The Barbarian and His Lady (The Friendship Series Book 8)

by Julia Donner

  Harry waved that away. “Doesn’t signify. The coachman, outriders and grooms will stay at the nearest inn. They will see to all expenditures, exchange of horses, posting inns and whatnot. You merely step up into the coach and enjoy the drive.”

  This astounding generosity left Mrs. Davidson speechless. She opened her mouth, obviously to decline such extravagance, but Harry held up a staying hand.

  There was no hint of pretense or any sign of his usual jocularity when he said, “Ma’am, you will accept this with my profound gratitude. Your reputation as an accoucheuse is widely known. You are fast becoming legend. Wives will be vying for your assistance, and I want no one else to care for my Olivia. I know that you are obligated to Lady Exton-Hughes. I only ask that you come back to us as soon as possible. I have worries that our child might decide to arrive earlier than expected.”

  Mrs. Davidson’s demeanor of retiring guest melted away when she assumed an attitude of calm authority. Her gaze level, she said, “Sir, these are matters usually discussed with strict discretion, if for no other reason than respect for your wife’s privacy.”

  Harry silently laughed. “She’s soft as pudding on the outside and tough as rock underneath. She has the sensibilities of an apothecary, and Cam is like a brother, is he not, Ollie?”

  Lady Collyns gripped her husband’s fisted hand on the tablecloth. “Of course, Harry, but you mustn’t worry so.”

  Still grim about the mouth, Harry said, “Go on, Mrs. Davidson, say what you will, and Cam had better get used to this if he ever expects to marry.”

  Cameron stayed silent, uncomfortable in an awkward social moment. After all he’d seen and been through during the last nightmarish years, a discussion about childbirth shouldn’t evoke discomfort, but it did. He had no understanding of the process of bringing forth a child, which didn’t seem worthy of such a to do, but then, Lady Collyns wasn’t his wife. He became suddenly aware of how often he’d heard mention of women dying during or just after childbirth.

  Her tone and delivery one of stern confidence, Mrs. Davidson spoke directly to Harry. “Sir, I can assure you that at this time there is no reason to think that Lady Collyns will present you with a child earlier than the first week of February. I tell you this with all confidence. She is well. The babe is well. There is no reason for worry.”

  Through stiff lips Harry said, “I cannot lose her, ma’am, and do not look forward to what my brother endured with the delivery of the twins. It was the most nightmarish thirty-eight hours of my life. What if there are two?”

  “Doubtful, sir. It is my opinion that you and Lady Collyns will not have twins. From all I’ve learned, it appears that the birth of twins is associated with the mother’s side of the family. Lady Asterly was the survivor of twins.”

  Displaying the relentless side of his personality, Harry persevered. “Accidents happen. How can you be so sure?”

  “Accidents do occur, but from all I’ve experienced I have come to the conclusion that a baby’s survival is the will of God. Lady Asterly mentioned that you have an excellent relationship with Him. I encourage you to pray for your wife’s safety and child’s well-being.”

  Harry’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s easy enough. Very well. A chaise will be ready for whenever and wherever you go until you return to us after Christmastide. Squid, since you have to go up to London, would you act as her escort in town?”

  Mrs. Davidson looked startled by that. Cameron quickly asked her, “Ma’am, do these arrangements meet with your approval?”

  “Of course, sir. I should be happy with the company.”

  “And well rid of us, no doubt.” Harry lifted his wine glass, his cheery nature restored. “Bon voyage, mes amis.”

  Chapter 7

  Allison folded her hands on her lap and watched the view beyond the chaise window. The comfort in which she now traveled brought back memories of youth. Then, she’d taken this sort of luxury for granted. After running away with Albert and his death at Badajoz, there had been no occasions for pampering. She intended to savor every moment.

  Her travel companion stared out the window, his expression one of something akin to hunger. Due to his size, their knees occasionally bumped, but she’d become accustomed to the contact.

  His attention didn’t waver when she removed her gloves and murmured, “Sir Harry is fortunate to travel in such style. This is a vast improvement over the journey here in the Mail coach.”

