Lady Vivian (Almack's Assembly Rooms Book 1)

by Agnes Forest

  Sawyer’s telling of the story was natural and effortless.

  “It was a bitter cold winter, and for Pottsworth and I to sleep outside would be the death of us. There was a rundown river shack, in its finer days one might have called it a cottage, and we snuck inside in hopes that it was abandoned, or that we might slaughter the inhabitants.”

  Sherbet leaned in at the mention of slaughter.

  “What we found was a warm, inviting interior, and an old grandam at the stove. The room smelled of butter and cinnamon, and our stomachs growled. Pottsworth held his rifle aloft, but once the old grandam turned to face us, there was no use in weaponry. The lady looked just as sweet and loving as one’s own Mumzie. Apple cheeks, plump middle, silver hair, and all that. She smiled, even though she saw our red coats and knew full well who we were. Come on in, she had said, eager to feed us. We were confused at first and could not fathom the hospitality, but were at a loss for any other accommodations. The grandam made us beds from American quilts in the attic, and served us each a warm cup of cocoa.”

  “Cocoa?” Rutherford asked. “Nary a spot of tea?”

  “Beggars cannot be choosers,” Sawyer went on. “But that was just the beginning of the assault of sweetness that came our way. As I mentioned, intent upon feeding us, the grandam worked day and night in the kitchen, concocting puddings from a book of recipes. There were all kinds of tarts; apple, cherry, peach. There was chocolate cake, sweet buns, and every conceivable form of cookie. Bars of chocolate . . . “

  “In wartime, man?” Sherbet asked dubiously. The soldiers were rapt by the story and had drawn in close. Percival commanded the fire, and its flames flickered across the soldiers’ faces.

  “Don’t ask me how,” Sawyer went on. “The pudding grandam said that the fruits had been preserved from the summer, the chocolate kept well in cold weather, and her larder was absolutely full with butter. She had her own cow.”

  “Extraordinary,” Rutherford said.

  “It was most remarkable, but after a number of days on this sweet diet, both Rutherford and I had turned green about the face.”

  “You must have plumped up then, just as the grandam had intended,” a soldier said.

  “Nay, quite the opposite,” Sawyer replied with a laugh. “The two of us were running to the privy five times a day.”

  The soldiers laughed heartily in recognition.

  “How did you eventually escape?” Sherbet asked, wishing to move the story along to the battlefield.

  “After a week’s interval, the weather had warmed a bit and Pottsworth and I said our adieus. Upon leaving the shack, I asked the pudding grandam why she had been so hospitable, and finally there was an explanation.

  “My grandsons are in the army,” the lady had explained. “And you two look just like them. I wish that I could make them something sweet this very moment. Oh, it would be a dream come true!”

  “Well, goodbye then,” I had said, placing my hat upon my head.

  “Take this with you,” she had replied, running to procure a bar of chocolate wrapped in parchment paper. “In case you should encounter John and Peter Miller.”

  “I took the chocolate and went on my way.”

  “Did you ever find them?” a soldier asked.

  “Sod it, man,” Sawyer replied. “Everyone in the Americas is named John and Peter Miller!” The soldiers laughed merrily and continued to drink.

  Sawyer took a sip of his own ale and smiled to himself. Sadly, he didn’t choose to finish the story. He had searched far and wide for John and Peter Miller. They wouldn’t be too difficult to find, as the grandam informed Sawyer of their regiment. After much investigation, Sawyer learned that the grandsons had fallen to gunfire in the siege on Baltimore. When Sawyer visited the city in the aftermath, he left the bar of chocolate in a field of grass.

  “Come on, now. Let’s get to the siege of New York!” Sherbet said, and the other soldiers cheered.

  “Nay,” Sawyer replied. “You’ll have to wait until next Thursday. I’m not a raconteur by profession.”

  “No, you’re a soldier,” Sherbet said, slapping Sawyer on the back. “And you command respect.”

  “Indeed,” Sawyer replied, stifling a cough. He was a bull in a china shop, that Christian Sherbet, but he was certainly a gentleman that had a heart of gold. He sat beside Sawyer.

  “Might I have a word?” Sherbet asked.

