Discovering Miss Dalrymple (Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Book 6)

by Emily Larkin

  “Tudor,” her father said, resting his hand on the back of one of the pews.

  The church had a feeling of age to it, and it also had the same peaceful feeling as the graveyard. Georgie found herself wondering if Vickery had been christened here. She rephrased that question in her mind—Where was Charley Prowse christened?—and her gift gave her the answer.

  She led her father to the font. It was large and square and made of stone, with a wooden cover. “Norman,” her father said, running his fingers over the carved stone.

  “Vic was christened here,” Georgie said, and wondered if the date had been recorded anywhere. “Oh!” She lifted her head and turned swiftly, crossing the nave, moving almost blindly, not seeing with her eyes but with her gift.

  “The parish register,” she said, bringing the book back to her father. The register was large and leather-bound. “Vic’s christening is recorded in here. And his birth.” She laid the register on the font and carefully opened it, turned a few pages, seeing dates and names inscribed in spiky black handwriting, and then closed it again. “I think we should wait for Vic.”

  Vickery joined them ten minutes later. His cheeks were now dry, but his face was still taut, still tight.

  “You were christened here,” Georgie told him. “In this font. And look, the church register. I thought . . . would you like to see the entries about you?”

  He nodded, but didn’t speak.

  Georgie carefully opened the pages. There was no need to search; her gift told her where each entry was. She found his parents’ wedding first, in February of 1784. Fifteen months later came his birth—Charles Prowse, May 18th, 1785—followed by his christening. Twenty-one months after that, his sister’s birth. And lastly, the three deaths.

  Vickery read the entries silently. He didn’t speak. He looked as if he couldn’t speak, as if his throat was so choked with emotion that speech was impossible.

  Georgie turned back to the entry recording his birth. Charles Prowse, May 18th, 1785. “You’re four months younger than we thought.”

  Vickery made no reply to this comment.

  She glanced at him, saw the tightness of his jaw, the moisture bright in his eyes, and said, “Have a look through the register, Vic. Take as long as you like. Father and I will wait outside in the sun.”

  At the door, she looked back. Some trick of perspective made Vickery look very alone—the arched roof, the long nave, his solitary figure. She wanted to catch up her skirts and run back to him and say fiercely, You’re not alone, Vic.

  Her father held the door open for her. Georgie cast one last, anxious glance at Vickery and stepped outside. She blinked in the sudden, bright sunshine and released her breath in a sigh. “Poor Vic.”

  “Let’s see if we can find some accommodation in the village,” her father said. “He’s had enough for one day. Liskeard can wait.”

  “The aunt in Liskeard is dead,” Georgie told him.

  “Is she?” Her father sighed, too. “Well, we’ll tackle that tomorrow.”

  Chapter Nine

  Alexander was used to having many demands made on him. It came with being a duke. He had eight estates, each with tenants and employees, and although he had secretaries and men of business and bailiffs and stewards, ultimately all decisions rested with him. And if it was the Duke of Vickery’s responsibility to foster his estates, it was Alexander St. Clare’s purpose to bring an end to child labor. He’d written letters and given speeches, had campaigned and petitioned, had forged ahead, every month a little closer to his goal.

  His days had been filled with things that needed to be done but he’d never had any difficulty holding it all in his head, in deciding what to do first, what second, what third. He’d never felt harried or harassed, never felt overwhelmed.

  He felt overwhelmed now. Everything was chaotic in his mind. It was a relief to cede control, to let Lord Dalrymple arrange accommodation in Lansallos, to not have to make any decisions, to be told that this was where they were staying for the night, and that this afternoon they’d do nothing more strenuous than walk down to the cove.

  The walking was a relief, too—to be outside, to simply be putting one foot in front of the other, no need to think or talk or make decisions. Not that his brain was silent. I am Charley Prowse. The name went round and round in his head. Charley Prowse. Charley Prowse.

  It didn’t feel like his name. Didn’t feel like him.

