by Eva Leigh
“I have business to attend to here,” Tamsyn answered. She turned to Jory. “You received my letter. Have you sold the house?”
“Some bloke who made a fortune from copper mining is interested.” His lip curled, revealing his disgust with the notion of earning money from actual work.
“I want to buy Chei Owr,” Tamsyn announced. “Whatever the copper mine gentleman offered, I can meet his price and more.”
Jory narrowed his gaze while Gwen gaped at Tamsyn. “With what money?”
“With mine,” she replied coolly. She gestured to the carriage behind her. “As you see, I can afford it.”
Jory eyed her warily. They had never been close—this conversation was likely the longest they had ever shared.
“I’ll think about it,” he finally answered.
Frustration prickled her like burrs. “Why not settle the decision now?”
“Because I said I’d think about it,” he snapped, and wheeled into the house.
Gwen gave Tamsyn a sour look before following her husband inside.
Once they were gone, Tamsyn shook her head wearily. Jory had always been a man of perverse temperament—he let the house fall apart around him yet spent large sums to finance trips to stylish places such as Cheltenham—which had to account for his refusal to discuss the sale of Chei Owr.
A disdainfully bored footman appeared at the door. None of the servants ever lasted long due to Jory’s slowness in paying wages. “What do you want?”
“See that my luggage is taken up to my chamber,” she informed him coldly. “And you shall refer to me as my lady.”
“Yes, my lady.” The footman grudgingly approached the carriage.
She said to the coachman, “You’ll find the path that leads to the stables off to the left. Hopefully, they’ll have what you need to see to the horses. If they don’t, go on to the village and ask for Tom Nance. He owns the feed shop and saddlery.”
“Of course, my lady,” the driver answered.
Squaring her shoulders, Tamsyn walked into the house. The front door opened into a narrow, dark-paneled vestibule with a staircase leading up to the next floor. She peered through a doorway into the Great Hall, where dusty sunlight struggled to break through high diamond-paned windows. Some of the panes gaped where their glass used to be.
She went back into the vestibule, and then climbed the creaking stairs. Once at the top, she walked down the corridor, turned right, right again, and then there it was, the door to the room where she’d lived almost her whole life.
Tamsyn pushed open the door, then stood in shock as she beheld an empty room. Everything had been cleared out—the bed, the clothespress, the washstand and mirror. Only a chair draped in holland covers remained, hovering like a ghost near the cold fireplace.
Steps sounded in the hallway, growing nearer. She turned to face Jory as he stood in the doorway.
“You wrote and said you’d wed,” he said without hint of apology. “Didn’t think you were coming back, so we sold the lot.”
“As you can see, I’m right here.”
“Where’s your husband?” Jory demanded.
She made sure to keep her face unreadable as she replied, “In London.”
“Saw that crest on your carriage,” he continued. “You’re truly a countess now.” His mouth turned down when he seemed to realize that she vastly outranked him.
“I am,” she answered. “And your time in this house will come to an end. Soon.”
She shouldered past him, then hurried down the stairs and out of the house, moving quickly to the stables. Aside from the coachman seeing to the carriage horses, the stalls were mostly empty, since Jory and Gwen had sold the majority of their cattle. But one old dun gelding greeted her as she passed, nickering in recognition.
“Hello, Jupiter.” Tamsyn stroked the velvet between his nostrils. “Be a good lad and take me to the village. I have to buy some furniture.” It would have been possible to take furniture from other bedchambers, yet Tamsyn wanted something of her own, something untouched by memories.
Without waiting for the lone groom to appear, Tamsyn prepared Jupiter for riding. Once he was ready, she led him to the steps and mounted.
She nudged Jupiter into an easy walk out of the stables. She passed out of the yard, and then guided her horse to the bridle path that led to Newcombe.