  “Please. Have as many as you like,” Sawyer replied, still winded from the blow to his back.

  The other soldiers went about their business and returned to their meat, cheese, and ale. The evening took on a patina of gaiety, and one had to wonder how all those drunken men were going to manage to get home.

  “Lieutenant, there is something that I need to share with you,” Sherbet said. The man gazed into the fire and collected his thoughts.

  “Do not censor yourself,” Sawyer replied. He was quite full-up at that point, but Sawyer was keenly aware that he’d need to prepare more food at home to feed to his hounds. Steak and potatoes was the usual fare.

  “I perceive that you do not stand up for yourself,” Sherbet began.

  “I have no need to,” Sawyer explained. “Their words do not trouble me in the slightest.”

  Sherbet lifted his brow dubiously.

  “Being a man of honor, you must defend yourself. These chaps here, they enjoy picking on you because you’re a bastard.”

  Sawyer stifled a laugh. “An orphan.”

  “I’m not jesting with you. It’s common knowledge that you’re a bastard and an orphan with no funds.”

  “You make it sound extraordinary,” Sawyer replied.

  “But you’re a soldier and a man of substance,” Sherbet added with great passion, putting his large paw of a hand over Sawyer’s heart. “Here is your soul, old man,” Sherbet went on. “It’s encased in your bosom thus. This heart throngs with noble will and courage.”

  “Lord Sherbet, you are drunk,” Sawyer replied.

  “Sod it, man!” Sherbet replied, mildly offended. For truly, he was speaking from a place of deep understanding, with or without the bottle and a half of claret in his belly. “You’re a commissioned officer of the Regent’s naval forces. You have seen things that no other man about this picnic has seen.”

  In light of the man’s passion, the use of the word picnic came out comically to Sawyer’s ear.

  “And thus, when any man tries to belittle you, it’s your duty to stand tall, present yourself as the gentleman that you are, and if things become really dire, show them a copy of your commission,” Sherbet instructed.

  “You mean, the actual document?” Sawyer asked, amused.

  “Yes, man!” Sherbet replied, slapping Sawyer on the back again. “Take out the document and show it to them. Carry it with you wherever you go.”

  Sawyer was gasping for breath again after the second blow, yet still he felt jubilant. Christian Sherbet was the most unlikely of friends he had ever come across, and he was glad for it. If one ever got into a bit of trouble, having Sherbet by their side ensured that they would see no harm.

  “You’re not drinking enough,” Sherbet noted.

  “You best believe that I’m trying to catch up,” Sawyer replied.

  “When these men think that you’re a pansy with the sauce, they look down upon you.” Sherbet looked about at the rest of the soldiers and noted who was drinking heartily and who was being pansy-like. It was a clear indication of character.

  “All of my focus is upon the sauce, I assure you,” Sawyer replied, taking another drink.

  “That’s a good chap. But tell me . . . “ Sherbet was delving into another topic and Sawyer wasn’t entirely sure that he was happy about it. “Does the old bag still play upon your mind?”

  This was something that Sawyer had not expected. He remembered in passing telling Lord Christian Sherbet about his former marriage plans, and his former love. The fact that Sherbet just referred to her as the ‘old bag’ was remarkably in
appropriate. The sad conclusion to that situation had also been shared with Sherbet, although, he never expected that the topic might surface again.

  “My friend,” Sawyer said, giving Sherbet a slap on the back but noting that it did not have any effect. “That is a topic for another day, I’m afraid.”

  “Face it man,” Sherbet said with great passion, grasping Sawyer’s upper arm. Sawyer stifled a scream. “She is gone now and it’s time to move forward. Choose a new wife. Let go of the past.”

  Heavens, but Sawyer’s arm was being crushed. To endure physical pain whilst having to face emotional pain was a bit too much, and Sawyer placed his hand over Sherbet’s own in order to remove it from his arm.

  “That’s enough, but I thank you,” Sawyer replied, successfully removing the paw from his bicep. “There is someone who has caught my attention.” Sawyer instantly regretted saying it after it flew out of his mouth. Sherbet’s eyes lit up with wonder.

  “Speak, man. Who is it?”

