by Lenora Bell
Good God. He kept having the most inappropriate thoughts about her.
Maybe it would be best for all concerned if the twins sent her running back to her agency.
Though it was unlikely they would wear down her resolve in only one day, but not out of the realm of possibility. They’d rid themselves of Governess Number Three in a matter of hours with some sort of homemade itching powder.
Actually, he’d been rather proud of their ingenuity on that occasion.
Had they put pepper in Miss Perkins’s tea? Pebbles in her boots? The toads and spiders wouldn’t work. She was hardly squeamish.
He almost believed Miss Perkins would win any battle she undertook.
Still, the children’s innovation when it came to dispatching governesses was inspired. Perhaps one of them would grow up to be a famous inventor.
Big Ben struck a thudding blow and Brindle wobbled, his eyes crossing, and finally crashed to the floor with a deafening crack. The crowd surged forward, yelling the count.
“On your feet, Brinny,” Edgar shouted, just for show. “I’ve got twenty on you.”
“Bad luck, old friend. He’s flopped,” said West, with a lopsided grin.
Edgar steered him away from the boxing match and toward a quieter table in the shadowy reaches of the public house. He motioned to a barmaid.
Several other gentlemen eyed them, curious about Edgar’s rare appearance in a public house.
When the ale arrived, Edgar sipped, while West pounded back one flagon and received another.
“I think you know why I agreed to meet you here tonight,” Edgar began.
“The railway.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t want any damn railway carving up my land,” said West.
“Never took you for the stodgy, traditional type.”
“’Course not. But I’m not as progress-minded and sober as you.”
“The route needs to go through Westbury Abbey.”
“Why?” asked West, already working on his third ale.
“Avoiding the estate entirely would be disastrously expensive. We’d have to carve out the hillsides along Chiltern and make our own embankments across the Colne.”
“So you’ll carve my lands instead.”
“It will also cross my estate as well.”
“My hedge maze is more intricate than yours.”
“Your hedges won’t be compromised.”
“But my view might. You can’t promise me that I won’t catch a glimpse of your infernal steam-belching dragon from my parapet.”
“Not even from your parapet. I promise you.”
“But I’ll know it’s there. The clanking cacophony of progress.”
Why was he being so stubborn? Westbury owned several estates and castles, all of them more impressive than the small and decrepit Abbey.
“It’s progress that will double the profits of your Birmingham holdings,” Edgar said.
“You think about commerce too much for a gentleman.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“I can see the wheels churning in your mind.” West made unsteady swirling motions in the direction of Edgar’s head. “For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil, as the good book says.”
“It’s not all about profit.”
“What’s it about then?”
“Speed and ease of travel. Lowering prices on coal and commodities. My steam-powered engines will run on the railways, but I’m also developing fire engines. Someone has to stop these fires from sweeping across London every year, killing hundreds and ruining countless livelihoods. The current system isn’t adequate. Those dilapidated old hand-pumped engines.”
It made him so angry that the parish fire brigades still insisted their way was the best.
He was going to show them. He knew that there was talk of consolidating all of the brigades into a citywide one. And he would be ready with his more efficient fire engine when that happened.
“S’that right? Noble cause, eh?”
“Very noble.”
“But profitable.”
“Extremely profitable. If you won’t let the railway through, why don’t you sell me Westbury? It’s only a moldering pile of drafty stones with an army of ghosts. I’ll pay triple what anyone else would.”
West shook his head. “Been in my family too long. I’ve a sentimental attachment to it. Had my first tup there, with a buxom village maid.”
“Sell it to me. No one else will buy it.”
“No.”
“No?” Edgar hadn’t expected so much resistance. This was a former friend. His best friend before Edgar had thrown his old life away.
“You’ve been back in London for nearly two years and you’ve never called on me,” said West. “Not once. After the . . . incident . . . with your father, you just disappeared. What happened to you? Where have you been all these years?”
Now Edgar understood—West was hurt by him leaving. “I’m sorry, old friend. I’m not the same devil-may-care fellow I was when I left. I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me. I renounced my birth. Went underground. Spent seven years as a foundry worker in Birmingham and wasn’t even planning to ever return. I know what they say about me. That I’m not fit to be the duke.”
West slammed down his mug of ale. “You’re joking. A foundry worker?”
Edgar tugged off one of his kidskin gloves and showed West the scars on his hands. “It wasn’t easy, but it was a damned sight more of an honest life than the one I led here.”
“Everyone said you’d gone soft in the head. I didn’t believe them but now . . .”
“Believe what you want,” Edgar sighed. “But let my railway go through your estate. Or sell me the damned estate. What can I do to convince you?”
“I’ve no need for money. You know what I do need, though?” He stared into his ale morosely. “A husband.”
“Er . . .” Maybe West had changed more than Edgar had realized in the decade since their last meeting.
“For Blanche,” West amended. “Remember her?”
“This high,” Edgar swiped the air at his waist. “Straw-colored hair. A penchant for sweetmeats?”
