17. Letters to Dazzle, Daze and Disappoint （part 2）

17

Letters to Dazzle, Daze and Disappoint (part 2)

Ballenger Estate, June 25, 1813

Dear Lord Warrick,

I admit to surprised (and aye, dismayed) delight upon receiving your letter and offer of employment. That you would entrust your girls to me, whether siblings or a semblance of daughters, renders me both touched and flattered. Honored, even.

It is with complete honesty that I admit to my continued, and appreciated, employment with Lord and Lady Ballenger. As you have surmised, Lady Harriet continues to present a great challenge, one I like to think myself equal to.

Should you have an interest, I could recommend one or two others whom, depending upon their current circumstances, might be interested in the position. Please advise.

With greatest sincerity,

Miss Aphrodite Primrose

With Harriet and her parents visiting Lord and Lady Redford for the day, Aphrodite had ample time to review her response, deem it perfectly amiable, completely acceptable, and crease the pages with impeccable precision as she folded the note into the squarest of squares.

Why did you not simply include the names of other competent governesses in this letter? Save him both time and the trouble of a reply?

Because, try as she might, Aphrodite could not deny the welcome fluttering in her chest at the sight of his bold hand, not to mention the true offer of a position within his household.

But not exactly the position you crave, eh?

Pah. As if a lord such as he would offer her any sort of thing to salve the yearnings she constantly strove to ignore. To forget.

You will regret not sharing names if he writes anew and Lady Ballenger becomes aware of your correspondence…

Mayhap, but she didn’t think so.

With time, a full year and a half now after the mistletoe scandal that had threatened to end her employment, with additional maturity and continued months within their household, came the confidence that she could do as she chose—within reason.

As long as she maintained propriety, there should be no reason why she could not exchange letters with someone who sought her services.

Even if she had no possible chance of ever accepting a position within his household.

Not and retain any hope of an un besmirched reputation.

It’s done, man.

No snarling about or unwarranted embarrassment when we see you next, aye?

You know as well as we do they are better off there, even in their grief. Learning, drinking and carousing, fighting among their friends rather than having their young lives yarked about further. This ensures they can be boys for a few more years at least.

And I dare you not to concur.

Had the die cast another direction, you would have done the same, or more, for either of us—do not try to claim otherwise.

Now that’s seen to, let me tell you Anne’s latest…

The rest of Ed’s letter was filled with ordinary pleasantries, humorous anecdotes of his pregnant wife’s odd food yearnings and how his hand strength continued to improve.

Good for Redford. The same blast that blew apart Warrick’s life had mangled one of Ed’s hands and torn off the other.

But still…

“You bloody bastards.”

Lords Frostwood and Redford, his closest comrades on earth, had seen the twins’ school tuition paid forward through their graduation, three and a half years hence. Even arranged separate accounts to further fund the boys’ university educations.

“Bloody God-damned bastards.”

His eyes stung. Swam.

Realizing what he’d just muttered aloud, he wiped them dry with the back of one hand and snuck a glance at the leather chair facing his desk from a dozen feet away.

No hint of a smile.

No mischief at overhearing his naughty words upon her placid face, Julia’s coiled fist pumped toward her mouth with the rhythmic suckling. Her lap overflowed with dingy blanket—he really needed to separate the two and see it laundered. Her other hand twined about the frayed edge.

“I know you heard that,” he admitted. “Brother Richard—that’s me—said bad words in front of a lady—that’s you.” He let the missive fall from his fingers and leaned back. “My apologies, dear one. I should not have forgotten myself thus.”

Her shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug.

’Twas all he could do not to whoop with joy.

It was the first response he’d gotten from her in the days since dismissing Trugmoldy Tuckett—and ensuring her reputation preceded wherever her footsteps sought to take her. Mayhap Londonites condoned that sort of chastisement for their children. But it would not be tolerated here.

“I have a second letter,” he told Julia. “One I am savoring the reading of.” He reached for the folded missive and tapped one sharp corner against his desk. “I think it will be my reward, after I do my assigned motions from Mr. Arbuckle.”

He waited, hoping for acknowledgment. A nod. A blink. A flicked-finger wave to get on with it, then .

But naught. Only thumb-sucking, blanket twining and sad-eye staring.

“Miss Julia Elizabeth Feldon Martinson.”

A reaction. Slight, but a definite widening of her eyes.

