Chapter 2

2

Andrew found his mother in the inn's pantry, where she was removing carrot and ginger pickles from the bed of rice bran that she alone tended. The smell was tangy and salty, and reminded him why he loved his home.

"Mama-san." He came to stand beside her.

Andrew was not tall, but next to his mother, he felt almost gargantuan. She was wearing an apron that had been mended three times. Her hair sat in a low bun at the nape of her neck—dark strands with a few errant threads of white. People often didn't know she was his mother; she looked far too young for it.

People also didn't know that she was—technically—a countess, even if she hadn't seen her husband in twenty-four years.

She looked up, her hands covered in fermented bran, her head tilting with some maternal instinct that could detect the slightest change in the tone of his voice. She knew him to his core, with a love that was soft as any mother's heart and as sharp as the edge of a knife at the same time.

Her eyes narrowed. "What have you done now?"

"Me? Nothing. I haven't done anything."

Usually the world of Wedgeford was small. The village numbered no more than a few hundred people, all of them known to each other. The outside world sometimes stretched to Dover for salt and fish, or back to London, where Chinatown waited with stores of medicine.

Today, Wedgeford felt too large: large enough to encompass the estate in Berkshire where his technical father dwelled. That was too large indeed.

"So, tell me." She patted his arm.

Tell her. Right.

The problem was, this was like the claret-stealing. Except this time it wasn't his fault. With the claret, his mother had told him she was disappointed in him—once for taking it, twice for lying.

That wasn't just a phrase she said to keep him behaving. She had actually been disappointed. He had disappointed her. His own mother. The guilt had been crushing. He had felt the impact of it particularly because he had been drunk on claret at the time, but he still recalled that moment as one of the worst of his life: realizing that he had let his mother down.

He had promised not to do that ever again.

"Lily is back," he said to her, because that was true and where he should start.

Her face underwent a series of tiny reactions: a widening of the eyes, the start of a smile, quickly repressed.

There was a point in every boy's life that served as a dividing line—the moment when he learned that his mother was not in fact a god. His mother had problems, insecurities, and difficulties. He could remember the moment when his mother stopped being larger-than-life (figuratively speaking; literally speaking, she was smaller than just about every other human on the planet) and just seemed…well, alive.

For Andrew, that moment had come after the claret and the hangover, when his mother had sat him down and told him the truth about his father. This is why it matters to me that you think of others, she had said, as she recounted the tale. That you grow up to be fair to your family, and considerate of all.

Until then, his mother had only said that she'd lost his father. A form of truth, yes, just not the one he'd imagined. He'd listened to her tell the story in dawning horror.

His mother had returned with her new husband to his family's home in Amsterdam, scared but buoyed by his reassurance that his family would love her.

His family had…not. His father had been ordered to put his wife to the side, never mind that she was pregnant, barely sixteen years of age, and thousands of miles from her family. It had only grown worse from there. Eventually his mother had fled. His father's family, with their infinite calculating coldness, had papered over the entire marriage as if it hadn't happened.

The truth had presented Andrew with a decision. He could grow up to be like his father, a wastrel who cared for comfort and claret, and asked only that if his brother-in-law were to accost his wife, that he not be bothered with the matter. Or he could become the kind of man who would always protect his mother. The kind of man who would never, ever cause her distress.

He'd chosen the latter.

"So?" His mother waited expectantly. "Lily is back. And…?"

"And I am confused," Andrew said slowly.

His mother was Andrew's guiding light. She was kind. She was strong. She had liked Lily perhaps a little more than was comfortable.

And Andrew could not, would not, expose her to his father's family. Not again. He would not leave her to fear alone as she had before.

He had to protect her. But how?

Lily had the log. She was going to use it.

"Are you confused?" his mother asked gently. "Or do you know what you want and are afraid?"

"I am afraid." He knew this whisper for the truth. He was afraid. He had always been afraid that his father's family would discover that his mother hadn't left Europe, that the child she'd been carrying when she vanished was a boy. They'd been ruthless enough before the Earl of Arsell had married a second time and had a son that everyone believed to be the legitimate heir. What would they do if they found out that the future of the earldom belonged to an interloper?

Andrew and his mother would have to leave Wedgeford. It was the only home Andrew had ever known. Andrew's cousin was married and had friends here; her husband had established a business here. Naomi would never leave, and that meant his mother's sister would never leave. Discovery would tear sister from sister, cousin from cousin.

"I always thought," his mother said slowly, "that you said you would never marry because…" She raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Andrew looked around the pantry. It was empty. His aunt and uncle were off elsewhere; his cousin was still at the house she shared with her husband.

