He hated the idea.
He was a man of action, not one given to philosophy, so he couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he hated the idea of the lady losing interest in him. It was the only sane course, after all. Once she’d accomplished her purpose, she would return to her tower, and he would seek Miranda, as things should be.
In ways, she was as crippled as he was. That didn’t make him feel any better.
“The mill and factory really do have quite impressive facades,” she said as he rode closer on a wide curve. “It is quieter over here, even though I can hear machinery running.”
“Perhaps the machinery provides a blanket of sound that masks other noises,” he suggested.
“I should live by the sea, then, shouldn’t I? We went once, and I remember the waves being very soothing, like your humming.” She nodded at an unprepossessing building on a barren hill. “I think that may be the school.”
“Does music have the same effect as the waves?” he asked out of sheer curiosity—and relief that she hadn’t asked him about writing. He turned his horse down the rutted lane.
“It does. Lydia’s constant practice on the piano is very helpful. I will miss her when she is gone. I would take up piano, except that doesn’t help me accomplish anything, does it? One can’t sit at a piano and talk to teachers. It sounds as if the children are at play.”
Will heard the laughter and shouts in the distance, but he wouldn’t have noticed unless she’d mentioned it. Even with his so-called muffling presence, her hearing was acute.
Uncomfortable in social settings, Will wanted nothing more than to follow the groom and horses to the rickety stable at the rear of the orphanage. But, as usual, he was caught between his two places in the world. As a gentleman, he had a duty to accompany the lady. He reluctantly let the groom take the horses, then followed Lela. A servant led them back to a tiny parlor so crowded that Will feared crushing stuffy old furniture no matter where he turned.
The teacher was nearly as stuffy and faded as her furniture, well-padded, graying, and standing stiffly until Lela settled on a chair that might once have been blue. An adolescent girl sat on a window seat with hands primly folded in her lap, watching them with curiosity.
Will chose to lurk in a corner by the fire. The teacher introduced herself as Mrs. Snowden and the girl as her daughter, Alicia. The girl stood and made her curtsy at a gesture from her mother, then made gestures of her own, directed at Lela.
“Do you speak French?” Mrs. Snowden asked. “She is spelling out letters in French to say she is pleased to meet you. We are trying to find simpler gestures for English, using words instead of syllables. It would be more crude, but faster.”
“But that would mean everyone would have to learn this hand language to communicate with her,” Lela said in obvious disappointment. “I was hoping for some means of communication so Rose could make herself understood to anyone.”
“Once you establish a means of communication, she can learn to write,” Mrs. Snowden reminded her. “Alicia’s spelling is still atrocious because it’s difficult for her to acquaint the sounds of letters with the words.” She used her gestures to show her daughter what she was saying.
The girl made a series of signals. Mrs. Snowden translated, “She is saying that if there is just one other person in the room who can understand her, then they can speak to the rest.”
“It looks so very complicated! How did you learn how to do this?” Lela asked.
Will could think of any number of ways a silent language might be useful, but none of them applied to little girls. He held his tongue and listened.
“A religious gentleman in France devoted himself to teaching the deaf. They developed this method of speaking, and it has spread to several deaf schools across the Continent. Unfortunately, we have none here. I had hoped that I might. . .” Mrs. Snowden shook her graying head. “I am too old. I will have to leave my dream to Alicia to accomplish.”
Will could tell from the way her eyes lit that Lela was considering aiding that dream. He didn’t want to discourage her, but she was inexperienced and naïve and Mrs. Snowden could be a fraud. He stepped in before she could make rash promises. “You should speak with your family, my lady,” he warned. “They are accomplished in finding educators and people who need educating. As Bridey has shown you, it’s not easy.”
“True, I only meant to help Rose,” she admitted. “But just imagine an entire school of silent people! It’s almost too tempting and providential. I might finally be useful!”
“But you’ll remember that Rose isn’t silent. What if there are ways to teach her to speak normally?” Will found himself drawn into the discussion against his will.
