“Your widow cousin is not going to appreciate that, but maybe your hold on her affections will allow her to forgive you.”
Theo still had a hold on him. The frightened woman in his arms, the one who had drawn close to him, so much so he’d heard her fevered heart—that was the girl he remembered, the one he’d pledged to marry. Could he forgive her, if the truth was that she went to Cecil even before the false announcement of Ewan’s death, that she wasn’t faithful, not even a month? “I want to be done with her, Jasper, but I’m not.”
“You’re thinking of forgiving her? What about Father? He felt guilty for sending you to war. The loss of you ruined the sentiment that your mother had for him.”
For a moment, maybe a half second, Ewan felt empathy for the earl, for his mother didn’t seem to want to return to Grandbole. He rubbed at his face. “You’ve always seen a side of him I couldn’t, but what if he drove off the woman I was engaged to toward Cecil? What if he made her life so horrible that she needed help? Whom would she seek? She has no family, not even a father’s name. Would she have turned to a kind stranger? Could that be how Cousin Cecil caught her?”
Jamming his fists into his coat pocket, Jasper shrugged. “Sounds like something to find out, but you’re a Fitzwilliam, Ewan, not just your mother’s son. Find Father in the library. Ask him what he did to the woman who is now our enemy. Then forgive him.”
Forgiveness? That wasn’t a Fitzwilliam trait. Maybe if he had more of the stuff from his mother’s side, that good spirit that everyone claimed Cecil had, then maybe it was possible. “I don’t know about either. How does one forgive a hole bigger than his footfalls?”
His brother shrugged. “When you find the answer, let me know. Go clean up for your Town meeting, but see Father before you do.”
Ewan walked slowly toward his room. Maybe his raging thoughts would catch him. He’d hear the earl out, maybe Theo, too, but in his heart, he knew neither would tell him anything he wanted to hear. That’s why he liked writing plays. He could make his characters say the best things and know when they lied. An impossible task with either Lord Crisdon or Theo.
Chapter Nine
Trust & Thunder
Ewan shuffled with slow, small steps down the long hall, as if he’d been summoned by his commander. Being summoned by the earl was almost as bad.
A low grumble sounded. A storm brewed and filtered in through the window. It made the air feel moist. The wet heat of the air reminded him of sultry Jamaica. He’d recovered enough to keep his enlistment and journey to the other side of the world. He’d done well. The playwright soldier had turned into a useful man. Would the earl ever see him as such?
With a breath and a prayer for peace, Ewan popped his head in the library. Unfortunately, Lord Crisdon was there.
“Fitzwilliam,” has father said and bounced up from his desk. With a wave of his knurled fingers, he ushered Ewan inside. “Been waiting for you…Son.”
Though the voice sounded pleasant, Ewan knew better. He stood at attention and waited for review.
The man didn’t move, and his lips went flat. Disapproval surely radiated. He moved to the patio. “Come, I have tea and biscuits waiting.”
Hesitating for a moment, Ewan took another breath and pushed forward. “Thank you, but no. I’m journeying into Town shortly.”
His father nodded and took a seat at the table.
A luncheon for two? “Sir, I see you are waiting for someone. I’ll leave you to your privacy.”
“This is for you…Son.”
Ewan’s gut knotted three times over, a silent prayer to the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit—anything to protect him from the fresh hell awaiting from the earl.
“Please sit.”
Unable to think of a plausible excuse, such as Grandbole in flames, he puffed his scarred chest to the maximum. That way he’d still have something inside when his father’s dressing down made it impossible to breathe. “I’ll stand.”
The earl stretched in his chair. His stylish coat and bottle-green waistcoat floated about his thin frame like kingly robes. With his nose lowered, he spoke over his glasses. “Have you solved our problem? Have you convinced the widow to lease the water rights?”
Ewan leaned against the balcony. “Nice day, Father. The weather seems to be turning. It may storm tonight.”
“You have seen her?”
Deciding that looking down upon the man wasn’t working, Ewan took a seat. “Yes, I’ve seen Mother.”
“Not that her. The widow Cecil. Have you reasoned with her? Do we have a deal?”
