by Carrie Lomax
“It takes you more courage to step out your front door each day than it takes most people to cross an ocean, Miriam.” Richard had to push the next words out past the hard lump in his throat. “You are worth protecting. I would be honored to be your protector.”
One of the lessons Richard had scoffed at whilst in Cambridge was that words had power. He felt their ability to manifest change as heavy, locked plates of hardened emotions shifted and cracked in his chest. Tears burned the insides of his eyelids when he blinked. For a horrifying moment Miriam’s wondering face blurred.
He’d spoken truth.
“Northcote.”
If Satan himself had called his name Richard would not have been surprised to turn and find his devil form over his shoulder. Instead, it was Livingston Walsh.
“My daughter needs to rest.” He jerked his head to the door.
“Of course.” Richard bowed to Miriam, belatedly realizing that Mrs. Kent had loosened her dress. The sight of her bodice sagging low enough to show the tops of her breasts seared into his memory instantaneously. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Miriam. Mrs. Kent.” He bowed again and followed Livingston down the stairway into the foyer. Livingston gestured for him to follow him outside. The horses and their driver sat in the street, streaked with dust. He must get back.
“I don’t care how it happened. You couldn’t even keep my daughter safe for a simple ride. You’ll go home and write her a letter. Praise her eyes, her fine teeth, her intelligence. Hell, tell Miriam her taste in gowns is nice, I don’t care. Say a few kind words to let her down easy.” He inhaled like Hades about to blow upon his forge. “If I ever see you darken this doorstep again, I’ll kill you. Just as surely as you’d kill her if you came near again. Understand?”
“Sir.” Richard cast a glance at the impatient driver, less in agreement than to stave off banishment. “I cannot agree to that.”
There was a child who depended upon him seeing this through. More compelling, there was a woman who had received her first kiss from his lips whom Richard would rather tear his own arm off than disappoint.
“Then I’ll shoot you,” Walsh replied with menace. He shifted his weight to reveal a large pistol in the waistband of his trousers.
“Right, then,” Richard said. It wasn’t the first time someone had threatened to shoot him, but it was the first time he’d believed the threat. There was nothing for him to do but retreat and reconsider his next move.
When he arrived home, Richard discovered that Lizzie had helped herself to the chicken pie he’d saved for supper. He found her eating the last slice with her legs draped over the arms of a wood-backed chair, artfully placed to catch the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows at the best possible angle. His newspapers were as he’d left them, stacked beneath his bedside table, undisturbed. Whatever she’d been up to, Richard couldn’t discern it.
“The horse and carriage are outside,” he declared, spent and wishing her gone.
“So, I gathered.” She bit into an apple and chewed loudly. “You’ve received a letter from your brother. He wants you to come home to England.”
“How do you…” Richard stopped. Lizzie’s skirts rustled as she stood up, revealing a creamy paper addressed to him. She had read the entire thing. Why should he be astonished at this invasion of his privacy?
“It arrived while you were out with Miriam. Progress, my love?” Lizzie tossed the letter at his chest as she passed by. Richard scrambled to catch it.
“How dare you—” he seethed, but there was no point in finishing the thought. Lizzie shrugged.
“For a man I had planned to leave my husband for, you are not especially concerned with for your family’s future.” She rubbed her belly. Was it a fraction rounder? Richard couldn’t decide. White-hot fury coursed through him.
“You’re the only one who ever planned that, Lizzie. I never even wanted you.” The truth slipped out so easily that it astonished Richard. Lizzie stopped short.
“Miriam only wants you because I had you first. She was always jealous of me at school.”
Richard laughed. “Miriam pities you.”
Lizzie’s eyes narrowed into dangerous points. “Get on with marrying her, Lord Northcote. Get access to Miriam’s stock funds. I shall go with you to England. You may introduce me as your wife. We can start over, afresh. No one will know I’m a bigamist. Not if we don’t tell them.”
Sick helplessness doused his fury in an instant. “No, I won’t lie, Lizzie. My mind hasn’t changed. I don’t love you. I never did. I don’t want you. I promised to take responsibility for the child. If there is one.”