“That’s the one. Only she’s nineteen now, and she’s got a penchant for marriage. I’ve got a surfeit of marriage-aged sisters on my hands.”
Edgar shook his head. “Not going to happen.”
“What’s not going to happen? I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“While your sisters are lovely girls, I’m not going to take one of them off your hands.”
“Who said I want you to marry one of ’em? You don’t have the most spotless of reputations at the moment, y’know.”
“I suppose you’re referring to my children?”
“Twins, are they?”
“A boy and a girl.”
“From the Frenchwoman?”
“Yes.” Edgar clipped the word. He didn’t want to talk about it.
About the scandal that had dogged his days ever since he’d met Sophie. The reason he walked with this damned limp.
“Heard they’re troublesome. Chasing away governesses, what?” asked West.
“Word travels quickly.”
“Governesses.” West shuddered. “Dreary, humorless race. Was petrified of mine as a boy.”
“I’ve a new one. She’s quite promising.”
“Stern and commanding, is she? More hair on her upper lip than you’ve got?”
“Not at all. Wavy auburn hair. Slender waist. Clever gaze. Saucy mouth.”
“I’ll have to meet this governess of yours,” said West with a wolfish grin.
“Absolutely not.”
“Protective of her, are we?”
“You’re not to pursue my governess, West.”
If anyone would pursue her, it would be Edgar.
No, no. That was all wrong.
“If you say so.” West swallowed the rest of his ale. “Now, about my sisters—”
“I’m not going to marry one of your sisters.”
“Told you, don’t want you to marry ’em.” He waved his hand at a barmaid.
“Haven’t you had enough?” asked Edgar.
“Not even close.” West reached for more ale and downed half of it in a few hearty swallows. “Now, see here. This is what you’ll do.”
He drew on the sticky table with a wobbly finger. “Take Blanche riding in an open carriage. Act besotted. Parade her down the Ladies Mile. Stop here at an agreed-upon time.” He jabbed his finger against the table. “Greenlea’s Flower Shop. Leap out of the carriage, impulsive action, et cetera, and purchase her a big bunch of flowers.”
Edgar snorted. “Sounds like courtship to me.”
“’Snot,” slurred West. “She’s trying to bring Laxton up to scratch. You’ll drive him mad with jealousy.”
“How do I know he’ll be watching?”
“Because I’ll bring him near Greenlea’s at the hour we agree on. It can’t fail.”
In Edgar’s experience, plans made by inebriated lords usually failed.
“D’you want your railway through Westbury Abbey or not?” asked West.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“I have five sisters. Laxton will offer for Blanche then and there if he thinks he’s competing with a duke.” He wiped his palms together. “Problem solved. Sister number one off the shelf. Apparently she must marry before the other ones can tie the knot. Bloody rules of matrimony. Don’t understand what all the fuss is about.”
“This’d better not be a trap.”
West slapped his hand down on the table, making the ale mugs jitter and jump. “It’ll be like old times, eh? You used to be such a rakehell before . . .” He glanced at Edgar’s lame knee and then closed his mouth abruptly. “Come with me to the opera tonight. Forget about the governess. What you need is a mistress.”
“First of all, I’m not thinking about the governess, so I don’t need to forget her. Second, I’m far too busy with steam engines for songbirds.”
“Suit yourself.” West leaned back in his chair. He gave Edgar’s nether regions a significant glance. “But if it withers away and falls off don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“No chance of that.” His anatomy was in exemplary working order.
Far too exemplary when it came to thoughts of redheaded governesses.
Chapter 5
Mari was determined to give the children enough physical exercise to render them quiet and peaceful enough to please even the most demanding of dukes. If the children were walking by her side, they weren’t running away.
Armed with a guidebook and a map, she’d marched them across London, stopping at all of the sights. She was tired, but the twins were near exhausted.
Their shoulders were beginning to droop, and their steps to drag.
“Isn’t it teatime yet, Miss Perkins?” asked Adele.
“Teatime?” she replied. “Why, we haven’t even seen the crown jewels yet, and the guidebook says there are waxworks, and menageries—”
“We’re tired, Miss Perkins.”
“Tired? But I thought you liked exploring London.”
“We do,” said Michel. “Only . . .”
“You might like some tea and biscuits in your nice house.”
“We’d prefer French bread,” said Adele.
“Why, what’s wrong with good English bread, if you please?” asked Mari.
“Too soft. No crust to speak of,” Adele explained.
“Not long enough either.” Michel shaped an elongated loaf with his hands. “You break off a piece and . . . mmm.”
“We’ve one last place to visit before we go home,” said Mari, consulting her guidebook. “Westminster Bridge.”
“Who wants to see an old bridge?” asked Michel.
“Tut, tut. I’m quite sure the bridge has no wish to see such a sullen fellow, either. But see it we will.”
They passed the grounds of Westminster Palace and soon they were standing near the entrance to the bridge, watching the carriages and carts rolling by.
“Ah, the Thames,” said Mari, turning her nose up to the late afternoon sun.
“Not very impressive,” scoffed Michel. “Not compared to our seashore near Narbonne.”
