“Why did he die?” Sara’s voice was small and soft, the voice of a much younger girl.
Angelique thought of the pox that had killed him and decided to tell a simpler lie. “The fast carriage he was driving fell over on him.”
Sara lowered her gaze, flattening a bit of bread with her fork.
“Where is your baby? Is she at school?”
Angelique swallowed hard. “My baby died, a long time ago.”
Sara froze in place as if Angelique had slapped her. She seemed to take in everything Angelique could not say, all the things she could never say about Geoffrey and her daughter in one swift glance. The girl left off toying with her abandoned breakfast, dropping her fork with a clatter as she took Angelique’s hand in her own. She squeezed her fingers tight, until the blood was blocked off.
“I will look after you,” Sara said, her eyes taking on a fierce and loyal light. “I will not die. I will not leave you.”
Angelique felt her throat swell with emotion. For once she did not swallow her tears but let them come. Only two fell. She wiped her eyes with her free hand and smiled at her adopted daughter.
“I am glad to hear it,” she said. “We will stick together, you and I. We will look after each other.”
Smythe was waiting to speak with her, with more news of disaster. Lisette waited impatiently for Sara abovestairs, ready to teach her daily lessons in reading, writing, and revolutionary French. She knew that they needed to set out for Derbyshire at once, as soon as possible, that they might reach Arabella before Hawthorne did.
Angelique knew all of these things, and she ignored them. She set aside trouble and mayhem, packing and French maids, and called for her pelisse and for Sara’s. They took the carriage to the pond in St. James Park carrying the crumbs of bread from Sara’s discarded plate to feed the waiting swans.
The rest of life could wait.
Twenty-seven
James was gone to Aberdeen for only a week, but it seemed like a year. Skirting the shore of England and Scotland was nothing like sailing the open sea. It was safe. It was comfortable. He found that he liked it. Perhaps he was getting old.
The journey he would make to Malta would be a good deal more exciting. With the Ottoman pirates still active in the Mediterranean, and with the East India Company to dodge, the voyage promised to be a taste of adventure. His father’s sloop boasted three cannons, not enough to hold out in a fight, but the ship was fast and could outrun most things on the sea.
James wasn’t worried about his chances between there and Malta. But he did want to see Angelique again.
He called at her house to find Anton there alone. She had gone to visit a friend in the country, a woman friend, her butler had assured him. She had not left word when she would return.
James was tempted to follow her.
But he knew his duty. He had given his father his word, and he would keep it. While he waited to ship out the next morning, he went to visit an old friend living ashore in Greenwich, Captain Albert Franklin.
“Damn my eyes, Jamie, it’s good to see you in one piece.”
Franklin took his friend in his arms as soon as he saw him, drawing him into his home. The stone house was small, for Franklin had not made much prize money during the war. He had not sold his commission, but was on half pay until his new ship would be ready to sail in two months’ time.
For the moment, Captain Franklin lived in Greenwich near the Royal Naval Academy with his wife and infant son. James took in the tiny house with its poky hall and ill-lit staircase that led to the bedroom above. Though the downstairs parlor was dark, it was cheerful and clean. A fire burned in the grate, and the savory scent of stew made James’s stomach rumble. Franklin laughed at that as his wife dished up bowls for both men.
“Have you been on the sea all this time, Jamie? I looked for you at the Academy but could not get word of you.”
“No, Bert, I’ve been inland.”
“Chasing after a woman, no doubt,” Franklin said.
“Something like that.”
Franklin stared at his old friend as his wife brought their dinner. She pressed her husband’s arm in passing, and he leaned down and kissed her hand. Mrs. Franklin was a steady, capable woman who seemed to be the anchor not only of the house but of Franklin’s life. James was not sure why he thought so, other than there seemed to be a silent affinity between the two, an acceptance of what was, and a quiet happiness that whatever time they had together, they would savor, drinking down every drop until Franklin was at sea again.
“I came ashore to inquire after a ship for sale. Now it looks as if I will be going into business with my father’s concern, sailing for Malta.”
Franklin said nothing but took in James with one measured glance, finishing his first bowl of stew. Without speaking, Mrs. Franklin filled it again with one hand, holding their sleeping son with the other.
James saw the easy way she had with the house and her family, the calm purpose behind every move she made. No great lady, this was a woman who worked from dawn to dusk in the service of her family, seeing to it that they were fed, clothed, and warm. Even as he watched her, she settled the baby in his crib by the fire and took up her sewing.
She continued her work with neat, even stitches, not giving James a second glance. He could tell that she was making a new shirt for her husband. He wondered if Angelique had ever plied a needle in her life. Somehow, he could not imagine it. Still, Mrs. Franklin in no small way reminded him of the woman who rarely left his thoughts.
“Do your eyes follow my wife for some purpose, Jamie?”
“Forgive me, Bert. I did not mean to be impertinent. It is only that she reminds me of someone.”
Franklin leaned back in his chair, pushing his empty bowl aside. “Ah. I see.”
James felt his hackles rise at his friend’s tone, though he could not have answered why, if asked. “What do you see?”