Lizzie slapped him. His cheek stung with the force. “How dare you question me,” she spat. He closed his eyes as she stomped to the door and slammed it behind her, just as he’d done scarcely two hours ago. What a lovely relationship they had. Their poor child. What a situation he or she would be born into.
Alone, Richard picked up the letter and began to read. The fragile bloom of hope that Lizzie had crushed with her boot heel moments before sprang to life, renewed. Optimism swelled his heart until he thought it would burst.
Richard, it began without preamble.
After much reflection I have found much to regret in my own actions leading up to our father’s death. I find I forgive your past actions and regret sending you away. I wish to make a fresh start with you. As a brother. In a gesture of conciliation, I have petitioned the Crown to bestow a minor title and expand the lands upon which your misbegotten country cottage is located. It was Father’s dying wish. Come home and claim your birthright.
Yours,
Lord Edward Northcote, Earl of Briarcliff
Chapter 12
Miriam had never seen her father in such fury. She hoped never to see him so again.
“Blasted shit-for-brains nobleman taking my daughter for a carriage ride on a hot day on a dusty road!” Livingston roared. “With the top down!”
“Language,” Mrs. Kent reminded him in a singsong voice.
“Stuff your politeness, Fran. Where were you when my daughter was choking to death? What do I pay you for if not to guard her health?”
“We were overtaken by a group of fast horses, Father. No one could have predicted they would kick up so much dust. And if you hadn’t been telling me how foolish I am to think a man might enjoy my company for the duration of an afternoon perhaps I would have spoken up instead of feeling so anxious to impress him!” Had she been able to get out of bed Miriam might have stomped her foot in a self-indulgent show of frustration. As it was, all she could do was cough violently until the wheeze returned to her breath. This sent Mrs. Kent into a flurry of action.
“Hold her, Livingston,” Mrs. Kent demanded. Livingston gently cupped Miriam’s chin and pressed her mouth open as Mrs. Kent forced a copper funnel between her teeth.
“No!” Miriam tried to cry out, but her mouth was too full of metal. The deep black liquid that past for medicine they choked her on its way down.
“Now the belladonna. Again. It only works if the water is hot.” Mrs. Kent poured hot water from the kettle over a bowl and bent Miriam’s head over the vessel. Miriam coughed and inhaled deeply. A towel descended around her head, trapping the fumes that eased the vise in her throat. Before long she could breathe again though her throat ached from so much coughing.
Crisis averted, Livingston and Mrs. Kent relaxed fractionally. Miriam removed the towel and lay back against the pillows.
“I forbid you to see him again,” Livingston declared. His boots tapped up and down the floorboards in a restless pattern of barely restrained revenge. “Northcote cannot be trusted to protect you. He’s proven that much.”
“Father, you cannot forbid me anything. I am of age, remember?” Right now, Miriam felt far older than her twenty-three years. Each attack left her feeling as if time was running out. If she didn’t seize this opportunity, she might never have another to experience life, love, and adventure. Yet every time she dare
d set foot out of place her physical limitations dictated her immediate coddling. “Richard didn’t do it on purpose. He hasn’t learned the specifics of how to keep me from enduring an attack. I don’t know if we have learned the specifics with any precision, and we’ve been managing my condition since I was a child. Give him a little time.”
“I warned the careless bastard that if he hurt you in any way, he would no longer be welcome in my house.”
“Livingston. Stop.” Mrs. Kent interjected. “It wasn’t Northcote’s fault.”
Livingston Walsh’s eyes turned as dark as coal. Mrs. Kent held his gaze as steady as a rock beneath the pounding waves of the sea. Every muscle in his neck stood out as his fury burned and banked.
“Father please.” Miriam begged hoarsely.
“Not his fault, my ass,” her father grumbled. “I suppose this day was inevitable. The women of the house colluding against me.” Like a rooster settling ruffled feathers, her father strode to the window and stared out into the street.
