by Kerryn Reid
She said it as though he was extremely stupid. Which he was. He plowed through his mental list nevertheless. No stone left unturned, and all that.
“A lady’s dresser, then, or some sort of upper maid. A housekeeper?”
“Do you think I haven’t thought of those?” The stridency had faded from her voice, leaving grim exhaustion.
Putnam spoke from behind him. “Such positions take years to achieve. And servants aren’t allowed families.”
“I thought possibly some sort of shop girl,” Anna said. The very next item on Lewis’s list, and the last. “But I could never earn enough to keep Putnam, or anyone else I could trust to watch the baby.”
Lewis got up and strode over to the window. It was raining.
“Face it, Mr. Aubrey, as I have done. There are no choices for an unskilled girl with a fatherless child and no reputation.” Her voice was like granite.
“Please go away,” she said. Despite the please it sounded cruel. She saw him wince, and spoke more gently. “I appreciate your solicitude, truly I do, but I don’t want your help. I must find my way through the brambles alone. Goodbye, Mr. Aubrey.”
She left him standing in the middle of the parlor and closed herself away in her room.
He must think her cold-hearted, thinking only of herself. In all their talk these past two days, she had hardly mentioned the child.
What he did not see was that every tear, every fright, every outburst of temper, had its root in the tiny person growing inside her, whom she would never see grow up, never see happy or sad, never even know if it lived or died. The child who would never remember his mother.
Her lips quivered and she clamped them tight. It didn’t matter what Lewis Aubrey thought. She was responsible for the decision, and then she must live with it for the rest of her life. The only way she could possibly do that was to grit her teeth and shove the pain under the next stone in the wall.
She wasn’t doing very well thus far. What was Pope’s line? ‘Too much weakness for the stoic’s pride?’ Yes, she was weak. But practice and time would make it easier, or at least possible. So she hoped.
Leaning against her chamber door, she heard their voices in the parlor as an undertone for her thoughts—Putnam’s mutter, then the rumble of his baritone. She stepped away and the door fell open a crack. Lewis’s words came soft but clear.
“…be back in a few days. I want you to have this.” Anna held her breath as whatever this was changed hands.
A clink of coins and Putnam’s response. “Lud, sir, we can’t possibly use the half of this.”
“Take it, Putnam. You’ll need hackney fare, more coal, and food—she’s far too thin. You might decide she should see a physician. There’s a long future ahead, however it—”
Anna yanked the door wide and charged through. Silence, except for her feet on the bare floor as she stomped up to them. They had the grace to look guilty.
Putnam held a money pouch. Recklessly, Anna swept it out of her cupped palm to land with a metallic clunk inches from the fire. The maid uttered some appalled exclamation and jumped to the rescue.
“Are you deaf, Mr. Aubrey? I’m quite sure I said I don’t want your help. Did you not understand me? Odd, because I never used to think you stupid.”
His eyes narrowed and his hands clenched into fists. A flush rose from his collar to his cheekbones. Good! She’d taken him down a peg. She hated herself for it.
“Are you finished, Miss Fishwife?” His tone was far from soothing. “Because I have something to say too. You’re not the only one suffering because of your witless indiscretion, you know. Yes, you are the leading lady. Maybe that entitles you to your high-handed arrogance, snapping at those who hold you dear. But Putnam made a real sacrifice to come with you, and you treat her like dirt.”
“Oh, sir,” said Putnam, “that’s not—”
He cut her off. “And I’m at my wits’ end, because in the absence of anyone else, I am responsible, whatever you say.” He pointed a finger at her belly. “That child in there is my blood. He needs my help if you don’t. And what I need is to be sure you’re safe, you and that baby. It’s all I can think about. I don’t have much, but by all that’s holy, if my money can accomplish that, it will be well spent.”
He turned away. Anna drew a shuddering breath. Was he finished? Dear God, what could she possibly say to that?
