36. Speeding Toward The End

36

Speeding Toward The End

Warry,

You must come get us. Julia will not stop crying. It made me sad at first. But now I am quite ready to pull her hair out. Mayhap then she will fight me back and the tears will stop.

She keeps crying for Papa. I do not know if she means our real papa or if she cries for you. We have all wanted her to talk for so long but if I hear PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA one more time, I vow I will pull my hair out—see if I do not. And we both know I will assuredly not look agree-a-ball balding. (I never thought I would miss having lessons, but it is beyond frustrating having words I want to write and not knowing how to spell them. I cannot reach the dictionary here. It is not like the one at home you keep on your desk.)

As to that, I am not allowed to go into any room by myself. I cannot choose a book to read nor have a moment’s quiet. I thought Knight and King were loud? And Julia’s silence saddening? ’Tis nothing like living with more children than chickens.

I am miserable. Julia is more so.

We both want to come home. Will you come get us?

Now that the antisipashun of Christmas is over, and everyone consoomed with thoughts of the new baby (overly loud and full of hickups, very red in the face also, not nearly as pretty as I remember thinking a bald Julia was when Mama had her), that dreadful play is all anyone wants to talk about.

Warry, I know your doctoring is important and truly hope you are able to walk, but I do not care if you ever stand up again. I am dreadfully leaning toward sorrow, with every hour I go by without you to barter with.

Come home? Nay, come get us ! And then we shall all go home. I vow, I will behave for a month . A week! I promise! Empekabel behavior shall be yours, if you will just please come get us.

When I asked Julia if she wanted me to write anything for her, she only cried harder.

Mr. and Mrs. Shieldings said with word from you they would return us home with haste, but without knowing your wishes, could not go against what you had agreed upon or some such drivel that continues to mire us here.

Please.

The elegant and wonderful, Sophia

(Your loving sister who misses you too.)

After jumping about like a crazed banshee once everyone returned to Marigold Cottage and being banished to the yard whilst the humans sought the gathering of possessions and wits that had gone begging, Mercury now slept like the dead beside Silas.

His dog. On the seat, and not the narrow confines of the floor between him and the ragged-breathing, seething peer studying the letter in his hands. The seat . Nothing Silas would have allowed if they had been in Vi’s carriage but this one? Borrowed from her son, Lord Redford? A man imbecilic enough to befriend the troublous lordling?

Did Mercury have fleas this time of year? Mayhap he could drop a few? Leave something irritating behind they could blame on the vexatious lord who continued to ignore his presence. Had since settling inside, trunks and chair strapped atop.

At the moment, about the only thing Silas could think to be grateful for was the steady rise and fall of his pup’s side as he allowed one hand to rest lightly on his dog while he waited interminable minutes to even be acknowledged by the man across from him. Given the canine boy’s age, Silas appreciated every light snore and snuffle to be heard, or felt.

And the longer the man across from him remained mute, eyes downcast and forehead pinched, the more Silas sought gratitude for his dog—and the women in the other carriage.

Warrick Estate, January 3, 1814

Lord Warrick,

Forgive me for interrupting your healing efforts in Bath with the following news, but I believe in my soul it is information you would rather have than remain ignorant of.

Your brothers, Lords Beaufort and Buford, were returned home to us here at the estate unexpectedly. It appears they perpetrated some sort of pranks, along with the friend whose home they visited during Christmas vacation. Yet they are now being blamed for the instigation of it (though they assure me it was not their idea at all).

Regardless, the parents of that youngster has informed their school of their actions and they arrived at Warrick Estate last eve with a note from their headmaster saying they were not being permitted to return to school next term either, after winter vacation.

And in effect, both boys are now running rampant over your estate, the one you and I seek to salvage? Rescue from ruin?

(Forgive me. Being so new to your employ, I am in a state of extreme unease sharing such news. But also doubtful you would want two such lively lads gadding about without any sort of discipline or accountability. Given how I had not met them until they arrived at the door—in a hack I was required to pay myself—they have no reason to respect anything I say nor give me any semblance of obedience.)

To the best of my ability, I will endeavor to keep them from harming themselves—or lighting any part of your estate on fire—until your return.

But I do bid you to make that return sooner than you might have otherwise planned.

I remain, sincerely,

William Delaney

Steward, Warrick Estate

Egad and damn and damn and damn!

Warrick lifted his gaze from the page that shuddered before him, given the carriage’s speed out of Bath.

