A Lady Most Lovely

by Jennifer Delamere

  The service was, as Margaret expected, a rather standard affair. She had seen Tom’s intense interest in the Bible, the way he read it every evening with the dedication of a clergyman. Clearly he thought about it, ruminated on it, and took pleasure in it. Margaret had warned him that the service might not be as thrilling as someone with Tom’s avid interest might wish it to be. And indeed, the sermon was short and mildly vague. But Tom listened intently, and afterward as Reverend Hollister met everyone at the church door, Tom shook his hand and thanked him heartily.

  Virtually the whole congregation clustered around Tom and Margaret in the little churchyard, offering their good wishes. First to greet them were Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife,” Mr. Rawlins told Tom.

  Tom took the old lady’s hand and kissed it. “Mrs. Rawlins, what a pleasure to meet you. I have heard your beauty praised and your virtue sounded.”

  Margaret turned to stare at Tom in surprise. He was quoting Shakespeare! Did he realize that? He gave his most charming smile to the old lady, who blushed—probably for the first time in fifty years. “Oh, heavens!” Mrs. Rawlins warbled. “What a gentleman you are, Mr. Poole.”

  It was only after many more introductions and welcomes, and after Tom had invited the reverend and his wife to dinner on Sunday next, that they finally were able to get into their carriage for the journey back to Moreton Hall.

  “Everyone seems quite enamored with you,” Margaret observed, once they were on the road.

  “It’s a fine town,” Tom replied. “They are kind people.”

  “The admiration on their faces was unmistakable,” Margaret persisted, despite Tom’s humble answer. “What did you do? It must have been something extraordinary.”

  Tom stared thoughtfully ahead, driving the team of horses with care along the rough road. “Do you really want to know?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied, startled.

  “I prayed with them.”

  “You what?”

  “Not all of them, mind you, but some of those farmers I met on the first day. They were heartily worried about their crops. I told them there was once a man in the Bible who prayed earnestly that it would not rain—and it didn’t rain for two whole years.”

  “Two years?” Margaret said doubtfully. “How could that be?”

  Tom shrugged. “There was a reason for it when it happened in the Bible, I guess. But I told our good people that God would help them in time of need, too—and they needed to get those crops in. So we prayed.”

  “It didn’t rain that day,” Margaret said, recalling how the dark clouds, although swollen with rain, had passed them by. “Was Mr. Williams with you when you prayed?” He had not mentioned this incident to Margaret.

  “Yes, but I don’t think he took any stock in it. He said something about the ‘vagaries of nature,’ as I recall.”

  “But the farmers believed in those prayers, didn’t they? Country folk have always been a superstitious lot.”

  This brought another shrug from Tom. “I think superstition is a name people give to something others believe in but they don’t.”

  There wasn’t any way around that kind of logic. Margaret looked out over the fields, now shorn and brown. Whatever the cause, today the sky was bright blue. If the weather held like this, the harvest would be safe and they would have a successful year. If this made Tom a local hero, what was the harm? And yet… would it really be safe to have people idolize him? The thought worried her. “Hadn’t you better leave the praying to Reverend Hollister?” she asked. “Surely it would be embarrassing if you prayed publicly for something and it didn’t happen.”

  Tom shook his head. “Prayer never hurt a thing. Saint Paul said we should ‘pray without ceasing,’ so I reckon that’s a good plan. Although—” Tom pulled the horses to a halt. He tied off the reins and turned to look at her. “Although there are times when the good Lord answers our prayers in ways we do not expect. Some might find that embarrassing, too.”

  He raised a hand to her cheek, much as he had done every night, the prelude to their “good-night kiss.” Those kisses had become longer and more sensuous each time, and yet without fail Tom had broken it off before they could progress any further. The tension of waiting, wondering when he would press for more, was coiled up inside her, growing tighter with each passing day. His gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth, and she knew he was not planning to wait until tonight for their next kiss. He wanted it right here, in the open road, in the light of day. On a Sunday.

  And she wanted him to do it.

  No, surely she didn’t. It was foolish and improper. She struggled to find her breath. “Did you know that you were quoting Shakespeare to Mrs. Rawlins?”

  She had merely been searching for something to say—anything that might get them back to safer ground. Her words were more effective than she’d expected. The passion in Tom’s eyes faded, and he turned away. “Was I?” he said with a strained laugh. He loosed the ribbons and set the horses in motion. That moment that might have ended in a kiss was gone, and Margaret was relieved.

  Wasn’t she?

  “It… was from The Taming of the Shrew, I think,” she stammered.

  “Hearing thy mildness praised in every town,” Tom recited, even as he kept his eyes on the road. “Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded—yet not so deeply as to thee belongs—myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.”

  “How do you know that passage?” Margaret asked.

  “I learned it from Edward Somerville,” Tom said. “He loved poetry.”

  “Edward—that was Geoffrey’s brother?”