  “Have you any acquaintance with the Ravenswoods?” Sawyer asked, wondering if he was opening Pandora’s box.

  It didn’t take Sherbet long to recognize the name, but a curious look came to his face.

  “Are you having an affair with Lady Margaret?” he asked.

  “Heavens no,” Sawyer replied.

  “Lady Hester, then? She has a nice build.”

  “Sod it, man, no. I’m having an affair with no one,” Sawyer replied.

  Remarkably, Lady Vivian did not even come into Sherbet’s consciousness. The girl was so youthful and fresh, so out of bounds, and so slated to marry Lord Phillip Lockfield, that the notion seemed impossible.

  “You’re not speaking of . . .” Sherbet said, about to name the young lady. Sawyer saw the dubious look in Sherbet’s eye and immediately backtracked.

  “No, no. Not her, I assure you. I had a most humorous encounter with the lady’s chaperone. The Scotswoman.”

  “Ha ha!” Sherbet laughed to himself, slapping his knee. It was amazing how Sherbet would not cringe when he hit himself, for surely it looked painful. “That old biddy. She is as notorious as her beautiful charge.”

  Sawyer became uncomfortable when Sherbet named Vivian as being beautiful. He wanted Lady Vivian to be his own, and did not enjoy others commenting upon her.

  “Over yonder,” Sherbet said, pointing south. “That is where the estate lies. The father is a hospitable man, but most believe that he is down on his luck. Stockwood Park itself is fine and well kept. Dignitaries feast there often.”

  “I see,” Sawyer replied, looking off in the direction Sherbet was pointing. The night had grown black and cold, and Sawyer could scarce see anything off in the distance. The sky overhead had become blanketed with stars, and Sawyer marveled at it. Such a tremendous canopy. Only near the coast could one get such a marvelous vantage. In town, the stars could scarce be perceived.

  “The lady is being courted by Lord Phillip Lockfield. It’s the talk of Almack’s,” Sherbet added, stuffing his mouth with more cheese.

  “Yes, I have heard the same,” Sawyer said casually. I have heard nothing of the sort and I feel like hurling my ale into the fire, Sawyer screamed within himself. He was filled with outrage instantaneously.

  “Has a considerable income, that gentleman. But a bit too upright, for my taste. As though he has a metal pole up his — “

  “I thank you,” Sawyer said, cutting him off. “Curious that a lady of such character should be interested in a man that you describe as being lacking in character.”

  “Well, that’s the question, old chap,” Sherbet went on, chewing cheese. The more claret that went down, the hungrier that Christian Sherbet became. “No one knows if she cares for the fellow or no. She comes off aloof to the outside eye. That being said,” (More cheese) “It matters very little whether Lord Phillip is to her liking or no. The match is most advantageous, especially for her father.”

  Sawyer had to marvel at just how much of this story Sherbet was privy to. Were the gossip mills so fluent that everyone in Britain knew about Lady Vivian Ravenswood? Should he travel to Wales, would everyone there be able to tell him the story? Might he venture to the highlands of Scotland and be told the tale? It was unbelievable.

  “Certainly, her affections must lie elsewhere,” Sawyer mused. “Such a remarkable spirit, it couldn’t be that she should resign herself to marry a man that she does not care for.”

  Sherbet eyed Sawyer with curiosity.

  “You’re in love,” Sherbet surmised.

  “No, I’m not in love, I’m merely trying to comprehend the situation,” Sawyer replied defensively.

  “Perhaps a bit of investigation is in order, then,” Sherbet replied. “Return to Almack’s, and everything will become clear as day.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Sawyer said.

  Yes, it would be the only course to ensure that he saw the lady again. His chances of running into her in the field at a later date were nigh unto impossible. If he returned to the club on the following Wednesday, then he was almost assured of seeing the vision in white. Or gold, or blue, or whatever color she might be wearing. Lady Vivian Ravenswood would be a vision in all shades.

  “This has been a good talk,” Sherbet said, lifting his hand aloft in order to slap Sawyer on the back again. Sawyer just managed to stop the man’s hand with his own, and spared himself.

  “I have enjoyed it myself,” Sawyer replied.