Nonetheless, he responded in a whisper. "Because if my father's family knew that an earl's heir existed to challenge their line, they'd do away with me, any woman I married, and my children."

She waved a hand. "You said that. Maybe you believed it. But I always thought it was also because you couldn't imagine any wife but Lily."

Andrew shut his eyes. His mother had not said much when Lily had left, but she had been very, very kind to him, in a way that suggested she knew that he was hurt.

He tried to put on a smile that looked like he didn't care. "Nonsense. Lily's not going to marry me. She's a suffragist. She doesn't believe women need men."

"Ah, she's so sensible." His mother looked down, but a little smile played on her lips.

"Mama-san." He cut himself off. What was he going to say? That Lily had proclaimed him to be such a good friend after they'd had intercourse? How was he supposed to explain the captain's log?

"Don't be uneasy," his mother said. "A woman doesn't have to need a man to want one. This should be obvious, based on how many marriages there are."

"Mama." He shut his eyes, wincing. But… Wait. This was perfect.

Andrew was no good at lying to his mother, but she was already lying to herself. She now had a reason to believe Andrew uncomfortable. Did she need to know about the captain's log, about the threat to them both that it posed?

Admittedly, yes. He could not keep such a thing from her forever.

But he could save her the worry, fear, and uncertainty that the situation would pose. Telling her later would give him a chance to fix everything. By the time she knew there was cause to worry, she'd be able to rest, knowing that it was already resolved. She might be a little vexed at him, but at least she wouldn't have to worry.

All he needed was a solution.

Andrew went through this in his mind. His mother's family had used their power and money and influence to destroy all record of the original marriage when it was sent in to be recorded. They must not have realized there was another log remaining.

"Andrew," his mother said. "I know you're thinking that there are chances you can't have. But you are more capable than you think. You can do more than you imagine. And you deserve happiness."

"I notice you don't say the same for yourself." Andrew raised an eyebrow.

"That," she said tartly, "is because I already have everything I want."

"Of course. You don't need a man."

"It has nothing to do with need. Sometimes the world does not present you with a chance for happiness. That doesn't mean you can't steal it."

"When have you ever stolen anything?" he joked, before remembering that she had in fact stolen herself and her unborn child away from her husband.

Wait. Andrew started in place. That doesn't mean you can't steal it.

There was just the one log. It was the only piece of evidence. If it went away, the entire case would crumble. Why couldn't he steal the log?

On the one hand, there was the minor issue that he had never stolen anything. On the other hand, this was Wedgeford. Nobody locked anything up here. Why would they bother? What was anyone going to take? The sheep?

Was thievery skilled labor? It couldn't be that hard, could it?

He made a little fist at his side and had to keep himself from pumping it in the air. "That's it!"

"What's it?"

He sprang forward a few steps and pressed a kiss to his mother's forehead. "Thank you, Mama-san. You're brilliant."

"I just want you to be happy," she said slowly.

"It's working." He smiled at her—his first real smile. "I feel much better already."

The dressmaker's form, a thing of wood and wire and padded cloth, was fitted with a gown. It stood in front of a window where light and little dust specks danced. Seen from the corner of Lily's eye, it could have been a human being, one who lurked behind her as she waited, the resonance of the bell on the door still fading from the air.

The cottage had changed since Lily was a child. Now, bolts of serviceable cloth were shelved along the edge of the front room. The kitchen—such as it was, a hob and a space for dishes—no longer sported a wok, but a copper pot and kettle. The dishes were bowls of brown and white. Oddly, they looked to be of Asian origin. She'd heard in some of her last letters that Wedgeford had acquired a potter—that he'd actually married one of the women Lily had grown up with.

This house was two stories of stone. Above her, she could hear the patter of steps. Then, on the narrow landing above, a woman appeared.

"Letta Grimsley." Lily smiled. She'd made a point of erasing any other name the woman had ever used from her memory.

"Lily Bei!" The woman pelted down the stairs and threw her arms around Lily. "You're here! I only received your letter yesterday—your passage must have been smooth indeed."

So saying, Letta folded Lily into her arms, compressing her against her extremely ample bosom in a blur of pink-striped muslin and sandy hair. She smelled faintly of ginseng and frankincense.

Lily pulled back from the embrace. "Good. You're becoming a part of the community. That's old Mrs. Kam's hand cream I smell, isn't it?"

"Darling." Letta gave her a brilliant smile. "I've been here sixteen months. If I didn't fit in yet, I'd have left already. But Mrs. Kwan and Mrs. Uchida at the inn were both so welcoming. They took your letter and heard my story and just brought me right in the midst of everyone."

The mention of Andrew's mother made something in Lily's stomach twitch.

