Silas bit back a smile threatening to spill from the inside out as he watched the old seamstress hanging out the open windows of the carriage like a small child glimpsing the seaside for the first time.
“Now you’ll have to promise to work hard and be a good help.”
“I’ll work harder than a team of oxen, ’andsome.” She settled back into the seat, but her huge, gummy grin widened.
“The girl you’ll be helping is quite talented, and I’m hoping you can share some of her duties. You remember how to do it?”
“You think that know-how just falls out me head? Of course I still know how.” She humphed and shook her head.
“One more thing. And this is important. The woman has a young girl living with her—a daughter.”
Before he could even tell her the details, light poured from every crease of the woman’s smiling face. “A child!” She cackled in layers of joy that tidal-waved over the sound of the horses’ jingling reins. “A child, a child. Oh, bless me stars.”
Lights glowed in the thatched cottages they passed until they left Glen Cora, and then it was only fields and woods cast in the deep orange glow of sunset. Quite spectacular, really, when seen through the eyes of a newly freed prisoner. The acute awareness of such beauty sparkled in Rosa’s eyes as she drank it in.
The sun glowed deep, shimmering red past the slender cupolas, a mere slit on the horizon when the carriage crunched up the drive to Lynhurst. He tipped the coachman for his silence on the matter, and then led the woman, who followed with surprising vigor on bowed legs, down the now-familiar path to Florin cottage.
As they came within sight of it and saw the candle glow in the shrouded homey windows, his aching feet slowed. This was Nelle’s private home. It only had one room, did it not? He was asking her to share her space, her home, with a strange woman.
But in turn, Rosa would be helping, he argued with himself. Surely Nelle would see the value in that. Maybe he should offer to pay for Rosa’s stay. She’d only be there until her children could be reached, unless they became fast friends and did what he hoped—opened a shop together. Rosa could be just the push Nelle needed to start a beautiful life where her artistry and skill were appreciated and rewarded financially. Where she and her daughter could leave the house to enjoy sunshine and people. Dahlia might even attend school.
Yes, this would be good for Nelle. Besides, it was too late to backtrack. Rosa stood beside him, and he had no other place to offer her. Those thoughts drove his steps right up to Nelle’s door, where he knocked lightly with one knuckle. She could always say no if the imposition was too great. The sun had almost completely set, and only the candle glow from inside lit the shadowed path.
But when the door opened, and Nelle stood there in all her freshness and motherly radiance, shock on her pale face, he stiffened.
“Good evening, Mr. Rotherham.” Her lovely cheeks pinked in the dim light.
Awkward silence stretched for seconds that felt like long minutes. Finally he expelled a gusty breath. “I should not be so bold as to ask you this, but I need a favor.” Shifting from one foot to the other, he stepped aside and indicated the woman behind him. “This is Rosa. She does needlework and needs a place to stay. I thought you could help each other, and . . .” He paused, shoving both hands through his hair. “Well, I should have thought further, but I did not. As is my regrettable habit.”
He looked up to her pleadingly, but her gaze had already moved past him to the woman just behind, and it glowed with welcome.
“Rosa. I’m Nelle Wicke, and this is my home. Please, come in.”
She stepped forward and led the woman into her candlelit cottage by the arm, the older one trotting after the younger, and somehow the pair made sense. Silas followed them in and shut the door, expelling the tension crowding his chest. He should have known it would be like this. It was Nelle.
He perched on a stool across from the two women, his legs tucked under the table.
After several minutes of exchanging pleasantries, Rosa burst the tension when Nelle apologized for dishes scattered about the kitchen.
“Well, it’s a sight better than debtor’s prison. That’s where I come from. Mr. Handsome won’t say it, but I will. And leave them dishes. I’ll help ye with them in the morning. But for now, let me feast my eyes on the colors and chaos of family life.” Leaning back, she inhaled deeply and released the breath with a smile.
The corner of Nelle’s lip turned up in a half grin. “Then I’m glad to have you here, dishes and all.”