Mrs. Snowden nodded knowingly. “There are schools that emphasize teaching the deaf to speak normally. If your child has partial hearing, those methods might be more useful to her. It is not an easy subject, and there is much argument among the community as to which is preferable.”
“Why not have both kinds of teachers?” Lela asked excitedly.
She didn’t even bother correcting the assumption that Rose was their child, Will noted. The lady didn’t possess a bit of common sense, or arrogance. If he started looking at Lela as a real woman, and not an unreachable fairy princess, he’d be in true trouble.
The animal in him, the one his mother had warned him of, already considered her as his to protect. He had to quit living like a dog. He’d ask Miranda to marry him as soon as he could safely leave Lela on her own.
Until then, Will kept his distance and tried to behave like an invisible servant as Lela worked with the teacher to learn a few simple hand signs to teach Rose. They gave her a book Lela promised to have copied in quantity. But when he noticed the light from the window growing dim, he had to step in.
“It’s late. If we wish to cross the bridge before dark, we must leave now.”
Blessedly, Lela didn’t argue. She donned her cloak and hat, thanked them warmly, left a donation for the school, and obediently followed him out.
“The old bridge is closer,” she suggested, glancing at the gathering fog. “Once we’re across the river, the mist won’t matter so much.”
The old wooden bridge was an unlit fire trap and dangerous when the Thames was high. But people had been using it for half a century. Should they risk footpads in the fog riding through the dark to the new bridge on the far side of town, or take advantage of daylight and crossing quickly to the gas-lit city?
“I wouldn’t want to take a carriage across the old bridge, but we should be safe enough with the horses,” he concluded. “Just don’t stop for anyone or anything.”
“I like that you listen to me and don’t call me foolish,” she said, riding close to him. “Most men want to pat me on the head and laugh.”
“I don’t pat people on the head,” he said, sounding surly even to himself.
She laughed. “You don’t come close enough to people to pat them,” she said. “Is that because you understand dogs better than people?”
Will considered it. “Not so much, no. It’s because dogs listen and people don’t, unless I’m saying what they want to hear. So it’s not just that men of your ilk think you are frivolous and silly so much as they consider themselves more knowledgeable than women and people like me.”
In the fog and deepening twilight, he couldn’t read her expression, but he caught the surprised turn of her head anyway. That’s what he got for trying to explain himself.
“People like you? Hard working people? Intelligent people? In what way are you otherwise different from all the idle gentlemen with whom I’m familiar?”
He’d known better than to explain. “Other than bastardy,” he said dryly, “I don’t dress fashionably. I am not a book or math person. I cannot quote Shakespeare, don’t play cards, don’t know the language of flowers or fans, and have no interest in learning. I’m at most, a boring farmer who likes to put his boots up at the fire in the evening. At worst, I’m a servant who
gets a little above himself upon occasion.”
“And you assume because idle gentlemen consider you inferior, that you are inferior? Or that this is good reason to write off the human race?” she asked in a decidedly pert tone.
They were almost upon the bridge. Will had just about decided not to answer when Lela abruptly straightened and seemed to be straining to see ahead.
“That wicked, wicked man,” she cried. “He’s promising her fancy gowns and a choice of men!”
Will had to spin his brain around from their foolish argument to the real world and then translate it through her eyes—or ears, as the case apparently was. “Fathers promise their daughters such foolishness all the time.”
“He’s not her father. She sounds terrified. She’s asking to go back to her mother. He’s telling her he’s taking her to a lady who has rooms for girls, and she’ll be able to see all the sights of the city. He does not sound in the least savory.”
That sounded like a pimp furnishing his brothel. The lady shouldn’t know about such things. “Don’t jump to conclusions,” he warned, gesturing for their groom to approach. “Jack, remain with the lady while I ride ahead.”
