by Edith Layton
“I must leave after breakfast,” he said at once, “and as I suspected, I’m pleased to report that my friend the duke has gladly offered you the use of his home, and extended his hospitality and friendship to you for so long as you may need it. You got on well with Susannah—the duchess,” he said, “and as she’s soon to be brought to bed with their child, obviously she’d like company and would welcome yours, so you ought never to feel you’re imposing. You’d likely be doing her a kindness by staying on with them, in fact.”
For all of the beautiful Susannah’s friendship and charm, Francesca couldn’t see that this last was so. It had seemed to her that all the duchess needed was her duke, and from the way he gazed at his wife, he was hardly likely to let her out of his sight for more than three minutes together until she was brought to bed with their baby. But she didn’t doubt her welcome, nor their sincerity—all of their sincerity—she thought as her eyes filled despite her best intentions, and only her anger with her weakness at this crucial moment saved her from the resolve-sapping, easy tears of self-pity.
“But the duke and I spoke long into the night,” Arden said, “and he feels, as you’ve seemed to, that you should have the right to judge me for yourself, rather than judging my estimate of myself…if only for your future peace of mind. Although I believe eventually there’ll be only one and the same conclusion reached, for you don’t lack sense. Still, the sum of it is,” he said quickly, “that if you’d like to come with me to Cornwall, you are welcome.”
She stopped breathing and then blurted, “But do you want me to?”
He could scarcely say what he didn’t know. He wanted her to come with him more than he could recall wanting anything in a life filled with want. But he also didn’t want her to, and never wanted her to think he needed her to. He answered the only way he honestly could.
“If you wish to,” he said.
*
“Beware of highwaymen,” Warwick Jones, Duke of Peterstow, told them, smiling as he bade them farewell.
Arden nodded, grinning widely, and swung up on his horse as Julian, who’d demanded to drive their coach, taking the ribbons from a scandalized coachman muttering about nobility and their mad starts, saluted him with his right hand, and then, cracking the whip he held in it, they were away.
“Don’t fret,” Roxanne said comfortably, sitting back in the coach and relaxing, “Julian’s an excellent whipster. Why, he told me that he actually drove a public coach once, and not just for the lark, as drunken bucks sometimes do on a spree for the price of a bribe to the coachmen. No, he was down on his luck once, and actually did it to earn his living. Amazing, isn’t it,” she said wonderingly, “but then, that’s our viscount, isn’t it? He’s never the one for the formalities, is he?”
Understanding that Roxanne was now collecting tales of Julian’s eccentricities to buoy her hopes with, the way that other females collected stories of their gentlemen’s daring or cleverness to fuel their love, Francesca could only nod agreement. But even if she were told that the Viscount Hazelton had once worked in the fields as a farmer, still she didn’t believe he’d ever marry Roxanne Cobb. Not that she doubted he wouldn’t fly in the face of convention if he’d a mind to—he and Arden and their friend the Duke of Peterstow all seemed to be men with their own strong minds. They’d all spurn society’s highest rulings if it suited their purposes; perhaps that was the very reason the three wildly disparate gentlemen were friends. She believed it a further measure of their individual power and charm that, whether they cared to or not, they’d all still likely get society to accept it, if they wished, as well.
But it was obvious, at least to her, that Julian didn’t feel any of the emotions toward Roxanne that were necessary for any form of matrimony—he didn’t appear to love, need, or prefer her to all other females; he didn’t require her money, opinion, or friendship, either. And though, of course, she didn’t know, or care to know, what happened when the bedroom door closed on them, she’d never seen a glance or touch or word from him to the blond widow at any other time to signify that he enjoyed her company in any but the lightest way.
But telling Roxanne that would only net her a sharp retort, or a knowing wink, or some sly sexual innuendo about her own inexperience in such matters. And, Francesca conceded as she sank back in the cushions for the long ride to the Cornish coast, that was true enough. For Roxie could very easily end up the Viscountess Hazelton, with seven beautiful blond children, and she herself could end her days as a companion to the beautiful duchess of Peterstow, and Arden could take to the sea as a pirate, and then her imaginings finally ebbed into a dream of red gowns and green parrots and rolling waves that carried her off into a day of sleep as her uneasy pillow had not in the night, as the coach rocked on down to the southern finger of the kingdom.
They stopped for a light and hasty luncheon on the road, and pressed on again, with little laughter and conversation now, as though they all realized as the time passed that they raced against the night as well as the possible end to a man’s life. Arden mightn’t speak about his father, nor seem to value him much, but he was hastening to a deathbed, and the fact of it seemed borne in on them as the coach rattled on, Julian bent on driving all the way, Arden pushing his great horse onward alongside the coach.
