by Sharon Sobel
“It is a memoir by the Lt. Governor of the East Indies, Thomas Raffles. In the days after the eruption of Tambora, he began to write of his observations and experiences. I rather think he fancied himself a bit like Pliny the Elder, who wrote so compellingly about the eruption of Vesuvius. That is . . .”
“I know. It is on the coast of Naples and buried the city of Pompeii.”
She saw that she had surprised him. Excellent. She hoped he became accustomed to it.
“Indeed,” he said slowly, granting her his full attention. “Raffles had the advantage of being a witness, as did Pliny the Younger. One could better say that it was more a disadvantage, for one’s life is at risk.”
“Were you there as well?” she asked softly. What horrors had he endured? And what were her recent hardships, compared to such an unimaginable experience?
“I was,” he answered tersely. “But I was busy with too many things to spend much of my time reflecting on the experience. Raffles had the inclination to write the tome you see here.”
“Mr. Raffles and I have met, some years ago.” She avoided Will’s gaze, and looked down at the pages in her lap. “He was wise to offer his impression, for posterity. My impression is that he is a most ambitious man.”
“He is, and in my coming to Seabury for the Howard’s Christmas house party, I am partly in his service. He offers this record to Princess Charlotte.”
Julia understood his implication at once. “Who has the ear of her father, and who may, in turn, reward Mr. Raffles with something he desires.”
Will smiled so broadly, she noticed the creases in his tanned complexion. She rather thought he was a man who often smiled, though she had given him little enough reason to do so since yesterday afternoon.
“An extension of his tenure as Lt. Governor, perhaps?” Will asked.
Julia knew he teased her, and nodded her head, though she knew that was not the truth of it.
“A title, I daresay. He is a man who should like nothing more than to be known as ‘Sir Thomas Raffles.’”
With great effort, Will kept his eyes focused on the papers in his lap. After four hundred pages, he was quite convinced of Thomas’s astute observational powers, as well as his effort to put himself in the forefront of every incident he described. But even if he remained astonished and fascinated by every word his friend wrote in his tight, economical script, Will knew he would still be diverted by the rather more fascinating woman who shared his coach.
If she was merely beautiful, he could spend hours just gazing upon her. He already was more intimate with her than he ought to be, and recalled, with perfect clarity, the softness of her pale shoulders and the slightly muscled form of her upper arms. One attribute suggested she led a life of privilege and the other that she was accustomed to working with her hands.
She sighed as she continued to read and shifted in her seat. Her lashes fanned out over her cheeks, and fluttered each time she turned a page. Her hair was neatly bound in severe plaits, but he remembered what it looked like down around her ears and shoulders, with snowflakes softening the deep brown tones. He would like to see her looking like that again.
But he had admired other women for their grace and beauty, for their ability to simply stand in a room and command attention. And then, on those occasions, when he dared to come close, he invariably met with disappointment. It was as if one arrived at a great house decorated and all aglow for Christmas, and found no one at home.
There was more to Mrs. Townshend than her beauty, even though he admitted to himself that he desired very much to see if the rest of her rivaled what his first glimpses revealed. To love her would be divine.
But her knowledge and experience could not be denied, and to know her mind and interests would be divine as well. There, too, he already had a few glimpses.
She had been married, and therefore was at her leisure to travel unaccompanied but for her maid and driver. And yet, the two had abandoned her without so much as a return to the scene of the crash. Certainly, they feared her dead, but would they not have arrived at the Captain and Mermaid looking for help?
She was a woman comfortably situated, and they might have been tempted by her jewels or money case.
And yet, if she appeared on stages throughout Europe, would they not have accompanied her before? They had traveled to Naples at the very least, for she seemed to know what they would find there. And she was acquainted with Thomas Raffles, a man who wished to be seen in all the best places and with all the right people.
“I do not know that much about volcanic eruptions,” she said suddenly.
There was that, at least. She did not know everything. And even better, here was an opportunity for him to offer up some of his knowledge.
“There are few people who do, and not many of them in England. We are blessed to have such a civilized landscape, with well-mannered trees and rivers.”
She looked startled, and he cursed himself for forgetting what she had endured only the day before.
“And snowstorms, of course. We can no more control our climate than we can our friends.”
It did little to reassure her. She looked to the window, and the sun glinted off tears on her cheek.
“I am certainly no expert, but I do know that volcanoes can behave as differently from each other as recalcitrant children. Vesuvius buried Pompeii in lava and Herculaneum in ash. In Java, Tambora hailed stone and lava down upon the people, and then sent up its ash on an extended journey around the globe. Sort of like a grand tour, one could say.” Will paused, wondering if he bored her.
She surprised him by laughing, and wiped her cheek with a scrap of linen.
“Except for the souvenirs, I suppose. No Canalettos, I daresay. Or bottles of wine from Tuscan vineyards.” She paused, perhaps thinking of various treasures in her home. But there she again surprised him. “What did you bring with you from the East Indies?” she asked.