  Mr. Bradford shifted his gaze from the snow-frosted countryside to her. “My apologies for acting the neglectful traveling companion. I can’t get enough of the sight of home. And now this unexpected snowfall.”

  His awe lifted her lips into a smile of polite puzzlement. “It is merely snow, Mr. Bradford. An early appearance at that.”

  “But I have lived in the tropics for the last years. This is like a long, cool drink after a desert march. I had hoped to enjoy this sight all the way to London, but the sun is making an appearance.”

  “Oh, yes, we who live here must put up with the beastly sun.”

  A grin spread over his face, sparking lights in the varied colors of his eyes. “If anyone had asked me before this moment, I would’ve told them that you didn’t possess a teasing bone in your body, and now you go and mock my simple pleasure.”

  Shame struck quickly, reminding her of what this poor man had endured the last years. “Sir, I do apologize. That was unfeeling of me. Of course you must find pleasure in what has been denied to you for so long.”

  His smile widened. “Mrs. Davidson, you simply must not take me so seriously. I assure you, I don’t take myself seriously in any sense.”

  “After all you’ve been through, I credit it as miraculous that you can sustain any sense at all, especially humor.”

  He returned his gaze to the view. “I learned that finding the ridiculous or the humorous in dire situations helps to maintain a balance. Do look. The sunlight glints off the snow like a field of diamonds.”

  She stayed quiet and absorbed his pleasure of a sight she would have ignored, what she again took for granted. She’d never cared for winter weather, the cold stiffness of the house in the morning, when water stood frozen in pails and pots, the shocking cold contact when one could no longer hold off using the necessary. There would be no cold where she slept this night. During her few days in London, she would stay at Asterly House.

  “Lady Asterly allows no cold to invade her residences. Fires are lit in every room, occupied or not.”

  The unscarred side of his face was turned away so she couldn’t see if he smiled, but supposed he did when he said, “Warmth everywhere, what bliss.”

  “Are you mocking me, sir?”

  Even though he continued to look out the window, this time she could tell he smiled. “Absolutely, ma’am.”

  “The Asterlys employ a veritable army of servants, plenty to keep the fireplaces blazing.”

  She paused. Cleaning the fireplace, a filthy task she had to learn, another thing she’d taken for granted. Since she’d been away from her cottage, she’d not had to go through the tedious repetition of waking to a cold house, waiting for water to heat, the feeding and daily cleaning of the fireplace. For the last weeks, meals had been brought to her, placed on artfully displayed platters, arrayed on long tables with glittering crystal and gleaming silver—the opposite of simple meals boiled in a kettle placed on fireplace embers. The last dinner at Rolands, she’d been served grouse, turbot in a green sauce, lemon-mint sorbet and venison roulade. Instead of cabbage and potatoes alone in her cottage, she’d indulged in salads, fruits and hothouse peas. Oh, and the wines.

  Mr. Bradford broke into her thoughts. “What has you smiling, ma’am?”

  She looked down at the interlaced fingers of her hands on her lap. “Silliness.”

  “But we’ve established that I’m partial to what is silly.”

  This time, she laughed. “It is the cold, sir. I heartily dislike it, but we will be staying at Asterly House, where it
is kept as warm as midsummer. That is why I smile. As you take in with relish the sight of our homeland in winter, I shall bask in the extravagance of heat until I must leave to return to the cold of my cottage.”

  “Certainly there is a fireplace.”

  “Yes,” then she dryly added, “one.”

  “Depending on the size of the house, that could make for a cold interior, indeed. My mother shared your dislike for winter. On the coldest nights, she would gather my sister and I in front of the fire to sleep. We toasted bread and cuddled in blankets. She would tell us tales, while we bathed in the heat and comfort of companionship. My sister Agnes said I gave off as much warmth as the fire. I suppose that is why I survived the iced rigging when rounding the Horn.”

  “I can’t imagine climbing up a mast or up anything sheathed in ice. Wasn’t that dreadfully dangerous?”

