Brynthwaite Summer_A Silver Foxes of Westminster Novella

by Merry Farmer

  “But it wasn’t right of them to take you away without even trying to find out who left you there,” Aggie said in a near whisper.

  Andrew sighed and shrugged. “I’ve never known any other life but this one.” He stared at the letter. “Until now.”

  Silence fell between them. Aggie touched his arm again, not wanting to let go. “What are you going to do?”

  “I should go to Cape Town to meet this Col. Montgomery,” he said.

  A shiver of fear struck Aggie’s heart. South Africa was a whole world away. It took ages to get there, and if Andrew did find his people, he might never return. The very thought settled like a tight, acidic knot in her stomach.

  “He’s elderly,” Andrew went on, rereading part of the letter, “and he says his health is failing. But he wishes to meet me before he dies and to share the story that he’s certain my father hasn’t told me.”

  “So you think he knows something?” Aggie asked. She slipped her arm through Andrew’s, far more familiar than she should be. But the sensation that he was slipping away from her was too strong to deny. She’d always assumed Andrew would be a part of her life, a part of Brynthwaite, forever. The sudden thought that he might go away made her feel as though she were standing on unstable ground for the first time in her life.

  Andrew glanced slowly up at her. His gaze flickered quickly around the bookshop. It was empty, so he rested his hand on the side of her face. “I don’t want to go far away,” he said in a tender voice.

  “I don’t want you to go either,” Aggie replied, breathless.

  They’d known each other for years. They’d discussed books and ideas, elections and town gossip. They’d shared their hopes and dreams with each other, laughed and vented frustrations. But they’d never once stopped to talk about where their friendship could be leading. Suddenly, Aggie felt as though that moment was upon them.

  “I think you should come to supper tomorrow night,” she blurted, her face heating.

  Andrew blinked. “Supper?”

  “Yes,” Aggie rushed on. “At my family’s house. I think…I think it’s time.” Her heart sped up and her mouth went dry at her boldness.

  Andrew turned to face her fully, taking her hands in his. “I’m flattered,” he said, his eyes brimming with affection. “I want nothing more than to have supper with you.” He lowered his eyes to stare at their hands. “But will your father allow it?” He peeked up at her.

  “Of course he will,” Aggie said. She couldn’t imagine him being opposed to anything that she wanted.

  “Are you certain?” Andrew asked, his tone flat and frank.

  She wasn’t so much of a fool that she didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. “It’s like Jason Throckmorton said,” she insisted, tilting her chin up. “It doesn’t matter what your origins are. You’re well-liked and well-respected in Brynthwaite. You were raised in a good, English family. You have a university education.”

  “Hardly Oxford or Cambridge,” he said, one eyebrow raised. “And my father had to fight tooth and nail to get the university governors to issue me an ordinary degree.”

  “But you’re still educated,” Aggie insisted. “And you’ve done so well for yourself. I can’t imagine my father objecting to sharing a meal with you. And maybe more,” she added with a bashful look, her whole body heating.

  Andrew cracked a smile and shook his head. He squeezed her hands before letting go and picking up his letter. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, Agatha Crimpley.” He stared at the letter, then at her, deep, conflicted emotion in his expression. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “We might not have to find out,” she said in a tremulous whisper.

  He was silent, smiling at her with so much fondness in his eyes that Aggie had to clench her fists at her sides to keep herself from flying into his arms. Her heart was so full of him that she would feel as though she’d lost a limb if he left.

  “All right,” he said, letting out a breath. “I’ll come to supper at your house.”

  “Good,” Aggie sighed in relief. “I’ll make sure that Papa puts his best foot forward for you.”

  Chapter 2

  Andrew stood in front of one of the glass-front cabinets behind the counter of the bookshop that held rare books, studying his reflection. He straightened his tie and smoothed the lapels of his jacket, standing straighter. Dinner with Aggie’s family was in less than an hour, and he had to look his best.

  Not that it would do much good. He sighed and lowered his shoulders, meeting his own eyes in the reflection. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked himself silently. It didn’t matter how well-tailored his best suit was or how much he’d spent on it and the cufflinks and pocket watch that completed the outfit. It didn’t matter that he held a prominent place in Brynthwaite or that he’d been raised by a decorated army officer and his society wife. Andrew might not have known the mystery of where he’d come from before being left under that bush in Africa, but he knew who he was and he knew who he wasn’t.

  He gave himself one last stare in the glass before turning back to the last of his work for the day. The bookshop had closed fifteen minutes earlier, and all he had to do was finish recording the day’s sales in the ledger. It was a task that usually took him all of five minutes, but he lingered over it, lost in his thoughts, aching with anticipation of the evening ahead of him.

  He stared at his hand as he wrote the final numbers for the day in the monthly ledger. It didn’t matter that he’d had an excellent upbringing, or that he’d lived a life of uncommon privilege for someone of his color. He was black. He was an African living in England, in a life that the vast majority of the people around him knew he didn’t belong in. The trouble was, by the very nature of everything John and Margaret Noble had given him, he didn’t belong anywhere else either.

