You state without equivocation (I feel compelled to remind you) that you would like to be privy to my early compositionary efforts. Please bear in mind, they came to the fore shortly after I celebrated my ninth birthday.
And so, my lord, due solely to your encouragement, I shall mitigate my pending embarrassment and share my poetical talents, minimal though they are:
Drip. Drip. Drip it goes.
All day long, it grows…
The pile, the dripping,
Gluey, sticky pile…from his nose.
A sonnet (or is it an ode?) dedicated to Mr. Freshley of the Dripping Nose.
Thea (who will hurriedly blow hers and hope she’s not given you a dislike for her magical quill—or her taste in literature)
8:53 a.m.
She sat.
8:56 a.m.
And sat some more.
9:02 a.m.
Prowled across the room. Looked out into the empty hallway, scowled at the stairs leading down to the footmanless kitchen. Scowled again toward the closed front door. She returned to her drawing room and sat down again.
9:04 a.m.
She waited. Contemplated. Huffed a hearty sigh. Drank a delicious cup of the rapidly cooling tea.
9:11 a.m.
She stood and crossed the room again (twelve times to be precise). Then her posterior greeted the chair once more where she cogitated further on exactly what to do with her reply.
For once, there was no one waiting in the wings to deliver it. No exuberant, button-eating youth ready to speed it to its recipient. No stern-faced, kind-hearted man reaching out to receive it in person.
Nay, there was simply one lone (and swiftly growing frustrated) “virgin” mistress wondering what the deuce she should do.
9:18 a.m.
Her foot tapped a jittery tattoo upon the rug. Her fingers drummed upon the sealed note—and with sufficient agitation to rattle the desktop. Her breath heaved forth like an angry horse blowing steam.
9:41 a.m.
“Hummmmmmmmmmmm.”
Drat. Only thirteen seconds.
9:42 a.m.
Deep breath. “Hummmmmmmmmmmmmm.”
Better. Seventeen this time.
9:43 a.m.
Here we go. “Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-egck! Eeegkk!!”
Knock. “Why, Miss Thea, you’re turning blue! Here now, borrow one of my shawls. And I’ll warm ye some more tea.”
9:50 a.m.
9:51 a.m.
Did she smell peaches?
9:52 a.m.
9:53 a.m.
9:54 a.m.
Had she ever checked a clock as frequently?
9:55 a.m.
Hated contraptions.
9:56 a.m.
She should have dismantled this one an hour ago.
9:57 a.m.
Well now.
Just what the devil should she do with her note?
9:58 a.m.
Ball it up and have a snack with her tea?
By 10:07 a.m. Thea had swallowed her nerves and snatched up her letter and marched down to the kitchen to inquire whether Mr. Samuels had Lord Tremayne’s direction.
“I have an inklin’ of his neighborhood but not an exact address,” he’d told her. “Before movin’ in, we dealt with the agency and his man of affairs, Miss Thea, not his lordship directly. I could inquire, run round to the agency and—”
“Nay. That isn’t necessary,” she responded, reached for a peach scone hot from the oven, and furtively crept back to her writing desk (perhaps there were unspotted raindrops she could scrub from the rug or the wall).
By 10:26 a.m. Thea had also declined Mr. Samuels’ offer of inquiring via his lordship’s man of affairs. She’d paced the room another twelve times (times twenty), and watched the clock tick with wretched slowness.
She’d also declined another pot of tea, another scone, and feeling sorry for herself.
Self-pity would never do!
Of course Lord Tremayne would send Buttons by soon. Last eve, he’d seemed as eager as she for their lighthearted correspondence to carry on. She was just being an impatient ninny.
By 10:52 a.m. she was plucking at her dress. Though Mrs. Samuels had laundered it (and even mended the lace Thea had so expeditiously sewn on two days ago), she’d still rather be wearing something else when Lord Tremayne came to call.