She passed beneath the branches of ancient elm trees that stood sentry on either side of the path. Tall grasses waved in the afternoon breeze, which carried the salty tang of the ocean. It was all so powerfully familiar, so laden with memories—she’d ridden this bridle path with her father on many Saturdays when their destination had been Josiah Williams’s all things shop. There, her father would buy her a boiled sweet and they would sit on the pier as they sucked on their candy. Even now, she could still taste the sugary, lemony flavor of the sweets mixing with the briny sea air.
This place brought her so much joy but also devastated her. Happiness and misery lived side by side—Kit had given her joy but also filled her with despair.
The bridle path joined up with the main road leading into Newcombe. She came alongside a mule-drawn cart jouncing down the lane, and the driver glanced in her direction, then looked again. A smile wreathed his weathered face.
“Miss Tamsyn,” he said warmly. “Or is it my lady now?”
“Miss Tamsyn will do, Ben,” she answered, her heart lifting at the sight of the old farmer.
“When did you get back?”
“Only this afternoon. The baron and baroness gave me their usual welcome.”
“Which is no welcome at all.” Ben shook his head and made a tutting sound. “No mistake, Jory and Gwen Pearce might be your blood, but they’re no part of Newcombe.”
She exhaled. “I suspect that their hate for the village is reciprocated.”
Ben pulled on the reins, and Tamsyn brought Jupiter to a stop. He leaned forward and said in a hushed, confiding tone, “It’s good fortune that brought you back today. Captain Landry sent word that he’ll have a new shipment for us. Brandy and lace.”
All of Tamsyn’s nostalgia and hurt faded. She needed all her focus for this. “When’s the delivery?”
“In a week and a half,” Ben answered. His brow wrinkled. “Since you were in London, I was going to let the captain know we’d have to give this shipment a miss. But if you’re here now . . .”
Though she’d sold the goods in London, the village always needed more. The school needed a new roof, and some of the fishermen’s cottages required repair. “Tell him that we’ll have a landing party ready,” she said decisively.
“Aye, I will.” Ben peered at her. “Begging your pardon, but when we all heard you’d wed a London nobleman, many of us thought we’d never see you again.”
“The villagers were the reason I married. And you should know,” she said firmly, “I’ll always take care of Newcombe.”
He smiled, his face creasing into numerous furrows. “‘Miss Tamsyn won’t let us starve. She’s the backbone of the village.’ So I said at the Tipsy Flea.” He glanced up at the sun. “Day’s moving apace. I’ll make certain that the captain knows to go ahead with the next delivery. See you anon.”
He urged his mule on, and Tamsyn did the same with Jupiter. The horse soon outpaced the cart, and she was alone again on the road to the village.
Weariness dragged along her body, but she couldn’t give in to it. Her responsibilities never ended, and she had to dip back into her reserves to ensure that everything and everyone was taken care of.
Not for the first time, she wished she didn’t have to shoulder all her burdens alone. Yet now she found herself longing for someone specific.
Kit could always tease a smile from her. He’d showed her the joy there was to be had in life. But all that he’d given her was just part of a scheme, a means by which he could get what he wanted. She’d surrendered her heart to him and in turn he’d thought of her as someone to be manipulated.
Yet sh
e couldn’t stop the ache in her chest when she thought of him. She missed him—even if what they had shared had been based on falsehoods.
Chapter 22
Blood sprayed as the heavyweight’s fist connected with his opponent’s jaw. The crowd shouted its approval, clapping and hooting as the challenger staggered from the force of the blow. The air was thick with the smell of gin and sweat and fetid river water as nearly a hundred men packed themselves around the makeshift boxing ring that had been set up in an old Wapping warehouse.
Kit dispassionately watched the fight, wondering what time it was, and how soon he could reasonably excuse himself from Langdon’s company so he might go home.
Yet home was just a large house in Mayfair that contained himself and a cadre of servants. No life existed there. No brightness or joy or energy. It had become simply a place to sleep and eat in between his forays to London’s amusements.
He observed the men in the boxing ring, and barely suppressed a yawn as the opponent sank to his knees before sprawling face-first onto the ground. The heavyweight raised his fists in triumph while the crowd’s yells of approval poured over him. Two men dragged away the challenger, leaving a smear of blood on the ground.
