Daphne had never traveled by mail coach, of course. When she traveled to the country with her father it was always in his well-appointed carriage, with plenty of stops along the way to rest and refresh oneself. The mail coach was not nearly as comfortable, but it went so quickly! When the coach took its brief breaks Pompom jumped out of her valise and took care of his business before taking a drink of water and climbing back in. Her darling was an experienced coach traveler and was no trouble, though she saw her surgeon slip some extra silver to the coachman and the guard to ensure they would not fuss over the animal riding inside.
It was not Pompom who worried her, but Alexander. He did not talk to her as the mail coach flew down the road, but stared out the window, his arms crossed over his chest, lost in his thoughts. Maybe he was thinking about how he would introduce himself to her father, and ask for her hand.
Alexander kept talking about taking her home, but was the mansion in London still her home? Was her home on a desert island, or on a pirate ship, or in a seaside town? No, home was where her surgeon was. Daphne knew in her father's house she would want for nothing, nothing that could be bought with gold. With Dr. Murray she might have to forego a bonnet or two, or another pair of kid slippers, but she would be with Alexander and that thought warmed her more than any fur-lined cloak or swansdown muff could ever do.
Any suspicions she had that Alexander meant what he said about not marrying her, because of his foolish belief that he could not make her happy, were suppressed. She would not dwell on that, not now, not when she was so close to seeing her papa again and rebuilding her life, a life that would most definitely have Dr. Alexander Murray in it!
Chapter 24
The courtyard of the Swan With Two Necks vibrated with noise and chaos, but it was an organized chaos befitting a bustling coaching inn. The passengers on the mail gratefully climbed down to the cobblestones, stretching cramped muscles, or in one furry passenger's case, poking his head out of the valise to bark at a duck risking feather and limb searching for oats left behind by the horses.
"No, Pompom, stay put!" Daphne said. "I vow, Dr. Murray, that was fast, but I feel as if all my bones are bounced to pieces!"
"Our journey is almost ended, Miss Farnham."
He led her to one of the hackneys ready to transport people to and from the inn. He stiffened when she gave him the location of her family's house in Mayfair, and she felt a chill, as if he was pulling his warmth away from her, even though they were sitting in a small space. Once she would have found the grime and smell of the hired vehicle disconcerting, but now she ignored it, watching the man with her as if she could hold him with her glance alone.
They were silent as the hackney rolled through the streets, streets that became cleaner and wider as they moved away from the inn, and Alexander withdrew deeper into himself and Daphne found it hard to breath, her stomach cramping as they neared her house. Pompom whined, feeling her tension, and tried to lick her face.
"Stop! Stop here, at the park!"
He looked at her sharply.
"Are you ill?"
"Stop, please!"
He gave the order to the driver, helped her alight from the vehicle and took their valises and his surgeon's case. She released Pompom, who sniffed around the grass at her feet.
Alexander watched her, concern on his face, but Daphne looked behind him to the house she knew so well. Her father would not be home yet from his warehouses, but she saw lit lamps and knew the servants would be there, preparing for the master's return.
She swallowed, worried for a moment she would indeed be ill, but then straightened her shoulders and grabbed Alexander's hands.
"Do not leave me, Alexander."
His bleak face paled further, but he shook his head.
"We do not have a choice, Daphne."
"Stop saying that! We do have a choice, Alexander! I can choose to be miserable, or I can choose to stay by your side."
"Daphne, if you marry me and leave your world behind you will be miserable."
"There will be bad days, I know that! But I am also sure, very sure, there will be many days where we will not be miserable, and when we fight we will make up, and when we love, it will be a love that will carry us through the difficult times. That is what love is, Alexander! It is a shield against despair, and against poverty, and against the feeling life is happening to you without your being able to choose or to control it at all. You think you know everything, but you do not! I may not have a head stuffed full of knowledge, but I know what love is!"
He smiled then, a small smile, barely a lifting of the corners of his expressive mouth, but it lifted her heart and she began to smile in return.
"I know you know what love is, Daphne, you taught me that. It is because I love you in return I must leave you now. You deserve the life you were born to, and you cannot have it with me. I love you too much to watch you fade away in genteel poverty."
Her own smile washed away like a watercolor left in the rain. Daphne reached up and held his head with its rumpled curls of silver and red between her hands. She looked into his eyes, eyes lined by years of thinking too hard and tending too many men who died no matter what he did. She said the words she needed to say, the words from her heart.
"Alexander Murray, you are the stupidest man I have ever met."
He opened his mouth, but she put her hand across his lips and he stopped, but cocked an expressive eyebrow at her. She was not about to be intimidated by a caterpillar-looking bit of hair, not when she had things to say to this fool.
"Do not argue with me. I know stupidity when I see it, believe me. You have a chance at love, a chance at happiness, and a life with someone who loves you. Me. And you are throwing it away, you big looby. Sometimes it takes stupid people longer to figure things out. I understand that, and I am willing to give you time to become more intelligent."
She took her fingers off of his mouth because she could not kiss him with that in the way. When she was done kissing him, and tasting the sweetness of his love for her, because she knew he loved her, even if he was stupider than a box full of rocks, she squared her shoulders and picked up her bag.