  They followed a cool, shady woodland path with a creek burbling alongside. Alexander walked mechanically, his boots crushing bright yellow celandine flowers. After some time they emerged into sunlight. A tiny part of Alexander’s mind noted that this was a clifftop meadow and that the sea was close by; the rest of his attention was occupied by his new name, his new history, his new family. “The landlord says there’s a cutting that leads down to the cove,” he dimly heard Lord Dalrymple say. “Shall we?”

  Alexander didn’t care where they went. I am Charley Prowse. Charley Prowse. He followed the Dalrymples, placing his feet automatically, oblivious to the beauty of the day. The path sloped downward, banks rose on either side, the sky was blotted out, his left shoulder brushed rock, his right shoulder brushed rock—

  Abruptly, all his attention refocused on the here and now.

  He was in a tunnel. A dark tunnel. A dark, narrow tunnel.

  Georgiana’s voice echoed ahead. “How quaint this is.”

  Alexander froze. Memory swept through him: soot in his eyes, soot in his nose and mouth, the rough warmth of bricks pressing close, no way forward, no way back. No light to see by. No air to breathe.

  His panic was absolute. It consumed him utterly. Alexander turned and blundered his way back up the tunnel, bruising himself on stone. He burst out into daylight, bent over, and vomited, his stomach emptying itself violently.

  When the paroxysms had finished, he straightened and wiped his mouth, shaking convulsively, gasping for breath. The panic retreated and a measure of sanity returned. He turned and looked at the dark hole he’d escaped from. It wasn’t a chimney, or even a tunnel, but a cutting in the rock, narrow enough that wiry mats of grass met overhead, blocking out the sun.

  Alexander discovered that he was crying, hot salty tears that he could no more control than he’d been able to control the vomiting. The taste of tears and bile mixed in his mouth. He scrubbed at his face with shaking hands. “Fuck,” he said hoarsely. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” All that panic because a few blades of grass blocked the sun.

  The terror had vanished the moment he’d burst out into daylight, but it had left behind a residue: despair, exhaustion, defeat, a sense that he’d completely lost control of his life, that he was as powerless as he’d been when he was four-and-a-half years old and forced to climb chimneys.

  “Vic?” Georgiana emerged from the cutting, closely followed by her father. “Are you all right?”

  His humiliation was now complete. Alexander turned away, rubbing his face fiercely, trying to hide the tears.

  “Vic, what is it? What’s wrong?” He heard concern in her voice. Concern because she didn’t know the truth, didn’t know that what was wrong was him, that he was twenty-nine years old but he still had his child’s terror of the dark.

  Alexander had known two nights ago in the scullery that he couldn’t marry her, and he knew it again now, with utter, stone-hard certainty. And if he told her what was wrong with him, Georgiana would know it, too.

  So tell her, a voice said bitterly in his head. You owe her the truth.

  “Vic.” He felt a tentative touch on his sleeve. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid of the dark,” he said, and felt shame, such shame, shame in his chest, shame in his belly, shame.

  “What?”

  He turned to face her, knowing what he must look like, flushed and tearstained. “What’s wrong is that I’m afraid of the dark.” His voice was loud, almost a shout. “I can’t go down there.”

  Both Georgiana and her father glanced at the cutting and
back at him. He saw astonishment and confusion on Georgiana’s face . . . and dawning understanding on Lord Dalrymple’s.

  “Alexander,” he said, “it’s all right—”

  “No,” Alexander said. “It’s not all right.” He turned and walked away from them.

  He walked fast, almost running, and once he knew he was out of sight, he did run. Not to get away from the Dalrymples but to distance himself from the moment when Georgiana had seen him for who he truly was. He ran until his chest was burning, then staggered to a halt and bent over, hands braced on his knees, lungs heaving.

  When he’d finally caught his breath, he straightened and wiped the sweat from his face and looked around. He was in a clifftop meadow fringed with hedgerows and trees. The sea was a vivid, sparkling blue and buttercups were bright in the grass. Alexander stared at the beauty surrounding him and felt despair and defeat. I pretend to be a man, but I’m not one. And now Georgiana knew.

