With that cryptic statement she stood and wobbled away, the plumes on her hat bobbing as she wove unsteadily between chairs and tables, only striking a few in her perambulation.
“Lady Venture,” he called after her and started out of his chair. “Let me . . .”
But as the landlord followed her outside, Tony saw that her private carriage was waiting, and the coachman, a steady old man by the name of James who was devoted to the family, was there to help. He sat back down in his chair, relieved that she had someone with her who would take care of her. James waved at Tony through the frosted glass and winked as he aided Lady Venture’s precarious reentry from the icy cobbles up into the carriage. The coachman climbed the box and with a flourish of his whip they were gone back down the narrow street.
Tony sat down, finished his cooled coffee and stared at the folded note. Did he dare read it? As long as he didn’t, he could imagine it contained high-flown professions of love and adoration from Savina. She would say she was desolate without him, and that she had broken her engagement with Lord Gaston-Reade because she loved Tony so much and could no longer bear living a lie.
Taking in a deep breath, he admitted how foolish was a man who would still dare to dream after all hope was extinguished, and unfolded the letter. He read it, nodded once, and refolded it. As with all fools, he had been doomed to disappointment. The note was a simple request to see him at her father’s house. It said nothing further, and he could only guess, since she had thought he was still employed with the earl, that she was going to use him as an intermediary, perhaps, to return gifts the earl had given her during their engagement. What else could she want?
At least he could tell her he was looking for a position that would take him away from England. What had felt unfinished between them would finally have an end.
• • •
The note in reply to hers had made her heart thump and her stomach clench. He had left Lord Gaston-Reade’s employ, the note said, but Lady Venture had been kind enough to bring him her request, and he was coming to see her if she was free today between twelve and one.
She looked up at the clock on the mantel of the gloomy little parlor as she paced, wringing her hands together in front of her. It was twelve thirty. She caught herself, made herself stop, and started all over again when she heard the footman answer the door and usher her guest into the entrance hall. She glanced over at Zazu, who sat in the corner, her dark eyes bright with mischief.
“Don’t stare at me so, Zazu, or I shall never get through this.” She touched her hair to make sure it was tidy and smoothed her dress down, trying to calm the quivering of her hands. “I’m afraid I shall stammer and make an utter fool of myself.”
Zazu grinned, her sweet full lips turned up in a smile that had not been there before knowing they were both going back to Jamaica. She stood and crossed to Savina and took her restless hands in her warm calm ones. “I’m going to leave you alone,” she said, searching Savina’s eyes. “I don’t care what the servants think, nor should you, about you being alone with Tony. We shall be far away from them all soon, and far away from this damp and dreary island to our sunny, warm island. And we will walk on the sand arm in arm and see the misty Blue Mountains, and—”
“And you’ll marry Nelson.” Savina joyfully clasped her in a hug. “And you’ll be my friend and partner, and we’ll work together to prove that a plantation without slaves is possible. It all may be a dream, but we’ll succeed or fail together.” They were silent for a moment, clasped to each other. “I love you, Zaz,” she whispered, inhaling deeply her friend’s cinnamon scent.
Her former maid, now friend, pushed away from her and walked to the door into the dining room. The murmur from the footman was louder as he and Savina’s visitor approached the parlor. Zazu paused and said gently, “I love you too, my sister. Now, do what you can for your own happiness.”
Savina composed herself as her friend exited and the door to the hall opened.
The footman bowed and said, “Mr. Anthony Heywood for Miss Savina Roxeter.”
“Thank you. Please shut the door on your way out, Jenkins.”
The footman ushered Tony in, bowed again and closed the door. Savina heard a whispering in the hall beyond the door and could imagine the scandalized staff, but she didn’t care anymore. This island, this city was not her home and never had been. She was Jamaica-bound. She gazed steadily at Tony. He was so very different from the man she had come to know on their little cay in the Caribbean. Immaculately dressed, his boots shining, his face shaved clean, his brown hair close-cropped, he was the stiff and formal secretary Mr. Anthony Heywood still, not her own exciting, enticing, barefoot Tony.
