by Anne Gracie
“Privateer. Which means it’s legal. And patriotic.”
They strolled on under the still bare trees. Spring was coming late to England. “Where do you come from, Mr. Black?”
“Here and there. Nowhere in particular. I’m on the move most of the time.”
She gave him a quick sideways glance. “So where were you, say, a month ago?”
“A month? Hungary.”
Her brows went up. “Hungary? Really. How exciting. What’s it like in Hungary?”
So he told her a few stories about Hungary, and she wanted more—she seemed eager for details, and it didn’t seem mere politeness, so he found himself telling her about some other places he’d lived in the last twelve years—Vienna, Paris, Rome, Saint Petersburg, Copenhagen.
“It all sounds so exotic and fascinating,” she said. “I’ve never been anywhere interesting.”
“Nowhere?” he queried, thinking about her supposed Venetian background.
“Only Cheltenham and London. And I almost went to Hereford once.”
Zach was intrigued. “Almost? What happened?”
She shook her head, as if banishing an unpleasant memory. “It doesn’t matter,” she said in a false, bright tone. “Tell me about Saint Petersburg. I’ve heard a little about it—they call it the Venice of the North, don’t they?”
“Yes, though when I was there first, it was winter and the city was a frozen wonderland.”
“It sounds beautiful. What’s Russia like?”
He groped for words to explain. “It is . . . complex. I have only been to Saint Petersburg, and that is gloriously beautiful, and primitive, and sophisticated. And cruel. Tens of thousands of peasants died in the building of the city. They were conscripted—had no choice. They were owned, body and soul.”
“You found it disturbing.” Her eyes were wide and somber.
He nodded. “Though all that was last century.” Lord, this was no way to entertain a young lady. He brightened his tone. “So to answer your question, Miss Chance, Saint Petersburg is like a cluster of exquisite, metallic, golden orchids growing on an ancient oak whose roots are buried deep in primeval mud.” And fed on blood.
“You’ve been there more than once, then?”
He nodded.
“Why did you go there?”
He glanced at her, so wide-eyed and earnest, and decided to tell her the truth, though in a manner he knew she wouldn’t believe. He glanced around with exaggerated caution, and whispered, “I was a spy.”
As predicted, she laughed, taking it as a joke. Her laugh was like the burbling of a mountain stream, clear and joyous.
“The second time I went to Russia, I fell in with a bunch of Cossacks—have you heard of Cossacks?”
She shook her head, so he proceeded to entertain her with a tale of wild Cossacks at the Russian court.
At the end, she said, “So you travel all the time?”
“I have for the last twelve years.” Suddenly it seemed a long time.
“And you don’t have a home?”
“No.” That wasn’t quite true anymore, he thought. He owned his father’s house now. Though it had never been any kind of home for him. Or for Cecily.
“That’s sad.”
“Why?”
“Everyone needs a home.”
“Home is wherever I lay my head,” he said lightly.
She gave him a thoughtful look. They walked on. “I couldn’t live like that,” she said eventually. “Having a home is very important to me. One day I’m going to have a home of my very own.”
He glanced across at the tall white house on the other side of the square. “Isn’t that your home?”
“N—well, yes, of course it is. In a way.”
He gave her a quizzical look, and she added, “We live there by the kindness and generosity of Lady Beatrice.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “And in return, she requires certain things of you?”
“Oh, no, not at all—well, in a way, but only—oh, it’s hard to explain, but truly, there is no need to look so concerned. She is the kindest, most generous soul, and I love her dearly.” Seeming to think he needed more convincing—which he did—she added, “She’s sponsoring my entrance into society. She was prepared to do it for my sisters too, only—”
“You have sisters?”
“Yes, but two of them are married now, and the third, well, Daisy has other plans.”
“Any brothers?” he asked, thinking of that knee-to-the-groin trick she’d demonstrated in the alley.
“No brothers, just my two brothers-in-law.”
“Miss Jane, it’s time to go,” the large footman growled from behind. And Miss Jane obediently gave Zach a sunny good-bye and hurried away across the square, her dog pulling against the lead and glancing back in a martyred fashion at Zach. He wanted to stay with Zach.
Foolish animal not to appreciate a home with a warm, affectionate woman; there’d be no future with a man like Zach.
Chapter Twelve
She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing . . .
—JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK
Over the next week, Jane bumped into Zachary Black in the park almost every day. It wasn’t in any way planned—not on her part, at least. She took Caesar for a walk every morning, but never at quite the same time—there were other things to be fitted into her days; life was getting busier as the start of the season drew closer.
The Duchess of Rothermere’s ball was said to be the event that would launch it this year. Jane could hardly wait. Her very first ball, and the dress Daisy had made for it was a secret—Daisy even made Jane wear a blindfold for her fittings. It was all quite thrilling—and of course, she trusted Daisy implicitly.
