A Hero to Hold

by Sheri Humphreys

  It would be enough.

  Finally she was on the quay, milling about with the other passengers waiting to board. Just a few more hours and she’d be safe gone. The wind had even picked up, as if to blow away her doubts.

  Four days ago, when the ship’s agent asked her name for the Telegraph’s passenger manifest, she’d panicked. He frowned when she hesitated, and she blurted out, “Amelia.”

  Her mother’s name.

  He’d waited. Looked up from the manifest. “Well?”

  “Endsley. Amelia Endsley.” Oh, what had she been thinking? She’d given him Radcliffe’s family name. How could she have done that? Why had she done that? Her face had burned with fiery heat. Mercifully, within a few minutes she’d paid and collected her ticket. The agent hadn’t questioned her name or purpose.

  She found a room in a hotel near the dock. The establishment was full of hopeful immigrants waiting to sail, and she became just another. Several of the women she met were joining husbands who’d shipped before them. Their men had gotten jobs, places to live, and had accrued enough money for their wives’ passage. It was easy for Amelia Endsley to be just another wife headed for a reunion with her husband.

  “Vivian.”

  As quiet as the voice was, she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Radcliffe.”

  Grim-faced, he wore what might have been his man of business’s casual dress. He looked finer than the men crowding around them but coarse enough to pass for a clerk or surgeon, and his hand clenched about her arm. His other hand scooped up her traveling bag. He began pulling her away.

  “Wait. Stop. What are you doing?” She resisted, even when his hand tightened. Was he turning her over to the police?

  He stopped but didn’t loosen his grip. “I’m not actually sure what I’m doing. I’ve been looking for you for days, but what I intend to do now that I’ve found you I don’t know.”

  She’d never seen him looking this way—his face bristling with golden whiskers, his brown topaz eyes somber. Creases scored the skin on either side of his mouth.

  Her throat tightened into a painful constriction. The sudden weakness of her legs made her glad for the steely constraint of his arm. “I’ll be boarding soon. I shouldn’t leave.”

  He glanced around them and led her a short distance away, to a less congested area where a wagon sat. He released her and tossed down her bag, removed his hat, and blew out a long stream of air through loosely pursed lips. Then he ignored her, stared over her head and thumped his hat against his leg.

  Vivian stayed quiet and waited, drinking him in. This final look would have to do for the rest of her life.

  Glinting eyes suddenly focused on her with the concentrated intensity of a lighthouse beam. She couldn’t have felt any more exposed if she’d stood in the all-revealing glare of Leasowe Lighthouse’s lamp.

  “Are you all right?”

  She couldn’t answer. She blinked, sniffed, searched in her reticule and up her sleeve for a handkerchief.

  “Here.”

  A square of snowy linen was thrust into her hand. She pressed it to her eyes and nose and closed her mind to the scent of soap and starch and tobacco that clung to the cloth and made her want to bury her nose in his neck.

  “Now answer me. Are you all right?”

  She nodded. She wasn’t all right, but there was no repairing what was wrong. And that wasn’t what he meant, anyway.

  “I knew I’d find you. I’ve been staying at a nearby hotel and searching the docks. The police are looking at inns on the roads leading away from London, and at train depots.” A harsh laugh broke from him. “They’ve even watched my home.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  Finally, he looked at her. “I didn’t, really. But I thought, maybe…” He seemed uneasy, not at all like his usual confident self.

  “What now?” He’d found her, but he could barely look at her. Did that mean he intended to turn her in? Surprisingly, the thought didn’t fill her with anxiety.

  He lifted his hat and turned it round and round, smoothing the brim. “I don’t know why I’m here. I suppose I wanted to see if you needed any help.”

  “To get away, you mean? You’re offering money?”

  Flinty eyes locked onto her. “No.” He dragged air in, huffed it out, scraped his fingers through his hair, and jammed his hat on his head. “I don’t know. I just had to see you—see that you’re all right.”

  Now it was her turn to look away. There was too much emotion in his face—emotion she’d never seen at any ball or dinner party or poetry reading, or even making love. This expression, she knew, would haunt her.