"I scarcely had to tell them anything," Letta said, "and it was ‘no need to say more, there's a place for you here.' I see where what you did at the Hong Kong Aid Society got its inspiration."

Lily flushed. "Um. Right."

She had always been a little afraid of Mrs. Kwan and Mrs. Uchida. The sisters who ran the inn were kind, gentle, and absolutely ruthless. Lily, by contrast, had broken what felt like everything she could break in their presence. Vases. Windows. Rules. They'd only tolerated her because she and Andrew had been friends.

Now was not the time to explain to Letta that Lily was something of a pariah in Wedgeford.

"Anyway, you don't mind my staying here?" Letta asked.

"Of course not!" The woman looked offended. "It was your home before it was mine. If you'd like to stay here, you'd be very welcome."

"Technically," Lily put in, "it was never either of ours. The whole thing belongs to the Duke of Lansing."

"Such a delightful story." Letta smiled. "Imagine him coming all this way for so many years, only to fall in love with Chloe and marry her."

Lily shifted from foot to foot uneasily. There was another person who didn't like Lily: Chloe Fong. Or perhaps now she should be called Chloe Wentworth? No, worse than that; she couldn't be called "Chloe" at all. She should likely be addressed as simply "your Grace."

Lily couldn't blame her Grace for her dislike. Chloe was a few years her elder, and Lily had never been known for her tact. Lily had said something stupid when they first met, because what was Lily but a collection of blurted-out statements delivered at precisely the worst possible moment?

Anyway, they hadn't been friends. And Chloe, married to the duke who owned half the property in Wedgeford, could make things very difficult for Lily if she desired.

"Yes," Lily said faintly. "Delightful story. I was so pleased to hear it."

"In any event," Letta continued, "if you do end up staying here, I should count it a favor."

Lily's nose scrunched. "Some favor, allowing me to invade your space and rob you of privacy."

Letta looked off, out the front window. There was nothing there but the lane and a few trees, but her gaze seemed to fix on something far distant. "Sometimes when I wake, I hear creaks in the night, and I think it's my husband coming to bed. If you're here, I'll be able to tell myself it's just you I'm hearing."

"Oh." Lily felt a pang in her heart. "Still, after all this time?"

"Mrs. Uchida says it's common," Letta said with a shrug. "But we don't need to talk about me. You mentioned needing a shed for a workshop. You'll be pleased to know that there's nothing much in the one behind the house anymore. You're welcome to it. But I'm rather surprised that you're not staying with your grandfather."

There was another pang. After her parents had died, Lily had moved from this more spacious cottage in the center of the village to live with her grandfather in a tiny hut up the hill. He'd taught her everything, treating her like the grandson he'd never had and always wanted. He'd let her run amok, and then, when she'd grown too old to be such a hoyden, had realized the error of his indulgence.

By then, though, the damage had been done. Lily had been set in her ways. It was too late for her to learn to be feminine in any of the ways an elderly man like him wanted his granddaughter to be.

They'd not left on the best of terms; in fact, Lily had been sent away in disgrace.

"I doubt he wants me," Lily said with a smile. "I'm rather girding my loins to go visit him. Look: I'm even wearing a gown." She pointed, swishing her skirts. "Am I respectable enough?"

Letta smiled. "Almost enough. Though if you won't mind my saying so, if you nipped that in right here"—she tapped the side of Lily's gown—"it would really emphasize…" She cleared her throat expectantly.

"My curves?" Lily laughed. " What curves? You're the one with curves!"

"You don't want these." Letta gave a grim shake of her head. "I know you like running, and darling." She folded her arms over her bosom. "The bounce on these. No corset can cure it. I would trade these to anyone who wanted, except I'm not that cruel."

A knock sounded at the door.

Letta and Lily both started, looking at each other.

"Were you expecting someone?" Lily asked.

Letta shook her head.

Lily opened the door. There, on the threshold, stood Andrew. It had been half an hour since last she'd seen him, and he looked…

She could feel her heart pick up its pace in his presence, a thing that it really oughtn't do. Andrew was precisely her height, and there was something about being able to look directly into his dark, laughing eyes without contorting her neck that made the innards of her stomach flutter as if in anticipation.

Anticipation of what? A flash of memory: Andrew and his laughing smile, somewhat younger, reaching out for her?—

Lily shook her head. Not the thing to think about when she was looking into his eyes.

His features seemed stronger and more resolute now; he'd lost the last of his childhood roundness. And he was carrying her blue trunk, balancing it on one shoulder, holding it in place with a single hand on the outermost worn leather strap.

Goodness. She had so many books in there. He'd been strong seven years ago—the strongest of their age—but never like this .

