by Rose Lerner
“There is one more thing.” Mr. Gilchrist hesitated. “It’s about the new Mrs. John Sparks.”
“Ah,” Lydia said, taunting him a little, “your wife’s sister’s new sister-in-law!”
Mr. Gilchrist looked embarrassed, and she wished her words back. It was no easy thing for a young Ministerialist agent to be related, by however many marriages, to a man so reviled by his party. “You haven’t yet called upon her in her new home,” he mumbled.
“I had not planned to.” The new Mrs. Sparks had been Caro Jessop, daughter of the borough’s longstanding Ministerialist MP. A few weeks ago, in the midst of a hotly contested election, she had left all her friends to elope with Jack Sparks, possibly the most obnoxious Whig in Lively St. Lemeston—and that was saying something. Calling upon her in the printing office from whence issued the scurrilous Lively St. Lemeston Intelligencer was not a tempting prospect. Lord Wheatcroft, not six hours before his death, had actually forbidden it.
Mr. Gilchrist cleared his throat. “The other Pink-and-White ladies won’t go if you don’t. Several of them have confided in me that they’d like to see her, but they don’t want to offend you.”
Lydia hadn’t thought of that. “Perhaps I might leave my card.”
“You and Mrs. Sparks used to be very good friends,” Mr. Gilchrist said delicately. “That will look like a snub.” They both knew that that was because it would be one.
“She didn’t come to call when my father died,” Lydia said quietly. “We could not have been such good friends as all that.” They’d been friends for so long. Lydia had helped and guided Caro when Caro was a brand-new hostess. For Caro to send a kind note, on such an occasion… Of course it was difficult for Caro to get about, but she might have made the effort.
“Her husband would have had to come with her.” Mr. Gilchrist looked even more embarrassed by this evidence of his knowledge of the inner workings of the Sparks family, but he soldiered on. “She doesn’t have a man any longer to help her with her wheelchair. They would have had to rent or borrow a carriage, as Sparks doesn’t keep one. It would have been a deal of expense and trouble if you hadn’t received them.”
Lydia wasn’t sure she would have received them. Receive Jack Sparks, when dozens of times she’d had to talk her father out of a libel suit over some unforgivable insult in his family’s horrid rag? When she could remember her mother doing the same? She had picked up Lord Wheatcroft’s obituary in the Intelligencer with dread, knowing from long experience that it was bound to be full of small digs and insults—
But she had found it respectful, kind and thorough. She knew Caro must have written it. Caro had always been so proud. She would hate to be publicly turned away, from a home where she’d been such a welcome guest.
It occurred to Lydia abruptly that if Caro could influence the contents of the Intelligencer, it would profit the Pink-and-Whites to keep up her old loyalties. And she had no desire to stand in the way of any of Caro’s other friends who might wish to see her. There was no good argument not to go, except her own reluctance.
“Of course I will go. This very afternoon. I hadn’t realized the Pink-and-White ladies were waiting for me. Thank you for making me aware of it.”
Mr. Gilchrist broke into a relieved smile. “Thank you, Miss Reeve.” He visibly screwed up his courage once more. “Miss Reeve—I have no desire to press you, but my wife is so concerned—do you think the new Lord Wheatcroft will stick to his guns? Ought I to be inquiring after a new situation?”
His wife was so concerned, indeed. Poor Mr. Gilchrist was young and inexperienced; he would be a brilliant political agent one day, but he had no great connections and had made a highly imprudent match. In the period after an election, there would be dozens of more seasoned men looking for work. “When I am married, I will pay your next year’s salary out of my own pocket,” she promised. “By next Christmas I’m sure Jamie’s little freak will have passed.”
Mr. Gilchrist thanked her fulsomely and took his leave soon after, still spouting extravagant compliments as the door closed behind him.
Lydia began several drafts of her letter to Jamie and hated all of them. Finally, after wasting two perfectly good sheets of paper, she scrawled Why are you doing this to me? across one ruined page. Then she fed both sheets to the fire so that Aunt Packham and the servants couldn’t read them, and climbed into the embrasure of the window.
Strange, how a week ago she had gazed out at this garden and thought only how desolate it was, and how dead. Now she remembered what she had told Mr. Ralph: that she’d always liked how things looked in winter. She remembered taking Jamie into the garden in January, all bundled up, to learn to identify trees without their leaves.
It was merely a coincidence that from the window, she could also see part of the drive.
“Aren’t you cold, dear? Come and sit by the fire.”
“I’m not cold,” Lydia lied.
Aunt Packham laughed. “But you’re watching for your young man! How silly of me. Is there any sign of him?”
“Not yet,” Lydia admitted. But it was only a few minutes more before he appeared. In his heavy greatcoat, a little too large for him, his solid frame looked like an enormous brick with ankles and an umbrella.
“Oh, you’ve spotted him!”
Lydia realized a smile had spread across her own face. She stood, embarrassed. “Aunt, if you wouldn’t be offended—if after some little time you might make some excuse to leave the room… We are betrothed, after all, so there can be no impropriety in it.”