“Ain’t none of us perfect, and I’m the best example of that lot. Now where’s your fine husband so I can make my acquaintance and pass judgment?”
Silas’s muscles tensed across his back. Nelle absently swept crumbs from the table into her palm, then dusted her palms over the table. She repeated the nervous habit several times before forcing the truth out of her lips. “There is no husband.” The lovely face tipped down as she spoke the words. “My daughter was . . . accidental.”
With a deep frown, the old woman shoved up from the table and walked over to the bed that mother and daughter shared. Dahlia’s sleeping form lay sprawled across it. Leaning close, hands clamped to her knees, Rosa inspected the tiny face flushed in sleep and shook her head. “Ain’t no mistake about an angel like that, Miss Nelle Wicke.”
Silas’s breath caught at the sight of the girl’s tiny face, long eyelashes resting on pink cheeks. What he wouldn’t give to have a precious child like that to protect and encourage. How could anyone resist scooping her up and swinging her around every day, just to see her smile?
When an aura of family and home filled the room of near-strangers, Silas knew it was time to leave. He rose at a break in the conversation and excused himself. Nelle followed him to the door to see him out. Looking down into her face, he so badly wanted to take her hands in his to communicate the gratitude overwhelming him.
“I cannot tell you what it means to me that you have trusted this stranger to come into your home. You are a gem among women, Nelle Wicke.” He clamped his mouth shut as the words left. He’d done it again. Why couldn’t he filter things like that before he built a wall between himself and every woman he talked to? Not every thought was meant to be voiced.
He prepared for the inevitable rejection, but Nelle lit up with a gratified smile. “It is my pleasure to help you, Mr. Rotherham. A great honor, after all you’ve done for me. I’m only too glad.” She clasped her hands in her apron. “Besides, I can tell by the look of her that this woman can be trusted. She isn’t one of them.” She tipped her head toward the big house. “She reminds me of my own mother.”
The muscles of his face relaxed into a smile. “If there’s anything I can do for you to repay you, anything at all . . .”
She dipped her head with the thought of whatever request she wanted to make but couldn’t.
“Tell me, Nelle. I’d be more than happy to do anything for you. Money, protection, whatever it is. Let me help.” He resisted the urge to tip her chin up with one finger.
“I’ll think about it.”
27
“If you decide to love me, you must accept all of my oddities,” she warned him.
“My dear,” replied Charles Sterling Clavey, “if it were not for your oddities, I should have no reason to love you in the first place.”
~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears
The announcement of Nathaniel Droll’s identity reached the local newspapers soon after the gathering, and by that time a plan had formed in my mind. For several long afternoons following Jasper’s revelation, I buried myself in my chambers to pen a most important installment of Lady Jayne Disappears that included the reappearance of a minor character.
The man posing as Arthur Hobbs lll again graced the Toblerone home with his presence when they opened their residence to an art exhibit for local collectors. “A man of wealth ought to have an expensive hobby, and this shall be mine,” he had declared to himself as he circulat
ed among the guests. Would any of them notice that he wore the same suit as before? He’d only stolen the one, and it must serve every purpose of his imagined existence.
The poor man had run the entire way to the event, since imaginary wealth did not pay for carriages, and found himself dangerously parched. He eagerly accepted the tiny glass of refreshment offered by a passing butler and dashed the cupful down his gullet. As he studied the art with the critical expression of the knowledgeable man he pretended to be, he became parched again and gladly accepted the next proffered glass. By the time he’d downed several, and his magnanimous hostess approached to ask his opinion on the latest DuBlanc arrival from Paris, he suddenly found that words were difficult to pronounce.
“Shtunning, my dear. Quite lovely.” Why couldn’t he force out the proper sounds?
Within minutes the drinks, which contained more brandy than punch, had muddied his logic and loosened his tongue. The rooms had filled to capacity by nine, and that was the moment he chose to clink fork to crystal and stand on the stair to gain the crowd’s attention.
