“Did he—?”
“No,” Alex said. “But his interest was plain. He made remarks. Little gibes about my appearance. How strapping I was. How handsome. And then one day he touched me. It was naught but a squeeze of the shoulder—and a lewd whisper in my ear. But later I saw him huddled with Crenshaw. Heard them mention my name. Crenshaw was going to give me to him. To work for Morley, he said. To live with him. I may have been just a lad, but I knew what was going to happen to me. And I knew then that I had to get out of there.”
“You should have told us.”
“Three orphan boys? What could any of you have done?” Alex scoffed at the idea. “No. There was no one to tell. No one who would have believed me. And even if they had…who on earth would have cared?”
Tom leaned across the table. “We would have cared. Justin, Neville, and I. Damnation, Alex. You could have told me. You didn’t have to break my blasted nose.”
“I was terrified. When you said we should wait—that we should talk to Justin about what to do next—I saw red. You were holding my future in the balance. My very life, to debate at your and Justin’s leisure.”
“That’s not what I—”
“That’s how it seemed.”
“You were in a frenzy.”
“I was angry. I’d been angry since things had started with Morley. And when you and I were struggling over the treasure—when you wouldn’t let it go—I hit you because…because I couldn’t hit him.” There was a burning sensation at the back of Alex’s eyes. “And then I kept hitting you, because it was the only way to save myself. To burn all of my bridges behind me. To do something unforgiveable. Something there was no going back from. Because I didn’t want to leave. You and the others…you were all I ever had.”
Tom fell quiet. His face was solemn, his eyes sad. For the barest instant, he resembled the boy he’d been so long ago. Young and earnest. “I wouldn’t call thrashing me unforgiveable,” he said. “Not after everything you did for me over the years. You protected me from Cheevers. From the other boys. Took beatings that were meant for me more times than I can count. If it wasn’t for you—”
“You’re rewriting history. Turning me into some self-sacrificing hero.”
“Do you imagine I don’t remember what you were like? It’s clear as day to me. To Justin and Neville, too. Why do you think they asked me to find you and bring you home?”
Alex bent his head. He felt a muscle spasm in his jaw. The very idea that they had been looking for him was as bitter as it was sweet. “Devon was never my home.”
“And France is?”
“No. I haven’t had a home. Not until now.” Alex looked up at him. “I’ve finally found some semblance of happiness. I can’t put it at risk. I can’t go backward.”
“You speak as though you have to choose between your past and your future. It doesn’t have to be that way. You must realize that.” Tom smiled. “Why else would you have given your wife that ring?”
With Alex gone, Laura had nothing to do to occupy her thoughts. She paced the hotel room, a mass of anxiety throwing sparks in her chest. She sifted through all that her husband had told her. All the things he’d done as a boy in order to save himself. He’d beaten Tom Finchley. Had robbed him of a treasure trove of money and jewelry. Had run away, and never looked back.
Or so he said.
But something in Alex’s confession rang false to her. She was reminded of his history of half-truths. Of convenient fictions. The way he had of glossing over those chapters of his life that were too painful. Too difficult to face.
And this was surely one such chapter. The darkest yet, she’d wager. She’d never seen him so rattled before. So haunted.
What if he hadn’t gone to meet Mr. Finchley? What if he’d left Grasse?
What if he’d left her?
Her hands clenched at her sides as she walked the carpeted floor. She did trust him. She trusted him to come back for her—to keep his word. But she hated her lack of control over the situation. It made her want to scream.
And she might have done, had a knock not sounded at the door.
She opened it to find Jenny Finchley standing on the threshold. She was garbed in a stylish caraco jacket with a poplin skirt, her thick auburn hair arranged in intricate plaits at the back of her head.
“Mrs. Finchley,” Laura said. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“Pardon the intrusion. I thought we might talk while the gentlemen are away.”
“Of course.” Laura welcomed her in, shutting the door behind her. “Forgive me. I’m not in the best of moods at the moment.”
“Quite understandable. And do call me Jenny. We’ve no need to be formal, given the circumstances.”
“I suppose not.” Laura gestured to one of the chairs near the window. “You may call me Laura, if you like.” She went to the bell pull. “Shall I ring for coffee? Or tea, if you’d prefer?”
“Tea would be splendid.” Jenny sat down, fluffing her skirts, while Laura summoned a hotel footman and placed their order. “My husband said he might be gone for hours. I expect he and your husband are going to have a nice long reminisce about the past.”
Laura sank into the chair opposite her guest. “You make it sound very cordial.”
“My husband bears no ill will.”
“Should he?” Laura asked. “I understand the two of them parted badly, but it was many years ago—”
“Mr. Archer broke my husband’s nose. He still bears the scar from it.”
Laura didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t mean it as an accusation,” Jenny said. “Only to explain that the past casts a very long shadow. Especially where our husbands and their friends are concerned.”
“Do you know their friends? The other boys from the orphanage?”
“Indeed. I used to be companion to Lady Helena, daughter of the Earl of Castleton. She married Captain Justin Thornhill last year. It’s through him that I met my husband.”