  Except with Aggie. In spite of himself, a soft smile lifted the corners of his mouth. When he was with Aggie, discussing the latest articles in philosophical journals or debating local politics or simply passing the time of day when the larger group of their friends met down by the river for an afternoon of leisure, Andrew felt as though he was a part of something. Aggie was one of the few people who he knew looked at him and saw a man, not a black man. He couldn’t have stopped himself from loving her if he’d tried.

  But he wasn’t fool enough to believe he could have her.

  “You’ve been standing there staring at the ledger for a full minute without so much as blinking,” Basil told him as he walked into the central part of the shop from the reading room, inventory book in hand. “Is something wrong?”

  Andrew drew in a breath and shook himself out of his thoughts. “Nothing more than the usual.” When Basil did nothing but stare at him with an increasingly concerned look, Andrew went on. “I’ve been invited to supper at the Crimpleys’ house tonight.”

  A brief scowl creased Basil’s forehead, and he hummed. “That wasn’t Crimpley’s idea, was it?”

  Andrew shook his head and closed the ledger. “No, Aggie’s.”

  Basil’s expression softened into a smile. “And how are things with the indomitable Miss Agatha Crimpley?”

  Andrew fixed his employer and friend with a flat stare. “They are better than I should expect them to be.”

  Basil crossed the distance to the counter, returning the inventory book to the shelf where it belonged. “Who says you should set your expectations so low?”

  Basil was being generous, and Andrew had a feeling he knew it. “I appreciate your support, Basil, but I think it’s best for all if we deal in reality.”

  Basil turned toward him with a confused look. “In my experience, reality is what you make of it.”

  Andrew chuckled. “That’s easy for an earl who ran away to be a bookseller and then married a Bohemian who is now a Countess.”

  Basil nodded, grinning, conceding the point. “I still think you shouldn’t sell yourself short, especially where Agatha is concerned
. The two of you are well-matched, both in intellect and in outlook.”

  “And her father will never accept a black man as a son-in-law,” Andrew said, exposing the heart of the problem.

  Basil shrugged, moving to collect the day’s ledgers. “The world is spinning faster and faster these days and changing all the time,” he insisted. “The Empire has opened doors to all sorts of new worlds. You can’t walk down the street in London these days without seeing men and women from every corner of the globe. It stands to reason that social possibilities will unfold and advance, keeping pace with simple mechanics, like transportation and communication.”

  “And do you think Robert Crimpley would agree with you?” Andrew asked in a teasing tone. Basil might have been an earl, but the two of them had been friends for far longer than that, and Basil preferred friendship and honesty to rank and deference, just as he preferred to spend an occasional afternoon working in his bookshop to whatever earls got up to in their grand estates.

  “Robert Crimpley,” Basil muttered, followed by a rude gesture that proved just how un-earl-like he preferred to be. “What that man needs is a good kick in the arse to remind him that his father drove a delivery wagon and he was born in one-room cottage.”

  Andrew laughed. “You tell him that and he’ll lecture you all about how he made something of himself and now owns the largest grocery this side of Windermere.”

  “If he can do it, why can’t you?” Basil said with a shrug, walking Andrew to the door and out to the street.

  “Because I’m African,” Andrew said, matter-of-fact.

  Basil paused to lock the shop door behind them, then turned to Andrew. “I maintain that the world is changing and that soon anyone will be able to claim a place in it.”

  Andrew smiled, thumping Basil’s arm. “Good night, my friend.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Andrew walked on toward the Crimpley’s house at the edge of town. He prayed that Basil was right, though he didn’t hold out much hope that things were changing quite as fast as his friend seemed to think they were. Married life had turned Basil into an optimist, but optimism didn’t change long-held beliefs about the superiority of Anglo-Saxon stock, or the insistence that the destiny of the white man was to rule over everyone else. The British Empire might have brought a certain kind of civilization to the far corners of the globe, but it had taken away far more than could be counted—things that the conquerors valued so little that they couldn’t see them. Like a baby that was abandoned under a bush being raised by white men instead of returned to his tribe.

  He shook his head, pushing away the troubling thought. There were more immediate things to worry about than the state of the British Empire or his infancy. He could see the moment he walked up the lane to the Crimpley’s house that the evening wouldn’t progress as smoothly as Aggie seemed to think it would. Joanna, the Crimpley’s meddlesome maid, hovered by the door, and the second she spotted him, her eyes went wide with alarm and she rushed inside. Andrew drew in a breath and stood straighter, ready to face whatever the supper would bring.

  Instead of Crimpley, Aggie came to the door to greet him.

  “You’re here,” she said, her smile wide and her eyes bright with excitement. “I’m so glad.”

  She took his hand and led him over the threshold into the house, but before they had gone more than a few steps, she dropped his hand as her father strode into the front hall to meet them. Crimpley greeted him with a curt nod, attempting to make himself look bigger than Andrew by squaring his shoulders and staring down his nose.

  “Mr. Noble,” Crimpley said.

  “Mr. Crimpley.” Andrew nodded, extending his hand as though the two of them were equals in every way. Except for age, they would have been equals under other circumstances. “Thank you for inviting me into your home this evening.”

  “It was Agatha’s idea,” Crimpley said without taking the offered hand. “Come through.”

