by Julia Donner
He took a sip of coffee before continuing and held a biscuit, staring at it as he spoke. “I wasn’t allowed to touch him, but Sun got used to me. I’d hum and talk to myself as I repaired the stall doors. Sneak him treats. He loved dates. One of the stable lads noticed that Sun paid attention to me and would whicker when I walked by. So the next time he broke free, they asked me to go along to find him.”
“And that’s when you escaped?” Lady Asterly asked.
“Not the first time. I waited two more times for him to break out. Sun couldn’t be kept contained for long. If he couldn’t knock down his enclosure, he figured out how to open it. I became trusted after I moved all of the latches where Sun couldn’t reach them.”
He took another sip and checked to see if his listeners were bored. Expectant expressions encouraged him to continue. “The next time Sun got out, I hid a pouch of water under my robe. When we separated to search for him, I rushed to find him first. Instead of running off, he came to me for the dates.”
Asterly said, “What a cracking good story. And no one could catch you, since you had the fastest horse in the region.”
“Exactly.”
Allison asked, “Did you ride him all the way to Europe?”
Looking inward and back in time, his smile turned grim. Memories he’d worked to wipe from his memory flashed. He blotted out the pasha’s sexual interest and focused on his relief when sent to work in the stables. Years at sea helped him to learn languages, the foreign names for diseases the pasha wanted nothing to do with, which when hinted at, banished him to the lowest, dirtiest tasks of a stable worker, a blessing he never took for granted.
“No. I cared about that horse but had none for my owner. The pasha was not a nice man. Not even to his harem. Only his sons were treated with any kindness. Getting back a bit of my own had become a part of my escape plan. I also had no interest in ruining a splendid horse with an endless trip across desert, harsh terrain and mountains. The pasha had an old enemy. I rode Sun to him and offered him as a gift. In return, the pasha’s enemy gave me an escort to the sea and a gift of coins, enough to get me here.”
“Freedom and revenge accomplished in one stroke,” Lady Asterly said. “How clever.”
Asterly, who sat by his wife, nudged her with his shoulder. “Reminds me of someone.”
She gave Asterly a sharp-eyed glance then said to Allison, “We shall ignore my husband’s awkward attempt at cleverness by changing the topic. You said you would like to visit Hatchard’s tomorrow. Let Crimm know when you need the town coach. I won’t be needing it.”
Allison set down her empty cup. The sweetened coffee helped to keep her awake. Even though it had been months since she’d left Scotland, she hadn’t become accustomed to city hours, where people went to sleep at dawn and rose in the afternoon.
“Lady Exton-Lloyd charged me with purchasing books. Presents for the boys, and there are a few volumes I would like if they are available. Lady Collyns had them in her library, but I would like to own them. They are medical topics, which take time to study.”
Before they parted for the evening, Mr. Bradford asked, “Would you mind if I accompanied you tomorrow? I’ve always wanted to visit Hatchard’s.”
She hesitated, then nodded, excusing herself from the company with a curtsey. Sleep didn’t come quickly, due to the coffee and thinking about spending time with Mr. Bradford the upcoming day. The unexpected opportunity to be with him lifted her heart. Snuggling her cheek into the pillow, she marveled at how easily he could make her spirits lift and was glad that this evening he hadn’t minded talking about his fascinating escape from slavery. She dreamed of him riding over dunes, heading for the sea, and into the rising sun.
Chapter 10
Allison accepted Mr. Bradford’s hand to step down from the coach and immediately let go to secure her hat. A bitter gust of wind had him reaching up to hold his curled brim beaver hat in place. The flower-figured pelisse she wore hid the plain dress beneath. She owned nothing as fine as the clothing Lady Asterly’s maid had delivered the night before. Eager to wear the shawl, she’d done so this morning in her room, merely to enjoy the morning light glinting off the golden-shot silk and delicate tassels.