“The manuscript we hold in our laps,” he said. And his ring, but he said nothing about that.
“WE SHALL SAY YOU are my sister,” Lord Willem said as Milton pulled into the rutted drive of a large inn. Beneath the snow-capped roof, large timbers and tall gables reminded Julia of paintings she had seen of alpine landscapes. It looked like a delightful place to lunch, and she realized she was quite famished. It was hard work indeed, to sit in a warm coach and read a manuscript.
“I am sure the owner of the Queen’s Thimble never heard that before,” she said as Will helped her out of their private sanctuary. “Do you not think the disparity between your wardrobe and my own might make the innkeeper suspicious?”
Lord Willem looked doubtfully at her. “I think you look just spleendid.”
She rather doubted it, but blushed as if he were quite sincere in his flattery.
“More likely, he will suspect that we are running away, that I have managed to captivate a great lord and you have stolen me away, out of the kitchens,” she continued, fancifully.
“I am not a very great lord,” he said, “no more than the son of an earl. But even if I kidnapped you away from a tower fortress, after you let down your hair to allow me to climb up, we are going in the wrong direction.”
For the first time in many hours, Julia had reason to doubt him. What did he mean by that?
She stumbled as they entered the inn, and he caught her before she fell. Her leg, which did not bother her so very much yesterday, was now stiff and aching.
“Take my arm,” he said, as he took his bearings in the large room. “Let us sit by the fire.”
The hour was indeed late for luncheon, and the innkeeper was delighted to see them. He offered them his best rooms for the night, and told them his wife was preparing a fine feast of duck and potatoes for this evening. Will waved him off, telling him that it was their intent to continue on their way after the
y had eaten.
“Cheese and meat will do for us just now,” he said. “And please see that my driver has anything he requires.”
As the man left them alone, Lord Willem returned his attention to her. “If I had kidnapped you, we would be going north to Scotland, not to East Sussex, where we would wait an eternity before getting married.”
It took Julia a moment to understand his meaning. He was right, of course. No one ran away to Rye to elope.
“It is hardly an eternity, Will,” she said and smiled. “It is a matter of some days, a week perhaps, to procure a license.”
“Would that not be an eternity, if one truly loved someone?”
“You are a romantic. What is a matter of days if there is the promise of a lifetime? A lady would like some time to plan her wedding breakfast and have some fine new garments made. Perhaps her friends and family would all be with her, so they could celebrate together.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Townshend, I forgot you have been married,” Lord Willem said. “But then, you know better than most that one could never promise a lifetime, no matter how great the love. Or better put, a lifetime could be a good deal shorter than one expects.”
“I do not have to be reminded of my loss, Lord Willem. I feel the pain of it every day,” she said tersely. And yet, if she was completely honest, the pain was less acute as Leighton retreated into memory.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Townshend,” he repeated. “I did not intend to cause you grief. Indeed, I thought only of my own experience, which was somewhat selfish of me.”
Julia looked at him in surprise, but her view was obstructed as platters and bowls were placed on the plain wooden table between them. Indeed, it was selfish of her to think only of herself.
Neither of them said anything for several moments, as Will served her a good portion of meat, surely more than she could eat, no matter that her stomach growled. She sliced the cheese and placed several strips on his plate. For all their imagined story of what they were doing in this quiet inn together, they resembled nothing so much as an old married couple.
“I was very nearly married myself,” Will said suddenly, when his plate was nearly empty. “It was not an easy match, to be sure, for the lady was not much interested in standing before a man of the church.”
“Was she not Christian?” Julia studied the ring he wore, unlike anything she had ever seen.
“No, she was not, though in many ways, she was more spiritual than I. Her father was a naval man, who had spent some time in the East Indies, and taught her some English before he could no longer resist the call of the sea. She spent a good deal of time in and around Raffles’s offices, where she translated documents for him, and spoke on behalf of people who came to see him. That is where we met.”
Julia had a dozen questions she wished to ask, but allowed him to continue at his own pace. She knew this was not an easy story to tell.
“Our intention was to be married by a ship’s captain while still in port. We would then be able to celebrate with her family before returning to England and Holland and surprising my own.” He laughed ruefully. “But then, we felt the earth shake.”
Julia was listening so intently, it took a moment to realize he did not mean that their love was great enough to move mountains. Instead, the mountains truly did move.
“She returned to the village to bring her mother and sisters to safer ground. But, of course, there was no safer ground. Even days later, fires burned in the rubble, but I tried to find her.” He held up his hand, where Julia already noticed the scars of great burns. “It was too late to help anyone, though that could probably have been said within five minutes after the firestorm fell from the sky.”
“I am so sorry, Will,” Julia said.
“Her name was Leena,” he added.
He put down his fork and looked across the table at her. Julia wondered if this was the time to tell him the name of her own lost husband, and the truth of her identity. But she could not, just yet, and she evaded any questions by making a great business of neatly folding the stained linen napkin she had in her lap during their luncheon.
