by Jane Ashford
She could not deny it.
“That never would have happened if you’d simply accepted my offer.”
“What?” She couldn’t believe she’d heard him correctly.
“Or if I hadn’t ever thought of marrying you,” he added as if conceding a point. “But I have.”
Cecelia simply stared.
James’s petulant expression slowly shifted, as if an idea was unfolding in his brain. He gazed at her. “You know, if we were to announce our engagement now, everyone would see that Prince Karl hadn’t really won anything.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You may have it and welcome if you do as I ask. Finally.”
The kettle boiled, sending a plume of steam into the chilly air. There was a fireplace poker standing right next to it. Very tempting. Resisting its silent blandishment, Cecelia rose to go. She considered taking the basket of food away with her, but she couldn’t quite leave him to starve.
“Where are you going?” he asked as she walked toward the back door.
“Home.”
“You’re not going to make the tea?”
She turned to glare at him. “You expect me to make tea for you after what you’ve said?”
“What?” He gazed at her blankly.
“Did you not hear yourself try to blame me for your foolishness?”
“But you—”
“I did not behave like a childish rudesby or throw a punch at Prince Karl after losing a fencing match!”
He winced.
Cecelia turned back toward the exit.
“Wait. You aren’t going to leave me here?”
She felt like the kettle, steaming with exasperation. “No, James, you are ‘leaving’ yourself here. It has nothing to do with me.”
“I thought you came to help.”
“Did you?” Why had she come? Curiosity chiefly, she supposed. Though she had brought food. She had been worried.
“But you have always helped me.”
His tone stopped her. He sounded so much younger suddenly.
“I’ve gotten myself into a tangle that I have no idea how to escape,” he added.
The timbre of his voice took Cecelia back to a moment not long after they’d first met. He’d been fifteen, and even though she was years younger, a lifetime of dealing with her wayward father had sharpened her emotional “ear.” She’d understood that behind his sulky ill temper, he was lost and in pain and near tears. And that he would rather die than let her see him cry. Her heart had responded. She’d had to help him then. And so many times after.
She sighed. They were adults now, and this tangle was entirely of his own making. It wasn’t a serious matter. Only humiliating. Everyone had to deal with humiliations now and then in life, if they grew up. And to speak again of marriage as if it was simply another chore she could perform for him, upending her life for his convenience, expecting no tender sentiment… She shoved aside the hurt and the longing and any idiotic slivers of hope that tried to creep in. “I have helped,” she answered. “I came to check on you. I brought you food. I have been a friend. You must find your own way out of the tangle you created.”
“You are choosing the prince then?” he asked in a hard voice.
Cecelia felt an almost irresistible desire to throttle him. “Why do people ask me this? Does no one understand that your ridiculous posturing had nothing to do with me? I did not ask you to jostle each other like vulgar children. Or to bash each other with swords.”
“Foils,” he said.
Her hands rose of their own accord, crooked into claws. She struggled with the impulse and won, lowering them again. “This is not a case of me choosing anything,” she said through clenched teeth. “Except that right now I am choosing to go.”
“Will you come to visit again?”
“Do you ever listen to me, James? Even the least little bit?”
“If I apologize?”
She blinked. He never apologized.
“And admit you are right,” he added in a cajoling tone.
“Let us see if you can,” answered Cecelia too curious to resist.
“I…” He looked around as if an apology might be lurking in a corner of the kitchen. He seemed to notice the jet of steam for the first time and moved the kettle off the fire. “I am sorry.”
“For?”
“Making you angry.”
This was so typical of him. “And for not persuading me to do as you wish.”
“Well, of course that.” He smiled. Even in his current disreputable state, the smile was charming.
Cecelia ignored it. “And I am right that…”
His perplexed expression was almost comical. Or it would have been if Cecelia had not allowed herself a foolish instant of optimism. She abandoned it. “You can’t think of anything, can you?”
“What if I simply say that you are right about everything?”
“And so, admitting this, you will go back to your rooms and stop behaving like a spoilt child?”
He frowned, shook his head.
She sighed, wondering why she kept on, and turned toward the door.
“Cecelia.”
She stopped. It was so difficult to resist the appeal in that voice. Even when she knew it was the only sensible course of action. She couldn’t quite abandon him. “The poor family in the stables would probably do errands for you if you paid them,” she said.
“There are servants here?”
“Well, I don’t think they’ve ever been servants. They are more…opportunists.”
“In the stables?”
“Yes.”
“Living there without leave? Like gypsies?”
Cecelia turned to stare at him. She looked around the abandoned room, and then back at him.
“Ah.” He shrugged, acknowledging the similarity. “But you think they would be willing to do tasks for money?”
“Just about anything, I would imagine.” She considered the family’s plight. “They certainly need it.” Perhaps James could aid them while helping himself.
“I have very little money with me.” He looked mournful.
“Oh, James.” She took all the funds from her reticule and put them onto the kitchen table.
“Splendid. If you come back, I will be in better trim.”
“I shall not come back.”