Mrs. Kent tried and failed to stifle a smile. The corners of her lips curved up to reveal a dimple at either side of her thin cheeks. Miriam smiled wanly in thanks. It had been her, Livingston, and Mrs. Kent ever since she’d been twelve. Before that there had been a succession of nurses. Not one had been able to tolerate Livingston’s outbursts for longer than a few months. Her father was not an easy man, but he had a good heart. She saw the same traits in Richard.
“You’ll do what you want anyway,” Livingston complained. “Same as her mother did by marrying me. You should know your man has been down in the street awaiting a glimpse of you all afternoon. If Mrs. Kent wishes to convey to Northcote that Miriam has recovered from the attack, I expect the man would be most relieved.”
Hope swelled in Miriam’s breast until her lungs felt tight again. “Let me see him,” she gasped.
“No. You are to lie back and take your rest. I shall inform Lord Northcote.” Mrs. Kent insisted. Her lighter footsteps followed Livingstons unmistakable heavy steps retreating. Miriam rushed to the window. A moment later, Mrs. Kent’s parasol and form crossed the street and came into view. Richard had come dressed in his best suit with a beaver hat that concealed his face. His gloved hands worried the edge of his jacket. Miriam traced the windowpane with one fingertip. He and Mrs. Kent engaged in a short conversation, during which Richard’s head bobbed twice as if an agreement. Had Mrs. Kent repeated her father’s warning? Miriam’s heart sank.
Mrs. Kent turned away abruptly. Richard glanced up at her window. Miriam waved, gently at first done with increasing fervor as she realized he could not see her. Whether for the glare on the window or his attention diverted to the wrong window—the house did have many more than it needed—a sense of foreboding overtook her. This couldn’t be the last time she saw him.
“Don’t let my asthma ruin this,” she whispered. “I love you.”
Alone, Miriam tried the words on for size. She whispered it again against the windowpane. Her breath could not fog the glass on a warm day, but she traced the letters with her fingertip anyway. I. Love. You.
They felt childish, like scrolling unfamiliar letters on a slate with chalk.
They felt womanly, as though she had been ushered into a secret world she wasn’t sure she yet understood.
Most of all, they felt right, and that was enough.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Mrs. Kent glowered from her doorway.
Caught in the act of disobeying her nurse’s orders, Miriam froze. “I wanted to see him.”
Slowly she unfolded her knees from the divan beneath the window. On her feet she felt lightheaded, though whether that was the result of the medicine she had ingested or the abrupt change of altitude, or the head-spinning, exhilarating knowledge of her heart’s true desire, Miriam couldn’t say. Meekly she collapsed into her soft mattress of horsehair and wire and let her nurse tuck the sheets around her legs.
“His lordship asked me to give you this.” Mrs. Kent produced a small ivory square of paper from her pocket. Miriam tore into it with the eagerness of a child at Christmas.
Dear Miriam,
I cannot participate in this façade moment longer. My feelings for you are too strong to withstand the loss of your gentle presence on this earth. I am deeply ashamed for having put your life at risk this afternoon. I beg your forgiveness and wish you a full recovery. Know that you shall always hold a very special place in my heart. I cannot risk your health for my own pleasure.
Devotedly yours,
Richard Northcote
“No,” Miriam whispered. Pain stabbed through her like a thousand knives. She would rather endure a hundred asthma attacks than lose him.
“I needn’t read the contents to know what it says. His lordship told me as much. He adores you,” Mrs. Kent said sympathetically. “Enough to leave you alone. You ought to be grateful.”
“I’m not,” Miriam gasped. Was there any better proof that Richard loved her, too, than his willingness to leave her? Yet, she did not want this. “Please. I need to be alone right now.”
“I am here for you,” Mrs. Kent replied, hesitating at the doorway to her bedroom.
“I am asking you not to be. Please. Go.”
The moment the door clicked shut, hot tears leaked out her eyes and onto Miriam’s cheeks. One way or another, she would show Richard that she was strong enough to love him in every way.
“Watch your foot!”