“I received your note,” she said, trying to begin a conversation. “You have left Albert’s employ.”
“I have.” He took a couple of more steps toward her. “And I understand from the paper that you have renounced your engagement.”
“I have.”
They stood and stared at each other for a long moment. Savina could hear her own heart pound. Could he hear it too? Would he wonder at the cause?
“Lord Gaston-Reade has had a rather disagreeable week,” Tony finally said.
Savina grinned. “I say he is a fortunate man, for I wouldn’t have made a suitable wife, and certainly a scandalous countess.” Tony did not respond to her smile, and she turned away. This was going to be much more difficult than she had even anticipated. She turned back. “Will you sit down, Mr. Heywood . . . Tony?” What had once been easy between them was now awkward since they had come back to England, and she wasn’t sure how to correct it.
He bowed, indicated with a gesture that she should sit first, and then followed suit at the other end of the settee she chose. Cold, hard sunshine shone into the dim parlor, illuminating their corner and dancing off gold threads in his hair. She stared down at her clasped hands, then fiddled with her dress, pleating the blue-and-white-striped fabric in her fingers. Her hands were cold and numb, a perpetual state even with the fire blazing in the hearth at the end of the room. Jamaica would solve that, and she would never be cold again. “I have been the fortunate recipient of a bequest,” she began, then didn’t quite know how to proceed.
“I congratulate you,” he said, his furrowed brow showing plainly how confused he was by her beginning.
This was awful. What she wanted was before her, tangible, within grasp, and yet so very far away. She could feel him, and remembered the strength of his arms, the sweetness of his mouth on hers, and yet there was a barrier between them. She had asked him once, on their deserted island, what there was between them, but if he had answered, she didn’t remember, and now she was afraid all of the emotion and longing was on her own side. If she could know how he felt . . . but that was impossible.
“Zazu and I are going home,” she said, meeting his gaze, but then faltering as she lost herself in the warmth of his brown eyes. “We’re going home,” she repeated, looking back up at him, her voice stronger, “to Jamaica.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. “How wonderful for you both! Zazu must be happy.”
“She is. And so am I. England isn’t my home. Father is happy here, and now that he is to be married, I can feel sure he will be comfortable. He and his new wife can come and visit, perhaps. Or . . . perhaps not.” That had been part of her struggle, the knowledge that going back to Jamaica could possibly mean seeing her father for the last time. But if she had had her way they would have stayed in Jamaica. Coming back to England had been her father’s desire. It was time now to do what she wanted.
Tony steadily watched her and she longed to be closer to him, to feel his warmth, to feel any kind of comfort in his arms again. But she was so uncertain; their time on the island had been time out of mind, a step away from real life. Or was it? Maybe that was real life and this was the illusion. Regardless, all she knew for sure was that she had no way to tell by his reticent behavior if there was still that attraction. London ha
d forced them apart, made them act as strangers. She had become someone else here: irresolute, vacillating, doubtful. To get back to who she truly was would take a return to Jamaica, with or without him.
But she hoped it would be with him. How he greeted her proposition would tell her if there was hope for them to find each other again, to be themselves as they were on the island..
“I think your father only wants your happiness,” he said slowly, watching her.
She nodded. “He does. I think he understands why I want to go back to Jamaica, though he would rather I stay in England.” She stopped, and silence descended between them again. This was ridiculous, she thought, shifting impatiently and turning to face him on the settee. She needed to say what had to be said. “What about you, Tony? You don’t have any family here, do you?” She knew the answer, remembered it from their conversation that memorable night in the cave, with the wind whipping the trees and rain slanting into their shelter.