Visits to Sir Harry’s tailor and haberdasher transformed her escort’s image. He wore a shawl-collared coat of olive superfine, pale yellow waistcoat and buff breeches, an ensemble ordered by someone else and never acquired. It fit as if made for him. She felt quite dowdy in her many times refurbished hat. She had turned the cuffs on this pelisse more times than she could remember, but its length covered the fact she had no carriage dress. Even with the efforts to make her clothes presentable, there was no way to alter the fact that everything she wore was years out of date, making her a sad complement to her dashing escort, a thought that made her smile. Part of her missed his ill-fitting look of sleeves too short and jackets too tight. Having no vanity, Mr. Bradford carried himself with none of the preening arrogance of the usual buck about town on the strut. For him, clothes were a matter of expediency, not an opportunity to flaunt.
They hurried toward Hatchard’s with a maid following and a footman in the lead to open the door. Was there anything to compare to the smell of books? Lifting her nose, she inhaled the combined scents of aging paper, leather and dust. She’d come to this wonderful bookstore not only to make purchases for Emily but to splurge on one for herself. The obligation to Emily supplied the courage to go out in public for the first time since the scandal of eloping with Albert. At Callander, Coldstream’s library and Rolands boasted fine collections, which she was allowed to borrow from at any time, but that was not like owning a book for oneself, taking the time to choose the perfect one, inscribing the date of purchase and one’s name on the first page.
Mr. Bradford told the footman and maid to make themselves comfortable while they waited then he turned to her. “Mrs. Davidson, it’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of browsing. Do you wish for me to stay by your side or have the maid accompany you?”
“Do not disturb her. I will do very well on my own. She and the footman seem to share a friendship and servants have so little time to enjoy each other’s company.”
He nodded a bow and left to search the stacks and rows, his hands cupped behind his back as he strolled. She pictured him pacing a ship’s deck in the same manner, then recalled his years spent at sea as a captive. Before the quarry and purchase by the pasha, he’d been a common seaman, all of it arduous work. But this was not the time for sad thoughts. There were titles to find.
Many minutes later, she mustered the wherewithal to approach the young man behind the counter. “If I may ask for your assistance?”
“Certainly, ma’am. How may I serve you?”
“Here is a list of books to be wrapped separately. For myself, I am looking for particular and not usual titles of a medical nature, A Case of Extra-Uterine Foetus written by John Bard. Or The Anatomy of Humane Bodies by William Cowper. Do you have either of these on a shelf somewhere or are you able to acquire them?”
The young man’s countenance altered, a lifting of the eyebrows, the tightening and downturn of his lips. Shifting his gaze to realign a perfectly arranged stack of magazines on the counter, he said, “One assumes this would be a purchase for your husband, an apothecary?”
She expected this, had encountered it before. Women were not allowed to view the interiors of certain medical tomes that contained illustrations deemed inappropriate for a female’s delicate nature. Prevailing prejudices hadn’t stopped Sir Harry from purchasing every medical tome ever written for his wife, including the medical tomes she’d just requested. Memorizing every aspect of these medical works required more time than the few hours she’d had in the library at Rolands. The two she requested would prove indispensable. She had no interest in male anatomy, other than normal curiosity, but the illustrations of the female reproductive system and Bard’s findings might help her save a life.
The young man’s sud
den change of attitude from gracious worker to offended male set up an internal alarm. Lying was not a part of her nature, but she needed these books and might not have enough money for both of them. She would settle for one if that were all she could afford today. She might have better luck by pretending to be male and writing to purchase them. Perhaps she could overcome embarrassment to request help from Sir Hugh or Sir Harry, but she longed to have them in her hand now. Could she convince the man behind the counter she was married to an apothecary apprentice?
Her skin crawled with the need to avoid the confrontation to come. Past experiences with reprimands and mockery invariably came to the surface whenever similar situations arose, eroding every shred of confidence. But that was the past. An adult must rise above hurtful memories and move onward.
Gathering her resolve, Allison met the bookseller’s condescension with a steady glare. “Sir, do you have the books in question or not?”
