by Anne Gracie
When was she ever going to get over this, the fear of people discovering that at the age of eighteen Lady Lily Rutherford still barely could read? And not at all if anyone was watching her.
It was a disgrace, her greatest shame. And she had no excuse for it. There was nothing at all wrong with her eyesight. She could see perfectly well to embroider, to knit, to pluck a stray hair from her eyebrows. It was stupidity, that was all. There could be no other answer. She didn’t feel stupid, but the evidence to the contrary was overwhelming.
And to admit to Edward Galbraith that she was so stupid as to not even be able to read—she simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. That look would come into his eyes, the look she dreaded but was so horridly familiar with, the look first of incredulity, then scorn—or worse, of barely disguised pity.
And then they treated her as if she were really stupid and couldn’t understand the simplest things. If Edward ever started to talk to her like that, she couldn’t bear it.
He read on, his voice deep and almost mesmeric, carrying effortlessly over the rattle of the carriage and the sounds of the horses. “‘His two other children were of very inferior value. Mary had acquired a little artificial importance by becoming Mrs. Charles Musgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of character, which must have placed her high with any people of real understanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no weight, her convenience was always to give way—she was only Anne.’”
Like Papa, who valued Rose for her beauty and spirit, and had seemed to love Lily equally—until he’d learned, after Mama had died, that Lily, who was almost twelve at the time, still could not read.
Papa had called her an imbecile.
And so he’d sent them both—punishing Rose as well for Lily’s inadequacies—away from everything they knew, from everything they loved, to an exclusive school in Bath.
And promptly forgot about them.
She had lost her father’s love when she was almost twelve.
An imbecile . . . An embarrassment to the family
Lily forced the lump in her throat away. There was no use dwelling on the painful recollections of the past. Old hurts might not heal, but they eventually faded. She had to believe that.
She settled back against the deeply padded leather seat and listened to Edward’s voice. She could listen to him all day. Only Rose and Mama had ever taken the trouble to read books aloud to Lily.
Besides, she wanted to hear what happened to this Anne Elliot, whose father so unkindly disdained her.
* * *
• • •
“I’ll take it, Burton.” Emm took the tray containing her husband’s breakfast and quietly closed the door. It was almost noon. Cal would be furious. He’d asked to be woken at dawn, but he’d been so exhausted that he’d fallen asleep the moment he hit the bed, and she couldn’t bring herself to wake him. Until now.
She drew back the curtains and light flooded their bedchamber. Cal stirred, pried open bleary eyes, stared at the weak spring sunshine and sat bolt upright. “What time is it?”
“Nearly noon. The coffee’s hot, so don’t spill it,” she said calmly, and placed the tray on his lap, effectively preventing him from leaping out of bed, at least not without spilling hot coffee everywhere. Wifely tactics.
“Noon? I left instructions to be woken at dawn!”
“I know. I countermanded them. Eat your breakfast. You need to eat.”
“Dammit, Emm, I have to—”
“A strange little note arrived a short while ago.”
“Note? What note? Is it ransom?”
“No. It seems to be from Mr. Galbraith.”
“Galbraith? Ned Galbraith? What’s it say?”
“It was addressed to you, but I opened it anyway.” He put out his hand for it, but she held it back. “I’ll read it to you while you eat.”
She waited until, with a long-suffering expression, he shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth. Then she read the note aloud: “‘Found your missing package in good condition. Will return it to you at earliest convenience—Friday night or early Saturday morning. E. Galbraith.’” She looked at Cal. “Well?”
He held out his hand and she gave the note to him. He glanced at the signature, then slumped back against the pillows. “She’s safe! Galbraith’s got her.”
“Thank God!” Emm plopped down on the bed beside him. Coffee slopped over, dripping onto the tray, but they neither noticed nor cared. “I thought that’s what the note must mean, but I couldn’t be sure.”
Rose and George burst in. “Is it true? Lily’s been found? She’s safe?” Clearly they’d been listening at the door.
Cal nodded. “Yes, she’s safe. My friend Galbraith has her. He’s bringing her home.”
There was an outburst of relief—laughter and tears and hugging—and when it was all settled, and the coffee well and truly spilled—Rose plonked herself on the end of the bed. “We thought that’s what the note must mean, but why would he call Lily a ‘package’? Why send such a peculiar message?”
George nodded. “Yes, why not just say Lily’s safe and he’s bringing her home?” Her dog, Finn, had followed her in. He sidled up to Cal’s side of the bed and sat down, looking mournful and underfed.
“It was something we learned to do during the war—send messages that on the surface appeared innocuous, but that the person receiving them would understand.” Cal passed a piece of toast to the dog. “When did the note arrive?”
“About half an hour ago,” Emm told him. “It was brought by a young man, dirty, unshaven and mud-spattered, so I wasn’t sure what to think, especially as he claimed he was to be paid five pounds.” She turned the note over and showed him the postscript. “But then I realized he looked much the same as you did when you got home last night. He’s in the kitchen now, being fed, if you want to question him.”