But almost every day, no matter what time Jane took Caesar out, Zachary Black somehow managed to turn up. Sometimes he had a small gift for her. No, not for her, for the dog, he would point out each time with a virtuous air—for William’s sake—and a faint, wicked smile for her. It had become a small private joke between them.
One day it was a small metal disk with a hole drilled in it. “In case this rascal wanders off, so people will know he’s a dog of distinction, and not a mere mongrel stray,” he said when he gave it to her.
Caesar was elegantly engraved on one side, surrounded by an engraved wreath of olive leaves. That made Jane laugh. Her address appeared in plainer script on the other side.
It was quite delightful, meeting up with him so often—it was fast becoming the highlight of her day—but it also worried Jane a little. Oh, not that anything could come of it—they came from such different worlds, it was not possible.
Society was organized into strata for a reason; she’d been taught that all her life, in the schoolroom at the Pill and by experience. Mama and Papa had been cut off because they’d eloped—not just disowned by their parents, but cut off from the rest of their society as well. And without money, Papa could not live as a gentleman.
She knew from Abby that Papa had tried and tried and tried to find work. He even bought special clothes so he would look the part. But the minute he opened his mouth, everyone knew he was a gentleman and treated him accordingly; he either didn’t get the job or was sacked or for one reason or another found to be unsuitable.
Most people simply didn’t feel comfortable ordering around someone they felt instinctively was their social superior. And those who did enjoy it were bullies who tried to make poor gentle Papa pay for every slight they’d ever received. Hence Papa’s final act of desperation.
And because they were so poor and friendless and didn’t belong anywhere, Abby and she had been in dire straits when their parents had died. If it hadn’t been for the Pill . . .
They’d learned th
eir lesson there too. The Pill was full of girls whose mothers were gently born but who had come down in the world for one reason or another.
Jane and Abby had been given a miraculous chance to return to the society that their parents had entered by birthright—and lost. Yes, Jane was very aware of the importance of behaving according to one’s station in life.
She knew she should not be walking out daily with a gypsy—even if he was more respectably dressed these days, and that she was always accompanied by her maid and William—at Featherby’s insistence.
Featherby, who was the kind of butler who seemed to know everything, didn’t approve. Jane was certain that if Lady Beatrice knew, she would speedily put a stop to it.
Even Daisy didn’t approve.
Nobody else knew about her daily meetings with Zachary Black, not even Abby, and if she did, she wouldn’t approve either, Jane knew.
So why did she continue to meet him?
And more to the point, why did he keep coming back? He knew as well as she did that there could be no future in it for either of them. Did he have nothing else to do with his time?
“Not at the moment,” he said when she asked him one day. “I’m at something of a loose end.”
“But don’t you have work to do?” she’d asked him on another occasion.
“Not at present,” he said, apparently quite unconcerned, though his eyes gleamed as if he were amused at her anxiety on his behalf. But then he’d changed the subject and, as they strolled along, in the fascination of walking and talking with Zachary Black, Jane quite forgot to wonder or to worry.
Afterward, particularly at night, when she was lying wakeful and unable to sleep, she did quite a lot of wondering about Zachary Black. And not a little worrying.
Who was he? So many things didn’t add up. He was full of entertaining tales, and she could listen to that deep voice forever, but several times when they’d just been walking in silence—and not awkward silences as she sometimes felt with Lord Cambury—she’d glanced at Zachary Black and seen an expression in his eyes as he’d gazed off into nothingness . . .
It was an expression that caught at her heartstrings. He seemed so alone, so lonely.
And then, just when she’d felt she had to reach out and touch him, to reassure him that he wasn’t alone, he’d turn his head, and that shuttered, desolate look would disappear and he’d say something amusing, or tell some lively and entertaining story and she’d be left wondering if she’d imagined the bleakness in him.
It spoke to her, that bleakness. In the night when she lay sleepless, trying to put all thoughts of a tall gypsy out of her mind, she couldn’t shake the thought that despite his so-called gypsy tribe, he was a man who walked very much alone.
Alone—and disturbingly beautiful. She’d never before thought of a man as beautiful. Handsome, yes, rugged, certainly—even pretty. She’d met several pretty young men before, but they’d never struck her as particularly masculine.
Zachary Black’s was a beauty that was purely, utterly masculine. And it kept her awake and restless and shivering long into the night. And not from the cold.
* * *
Lord Cambury too called on Jane every day, and the more Jane saw of him, the more she thought she could be comfortable with him.
He made morning calls every afternoon, making polite conversation on a variety of unexceptional topics, and staying the correct twenty minutes before taking his leave.
His visits caused some exchange of glances between their other lady visitors, but nothing was said aloud, and until the negotiations over the settlements were concluded, no announcement would be made.
Several times he escorted Jane on a slow promenade in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, bowing to various acquaintances and stopping to chat every few minutes. His acquaintances were all rather older than him, and quite a bit older than Jane, but they were all very kind and flattering. And being with Lord Cambury, she noticed, discouraged the starers and the oglers, which she appreciated.