“And the other boy?”
“Neville Cross? He resides with Lady Helena and Captain Thornhill at Greyfriar’s Abbey, their estate on the North Devon coast. He had a bad fall in his youth. Your husband rescued him. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the story? It was all very heroic, or so I understand. My own husband speaks of the incident in tones of awe.”
“My husband told me of it,” Laura said. “It’s not a pleasant memory for him, I fear.”
Jenny looked at her with an expression of sympathy. “There are not many pleasant memories from that time. Not for any of them. But there is some happiness to be found in the here and now, I trust. There has been for my husband, at least.”
“You said you were on your honeymoon. Were you married very recently?”
“Oh yes. Only a few weeks ago, though we’ve known each other much longer. We were friends first. Companions.” Jenny smiled. “It’s an unconventional marriage, but it seems to work for us.”
“Unconventional?” Laura was intrigued in spite of herself. “How do you mean?”
“We make our decisions together. Rather like co-regents. Though our kingdom is quite small at present. There’s only the two of us, and a townhouse in Half Moon Street. Indeed, when it comes to settling down, we’re still very much at sixes and sevens. I only returned from Egypt last month.”
Laura’s brows flew up. “You’ve traveled to Egypt?”
“And to India. It’s been rather an adventure.”
For the next hour, Laura listened as Jenny Finchley described her travels. They shared a pot of tea, and a plate of macarons—delicate little French cakes made of almonds and sugar. And they talked. They even laughed.
Jenny was a surprisingly likeable lady. There was no artifice about her. No fashionable airs or pretensions. “Lady Helena is hosting a family Christmas at the Abbey this year,” she said when they’
d finished their tea. “A good month of festivities, all the way through Twelfth Night. Perhaps you and your husband might consider traveling to Devon for the occasion? If you’re not committed elsewhere, that is.”
A pang of sadness took Laura unaware. She hadn’t even begun to think of Christmas. It was less than four months away. Would she and Alex still be together? Or would he be gone from her life forever? So much depended on what happened with the perfumery. On whether she could entice him to stay despite her lack of wealth and property.
Her mouth went dry, never mind the half pot of tea she’d just drunk. “My aunt and brother will expect me back in Surrey for the holiday. I’ve never been away from them at Christmas.”
“Oh, but you must bring them too, of course. I can speak for Lady Helena. She’d love to have you. It’s her fondest wish to reunite her husband with his friends. She would count it a blessing.”
Blessing or no, Laura didn’t think Alex would be much inclined to return to Devon. “I shall ask my husband,” she said. “But…he may need time.”
Jenny nodded. “Perfectly understandable. I shouldn’t like to be reunited with anyone from my childhood. A ghastly proposition. But family is family, you know. And being orphans, the four of them were family. We must do what we can to bring them back to each other.”
Laura didn’t promise anything. How could she? Today’s events had made her more uncertain about her future with Alex than ever.
After bidding Jenny Finchley goodbye, she kicked off her slippers and lay down on the hotel bed with all her clothes on. Her skirts spilled all around her in a heap of expensive French fabric.
She stared up at the ceiling.
There was nothing magical about being in love with someone. It didn’t cure every ill or solve every problem. It was simply a feeling. An infinitely precious feeling. Deeper than friendship. More meaningful than mere attraction. But it wasn’t a panacea.
Real relationships were built on more than love. They were constructed with hard work, dedication, and patience. With honesty and mutual respect.
She was ready to do the work. Whatever Alex was facing—whatever demons from his past he must confront—she wanted to be with him. To love and support him through it. But he had to want it, too. He had to let her in. Into his thoughts, and emotions.
Into his heart.
If he didn’t love her in return, how could they ever overcome anything?
It was another half hour before he came back from his meeting with Mr. Finchley. Laura’s heart lurched at the sound of the door. Alex didn’t call out to her. Didn’t utter a single word. But she heard his footsteps as he crossed the small sitting room and entered the bedroom. Heard him remove his boots and his coat.
He climbed up on the bed and lay down beside her, turning his face into the hollow of her neck.
She rested her cheek against his head. “Are you all right?”
“I am now.”
It was a long while before he spoke again. Laura began to wonder if she should press him. But he seemed so vulnerable. So tired. A warrior after a fiercely fought battle.
She smoothed his hair from his brow.
“Finchley has invited us to dine with him later this evening,” he said at last. “There’s a bistro opposite the café. It looked promising enough, but…we don’t have to accept. Not if you don’t wish to.”
“Do you wish to?”
He was quiet again for another long moment before answering. “I’d like you to meet him. And he wants me to meet his wife, as well. I suspect he’s as proud of her as I am of you.”
She glanced down at him. “Are you proud of me?”
“Always.”
“I don’t know why.”
This time, he didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re the best person I know. The kindest. The bravest.” There was a catch in his voice. “And because you’re everything to me, Laura. I don’t know what I’d do if you ever left me.” He gave a short laugh. His breath was warm against her throat. “I suppose I shouldn’t admit to that.”