He faced Arbuckle. “I know you have things to say. I can see them ready to burst forth from your pinched lips. Give me but a moment, please. A moment to gather myself and then you can rail at me to your heart’s content.”

The man seated across from him, riding backward out of deference to Warrick’s title (or possibly his infirmity—he knew not which and was not about to ask nor decline the consideration), gave a single nod of agreement, even as a muscle in his tightly held jaw twitched.

Arbuckle—Satan’s spawn—was the new man in Lady Redford’s life? The one her son suspected of bringing her such joy these last months? Gah. Warrick choked on his own spit.

His fist crumpled the page in his hand as he leaned back until his head hit the padded wall above the squab. He didn’t care that the swiftly moving vehicle rumbled his body about. He closed his eyes and tried not to think. Tried to give his mind a rest.

Meadows. Think naught but of meadows. Green meadows. Majestic mountains. Flowers. Beautiful flowers in bloom. Petals unfurling. Prim’s lips. Nay, not that, not now. Clouds. Bulbous white clouds. Soft clouds. Prim’s bosom.

Ack. The effort proved fruitless.

Not even thoughts of his beloved could mitigate the horror tearing through his chest.

Julia cried without ceasing.

Sophia—smart, insightful Sophia—remained intellectually unchallenged, and emotionally hurt by her sister’s increasing sadness. Likely by his abandonment as well.

Foolish, foolish man! To think any of his siblings could do on their own—no matter how insistent they had been. To think any one of them were strong enough to do without the other. They, who had lost first a father and then a mother and then their home. He, who had lost his mother and gained an entire family.

He, who had fallen deeply in love over the course of the last week, if not the last two years, and now doubted everything.

As the seconds turned into minutes, the minutes into miles, and his eyes remained closed, Warrick shifted one foot. A good sign, was it, perhaps? A good sign that one of his thighs clenched, his calf followed suit, sufficient to edge his foot, even a fraction of an inch. A good sign that restlessness assailed him now. Mainly in spirit, though. A troubled spirit that now caused his body to want to break free of this carriage, race to the other, and hold Aphrodite against his thundering heart.

It did not matter what trouble lay ahead, what difficulties these two letters so recently received promised. It did not matter that his future was in shambles, he wanted to share it with her.

His eyes popped open, gaze fixed on the carriage ceiling. He brought his head down, clashed eyes with Arbuckle. “I won’t apologize for loving your niece. Nothing untoward has happened between us.” Heated kisses and his fingers basking in the honeyed heat of her aside, which Arbuckle certainly didn’t need any hint of, nothing untoward had happened. “But I will apologize for how Sophia addressed her letter. That was inappropriate, having been visible to others, and I will educate her of the nuances of insults at the earliest of opportunities. Say what you will. I am ready.”

Silas grunted. He heard himself and wanted to slap his chest. His throat for letting the sound emerge. Since when was that how he responded to conversational sallies?

But Warrick had caught him unaware. The first words out of his mouth: Won’t apologize for loving your niece . Certainly not what he had expected.

Denials. Excuses. Those he had expected.

Nothing untoward has happened between us. Did he speak truly? “So, if I were to give my consent for marriage, requiring you wait nine months from now?”

“To ensure my bastard doesn’t grow within her belly?”

“There he is. I knew you could not remain civil for long.”

“I only responded in kind. Neither of us wish to wait that long; I can confidently assure you she will agree with me there. But if it is what you require—in order not to disparage her, which I will not allow, then aye. We can wait, and it will change nothing.”

And there he went, this annoying, plaguesome lord surprising him yet again. “I would never disparage her. You are another matter altogether.”

“Will you withhold your censure? Should we choose not to wait? Or will it blast forth at every opportunity? I would not have her feel your wrath nor your undisguised displeasure, for both would cause her pain.”

“Then I will say my piece, share things of which you, and she for the moment, are unaware of. And if you can tell me, upon the completion of it, that you truly believe—in your heart and in your head—that she is not better off without you, then aye, my blessing you will both have.”

“That is a bold statement. What could you tell me that would make me withdraw my avowal of love? My determination to see her my countess?”

“Do you hear yourself? An earl, even one…”

“Damaged? Infirm? Unable to walk?”

“Even one who might not be in the most prime condition of his life would never take a governess to wife.”

“Oh no? I beg to differ.” Warrick then proceeded to name two dukes and a viscount, all off the tip of his tongue and all of whom had married either actresses or known courtesans. “Would you not agree Aphrodite’s personal reputation is far superior to those three women? I would. Doubtful even marrying me would cause a hint of the scandals those three weathered with success.”

