by Emily Larkin
Letty nodded. Her mother had expressed almost that exact same sentiment on a number of occasions: Our wealth doesn't make us better than other people; it makes us luckier. It behooves us to share that luck with those who’ve not had our good fortune.
She examined Reid’s bony face. “And when you die? What happens to your money then?”
The blunt question didn’t appear to shock Reid. “Veterans’ charities,” he said. “All of it.”
* * *
Dinner that evening was muggety pie, and apple fritters.
“Muggety pie?” Letty said, eyeing her plate.
“Made with muggets,” Reid said.
“Yes, but what are muggets?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Muggets were offal, Letty discovered, but exactly what part of an animal’s entrails—or indeed, which animal they came from—she had no idea. The pie was well-seasoned with herbs and surprisingly tasty, and the apple fritters were delicious, golden and crisp, dusted with sugar and served with thick cream. Letty had no difficulty persuading Reid to eat his dessert.
“You had the fever in Portugal?” Letty said, while she debated whether to have a third fritter.
Reid nodded.
“You almost died?”
Reid shrugged. “So I was told. I wasn’t aware of it at the time.”
Letty decided to have a third fritter. She doused it with cream. “How long were you ill?”
“Long enough.”
Another of his evasions. “How long, Mr. Reid?”
“I was six weeks in my bed.”
Her gaze jerked to his face. “Six weeks?”
Reid nodded again.
Letty stared at him. Six weeks in bed with the fever. No wonder his clothes hung on him. “How long have you been out of your sickbed?”
“Nigh on a month.”
“You should have stayed there!” Letty told him. “You shouldn’t be traipsing about the country. You should be resting.”
“I don’t have the time,” Reid said flatly.
Letty pushed her dessert away and leaned forward on her elbows. “What exactly are you dying of, Mr. Reid?”
Reid’s face stiffened.
Letty met his affronted stare. Yes, an unpardonably rude question. But one she wasn’t going to apologize for, or retract.
“That is none of your business, Miss Trentham,” Reid said, after a moment.
Letty examined his face—the skin stretched tautly over jutting bones, the stony expression, the flat, silver stare. “You’re not dying of the fever, are you?”
Reid made no reply.
“And you’re not dying of an injury, as far as I can tell.”
Still, Reid made no reply.
“And you’re not dying of your nightmares, are you?”
“Good night, Miss Trentham.” Reid pushed back his chair, thrust his napkin on the table, and walked from the room.
The door shut quietly behind him.
Letty sighed. Stupidly, she felt like crying. She looked at the chair Reid had sat in, and the balled-up napkin, and the half-eaten fritter stranded on his plate. Couldn’t he see that she was trying to help him?
* * *
That night, Mr. Reid slept until one o’clock before becoming ensnared in his nightmare. Letty half-expected his door to be latched, shutting her out, but it opened to her touch. She hurried to the bed. “Reid! Wake up!”
He wasn’t thrashing and flailing so wildly tonight; he was twisting beneath the bedclothes, choking and gasping, weeping in his sleep.
“Icarus!” Letty grasped his shoulder and shook him hard.
Reid woke with a jolt.
He didn’t strike out, didn’t lunge up in berserker fury; he gave a hoarse, wheezing, desperate gasp, as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time, and then turned his head into the pillow with a groan. His body trembled violently. His breathing was short, sobbing.
He’s crying.
Letty bit her lip, and turned away to grant him privacy. Her heart ached sharply in her chest. The brandy was where she’d left it last night. She walked across to it slowly, uncorked it slowly, poured a large glass slowly, giving Reid time to compose himself. When she turned back, he was wiping his face roughly with his hands.
She spent another minute fiddling with the brandy bottle, pushing the cork back in, and then crossed to the bed. “Here.”
Reid sat up, moving as if his bones ached, and took the glass. Their fingers brushed.
Letty busied herself rearranging his pillows. “Lie back.”
Reid obeyed. He looked like a man who’d been to Hades and back, haggard and utterly drained. Tremors ran through his hands, making the brandy tremble in the glass. His breathing was hoarse, catching in his throat with each inhalation.