  “Remember,” Sherbet said, leaning and placing his forehead upon Sawyer’s. His eyes were red and cloudy. “You need more piss and vinegar, man. Stand up for yourself. If you don’t do it, then I’m going to have to do it for you.” Sherbet’s gaze was remarkably serious.

  “That’s most kind of you.”

  “You are my brother,” Sherbet added, pounding his chest. Yes, the drink had truly gone to Sherbet’s head, and Sawyer had to wonder if the man would remember their heartfelt conversation on the following morning. “And when others assume that you’re a bastard orphan with no money, having nothing to recommend you but pretty looks, lost in the memory of some dead old bag that you would have once married, you tell them what you really are.”

  “How very sensitive.”

  “I’m a sensitive man.”

  “In all due respect, brother,” Sawyer went on. “It was my father that taught me that words are paltry in the face of deeds. I speak with my actions. If someone wants to belittle me due to my past, then let them do so. I should very much hope that my commission will speak for itself.”

  “It does speak, man,” Sherbet went on. “It speaks, and it sings, and it dances.”

  “Lord Sherbet, I think that it’s time for you to go home,” Sawyer replied, knowing full-well that Christian Sherbet was drunk as a wheelbarrow.

  “You’re perhaps correct,” Sherbet replied. He stumbled to his feet and Sawyer tried to help him, although Sherbet was weighty and the task of aiding him was cumbersome. “That concludes this picnic!” Sherbet hollered out to the other men, pointing his finger in the air. “May we undertake it again next Thursday.”

  Sherbet hobbled off, and Sawyer was in the mind to follow him to ensure that he returned to his estate in one piece. It would be a long journey, considering that Sherbet lived a considerable distance due north, and that would be in the opposite direction of Sawyer’s own home in Bedringham Court. Luckily, Sawyer remembered from past occasions that Sherbet’s horse was excellently trained, and the animal could safely transport the man home even when he was out of his senses entirely.

  Sawyer heaved a sigh of relief.

  He sat before the fire and indulged in another moment of recollection. Sawyer thought of Lady Vivian, and their encounter that day. It would be almost one week’s time before he might see her again, at Almack’s. It seemed like an eternity away, and he feared that in the interim, Lady Vivian would grow into some monumental goddess in his imagination. Nay, by the time he next saw her, she would be Helen of Troy, and Sawyer would play the
role of Paris.

  He was greeted by Percival, who sat beside him and stared into the fire, smoking a pipe.

  “Thank heavens the sly fellow was saved,” Percival said, looking in the fox’s direction. It was sleeping in its cage.

  “Once the men become drunk, they soften,” Sawyer mused, looking into the fire as well. “Their taste for blood diminishes.”

  “But not their taste for meat, I daresay,” Percival went on. “My entire ration was torn through.”

  “Yes, and that’s not their last meal of the day, I assure you,” Sawyer went on.

  “I very much enjoyed your tale,” Percival said, pipe in mouth.

  It felt like ages since Sawyer spoke of the pudding grandam. In fact, the entire day seemed to stretch on and on. So much had transpired.

  “What do you think happened to the old bag?” Percival asked.

  Must every woman be referred to as an old bag? Sawyer mused.

  “I think that perhaps she is still living today, baking her cakes and waiting for her grandsons to come home.”

  “Do ye think they ever will?” Percival asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Sawyer replied, lying through his teeth. “I hope that they might.”

  “I’m thinking that wherever they are over there in the Americas, they’re going to smell that butter and cinnamon and find their way home,” Percival mused.

  “Yes, I very much agree with you.”

  “And now,” the proprietor said, hoisting himself aloft. “I do believe that it’s time for me to clean up this mess.”

  “You do so, chap,” Sawyer replied, standing. “I believe that it’s time for me to make my way through the darkness.”

  Sawyer located his horse, patiently waiting, and St. John by the horse’s side, snoring.

  “Come on then, St. John.” The hound yawned in protestation. “It’s time we made our way home.”

  As Sawyer mounted his horse he looked off to the west, where he was bound to ride home. But then he turned to the south, where he knew Stockwood Park to be. How much he longed to ride off in that direction, climb up to Lady Vivian’s window and kiss her again, but this time not on the hand.