“The next match should be a rollicking good one,” Langdon shouted to Kit above the din. “‘Murderer’ John Grundie versus ‘Bulldog’ Smythe. Last time they fought, it went thirty-one rounds and ended in a brawl that erupted among the audience.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“Wonderful.” Kit couldn’t keep the dismay from his voice. Thirty-one rounds would stretch on interminably.
“I can’t wait to see your excitement when I suggest a visit to a barber surgeon.”
“If he gets me drunk before cutting off a limb, I’ll be grateful.” Kit checked his pocket watch. It was shortly before one o’clock in the morning, which was smack in the middle of a rakehell’s day, yet he felt ineffably tired.
Langdon frowned. “How long has she been gone?”
Kit didn’t bother asking who she was. “A week. Imagine she’s in Cornwall by now. At home and happy.” Which he wasn’t.
“And you’ve no idea when she’s returning.”
“I didn’t press her on the subject.” The day she had left, he’d gone into her room, drawn by a need he didn’t want to examine. Ice had covered his chest when he found the necklace he’d bought her sitting atop her dressing table. His wife had left it behind. “She said she’d return to give me the heir I need.”
Langdon shook his head. “Bad business all around.”
“I know it,” Kit said wearily.
The throng yelled eagerly as two new pugilists entered the ring. Kit didn’t know who was Grundie and who was Smythe, but as he had no money on the fight, it didn’t matter to him. The preliminaries before the match went quickly, and in a trice, the pugilists were beating the stuffing out of each other. Whoever these men were, they seemed to be made of iron as they took punch after punch without going down.
Kit had once enjoyed attending these boxing matches with Langdon. The gin flowed freely and he’d bet with abandon. Now, it all seemed brutal and pointless.
“There’s no possibility she’ll give you the nine thousand pounds,” Langdon pressed.
“None,” Kit replied flatly. “She said it was a terrible idea and a waste of money.”
“A pleasure garden,” his friend mused. “You never spoke to me about it.”
“Some things are too important to talk about.” He’d hoarded his dream like a dragon guarding its treasure, afraid to even speak of it—lest it be met with indifference or, worse, ridicule. If his friends had jeered at him for being foolish, for throwing his money and energy into a project that had little chance of succeeding, it would have crushed the nascent hope that had been budding within him.
Now that Tamsyn had flatly rejected his plan, it no longer mattered who knew about it. There wasn’t much power in ridiculing something that would never come to pass.
Langdon looked skeptical, but didn’t question Kit. “I’d give it to you, old man, but even my allowance wouldn’t cover that sum.”
“Your would-be generosity is appreciated,” Kit answered, yet there was some relief in knowing that his friend wouldn’t deride or mock him. Neither he nor Langdon had ever followed the rules of proper—or improper—behavior.
Kit watched as one of the fighters unleashed a furious combination of jabs and hooks. The opponent managed to block or avoid some of the blows, but others landed solidly. Kit imagined the pugilist’s body must be hurting like a son of a bitch by now, but the damned fool was too proud to bow out.
“I need to let go of the idea,” Kit went on tiredly. “It’s not going to come to pass and the sooner I accept that, the better.” Investing himself in something that had no possibility of existing was a sure formula for misery. But, damn, he’d thought that once Greenwood had become real, he could devote all his energy and time in something good and unpolluted. Something that gave back to people rather than took from them.
He glanced around the warehouse, crammed full of vicious men shouting for yet more blood to be spilled, and his heart withered. “I can’t stay here anymore.”
Thank God Langdon didn’t try to argue him into remaining. “There’s a tavern around the corner. Might be a bit unsavory, though.”
“So long as they have ale, I’ll be happy with a midden perched atop a bog.”