  He closed his eyes, remembering the shock on both their faces.

  Oh, Christ, he’d practically shouted at them.

  Alexander shoved his hands through his hair. “Fuck,” he said, out loud.

  At least he hadn’t stayed to see the shock on their faces transform to disgust.

  If you’re going to do something, do it well, his father had always told him. Well, if he’d had to burn his bridges, at least he’d done it thoroughly, crying in front of the Dalrymples, raising his voice at them, running away.

  “Fuck,” he said again.

  He’d have to face them. Of course he had to, at the very least to apologize, but he wasn’t ready for that moment yet, and so he kept walking.

  After half a mile, he came to an empty country road. There was no signpost in sight, but he didn’t have to be a genius to know that turning left would take him back to Lansallos and turning right would take him further away.

  He went right, striding fast, his boots crunching in the dry dirt and throwing up puffs of dust.

  The road sidled closer and closer to the cliffs until there was nothing between it and the sea but an eighty-foot drop. Alexander went to stand on the very edge. The sea breeze was strong, buffeting him back. He had to lean into it to stay upright. Waves crashed on the rocks below. He stared down at them. Why aren’t I afraid of this?

  He should be. An eighty-foot cliff, not sheer but close enough, with the occasional thorn bush sprouting from the rock. If he fell, he’d die.

  But heights had never been something he’d feared.

  Alexander sighed, and stepped away from the edge.

  The road turned inland after a quarter of a mile. Alexander stayed by the cliffs, following a rough path. A riding officer’s path, most likely. To deter smugglers.

  But he saw no riding officers, or smugglers. Only sheep. And after an hour he came to a sizable fishing village. I could get lost there, Alexander thought, looking down at the busy harbor and the stone houses climbing the hillside. Be someone other than who I am.

  It was tempting. Very tempting. To leave Alexander St. Clare behind and simply become Charley Prowse. To never return to Thornycombe. To never see Georgiana again.

  Except that if Georgiana wanted to find him, all she had to do was ask herself where he was. And he couldn’t do that to her, anyway—just vanish from her life. Not after what had happened to Hubert.

  He sighed, and walked down to the village.

  Alexander had a handful of coins in his pocket. He spent one of them on a pint of ale. It was only after he’d drained the tankard that he took note of his surroundings. The tavern was a working man’s one, a primitive place with rough trestle tables and a dirt floor.

  Alexander drank his second pint more slowly, observing the other patrons. They were an uncouth lot, loud in their laughter, inclined to rowdiness, their accents so thick that it was almost impossible to understand what they were saying.

  I would have been one of these men, he thought. If Joe and Martha hadn’t died, he could have been sitting here right now.

  There was an odd, disorienting moment when he felt as if two of him sat in the taproom, one dressed in the trappings of wealth—a coat of blue superfine, soft buckskin breeches, the best top boots Hoby could make—while the other wore a coarse smock and rough leather breeches and wooden clogs. The first man, the wealthy one, sat off to one side; the other man didn’t. He was part of the crowd, laughing with his friends.

  The noise grew louder, there was a general stir of movement, men were standing, calling across the taproom to one another, picking up their tankards, jostling each other in the doorway.

  Alexander sorted through the few words he’d understood.

  “A boxing match?” he asked the tapster.

  “Aye,” the man said. “A turnup, out back.”

  Alexander picked up his own tankard and drifted outside.

  The boxing match was a friendly one, but friendly or not, one man ended up with a bloody nose, the other a blackening eye. Grinning and winded, they reclaimed their tankards. There was some good-natured shoving, a little heckling, and two more men stepped forward and squared off against each other.

  Alexander stood and watched and drank his ale, part of the crowd but not part of it. No one jostled him, no one spoke to him.

  The men fighting had impressive physiques, but no form at all. Alexander winced as a punch went glaringly wide, winced again as an opening was missed.