  “Yes, but most of one’s time as a sailor is dangerous. Too many types of injuries to list, even when you have the stomach to hear of them. If one is born to love the sea, then it becomes a task with as much danger as what one must encounter on land. Work of any sort is never entirely safe.”

  “Sir, I doubt we can compare a secretary’s lot as treacherous as scaling rigging on a ship traversing the rough seas of Cape Horn.”

  When he grinned sheepishly, caught in his game of diminishment, she left the subject. “You speak of your family with such admiration and affection, sir. You must be terribly anxious to see them again.”

  “If I can locate where they’ve gone.”

  His attitude, a momentary absence of his good humor, prompted her to move to another topic. “Sir Harry mentioned that you enjoyed a friendship when you were lads. You lived near Marshfield?”

  “My father was agent for Lord Loverton, a position he was offered due to my mother’s connection with his lordship. The living provided a house near the Grange but is actually situated closer to Marshfield. The twins and I tutored with the parish canon.”

  “This is when your colorful names came into being? Why Squid?”

  “I would talk of nothing else but going off to sea. Loverton eventually became my guardian. He arranged for everything, Winchester, a commission and study at the Royal Naval College, and very good to me before that. On my tenth birthday, he gave me a pony. I would ride over to play with the twins. More like watch them squabble. For two boys who cared for each other with an unbreakable love, they fought constantly. The only thing that stopped them was when I got to laughing so wildly I rolled on the ground with it. Then they wiped their bloodied mouths, having entirely forgotten what they tussled about, and we’d play games with my pony.”

  “They had none of their own?”

  “Marshfield was in utter ruins back then. They hadn’t two pennies to rub together. I was the rich one back then. Not like now. Harry is rich as Croesus and Peregrine married the wealthiest woman in England, according to Harry. Odd, how things come about.”

  “Sir Harry does not exaggerate. Although it is considered a perfect match, Asterly’s title, her wealth and their mutual interests in politics, one only need be in their company for a moment to understand that there is so much more to their union. They are indeed blessed. I believe you said that your father passed away while your mother still resided in Kent.”

  “He died before I went to sea. Mother stayed on at the agent’s house on pension until his lordship died. I was on my way to the Americas, then later captured. I never learned what transpired. The house stands empty at the moment. I checked on that the day I was attacked on the road to Rolands. I was told the agent had recently removed to London and remains in charge of the estate until the heir is located. He hasn’t replied to my written enquiries. One of my tasks while in town is to sort out what happened. Perhaps he will know where Mother and Agnes have gone.”

  “And perhaps you will also discover what happened to your crew. Wouldn’t the Admiralty have information on that score?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Harry has written letters of introduction on my behalf and I shall presume on Peregrine’s lay of the land. One supposes I should remember to call him Asterly. Never did as a lad. We had horrid names for each other.”

  “Yes. Squid, for your interest in going to sea.”

  “That is partially the reason. Believe me, ma’am, you do not want to know the true origins of any maggot bred in the minds of boys.”

  He relayed that in a lowered, theatrical tone, which made her chuckle. She stilled for a moment as she marveled that she rarely laughed, but did so frequently in this man’s company. He made her feel happy, free-spirited, and she couldn’t pinpoint why. His perpetual, crooked grin had little to do with it. The scar most often brought to mind his many injuries, cruel afflictions that made her heart squeeze from a heavy ache.

  They rode in silence for a time, surveying the damage of the sun’s rays on the pristine snow. Patches of turf pushed through the white. Cattle nosed aside and foraged beneath, uncovering bits of grass and weeds, sparking the memory of an earlier conversation.

  “Mr. Bradford, I should like to reiterate a suggestion made by Sir Harry.”

  “Please, do.”

  “If you would not consider it presumptuous, I would urge you to first seek the assistance of Crimm, the butler at Asterly House, as Sir Harry suggested.”

  His eyebrows came together in a frown. “Harry gave me the directions for suitable clothiers. I thought that bit about the butler was a joke.”