  Crimpley turned and marched straight into the dining room. Aggie bit her lip and sent Andrew an apologetic look. “He’s been acting odd all day,” she whispered as she and Andrew headed into the dining room as well. “I think he’s been plotting something.”

  Andrew had his suspicions about what caused Crimpley’s odd mood, but for Aggie’s sake, he kept his mouth shut.

  “Mr. Noble,” Mrs. Crimpley greeted him with a fraction more of a smile than her husband had managed. “How good of you to join us.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Andrew nodded to her with the respect she deserved. “I am honored to be a part of the occasion.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Crimpley said, flustered. She sent an anxious look to her husband—who had pulled out his chair to sit at the head of the table—before skittering around the table to seat herself at the foot.

  Andrew quickly assessed the situation. The Crimpley’s table was long enough to seat a dozen people, but only four places were set. Aggie gestured for him to take a seat in the middle of the table, facing the window, while she hurried around the table to sit opposite him. The configuration was a hint as to how the evening would go. On the one hand, more guests should have been invited to fill out the places and to make a true, formal supper. Even if every place at the table had been filled, though, Andrew had a feeling he still would have been seated in the ignominious center of the table instead of in a place of honor to Crimpley’s right. Beyond that, the fact that the family members were seating themselves and that supper was already on the table, à la française, instead of in the newer, more fashionable à la russe style, was a sure sign of where Andrew stood.

  “Isn’t this nice?” Aggie said once they were all seated and the dishes were passed around so they could serve themselves. “It’s lovely to have a simple, family meal together.” She met his eyes across the table with equal parts defiance of whatever reaction her father must have had to her insistence Andrew be invited and delight at having him there.

  “Yes, well.” Crimpley cleared his throat and frowned as he served himself a heaping portion of fish.

  The dishes circulated around the table, and in spite of the decidedly frosty welcome Andrew had received, the food was delicious.

  “I was asked today to be a judge for the pudding competition at the upcoming summer festival,” Aggie said with a smile as a way to start the conversation.

  “What an honor,” Andrew said when neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crimpley responded. “You judged the embroidery competition last year, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Aggie said, darting looks to her parents at either end of the table. Neither of them seemed to be paying attention, much less interested in giving an opinion. “But Mrs. Farnsworth thought my judging skills could be put to much better use with pudding this year.”

  “Pudding is always a favorite,” Andrew answered. As uncomfortable as he felt, there was something intoxicating in the overt delight Aggie took not only in being asked to judge, but in holding complete control of her parent’s supper table.

  “I should learn to make puddings instead of just knowing which are the most delicious,” she went on with a casual air. “Cooking is an important skill to have when one enters a marriage, after all.”

  Mr. Crimpley and his wife glanced up suddenly from their plates at Aggie’s declaration. Aggie pretended she didn’t notice the way they glared at her and then at Andrew.

  “I believe there are a great many skills that one should learn to prepare for marriage that I should master very shortly,” she went on.

  Andrew sent her a warning look. They had barely spoken about their feelings for each other, let alone marriage. And while he would have given all that he had to marry her tomorrow, he knew what was possible and what wasn’t.

  Aggie cleared her throat. “Marriage is a—”

  “I’ve decided to run for mayor,” Crimpley said loudly, cutting her off.

  Silence ended the already stilted conversation. Aggie turned to her father, her mouth still open. “Have you, Papa?” she asked, blinking fast as s
he recovered.

  “Yes,” Crimpley went on, speaking exclusively to her. “And since the possibility of being mayor of Brynthwaite means my time and attention will be needed elsewhere, I have decided that I will train you, Agatha, to run the shop in my absence.”

  Aggie brightened in an instant. “Me? Run the shop?”

  “Solely and completely,” Crimpley confirmed.

  “Oh, Papa. That’s…that’s marvelous,” Aggie said, brimming with excitement.

  “We shall begin intensive training immediately,” Crimpley went on. “There is much to learn.”

  He went on to describe all of the duties and responsibilities Aggie would have. Andrew sat back, quietly eating his supper, and listened. As delighted as he was for Aggie—whose head had been completely turned by the prospect of running the town’s largest and most patronized grocery—he couldn’t shake a deeper suspicion. Crimpley had successfully shut him out of the conversation, not just as they sat eating supper, but in a more thorough manner as well. If Aggie was busy rising to prominence as a shopkeeper, would she have time for him, for them? It seemed too perfect that something would come along that fed perfectly into Aggie’s ambitions just as she was preparing to throw caution to the wind and declare her feelings for him.

  “You would make a magnificent shopkeeper,” Andrew finally had a chance to say much later, as Joanna cleared pudding away and Mr. Crimpley helped Mrs. Crimpley rise and leave the dining room on some errand or another.

  “I know,” Aggie answered, rushing around the table to him. She was alight with excitement. Her words were more confidence than arrogant, but they left Andrew chuckling anyhow.

  “I always knew you would find a way to be the most important woman in Brynthwaite,” he said, standing closer to her than he should. Pride filled his chest as he studied her smile and the energy she could hardly keep contained. Pride and love. He would always love her, no matter how impossible that love was.