“It is not subject matter for a lady.” His tone inferred that she was not.
Clinging to determination while shaking inside, she repeated, “Do you have them or not?”
He opened his mouth to say something unpleasant, no doubt, but halted. His gaze darted over her shoulder. A presence warmed her back. Mr. Bradford had returned.
His eyes now wide, the man behind the counter visibly swallowed. “May I help you, sir?”
Mr. Bradford’s voice sounded unrecognizable when he said, “Is there a problem, Mrs. Davidson?”
She kept her gaze trained on the bookseller, who now looked to have broken out in a fine sweat. “Not at all, I thank you. This young man was about to find a particular book for me.”
Again, that dark, unfamiliar voice spoke. Its depth and inherent violence sent a shiver over her flesh. “Then, lad, I suggest you get to it.”
The man behind the counter vanished. That was the only way she could think of it. He fled.
Allison turned to Mr. Bradford, expecting to find an alarming stranger attached to the frightening voice, but he wore his jovial expression. Searching herself, she could find no fear, only a quiet admiration for his ability to contain so much aggression and direct it with perfect control. He offered his arm and she took it, suffering no sense of hesitation, and curbed an odd temptation to move closer to him.
Instinct whispered to make light of the unpleasantness at the counter. Adopting a cheerful note she didn’t feel, she teased, “You alarmed me, sir, with your ferocity. I believe the young man may not recover.”
That brought forth a gentle laugh and companionable nod. “Can’t have the youngsters getting above themselves. Mayhap I am still influenced from years of maritime discipline, but an order is an order, and furthermore, a lady should never be contradicted.”
She glanced up to see if he mocked her. “A sentiment guaranteed to find universal approval with my gender, but unfortunately, not all members of your sex follow that code. What fine parents you had to teach you such lovely distinctions.”
“And yours did not, Mrs. Davidson?”
“I rarely had contact with either of them. My nurse and governess taught me whatever was needed.”
“Ah, the life of the so-called privileged child.”
She waited, acutely aware of the question that usually came next, but he politely did not inquire why a girl reared in the most elevated manner was now reduced to her present circumstances.
He surprised her when he said, “I am a man who has come through many changes of situation and tend to accept the conditions of life on face value. Whatever our beginnings, most of us must work to survive. You have the great good fortune to have been given a vocation that allows for income, benefit to others and personal reward.”
She started to reply, but was stilled by something she had not heard in years, mocking laughter. Earlier repetitions at home and in society had honed her emotional survival instincts, which now shrieked the warning that she’d been recognized.
A quiet country life with minimal social contact had provided peace and distance, a safe distance from the anguish. There was no one to blame but herself for tempting the odds that she would encounter this sort of situation if she ventured out of obscurity. She’d also assumed that she had healed enough to go out into public where she might be seen and remembered. She halted, bringing Mr. Bradford to a complete stop. Momentary panic wiped her mind clean of alternatives, of a way to avoid what was about to happen.
Two women again snickered from behind an opened book raised to shield their faces. Dressed in the height of fashion, they also wore the aura of self-consequence that only the aristocracy vaunted with ease.
This was not a product of insecure imagination. She’d been through this too many times to underestimate the circumstances and what would follow. More muffled laughter came from behind the book. Their cruel intent sent a chill through her veins.
And to have this happen with Mr. Bradford present.
Before Allison could urge Mr. Bradford away from the pair, one blurted, “Good heavens preserve us, is that Lady Alis?”
The earlier chill in her veins solidified, freezing her in place. She couldn’t go through this again, never again, but the pair resorted to whispering to each other behind gloved hands, while sending sidelong glances.
Behind her, the young man at the counter called out, “I have the books you requested, ma’am, and packaged the others.”
Unable to speak, she vaguely heard Mr. Bradford instruct, “Give the parcels to the footman. Have the rest delivered to Asterly House. Come along, Mrs. Davidson.”