Letty sat on the bed and watched him sip the brandy. Reid had parted from her in anger that evening, but either he’d forgotten or he no longer cared. He didn’t ask her to leave, didn’t speak to her at all, just slowly sipped. Gradually the tremors stopped. His breathing quieted. The faint hitch was no longer audible.
When he’d finished the glass, Letty measured out a teaspoon of valerian.
Reid swallowed it without protest. He didn’t even grimace at the taste. He was utterly passive. It was as if the nightmare had drained him of himself—his essence, his spirit, whatever it was that made him Icarus Reid—and left a half-alive husk in its place.
Perhaps these nightmares are what’s killing him?
Letty fetched The Odyssey and sat on the end of his bed to read. Reid didn’t object. She wasn’t sure he even noticed. He lay limply, his gaze unfocused. If she hadn’t seen his chest rise and fall, hadn’t seen the slow blink of his eyes, she’d have thought him dead.
Letty read in a low voice, glancing at him often. His eyelids lowered by increments.
It took half an hour for Reid to fall asleep. Letty continued reading for another ten minutes, and then stopped. She closed the book and sat quietly, watching him. Icarus Reid. A complicated man—driven and dangerous, tough, obstinate, evasive—and yet also disarmingly kind.
And damaged. Deeply and terribly damaged.
Letty sighed, and climbed down from the bed, and put the book back where she’d found it.
She tiptoed over to look down at Reid. He was soundly asleep, his breathing slow and even. The candlelight cast shadows over his face, making his cheeks seem even more hollow than they were.
A painful emotion stirred in her breast. It’s pity, Letty told herself. But she knew it wasn’t. She grieved for Icarus Reid, but she didn’t pity him. Reid was not a man to be pitied.
Letty reached down and stroked his hair. “I wish you would tell me,” she whispered, and then she bent and pressed her lips—lightly, daringly—to his.
Reid didn’t stir.
Letty sighed, and picked up her chamberstick and left the room.
Chapter Fourteen
November 12th, 1808
Whiteoaks, Wiltshire
On Saturday, Letty went back to being an heiress. The journey from Basingstoke to Whiteoaks in Wiltshire was thirty-odd miles. In the post-chaise, Letty considered spinning a tale for Eliza and Green that explained why she was going to stay with her cousins and Reid wasn’t. A mysterious family feud, perhaps? And then she saw a set of balance scales in her mind’s eye, weighed down by three deaths on one side and by her lies on the other. No, she’d tell no more falsehoods than were absolutely necessary.
“My husband prefers to stay in Marlborough when I visit Whiteoaks,” she said, and left them to make their own guesses as to why that might be. “Eliza, you’ll stay in Marlborough, too. I shan’t need you at Whiteoaks, but next week we’ll go to Bristol, and then perhaps down to Exeter.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Letty glanced at Reid. Last night’s nightmare still clung to him. He’d been quiet all day. Broodingly quiet. Bleakly quiet.
He’d have another nightmare tonight. And tomorrow night. And the nig
ht after that. And I won’t be there to help him.
Reid and Green and their luggage—along with Eliza’s carpetbag—were deposited at the Castle and Ball in Marlborough’s wide High Street. “Remember to leave the brandy and valerian beside his bed,” Letty told Green, for what must be the fifth time that day. “With a glass and a teaspoon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Eliza came as far as Whiteoaks for propriety’s sake, peeping wide-eyed out the window as the post-chaise drew up in front of the great portico. A butler and two footmen emerged and trod down the marble steps.
“Good-bye, Eliza. I’ll see you in a week.”
The carriage door swung open. Letty descended demurely, the luggage was unloaded, and then the post-chaise—postilions, outrider, and maid—swept back to Marlborough.
Letty watched it clatter from sight, and then turned to gaze at the vast marble façade of Whiteoaks, with its Corinthian columns and rows of windows and the bas-relief crowning the portico.
Much as she loved her Kemp cousins, she didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be at the Castle and Ball with Reid, making sure he drank his brandy and swallowed his valerian and went back to sleep again.
“Ma’am?” the butler said.