Franklin did not take offense at James’s harsh question, but only smiled. “I see a great deal more than you do, my friend. This woman my wife brings to mind, what is her name?”
“Angelique,” James answered.
“A Frenchwoman?” Franklin’s eyebrows rose, and James found himself smiling in spite of himself.
“Worse. A countess.”
Franklin did not answer that directly, but exchanged a look with his wife that James could not read. “Well then. That’s your own business, I reckon. But might this countess be the reason for your overlong stay on dry land?”
“She’s the reason.”
Franklin lit his pipe and smoked for a long moment in silence. James took in the sweet scent of tobacco as it mingled with the scent of the stew.
“There was a time when I ran from a good woman,” Franklin said. He and his wife caught each other’s gazes, and this time she did not look away but laid her sewing down.
“I fled from my fate. I found that I could not run far enough or fast enough. No matter what shore I came upon, or what port I sailed into, she was always there before me, waiting.” He tapped his temple. “I carried her with me, everywhere I meant to hide. I found I could not lose her, though I tried for a year and a day. So at last I came back, when the war was through. And she was here, in her mother’s house, waiting for me.”
Mrs. Franklin rose to refill Bert’s cup of ale. She did this, still silent, and filled James’s, as well. But instead of stepping back from the table, she sat down beside her husband. Franklin opened his great palm, and she placed her tiny hand within it.
“You cannot run from yourself, Jamie, or you’ll be running all your life. If this French countess is the woman of your heart, you must stand for her and face her. You would not run from battle. You cannot run from this.”
“She’s out of town.”
Franklin smiled, but it was Mrs. Franklin who spoke at last. “Then, Capta
in Montgomery, you had better go and fetch her back.”
***
Franklin agreed to take the ship to Malta in James’s place. The tide was turning, and the sloop would sail the next day. Franklin was the only man James would commit his family’s interests to, and on such short notice. He sent word to his father, who had already returned to Aberdeen, and went to drink at White’s.
James wondered what Angelique might say if he made her an offer of marriage.
The thought rose into his head as the fumes from his malted Scotch rose into his nostrils. He took a sip of the fiery liquid, but it did not burn and choke him as his own thoughts did.
He was not a marrying man.
But as he sat alone at White’s, James remembered the look that had passed between Franklin and his wife. Their quiet affinity and their easy grace. He thought of his parents and of how they still loved each other after almost forty years.
He was musing to himself, lost in his own thoughts, when Viscount Carlyle sat down beside him. Carlyle was drunk off his top, but he was still immaculately groomed and pressed, save for his cravat, which had been knocked slightly askew. He had just come in from the card room and carried a hint of bourbon and smoke on his black superfine coat.
“So they are still allowing captains of the line to drink at White’s? I thought the last time I saw you here was an aberration.”
James smiled. He heard in Carlyle’s tone a hint of humor beneath his genuine ire. “My father is a member.”
“Is he indeed? And your elder brother?”
“Yes. They are the bastions of my family.”
“And you are the black sheep.”
“Perhaps more a mottled gray.”
Victor laughed as a footman brought a fresh bourbon, taking his empty glass away. “Bring another for my friend,” he said. James nodded in acceptance and the footman moved off to procure another single-malt Scotch.
“I thought you were away with the lovely Angelique Beauchamp on a country idyll. Back so soon, Captain?”
“I thought I told you never to say her name again.”
“So you did. I don’t suppose you’ll shoot me?”
“Not just yet.”
“More’s the pity.” Carlyle drank deep. “Ah, well. I suppose I have no desire to get shot this close to my wedding.”
“When is the happy day?”
“Tomorrow morning at St. George’s, ten o’clock sharp.” Victor drained his second glass of bourbon in fifteen minutes and signaled for another. “And may God have mercy on my soul.”
Victor leaned back into the leather of his armchair. “As a friend… though I suppose we are not truly friends, are we, Captain? But who is truly friendly in this benighted world? As a friend, I tell you that if you have come back to shore seeking Angelique, you seek her in vain. She has traveled with the rest of the bored ton to the wilds of Derbyshire to see a play.”
“A play?” James was sure that Carlyle was either completely foxed or simply trying to lead him astray, but for some reason he waited to hear him out.
“Shakespeare, worse luck. Can you imagine anything more ghastly than A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Derbyshire?” Victor shuddered as if someone had just danced on his grave.
“I have always preferred Much Ado About Nothing,” James said.
“Indeed?” Carlyle shuddered again. “I prefer to be shot in the head rather than see or hear one word of Shakespeare. Comedy or no, it is sure to be a disaster.”
Carlyle tried in vain to straighten his mussed cravat.
“The Earl of Pembroke is playing Oberon. Can you imagine? Raymond Olivier, a peer of the realm, performing in the market square like a mountebank. Good God.” Carlyle drained the last of his bourbon and signaled to the footman for yet another. “I wish I’d thought of it. If I could stand the stuff, I’d have done it myself. Set tongues wagging for a year at least.”