He faced her again, his glare hot and intense. “It doesn’t matter if you hate me for it, Anna. Because as much as I… As much as I feel for you, it’s the baby that eats away at me. He didn’t choose to bed my brother. He didn’t ask to be conceived. He certainly didn’t ask to be abandoned by his mother, to spend his so-called childhood in the workhouse until he’s old enough to send out to the mills. Unless I can come up with some solution, that’s what will happen.”
Anna gaped. Who is this man? If her feet would only move, she would run away. Lewis had said earlier it was time for truth-telling. He had told it, and she was stuck in it.
He shoved his face into hers, close enough to spit on her. His words stabbed through her heart. “So pardon me if I ignore whatever stray bits of morality or conscience are floating around in your head. Take the blasted money and use it! If you step outside without a hackney waiting for you, I’ll take that as a personal insult. And if you die in childbed because you’re too stiff-necked to see a damned physician, I’ll—” His voice cracked. Putting a hand to his brow, he turned his back on her.
“It’ll kill me,” he said. At least that’s what it sounded like.
Without another look, he marched to the door, tore his greatcoat off the hook, and snatched his hat and gloves from the table. Then he walked out, slamming the door behind him and clattering down the stairs.
Chapter 30
Lewis’s rage carried him through the five short minutes it took to round the corner into the Headrow, hugging the buildings to block the sleet that pelted his hat and shoulders. He’d forgotten the umbrella.
He’d also forgotten to keep his temper. Now he nursed it, nudged it, because fury felt better than the dark emptiness rising beneath it. She had it coming. High time someone told her some home truths about what she did and how it affects others…like me.
Had he said too much? Had he let on how much he cared? Or was she too sunk in self-pity to notice?
It was time she took pity on someone else for a change. But not you, you blockhead. It’s the child who matters! Well, he’d told her that, in no uncertain terms, and he’d seen the barbs hit home. Saw her flinch, saw her wilt, saw the shock in her eyes, the dismay.
He stopped, turned to the wall beside him and leaned against it with his gloved hands. Damn it! After bottling up all his frustration and worry in order to avoid hurting her, he’d done it anyway. Heaven forbid, he’d sworn at her. Her expression haunted him.
She hurt me too.
Was that why he’d exploded? His own pique over her unintentional infidelity all those months ago? He kicked the stone foundation, felt the nerves shudder clear up to his knee. You inconsiderate clod. She had no thought of wounding you. She had no thought of you at all.
The bells across the street at St. John’s surprised him. Only half past twelve? He felt bruised, as if he’d been riding at a gallop all day long.
He owed her an apology. Her book…
With a sigh, he slogged his way to the library. The same man was at the desk today, and Lewis had no difficulty getting possession of the remaining volumes of Childe Harold. Tucking the two slender books inside his greatcoat, he went back out into the cold rain. He could have hailed a hackney, but he deserved the discomfort.
Putnam opened the door, her finger across her lips. Her gaze scanned his wet hair, wet coat, the furrow between his brows, the sodden hat in his hands.
“May I see her? I want to apologize.”
After a glance at the open bedroom door, Putnam slipped out to the landing. “She’s asleep. The lord knows she gets little enough of it these days.”
>
“Ah.” He stood at a loss. “I’ll come again later then.”
She rubbed her nose. “Best leave her be for now. She’s got a lot to think on. Not saying she didn’t need a shove, but you were mighty hard on her.”
“I know.” He could write her a note, but what would he say? Instead, he pulled out the books. “Give her these, and tell her… Just tell her I’ll be back in a few days.”
“Does your business have to do with her?”
He shook his head. If she chose to interpret that as a no, that was fine. He wasn’t about to tell her where he was going or why. If Anna found out, she would have every right to be furious.
He wrote a brief note to Sir John, another to Mr. Redfern, and proceeded to drink his way through the evening, hoping it would help him sleep. Surely twenty-two hours jouncing along the road to London would be sufficient time to plot his course. He didn’t need to lie awake all night fretting about it.
But he did not sleep, and the next morning he had the devil of a headache. The coach didn’t help, packed like oysters in a peddler’s bucket.