“How nice to shee all of you.” The words slurred across his lips but sounded intelligent and engaging to his inebriated mind. “Let us take a moment to thank our lovely hostess, Lady Toblerone, and the talented maid who helped to squeeze her into that dress. Well done, maid.” He set down the cup and clapped in broken rhythm. “Also, her chef who prepared that wonderful dinner that I only recently discovered to be lobster. To which I’m highly allergic. Lady Toblerone, you are quite the peach.”
Loping to her with drunken strides, he snaked an arm around her back, dipped her backwards, and planted the sort of kiss on her that echoed throughout the room. With a cry, Lady Toblerone wrenched free and stumbled back. “Lord Hobbs, what do you mean by all this?”
Lord Toblerone approached from behind, his wiry frame guarding the poor woman.
“Pardon me, Lord Tober . . . Toler . . . blerone.” Hiccup. “It seems your wife has chosen me over you. And for the record, my name is not Hobbs. It’s Grupp. Jasper Grupp. Never a keener man has walked this earth. Did you know I pretend to write famous novels?”
And with that, he bowed and summarily released the many drinks he’d consumed all across the glittering shoes of his hostess.
The only way to deal with any problems in my life, it seemed, was through Nathaniel Droll. I relished skewering Jasper with my words, knowing they’d be read by England at large.
“Miss Harcourt?” A knock accompanied a muffled voice outside my door.
“Come in.”
Minnie popped her round face into the room. “You’re wanted in the yard for badminton.”
“I’ll be there presently.” I rose and glanced toward the armoire for appropriate attire. Despite my lack of coordination, the idea of fresh air and exercise appealed to me after several days of near imprisonment.
But I quickly learned I was not meant to play the lively game but to watch it, along with the other women from Lynhurst. Neatly arranged in the shade with cheese and crackers and a few assorted cold meats, we idled around the wrought-iron patio table, hat brims shading our faces. I reached for another slice of Swiss cheese, reveling in the sun warming my exposed arm. Something about constant fear and turmoil made one appreciate small blessings in abundance.
“This is something we could never do in our London house.” Juliette’s high-pitched cheerfulness grated as the birdie popped from Silas and Garamond’s side to Clem and Kendrick’s and stuck in the grass.
Aunt Eudora humphed from her wheeled chair behind us, blowing out the handkerchief that covered her face.
“Don’t bother to sugar the truth.” Glenna’s sour face grimaced in the shade. “Country life will always be a miserable prison for those meant to live in the city.”
“Do you know, I’ve learned something rather interesting.” Juliette leaned back and nibbled a cracker. “Wasn’t it Uncle Woolf we were trying to save when we sold that London house? Well, as it turns out, the man remained a wastrel, despite our sacrifice on his account. How abominable! Imagine—we gave up a city life for the man, and—”
“Who on earth told you such a thing, Juliette?” Aunt Eudora’s voice snapped out from her corner of the patio as her handkerchief floated to the ground before her.
Jasper Grupp. No one but that fiend would have done it.
“A good friend who happens to have inside information on the man.”
“Remarkable proof that some people are simply beyond help.” Glenna popped one bit of candy after another between her tiny lips.
Teeth clamped shut and grinding, I tightened my belly but said nothing. Tears threatened.
Glenna turned, fanning her red face. “Mother, what on earth put it into your head that you should even try to save that wastrel brother of yours in the first place?”
“Glenna, do not question my judgment. The same generosity that opened my hand to him will also one day open my hand to your family as I write out my will.”
“But, Grandmama, he brought such disgrace to you. I heard there were even children born to unwed women of his acquaintance. Good heavens, we have little vagabond cousins running around that might show up at our door at any time, demanding to be let in.” Juliette laughed. “Imagine a little urchin off the street wanting to join our family as if they could actually belong, simply because of some silly old indiscretion that tied us to them. What on earth would we do with such people?”
Vagabond. Wastrel. The words rattled around in the part of my heart that refused to acknowledge the truth about the man. All the years of writing serial novels, the money he must have earned . . . yet he allowed us to remain in Shepton Mallet.