Ewan chose a very brown and crispy biscuit from the platter and popped it onto his plate. “I did one better. I threatened her. I told her I’d ruin her if she didn’t reconsider.”
His father’s eye grew large, the white part drowning out the beady blue dot one would call an iris. “Son, I didn’t think you had that in you.”
A smile crept over the man’s typically annoyed features and a part of Ewan hated to destroy it, since signs of approval were rare. “Don’t get too pleased. That only gained a slap, and it may have pushed other things into being. Do you know a Mr. Lester?”
The earl didn’t blink, but his biscuit crumbled in his fingers. “Yes. Cecil’s aggressive steward. He’s a conniving devil.”
“Well, he intends to marry Mrs. Cecil.”
His father turned all shades of a rainbow. “We can’t let that happen. He’ll ruin us for sure. Cecil and his mistress-wife have run things equitably until now. Lester must be influencing her. He must be the reason for the change. If he marries her, he’ll control her. You must do something.”
Chewing his treat that he’d amply spread with cream, he tried not to laugh at his father’s belief that it was in Ewan’s power to change Theo’s mind. Until today, they hadn’t been exactly civil. “What do you think I should do? How am I to stop her? She doesn’t work for us. Maybe you’ve forgotten this.”
The earl grabbed his hand. “You’re clever. You can have anything you want. You have to put your mind to it.”
“Like gaining your approval over my choice in professions. Yes, I seemed to have done well with that these past six years.”
The man drew back and through gritted teeth, he said. “Ewan Fitzwilliam, you wanted her once. Go have her now. Take her and the land that would’ve been yours.”
His father had told him what to do and where to go many times, most hadn’t been pleasant, but never this. Ewan brushed a handkerchief to his mouth. “Not that I want or need to have your blessings to go seduce the widow, but I need clarity. You are giving me permission to court her, to bed, or even marry her? Am I correct?”
“You and the wench gave a good show six years ago about being in love. You’ve done your military service, my only requirement. Go take her, with my blessing.”
Yes, Lord Crisdon had lost his mind. Fear over his money drying up with the water rights had pushed him to the edge of insanity. “You’ve been in the sun too long, old man. You should go inside and rest.”
“You’ve done what I required, now pick up where you left off. And wear some of the fine jackets and dressings I bought. You’ll have to beat Lester to catch her eye.”
“I thank you, but I’ll borrow a room for now. I have my own things.” He wanted to shove the words, “I’m my own man” down his father’s throat, but this might be his father’s only way of showing kindness.
Ewan softened his tone. “You are giving me your blessings to attach to Cecil’s widow. We must be in serious trouble.”
“Lester will be the death of the Crisdon Farms. If sacrificing you to the Blackamoor is the answer, I’ll pay that price.”
Well, that wasn’t a compliment, yet being reminded how expendable he was to his father’s plans was normal. Ewan stood up and folded his hands behind his back. “Six years is a long time. I’m not sure what I…”
The blank look in his father’s eyes, the thinning of his lips to a pale line, told Ewan that no logic would sw
ay him. “I’ll consider your thoughts, but tell me, does Mrs. Cecil have a right to hate us, you?”
His father looked out toward the fields as he jammed a biscuit into his mouth. “Yes” came out with crumbs.
“Why?”
“I was very cruel to her. I had no sympathy for her when I thought you dead. Her cart vanished, and I banished her from working our fields. I wanted her gone.”
His father’s tone held steady as he recited how he had given a flower seller a death sentence. Getting to town on foot was almost impossible and a guarantee to be robbed or assaulted. And what would you bring to Town? Twigs? She couldn’t pick the fields. “So you made her life difficult.”
“Yes. Your loss made things unbearable. Your mother blamed me, but your wench did us all one better. She went after Cecil and now she’s taking her revenge.”
Ewan worked the knots in the back of his neck, the new ones that the truth imparted. The villain of his life was not a Circe. Theo was a woman, grieving her lost fiancé and made destitute by his vengeful father. “She has every right to starve our fields as you did her.”