He’d surprised her last evening, arriving before she changed into the beautiful night rail he’d sent. What if—
Pure excitement raced through her veins. What if he meant to retrieve her reply personally? What if he were simply waiting until a socially acceptable time to call?
Was she truly expected to wait the entire day before “posting” her note?
Horrors!
At 11:06 a.m. she jumped up, thinking to dash to her rented room in the unsavory part of London to gather what few personal items she retained. Everything of value had long since been sold, and though a single one of Lord Tremayne’s leather gloves (if not a single finger on a single glove) was surely worth more than the sum total of all she possessed, the thought of greeting him in something other than her old olive dress drove her onward.
But the reluctance to return there made her pause…
The thought of visiting the dingy room threatened to suck dry all the joy she’d felt today. Yet there was one item she’d grieve were it to disappear, which was more than likely to happen the longer she left the space abandoned: her hairbrush, a gift from her mother when Thea was but twelve and right before her doting parent succumbed to a swift illness. The handle was fancy, the boar bristles soothing.
That was surely worth retrieving.
But what if, during her trek across town, she missed his arrival?
At 11:08 a.m., conflicted, she dropped back down.
11:16 a.m.
“No, thank you, I still have this last cup.”
11:17 a.m.
“I’m glad my color is better, and aye, the shawl is quite warm. I appreciate the loan of it.” And aye, I’ve learned my lesson about timed humming.
12:24 p.m.
“Thank you. Lunch would be lovely.”
“I saw yer eyes spark at those scones. Making a peach cobbler now, I am. ’Tis my duty to fatten ye up.”
12:47 p.m.
“Please don’t think it’s your bountiful offering; I’m simply not hungry. Such a large breakfast, you know.”
Such worry-induced indigestion, you know.
1:03 p.m.
If that clock doesn’t start ticking with more alacrity, I’ll wring its scrawny neck…
1:20 p.m. (and fourteen s-l-o-w ticks of the second hand)
Oh, doom me to Devonshire! I’m turning into Mr. Hurwell!
That unpalatable thought ringing in her mind, Thea returned the shawl (she didn’t want the damp weather messing with the fine yarn) and asked Mrs. Samuels if she could spare a hunk of cheese (which the woman did, her perplexity only growing when Thea explained it was for George and Charlotte).
Moments later, she set off, refusing Mr. Samuels’ offer of escort, insisting her errand would best be conducted alone. In truth, she would have been comforted by the company, the thought of confronting Grimy Grimmett nearly enough to make her embrace Clock Watching as a full-time occupation, but she was made of sterner stuff than that.
Asides, knowing—and with a great degree of certainty—that she had Lord Tremayne’s arrival to look forward to upon her return only hastened her feet once she left her new residence.
Hastened her down one damp street and then another.
Hastened her a bit faster when the tiny drizzle turned to a full-out downpour…
Until Thea realized, more than a little taken aback, that she was totally and completely lost. Lost and without the fare to pay a hack—had she any notion of her new address. Which she didn’t.
Middlesex could’ve been Mercury for all she recognized through her dripping lashes.
Surely she wasted half the afternoon searching for a famili
ar landmark, but she might as well have taken the slow coach to Scotland for all the good her wandering did.
Early that morning, Daniel received a letter—just not the one he was anticipating.
Dan—
Jackson’s — 10 a.m.
P
And people thought he was abrupt?
The summons wasn’t entirely unexpected. But the timing was. Disappointing, if not downright disheartening.
So instead of whiling the morning away, fiddling with that pesky gear, the one that hung up every time he tried to get Uranus orbiting properly, while awaiting Thea’s next missive, he packed up his pugilistic paraphernalia and hied off to #9 Bond Street. Ready to get his face boxed, if not his ears.
It was nearing noon and Penry had yet to put in an appearance. Or grace Daniel with the ragging he knew was coming.
Slam! Daniel got in a solid jab, then danced back on his toes to the cheers of several men who’d gathered to watch when his latest opponent had issued the challenge over twenty minutes ago. Hell, it was the third person he’d sparred with today and he’d hardly even broken a sweat.