"You know where to find me, Dr. Murray. I will not wait forever, because I am a useful person and I need to move on with my life. I will not sit around moping and longing for an idiot. That would be you," she clarified, just in case he was as dense as she suspected he was. "Come, Pompom!"
Pompom whined and tried to stay with Alexander, but she gave a tug on his leash. She walked away without looking back, because she did not want him to see the tears rolling down her face, not after that fine, brave speech. Oh, they were a pair of fools, they were! No wonder they suited each other so perfectly.
* * * *
Alexander watched as his world moved away from him, the center of his universe leaving him for the stately home across the park. He watched as the door opened and the footman gave a shout of surprise followed a moment later by a crowd of servants rushing to the door and hustling their mistress into the warmth and light within.
He pulled up the collar of his coat and continued watching. He watched as a footman went running out of the house and soon, gratifyingly soon, a carriage pulled up and an older man jumped out and dashed up the front stairs, stumbling in his haste.
Even from where he stood across the park Alexander heard Mr. Farnham joyfully shout, "Daphne!" when the door opened. He could not see the reunion of father and daughter, but Mr. Farnham was obviously excited and eager for a glimpse of his only child.
Daphne would be welcomed back into the bosom of her comfortable, wealthy family. They would cosset her and care for her and dress her in silks and satins, just as she deserved. It was good. It was the right thing for her. She would find a young man, and forget about him.
Alexander doubled over gasping for breath. Pain wrenched through him and he wondered if everything he knew about medicine was wrong. Maybe one could die of a broken heart.
When he could breath
e again he picked up his valise and his surgeon's chest and started walking through streets that became narrower and darker and grimier as he left Mayfair behind and made his way down toward the wharves. He found himself standing in front of a familiar address. Like the house in Mayfair this one, too, had lamps that shone welcoming warmth through the windows, but the window frames could use a coat of paint and there were cracks in the steps leading up to the worn door. The steps were swept clean though and the knocker on the door gleamed. A middle-aged woman opened the door, putting her hand to her throat in shock at his appearance.
"Mr. Murray! Come in at once, and warm yourself in the parlor! We'd heard you shipwrecked and drowned, Mr. Murray, but you're not the first sailor the sea's tossed back ashore."
Mrs. Hayworth, herself a sailor's widow, bustled about him in the parlor, exhaustion weighing him down as he stared into the small fire in the grate.
"Do you still have a room for me?" he asked the landlady without looking at her.
"Aye, your regular room, Mr. Murray. Your gear is in storage for you."
That was good, he thought hazily. He would not need to buy clothes after all. Mrs. Hayworth's remark about him surviving reminded Alexander of his original purpose a lifetime ago in making this trip to London. When she excused herself to build up the fire in his room, he went to the writing desk where the landlady kept paper and pens for her boarders and scratched out a note, sealing it and setting it aside. Mrs. Hayworth returned carrying a tray.
"You stay here, and eat your stew and have a good cup of tea while I fetch the bedding for your room, Mr. Murray."
He nodded without speaking, and she said nothing as she arranged his supper. That was one of the reasons he liked to stay at Mrs. Hayworth's. She was a woman who appreciated that sometimes a man did not want to talk about bonnets or butterflies or what bows would be decorating pelisses this winter.
He set aside the untasted stew when she returned and, digging a few coins out of his pocket, gave her the letter to be carried by a messenger in the morning.
"Mrs. Hayworth, is there a bottle of brandy here?"
"I have better than that for you, Mr. Murray."
She fetched a dusty bottle from the back of the house.
"It is yours, Mr. Murray, all the way from Scotland. You left it on your last visit and I kept it in case you returned."
She fetched him a tumbler and left him there. He rolled the bottle back and forth in his hands. It sloshed heavily. He'd barely made a dent in its contents, for the whisky, while excellent, fogged his mind.
He filled the tumbler until it overflowed onto the table.
* * * *
Alexander opened his eyes, or tried to. They'd been fastened shut with some kind of adhesive while he slept. He tried again, and the gummy eyelids finally worked, but it turned out to be a poor decision as the light in the room stabbed directly into his brain, setting up a pounding akin to someone using his skull as an anvil.
No, the pounding was external. On the door of his room. He dragged himself from bedding reeking of an excess of liquor and sweat, and clinging to the wall for support made his way to the door.
Mrs. Hayworth stood there, arms crossed over her ample chest. She sniffed, then said, "It is time you were up, Mr. Murray! A message arrived for you."
He blinked at her blearily. She no longer pounded on the door, but there was still a pounding in his head, and something had built a nest of dust and twigs in his mouth while he slept. He reached up a shaking hand and felt bristles and dried drool on his face.
"Wh--" He swallowed and tried again. "What time is it?" he rasped.
"It is past noon. On Thursday."
He gripped the door harder.
"Thursday? That is not possible."
"It is entirely possible when one drinks a bottle of that Scottish poison, Mr. Murray!" She sniffed again. Then her demeanor softened and she shook her head, sending gray wisps of hair bobbing from under her cap.