Aunt Packham smiled knowingly. “Of course, dear.”
Lydia hadn’t been thinking of it, but now the memory of last night in the carriage swept over her. She flushed hot as a banked coal exposed to air. In an instant she was desperate for the completion she’d been denied then.
She’d found it on her own later, alone in her bed. She didn’t think she could have slept otherwise, but she regretted it now. How could she be near him again without thinking of it?
He walked up the drive with a cheery, confident stride. There was no trace of the man who had wept last night. He knew he could be seen from the house, she realized. Or could his emotion of the night before have been a show, and this was the truth? How would he have looked, if she could have seen him before he came around the curve in the drive?
She felt sure the suspicion was absurd—but after all, yesterday morning she had been sure he was a gentleman of integrity.
She ought to care more that he wasn’t. Instead she was tempted to rush downstairs and meet him at the door. No one would marvel at it. It would even help their charade, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was too old to behave like a lovestruck girl.
It seemed to take him an eternity to climb the drive, and then it was far too long before he was shown into the Little Parlor, his boots hastily cleaned and his hat and greatcoat no doubt drying in the hall.
Everything froze for a sharp glittering moment as their eyes met. She thought it would be he who moved, he who broke the silence—but he simply stood there, his body relaxing a little from the bluff good humor she had watched come up the drive. His shoulders slumped almost gratefully.
“How do you do?” she asked, the words sticking in her dry throat.
His grave mouth didn’t even curve; the corners twitched, faintly. “Better, for seeing you.”
If it was false, his talent was beyond anything. She ought to care whether it was false instead of marveling at his skill.
“This is so romantic!” exclaimed Aunt Packham. “My dear boy, you must allow me to wish you joy.”
He allowed it at unpardonable length, and inquired after her collars for the auction with wholehearted interest. He would do splendidly with voters. Lydia couldn’t wait to show him off in Lively St. Lemeston.
It was twenty minutes before Aunt Packham remembered her promise, saying
with a sly twinkle, “Oh, but I have just recalled, I must speak with the housekeeper. You won’t think me rude if I leave the two of you alone, will you?”
Mr. Cahill twinkled slyly back. “We shall never forgive you for depriving us of your company.” Her aunt laughed, and whisked herself and her workbox out the door.
Chapter Eleven
Mr. Cahill sighed and sprawled a little on the sofa, eyes drooping. She gave him a few minutes of silence before asking quietly, “How do you do? Really?”
He smiled at her. “Better for seeing you. Really.” He smiled wider at her uncertain frown. “I’m sorry. It’s going to drive you mad, isn’t it, not knowing what I mean and what I don’t? Listen—I mean most of it, and that’s God’s own truth. It wouldn’t be convincing if I didn’t. It isn’t the whole truth, that’s all. I do feel better for seeing you. I also feel like someone’s turned over my chest with some of those farming implements you country folk are so fond of. And…I like you. You know that. But I like everyone. Maybe not as much, but I’d have felt better for seeing anyone. I’m always worst when I’m alone. I stayed up late last night in the common room with a party of travelers, and when I woke early this morning, I went down the street to the coffeehouse and talked with the proprietor’s daughter.”
She didn’t know how to react to that. “I hope you told her you were engaged,” she said tartly, and then found herself grinning. “And Imogen Makepeace is a Whig. If you must have coffee go to the Cocoa Seedling, on Forest Road.”
He grinned back. “Miss Makepeace says they serve coffee-colored water at the Seedling.”
“I like weak coffee.”
He laughed. “So do I. Don’t ever drink a cup of the Makepeaces’ coffee on an empty stomach. I’ve calmed down a bit now, but I thought I might shake to pieces on my way here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You haven’t eaten?”
He gave her one of his slow smiles. “I was in a hurry to see you.”
Even if it was only part of the truth, it made her happy. She rang for a hot meal.
“I didn’t tell Miss Makepeace I was engaged,” he said when the servant had left the room. “I wanted to give you a last chance to change your mind.”
“I haven’t changed my mind. I wondered, though—how many depredations have you committed under the name Ash Cahill? Are you likely to be discovered?”
“As luck would have it, none. We change names a few times a year. As we meant our next swindle to be a big one, we picked new ones, had new cards printed, all of that.”
“Isn’t it difficult, to learn to answer to a name that isn’t yours?”
He shook his head. “The trick is finding one you’ll recognize even if you aren’t paying attention. I’ve been through dozens, all of them sounding enough like mine or Rafe’s to make my head turn. Mr. Ashford, Cash Mohan, Mr. Rafferty, Ashley Caine…”
The hot meal arrived, toast and butter and bacon. It disturbed her now to see him eat pork. It reminded her how little he respected anything, if he could so easily ignore one of the most ingrained strictures of his people. “Do you really mean to go to church tomorrow?”
“They’re reading our banns,” he said in some surprise. “And I love Stir-up Sunday.”
The Collect for the last Sunday in November began, Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people… After church, the streets would echo with children singing,
Stir up, we beseech thee,
The pudding in the pot,
And when we get home,
We’ll eat it all hot.
