by Liz Tyner
‘I never imagined you going against the wishes of your father,’ she said.
The words hit him with the force of a hammer, sparking the twist of regrets that could gnarl itself around him. ‘My father’s wishes guided my life. The overall point of them. Not his words, nor his actions, but his wishes. Accomplishing them is my life’s goal because they are the basis of everything I believe.’
He formed words he would never say to any other person. ‘He guided me until he lost his way. Then I became the Duke even though he was alive, in the same way the Prince Regent had to assume power from his father. His father lives. Mine does not. It wasn’t our choice; but necessary. There is a certain tragedy in that.’
He’d wrested his father’s power from him while he was still alive. ‘My father died in the same room I now sleep.’
That night, Edge had seen his father’s eyes sharpen and lock on his son. Edge hadn’t woken his mother, but stood at his father’s bedside.
His father died surrounded by splendour, but desolate. He’d awoken, his mind strangely clear, to ask Edge what had happened to the boy and Edge had told him the woman had left with the child. The curse on the Duke’s lips wasn’t directed at his mistress, but at Edge. Because he knew. In those last moments, lucidness had returned and his father had known his son had taken everything from him while the old Duke lived. The estate was in his son’s hands. The mistress had been sent away. Only the title remained in his father’s name and that only by a thread.
‘I was the favoured son. The heir.’ The son who would always have the disappointment of his father in his memory. Until those last, dying words, Edge had not realised he’d sent away his own brother.
* * *
Lily reached out, brushing her fingers over Edge’s knuckles. She wanted to give him comfort.
The thought flashed in Lily’s mind that the only reason she hadn’t been like her mother in the past was perhaps because she’d never really been alone in a room with Edgeworth. She breathed in the scent of his shaving soap and it warmed its way into her chest.
Her mother’s weakness had seemed unfathomable in the past—but that was all crumbling now. She moved, standing behind the table.
One of Edge’s eyebrows quirked. He’d noticed her putting the distance between them, and a hint of a smile flashed and disappeared.
She grasped for something to speak of besides the old Duke. She didn’t like thinking about the way his life had ended.
‘Even with all the diplomacy, you could never have improved my mother’s life,’ Lily said. ‘She had all she could wish for and she couldn’t remain happy. She would mire herself in despair and only raise her head in a search for attention from her family, friends or a man. When she walked into a room, she kept moving, talking and flitting about. She had to be noticed.’
‘You should have been kept with your father.’ His face was like thunder, as if her pain were his own.
‘If we didn’t return to her house when she sent for us, she would arrive and take Abigail by the hand. I had to go as well. If we’d said we didn’t want to go with her, tears and curses would have jabbed the air.’
‘Theatrics.’
He’d heard the shouts.
‘I didn’t want your family to know and she would have continued until she won. Father would agree to anything to keep her from shrieking or running out of the house in her chemise. Mother’s emotions controlled her and it wasn’t only pretence. She wouldn’t know I was aware of her and she would be dancing or crying.’
‘But she’s away now.’
‘Yes.’ The last Lily had heard, she’d followed a love—married as well—to somewhere near Manchester. ‘I hated Mother’s outbursts, but Abigail didn’t seem to mind as much. I tried to keep her from the worst. I tried to make it sound adventurous.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘It must have worked. She wishes to wed.’
‘You don’t have to have that kind of a life.’
‘Of course not.’ But she could already feel the spirit inside her bubbling to life when Edgeworth just leaned in her direction. She couldn’t let herself teeter on some brink because of a weakness in the emotions inherited from her mother.
Even now, keeping the wall between herself and the giddy, foolish side of nature took all her effort. She didn’t have the same grasp on her thoughts when he stood near.
And if she were to step into a duchess’s shoes, she could imagine that more people than just a governess would be speaking of Lily’s mother’s life and Lily’s birth.
‘I wish I had asked my mother before she left about the other man. The one hinted at in the newspaper and mentioned again by name in the book Sophia Swift wrote. The blacksmith. Mr Hart. But the time never seemed right and she could be so...volatile. And each time I thought of it, I told myself it didn’t matter. I am who I am regardless.’
‘You could speak with him.’
‘No. It would be disrespectful to the man who has sheltered me my whole life.’
Silence moved between them. Whatever he made her feel, she could never let Edge into her heart. She’d seen marriage from the eyes of her mother’s friends. The shouts. The tears. The husbands living in one place. The wife in another. Or the one marriage she’d envied. The one perfect marriage. His parents—until his father’s mistress showed up at her mother’s house upset because she and her beloved had no secret place to meet.
Her mother had commiserated. It was no mistake she lived in a home where visiting carriages couldn’t be easily observed. A small house her husband purchased for her residence and with no particular merit except seclusion.
Lily and Abigail had been sent to their father. They’d been so happy to be back at the estate.
Then the old Duke had escorted his wife out to a soirée one night soon after, ever so perfect. Just like before. Lily had been standing outside. She’d heard the Duchess’s laughter as she’d stepped into the coach. The old Duke’s eyes had raked across Lily as if she’d been so much refuse.