Certainly didn’t know the name of the prig he currently shared the ring with, some young blood back in town after his Grand Tour. A cocky upstart who’d insisted they fight gloveless, and without wrapped hands, so Daniel would “feel the wrath of my every knuckle plowing into your flesh, old man.”
Old man? Who did this coxcomb think he was dealing with? Methuselah?
Daniel owed it to every male with less than three and a half decades in his cup to take the blustery fribble down a notch. And he’d been doing it in style.
Child’s play, really.
Ducking, spinning, landing a nice one-two on the chap’s not-so-cocky-anymore chin, slowly but surely wiping that smug expression off his face.
Giving his mind way too much time to ponder his friend’s unexpected absence.
Was Penry trying to serve some sort of mangled justice by not showing on time? Doubtless, given his cryptic note, he had an earful to deliver concerning the Everson boy. And even though Daniel was no longer a grateful lad of eight, he respected the man enough to listen to any advice he cared to impart.
After all, hadn’t it been Penry, back then known to a young Daniel simply as Will, his older brother’s best friend, who was the one person at home—outside of Ellie and their mother—to come to Daniel’s defense once David was gone?
“Lookit what we have here,” Robert had drawled one afternoon shortly after David’s death, sliding from his heaving horse and approaching Daniel, who might’ve sniffed a time or two but was tearless. “A little c-c-c-c-cry b-b-b-b-ba-baby!”
“Stop that, Rob,” Will had ordered, jumping to the ground and following a bit slower, leading his horse who wasn’t breathing nearly as hard. “Quit mocking him. You know he can’t help it.”
They’d come upon Daniel while riding over the extensive Tremayne estate, lands that, to a playful boy, had once meant fun and freedom but that now provided only silence and solace. Silence from his father’s accusations; solace in the form of memories.
Daniel, still grieving the loss of his best friend and twin, had returned to the scene. Only this time, instead of climbing the tree and laughingly daring David to follow, he’d hunkered down at the base and tried not to cry. Tried with such agonizing effort, he’d bitten his lips so hard, two teeth pierced skin.
“M-m-m-m-mmmmocking him!” Robert had chortled, waving a thin stick in Daniel’s face, perilously close to his lips. The very branch he’d been using to whip his horse into a lather moments before. “Stupid t-t-t-t-toad. I still cannot believe I’m saddled with the imbecile for a spare.”
Robert used the branch to slap Daniel on the head, prompting the little boy to scramble to his feet. But he held his ground, proud. Not a single tear had fallen. Not before and not now. Turning to his friend, Robert continued, both his attack and his hateful tirade. “Papa’s livid he wasn’t the one to fall—”
“Rob, I said to stop!” Will snatched the weapon and snapped it in half.
By now, the stick had landed twice more on Daniel’s cheeks, leaving twin red welts. “Hate you!”
“Very good,” Robert said snidely, bowing as though he were at court. “You managed that without stammering like a fool. Care to try again? B-b-b-b-bet you can’t do it t-t-t-twice!”
“Come on.” Will gave Robert a friendly shove toward their grazing horses. “Quit being such a bastard. We don’t want to miss—”
“Leave off. He doesn’t mind, hardly even notices. Too stupid to care.” Robert whipped around and snaked back to Daniel. Where he kicked one tiny ankle, causing his younger brother to stumble to his knees. “D-d-d-d-don’t stay out t-t-t-t-too late. You might get l-l-l-l-lost.”
“Good God, you’re an evil one sometimes, Rob.”
Daniel couldn’t miss the look of sympathy Will shot his way before he convinced Robert if they didn’t leave now, they’d miss the big race.
Evidently seeing whether Lord Woltren’s new phaeton could stay upright on a particularly sharp curve surpassed the enticement of plaguing a younger brother.