“I’ve found some very interesting objects in the muddle here. I’m setting to work, you see.”
He knew how to lure her. But she would not be enticed. She couldn’t afford to be. She’d let James coax her into supporting his schemes too many times. And this time was different. She couldn’t wager her life’s happiness on his caprices. No matter how tempting he still managed to be.
Cecelia reached home without encountering anyone she knew, but Aunt Valeria emerged from the drawing room as she was passing up the stairs. “I thought you had given away that old gown,” she said.
Tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet, Cecelia once again sighed over her aunt’s penchant for noticing things just when you wanted her to be oblivious. It was some sort of annoying instinct, she decided. Her aunt missed all manner of obvious cues, just not the ones you wished her to.
“You said it was hopelessly outmoded,” Aunt Valeria added. “You can’t have been making morning calls in it?”
“I had an errand,” Cecelia replied.
“Alone, carrying off a basket, which now appears to be missing.”
An infuriating instinct, Cecelia decided, and a sharp eye when she exerted herself. She tried to control her temper. “You don’t care in the least about a basket,” she pointed out.
Her aunt acknowledged the truth of this with a gesture. “Cook was complaining that the kitchen maid had lost it.”
“I’ll speak to her.” Cecelia started to walk on
to her bedchamber.
“Lady Wilton has written to me about you,” said her aunt. “She seems to think I should do something about your marital prospects.”
“It’s too bad you can’t pretend to be illiterate as well as deaf,” said Cecelia.
This earned her a frown.
“I beg your pardon. That was impolite.”
“It was.” Aunt Valeria examined her. “You are out of sorts.”
Cecelia could not deny it.
“That isn’t like you.”
“No, I’m always good humored and gracious and accommodating, aren’t I?” And where had it gotten her?
Her aunt startled her by laughing. “You have been. In the main. If you are giving that up, I congratulate you.”
Cecelia gazed into her aunt’s clear blue eyes. She meant it. She was encouraging Cecelia to be as acerbic as she pleased. Cecelia had to smile at her. “Please don’t do anything about my marital prospects.”
“Of course not. You must know I have no such intention.”
She did. One could trust Aunt Valeria not to interfere in any matter that was not related to bees. Cecelia gave her a nod of thanks and went on up the stairs.
But she did not escape to her bedchamber unscathed. She found her father turning away from its door, a petulant expression on his round face.
“Oh there you are,” he said, as if she usually lurked up here in the daytime. Cecelia noticed that he had an ink-stained wad of papers in his hand and immediately knew what he would say next. “I brought this to be copied out.”
He extended the pages. No one but Cecelia could read his scrawled handwriting or decipher the maze of circled text, arrows, and emphatic cross-outs he created when penning an essay.
“Tomorrow would be sufficient,” he added. He shook the paper a little.
He never asked if she was busy or when it might be convenient for her to produce a fair copy of his work. In Papa’s mind, she was at his disposal. It sometimes seemed to Cecelia that he didn’t quite see her until he had need of her services. She had tried to discuss this with him, but the incisive brain that grappled with the intricacies of German philosophy seemed incapable of absorbing her concerns. He really did not appear to understand what she meant. Just doing his copying had come to seem simpler. She took the pages from his hand.
“Splendid,” said her father. He turned and walked away, his attention already elsewhere. Certainly not on any expression of gratitude.
“Splendid,” repeated Cecelia in quite a different tone and went to remove her bonnet.
Nine
The back door closed behind Cecelia with a decided snap. James sat for a while in the dingy kitchen, which suddenly felt emptier than it had yesterday. Seeing Cecelia had been a comfort, he realized. She’d always been that, even when they disagreed. Particularly when they disagreed—somehow. Mysteriously. He hadn’t quite seen it before. Not the depth of it. He looked at the basket she’d brought. That apple had tasted ambrosial and like…kindness. Even affection?
He’d made her angry today. No doubt about that. He hadn’t meant to blame her for his situation. Sometimes he said things that sounded right at the time and wrong later, when he was alone and heard their echo. This was one of those times. His apology hadn’t come out right either. The humor had fallen woefully flat. And now she was gone.
He rose and made the tea. It didn’t taste quite right, and there was no milk. But it was better than none. Why hadn’t he thought of it himself? He had it with another scone. Proper food was so much more satisfying than the stuff he’d been eating.
Surely Cecelia would visit him again? She was curious as a cat. She wouldn’t be able to resist. This was assuming he was actually going to stay in Uncle Percival’s wretched house. James looked around the empty kitchen, the antithesis of the cozy, bustling, aromatic place it should be.
He thought of going home, ordering Hobbs to fill a bath, sharpen his razor, lay out fresh clothing. The idea was tempting. Hobbs, at least, wouldn’t criticize. He rarely said much of anything. He would do as he was told, and James would soon look like himself again.
And then what? He would have to face society as the man who’d lost control and behaved dishonorably. There would be whispers and impertinent questions, and of course Prince Karl’s smug triumph. There was no doubt that man would gloat. He seemed to have a distinct talent for it.