“Why not? You already know that I love you. And I’m certainly not going to leave you.” She threaded her fingers through his hair. “I believe I’d follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked me. A bistro round the corner will be no trouble at all.”
His arm came around her waist, drawing her close.
She’d told him that he didn’t have to say it back, but she waited nonetheless. Waited for him to say that he loved her, too. She certainly felt as if he did. It was in the touch of his hands, and the deep tenor of his voice. The way he held her in his arms as if he’d never let her go. She sensed it as surely as if he’d declared it from a mountaintop.
And a few moments later, it seemed as if he did declare it. Albeit, in a way that only she would understand.
“Would you like to go to the seaside tomorrow?” he asked.
Happiness was an elusive thing at the best of times. But she felt it flower within her. A bright bloom of optimism. Of hope. “To Cannes? Or to Devon?”
His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “Let’s start with Cannes. And then…we’ll see.”
“I remember Hayes’s Lavender Water.” The rims of Tom’s spectacles glimmered in the light from the bistro’s brass gasolier. “I used to see it in the apothecary shop in London where I bought my shaving soap.”
“Oh yes,” Laura said. “It was our most popular product. For a time you could find it most anywhere.”
Their table was set back near the kitchens. It was small, covered with a snow-white cloth. For the last hour, the four of the them had huddled around it, drinking red wine and eating a simple Provençal meal of lamb stew, fried artichokes, and some manner of garlic soup that seemed to contain every vegetable in the region.
Alex was quieter than usual. He was still trying to acclimate himself to the reality that Tom was here in front of him. Not only here, but in good spirits. Laughing, and drinking wine. Showing no signs of anger or bitterness.
It was the oddest thing to see Laura seated beside him. To watch the pair of them talk with each other. Smile at each other. As if Alex’s past and his future had collided on a remote railway track.
But this was no gruesome collision. There was no wreckage. No injuries. Instead, he had the strange sensation that the two disparate halves of his life were interweaving before his eyes. Joining together at the seams with a strange—and altogether unexpected—sense of rightness. Of harmony.
He wondered if Tom was experiencing the same feelings.
Jenny Finchley wasn’t the sort of lady Alex would have expected his old friend to have married. She wasn’t shy or retiring. Quite the reverse. She was as vibrant as a flickering flame. Alive with questions and opinions. The way Tom looked at her, one would almost think he was a victim of mesmerism. He was plainly besotted.
“There are rose fields in Egypt,” she said. “I’d thought perfumeries in France and England imported their flowers from there now. Or from Turkey or some such place.”
Laura nodded. “In many cases, yes. Especially with roses. But some flowering plants—like lavender—are better grown at home in England. It makes for a softer scent. That’s one of the reasons I was so disappointed to learn that Mr. Weatherwax had sold our farm in Dorset.”
“The canal scheme,” Tom said. “Was that how he lost the profits from the sale?”
Alex frowned at the grim reminder. “So he claims.”
Tom’s own expression grew serious. “All isn’t lost. I’ve been investigating the matter for a client of mine, and it appears as though there was fraud on a massive scale. With luck, some of the victims of that scheme might see a percentage of their investment returned to them.”
“And some of the solicitors involved might see themselves struck off,” Jenny added. “You can’t imagine the sort of things—”
“My dear,”
Tom remonstrated gently. “You know we’re not to speak of the particulars.”
Jenny managed to look chastened. “Was that a particular? Do forgive me, my love.”
Laura glanced between the pair of them, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes. “Do you truly mean that? There might be a way to recover some of my money?”
“I expect so,” Tom said. “Though it won’t transpire anytime soon. Cases of this nature tend to draw out for quite a long while. Sometimes for years.”
The hope in Laura’s eyes dimmed.
Alex gave her a bracing look. “It doesn’t matter in any event. We’re well settled, whatever happens.”
“Yes. We still have the farm here in Grasse.” Her mouth lifted slowly in a faint smile. “It’s really quite lovely here. And the soil appears to be as excellent as the weather.”
“The food is quite good, too,” Jenny said. “Everything is so fresh and fragrant. I shall have to ask what spices the cook used in our stew.”
Tom grinned. “My wife is an expert on foreign spices. She’s been attempting to teach our cook how to make a proper Indian curry.”
“Poor Mrs. Jarrow. She does struggle with it so.” Jenny dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “I don’t know what it is about the English palate. She won’t believe it’s done until all the flavor has been cooked straight out of it.”
“Our cook at Bramble Cottage prefers to boil everything,” Laura said. “There hasn’t been spice in our food in ages. Unless you count salt.”
Jenny wrinkled her nose in sympathy. “You poor thing.”
“Oh no,” Laura replied. “I never even noticed it until we came to France.”
“Have you never been out of England?” Tom asked.
“No, indeed. Not until Alex and I married.”
“We left for France the day after the wedding.” Alex reached the short distance across the table to cover Laura’s hand with his. “I wanted my wife all to myself.”
A Convenient Fiction Page 27