Will mounted his horse—and after one last, lingering and compassionate glance at Daniel—turned toward Robert. “You arse—there are days I detest your mean streak.”
Robert just laughed and whipped his horse with the reins.
Seconds later, the older boys rode off.
Leaving Daniel no longer feeling like crying. Just angry.
Angry that David had died while Robert lived.
Mean, snide Robert who made fun of Ellie too. Because she dared to be a girl, one who’d started sucking her thumb again after the burial just days ago.
Already back on his feet after facing Robert’s taunts, only somewhat mollified by the continued influence Will Penry had on his rotten brother, Daniel turned back to the tree.
This time, though, he didn’t climb it. Didn’t sink down beside it to mourn.
No, this time he attacked it. Slapping and pummeling the bark until the skin on his knuckles and palms scraped off and drops of blood flew along with every flush hit. Scratching with his nails at the living embodiment of the one thing he could blame who couldn’t take him to task. Who couldn’t talk back—or mock him if he was dumb enough to say a single, stupid word.
And then he was crying. Crying so hard he couldn’t breathe, could only pound at the tree while sobbing out his sorrow.
Thunk! The side of his right fist slammed into the bark. I hate my dumb mouth.
Thawk! He hit again, just as hard. So I just won’t use it.
Whack! Bam! The left fist followed suit, pain radiating up his arm when it greeted the tree. Who needs to talk?
Pow! Despite the broken finger, both hands clawed and fought the offending monster where once two boys had laughed and played. Pow-pow!
Oh God. David’s gone.
I miss him so much!
Stinging from the punishing blows, his arms slowly gave out. It took everything in him to raise the right one again and land it against the strong tree. Bam!
How I miss him.
Bam!
Daniel feinted left when he should’ve gone right and leaned directly into the oncoming fist.
“Ompfff!” Everson clouted him harder than expected. And he had been expecting it, purposefully angling into the hit.
It was only what he deserved. A thorough beating for his sorry-arse actions toward the man’s son a couple days ago.
Unknowingly or not, with Penry’s continued absence, Everson had stepped in to fill the void.
It was nearing 2 p.m. At least by now, he knew what had happened to his missing friend: rumor was Penry’s second eldest had received three offers this week—two this very morning. For a man with multiple daughters, this was accounted a very good thing.
No wonder he hadn’t put in an appearance even though Daniel had lingered beyond the appointed time, sparring with several others before inviting Everson to join him,
only slightly reluctant when Everson had suggested they wrap their hands.
Laughingly, the man had claimed he didn’t want Tremayne to be at a disadvantage, sparring with so many today. He had no inkling how lucky he was about to feel, by stepping into the ring with the guilt-ridden lout who’d disrespected and disillusioned his youngest son.
Smack! He twisted to the side, just in time for that one to glance—heavily—off his ribs.
Daniel had been more than a little surprised Everson treated him with the same respect and friendliness as always. So young Tom had kept his mouth shut, hadn’t shared what a bastard Daniel had been. Likewise, Penry hadn’t said anything to Everson either. Which meant it was up to Daniel to make amends.
Which he’d do, as soon as he could trust his conscience had suffered sufficiently, by way of his body.
Thunk!
“Ay!” exclaimed Everson, shaking out his gloved fist. “Sorry, Tre…mayne.” The man was out of breath. Also likely knocked askew by how many he was landing. No matter what side of the fist one was on, a sharp punch was jarring.
Just thinking about Thea kissing things better almost made it worthwhile.
Thea.
His smile bloomed even as Everson landed an unexpected punch solidly on his cheek.
“Eh, now…” Daniel shook his head, rolled his shoulders. Sweat flew from both. “B-been practicing?”
Everson grinned. “That I have.”
Good man. Let him get in a powerful one. Daniel knew he deserved it.
So he suffered another. Then another.
Then finally started weaving and ducking, fighting back, if only to a point.
Lusty Letters: A Fun and Steamy Historical Regency (Mistress in the Making Book 2) Page 4