Her heart pounded in her ears and reminded her of her mother’s despair. The romances had always started simply enough.
‘He spent an extra moment talking with me. He touched my hand. We are so in love.’
And then...
‘He hates me. I wish I didn’t exist.’
Her father and mother were in love once, she’d heard, time and time again. She’d heard it shouted and whimpered.
One of her earliest memories was of her mother taking her by the hand and leading her into the blacksmith’s shop. Lily had felt she walked into a cave. A hammer clanged and she’d thought it swords clashing. The coals glowed like dragon’s teeth and she’d looked around, expecting some sort of winged creature to dart at her.
She pushed the memory aside to speak. Her breaths raced, fighting each other for dominance. ‘I saw the blacksmith once when I was young. A sweaty beast of a man waving a hammer, swinging it in my direction. He told us to get out and never return to his sight.’
‘Lily.’ Edge’s voice soothed. He moved around the table now, taking her by the arms, sending her insides into frazzled, unfamiliar pulses. ‘That was a long time ago.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m—’ She pushed his arms aside. She stepped back, propping herself against the wall. Her body trembled. She didn’t have to hold out her hand to see the tremors because the ones in her heart were bigger.
‘All my life I’ve known I don’t belong in your world. My sister does and I watched over her so she would be comfortable anywhere—I told her she belonged with kings and queens over and over.’
She’d not felt the least envious. But, now she wasn’t sure.
‘I’ll tell my father I refused your request. He can’t force me to marry you and if he tries, I’ll leave town,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to. I will tell him I haven’
t asked.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He must know. I’m not only refusing your request for now—I’m refusing it for ever. I’m the blacksmith’s daughter. I’ve earned my place in this home by caring for my sister, but I will never be a duchess.’
‘What of our friendship?’
Cold air washed over her. She hugged her arms around herself.
To lose the moments she had with Edge and make them only memories would gnaw at her for years, but she’d known all along he wasn’t to be hers. Always she’d known. He could never be hers.
‘We can’t have a friendship now,’ she said.
Nothing moved in his face. Nothing. But his eyes could not have been bluer or colder. Then they changed and he didn’t seem to see her as he turned away.
Chapter Six
He only slept fitfully, waking often to think of Lily. When the sun rose, he took the ring from his smallest finger and put it back in the box.
Her words kept floating through his mind, or at least the part of her lack of interest in what would be a perfectly sensible marriage, with some shared insensible moments to make it worthwhile.
He thought of the valet, a perfect servant. Gaunt didn’t need an extra nod. The wage he received proved his worth. Some of the lesser servants might appreciate a kind word, however. He’d tell Gaunt to pass the news along. Or better, he’d tell them himself.
He dressed without ringing for his valet, then he walked from his room and moved to the top of the servant stairwell, hearing a murmur of voices. Taking a few steps, he could almost hear his father’s voice telling him that a duke did not go into the servants’ quarters. It was unseemly for the Duke and the servants would be affronted, thinking he assumed them incapable of doing their job and seeing to his needs.
He listened. Instructions were being given to someone. ‘This is an excellent house to work in, and you’ll like it here...’
Exactly.
‘But His Grace must never see you. Nor his guests unless it is a moment when you’ve been summoned or it can’t be helped. We must always be invisible to someone so lofty as him. The housekeeper will let you go if he mentions you to the butler.’
The voices moved away.
How could he represent the country well if he didn’t even know what happened under his own roof and if the people he paid couldn’t even be seen by him?
He returned to his room and rang for Gaunt, telling him to search out disreputable clothing.
* * *
A stable boy sent on an errand to the blacksmith’s shop had found the tavern the blacksmith frequented, and Edge had been given a good description of the man.
That night, leaving behind a valet who wouldn’t sleep until Edge returned, Edge stepped from the carriage. The scent of roasted meat reached his nose. A violin wafted through the air, mixing with shouts of laughter. An oaf stumbled along, talking about his aches, with a female companion guiding him by pulling on his arm.
Inside the Bear and Boar, no familiar faces stared back at Edge and after a few grunted greetings no one paid him much attention.
A man with a full head of white hair and an overgrown scattering of whiskers walked in, matching the lad’s description. The blacksmith sat in a spindle chair by Edge, the scent of burned coals clinging to him. ‘New visitors with coin in their pocket always buy me a drink,’ he said.
‘That so?’ Edge asked.
‘I would suppose, since you’re the first one I ever remember seein’ in here.’ He tapped the chair leg, scooting it in Edge’s direction. ‘You lost?’
‘No more so than on any other day.’
‘Then sit and tell me where you’re from. Got a toff’s voice.’
‘My past is my business.’
‘Ah.’ The smith smiled. ‘So tell me the nature of your crime.’
‘I’ve committed none.’
‘You mean you’ve not been caught.’
‘No. I’ve committed no crime.’