Victor downed his last bourbon in one long gulp. “Nothing for it but to marry tomorrow. If I were a praying man, I suppose I’d ask for clemency.”
“A stay of execution?” James asked.
“Just so. Ah well, marriage is one bullet we all must face at one time or another.” Carlyle suddenly looked cheerful. “Perhaps she’ll die tonight, and I won’t have to marry her at all.”
“Or perhaps you will, my lord.”
Carlyle laughed, and this time his laughter held a tinge of bitterness. “Little hope of that, Captain.”
James rose to his feet, bowing to the man who had saved him a week of wasted travel. “There is always hope, my lord. I suppose I must thank you for the information regarding the Countess of Devonshire’s whereabouts. But don’t mention her name again.”
“Ah, no doubt I will forget the beautiful Angelique and all else, Captain. That is the beauty of drink.”
Carlyle raised his empty glass in salute as James strode from the room. He was off to his hotel, and then to the livery stable to hire a horse. He could not take Spartacus without Smythe’s consent, and he wanted to be on the road too early to consult with Angelique’s man of affairs. He hoped to be riding north to Derbyshire before the sun was up.
At the door of the barroom, he took one last glance back at Viscount Carlyle. Victor was still conscious, if only barely. James had no idea how the man hoped to go to his bride at ten the next morning, nor what state the poor woman would find him in.
What the hell Angelique was doing in Derbyshire was a mystery he would soon solve. He did know that once he reached her, he would ask her to marry him.
He had no idea what her answer would be the first time he asked, but he would stand by her, and keep asking, until her answer was yes.
Act III
“But manhood is melted into curtsies, valor into compliment… He is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie, and swears it.”
Much Ado About Nothing
Act 4, Scene 1
Twenty-eight
Angelique took her time getting to Derbyshire. Traveling with a young girl and a maid, with all their baggage as well as hers, called for a slower pace. She did not know what she might find in Pembroke Village, but she was fairly certain that she could trust Lord Pembroke to guard Arabella at least until Angelique arrived. She knew she was running away from the realities of her shipping concerns. She knew that she would have to deal with Hawthorne and the damage he had done to her business. But for once, she was setting business concerns aside and looking to her friend’s safety first.
If Angelique had been a romantic, she would have considered the possibility that Pembroke might offer to protect her friend for the rest of her life. Angelique rarely thought kindly of marriage, for any institution that stripped a woman of all her worldly possessions and left her at the mercy of a virtual stranger bore more of a resemblance to highway robbery than a sacrament.
But her time with James Montgomery had changed her views on marriage. She had begun to think in their weeks together that it might be possible to know a man well enough to trust him with her life. Where this mad idea had come from, she was not certain. Perhaps it would pass as so many feverish imaginings did. But as she rode in her well-sprung traveling chaise with Sara beside her, Angelique found herself remembering things about James Montgomery that had nothing to do with madness.
She remembered their affinity in bed. She found she could not sleep at night for longing for his touch. But it was the time they had spent together in company that she remembered most. She thought of the times James had held his glib tongue and let her deal with Sara as she saw fit. She had never known a man to support a woman with the silence of his presence.
A few weeks were not enough time upon which to judge a man. Even if he had offered for her instead of leaving for the open sea, she could not have married him. She could not lose control of all her assets, for too many people depended on her. Even if she were foolish
enough to take a risk with her own life, she could not risk the vulnerability of her dependents.
And then there was the fact that she loved him. In the past, love had only served to wound her. Geoffrey had used her love against her. Anthony had thrown her love back in her face. She did not expect such treatment from James Montgomery, but after only a few weeks in his presence, she could not be sure.
She tried to ignore the love and pain and hope lodged together in her chest, but James Montgomery would not leave her mind. As her carriage pulled up in front of the cottage Smythe had rented for her, she found herself looking at it as James might have done, wondering if he would like it as much as she did.
Tucked away on a side street just off the main village road, the little stone cottage was set back from the lane. When her traveling chaise pulled up before the front gate, she feared that gate was not wide enough to accommodate her carriage. The bright, cheerful blue of the wood stood out from the gray stone of the wall. When William the footman leaped down to open the gate, it swung wide without a squeak of protest.
It opened to reveal a small house tucked within a garden. The flowers had not been tended in quite a while, but Angelique saw columbine and thyme, rosemary and goldenrod. A profusion of blooms welcomed the kiss of the sun as flowers mixed with herbs along the neat path that led to the cottage’s front door. The roof was thatched, and when she stepped into the front hall, she saw that the interior walls were whitewashed. It seemed like a house from another time, an enchanted place where she might live in quiet, filled with the same soothing peace that she sometimes felt in James Montgomery’s presence.
She wondered if the cottage was for sale. She would send word on the morrow to Smythe so that he might make inquiries. What she would do with a cottage hidden in the wilds of Derbyshire she was not certain, but something drew her to that place and held her so that as she stepped past its blue-painted door, she found that she did not want to be anywhere else. If there was a place that was the opposite of her false life in London, this cottage was it.
Much Ado About Jack Page 17