Jerome on the pretense of helping her unpack the hamper. Several young children of varying ages and states of cleanliness crowded about to see what treasures would appear, and it would have been a merry occasion if not for their curmudgeonly grandmother who soon snapped, "Leave all that to Ann! Come and be seated. What is it—talking to an old woman not worth the time of day, Miss Hoity-Toity?"

What could Beatrice do then but surrender to her fate? Young Mrs. Jerome made an apologetic face and gestured to her empty chair, beside which was arranged all the materials for her spinning, but Beatrice demurred, stifling her sigh and picking up the settle to place beside the old woman.

"How have you been, Mrs. Jerome? We wish you a happy Christmas."

The old woman grunted. "As you see me. And you? I see you've come back without a sweetheart. Here you turned up your nose at the best of Winchester, only to find those London swells not so easy to catch, eh?"

Longing for the earth to open and swallow her up, she only managed an uneasy laugh. "I am not engaged, at any rate. Though my stepcousin Miss Hufton is."

Old Mrs. Jerome clicked her tongue, wagging her head like a billy goat. "That's right. You've come home again to be a worry and a burden on your parents."

The younger Mrs. Jerome interrupted here, calling her mother-in-law's attention to the mince pies and pears, a plate of which the older woman accepted after a show of reluctance. "I'll warrant Mrs. Wolfe has put too much spice in, and it'll wreak havoc on my insides." But she munched down two, heedless of her grandchildren's longing eyes. "Where is Mrs. Wolfe, anyway? It's been an age since she troubled herself to call. Ever since she remarried…" And so on and so forth.

Only after a full twenty minutes and two hints about the short winter days was Beatrice allowed to escape, stumbling outside gratefully and giving one of the Jerome boys a penny for having held the horse. Dreadful old woman! How could she complain of infrequent visits when she was so cross? And when she loved to find a person's most tender spot and to pick at it mercilessly?

Climbing into the now-empty cart, Beatrice left the horse to find its own way back to Beaumond in the grey dusk, the familiar landmarks of the Weeke Road blurring in her vision. She would not cry. She would not let old Mrs. Jerome put her out, though Beatrice suspected she already had.

It was the appearance of a figure coming along the road which made her hastily wipe her eyes.

And then wipe them again.

For there was something familiar about the man's stride.

"Whoa," Beatrice croaked to Pilgrim, giving a tug on the reins. Her heart seemed to be occupying the whole space in her throat where air usually passed.

The man removed his hat, revealing a head of dark hair, and raised a hand. "How fortunate to encounter you, Miss Ellsworth, for I am quite lost."

"Mr.—Clayton!" she yelped. "Whatever are you doing here?"

He studied her, and Beatrice feared the lost roses in her cheeks were again in full bloom.

"I had unfinished business," he replied at last.

"I see," she said. Or tried to say, for little sound escaped her.

"I only arrived this morning, but I have already seen your brother Mr. Ellsworth and have just now come from Beaumond, where I spoke with Mr. Wolfe."

She nodded idiotically throughout this speech until she made the effort to stop. "Oh. I see. Were you—wanting to call upon Aggie's father Mr. Weeks at The Acres now? Or perhaps you are returning to town?"

"Neither, I'm afraid. I was heading back to Hollowgate. Ellsworth—your brother—drove me to Beaumond and assured me it was easy enough to return on foot, but I had not counted on speaking with Mr. Wolfe for as long as I did."

Pilgrim whickered here, annoyed to stand in the road when he had already been made to stand at every hovel and cottage surrounding Beaumond, and Beatrice remembered herself. "I can drive you to Hollowgate. I am surprised my stepfather did not offer to do so."

"He did, but I—preferred to walk, after my hours in the Flyer. Are you certain, Miss Ellsworth? Surely you were returning to Beaumond, and it grows darker."

"It's such a short drive between Hollowgate and Beaumond, and Pilgrim could accomplish it blindfolded," she replied, notwithstanding what she had told Mrs. Jerome about not liking to drive in the dark. "Will you climb up?"