"You seamen are all the same. Come ashore and it's wine, women and wildness, isn't it? I knew that when my Samuel was home, but I have what will fix you and put you back on your feet. After you put some clothing on--fresh clothing--come down to the kitchen."
She turned to stomp away but paused and reached into a faded apron tied about her waist.
"Oh, I nearly forgot. Here is your message."
Daphne! His heart sang out, but the missive was in an unknown hand with a strong, masculine slant. He opened it carelessly.
"Bad news?" Mrs. Hayworth said, hovering with interest. She loved a bit of gossip, did Mrs. Hayworth. Not in a bad way, but simply because news of other peoples' lives seemed so much more interesting than her own.
"Not bad news," he said, frowning down at the paper. He tapped the letter on his hand and looked at her.
"I will need a bath, Mrs. Hayworth, and some coffee, and your excellent remedy for men who consort foolishly with alcohol. Your other tenants spoke well of it in the past."
"A bath will be coming right up as soon as the water's heated, Mr. Murray. In the meantime, you come down and eat and drink something--something good for you. It will help you feel more yourself."
"What if I am not pleased with who I am?" he murmured, but she was already walking away from him.
Alexander felt more like himself when his visitor was ushered into the parlor later that afternoon. Mrs. Hayworth closed the door behind the man and Alexander rose to his feet. Stephen Childes bent over a silver-knobbed cane, his back twisted by age. He resembled a cricket, skinny and hunched, eyebrows bristling like antennae, but the eyes behind his spectacles were sharp and studied Alexander in a fashion that made him slightly uncomfortable.
"Please, Mr. Childes, have a seat," Alexander said.
The older man sat, carefully, and rested his hands on his cane. He declined the refreshments Mrs. Hayworth set out.
"I was stunned to hear you were alive, Mr. Murray. The last I heard you were dead in the wreck of the Magpie."
"It was a near thing," Alexander acknowledged. "I was able to make it to land and recently returned to England. I was traveling home because of the letter you sent me, Mr. Childes."
"So many months ago," Childes said, and a shadow passed over his face, then was gone. "Do you know why I contacted you?"
"You mentioned a bequest, but you did not offer more information."
"Indeed, Mr. Murray. I could not share more information with you until I met you and saw you with my own eyes."
He cleared his throat, and took some papers from a leather portfolio, looked at them, then adjusted his spectacles.
"What is your name?"
"Alexander Murray."
"Your full name, please."
"Alexander Archibald Murray."
"What is your mother's name?"
All of Alexander's senses sharpened. When the solicitor mentioned a bequest in his letter, Alexander thought it might have had something to do with his naval service, not his life in Scotland.
"Why do you ask?"
"Please, Mr. Murray, just answer my questions, then I will explain all to you."
"My mother was Janet Murray."
Childes continued with his questions, asking Alexander about specific points of the village where he'd been raised, his schooling, his naval service. Then he separated a sheet of paper from the others and held it out, covering the bottom half.
"Do you recognize this letter, Mr. Murray?"
"Yes, that is the letter I sent you saying I would return to England."
"One final item, and then I tell you why I contacted you. Would you fetch the pen and ink I see on that desk and bring it here? Good. Now, please sign this piece of paper with your signature."
Alexander picked up the pen, dipped it and signed his name on the blank sheet of paper, then passed it back to the solicitor, who compared the two signatures, the one from Alexander's letter and the one on the paper.
Childes removed his spectacles, polished them, put them back on, and cl
eared his throat.
"I have a bequest for you from your father, Mr. Murray."
It took a moment for the words to register in Alexander's brain. He stood so fast his chair tipped over behind him.
"I do not want it!"
Childes sighed.
"Do not be tiresome, Mr. Murray. Sit down and hear me out. Did your mother never tell you who your father was?"
"My mother barely survived on the pittance sent each quarter by my father, Mr. Childes," he said through clenched teeth. "She had expectations I would go to school, to university, and those expectations were quashed by my father's agent, Fieldhouse. No, she did not tell me who my father was, and at this point in my life I do not care."
"Yes, you do care who your father is," Childes said. "Any man has a natural desire to know his origins. Now, I will speak and you will not interrupt me, for I am an old man and could pass on at any moment."
"You look healthy enough to me."
The solicitor inclined his head.
"Thank you for your professional opinion. Nonetheless, it is easier for me to tell this tale in its entirety."
He removed his spectacles again, went through the polishing ritual, then put them back on, adjusting them before he spoke.
"I met your father many years ago when he came into his own inheritance, and over the years, I conducted much of your father's business for him. I was also one of the few people who knew he sired a son on a trip to Scotland.
"Your father, Mr. Murray, was Hugh Blackborne, the Earl of Rycroft. He could not marry your mother, but made what he thought was adequate provision for your upkeep and maintenance. He did not realize until it was too late that his agent, John Fieldhouse, was robbing him, and you. I do not know if it is any comfort to you at this point, but Fieldhouse will spend the rest of his days in New South Wales.
Castaway Dreams Page 33