“Aye, I know your name, sweetheart. Know you are named after our mother. And I have added mine after your father’s as well. So you know you belong . You will always belong. Always have a home. I miss your laughter, little one.” His chair gave a creak when he shifted, rolled an unasked-for inch before settling. “Cannot recall if I have ever heard it, you see. Wait—you did laugh…”

He grinned at the recollection. “Remember when Mama came back, right before Christmas, after visiting her friend? And we were in the Great Hall, Bertram boasting he could carry her bags in one hand and that damn—er, ah, blame—chandelier he and Beaufort had overburdened with mistletoe moaned? Remember how it groaned, warning us all back, and then dropped? Crashed right there in front of…”

As her cheeks lifted, partially obscured by her balled-up fist, he almost lost the thread of his tale, joy surging through him because she smiled. Mayhap not as much as she had then—at the astonished, shocked look on both boys’ faces, but once Mama had started chuckling, they had all been done for.

As Warrick finished his remembrance out loud, memorizing that tiny lift of cheek and knowing he had helped bring it about, he heard Sophia banging back upstairs from her foray into the kitchens. And he savored something else besides the letter he saved for later.

He savored the smile. The acknowledgment of mirth.

A fragile shell surrounded sweet Julia now, but his instincts were serving him true: Patience and caring would bring her back to him. To the family.

They had to. Because to think otherwise was as intolerable to him as to accept he would never walk again.

Alone in her upstairs room, comforted by not more than the single candle she had read by, sadness threatening to swallow any hints of joy at seeing his penmanship, reading his words, Aphrodite stared down at the letter in her hand. Much, much longer than the first one he’d sent.

It had been hours and hours—most of the day, in fact—since it had first been turned over into her care…

Upon the servant bringing around the post that morning, pausing beside Aphrodite with a, “Yours, I believe,” Lady Ballenger had arched an eyebrow with such a stiffening of form, Aphrodite could have been forgiven had she anticipated a staunch reprimand.

But the leisurely, late breaking of the family’s fast, Lady Harriet and Lord Ballenger bickering happily at one end of the table, with Aphrodite maintaining her post, just on the edge of sight, must have made Lady Ballenger a bit more indulgent.

“Miss Primrose.” Her employer beckoned her close, waved her fingers until Aphrodite held the letter up for the older woman’s inspection.

“Lord Warrick is writing you?” The censure could not be mistaken, however couched.

Aphrodite shoved the folded, sealed note out of sight deep in one dress pocket. She gave her best regal nod. “Yes, my lady. He inquires as to references for a governess, I believe. For his sisters.”

When the eyebrow stayed arched and high, she elaborated. “’Tis the second such letter I have received from him.” Might as well be forthright on that front, as the servants would have already told her. “It seems his other hires have been less than stellar.”

Lady Ballenger gave a noticeable sniff. The eyebrow slowly lowered, but the suspicion remained in her tone. “It would not surprise me to learn he sought your services, Miss Primrose. Does he think to hire you away from us?”

“Primmy!” Harri chose that moment to listen in and instantly became distraught. “You cannot leave me!”

“Hush, child.” With an exaggerated dose of irony, both Aphrodite and Harriet’s mother shushed the child at the same moment.

“I have no intention of going anywhere, my lady. None whatsoever. As I told him, I am very appreciative of my post here with you and Lord Ballenger.” And since Aphrodite had always suspected Lord Ballenger appreciated her efforts with Harriet far more than his wife, she made sure to include him in the conversation now. “In fact, my first reply offered Lord Warrick the names of others he might seek to engage.”

“And you are certain that is all there is to it?”

“Absolutely. Lady Harriet, if you are finished, we have lessons to begin.”

And as the young teen exited, grumbling beneath her breath, Aphrodite swallowed the flare of apprehension, knowing she was in no position—employed or not—to continue corresponding with Lord Warrick. However much she might have thought to continue.

For the rest of the day, she had bided her time, strained her patience and waited until she retired to her upstairs room for the night, and complete privacy, before opening the received missive and reading…

Aphrodite?

A-P-H-R-O-D-I-T-E? That is your first name? How did I not already know of this?

Miss Prim, come now. You think to befuddle my thoughts with such foolery? Especially when we both know someone as stoutly prideful as your luscious self would never stand for such a flaunty name. Never . Nay, I am sure you came into this world, not kicking, screaming and crying as most of us, but with your tiny toes pointed, hands folded across your baby-rounded belly prayerfully, amber-hued eyes blinking open toward your mother past the astonished midwife assisting, insisting you be called Jane or Mary. Mayhap Alice. But Aphrodite?

Perish that titillating thought.

How was it, with naught but innocent jests over her name—and a remembrance of her eye color!—he brought heat to her cheeks, a simmer to her insides and a longing to be near him once more? Especially given how they had parted!