Letty sighed, and marched up the long flight of marble steps. Her heart quailed in her chest as she stepped into the entrance hall. Had her deception been discovered?
“Letitia!” Her eldest cousin’s wife arrived with a flurry of scarves and perfume. “They sent you in a post-chaise! How shabby!”
No, not discovered.
Letty embraced Almeria, and assured her that it wasn’t shabby at all; on the contrary, she had enjoyed it enormously; and yes, Helen had sent an outrider; and yes, Helen had sent a maid—and those words were even more lies to go on the scales—but although part of her regretted each and every lie she’d uttered this past week, part of her couldn’t regret them. Not if it meant redress for the dead scouts. Not if it meant that Reid found his traitor.
More cousins appeared. Letty looked around eagerly for Julia—and then memory slapped her in the face: Julia’s dead. She’s been dead these past seventeen months.
* * *
Pugh clucked over the state of her hair. “Pulled back so tightly! Not flattering, not flattering at all!” Letty paid no attention. Propped up on the mantelpiece in the Lilac Bedchamber were two letters, one thick, one thin. The handwriting on both was extremely familiar. She knew what each letter held before she even picked them up: the thick one contained the monthly summaries on her mother’s lying-in hospital and foundling homes and charity school; the thin one, the investigator’s report on her most recent suitors.
The seal on the second letter had been broken. Letty repressed a spurt of annoyance. Her stepbrother paid for the investigator; of course he had a right to read those reports before she did.
She settled on the chaise longue to read, while Pugh unpacked her trunk, muttering direly over every crease she discovered. Conscientiously, Letty examined the monthly summaries first: numbers of women admitted to the hospital, numbers of births, numbers of babies accepted into each of the homes, numbers of children apprenticed and where to. The superintendent of the charity school had appended a note: One boy showing extraordinary talent in mathematics. I suggest extra tuition. Below that, her man of business had scrawled: Arranged.
The summaries read, Letty unfolded the investigator’s report. Her gaze skipped down the page—Frederick Ashburton—Roger Pinkney—and Icarus Reid.
She forced herself to read the paragraphs on Ashburton and Pinkney first. They merely confirmed what she had suspected; both men were deeply in debt, Pinkney almost bankrupt.
She’d requested as much information as possible on Reid, and the investigator had obliged.
Icarus Reid. Fifth and youngest son of Sir Hector Reid of Wetherby, Yorkshire. Born 1778.
1778? That meant Reid was only thirty. He looked much older. Letty frowned, and read further. Grandson of Admiral Titus Reid. Nephew of Admiral Virgil Reid. Brother of Admiral Socrates Reid. Joined the 33rd Foot as an ensign in 1795. Distinguished himself in the action at Mallavelly, 1799. Mentioned in the dispatches. Promoted to lieutenant and attached to Lieutenant Colonel Wellesley’s staff as aide-de-camp.
Seven years of campaigning in India had followed, during which time Reid had been promoted to captain, and then major, and earned significant wealth. Estimated prize money, £25,000. Letty’s eyebrows rose. A genteel fortune.
Wellesley had taken leave of absence in 1805. When he resumed his military career in 1807, Reid rejoined his staff. According to my sources, the investigator wrote, Wellesley specifically requested Major Reid.
Reid had returned from India in time to participate in the Battle of Copenhagen. Then, in July of this year, he’d sailed with Wellesley to Portugal. Following the Battle of Vimeiro (August 21st), Reid was on the invalids’ list for several weeks. He resigned his commission and returned to England in mid-October.
As far as I can ascertain, Reid has no debts. Further, it appears that his fortune is untouched! Letty didn’t begrudge the man his exclamation mark. In over one hundred reports, this was the first time he’d investigated a suitor who wasn’t a fortune hunter.
At the bottom, the investigator had made notes on Reid’s character. My sources all spoke highly of Major Reid. He’s said to be an even-tempered, intelligent man, and a courageous and resourceful soldier. I found no indications of profligacy. By repute, he is neither a gambler, nor a drunkard, nor a philanderer. The investigator didn’t write—In my opinion Reid would make an excellent husband—but it was clearly implied.