The man’s eyes wrinkled at the sides and his face lit again. ‘Well, I don’t suppose you have to be honest to buy me a drink. And I can talk for a while. I’ve got a fair share of words stored that I’ve been saving and it seems like they’re getting so clogged in my head I can’t pull out the right one every time.’ He finished off the last of his liquid expectantly. His shirt sleeve had a neatly seared hole in the arm. ‘Or I could be just foxed.’
Before Edge had finished his first mug, the older man waved to the barmaid to bring them another drink, while rambling on about the forge.
‘I started when I was a lad at my father’s knee. Or perhaps earlier. I was born with a hammer in my hand, best I remember.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Edge. ‘Remember what I said, lad. First rule of blacksmithing is you don’t have to be honest with people, but you do have to be honest with the metal. It won’t let you lie. You follow its rules or you start over. I never get tired of the beauty of steel. You can heat it until it’s soft, pliable. The more care it gets, the harder it becomes. Just like a man with a pretty woman. Only the metal’s smarter.’ He chuckled. ‘And what do you do with your days?’
‘Mainly work with ledgers.’
‘Other people’s money.’ He shut his eyes and looked dreamy. ‘Probably the most beautiful thing next to a warm woman or hot steel.’
The buffoonery continued on, with the man waving two more mugs their way. He rambled with no seeming purpose to his words except during pauses.
‘So whose ledgers do you work with?’ he asked.
‘A man on St James’s Street.’
‘And who might that man be you work for?’
Edge had been waiting for the question. ‘One of the toffs.’
‘He have any work done on his carriage wheels of late?’
‘I wouldn’t remember.’
‘You’re a man of numbers. Wouldn’t you have seen the bill?’
‘I see so many bills.’
‘So tell me something about yourself. You have heard all the stories I tell and so has everyone around us. Wife you love or can’t tolerate? Mistress who wants marriage or to see the last of you?’
‘What of you?’
‘Wife some ten years. Says she loves me like a pinch o’ snuff, whatever that means. But she does like her occasional pinch.’ He laughed. ‘Just as I do.’ He leaned forward, the mug grasped firmly. ‘So what of your sweetheart? She ready to shoot out your heart? If she was still in the flush of love, I doubt you’d be here.’
‘I’ve no sweetheart.’
‘Shouldn’t you be out searching?’
‘You’ve only been wed ten years. It seems you got a late start.’
‘Third wife, but who is counting? First wife died in childbed with our babe. Second wife run off with a tailor, but died of a fever. Gave up on marriage, until I met this one. She’s eight years older than me and has outlived a fair share of husbands. Perfect wife. She could move an anvil with one arm. Can melt steel with one glance if she’s in a temper.’ He raised his brows high. ‘I do just as she asks.’
‘Are you the man who once courted the Hightower woman?’
The man’s wife wasn’t the only one who could melt steel with a stare. ‘I believe you know more about me than I know about you.’
‘You’re the man mentioned in the Sophia Swift book?’
‘I am, but you’re peddling old dirt that does no one any good.’ He stood, calling over his shoulder, ‘Martin. Daniels. This man asked to leave.’
One of the scruffier men, hair hanging around his face in a never-washed mop, looked up. He wore a coat too warm for the night and stuck his hand in the pocket, grasping something. Another man poked his head from a small door, holding a fowling piece.
In a distant part of his mind, Edge realised he was finding out how it felt not to
be a peer. If he’d suddenly introduced himself, he suspected that wouldn’t help him stay in the room any longer. ‘I’ll be on my way,’ he said. Reaching to the weapon in his boot would have been the most senseless thing he’d ever done.
But now he knew for certain he’d found the right man and tomorrow he’d visit the man’s shop so they could speak alone.
* * *
Stopping his horse at the blacksmith’s, Edge tied the reins loosely to the hitching post. He didn’t have to worry about the horse straying. He gave her several light pats on the neck and knew she understood. She’d wait until he returned.
Flat rocks set flush into the ground surrounded the shop, making a comfortable walking area, and the man’s house connected to the forge.
Walking into the forge reminded him of his scorched skin. The memory of the pain flared—and the leeches. As long as he could move, no one would ever put one of those creatures on him again.
In the night, Edge had recalled everything he could from his conversation with the blacksmith and, even though the man had called for reinforcements to dismiss Edge, he’d not seemed the kind of man who’d shake a hammer at a child. And if he was, Edge could take the hammer from the man. Lily would never have to know and it wouldn’t appear in the papers. No one even knew who Edge was, or his purpose.
The wide-open doors of the shop did little to brighten the enclave. Inside the forge glowed, flickering in his direction, blinking jewels of death. He walked inside the dreams he’d had while the laudanum dulled his pain and flared his imagination. In his pain and nightmares, he had stood inside death.
As he pushed forward, his footsteps didn’t slow nor did his heartbeats. The scent of coals and heated leather moved through his nostrils. He could taste the smoke and, when he swallowed, it rested in his stomach.
The blacksmith’s hammer banged, reverberating in his head. The scars on his legs shot fresh pain to his temples, making the fabric of his trousers scrape against his skin.
The blacksmith hadn’t heard him, but kept clanging on the metal, a tolling bell that could have gone on for ever.