Though night came later with each soft evening at this time of the year, still it was velvet dark when they stopped at last at an inn on a rocky crag near to the unseen, but faintly heard nearby sea. They ate their dinner with little enthusiasm, for Francesca’s head ached trying to think of a thing to say to Arden. He sat in uncharacteristic silence and thought, and toyed with his food, and looked up now and again with what appeared to be a hint of a reassuring smile when he saw her disquiet. That is, whenever he returned from wherever he’d roamed in his mind, and blinking, remembered her, as well as where he was. Julian was physically weary unto death from holding a team of four spirited horses together, after years of not doing so. He’d driven them hard as he’d pushed himself, and once had even helped to change the team in his impatience with the ineptitude of the stable crew at the posting inn near to Bristol.
Only Roxie was in high spirits, but was wise enough to mute her gaiety until she reached the bedroom she was forced to share with Francesca that night. She’d have preferred sharing her quarters with Julian, of course, since there was no one there starched up enough to chide them for it, she told Francesca merrily. But as there were only the two decent bedchambers available, she could hardly ask Arden to sleep in the barn, or suggest that Francesca kip in with him instead, could she? Or could she? she giggled when alone with the dark-haired girl.
But she was content to pass an undemanding night by sharing a feather bed with another female for once, she laughed. Francesca washed and dressed herself for the night, their maid having gone to her quarters in the attics. As she climbed in beneath the coverlets with Roxie, the widow continued to prattle on about her great good luck so far—even though she primely detested the countryside…still, once this visit was done, there’d be London, and London would be splendid with Julian, wouldn’t it be?…and so then it was all worth it, wasn’t it?—and Francesca fell asleep nodding agreement to any and every thing she said.
*
He knew it was real by the scent of it, long before his eyes told him so. The slight salt tang had got stronger as they’d gone on, and now, even as he began to recall that particular ancient tree, that singular-shaped rock, that road with its same cracked milepost, Arden knew he was back to where he’d never wished to return.
The direction they needed to take from this crossroad bore off to the right, but it was the last direction he wished to ride in. And so, never believing he could be a coward, and with no one who knew enough of the land to accuse him of being so, he signaled to Julian to turn the coach to the left—to the left, where his home was—to the left, where he might get word of a respite or even a reprieve. For the old man might have already died.
But he really didn’t
believe that. Knowing the old man, he knew he’d keep breathing until Arden came to his bedside…no, he’d never leave his son’s life as easily as he’d given it to him.
Still, Arden lived in hope, he’d had to before, he would again, and he’d a warm welcome coming where he rode now. He wondered, with a stab of guilt, how Francesca would see these simple people he’d soon take her to meet. And then, he laughed to himself, albeit grimly, for, he thought, if these decent people dismayed her, then he might as well have Julian take her right back to Warwick, for they were the best of all the wretched life he was about to unfold to her. And, too, he knew he couldn’t continue to worry about her reaction. He’d claimed he’d known what it would be, after all. Warwick had been right in that now he only had to face the enactment of what he’d foreseen in his mind those days ago in France—and those years ago when he’d left here. Even then, he rode away knowing that someday, someone he might come to love, or respect, might have to face what he’d left.
Still, he was well used to pain of every sort, and better equipped than most to handle it. He was, after all, just as he’d been told since he could toddle, a big boy now. Big boys had to develop patience and fortitude as quickly as they grew. They had to grow thick skins in every sense, as well as long tempers, and train themselves in the use of clever words and sly innuendos even as the weakest boy might do, instead of using threats and main force—if they wanted to keep the approval of their elders. And that approval had always mattered to Arden Lyons.
One hurt look from his mother had hurt him far more than all the blows and words from other boys. One harsh word from her husband could cut him to the quick, for John Dahl was a decent, fair man, and neither praised nor punished without a good cause.
But sometimes he’d forgotten, because when still a boy, he’d sometimes acted as one. He was seven when he gave up that childhood and accepted all the burden of manhood, along with his size and condition, and it was pain that taught him how to best of all. Because as he’d lain in his bed that night aching from the thrashing John Dahl had given him, the look his mother had given him when she’d guessed the reason for his crime and punishment caused him even more suffering. Then he knew that although Tom, Bob, and Jed richly deserved what he’d done to them, and they’d been three to his one, he was three times their size and so shouldn’t have taken his revenge so swiftly, openly, and stupidly. Even though they’d earned every bruise he’d dealt them.
For they’d taken pains to ensure that he knew just who everyone knew his father was. And then, though he’d suspected it and hardly cared, under the guise of further friendly revelations they’d taken great care to describe exactly how such wonders were achieved. And though, being a farm lad, he’d already a fairly good idea of that as well, they’d made sure to describe precisely which parts fit where. It was going on to detail specifically what his mother had permitted to be done to her, and where his putative father had placed his hands and person in and upon her in order to produce him, that had been their greatest mistake, and had led to his. Although they were slow and stupid village lads and would only nurse their wounds and grievances, as he lay in bed that aching night, he profited from his mistake.