He had counted on Anna’s cooperation. Instead, she’d not only stymied his efforts to move her into better quarters or engage a physician, she’d vetoed every suggestion for a future that might include her babe. She turned out to be less sweet and tractable than he’d thought. That revelation should have cooled his ardor, but it had not. Not in the least.
No one could blame her for taking a dim view of life as a mill girl or seamstress. The idea of Anna in any of the positions he’d brought forth for her inspection would be laughable, if the need were less dire.
Having found no road forward there, the alternative reared up to stare him in the eye. Gideon.
Lewis could not like any plan that kept Anna tied to Gideon for the rest of her days. He would be the very devil of a husband. But if she still loved the knave, perhaps a marriage between them could be a success. If he could persuade his brother to do right by her. Browbeating him with home truths would be about as effective as transforming into a horsefly and buzzing around his head.
If not that, would he agree to set up a fund for the child? If this were the Army, they’d call it a forlorn hope. Gideon received a generous allowance, but Lewis couldn’t imagine he would tolerate any reduction. The rest of his inheritance lay in Father’s hands, and the thought of Father approving payments to Anna’s sort was ludicrous.
The well-padded woman jammed against his left side turned to him in concern. “Are ye all right, dearie?”
He lied. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ye look a bit peaky. Hope yer not ailing. This cold rain’ll do a body harm.”
If only he could blame the rain. “I hope not.” He leaned his head against the coach wall and feigned sleep. Presumably he could think just as poorly with his eyes closed.
He dozed off and on, disturbed by each laugh or cough from his fellow passengers, each jolt in the road, each turnpike, each jarring stop to change horses and pick up mail. At Sheffield he clambered down to the ground, used the necessary and drank half a mug of ale. Then it was dark, and the woman beside him could no longer see if his eyes were open or closed.
Around midnight, they tore through Northampton. He scalded his mouth on a cup of coffee served too hot and drunk too fast, but he needed it. In six hours they’d be in London. What would he do?
Find Gideon. Explain the situation. Keeping a firm hold on his temper, inquire what Gideon intended to do about it. And when he said “Nothing,” run him through with a sword, take all the valuables he could find, and pile them in Anna’s lap.
He almost laughed aloud. Anna had no lap.
The plan was appealing but impracticable. While there was no doubt in Lewis’s mind that Gideon deserved to die for his sins, the justice system wouldn’t agree. Besides, Gideon might run him through first. Or shoot him. Or throw him out the window. But damn it, this was Gideon’s responsibility. He must be given the chance to put things right. If he refused…
If he refused, it would be time for yet another plan. And Lewis didn’t have one.
After shivering in the gray dawn while the coachman heaved boxes and bags down to the waiting passengers in the inn yard, Lewis grabbed his portmanteau and staggered inside. It was too early to go looking for Gideon. Waking him from an alcohol-induced stupor following his night’s carousing was no way to catch him in a receptive mood, and without the right mood, Lewis wouldn’t get tuppence out of him. Lewis took a room and lay down on the bed.
The rumble of the coach followed him into his dreams. Anna walked the dark, wintry road alongside in a white muslin gown and dancing slippers, oblivious to the swaying vehicle beside her and to Lewis pounding on the window, unable either to open the door or get the coachman to stop.
He rolled over with a groan and sat upright on the edge of the bed. While an axe sliced his brain in two, he felt for the watch in his waistcoat pocket… Nearly two o’clock.
He rang for hot water and scrambled out of the shirt and trousers he’d worn since climbing out of his bed at the Rose and Crown more than thirty hours past. Washed, packed, and dressed in clean clothes, he forced down an ale, some bread and cheese. Then he paid his shot and took a hackney to Gideon’s rooms in Jermyn Street.
The best of London’s lodgings for gentlemen had footmen guarding the entry beneath crystal chandeliers. This was not one of those.