  “Yes. He was a good friend. Someday I’ll tell you more about him. For the moment, suffice it to say the man was an actor at heart. He kept us entertained, especially on those cold winter nights when we were all huddled around the hearth to keep warm.” He chuckled. “Those lines about mildness and beauty and virtue were ones he loved to quote in reference to his wife, who was indeed a charming woman and completely in love with him.”

  “Those words had a very different meaning in the play,” Margaret observed. “They were used ironically. Katherina was not exactly mild. She was a fierce woman who stood up for herself.”

  “Is that how you see it? Yes, I suppose you would.” He threw Margaret a quick sidelong glance. “She was not so fierce by the end, though.”

  Margaret could not help but give a little sniff. “I feel she was coerced.”

  “I see.” Tom gave another slap of the reins and the horses picked up their pace. “I prefer to think of it as—how did the man on the train put it?—love breaks down all barriers.”

  *

  “There is something for you today,” Mr. Rawlins said as Tom came through the door to the post office. He reached under the counter and pulled out a letter. True to his word, for the past month Rawlins had been quietly setting aside letters for Tom that had been marked “to be held until called for.”

  Tom frowned, thinking this was likely to be another missive from Spencer or Denault. Both had written to him every week, and he had put them off as long as he could, explaining that he could not make another trip to London until after the harvest. This had kept them at bay, but he could tell from the tone of Spencer’s last letter that he was growing impatient. Tom would have to go down to London very soon. He’d already accepted that the funds he’d given Denault for the railway were lost forever, but every part of his soul rebelled against paying blackmail money to Spencer.

  Tom took the letter from Rawlins. His heart lifted when he saw that this letter was from Geoffrey. Perhaps this was good news at last. “Thank you, Mr. Rawlins,” he said, and hurried toward the door.

  “You’re welcome. Good day to you!” Rawlins called after him.

  As he stepped outside, Tom tucked the letter into his coat pocket. He would wait until he had reached a place where he could read the letter undetected. As he mounted his horse, he saw Williams coming out from the butcher shop a
cross the street. Williams waved. Tom returned the greeting, but did not stop.

  He rode swiftly, with an occasional glance back to check that he wasn’t being followed. He’d begun to notice that Williams had the oddest way of turning up unexpectedly. But Williams must have remained in town. The only travelers on the road were the farmers bringing in their loads from the harvest. Tom turned into a meadow and rode to the little abandoned cottage where he and Margaret had made their wedding pact. It had become his private spot for reading and replying to sensitive correspondence. As always, it stood empty. Tom eagerly tore open the letter as soon as he was inside.

  Dear Tom,

  I have conferred with several people whom I can count on for their extreme discretion. Of particular help to me was Lord Ashley. He has conferred with Mr. Charles Dickens, who is a friend of his. Do you know the man—the writer? If so, you may be aware that he is exceedingly familiar with the people generally referred to as “the criminal element.” He has spent a lot of time accompanying the Metropolitan Police, and has seen firsthand their ways of dealing with those who commit crimes, both minor and serious.

  Dickens put Ashley in touch with a man named Inspector Field, who was the chief of the Detective Branch until he retired last year. He now works in a private capacity, helping people with matters they would prefer not to take to the police. I believe this Inspector Field can help you find the best plan for dealing with your situation. He is a most congenial and forthright sort of man. He has years of experience and is renowned for his shrewdness as well as his wide knowledge of crime and the law.

  He is willing to meet with us at four o’clock on Monday next. This should give you time to come down to London for the meeting. Please write back at your earliest convenience and let me know if this will suit. This seemed a good time, since you indicated in your last letter that the harvest is nearly complete.

  Lizzie sends her love. Our prayers are with you.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Geoffrey Somerville

  P.S. Chalmers, the head groom, has done a good job of looking after Castor, but he says the horse is getting restless.

  Tom read the letter through a second time, and then burned it. As he watched the flames reduce the paper to ashes, he considered what he would do. This Inspector Field sounded exactly like the sort of man who could help. What a boon that Geoffrey’s connections had provided access to such a man.

  When Geoffrey mentioned Castor, he had given Tom the best reason for going to London. He would tell Margaret that he was going to supervise Castor’s transport to Moreton. He had intended to do this anyway, having satisfied himself that the stables no longer posed a threat.

  He would have to make sure Margaret did not go along with him. If anything, she would probably be relieved that he was going away for a few days. Even so, he would not take any chances. He would make sure she did not know about any of this until he had found a way to deal with Spencer once and for all.

  *

  Margaret stalked into the breakfast room. “I just found Stephens packing your trunk,” she said, throwing out the words as an accusation. “He says you are going to London. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Hello, my love,” Tom said, rising languidly. He appeared not the least bit ruffled by her anger. In fact, he grinned. “So you went to my room. Were you looking for me?” His voice dropped to a husky whisper as he placed a light kiss on her cheek. “Had I known you wanted me, I would have stopped by your room on my way out.”