  When that match was over, Alexander put down his tankard. He took off his coat, his waistcoat, his neckcloth. God only knew where his hat was. Probably back at the cutting.

  He rolled up his shirt-sleeves and stepped forward.

  The laughter and the heckling stopped. Silence fell. Everyone was staring at him.

  Alexander waited, but no one stepped forward to fight him. “What?” he said finally. “No one here wants to hit me?”

  Someone snorted, someone else laughed. Of course they wanted to hit him, the stranger in their midst with the expensive clothes and the aristocrat’s voice.

  A man stepped forward. He was about Alexander’s age, about his height, with weather-beaten skin and big, calloused hands. He put up his fists. “I’ll fight yer.”

  Alexander had had boxing lessons since he was eight years old. He wasn’t an outstanding boxer, but he was a good one. He won the bout in less than three minutes, sending the man off with a bloody nose. After that, everyone wanted to take a turn with him. When he was still unvanquished after four more bouts, someone handed him a tankard of ale. Someone else asked him his name. “Charley,” he said, and gulped down the ale.

  He had two more bouts, sweating and panting, laying down his last opponent with a cross-buttock throw, then spent the next half hour repeating the move over and over with men who wanted to learn it. Some of them smelled of fish and some of them of sheep and all of them of ale and old sweat, but at this moment there was no difference between himself and them. His accent and his clothes meant nothing. He was one of them.

  Someone pressed another tankard into his hand. He drank thirstily.

  “You wrestle?” asked the man he’d first fought, his bleeding nose now staunched.

  “Never tried it,” Alexander said.

  “Want ter try?”

  “Absolutely.” He drained the tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “Now?”

  A ring of men formed around them. There was laughter and good-natured teasing and a sense of anticipation, as if a spectacle was about to be witnessed.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready,” Alexander said.

  Ten seconds later he found himself on his back in the dirt, winded and wheezing. His opponent helped him to his feet, grinning.

  “What the devil was that?” Alexander said, once he’d caught his breath.

  “Cornish wrestling.”

  Everyone wanted a chance to toss him on his back in the dirt, but each toss taught him something. Alexander collected a bloody nose and some bruises—and experience. Cornish wrestling was abo
ut speed and brute strength and footwork and shifting one’s weight at the right time, but most of all it was about leverage. When he finally brought someone to the ground, he hooted with glee. Several men slapped him on the back. Someone shoved another tankard into his hand. He drank it, bruised, bloodied, and elated.

  It was almost dusk by the time Alexander returned to Lansallos—by farm cart. He wasn’t drunk, but he was fuddled. Definitely fuddled. He climbed carefully down at the crossroads, thanked the man, and fumbled his last coin from his pocket.

  The cart rattled away. Alexander stood, swaying slightly. He was beginning to feel his bruises. He cautiously fingered his nose. It didn’t feel swollen.

  He squinted at the inn, squinted at the church, and chose the church. He climbed the path, found his family’s grave, and stood looking at it. He didn’t feel like Alexander St. Clare anymore. He felt like Charley Prowse.

  “Alexander?”

  He turned quickly, almost lost his balance, caught himself. “Sir.”

  Lord Dalrymple looked him up and down. “Been in a fight, have you?”

  “Wrestling.” He squared his shoulders and steeled himself for the dressing down he deserved. “I apologize for my behavior this afternoon, sir. It was unpardonable.”

  “Was it?” Dalrymple smiled faintly. “Sit down, Alexander. We need to talk.”

  Sit?

  He stood bemused for a moment, then followed Lord Dalrymple to a stone bench outside the church, warm in the last of the day’s sun.

  Lord Dalrymple sat. Alexander sat, too, aware of how disheveled he was, how grimy, aware that he stank of his own sweat and other men’s sweat and blood and dirt and ale.

  Lord Dalrymple didn’t seem to mind. “Thank you for your apology,” he said, “but it’s quite unnecessary. The apology is mine to make. Leonard told me about your dislike of the dark years ago. I should have remembered.”