After a hesitation, he took hold of the side of the cart and complied. The elegant little cabriolet had been a wedding gift from Mr. Wolfe to his bride, and it was not especially large. In fact, when the Wolfes went for a drive together, they used the gig, that the giant Mr. Wolfe might fit more comfortably. Clayton was not built to the same proportions as Mr. Wolfe (few people were), but he was by no means a small man, and Beatrice found herself in contact with him from hip to knee, the most she had touched him since he fished her from the Channel and carried her in his arms. Flustered and burning still rosier, she tried to shrink against the far side, even as he half stood again to shift himself off her skirts. The vehicle rocked with the change in balance, causing Pilgrim to snort and take a step forward and sending Clayton tumbling back against Beatrice.

"Ooh!"

"Pardon me, Miss Ellsworth—have I injured you?" Their arms interlaced in the mutual scramble to untangle themselves, several of Clayton's fingers somehow running up the sleeve of her redingote. He whipped them out at once, awkward though the angle was, muttering further apologies, and Beatrice prayed he had not felt the jump in her pulse.

Pilgrim protested the continued jouncing and swaying of the cabriolet by taking additional steps before Beatrice could retrieve the reins, leading to further bumbling and confusion, but at last they were both seated, exactly as close as they had been before their attempted adjustments, only this time out of breath and red in the face.

Clayton began another round of apologies, but his eye caught the twitch of her lips and the irrepressible glint of merriment which accompanied it. Breaking off mid-sentence he favored her with a rueful smile. Beatrice made a small coughing sound, her shoulders hunching, but she could not contain it any longer, and the next moment the smallest laugh escaped her. Hunching further, she pressed her lips together, but it was all in vain. Soon peal after peal rang out, her amusement so infectious that he had to join her. Had ever a man done a more awkward job of climbing into a carriage? Thank heaven for her sense of humor.

His gaze drifted to her inviting mouth.

Speaking of carriages, mustn't get the cart before the horse.

But he fully intended to wring every ounce of pleasure from the situation. To be in her company again was a source of deep joy, to which the thrill of her limb pressed along the length of his was mere incidental benefit. But it was indeed a benefit, for Miss Ellsworth made no more efforts to shrink from him.

She did, however, recover from the surprise of seeing him again enough to remember the circumstances in which they parted. Clicking her tongue to Pilgrim to set him in motion, she pulled on one of the leads to steer the horse in the direction of Hollowgate.

"You drive well, Miss Ellsworth," he murmured as they trotted along the Weeke Road. "Did you ever display your skills in Hyde Park?"

"Never."

"What a missed opportunity."

"Speaking of missed opportunities, sir, I confess I am amazed you can tear yourself from London right now, what with the work on the canal beginning and your—wedding to Miss Brand." Just saying Miss Brand's name made Beatrice feel guilty for letting any part of her person press against his, but to draw away now would only draw attention to her discomfiture. And what a lovely leg he had—well-shaped and firm.

"The weather has been inclement, so though I found a resident engineer and hired several teams of workers, I told them to begin on the 27th—the soonest I thought I could return." Seeing questions rising to her lips, he added quickly, "I plan to be in Winchester through Christmas."

"But—" she could not imagine why he would choose to spend the festive day apart from Miss Brand, and so near their wedding day!

"Your brother—or perhaps I should say the Fairchilds—but surely it was Ellsworth who arranged it—have invited me to stay at Hollowgate until—until I need to be back in London."

"But—surely Miss Brand and Miss Croy—"

They had reached the Cock Lane Gate, however, and Beatrice must leave off while they passed the tollbooth, the man within nodding at them and touching his cap.

"Not much farther to Hollowgate," she said. But then her brow knit, and she glanced behind them in the direction of Winchester's West Gate. "But you know that, do you not, if you walked from the George Inn earlier today?"

"Oh—er—Ellsworth—your brother—picked me up in town."