On legs that felt disjointed, Allison jerkily walked to the door the maid hurried to open, as a viperous voice followed. “It’s a wonder she dares to show herself in public. I can scarcely wait to tell Lady Jersey. She’ll send the hue and cry out for poor Lord Morfett.”
The door closed, cutting off their spiteful laughter. She fixed her attention on the coach waiting at the curb. Tears burned behind her eyes. Tension filled her chest, constricting her throat. She gripped the broad palm helping her up to the coach seat. Clasping her hands on her lap wasn’t enough. She curled stiff fingers over the edges of the tufted velvet, digging deep.
Mr. Bradford took the seat across from her. He spoke to the footman closing the door. “To Asterly House immediately. No…to the nearest park.”
She wished he wouldn’t stare with so much concern. She could feel his worry reaching across the space between them, but it helped to distract from humiliation’s weight and the escalating fear. Society hadn’t forgotten. Years had passed, yet the scandal survived, like an evil sickness, hanging on, ever evolving to return to feed on its host.
When the coach rolled to a stop, she stared in confusion at a canal. She dared to look at Mr. Bradford and recalled that he’d ordered the coachman to take them to the park. How did he know that she wasn’t ready to face others?
He opened the carriage door and stepped down. “The weather is still too cold for punting, and the park deserted at this time of day. I thought a few minutes of peace, perhaps a brief stroll, would help to set you aright before going back to Asterly House.”
Her voice sounded hoarse when she managed to reply. “An excellent idea. Precisely what is needed. Thank you.”
They walked in silence under leafless trees, by boathouses and down paths hedged by winter-withered flowerbeds. He didn’t say anything, merely kept his hand over the one she had clasped on his arm like a lifeline. After a time, her grip relaxed. The tightness across her back and shoulders eased. Grief and panic retreated. She withdrew her hand from his arm.
Mr. Bradford halted on the path they’d been taking that bordered the canal. “If you think you would be warm enough, we could rest on that bench. There is an excellent view. The ducks will probably come over to visit, thinking we have bread to toss.”
They sat in the near quiet. Small noises began to permeate her panic-numbed mind. Water lapped against the bank. A child’s laughter filtered through the barren trees.
Ducks
muttered low, quacking complaints as they paddled back and forth, hopeful for crumbs, yet wary.
When inner calm finally returned, she curbed a different reason for weeping—gratitude, the embracement and relief of self-control restored. She doubted the man seated beside her had any idea how much comfort she derived from his nearness, his warmth against her side. His presence saturated her with a solace she’d never known, not even in the early days with Albert.
He leaned closer to speak softly, his whisper like a caress. “I would like to think that we began a friendship on the way to London. I hope that you can trust me enough to talk about what has put you so out of countenance. If not speaking about it is what you prefer, I fully understand, but my mother often said that talking about a problem often minimizes its power.”
“A wise woman, your mother. I never talk about what happened…the cause of that unpleasantness in the bookstore. Some things are better left to lie undisturbed. That way, one might begin to believe its power to disturb has faded, died off like a bad seed. But as bad seeds and weeds often do, they spring back to life. Recent events show that meanness has its own resistance to dying away.”
She focused on a lingering pair of ducks paddling near the bank. “I was a spoiled and foolish girl. Thoroughly ignorant of the world. My parents had decided on a husband for me while I was still in the schoolroom. The match was sensible, quite advantageous for my family. The gentleman in mind was of an elevated position, well-established in parliament, with hopes for an heir. He already had five daughters by his late wife.”
When she paused, he said, “He was much older then?”
“By forty-one years.”
She controlled an abrupt rise of bile. The memory of her first meeting with the duke forced her to repeatedly swallow to settle the urge, the closing off of her throat. She kept that memory securely locked in its dark corner, but the raw emotions of today shoved it out of its ugly hole. Again, came the sickening crawl of her skin from the duke’s perusal, how she had despaired over the way her father had stood by as the duke fondled her. Her prospective husband grabbed her jaw and looked in her mouth as if she were a horse at auction.