His father grimaced and dipped his chin. “But I’ve made up for that in my offers, double market price.”
“She wants twenty times.”
Lord Crisdon snorted his tea. “No. That’s outrageous. You must stop her. Go down to Tradenwood and convince her to relent.”
“I know you prefer to snap your fingers and make problems and flower sellers disappear, but that’s not going to happen. Do you think it easy to fix six-year-old damage? You ruined things.”
The earl looked up with eyes that showed no remorse. “I know. Your mother will never forgive me. Even after learning you lived, she refused to come back to Grandbole. Her Tradenwood is lost to her. I’ve ruined this place for her.”
“I’m sorry for you, Father. I saw Mother. She said to tell you she agrees with you.”
Lord Crisdon’s brows raised, but he said nothing.
Looking at his freshly polished slippers, Ewan stepped toward the railing. “Do what you can. Love is too much to let go of without a fight. Or so I am told.”
Again, the man nodded in silence, as if he couldn’t fathom what Ewan said or couldn’t talk to him about things held close to his heart. Either scenario did nothing to fill the void in Ewan’s chest. “I’m going to Town. I’m meeting with a theater owner. I’m hoping he’ll want to produce my play.
“Sit, Son. Tell me about it… I want to hear about this passion that drives you. I’d like to help.”
Like one of the characters in his play, Ewan began to recite generic lines about his play, the same ones he’d use to sway Mr. Brown the theater manager. His father nodded and smiled his crocodile smile. But in Ewan’s core, he knew Lord Crisdon’s actions were pretend. The earl needed his spare to win the rich widow. Money trumped race. Money made the man feign interest in his second son.
“Very good, Son. Your mother is proud of such creativity, too.”
Ewan let his lips form an upside-down frown. He could pretend, too, and took his time relishing in the false praise, pretending each word, each labored syllable of his father’s, carried enough heft to outweigh old disappointments.
Thunder crackled in the distance. He lifted his gaze to trace the lightning. He missed where it hit but became entranced by one of Tradenwood’s chimneys, remembering Theo’s passion.
His father moved from his chair and headed to the library doors. “Son, you seem lost in your words. Maybe you should rest and think about swaying Mrs. Cecil to our cause. Family is most important.”
The man left and Ewan returned his gaze to Tradenwood’s chimney. The sturdy dark brick offered puffs of white, seemed like it reached for something. Theo should reach for something. For a moment, Ewan wanted to be the person she reached for, even if it was merely for friendship. Maybe that would make up for his father’s evil actions. Then they could see whether she’d be reasonable with the lease.
As a peace offering, he would change the name of his Circe without her signing anything. Flora sounded better, yes Flora the Flower Seller sounded much better. Would that be enough for her to trust him as she had years ago in a thunderstorm?
Lightning crackled above and he slapped the rail. Reach for me, Theo.
“Sir, the gig is pulled around and ready to go.”
A groom had poked his head through the threshold. “Lord Hartwell wants you to leave early to beat the storm.”
“Thank you.” Donning his top hat and gloves, he climbed onto the driver’s seat and took the reins—pondering if Theo would ever trust a ghost, a Fitzwilliam ghost, one who came to her, still doing his father’s bidding.
…
Theodosia adjusted her gloves, creamy satin wonders with silver threads that shimmered in the dim light of her carriage. Sliding the cuff up and down, she tried to ignore each rumble of thunder. The rain had stopped before she could use it as an excuse to beg off. And the clouds had disappeared in the dusk. She shouldn’t be nervous. This night would be over quickly, her friends would be happy, and Theodosia could return home to Philip.
The fear of Lester snatching up her boy tonight diminished. He wouldn’t come harass her for a couple days, not after giving her a fright and a warning to think about. But he’d be unstoppable the minute he suspected her of plotting against him, and once he discovered that Philip was becoming deaf, he’d use his illness to make her do anything. She quivered. For a moment, she didn’t want to be brave. She wanted to sink into the darkness of the carriage and hide. Against her will, her thoughts turned to Ewan. She’d heard the concern in his voice, felt the comfort of his arms, and had melted from the heat of his bluer-than-blue eyes.