  “I don’t deserve to get away, but it appears I’m going to. I’ll be boarding soon.”

  He nodded.

  “You should go,” she said. Please go. Before she asked him to hold her once more. She wanted to feel his arms hard around her, to nestle her head on his broad shoulder. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, smell him, taste him. Just one more time.

  He nodded.

  She knew. There was to be no embrace, no last kiss. He straightened, adjusted his hat, started to turn away.

  He might have planted his heel to her heart, the way it split open then. “Stephen.” She grabbed his arm. “Why aren’t you turning me in?”

  He turned back, hesitated, then stepped close. A gust of wind blew a few dangling strands of hair across her face. She lifted her fingers to brush them away, but his hand intercepted hers. He brushed her skin as he gathered the strands and wrapped them round and round his finger. His eyes narrowed before he slowly withdrew his finger and let the burnished strands fall.

  A funny, sad kind of smile quirked one corner of his mouth. “I’ve got sleepless nights ahead no matter what I do, but I can’t turn you in.”

  This time she didn’t call him back when he turned and strode away.

  He loved her. Oh, dear God. She’d been wrong when she assumed he couldn’t overlook her past. What if she’d known he could? What if she’d known he’d be able to love her? Her eyes filled, and she angled her face into the wind. As much as she hated the wrenching pain, feeling this deep, cutting emotion brought a measure of relief to her mind. She’d committed violent acts—poisoned a woman, shot a man—without feeling much of anything. Only a lunatic could do such things and remain impassive. Only a lunatic would let anger and revenge dictate such heinous actions.

  She’d been so very afraid for so long that she was in the grip of insanity. But surely a madwoman wouldn’t feel such devastation when her lover walked away? Or feel soothed by the simple act of turning her face to a gusty ocean wind?

  An increase in dock commotion pulled her from her bewildering thoughts. The Telegraph was boarding. Very soon now she’d be away, and she’d have weeks to face into the wind.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Charlotte gathered her completed letters and stood. After a week mostly closeted in her office, even the few yards to Chetney’s desk provided a welcome change. Working without seeing David, knowing he sat in the next room, was the most exquisite torture. Two weeks remained until her appointment with Edith Carroll. After that, she wouldn’t even have the occasional, indistinct low rumble of his voice.

  She turned the letters over to Chetney just as David’s door swung open. Persa dashed from her place at Charlotte’s feet, past Wakefield standing motionless in the doorway, and gave a flying leap onto David’s lap. David laughed, gave Persa a vigorous rub, and Charlotte’s heart took the smashing blow of a blacksmith’s hammer.

  David’s head jerked up as a soft exclamation of pain escaped her. The soft amusement fell from his face and left it grim. Their eyes met. David didn’t move, didn’t blink. His blank eyes held steady. Hard. Not even a glimmer of tenderness shone in their cold blue depths.

  The horrible pinch and tear of scavengers’ beaks attacked the inside of Charlotte’s chest, and she had to put her hand on Chetney’s desk to steady herself. She couldn’t do this. Could. Not. She w
hirled and hurried back to her office, collapsing into the nearest chair.

  “Are you all right?”

  Wakefield. He was crouched beside her. She sat open-mouthed and gasping, her hand pressed to her chest.

  “Can I get anything?” Chetney. He hovered behind Wakefield, hands twisted together so tight his knuckles gleamed white.

  Breathe, Charlotte told herself. Breathe.

  “Charlotte?” Wakefield asked. She shook her head. Wakefield looked up at the secretary and jerked his chin. “Nothing, Chetney. Just close the door behind you.”

  She felt his soothing hand on her back and managed to drag in a little air. Then a little more. What a kerfuffle. She’d shown them all what a ridiculous, heartsick woman she was, and all from just one look into David’s remorseless eyes. She needed to pull herself together.

  She started to straighten, to compose her features, but one look at Wakefield and she lost all desire for pretense. He’d know it was nothing but false bravado. So she slumped back into the chair. “He looks so…” Not exactly angry, but… “So ill-tempered.”