  “No, he was not joking. If you recall, we spoke of Mr. Crimm for reasons other than domestic. He has…other talents, and one would not equate him with any form of jocularity.”

  “He said something about the butler being something of a ferret when it comes to gossip.”

  “Not gossip precisely but he also uses that I’m sure.”

  “And you’re certain Harry wasn’t merely funning me?”

  “Not at all. The Asterlys use Crimm as their collector of information. He has methods of unearthing the most stubborn and elusive of secrets.”

  “It sounds irregular, but servants do know more of what goes on than those living in the house. We never had more than a maid and a cook, therefore I can’t speak with authority as to what goes on in the bigger houses.”

  “I concur. The London gossip mill has two levels, one above stairs and the one below.”

  “Then I shall do as you advise and speak to Mr. Crimm immediately. Are you feeling at all peckish or thirsty? Harry’s cook may have sent something to drink in that basket.”

  “A substantial luncheon. Are you hungry, Mr. Bradford?”

  He grinned, the twist of his mouth making her heart twinge again. At the same time she marveled at his constant appetite.

  “For shame, ma’am. Yet another indication of your hidden bent for teasing. I see that smile you’re trying to cover up, and yes, I am constantly famished.”

  She opened the wicker basket’s lid. “Do you wish to sit on the forward seat with me while you eat?”

  “After so many years at sea, the direction I’m facing doesn’t signify. I think sharing a seat might make for a bit of a squeeze. I would rather look at you while we converse and enjoy our luncheon. I’m sorry, did I say something I shouldn’t have? Years of being away from polite society has made me something of a verbal clod.”

  Wishing she didn’t so easily flush up in front of this man, she focused on removing the wrapped victuals. “Not at all. I happened to recall an unrelated incident. Odd, how a word or memory evokes strong feeling.”

  “If I’m not sounding too forward, I would hope we could be friends who could trust each other enough to—”

  “Be honest?” she completed when he paused.

  His shoulders relaxed. Sir Harry’s coat made for a fit tighter than what was fashionable, which gave Mr. Bradford the appearance of unnatural stiffness. After a few weeks of consistent meals and better fitting clothes, she imagined he would look quite different. The gaunt hollows under his strong cheekbones would fill in, making the f
ull curves of his mouth not so noticeable. She caught herself staring and returned to unloading the basket.

  Their fingers brushed as she handed him bread and cold chicken, apples and tarts. She let him eat most of the contents and poured cups of ale and cider. She held the cider cup in her palm as they watched the scenery roll by the chaise windows.

  A thought kept recurring, of how Mr. Bradford had reacted to questions about his past. “Continuing with the theme of honesty, I admit to concern regarding the dinner conversation. I’m sure Lady Collyns meant no disrespect nor wished to cause you discomfort when she asked about your…sojourn the last years.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t. I would never think that of her, and she can’t be blamed for having no understanding of the conditions. Society has little idea of what happens on a ship. What they do think of it is romanticized out of all proportion. And it is widely known that Englishmen captured at sea are most often ransomed. I was taken from an American ship and out of uniform. My captors preferred to sell me as a slave rather than go through the process of ransom.”

  “I see.”

  “Is there another tart left?”

  She handed the last one across. “As long as you weren’t discomforted or embarrassed by our interest. Especially Lady Collyns. She was quite the vocal abolitionist at one time.”

  “Ah, that explains much, but no, I was not overly distressed by her interest. To be frank, some memories aren’t pleasant. Can’t get around that. You are blessed, or maybe cursed, with an awareness and concern for others’ distress, but I have pretty much taken it for granted that I’ll be questioned about my experiences, which are not unusual in the way of things.”

  “Sir, you may speak plainly with me. I know what keelhauling entails, but until seeing your back, I’d never seen scarring from barnacles. Can’t imagine the pain of saltwater in open wounds. Nor holding my breath while being dragged under a ship from one side to the other. There is no excuse for inflicting that kind of torture. Are you laughing at me?”