Not thrilled with the other man’s even replies, but unable to deny the facts presented before him, Silas made an effort, a significant one, to set aside his bias toward the lordling who had somehow—when God must have been napping—managed to secure his niece’s affections.

“Your sister has admirable penmanship,” he said by way of an olive branch. “Even included Marigold Cottage in her direction.”

“She possesses a keen intellect, much like her brother.”

Silas suppressed a guffaw—barely. “You aren’t lacking in confidence, I will say that for you.”

Lord Warrick accepted the compliment with a dignified nod willing, it seemed, to continue the truce. “Aphrodite told me how you planted seeds together, her first weeks with you. How your abode gained its name; that you promised her she would not be sent off again, but would remain until they bloomed. Did you choose marigolds because they flower quickly?”

“Had no idea,” Silas confided. “I chose them because they were the only seeds at hand. By the time I noticed how frequently she glanced toward the door, as though fearful of being pushed right back out, I was in a scrabble to find anything the tearful lass might latch on to, anything to give her any measure of security.”

Which softened Warrick toward the old rat. A modicum, but still. Lest the doctor get the wrong idea, he said, “I’m still disinclined to like you.”

Arbuckle grinned at him. Grinned! “Grand. Seems we are in accord.” But then, after the two of them had reached an agreement to continue their dislike of each other, the older man sobered, his smile turning flat. “What do you know of Aphrodite’s parents? What has she told you?”

Warrick cast his mind back to one of the many spirited discussions of the past few days…

“As the youngest of seven sons of a country solicitor blessed by family and burdened by bills”—she had given a gentle laugh upon the telling of it, as though they were words she had heard many a time—“there were few resources for Papa. He was left to make his way and had a love of literature and learning. He worked as a tutor before coming to London and then as a bookseller after.”

“Ah. Now I finally learn the source of your unique name.”

She couldn’t stop her grin. “Yes. Uncle loved to tell me the story of how they met over an illustrated volume of Greek mythology.”

“And your mother?”

“Dishonored her parents’ wishes when she ran off with my father instead of marrying who they had chosen. Created quite the scandal, or so I gathered.”

“How did they die? Was it together?”

At the question, her smile had faltered. “Footpads,” said succinctly and his heart cramped. “A wealthy patron of the shop where Papa worked recognized him as the man who once tutored his now grown boys. He gave Papa use of his theater box one night, him and Mama. They had walked, no family carriage, you see, and…and I never saw them alive after that.”

Instead of offering a humorous, pithy remark to see the smile returned to her cheeks, he had reached across the keyboards, where he was entertaining them both—before ordering her out because he still had a duty to a hundred or more drills that evening—and extended his hand, waiting until she placed hers in it. Giving her fingers a hug, he remained uncharacteristically silent, allowing her time with her thoughts, as he had with his.

Thinking of his mother, his stepfather, even himself—all lone children without a sibling one, compared to Aphrodite’s parents with many… Yet no one had wanted to raise this lovely young woman—except a crotchety old uncle? (He kept those thoughts to himself, of a certainty.)

She had squeezed his hand back and suggested he “Play me something lively, if you would. Something by Martinson”.

Grateful that was one of the many conversations they had had over the last few days, Warrick shared what he knew with Arbuckle, inside the confines of Ed’s carriage. Keeping his gloat to a minim when the waking dog stretched, sniffed and ambled down, off the opposite bench, to lean against his legs. Let Warrick’s extended arm and outstretched fingers scratch over the top of his head, behind his lolling ears.

“That is not quite accurate, for all that it is what she was told.” Arbuckle surprised him with that, drew his gaze from the dog. “The truth is both better and worse. And something I had been intending to educate her of as gently as possible, given the recent changes, but now…” Arbuckle frowned at Warrick as though he were to blame for altering the man’s intentions. “Now I see there is no help for it. She must be told.”

“Told what? Explain that. That and why in blazes you stole my chair, inflicted such adversity on me.” Why had he started to sweat? “And what do you mean by ‘recent changes’? What are you keeping from her?”

What was his body telling him? Because his ears—and cryptic Arbuckle—told him naught.

You sweat because you fear.

Deep inside, Warrick started to shake. For he did fear?—

That whatever Arbuckle was about to reveal might bring his own plans—and hers—crashing to a halt.