He’d learned many things that day, and the least of it was that a larger boy couldn’t take revenge on a smaller one, however provoked. Having seen the sorrow in John Dahl’s eyes even more than he’d felt the strap, he learned the necessity for keeping his temper in check, for good men, he saw, hated to give pain even if it was easy for them to do. Most of all he’d discovered, as he lay abed with his flesh singing from the strapping he’d won for his victory, that certain victories were never worth the winning. Because no physical pain could compare with the pain of hurting the ones you loved.
It had been a day for superior education. He’d concluded that he’d have to discover less obvious means to wage his wars and win his victories in the future. And he’d understood that if he couldn’t defend a thing properly, he’d have to hide his preference for it, lest it be endangered.
Now, riding down the lane to the neat cottage so familiar in his memories, he felt all his boyhood lessons borne in on him again. When the tall woman came to the door of the thatched house to see the great coach pulling to a stop, and then flung up her hands and called back into the house, he held himself in check and waited, and practiced all the controls he’d learned here, and found it was hard, even now, even so.
When the old man came out, pipe in hand, and looked to the coach, and then to the huge man on the horse, Arden finally let slip his reins, and slid from the horse, and went to the man and embraced him, and neither laughed then, nor wept, but only sighed, for by so doing he embraced all that he’d left here so long ago.
He stepped back from the man and looked up to Julian and signaled him down. The fair-haired nobleman relinquished the reins at last to the coachman and joined them. Then, after a word from Arden, Julian assisted the two ladies from the coach and they all stood before the cottage, and Arden introduced them all around. He made the viscount, Francesca, and Roxanne known to a tall rawboned red-headed woman, introducing her as “my sister Moll”; and the shorter, darker, auburn-haired woman who quickly joined them “my sister Alice”; and a plump ginger-haired older woman was “my sister Betty”; and the last woman to come hurrying from the cottage, wiping her hands on her apron, a heavyset one who looked senior to all the rest, was “my sister Jennie.” Their eyes widened at the viscount, but as ever, it was hard to say whether it was at his title or himself. But after eyeing the two ladies with fascination, they curtsied as though they’d been introduced to royalty. Roxanne lifted her chin and nodded regally, and Francesca, containing her surprise, smiled and held out her hand in return.
Only then, the old man, slight, stooped, so shrunken with age his bald head came only to Arden’s cravat, his weathered skin so seamed he looked as though he’d been left in water too long and then dried out in the sun, was presented to them proudly as “my father, John Dahl.”
The viscount didn’t so much as blink at any new name concerning his friend; instead, he proffered his hand and said on a wide smile, “I’m more pleased than you know to meet you, sir. We traveled as though the devil was on our trail, and I’m glad the rumors were wrong. It’s good to see you’ve recuperated.”
“Thankee, my lord, but I’ve not sickened,” the old man answered slowly.
“My friend has you confused with my father,” Arden explained to the old fellow.
“Ah, well, there you’re in good time, but only just,” John Dahl said worriedly. “They say he’s sinking, but he calls for you, lad. You ought to hurry now, or you have wasted your trip entirely. It’s a wonder he’s lasted this long. The drinking, they say, and that with the life he’s led, and the rage he flew into at the viscount. He fell over and’ll never rise again, they say. But he calls for you.”
Arden’s face grew still and cold. Francesca had never seen him looking so impassive.
“The lassies can stay here with us,” the old man volunteered. “Your friend as well. They’re welcome,” he said as the women ranged around him nodded, and the senior one Arden had named Jennie agreed, “Aye, more than welcome, the men are in the fields but all will be back tonight. You’d be more than welcome.”
“I thought to settle them at the Ark, if it still stands, for it was a tolerable inn, before we came back to visit,” Arden replied, “because they’ve traveled hard these past days. My friend the demon coachman here made it in two days instead of three, all the way from Gloucestershire. They’d appreciate a bath and a lie-down on a bed that don’t rattle and sway, before all else, I’d think. And,” he added, grinning, “I’m sorry, but the beautiful young gent, my sweet sisters, would no more let me go off by myself than fly. I’ve hired him on as bodyguard,” he confided, “to keep the ladies away—they swarm around me even more now, if that’s possible,” he sighed, “since I’ve made my fortune. Aye, and I have. And besides, Jennie, my pretty, can you see Jim’s face whe
n he comes home from an honest day’s work to find you lounging about the parlor with a prime article like yon blond Adonis? Ho,” he said over all their laughter, “‘you’d be more than welcome,’ indeed! Poor Jim! You’ve not changed, have you minx?” he asked as Jennie put her hands on her hips as though to face him down, but then fell silent and colored up like a girl as Julian smiled at her and said earnestly, “Ah…but don’t you think you could go on alone—just this once, Arden?”
And so Arden must actually be his name, Julian mused as he resumed the coachman’s seat and they prepared to leave again after giving assurances they’d be back with the night. Or at least, he thought with interest as he gave a light flick of the whip to his weary left wheeler’s ear so that the great gray horse and his yoke-mate could move up on the leaders and they could begin to move the coach out and down the road again, Arden must be one of the real names one of his fathers had given him.
*