“No, my parents died many years ago.” He met her eyes and gazed deep into them, but when he lost the thread of his conversation, he looked away and fastened his gaze on the window. “I have a brother, but he’s attached to the war office and is in Belgium now. He has married a Flemish girl, and even when the war ends I think he’ll stay there, where her people have land. We correspond occasionally.”
“Oh.” This was getting more stilted and awkward by the moment. “But . . . but you have a friend, I remember.”
“Yes. An old friend.”
“I’m buying a plantation,” she blurted out. “In Jamaica. One I know of, close to our old home.” The information came out in pieces, her voice quavering. She had a question . . . an offer to make.
His gaze jerked back to her. “Oh?”
“Yes. There is a derelict plantation close to my old home, and I always did love it.” She felt the excitement build as she spoke of it and could picture the vine-choked grounds, the long drive overrun with weeds, and the crumbling stone walls of the manor house. She supposed it was her own version of the haunted old mansion house she had imagined would be her bequest, but this she knew what to do with. “I would wander there for hours and plan grand renovations. There is a house, a groundskeeper’s cottage, quite a few outbuildings, and many acres that used to be devoted to sugar. I’m buying it, and Zazu, Nelson and I shall run it with only free labor, freed slaves, Maroons, anyone we can get. We won’t plant sugar; we’ll grow coffee, for the plantation land runs right up into the mountains, and the terrain is suitable for coffee bushes. The worker families will be able to earn a plot of land to raise a family by working with us on Liberty. That will be the name of the new plantation.” Her chin went up, but then she took a deep breath. She had already had to defend her plan to people she required to help her, including the solicitor and her father. She had defeated every argument and stubbornly insisted on her way; her father had seen that further argument was futile and had finally given in, reluctantly. But she relaxed, then. She knew enough about Tony to know she didn’t have to defend her vision to him.
His eyes shining, he said, his voice gentle, “How wonderful.” He slid closer, reached out and took up her hand, squeezing it. “I’m so very proud of you, Savina.”
“Will you help me?” she asked, getting it out quickly before she had time to become frightened of the risk, and encouraged by the warmth of his handclasp. She slid even closer to him on the settee until their knees touched, still holding his hand. “Will you help me, Tony?”
He stared into her eyes, silent for a long minute. The clock on the mantel ticked. Somewhere in the house someone dropped something and it crashed on the floor. But his gaze never wavered.
“Of course I’ll help, any way I can. How?”
“I-I-I know very little about . . . about financial affairs and such. I understand reasonably well the day-to-day running of a plantation, but I know nothing about money, nor does Zazu. I’m afraid of losing everything without someone there I trust to guide me. I need a partner.”
“A partner?”
Her heart pounded and she felt sick, but she had come too far now to back away. She clung to his hand when he would have withdrawn it and stared into his eyes, the brown so warm, with crinkles at the corners as he squinted at her in puzzlement. “Yes, someone to run the financial aspect while Zazu, Nelson and I run everything else. It will be a risk, you see, and . . .” She trailed off, seeing the mystification in his expression. She had to say it, had to make it clear. “It would only work, of course,” she said, raising her chin, and trying to catch her breath, “if we were married. We could marry and be partners, you see. The money would go to you as my husband and then you would be able to manage it for me; you could travel to Jamaica and live with me at Liberty. As . . . as partners.”
In such bold words it sounded cold and selfish, and she scrabbled around in her mind trying to find a way to soften such a plain statement, but she could think of nothing short of throwing herself at his feet and confessing her undying love. But that would end everything if he said he didn’t love her and so wouldn’t marry her, knowing he couldn’t return her feelings. Somehow London—dirty, cold, gray city of lost souls—had taken from her all her courage, her sense that what she was building with Tony was strong and based on mutual affection and attraction. She was shaky and afraid, and as much as she hated feeling that way, at least she had summoned the boldness to ask him to throw his lot in with hers. If it meant she had had to approach it this way, to make it a business offer, then so be it. He liked her, didn’t he? And cared for her in some way? Would the idea appeal to him?