The Monday following, the grocer’s windows would be filled with raisins and almonds, and the whole town would smell like ginger and cinnamon and nutmeg.
“Oh—I know the country folk round here think it’s ill luck for a man to hear his own banns called,” he said. “Is that it?”
She shook her head, embarrassed to explain.
His expression changed. “Ah. I’m not used to talking to someone who knows me for a Jew.” He was silent, eating and watching her. She was starting to understand that those pauses in his speech were a form of calculation, though whether he was gauging her response or trying to marshal his own she couldn’t yet guess. She fixed him with a friendly, open look and waited.
“I’ve been to church in dozens of parishes all across England,” he said at last. “I’ve been to mass and Quaker meetings too. I like it. It’s all the same in the end, a ritual to make us feel closer to each other, to lift us up a little.”
“Do you believe in God?” It was a rude question. Piety was a private matter, between oneself and the Almighty. But she wanted him to say yes. She wanted to know he believed in something.
His eyes stayed steadily on hers, but his sensitive mouth jerked a few times, uncertainly. “I can’t today,” he said at last, softly. “I can’t—I’m alone now. Completely. I can’t not mind feeling like a curiosity. I can’t explain myself to you with any grace. I don’t blame you for thinking me as strange to you as if I lived in the Antipodes, or for wanting to know more. I hope you won’t take offense. I just can’t today.”
“I’m not offended.” She hid her mortification. “It’s I who ought to apologize, for prying.” A dozen thoughts went through her mind. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have occurred to her to share them. But now the unsettling idea came to her that she could.
She tried to choose a thought that wouldn’t be too dangerous. She could tell him that she had always imagined God as rather like her father: affectionate, ever-present but distant somehow. His commands were to be obeyed rather out of love and duty than out of a conviction of their rightness, and on occasion creatively interpreted for the good of all.
She could tell him how alone she felt, that usually she didn’t mind it, but this month she did.
She couldn’t say that out loud. Or could she? He felt alone too. She wanted to tie them together, so he would keep their bargain. So he would like her.
She could think of nothing to tell him that wouldn’t more deeply underscore how different their lives had been. “I know we have few points in common, as far as our experiences go. But I believe we can learn to understand each other.” His expression didn’t change. That wasn’t enough. She added, “Quite well.”
He laughed, his gold tooth winking at her.
“I didn’t mean that.” Strange, how she had almost forgotten. Now desire was back, not sure and predictable like the tide but all at once like a hurricane. She hoped her cheeks weren’t flushing. Her womanly parts tingled and ached; so did her breasts and, inexplicably, her ears and fingers. She had never been so conscious of her own body before.
“I know you didn’t,” he said. “Thank you. I think we can too. Shall I give you a little acting lesson, before our debut tomorrow?”
Even the innocent act of speaking, lips and tongue forming sounds, now seemed suggestive. The words Shall I give you were quite obscene. “Certainly,” she said.
“I think you’re very accustomed to acting in one sense. You’re very good at hiding your emotions, at seeming friendly and even-keeled. Would you agree?”
She smiled involuntarily. “Yes, I would.”
His gaze sharpened. “What are you thinking of now?”
She was imagining him taking her hard on the sofa, and he had not an inkling of it. She gave him an innocent look. “I’m sorry if I appeared abstracted. I was only giving your words my full consideration.”
He smiled. “That’s a good one. Hiding things is just one part to acting, though. The other is showing things. You’ve mastered looking cheerful, concerned, that sort of thing. Mild, friendly emotions. But if this is going to work, you’re going to have to pretend a lot more than that. You’re going to have to make everyone in this town, including your brother, believe that you love me so madly you can’t wait to be married to me.”
The jangling of her ne
rves only heightened her aroused state. She nodded, taking a few deep breaths to relax the muscles in her throat and stomach.
“The easiest way to do it is to imagine that you do love me,” he said. “At least, that’s what I’ve always done. I find a little part of myself that feels the thing I want, and bring it out and feed it. You like me, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”
She shrank inwardly, that she had told him that, before she knew what he was.
But knowing hadn’t made her like him any less. She’d let him pleasure her last night, and she would allow it again. She’d always known she had in her the seeds of rebellion and wantonness. She’d thought she could simply choose never to let them grow. Evidently she’d been wrong.
“The biggest obstacle to a good lie is your own hesitation,” he said. “There’s a part of us that wants people to know the truth, to see us for who we are. But if you can stop wanting to get caught…you’re the sole witness to your own thoughts, and so you can perjure yourself without fear of contradiction.”
Though she had never thought of it in those terms before, his words felt uncomfortably familiar. She had never meant to swindle anyone. She’d never meant to be a liar, only a good daughter, sister, hostess, patroness.
“What would you think of someone else who did what you’re doing?” he asked. “An heiress who married a gentleman of limited means on a week’s acquaintance?”
“I would think her a very great fool,” she said promptly.
He nodded. “I imagine you don’t want everyone to think you a fool. That will stand in your way. And then—” He cleared his throat. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Twice or thrice,” she admitted.