But however far below the top rung it might be, the building stood in stark contrast to Anna’s pesthole in Leeds. The vestibule glowed in the sunlight, all marble tiles and burnished metalwork and tastefully painted walls. The staircase easily accommodated two abreast. And if there were rats and cockroaches—the poor had no exclusive right to them, as Anna had pointed out—they kept themselves hidden. Wide, clean corridors on each floor, with a mat outside each door. A brass knocker and nameplate. G. Aubrey.
G. Aubrey was not at home. More concerning, neither was his man. Please don’t let him be out of town.
Bag in hand, Lewis walked the couple of blocks to Lindale’s address. They’d exchanged a handful of letters since Lewis left town in August, and those letters had overcome the last of his skepticism. While Lindale’s letters incorporated a generous dose of gentlemen’s gossip, their primary object was to stay abreast of Jack’s progress.
That loyalty spoke well of him, and Lewis had become more forthcoming not only about Jack, but about his own activities in Wrackwater Bridge. Lindale turned out to be both thoughtful and well-read—and as aimless as Lewis himself.
Lindale was at home. With a clap on the shoulder, he led Lewis into the parlor. “Join us. I’m having a few drinks with someone you know.”
Lewis had hoped to talk alone. But then he saw who it was.
“Why, Fuller!” Lewis strode across the room as Captain Fuller unfolded himself from a deep, comfortable chair. A tight smile disturbed the glower he’d worn when Lewis came in.
“Say, Aubrey,” said Lindale, handing him a glass of something. “You look bloody awful.”
Lewis blew out a breath. “I’m fine. Long trip south, that’s all.” He sipped his drink and gasped, bringing on a coughing fit.
Lindale laughed at him. “That’s good rye whiskey, Aubrey. Clear out your nasal passages.”
“Rot your stomach too,” said Fuller, emptying his own glass with an “aaughh” that spoke of pleasure and punishment at the same time. “What brings you to London?” His tone of voice, and the squint that accompanied it, were too pointed to be idle curiosity.
What to say, what not to say? Lewis sat and took another swallow… Better this time.
“It may seem unlikely, but I’m looking for my brother.”
Lindale opened his mouth to say something, but Fuller cut him off, his focus tightening.
“It don’t seem unlikely at all, depending on the reason.” Yes, the captain had something on his mind. Well, Lewis had his own problems, he didn’t need to get involved in Fuller’s. Besides, the axe was still at work in
side his head.
Lindale spoke, his voice bland. “A call from the paterfamilias, perhaps? The captain would be delighted to send Gideon home for an extended visit. Preferably in a coffin.”
“Good heavens.” Lewis slanted a look between the two of them. “Spreading goodwill all over, I gather. Have either of you seen him? There’s no one at his rooms, not even his valet.”
“Bath, most likely.” Fuller said this with a growl that would have made a mastiff proud, stalking back and forth across the room.
Lewis blinked. “Bath?” Far too stodgy for a rake like Gideon.
Lindale cleared his throat. “It seems your brother has taken a fancy to Miss Wedbury.”
Fuller stopped and thundered down at Lewis. “You didn’t know? Has no one mentioned it? Not Sir John or Lady W? Or Jack, or Cassie herself? Gideon’s all but moved to Bath. Stays at the White Hart and does the pretty, escorting the ladies to assemblies and the pump room. Spends a few days in town now and then to get laid and drink his fill. That snake. I’ve only been able to get there three times, and he’s always dancing attendance.”
Lewis shook his head. “Don’t worry about Cassie. She hates him as much as I do.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” the captain said. “She dances with him at every opportunity.”
“She’d have to dance with her escort…”
“Twice at every bloody assembly? I tell you, he’s seduced her.”
On the word, Lewis leaped to his feet, knocking over the chair. “Not Cassie too?” It was only a whisper, out before he knew it. His head swam.
Lindale rested a hand on his shoulder. “I believe he means that figuratively, old chap. No need to get out the swords quite yet.” His voice was soothing, the voice of reason.
But both men watched him, waiting.
Lewis sucked in a few deep breaths and made a circuit of the room. They waited.