“I’ve never seen the seashore. What’s it like?” asked Mari.
“Never seen the sea?” cried Adele.
“Never. I was raised in Derbyshire which is quite landlocked.”
“Well . . .” Adele bit her lower lip. “The seashore is a mixture of smells and sounds. Salt with sunshine mixed into it. And seagull cries. And grass.”
“Grass tall as me,” said Michel.
“Tall as I,” Mari corrected.
“The grass smells sweet and clean,” continued Adele. “The cleanest thing you ever smelled. Cleaner than laundry drying on a line. And it whispers to you when the wind moves through it.”
“That’s a lovely description, Adele. Practically a poem already.”
“Amina made baskets out of the grass after she dried it and our house always smelled like the beach.”
“Who is Amina?” asked Mari.
“Our nurse. We thought she loved us better than anything in the world but then she sent us to live here.”
“Why do you think your nurse sent you here?”
“Because our mother asked her to send us here, before she died.”
Adele’s thin shoulders tensed. “Amina has probably already forgotten about us.”
“She’ll never forget you,” said Mari. “You’re quite unforgettable.”
“It’s been so long though.”
“Months,” agreed Michel.
Mari touched Adele’s arm. “I have an idea, why don’t you write to Amina?”
“Write a letter?” asked Adele.
“Why not? I’m sure your father knows how to reach her.”
“We hadn’t thought of that,” said Adele.
A look passed between the twins. One thing was clear, they were planning to return to France and that’s why they’d been running away.
“I know a poem that was written about the view from this very bridge,” said Mari. “By a fellow named William Wordsworth. Which is a very good name for a poet, incidentally.”
“Why did he write a poem about a silly old bridge?” asked Michel.
“Because he was on the beginning of a journey, traveling from London to Calais, in France. To visit his nine-year-old daughter, Caroline, whom he had never met before. He wrote quite a pretty sonnet about that meeting as well.”
“May we hear some of the poem?” asked Adele.
“Dull would he be of soul who could pass by, a sight so touching in its majesty,” quoted Mari. “This City now doth, like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning; silent, bare . . . ships, towers, domes, theaters and temples lie, open unto the fields, and to the sky.”
She paused. “That’s the beginning.”
“Wearing the beauty of the morning. I like that.” Adele traced circles in the dirt. “It’s not as if we can’t appreciate the beauty of England, Miss Perkins, and our fine new home here. But the duke means to separate us.”
“What do you mean, separate you?”
“We overheard Mrs. Fairfield saying that he’ll send Michel to Eton next term.”
“Ah . . . I see.” Now she really did see. They’d been running away, rebelling against this new life, because they didn’t want to be separated.
“The duke wants to change us into proper, fribbling, milksop prigs,” proclaimed Michel, dislodging some stones from the bank with the toe of his boot.
“You? A fribbling milksop prig? I hardly think it possible,” said Mari.
“He wants to change us, all right.”
“Thomas Moore has a lovely poem called ‘Come O’er the Sea’ that says ‘the true soul burns the same where’er it goes.’”
“You memorize a lot of poetry,” said Michel.
“What do yo
u think Mr. Moore meant?” she asked.
Adele’s nose wrinkled as she thought about it. “Maybe . . . maybe he meant that what’s inside us, the things that make us different from anyone else, those things don’t change when we live somewhere new.”
“I think that’s precisely what he meant, you clever girl.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, watching carts and carriages cross the bridge.
“Interesting things, bridges, don’t you think?” asked Mari. “They connect one place with another. I think perhaps you need a bridge right now.”
Michel frowned. “We don’t need a bridge. We need a ship.”
Adele elbowed him in the side.
“Ow!”
“You’re not supposed to tell anyone about the ship, Michel,” scolded his sister.
“So there is a ship,” said Mari. “I thought as much. And this ship will take you back to France, is that right?”
Another glance passed between them.
“You must miss France, and your life there. And you don’t want to be separated. That’s why you’ve been running away, I suppose. So . . . which ship is to be yours?” She pointed into the distance between London Bridge and the Tower where the ships’ masts bristled in the Pool of London. “Will you sign on as cabin boys?”
Michel’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Adele will have to chop off her hair, to pass as a boy,” mused Mari. “Luckily, I’ve brought some scissors.” She reached into her reticule and extracted a glinting pair of sewing scissors.
Adele scooted away. “What, right now?”
“No time like the present, I always say. Oh your father will surely weep for your absence, and I shan’t be thought much of a success as a governess, but you’ll be on your ship bound for France. You’ll swab down the decks, and trap rats, and clean up drunken sailor vomit. It will be ever so much fun.”
“You don’t make it sound very fun,” said Adele.
“Hello there, sir,” Mari called to a wizened old man mending a net below them on the bank.
He touched his cap.
“Might you know of a ship sailing for France that’s hiring two cabin boys?” called Mari.
His tilted his head. “Can’t say as I do. But perhaps my nephew might. He’s first mate on The Fairweather.”
Michel tugged on Mari’s sleeve. “Miss Perkins.”