James could brush through the gossip. Now that some time had passed, he could see the possibility. It wasn’t as if he’d never made a mistake. His reputation would withstand the errant punch. Eventually. He could turn the whispers back on themselves. A few hotheads would even admire him for exploding. After a time—tedious and annoying—all would go back as it had been.
But the odd thing was, he wasn’t sure he wanted that.
James looked around the ill-kept kitchen again. Cluttered, forlorn. And yet this ruined household was part of his new responsibilities as duke. There were others as well. Tasks more important than any he’d been required to do before. His established routine began to look stale, a bit small, from this new vantage point. Changes were called for. But what kind? And how?
He’d proposed to Cecelia; she’d refused him. James felt a stab of resentment and regret at the memory. She ought to have taken him. Each time he thought of it, the idea made more sense and held more attractions.
He gazed at the basket she’d brought, the money she’d left on the table. He’d counted on Cecelia so many times. He’d turned to her, trusted in her. Could she say the same of him? He had a sinking feeling that the answer was no. Worse, he hadn’t cared about the disparity. Not until he was about to lose her to some fool of a prince.
Every sentiment rose up in James to protest this. His competitive streak might be uppermost, but other less familiar urges jostled behind it. That could not be! He had to get her away from that smug blusterer. He would return to his rooms, repair the ravages to his appearance, and find her. He would convince her!
In the midst of a crowd of yammering gossips and inconvenient friends, another part of him noted. He remembered how impossible it was to see her alone now. And with his recent behavior, it would be even worse. Society would be wild to corner him, question him, twit him about his loss of control. Cecelia would be pulled even further away.
His gaze caught on the basket once again. In this house, there were no distractions. Just the two of them, face-to-face. They would not be stared at and interrupted. Most importantly, there was no Prince Karl to stick his nose in where he was so emphatically not wanted. James would have time to find the right words, to show her…whatever it was that she needed to see.
James nodded. He had no doubt he could lure her back. His uncle Percival’s epic level of untidiness would eat at Cecelia Vainsmede, offending all her instincts. Knowing he was here, dealing with the chaos, she would return, and he would win her over. He felt a smile spread over his face at the idea. The conquest of Cecelia offered so many delectable possibilities. They filled his mind and roused his body.
But none of that could happen while he was living in squalor. James looked down at his dust-smudged hands, pushed the teacup away, and stood. Something had to be done about that. And she had given him a clue.
James went out the back door and across the cobbled yard behind the house. He entered the stables without knocking. They were his, after all. The creak of the hinges set off a flurry of motion in one of the loose boxes. Four figures leapt up from a pile of musty hay and faced him, at bay in the dim light.
The tallest, a woman, pushed three children behind her. Very thin, dressed in layers of ragged clothing, she was visibly trembling. The smallest child whimpered. James had intimidated people in his time, but he had never knowingly terrified anyone. It was an unpleasant sensation. “Hello,” he said. “I am Tereford.” Immediately he wondered if his name would mean anything to them.
Apparen
tly it did. “We didn’t mean no harm, milord,” said the woman. Her voice shook. “It was just so cold in the night, and we didn’t have nowhere…” She broke off, swallowed. “If we could stay one more day. Then we’ll move on.” The tallest child, a boy, stepped up beside her, his expression belligerent.
“Where would you go?” James asked. He’d never had dealings with people in their situation. One passed them in the street now and then, dropped a coin, and thought no more about it.
The woman slumped. Clearly she had no answer. She looked beaten.
“These stables was empty,” said the boy. “Nobody using them. Why shouldn’t we get out of the rain? No harm done, eh?”
“Ned,” said the woman.
“That is your name?” James asked. “Ned what?”
“Ned Gardener.”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.” At a glare from his mother, the boy added, “Sir. Milord.”
James would have thought him younger from his meager frame. All three children had hollow cheeks and wrists that showed every bone. That wasn’t right. “And so you are Mrs. Gardener?” he asked the woman.
“Yes, milord.” She stood straighter. “I was married in a church and all.” As if she knew more questions would come, she added, “My husband died in an…accident. I was taking in laundry, but it weren’t enough to pay for our lodgings. So we was turned out.”
“’Cause that doxy would give her more,” said Ned.
“Ned!”
“Well, she would,” the boy mumbled.
“Will he send us to the workhouse?” whispered one of the children behind his mother. She made it sound like the pits of hell.
“We ain’t going there,” declared her mother. “I’ll find someplace. Never you mind.” She sounded deeply frightened and yet stalwart. James had to admire such determination against the odds.
He’d never hired a staff. Hobbs had come to him without effort, on a friend’s recommendation. He’d employed no other servants. This forlorn family was hardly suitable for a duke’s household. But his household was not exactly ducal at this point, was it? Rather the definition of not in fact. Perhaps this woman was sent by Providence? On both sides of the transaction? Coincidence at least, he acknowledged. To be considered surely? “Can you cook?” he asked her.