From the shocked and frozen expression on his face, she couldn’t tell.
Tony felt worse than frozen, he felt as if he was encased in mortar, unable to move even to pull his hand away from Savina’s tight grasp. But finally, as anger flooded him, he felt his joints loosen and he pulled away his hand. It seemed ludicrous to him that once he felt they were so linked they could know what the other was thinking, feeling, wanting. This disgraceful . . . offer had come as an unwelcome shock. Had this city torn them asunder? Perhaps their mutual sympathy had been an illusion. He stood and said, “How could you think I would agree to such a mockery of the marriage state? For money? What kind of avaricious fortune hunter do you take me for?”
“You misunderstand,” she said. “I merely meant—”
“Meant to insult me, clearly,” he ranted, “with an offer so immoral—”
“Immoral?” she cried, standing and facing him. “How is it immoral? Are you saying that every arranged marriage between men and women is immoral? Is my offer not what women are offered every day, when they are asked for their hand in expectation that their dowry will aid in the establishment of a family’s wealth?”
“This is different. This is—”
“I fail to see how it’s any different,” she snapped. “I need your help. It will only work if we’re married and able to live together on the plantation. We’re friends, aren’t we, and like each other well enough? How is that any different from other marriages?”
“It’s different,” he said, whirling on his heel and striding toward the door. He grabbed hold of the porcelain doorknob but didn’t turn it. If he was honest, he would admit to her that he hoped she would want something more from him than his help in establishing a plantation, but if that was all he could offer her, financial advice and guidance, he would rather starve. He supposed she had really asked him as a sop to her father’s fears for her, some misguided worry on his part that she would be prey to money-grubbing colonialists. She trusted him and knew what he was, and if he was calmer he might be flattered, but the insult lay at the core of the offer, that marriage to Savina Roxeter would be a wise business move for him, much like taking a position as advisor to some wealthy nabob.
And it stung because he loved her so very much and wished she loved him too, wished she felt for him one tiny iota of the emotion he held within his breast for her. Women were such a mystery, but she couldn�
��t love him and offer him her hand as a business partner in such a cold manner. It wasn’t possible.
He looked back at her. Her cheeks were pink and her breathing quick, and she appeared to be furious, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. There were tears in her eyes . . . tears of frustration and anger that he was being so obstinate? But then so was he furious, and devastated. He stood by the door, uncertain of what to do, but he couldn’t bring himself to be honest, couldn’t think what to say. There was nothing to do but leave. He yanked the door open and charged out, hearing her call his name, wanting to go back but needing to leave more.
He walked out forgetting his hat and stick, forgetting anything but the need to get away. He strode out the front door, down the damp walk and across the street to a tiny enclosed park opposite; he paced the length of it, remembering the island, their island, and their night together, the bond that they had forged and that he still felt. The little park was brown and dead. Jamaica was lush and green, filled with life and promise . . . and love that could be his someday.
Was he a fool? He paced anxiously, his boots thumping along the stone walk, the dead chill of the air freezing the tips of his fingers and his ears. Carriages rattled by, the clop of horses’ hooves loud on the cobbles. He sat down on a stone bench and buried his face in his hands. What was he doing? The girl he loved more than even his own life had offered him marriage, and all he could do was climb on his prideful conceit and refuse, choosing to feel insult when he should be grateful she felt anything for him at all, even if it was trust and reliance. There were worse beginnings to marriage than friendship, mutual reliance, trust and caring. Pride would be a cold and lonely meal when she was far away in Jamaica and he still in England.
He gazed back at the house from the park entrance. The cold stone façade repelled him, but within it was a warm, vivacious woman, the lady he loved. Perhaps this offer was all business, but given time, away from the strictures of London society, maybe he could win her heart and keep it this time. Without thinking he walked across the street, leaped up the steps and threw open the door. The footman stalked into the hall, but he pushed past the man and entered the parlor. She was still there, and her expression was even more frozen.
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