Will saw the Gypsy wagon on the bridge as soon as he traversed the next bend. He had his weapons with him, but he preferred not using them unless he had no other choice. What in hell approach could he take in a matter like this? He was wearing a gentleman’s redingote and hat and expensive knee boots. He’d have to behave with the aristocratic arrogance of Ashford or Erran.
He rode up beside the rickety enclosed caravan. Dressed in a shabby cloak and cloth hat, the driver didn’t even look up until Will rapped the footboard with his riding crop. “I say there, your door has come loose in back. You’ll be losing your contents on those loose planks ahead.”
The driver looked undecided about stopping, so Will reined his horse in front of him. He tried not to grimace at the sight of Lela and the groom waiting at the end of the bridge.
While the driver wordlessly climbed down, Will rode around to the rear and slid his crop under the loose bar holding the sagging doors in place. It slid from its rack and the doors fell open.
Will already had his hand on his pistol when Lela suddenly galloped her horse onto the bridge shouting, “He’s hiding her in a carpet!”
Leaving the bar down, the driver turned tail and raced for his seat. Taking that as a confession of guilt, Will grabbed a door and swung inside. A muffled scream emerged from a threadbare old carpet on the floor. The knife-wielding old rogue standing over the carpet was of more immediate concern—that and Lela just outside the damned door.
Knife first. The wagon jolted into movement just as Will grabbed for the ruffian’s wrist. The jolt set him off balance, and the blade sliced the side of his hand. He still had sufficient grip to twist hard enough to force the scoundrel to drop the weapon. Will kicked it out and grabbed the carpet, tugging it toward the still open door with as much force as he possessed, using the wagon’s forward motion for impetus.
The screaming rug hit the bridge as the wagon jolted into motion. The furious pimp leapt for Will, and they both tumbled to the wooden planks. Lela added her frantic cries to the mix.
The groom’s shout of “Look out, my lord!” caught Will’s attention through the racket.
He’d had the breath knocked out of him with his landing, but he managed to look up just in time to see his assailant wielding a pistol so old, it was more likely to blow off the old codger’s hand than hit any target. With his bleeding fist, Will smacked the rogue’s arm backward.
The pistol exploded.
And Lela screamed.
Chapter 18
At Lela’s scream, Will leapt for the railing as if he had the bounding abilities of Ajax. He did not. Before he could reach her, his fairy princess tumbled from her horse and over the side of the bridge, into the filthy rush of the Thames. Will howled his anguish and fury like the animal he was.
Without hesitation, he dived into the heavy current after her. His only chance was right now, when he might hit somewhere close before the river dragged her on.
Weighed down by heavy boots and caped coat, he sank fast. Hanging on to what breath he had left, he kicked hard to resurface.
Fighting his clothes and the current, he also fought despair. He didn’t have any hope that a sheltered princess like Lela could swim. She was too small to fight the weight of her skirt and cloak. This was why he taught dogs to rescue drowning victims. This was one time he wished to be a dog.
Finally breaking through to the surface, he gasped for air. Flinging his hair out of his eyes, Will searched the night-dark river. He could barely see his own hands in the deepening twilight and heavy fog.
Lela had been wearing a light blue outfit—that was his only hope, light against dark. He fought panic and the deep desire to simply die of his inadequacy now rather than know he’d been the one to extinguish this piece of heaven. But for now, if there was any hope at all. . . He could die later.
A plank rammed his shoulder, and he flung one arm over it. Using the wood to stay afloat, bobbing with the swift moving current, Will hunted for blue.
He needed his dogs. He needed brains that worked instead of ones howling in panic. She had to come up again, didn’t she?
Or had the bullet killed her? Anguish wrung another cry from him. If her hearing was acute, could she hear him and know he was near? Shouting, kicking, paddling, he fought the current and terror, not looking to save himself but to find a piece of summer sky in the filth of the river. Surely her cloak had to billow up from the water.