Howard’s warning came not a moment too soon. Richard leapt backward and narrowly avoided having his foot crushed by the box rolling down the gangplank. Howard, with his peculiar genius, had devised a diabolical contraption. It was a length of rods on pins suspended between two planks. Lighter crates could be half-rolled, half-pushed down the platform while heavier items were lifted with hooks and raw muscles. In this fashion they could cut the time it took to unload a ship by one-third.
This box, however, was too heavy for the roller plank treatment. Moreover, its lid was loosely secured. The entire crate appeared rickety. At this point in the afternoon, Richard was too hot and too tired to care about poor manufacturing. But the possibility of losing his toes made him lose his temper instead.
“Damned cargo,” he cursed, and kicked the box hard to move it the last foot onto the safety of the pier. The lid jostled loose. In the three-inch gap, something moved.
Not something. Someone. Several someones. A shine of dark skin. The whites of terrified eyes stared back at him.
“What…” Richard trailed off.
“Secure that box,” snapped Howard. When Richard didn’t move, he grabbed a mallet and slammed the crate back together. “Help me move this.”
Knowing what the box contained, Richard wordlessly helped his friend shove the heavy crate up the dock and onto a cart to be moved to the warehouse. It sat alone and accusatory on the cart. When they were done moving it, Howard cast a baleful glare at Richard.
“We’ll talk later,” Howard grunted, and stomped away.
Richard had been appalled to discover that slavery was still practiced, even heartily endorsed, in his adopted country. Here in New York slavery was illegal. The African men and women he encountered going about their business were, to the best of Richard’s knowledge, free. As there was little he could do about America’s cruel laws, he generally tried to avoid thinking about the subject. Yet it had just stared him in the face, three pairs of frightened eyes peeping at him.
There was no avoiding it now.
The children were silent in their box in the hot sun. Richard decided to take a break and sat on the ledge of the wagon waiting to take away its precious cargo. He brought with him a canteen of cool water. Now that he was closer to the box, he could smell the scent of unwashed bodies.
“I’m going to leave this here,” Richard said to no one in particular.
“This side,” someone whispered. A loose board flipped open. Casually Richard reached behind him and set his drink next to it. The child’s hand emerged, s
natched the canvas handle and tugged it into the crate.
What in the hell was Howard up to?
Momentarily, the board jostled again. The tin sat gleaming in the hot afternoon sun. Only its light emptiness proved there were children in the crate behind him. Richard leapt off the back of the cart as if nothing had happened.
Richard rejoined the warehouse crew. Though his shoulders ached, he put his back into the business of unloading the rest of the ship. The more time he spent here at the warehouse, the less opportunity Lizzie had to waylay him. When he went to check on the children in the crate, it was gone. Disappointed, Richard returned to his work, only to discover a scuffle had broken out where the dockyard led into the street.
“This is no place for women,” a man shouted grumpily. Two slender, feminine outlines, one tall and garbed in pale fawn with blue trim, the other of middling height and clad in black, stood firm.
“Our business will be brief. We want to see Lord Northcote.”
The hair on Richards neck and arms rose like antennae. It couldn’t be. Miriam would never come here. He’d done the right thing in acceding to Livingston’s wishes. Though it made Richard’s black heart shrivel into a hard knot of despair, the knowledge that he acted in her best interests instead of his own—for once—soothed the ache of losing her.
The crowd parted. Howard waved him over. Reluctant, Richard strode to his side. His gaze never wavered from Miriam’s face. When she glanced up it was like an arrow pierced him. Shy sadness mixed with determined shown in her delicate beautiful features.
“Miss Walsh,” he acknowledged, his voice hoarse because he had given away his water. “Mrs. Kent.”
Richard glanced down. Hours ago, he had removed his shirt, as some of the dock hands had done. Now, he stared self-consciously at his naked torso. Though manual labor had carved away the paunch his drinking had formed around his midsection, Richard was keenly aware of Miriam’s appreciative inspection. A high blush stained Miriam’s cheek. Her gaze flickered to him and away to the ceiling, then back again. Embarrassment flooded Richard. He smelled. His skin was crusted with salt. The trousers at his waist where ten times better quality than any other dockhand’s but no one would know it for the quantity of dirt encrusted on them.