He’d held her as if he cared. He’d pledged to protect her, as if she were special to him. That’s how it had been so long ago, him seeming to care for her, and he had pushed her to new experiences, to depend upon him, to dream with him. She had wanted to elope and be his. Those eyes. It would be too easy to fall back into the caring, the holding, the needing of him.
Thunder clapped at the same time a tap pounded her door. Both made her sit up, shivering straight.
Her footman poked his head inside. “Mrs. Cecil, it will be only a few more moments. The entrance is being cleared.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
When the man left, her knuckles balled, ready to rap the ceiling and signal to her driver to head back to Tradenwood and Philip. At least her boy wouldn’t be upset by the noise. The flashes of light might even make him giggle, if he lay awake. Of course, he wouldn’t be scared like her. You must hear thunder to be upset by it.
With Mathew gone, stormy nights sent her skittering. She’d scoot down the hall, scoop up her son, and tuck him into her big bed. It made the storm tolerable, knowing he lay safe beside her, and she by him. Snuggling in her arms, with his toothy giggles, Philip looked happy falling asleep, his bluer-than-sky-blue eyes slowly closing.
Goodness, she loved her boy, and she needed so desperately to be strong for him, but it was so hard with Lester counting the days to the end of her widowhood. And Ewan, pretending to care, only to get her to sign papers. Men. Maybe they could be bribed, given something to go away. Lester and bribery seemed a good mix. But what of Ewan?
She pressed at her temples, trying to push her fears to the back of her head, maybe into her tightly braided chignon. Lightning flashed in the distance. She gulped then counted the seconds before hearing the low moan. The storm could be right over her fields.
Hoping for rain, she opened the door a little and stuck a hand out. Nothing. Not even a tiny droplet, nothing to justify returning home, locking the doors, and sending the girls a note of apology.
The door swung and she froze until the face of a footman became clear. “Miss Burghley says to come, ma’am. Follow me. The crowds have moved inside. Your entrance is clear.”
Girding up her strength, she banished her frets to the place she’d banished Lester and Ewan for the night. Fluffi
ng the hood of her cape, almost hiding beneath gray fringe, she noticed the crowd had shrunk. Only a few stragglers stood at Theatre Royal, Covent Garden’s main entrance on Bow Street.
The young man helped her down and guided Theodosia to the west side of the building. They would pass the king’s entrance, and she prayed the Prince Regent wasn’t there. She wanted to blend into the dark and not be seen by those looking for royal blood, not a mixed-up mongrel’s.
Theodosia wanted to strike at her own temples. Such thoughts, such fears. That wasn’t who she was, but insecurities always invaded during thunderstorms, when memories became inescapable. She picked up her skirts and paused at the door the man opened. “Are there people waiting inside this way?”
“A few, but this way is private. The duke makes sure of that.”
Frederica’s father was amiable. Theodosia had only met him once. He had looked at her strangely but was polite. Hopefully, the womanizing duke didn’t see what she saw sometimes in the mirror. Bits of her mother. She dipped in her reticule and pulled out a coin. “This is yours if you lead me to the box.”
The fellow dimpled as the shine of the bright pence often lent itself to creating love. “Yes. ma’am.”
Doing this, going out in public without being on Mathew’s arm, made her nerves tingle. It was harder than she thought. And tonight, after being in the fields with Ewan and Lester—it reminded her of how alone and unprotected she was.
The young man led her into the darkened stairwell. Thunder rumbled. It echoed along the walls that seemed to close in. Just a passing storm. She followed and tried to stop chewing her bottom lip, but that proved more difficult.
They climbed and climbed and climbed some more until they reached a landing that led into a nice-sized room.
The footman pointed and then continued inside. “Not much further. And you see, this lobby is empty. Always on dark money night.”
She filled her lungs, in and out. Gladness from being out of the stairwell overcame her as much as finding this lobby empty, but she chose to ignore his phrasing of her outing. He wouldn’t steal her peace. This is how things were in London and far better than what it could be, if you had no money.
The Bittersweet Bride Page 14