If Milton thought anything was amiss between them when they returned to the waiting coach, it was, of course, not his place to say anything. He gave Lord Willem a questioning look, and placed a box at the door, so that Julia could enter the coach without assistance.
As the coach lurched forward, and the Queen’s Thimble disappeared from view, Julia wondered if there really was such a thimble, if Will still loved the woman he lost, if the innkeeper believed they were brother and sister, or if one required a license when one married on shipboard.
But as they continued on their day’s journey, she asked nothing, and Will remained silent. Instead, they both were intent on reading Raffles’s detailed account of Tambora’s eruption, a story about which she knew very little, and Will, certainly too much.
When Milton pulled into the yard of a rather ancient building known as River’s End, Julia imagined she could already detect the salty scent of the sea in the cold air. Will, reading her thoughts, mentioned that they were still a day’s journey from Seabury.
She was happy to hear it, not so much for the reassurance that they did not have much longer to go, but that he attempted to restore them to an easy familiarity. Nevertheless, when he suggested they dine in an hour’s time, she begged off, saying she was quite weary, and that her bruises continued to ache.
“It has only been a day’s time since the crash,” he reminded her. It certainly was the truth, and yet it gave her pause, for it felt like she had known him longer than that. “And some injuries take a very long time to heal.”
She did indeed know him long enough to understood that he spoke of other things, and that he knew about the long process of healing as well as she did.
JULIA WAS GRATEFUL for the respite afforded at the River’s End, feeling much refreshed in the morning, though the mattress was lumpy and the room overly warm. Her bruises had become a regal purple, but she supposed they were healing. If she borrowed some powder from Laurentia, she might manage to intermingle among the Christmas guests without looking like a bough of holly fell off a wall and onto her head.
As she braided her hair, only slightly hindered by the soreness in her left arm, she patted the bump at her crown. She pinned her plaits carefully around it, and decided it was just as well that no one she knew would see her.
Except for Will, of course. But he had seen other parts of her that had probably looked a good deal worse. And besides, she doubted she would see him again after their sojourn at Seabury, except perhaps in her dreams. She already knew that he would return to her again and again, for she had already dreamed of him last night. Quite vividly, in fact.
But when she joined him in the small breakfast room, an alcove off the inn’s main dining hall, they exchanged nothing more than pleasantries before he suggested they might reach their destination this very day if the fair weather continued.
IT DID NOT.
A thick layer of clouds hung in the winter sky when Will rapped on the wall of the coach.
Julia looked up, too enrapt in Raffles’s words to have noticed it was past time for luncheon, and that once again, it had started to snow.
“Do you fear another storm?” she asked, her voice unsteady. Her misadventure had bruised her confidence as much as it had her body. And yet, she was reassured just having him with her, believing she would be safe and he would not abandon her. At least, not yet.
“No, Mrs. Townshend, I fear the next inn will be so busy with Christmas travelers, we will be denied a table. And I am quite hungry.”
“The horses, and Mr. Milton, deserve a rest as well,” she said. “Though I am reluctant to put down Mr. Raffles’s manuscript. It is quite compelling.”
“He will be glad for your approbation. But are you not hungry o
r tired yourself? We have been on the road for many hours, without stretching our legs.”
“It is not for me to set the pace, Lord Willem, for I have already delayed you long enough. I am not your guest, but nothing more than a hitchhiker, grateful for the ride.”
“Mrs. Townshend,” he said, and then paused. “Mrs. Townshend, I cannot be certain when this journey will end, but I assure you that we are on it together.”
Once again, she had the sense he alluded to things other than the snow-covered track and the posting house that just came into view. He said nothing else, but when the door opened and he stepped down into the frigid air, he turned back to her with an unspoken invitation.
She grasped his hand as she rose to meet him at the door, needing his steadiness and strength, and accepted it.
Once they were out on the cinder path that melted the light snow and warmed their toes, they paused to take their bearings. Unlike the Captain and Mermaid, Queen’s Thimble and the River’s End, which seemed like isolated spots of civilization on the lonely road, the Spotted Horse stood at the edge of a village, the gateway through which all travelers on the Great Road passed. Beyond the stable was an ice pond on which dozens of skaters demonstrated their skills. Shopkeepers displayed their wares, enticing townspeople to buy what they needed, and undoubtedly many things they did not.
“I forgot,” Julia said, as two young women walked past them, carrying several packages.
“That you are quite hungry?” Will asked distractedly, as he handed the stablemaster several coins to see to the care of the horses.
She grasped the sleeve of his wool longcoat. “That there were gifts in my coach. I made Christmas gifts for our hosts and some of the others, and I left them in the coach.”
“My dear Mrs. Townshend, certainly you do not imagine that we are going to turn around, lose yet another day, and search in the wreckage for some knitted scarves and stockings. Our hosts will have to take you as you are. Do you not think that your very presence would be the finest gift of all?”