  Margaret took a step back and crossed her arms. She was beginning to recognize Tom’s tactics. He was trying to evade her question by distracting her. “You can’t just leave for London without giving me any advance notice,” she insisted, her irritation still firmly in place.

  He shrugged. “A business matter has arisen unexpectedly. It requires my immediate presence in London. I had every intention of telling you about it at breakfast.”

  “What kind of business?” she asked suspiciously. Williams had told her of Tom’s frequent visits to the post office, and she was worried that events were once again slipping out of her control.

  Tom gestured to the table. “My eggs are getting cold. Are you going to stand here questioning me all day, or will you sit down to breakfast?”

  Margaret stood her ground. “What kind of business?” she persisted.

  His eyes flashed in annoyance. “If you will recall,” he said acerbically, “John Sullivan sends me regular reports. The latest dispatch has arrived, along with a fresh shipment of gold. I assume you would like for me to go and look after my money? Or should I say, our money,” he added pointedly.

  “I—” she stammered, suddenly chastened. It sounded perfectly reasonable, of course, but still she could not shake her worry. “So that’s it, then? Nothing else?”

  “There is one more thing I need to do, as it happens.” He paused, picking up his cup from the table. She tapped her foot impatiently while he finished his coffee, knowing he was deliberately making her wait. Finally he set the cup back down with a small noise of satisfaction. “I am going to bring Castor back with me. Geoffrey says the old boy is getting lonely without me, and I don’t trust anyone else to load him on one of those trains. I might even bring you back a present. Wouldn’t you like a new horse, a proper mount to replace the gelding you lost?”

  The warmth was back in his expression. It seemed to her that Tom was as variable as the wind. She never knew which direction he would take next. He took a gentle hold of her hands. This time she did not try to pull back, but said stoutly, “I would prefer one of my own choosing.”

  He laughed outright. “Oh, my dear Maggie,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “didn’t anyone ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

  *

  Well, he had done it. He’d convinced Margaret to stay at Moreton Hall while he went to London. He was free to meet with this Inspector Field. Already he felt one step closer to solving the problem of what to do about Spencer. Tom knew that vengeance belonged to the Lord, not to man. That would keep Tom from finishing the job he’d started at the wedding breakfast. He would not allow Spencer to provoke him again to physical violence. But that did not mean he could do nothing. The laws of England punished extortionists, and surely Tom was justified in seeking that end for Spencer. But he had to find a way to protect Lizzie, too.

  It would be good to see her again. Her letters had been getting shorter, and Geoffrey’s were getting longer as though trying to make up for the shortfall. This might not signify anything at all, and yet something kept tugging at Tom’s consciousness. He wanted to see for himself that she was well. He’d come back to England for her sake, yet here he was living far away from her. Although the railway had reduced the distance to one day’s journey, he still felt as if he’d abandoned her. It was a foolish notion, of course. Lizzie had her husband, not to mention her grandmother and her cousin. She had all the good care that she could wish for.

  As he watched the fields roll by, Tom’s thoughts returned to Margaret. He missed her already. He was actually growing fond of her prickly ways and her stubborn self-confidence. He only wished he had been able to find the way to her heart by now.

  Every night she responded more and more to his kisses, but by day she was still resisting him. He was under no misapprehension that she loved or trusted him. Nor, he supposed, did he deserve it. Not until he could be completely honest with her.

  Holding off, when he longed to take her to his bed, had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done. At times the pain of longing was so intense that not even his trials after the shipwreck could compare. But he knew in his heart that he was right to wait. Every night, as he returned to his cold bed, he prayed, believing that when the time was right he would know it, and that they would be coming together for all the right reasons.

  *

  Margaret was only half listening to the housekeeper’s report of the state of the linens and other household goods. Ordinarily this was a t
ask Margaret enjoyed. She had kept a sharp eye on the few items she’d been able to retain, making sure everything was accounted for and carefully maintained. Today, however, she was unable to concentrate. Her thoughts kept straying to Tom. She was troubled by his sudden departure, and far too keenly aware of the difference between his being just over the ridge or hundreds of miles away.

  Slowly she became aware of a silence in the room. She looked up from the list she had been pretending to read, only to find the housekeeper waiting politely for a response. She must have just asked Margaret a question. Margaret gave her an apologetic smile. “Mrs. Walker, would you mind terribly if we continue this in an hour or so?”

  “Will you be needing a bit of a rest, madam?” the housekeeper replied with mild concern. “Shall I call for your maid?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Margaret stood up with an air of briskness that she hoped would convey that she was perfectly well. “Will you ask the butler to come in here, please?”

  The housekeeper nodded and left the room.

  A few moments later, the butler entered. “You asked for me, madam?”

  “Did Mr. Poole receive any correspondence today, before he left?”

  “Today? No, madam.”

  “Yesterday, then?”