There! He gulped a mouthful of filthy water shouting in relief. A bit of blue—closer to the shore and not in the heavy tide in the middle. Clinging to the plank, Will fought the current, straining every muscle to kick and swim to the shallows. As soon as the blue came in reach, he grabbed a handful and tugged.
Another tug, another mouthful of water, and he had the lady in his arms again.
He held her head above the slapping waves with one arm, while steadying himself on the plank with the other. He wanted to weep but he didn’t have time.
He couldn’t tell if she breathed. Fighting the water and the drag of their clothes, he held her while he paddled with waterlogged boots. His arm muscles strained and ached as if he fought battles with a galleon. Strength flagging, he couldn’t stop the current from dragging them further downriver from the bridge. He made wild incoherent promises to Whoever, while he fought to reach the shallows where his feet might hit bottom.
His boot hit a rock. Or a sunken boat. He couldn’t tell. He shoved off the hard surface and pushed the plank with Lela draped across it nearer to shore. She coughed. He swore she coughed. Thank you and praise be, she was alive.
He may have wept then. He was too wet to tell. He fought on.
It took an eternity. Keeping Lela’s head out of the water, moving against the current, Will was exhausted by the time he found enough solid ground to stand with his shoulders out of the water. In relief, he gathered Lela into his arms and staggered up the embankment.
She was shivering so hard that he feared dropping her in his exhaustion. The fog was thicker now. He could barely make out the shoreline. He just put one foot in front of the other and mindlessly prayed.
He nearly walked into a wall. “My apologies for what I need to do, my lady,” he murmured, although he didn’t think she could hear him. Wearily, he threw her over his shoulder so her head hung down his back. With his free hand, he felt along the wall, looking for a door, a window, anything. They needed shelter. Not that a little rain could soak them more, but the river breeze was icy.
She coughed harder and stirred. Will kept moving, more urgently now. He had to bring her inside, fetch help somehow. Had the duke’s groom ridden back to look for them?
No one would find them in this murk.
Finding a broken window, he used his coat sleeve to knock out the remaining shards of glass and pried at the latch until it gave way. He
thanked the heavens that it was a wide double frame that swung inward so he could fit through. Lela was digging her gloves into his coat, and he had to pry them loose to lift her over the sill.
She groaned as he lowered her to the floor. He scrambled inside. “Where are you hurt?” he demanded, terrified the bullet had hit her.
Before she could cough a reply, he stripped off his gloves and tore at her wet clothing. His own hand hurt like seven devils, but he needed to staunch her bleeding first. Women were frail. They died so damned easily. . .
Coughing with every breath, Lela sensed Will’s big fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons of her riding habit. As much as she’d once tried to imagine this moment, she felt as if she’d been battered by a herd of. . . fish, maybe. She was soaked to the skin and shivering so hard her fingers didn’t work enough to help him.
She tried to recall what had happened, but her mind wasn’t working so well either.
Taciturn Will muttered what sounded like prayers as he finally ripped off the rest of her coat buttons and pressed his hands to her shirtwaist, apparently searching for damage.
But it was her head that hurt. As much as she liked the heat of his big hands through her soaked linen, she tried to lift her arm to see if her head was properly attached.
“Your head?” he asked in horror, following her hand. “I can’t see a bloody thing. We need a fire.”
He probed at her skull. She could feel her hair dangling in filthy wet tangles on her face and neck. She’d lost her hat, of course. She winced and yelped as he rubbed a sore spot.
“I can’t see a thing,” he repeated in frustration. “You’re wet all over. If you’re bleeding, I can’t tell.”
She felt him tearing at his own clothes, then he pressed a soggy length of linen into her hand.
“Hold this to your head. I need to see where we are.”
Coughing, head pounding, she couldn’t think well enough to recall what had happened much less panic. She strained to hear anything, but there was nothing other than Will stumbling about in the darkness. That he was alive and well and with her was enough to ease some of her fear.
No Perfect Magic Page 19