I harshly shoved aside images of Papa throwing away his money in foolishly large amounts to secure the immediate comforts he so enjoyed, of our painfully empty tin that should have contained his savings, if he’d had any—
No. Stop. He wasn’t a wastrel. Wasn’t. Hadn’t he produced the stories that captivated even the elite members of this household? Who among them had accomplished such a thing? Even penniless, Papa had created a legacy to last beyond his lifetime, and I had to remember that, no matter what they said. Clear visions of Papa’s precious face rose before my mind.
“What would we do?” Glenna’s narrowed eyes flicked to me. “Cast them out as soon as possible.”
I forced my crossed arms into my gut. The taste of all the cheese and bread I’d consumed rose in my mouth as I dipped my head.
“There was one.” Aunt Eudora spat out the words. “One child born to one woman. I will not hear you speak of my brother any more. There is too much you don’t know.”
“You mean there’s more? How wonderfully dramatic!” Juliette clapped her hands in little pops that echoed in the shaded patio. “You shall have to tell us the whole story now, Grandmama. What became of the wretched woman and her poor child? Has the lad grown up to be as worthless as Uncle Woolf?”
I shot up, ramrod straight, chair jerking back. Anger had eclipsed my self-control, and I did not care a whit. “You know nothing about him! How dare you!” Or maybe it was I who did not. I breathed hard. My stiff bodice would suffocate me. No, they would. The tight circle of them, focused on me. Judging me.
Commotion lit up the patio as female exclamations echoed in the little space. The noise drew the maids out, cap ribbons flying behind them as they ran to assist.
Before anything worse could happen, I stole away, my slippers swishing through grass. Anger swelled against my ribs as I ran. Why? Why had I ever walked into their silly games, with courtships and flirtations, gowns and ridiculous curled hair? I’d been safe in prison. Happy. My feet thumped the ground with all my pent-up ire, carrying me toward the woods. I veered left before the tree line and ran through the grass, pumping hard against my heavy dress. Whipping around a crumbled wall, I plastered my cheek against the mossy stones, breathing hard.
Arrogant. Worthless. That’s all this family was.
I should tell them. J
ust spit out the secret I had tucked away inside me. Then they would look at their “wastrel” uncle and his child entirely differently, wouldn’t they?
Hot, angry tears poured over my cheeks.
I moved slowly among the scent of roses later that evening as darkness descended, my fingertips skimming the powdery petals. Moist breeze cooled my skin. Aloneness suddenly seemed a comfort at the moment, not a threat. It had taken enormous courage to walk inside for dinner after the upset of the afternoon, but the conversation I overheard behind the closed drawing room doors had shattered my bravery. Kendrick and Glenna voiced what I had feared from the beginning—I did not belong at Lynhurst. Aunt Eudora had obviously told them all who I was, and the truth was in the open. What to do with this odd cousin from debtor’s prison who simply did not fit anywhere?
In the dim starlight, I paused to the right of the tall drawing room windows that framed the cozy family gathering inside. What was to be done with me? I couldn’t return to Shepton Mallet without Papa. My only family was here at Lynhurst. And they thought—no, they knew—I did not belong.
Making my living as Nathaniel Droll tempted me beyond belief, but I did not belong in that role, either. For as much as I tried to shove my way into the identity, some unseen force pushed me back out with a power I could not combat.
Perhaps that’s all this was—God pushing me firmly from this work. All the paranoia about some invisible ghost, and seeing danger in everything . . . none of this was necessary if I removed myself from the two places I was not wanted.
But if I did that, what had I left?
I moved to the trellis and stood beneath the waterfall of clematis, closing my eyes to experience the aroma and feel of the flowers more deeply. No matter what happened in the coming days or weeks, whether I stayed as an intruder or left as a homeless waif, I could enjoy this moment. No one could deny me that. I leaned against the vines twining the wooden frame, my face tipped heavenward.
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