All right, Miss Prim, whose absurd claims now have my forehead furrowing grim, let me apply myself addressing two specific things (things other than your name absurdity):

-you offer up, in exchange for your services that you deny me the chance to engage, the names of one or two others

I decline. I do not want the names of others. I want you. Here, caring for my girls who need someone I would entrust with their lives. Which is what I would be doing, I realize, after the past and recent travesties of attempting to give that sort of trust to others who were in no way worthy of it.

Secondly:

-you stated you were both flattered and touched by my offer.

Hm. (Can you hear my grunt?)

Would that I could touch you. Could titillate your interest in joining us here by confessing that I am still in possession of two handkerchiefs taken off your person (though only one directly). Could express my curiosity about and consternation over whether both actually belonged to you, for according to my talented nose, it has found only one of them lingeringly sniff-worthy.

My naughty nose and thoughts aside, I needs must convince you how very vital I believe you to be to my household, especially for the sake of the youngest, Julia.

Ah. Dear Julia. Did I explain that she has ceased to speak? After losing both father and then mother in short weeks of each other, little Julia has withdrawn into herself (as well as drawn her thumb into her mouth, that no amount of coaxing can alter) such that I…

Forgive me.

I realize now, with (nearly) instant penance, how easily I fell into my old, former and irresponsible ways. I do beg your pardon. I should not have twitted you thus, not over your name—for Aphrodite is a beautiful name (even if I still have my doubts as to your sincerity over it). Nor over my indelicate thoughts pertaining toward your delicate handkerchiefs.

But I should, if not cast aside this effort and begin anew this entire response, at least express how my heart hurts. Stutters. Slams hard against my ribs each moment I step lean back and take a breath and evaluate the responsibilities laid before me now.

The other three children? The halfling twins, off at school (more men than boys, or though they would wish you to think), and ten-year-old Sophia? As rebellious and contrary as myself, I fear, the lot of them.

I know the boys grieve with anger. For their headmaster has written twice about their behavior. But given the staggering losses suffered, allowances continue to be made. As to Sophia? She has become something of a rock. I count on her to complain when it is time I see them fed. Time to see them abed. Time to see frocks changed and stories read…

Egad. It seems the mere thought of you turns me poetical, without intent.

Alas, I fear my little argumentative Sophia is bottling up her pain and hurt, and when it does finally erupt, the black cloud might singe the soul off anyone nearby.

But it is silent, unresponsive Julia that I need you here for, Aphrodite. Miss Primrose. Please. Julia needs you more than I ? —

The wicked, wicked man. Flirting in the same missive about touching her, yet threatening to crack her heart wide open with admissions of the grief-stricken younglings now in his care.

Quietly seething Sophia…

Silent, sorrowful Julia…

The wicked rat! To make her yearn—both for his touch, and to help heal the small children in need.

I confess to floundering about with the proper way to see her healed. I cannot vanquish her grief, no matter how I might wish. Nor can I, at this very moment, return her to all that she knew at her former home in Thropmoor, not given how the laborers there seek to repair the sagging, leaking roof. But that is not your concern.

None of this is, I do realize, your concern. And as I come to the end of the second side of this page, I realize how I have unburdened myself upon you in a completely inappropriate manner.

Though I have no doubt anyone you would recommend as governess would be adequate to the task, it is not adequacy I seek, but excellence—your excellence, should that be in doubt.

If you could but trouble yourself to consider my offer further, I would remain completely in your debt and at your disposal.

Yours, Warrick

(Richard Andrew Martinson, if you were curious. Nothing anywhere as provoking as Aphrodite…or Ares.)

How in blazes was she to respond to him now?

Not only had he laid himself bare, offering to do anything within his means to garner her assistance, the fiend had put himself as Ares alongside her namesake, Aphrodite.

Ares, the god of war, with whom Aphrodite not only bore several children, but shared a lengthy, tumultuous affair and tempestuous love.

Through the long hours of the night that followed, unlike many that had come before, she didn’t just toss and turn. She didn’t mourn for what wasn’t, what could never be. She didn’t dash away a silent tear for her own solitary state while furtively reaching beneath the bedclothes and raising her night-rail to touch herself before sleep claimed her—a touch she wished was granted by someone else.

Nay, that night, she cried.

Cried hard and long. Until her eyes stung and her chest hurt. Until her throat gasped and her emotions railed. Anger at God, at evil people, at chance, at Death.

Death that swooped in unexpectedly, claimed the unsuspecting and innocent, and left others in their place. Others oft ill equipped to pick up the broken pieces.