  “Ill-tempered?” Wakefield huffed out a laugh devoid of humor. “If you’d call a rabid hound ill-tempered, then I imagine Scott’s mood could be labeled such.” His eyes narrowed. “I’d be more likely to call him enraged, with more than a little despair and anguish in the mix.”

  No mistake, his tone held a measure of accusation.

  “You know?” Charlotte asked.

  “That he proposed and you tossed his offer back in his face?”

  Wakefield was angry. At her. The concern he’d shown as she gasped for air seemed to have drained away.

  Her own temper flared. “We were fine. We were wonderful as we were. We had an agreement, and I didn’t want anything to change.” She hated her defensiveness but couldn’t help herself.

  Wakefield stood. “Oh, it’s Scott’s fault, is it?”

  He leaned forward, back rigid, jaw clamped, and Charlotte drew away from his hostility. “This is what he wanted.”

  Wakefield’s nostril’s flared. “You crushed him,” he roared.

  The door flew open and banged into the wall.

  “Enough.”

  David rolled partway through the door, and the ferocity emanating from him shook Charlotte. Oh, God, what had she done to him? This was not her David. His eyes held a feral gleam that frightened her.

  “David?”

  He ignored her whisper and stared at Wakefield. The men glared at each other before Wakefield made a frustrated noise and stepped forward. David rolled back enough to clear the doorway, and his friend strode past. Wakefield continued through the reception area, his heels resounding against the marble floor. After he pushed through the outer door, silence fell.

  Charlotte found herself on her feet, facing David.

  “Enough of this,” he said. “You’re leaving, or I am.”

  “David—”

  “No.”

  She shivered and folded her hands over her chest. Seeing him like this filled her with razor-edged shards of ice so biting cold that the deep, deep ache nearly overcame her. She moved one step forward, but he raised his hands, palms facing out, and stopped her.

  “You. Or me.”

  The sharpness made her wince, but somehow she held her emotion at bay. Her eyes grew hot, but she suppressed the powerful urge to blink. David’s face bore a weary droop, new lines, and dark smudges under his eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at this evidence of distress, so she gazed past him and regarded Chetney…only to wish she hadn’t. Chetney was doing nothing to hide his dismay. David had meant his ultimatum, and she couldn’t let him leave the Royal Patriotic Fund. He was the executive committee chairman.

  She whirled, retreating back to her office, then stopped and turned her head just enough to address him over her shoulder. “I’ll be back for Edith Carroll’s appointment.”

  She heard him grunt, and the sound of his chair moving away.

  He wasn’t arguing with her over that, at least. A sign of how much he wanted to avoid his old friend’s widow.

  This was it, then. She no longer belonged here. Charlotte closed her door and managed to get around her desk, where she sat and gathered Persa into her arms. Held close, her dog’s body warmed her and brought a measure of comfort. In a few minutes she’d call Mr. Chetney in and give him her last instructions. She’d be back for Mrs. Carroll’s appointment, but she might never again see David.

  #

  Jane entered Charlotte’s sitting room with the energy of a small whirlwind. For a moment Charlotte could only stare at her friend’s disturbing appearance. Face pale, eyes red-rimmed and glittering with a hard light, she gave the empty chairs a dismissive wave and paced the room, skirts swirling.

  “I thought you were at Friar’s Gate,” Charlotte said.

  Jane’s last note had said she was taking Charlotte’s advice and intended to keep a cool head and explore the possibility that the faith she’d lost in her husband and her marriage could be restored. All week Charlotte had imagined Jane and Etherton together at Friar’s Gate and refused to consider any but a happy outcome. She’d welcomed those moments when pleasurable thoughts of her friends supplanted the emptiness that now filled her days.

  “I came back and brought the girls with me. I don’t plan to go again.”

  “What? Jane, you can’t mean that. What happened?”

  Her friend wheeled and faced her. “I met his son and mistress, that’s what happened.”

  “Former mistress,” Charlotte corrected. “Now, sit down.” She grabbed her friend’s hand and urged Jane to sit beside her on the settee.

  Jane sat, looked at her, and dissolved into tears. “I don’t think I can bear to be with him anymore.”