“We already have,” George said. “He doesn’t know anything about Lily, just that this note was sent by a man who arrived at the inn he drinks at, with a girl he claimed was his sister.” She and Rose exchanged glances.
“He said the girl arrived wearing nothing but a fur rug,” Rose said.
“What?” Cal stiffened. Coffee went everywhere and the plate with his half-eaten breakfast slipped to the floor. He took no notice. “What do you mean, ‘nothing but a fur rug’?”
Rose shrugged. “That’s what he said. And before you go and try to shake more out of him, he said he hadn’t seen her himself, but that’s what he’d heard.”
Cal swore under his breath. Emm slipped her hand on his shoulder. “People can get things muddled,” she said quietly. “There’s no point worrying about it now. We’ll see Lily and Galbraith tonight, God willing, or tomorrow, and then we’ll find out what really happened.” She gave the girls a look. “Thank you, girls. George, if your dog has finished with Cal’s breakfast, you can take him outside.”
Relieved, but subdued, the two girls left.
Cal’s gaze burned into Emm. “Naked but for a fur rug?” He groaned.
“Stop imagining the worst. Your friend Galbraith said she was safe—just remember that.” She slipped her arms around him and lay beside him, her head on his chest. “All we can do now is wait.”
Chapter Nine
“You men have none of you any hearts.”
“If we have not hearts, we have eyes; and they give us torment enough.”
—JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY
After a while the journey took on a rhythm. Edward read, chapter after chapter, seeming never to tire of it. Betty soon put her book aside and became engrossed in Persuasion.
Whenever they stopped to change horses, they hastened into the inn to relieve themselves or simply to stretch their legs. And though Lily tried to persuade Edward to take a break—for the sake of his voice, not because she wasn’t enjoying the s
tory—he did for a short while, and then picked up the book and resumed the story.
She suspected he was enjoying it as much as she was.
When he wasn’t reading aloud, when they were all sitting watching the scenery pass by, every time she glanced at him—and for some reason her gaze kept being drawn to him—he was watching her.
Oh, he seemed to be looking at the scenery, but she could see he was really looking at her in the reflection of his window.
It should have made her uncomfortable—and it did make her feel a little warm and sort of tingly and self-conscious—but somehow she didn’t mind.
And once he started reading again and not watching her, she was free to watch him. He really was the most beautiful man.
Every stop was as short as they could make it—they wanted to reach London as soon as possible. They didn’t even stop for luncheon—the large basket Betty’s mother had given them proved to contain a veritable feast. There was cold chicken, salad, an egg-and-bacon pie, bread and butter, a rich fruitcake that Betty insisted be eaten with slices of cheese that her mother had provided, and apples that should also be eaten with the cheese.
The meal was washed down with something Betty called scrumpy, which was a kind of cider that her father made, though there was a bottle of ale for Edward. There was a large wrapped packet of food for Jimmy and Mr. Walton, but they only got a bottle of cold tea to wash their meal down because as Betty informed them, “Ma always says, ‘Men what drives coaches shouldn’t go a-drinking.’”
The scrumpy was delicious but rather strong, and after the meal Lily became quite sleepy. Seeing her yawns, Edward put the book aside and produced rugs, and she and Betty snuggled into them and soon nodded off.
She woke at one point and noticed that he too was dozing, his chin sunk onto his neckcloth, crushing its elegant folds. His long, booted legs were crossed and stretched out before him and his arms were folded.
He looked younger in sleep. Younger and somehow vulnerable.
He must have been aware of her regard, for he opened his eyes and looked straight at her. She smiled, their gaze held a long moment, then he shifted and sat up. He stretched and said quietly, “I don’t know about that scrumpy, but the ale packed quite a punch.”
She nodded. “The scrumpy did too.”
He glanced at the sky. “Late afternoon. If our luck continues, we’ll have you home again before midnight.” He gave an endearing crooked half smile and added, “Like Cinderella.”
She gestured to her borrowed clothing. “Not quite like Cinderella, but yes. Thank you. I’m very grateful for all you’ve d—”
He cut her off with a gesture, as if he didn’t want her gratitude. “Shall I continue reading the story?”
She glanced at the still-sleeping Betty and shook her head. “Let’s wait until she wakes. Despite her stated preference for a gory tale, I think she’s enjoying this as much as I am.”
The light inside the carriage dimmed as they entered a forest. Lily gazed out the window, watching the play of light and shade through the leaves and the tracery of branches. “Forests are magical places, don’t you think? When I was little Rose and I weren’t allowed to play in the woods near our house, so naturally there was nothing we wanted to do more.”
“Naturally.”
“Our nurse tried to frighten us with tales like ‘The Babes in the Wood,’ and she also told us the most terrifying stories of elves and pixies stealing us away.” She laughed softly. “Of course that made us want to go and play there even more.” She tilted her head and looked at him. “I suppose being a boy, you were allowed to go wherever you wanted.”
“Guilty as charged, though only after I went to live with my grandfather, when I was six.”
Her smile died. “Oh. What happened?”