He attended the literary society both times during that first week and only fell asleep once, but not when it was Jane’s turn to read. When she read, he sat up straight, smiled benevolently at her and listened with feigned fascination. She knew it was feigned, as his conversation afterward revealed that he hadn’t taken in a thing about the story.
His fascination, it turned out, was from the picture she made, with the afternoon light slanting across her just so. After they were married, he told her, he would have her portrait painted in just that pose.
He was at all times kind, courteous and considerate of her comfort. And while his company wasn’t particularly exciting, he did make her feel safe and comfortable, which was very pleasant. And if she found his conversation a trifle dull at times, well, that was quite her own fault—she needed to learn more about the things he was interested in, that was all.
Besides, it would be different when they were married. She would be busy with the household and . . . and things. And he would stop referring to her looks so frequently. That was the thing she found least comfortable. But it would pass, she was sure, once he was more used to her.
“Cor, ’e does go on, don’t ’e?” Daisy commented once after Lord Cambury had joined them for part of their promenade and treated them to a lecture about various artworks he owned, and how Jane resembled and complemented them.
“He means well,” Jane said. Daisy didn’t get out very often these days, and she valued her walks in the park and resented anyone disrupting them. And Lord Cambury tended to behave as if Daisy didn’t exist.
“It was all that talk of you bein’ ’is beautiful ornament that got me,” Daisy said. “You want to watch out, Jane—after you’re married, ’e’ll probably stick you on a shelf or in a glass case or something.”
Jane laughed. “Well, if he does, Daisy darling, I’ll rely on you to pop in regularly to keep me dusted.”
“Me?” Daisy snorted with mock indignation. “I got enough to do. Dust yourself, you lazy cow!”
They both laughed, but then Jane said, “You do like him, don’t you, Daisy?”
Daisy shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘like,’ but I don’t mind ’im. He seems an easygoin’-enough gent. He just talks a lot about stuff I couldn’t care less about, that’s all. But I’ll not fault you for snappin’ ’im up.” She grinned. “Once you’re a fine, rich lady, I’ll be able to make you lots of lovely expensive clothes, won’t I?”
Jane laughed. “And if I were poor?”
“Oh, I’d still make you lots of lovely clothes, but me profits would be terrible!”
* * *
It was just after noon on a crisp, clear, perfect spring day, and despite her lateness, Zachary Black was waiting for her in the square, standing tall and still beside one of the budding plane trees. Jane’s heart jumped a little when she saw him and a little fizz of anticipation ran down her spine.
Caesar jumped a lot and, as usual, insisted on dragging her toward him, eagerly huffing and puffing, practically choking himself against the restraint of the red collar and chain.
“Mr. Black,” she said, trying not to show how truly pleased she was to see him. The previous day when she’d walked Caesar around the square, she’d looked and looked for a tall, raffish figure, and the disappointment she’d felt when she realized he wasn’t there had quite shocked her.
“I had business to attend to yesterday,” he said, as if she’d asked him to explain his absence—and indeed she had wondered, but only in her mind. Jane wasn’t sure how to respond. She ought not to encourage him, she knew, but . . .
“And how is this rascal?” he asked, squatting down to give the dog a hearty rub.
“He killed another rat in the back lane, so Cook is now devoted to him.” She added, “He keeps trying to chase off the butcher’s boy, though, which isn’t quite such a popular move.”
He laughed. “And the cats?”
“Still wary, but they seem to have come to terms with him. He actually seems to like them—not just tolerate, but like. It’s not very dogly behavior, but I’m very grateful for it.”
“Shall we walk?” he said.
They strolled, several feet apart. A pastry seller, pushing a brightly painted cart and ringing a bell, passed them on the road beside the park. “Those gypsy wagons you mentioned the other day,” she said. “They look very pretty and colorful, but they must be very small—for a family, I mean.” And for a man of his height. “Do your people really live in them, winter and all?”
“Winter and all,” he told her.
She frowned. “But isn’t it terribly cold?”
He gave her a slow smile. “We snuggle up.”
“Oh.” She felt her face heating. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“What about your house?” he asked. “Not that one”—he gestured toward Lady Beatrice’s house—“your dream house, the one you plan to live in one day. What would that be like?”
“I want a home, not just a house.”
He slanted her a surprised glance. “What’s the difference?”
“A house is a building, a home is where a family lives, a place that’s warm, comfortable and—” She stopped, feeling that what she’d been about to say would sound foolish. And embarrassing.
“And?” he prompted.
“Where children can play and grow up.”
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
“No.” They walked on and turned the corner, then slowed to watch a little boy rolling a hoop to his smaller sister. She kept dropping it and knocking it over, but the small boy never once lost patience. He showed her how to do it, over and over.
“All children should be like that,” she said quietly.
“Patient?”
“No, happy. Carefree.” She felt him looking at her. “And safe. The difference between a house and a home,” she added softly, her eyes on the two little children, “is love.”