"Ah," she absorbed this a moment. Then she turned slightly in the seat to regard him, "Which clearly means that…my brother, and likely my stepfather as well, already knew to expect you."

"…They did. Naturally I wrote to them to propose the—meetings."

Biting her lip she turned away again. Her whole family in league against her! Inviting Mr. Clayton to Winchester and to stay(!) without her knowledge? What did they hope to accomplish? She thought again of the walk into town her parents talked her out of—why should they try to hide his coming, if the man would be at Hollowgate through Christmas? Could Tyrone have invited him on impulse, without telling the Wolfes? How impulsively could he have done it, if he must ask Flossie and Robert for their permission first?

"Is it…usual to trouble yourself thus?" she ventured. "Could the business not have been conducted through your usual method of writing countless letters?"

Running a finger under his neckcloth he replied, "Not this business."

When she did not speak, he steeled himself for the plunge. "Miss Ellsworth," he began again, "you were going to ask me about Miss Brand and Miss Croy. I am sure you were wondering why I should leave London at this time, business or no."

"I did think it…curious," she admitted softly. "I spoke from surprise, though, and of course it is no concern of mine. Here is the gate."

"Wait a moment. Could we stop briefly here? There is something I would say."

Poor Pilgrim was made to stand once more (with some difficulty, as he was used to treats and coddling from the Hollowgate grooms and resented being checked in his anticipation).

"Yes?"

She raised those hazel-and-brown eyes to his, sweet but guarded, and Clayton reminded himself not to act precipitously. Not to seize her in his arms and crush his mouth to hers, for instance.

"It may be ‘no concern of yours,'" he smiled, "but my leaving London was hardly a concern of Priscilla's either. Because before I went she—she asked to end our engagement."

Beatrice's hand flew to her lips. "Oh, Mr. Clayton. I didn't know. I—am sorry for you."

"Are you?"

"Of course! That is, I don't imagine anyone—that is to say—of course I am." He was no longer engaged? To prevent additional babbling—nay, to prevent herself from singing or smiling from ear to ear—she folded her hands in her lap and clutched them till her knuckles whitened beneath her gloves.

He let it rest. There would be time enough to say everything which need be said of Priscilla, though none of it would matter if Miss Ellsworth did not care for him. If she cared for another. Therefore he said, "But I daresay no one in London will notice if my wedding fails to take place. Not when there is another of greater prominence to occupy the world's attention."

"You mean my cousin Marjorie and Mr. Dodson?"

"No, indeed. I—confess I forgot all about them. I meant Rotherwood and that Miss Hapgood person." He regarded her steadily, alert to every change in her expression.

"Mr. Rotherwood and Miss Hapgood?" echoed Beatrice. "Have they set a date, then? My cousin will be sorry to be eclipsed, if they should pick the same day."

"What about you? Would you not be sorry?" he asked.

"Why should I? If all London chose to marry on the same day, what would that be to me, here in Winchester?"

Rubbing a finger back and forth on the seat cushion he said carefully, "I meant, will you be sorry when Rotherwood marries, on whatever day it takes place."

Even at this late date she felt a surge of vexation. For goodness' sake—was he still harping on her supposed designs on Mr. Rotherwood?

"No," she said with heat in her voice. "No, I will not be sorry. I do not care a straw for the man. He might marry Miss Hapgood or whomever he pleases or no one at all, and it would all be one to me. Moreover, I would be grateful if you would never mention Mr. Rotherwood again, Mr. Clayton, at least in connection to me. Now shall I drive you to the house, or would you prefer to alight here?"

To her complete perplexity, instead of being affronted by her brusque response, the very ear-to-ear grin Beatrice had suppressed in herself bloomed on him. Taking hold of the seat with one hand and the polished side of the cabriolet with the other, he sprang lightly from the vehicle.

"I will walk, thank you, Miss Ellsworth. Even if the horse knows his way, I would prefer you not to have to drive in the dark. Good evening to you." With a bow and a touch of his hat, still grinning like a madman, Mr. Clayton strolled away up the Hollowgate drive.