“Nothing terrible, don’t worry. I was born in London and spent my earliest years there, and until I went to Grandfather’s the only garden I knew was bound by black iron railings and a locked gate. And woe betide any child rash enough to pick a flower or climb a tree.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s mean. Children need to play. So what happened when you were six?”
“I had weak lungs as a child, and each winter I fell ill—coughs and cold and terrible breathing problems. The winter I was six, I was coughing my lungs up as usual when Grandfather arrived on an unexpected visit. He took one look at me, declared that no child should be raised in a filthy city and swept me away to Shields—the family seat in the country—insisting that ‘fresh country air would make the boy well again.’ It did too. I lived with Grandfather from then on, leaving only to go away to school.”
She gave him a troubled look. “Your parents didn’t come with you?”
“No, they both preferred living in London. Mother was an acknowledged beauty and adored the social whirl, as did my father. I saw them each Christmas, of course.”
“Of course,” Lily murmured, wondering how any mother could just give her small son away like that. “And at your grandfather’s home—Shields, was it?—was there a forest nearby to explore?”
A reminiscent half smile appeared on his face. “There was indeed. Grandfather gave me free run of the place—the stables, the forest, the village—as long as I told someone where I was going, and took my dog with me.”
“Your dog?”
“Nipper. A terrier, the cleverest little dog you’ve ever seen. We went everywhere together.” He was silent for a while.
“So you were happy at your grandfather’s?”
“Oh, yes. It was heaven to a small boy whose greatest adventures to that point had been standing on a chair and gazing out the attic window, imagining himself climbing out and exploring the endless sea of rooftops and chimneys, mysterious lands half hidden in the swirling smog.” He gave a self-deprecating grimace. “I was a foolish, dreamy child.”
“Not foolish at all,” she said softly. “What is life without dreams?”
There was a short silence, then she prompted him further—she was so enjoying this brief glimpse into his past. “And so at your grandfather’s you had the whole estate and your very own forest to explore?”
“Not just explore, but to command. I was Robin Hood.”
She chuckled. “And did you have a band of merry men to lead?”
And there, suddenly, was that bleak look. “I did—then,” he said quietly, and turned his face away. He picked up a book—not the one he’d been reading to her—and began to leaf through it, a clear signal that the conversation was over.
What had she said? They’d been talking about Robin Hood and his merry men, and childhood games. Where was the harm in that? But he obviously didn’t want to talk about it.
And before Lily could think of a way to get him talking again, a large pothole jolted Betty awake and ended their intimate conversation. But not Lily’s thoughts about it.
Everyone changed between the time they were small to the adults they became, but the contrast between the dreamy little boy who imagined rooftop lands, and the happy child exploring the world with his dog, and playing Robin Hood with his friends in the woods—how had he become this man with a reputation for keeping people at a distance? A coldhearted rake? That wasn’t the man who’d rescued her, and protected her, the man who’d kissed her under a moonless sky and the next day read to her for hours on end so she wouldn’t be bored on a long trip.
At the next stop to change horses, when they all clambered stiffly out of the carriage to use the convenience, Lily’s thoughts were still miles away as she wended her way through the busy inn. A loud, self-important voice broke through her reverie. “Lady Ampleforth requires—”
Lily didn’t wait to hear what Lady Ampleforth required; she dived through a nearby door, dragging Betty with her. And found herself in a private parlor where a plump, elderly lady sat by the fire. She was dressed in shades of puce and wore a pur
ple-and-gold turban. At Lily’s gasp, she peered toward the doorway, then groped for and began to raise a lorgnette.
“Oh, heavens!” Lily whirled around and pushed Betty back out.
“What was that all about?” Betty said as they hurried to the conveniences out the back.
“That old lady, she knows me.” Worse, she knew Aunt Agatha.
“So?”
“She mustn’t see me.”
“She did see you.”
“No, she’s very shortsighted, so she saw me, but I don’t think she recognized me. She didn’t have her lorgnette up in time.”
She pushed Betty in front of her. “Have a look, will you? See if she’s anywhere to be seen.”
Betty peered through the door. “Hang on, she’s talking to someone. Let’s go around the other way.” They crept around the outside of the inn, then made a mad dash to the carriage and practically fell inside, laughing in relief.
Inside the inn, Ned was arranging for hot coffee laced with brandy for his coachman, and sweetened tea for the ladies and the small boy, when he felt an imperious tap on his shoulder. He turned and his heart sank.
“Young Galbraith, what is the meaning of this?” A short, stout old lady stood regarding him with a grim expression. “That, if I am not mistaken, was Lady Lily Rutherford I saw just now—and she’s just climbed into a vehicle that my coachman tells me belongs to you.”
Ned swore silently. In as bored a voice as he could manage, he said, “It’s not what you think, Lady Ampleforth.”
She snorted. “You have no idea what I think, young man. So explain.”
He gave a careless shrug and explained in his best sophisticated-rake drawl, “It’s simple. I encountered Lady Lily and her maid a few miles back, in some distress after a carriage accident. Naturally I stopped to render assistance and, realizing who she was—her brother is a friend of mine, you know—I offered her a lift back to London. It’s a dreary chore, of course, but there it is. Nothing else a gentleman could do.”