Letty sighed, and refolded the sheet of paper. There were two surprises in the report—Reid’s age, and his fortune—but nothing to tell her what had happened to him at Vimeiro. “I need some fresh air, Pugh. I’ll be back in an hour.”
* * *
It was a year since Letty had last been at Whiteoaks. Then, Julia’s death had been fresh: the riding accident, the broken neck. Now the mourning blacks were put away, but it still seemed to Letty that a melancholy air hung over the estate. Perhaps it was due to the season—the bare trees, the chill in the air, the drifts of dead leaves—but she thought it was more to do with Julia.
In London, Julia’s absence had been a dull ache, something she’d learned to ignore. At Whiteoaks, memory of Julia was everywhere. Here was the shrubbery where they’d played hide and seek, here the stream where they’d paddled barefoot with the boys, searching for frogs, and here the long avenue of oaks where they’d raced their ponies. Memory upon memory. Julia stuck up a tree, Julia falling in the river, Julia with mischief on her face and mud on her dress and torn flounces hanging around her ankles.
Letty wandered slowly along the avenue, stirring the dead, damp leaves with her boots. She’d walked here with Julia when they’d last been at Whiteoaks together. Walked, talked, laughed. Boisterous, harum-scarum Julia, who even in adulthood hadn’t outgrown her tomboyish ways. Julia, who’d made everything seem fun, who’d joked while they fended off fortune hunters together, who had made the Marriage Mart bearable.
A strange feeling grew while she walked, a sense that Julia was nearby. Letty could almost see her, like a shimmering afterimage on her retina. If I turn my head fast enough, I might glimpse her.
Ahead, two riders entered the avenue. Even at a hundred yards’ distance, Letty recognized them. Julia’s twin, Lucas. And Tom Matlock.
Someone whooped distantly—Tom, she guessed—and the horses were urged into a canter.
The sensation that Julia was nearby intensified—so sharp, so strong, that Letty could have sworn Julia stood alongside her—and then abruptly vanished.
The riders swept past with a thunder of hooves—it was Tom whooping—and pulled up in a showy scattering of gravel and dead leaves. Tom leaped down and caught her in a rib-cracking hug, lifting her off her feet. “Tish, m’ love. God, but it’s good to see you.”
Letty hugged him back. He
smelled of horse and leather and clean linen.
Tom set her on her feet, and then Lucas hugged her, too, and they were all laughing and it felt so good to be together again.
“When did you arrive?” Lucas asked. He looked nothing like Julia—his hair, his eyes, the arrangement of his bones, were all different—and yet he was so much like her. She saw Julia in his grin, Julia in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, Julia in the tilt of his head.
“An hour ago. How are you both?”
“In fine form,” Lucas said. “What’s the count now?”
“Eighteen so far this year.”
Tom exchanged a wry glance with Lucas, dug in his pocket, and flipped a half-crown at his friend.
“You’ll find a couple of ’em here this week, Tish,” Lucas said, pocketing the coin. “Bernard nagged m’ brother into inviting them. Stapleton’s already arrived, and Henry Wright’s coming on Monday. Wright’s a decent fellow—he was at Eton with us—but I don’t think much of Stapleton.”
“A new wager.” Tom fished another half-crown from his pocket and waggled it at Lucas. “Stapleton and Wright to propose by the end of this week.”
“I am here,” Letty said indignantly.
“I know, love.” Tom grinned at her. “Walk back with us?”
Letty tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and looked at him—the merry face, the laughing green eyes. No, Tom was no traitor. But he might know what had happened to Reid at Vimeiro. “I met an acquaintance of yours in London last week. Icarus Reid. He was a major before he sold out.”
“Reid?” Tom’s eyebrows lifted.
“He said he’d be passing through Wiltshire. I told him you were here, suggested he look you up.”
“I hope he does,” Tom said cheerfully. “Good man, Reid.”
* * *
Twenty-eight people sat to dinner that evening. Letty found herself with her stepbrother on one side and Lord Stapleton on the other.
“Letitia,” her stepbrother, Bernard, said with cool politeness. “How pleasant to see you.” Letty heard that lie.