"Andrew." The word came out weakly.

"Good day, Lily," he said, as if they'd not just talked. "Your trunks have arrived. I thought I'd bring the heavier one over to you."

"You knew where I was?"

"Gossip. You're newly returned, and therefore, the most interesting person in Wedgeford. Everyone wants to talk to you. I just had to follow the trail of the rumors." He gestured with his free hand, two fingers walking.

"Oh, my. Would you like to put that down?"

"Should I?" He said that rather carelessly, as if he were not carrying a good ninety pounds. "I didn't know if you wanted me to bring this up to your grandfather's."

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

"It's no trouble."

"I wasn't trying to be polite. I'm staying here."

He raised an eyebrow.

"The printing press," Lily told him. "The one I mentioned to you? It's going in the shed. I'm staying here." There. That was an explanation that gossipy Wedgeford would accept, rather than having to explain that her grandfather found her embarrassing, and they would both be happier if he wasn't confronted with her presence continually throughout the day.

"Ah, yes. The printing press." Finally, he bent his knees, letting the trunk slide down, setting it gently on the ground as if it were entirely empty. She could imagine the flex of his muscles underneath his shirtsleeves. What had he been doing in her absence?

For a moment, they stared stupidly at one another.

"I intended to go to the inn to get my trunk," she told him. "You really didn't have to bring it. I'll manage the other."

He ignored this. "You're taking the small back room, I suppose? If I remember, there's neither chest of drawers nor wardrobe in there, and you'll want both."

Lily grimaced. Funds were…not exactly a problem. Lily had been saving money herself in Hong Kong. Then her grandfather had sent a shocking amount of money. To assist her in marrying, he'd said, but Lily hadn't wanted to entice a man to marry her. Instead, she'd seen possibility.

Her grandfather did not hate her, as she feared.

And with her own funds dedicated to a plan for her future, Lily wouldn't be a burden on him. It was enough, if she took steerage and lived very frugally on what remained, for Lily to purchase everything she needed to look after herself: an old press, a small one—one that came with a jobbing furnace so that she could make her own printing plates.

Technically, it was not that Lily hadn't had enough to purchase furnishings, dear though they might be. She'd had enough when she landed in Bristol two days prior to kit out an entire household. It was just that she'd chosen to purchase different furnishings instead.

"Don't make that face," Andrew said. "I think Chloe has an extra set, now that she's moved into the new house that Jeremy has built for her. She's not using it in her office."

"Am I so easily read?"

"By me?" He winked at her. "You've always been an open book. I'll go fetch them. Oh, and Lily, Mrs. Grimsley, one more thing?"

Lily felt dazed at the thought of him fetching an actual chest of drawers. Was he going to heave an entire piece of furniture onto his shoulder as if it were her trunk? Just carry it across the village as if it were nothing? No. Even he had not become so strong. He would overheat. Take off his jacket, so that he was laboring in his shirtsleeves. She might be able to see how his muscles had changed in the intervening years…

"What is it?" Mrs. Grimsley asked. Lily shook herself from her reverie.

"Your garden isn't large enough for the two of you, and you know what that means."

Mrs. Grimsely let out a low groan. "You're going to force seeds upon us."

The thought of Andrew's seed made an entirely different image in Lily's mind. She coughed heavily. "Pardon me?"

"That's right." Andrew grinned. "I'm going to force seeds on you. I've got the most amazing mix of colored carrots, and they should get in the ground immediately. Beyond that, I've got Japanese radish, three kinds of cabbage, a number of greens. In a few weeks, it will be time to put potatoes in. I started some extra plants in my shed, so there will be enough for both of you."

Oh. That kind of seed. Lily found her face heating. "Have you become the, um, the…" What did one call a person who had seeds? "The seed master around here?"

Andrew let out a cackle. "Seed master! I love it. Of course that's what I am—the master of seeds. Want some?" He waggled his eyebrows at her.

Just like old times: Andrew offering yet never meaning; Lily yearning but never taking.

She thought, at that moment, looking into his face, that she would say yes to anything he proposed. "Of course. And about that other thing—the thing I mentioned to you this morning?—"

He glanced, swiftly, pointedly at Letta Grimsley, then back to her. "There's time. Settle in. Unpack. We can talk when you have nothing else to do and…"

He didn't finish his sentence. Still, she heard it. And when no one else is about.

Perfect. Not three hours back in Wedgeford, and Lily was back to yearning for someone she couldn't have and making assignations to meet him in private. It was a good thing Lily already knew she had no moral sense, or she'd have given up on herself on the spot.

"Yes," Lily said. "Perfect. Good. We'll talk later."