  Oh, no. How had the situation deteriorated to this? How could Jane and Phillip let it?

  “Jane…” Charlotte wrapped her arms around her friend’s bent shoulders. Jane grabbed on and hugged her back.

  Her friend pressed her lips together. “I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop snapping at him. I’ve become this person I don’t even know.”

  This truly wasn’t like Jane. She was one of the steadiest people Charlotte knew. “What did Phillip do when you told him you were leaving for good?”

  “Nothing. He looked like he wanted to murder me, but he turned and stalked out the door. Left me standing there, screaming at his back.”

  Jane, screaming at Phillip? Jane never screamed at anyone.

  “I just couldn’t stop myself. I can’t bear it, knowing his former paramour and their son Francis are living nearby. Phillip and Francis ride together every morning. Phillip bought him a pony. He adores the boy more and more every day.”

  “Jane, does that surprise you?” How could it? Hadn’t Phillip’s innate decency been what attracted her friend in the first place?

  Jane sighed. “No.”

  “Then why are you so upset? I know you wouldn’t want any boy to grow up without knowing his father, especially when the man is as wonderful as Phillip. Your jealousy seems extreme. And uncalled for.”

  Jane blotted her eyes with the crumpled handkerchief she held clenched in her fist. In spite of her tears, her face looked steely. “How can my concerns be unreasonable when Phillip prefers the boy’s company over mine?” Her face turned bright red. “We haven’t been intimate since we first fought. And when I told him I was leaving, Phillip said, ‘Good.’”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I can’t believe he meant he wanted you to live separate lives. He probably took your leaving as an ultimatum and got angry.”

  Jane bounded to her feet and resumed pacing. Dress wrinkled, hair falling from the knot atop her head, and with her spectacles contributing to the hard, glassy look of her eyes, she presented an image at odds with the woman Charlotte had always known.

  “Why shouldn’t I give him an ultimatum? Don’t I have that right? Don’t I have more say than a former mistress and a bastard child?”

  Stymied, C
harlotte searched for soothing words but nothing occurred. “You said the boy’s name is Francis? What happened when you met Francis and his mother?” She had truly thought meeting the pair might help Jane.

  Her friend turned. “He looks exactly like Phillip, excepting the red hair and freckles he got from his mother.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  Jane resumed pacing. “A good mother to the boy,” she admitted begrudgingly. “She’s to marry Loyal Gibb, the miller.”

  “So, she…doesn’t inspire the same worry? Phillip’s never broken your vows,” Charlotte pointed out. “Don’t you think, over time, you could accept the boy?”

  “You don’t understand!”

  Saying so, Jane threw up her arms. She returned to the settee, sank down and covered her face with her hands. Charlotte drew Jane’s twitching fingers down, cradled those newly short-bitten nails, and saw her friend’s lovely eyes were steeped in pain.

  “He wanted to tell me before we married, but he asked my mother’s opinion first. She advised him not to.”

  Jane’s mother would have known Jane had no tolerance for bastard children.

  “Can’t he love you and your daughters as well as Francis?” Charlotte asked. She silently begged her friend to be forgiving.

  “He shares a bond of blood and forebears with Francis. I am a mere wife. Of course he loves our daughters, but they’ll marry and leave. I reminded Phillip that Francis won’t share his family name or inherit his title. Only our son could do that, but he treats Francis as if he has all the rights and privileges of a child of mine.”

  “Jane…” Her friend had always been a bit possessive, but never to this degree. Jane’s misplaced jealousy even made Charlotte think of Vivian before she’d understood her half-sister’s mental disturbance had a much deeper, darker root. It was nothing short of unnatural for Jane to be so extremely envious of the boy. Was there something more at work here? Was it not the fact that Jane was still reliving the mistakes of her parents? If it was…

  “You need to reach deep inside and believe in your and Phillip’s love. Believe in its strength. In your strength,” Charlotte declared. “You have an abundance of love in you, Jane. Don’t stifle it. Don’t let other people’s mistakes ruin your marriage—your entire life. If you do, you have no one to blame but yourself!”