He and Langdon shouldered their way through the crowd until they emerged from the warehouse. Night in Wapping wasn’t particularly pleasant, but something about the place’s unrepentant shabbiness felt precisely right. In short order, they reached the dockside tavern. It was every bit as unsavory as Langdon had warned, with a few sailors and stevedores gathered around tables as they nursed drinks served in dented tankards. A handful of patrons looked up at Kit’s and Langdon’s entrance. Somebody muttered something about unwelcome toffs, but no one sought out a confrontation.
Kit and Langdon found an available settle, and took their seats. Without asking them what they wanted, a weary woman brought over two pints and banged them down on the table before trudging off.
After taking a sip and finding the ale to be reasonably potable, Kit said, “She left in fury. Angry at me for trying to beguile her into giving me the blunt. Which was your idea,” he added sourly.
His friend only smirked. “Shift the blame back onto yourself, you dog. I made a suggestion and it was up to you to decide whether or not to take it up, or what methodology you’d use.” He drank from his tankard. “I imagine I’d be steamed as a pudding if I found out someone was playing me nice but only for the sake of themselves.”
Kit ran his fingers over the table’s scratched surface. “You’ve got a point, goddamn it.” The guilt he’d been trying to hold at bay crept over him, miring him in its heavy fog. For years since her parents’ deaths, Tamsyn had been ignored by her aunt and uncle. They had given her no love. Then Kit came along and made her feel cared for and respected—but it had been for his own benefit, not hers.
No wonder she’d been so sad, so angry. It wasn’t difficult to see why she felt it necessary to flee all the way to the other side of the country.
He’d spent the past few days returning to his old ways. All the entertainments he’d visited—Vauxhall, Astley’s Amphitheatre, the Imperial—had barely moved him. What was the point in going if not to bring her happiness or to see the brightness of her eyes as she made new discoveries? Why do anything if not for her sake?
“I’ve analyzed the field of battle,” he said. “Determined my assets and my liabilities—but I can’t figure out the right course of action.”
“When it comes to the best way to keep a wife happy,” Langdon answered, “I’m no authority. Well,” he added with a grin, “I’m rather capable when it comes to someone else’s wife.”
“You ass,” Kit said with a shake of his head. Langdon only dallied with married women whose husbands also took lovers, part of his frie
nd’s peculiar ethics. “If you can’t give me counsel, what’s the point of keeping you around?”
“My roguish good looks,” Langdon said sagely.
“Ah, that must be it.” Kit swirled the ale around in his tankard. “Damn if I know what to do.”
Langdon leaned back. “That soldier’s intuition of yours kept you alive for years. What does it tell you now?”
“It tells me . . .” He closed his eyes and waited. For a word, a sign, a voice. A feeling. It began quietly, almost imperceptibly, but it was there. It was a need, an absence of something very important. That need grew and grew until it filled him—to see Tamsyn again, to make her smile, to give her pleasure. He had never felt more fulfilled than when dedicating himself to his wife, and the aimlessness which had characterized his life after the War had been replaced by a sense of purpose and gratification. Her absence formed a sizable chasm within.
The pleasure garden had been a distraction, but not an answer. He’d clung to that dream believing it would take away dark memories of the War—and while nothing could ever completely erase them, they had dimmed considerably when Tamsyn had come into his world.
Together, they might not undo the damage of the past, but they would create enough light to dim the shadows.
He wasn’t certain what he could say to repair the rift between them. Better men than him were fashioned for stirring pleas begging forgiveness or knew their way around a proper grand gesture. He could only provide himself and hope that what words he could cobble together might begin to heal the wound.
He opened his eyes and got to his feet. “I need to go.”
“You haven’t finished your ale,” Langdon noted.
Kit threw coins down onto the table. “I’ll have more on the road to Cornwall.”
Nearly two years had passed since Kit had actually been on a horseback campaign. In those intervening years, he’d grown used to sleeping on a bed with a genuine mattress, covered by blankets free of fleas. It had taken him months to break the habit of sleeping with his boots on, and even today, he left them right beside his bed. He now could eat hot, cooked meals whenever he wanted and go to sleep beneath a roof, rather than a canopy of branches, and no rats tried to nibble on his fingers or run across his face.