“Eleanor, we shall be fine. With all of the staff you’ve hired, we shan’t even notice you’re gone!”
Eleanor poked her tongue out like a five-year-old and they both laughed.
As Sarah turned to leave, Eleanor called out, “Have a care for my mother. She’s determined she’ll have you wed within the year.”
Sarah shook her head and waved, but she couldn’t help but notice the devious look in Lady Chalcroft’s eyes as they returned to Chalcroft House.
Chapter Twelve
It was amazing, Sam reflected, how productive a man could be when his brain wasn’t preoccupied with a woman. Since his return two months ago, he’d thrown himself into his work, catching up on the things that had occurred in his absence, finishing the edits on his travel journal of London, and overseeing the production of a new series of maps on each of the twenty-one states.
He, of course, thought of his sister from time to time. They had been each other’s only family for many years, after all, but he knew she was obviously happy, as her many letters sent from her honeymoon travels assured him. If he had to skip the parts of the letter where Caroline asked about his courtship of Miss Draper and admonished him to write to her of all the juicy details, well, his sister should know him better than to expect a response, much less a detailed accounting of a non-existent courtship.
Sam roughly folded the latest letter from his sister and shoved it in his desk drawer. He stood abruptly and went to check on the repair of his oldest printing press, needing something to do to wipe those last words he’d read from his mind.
“I know you will roll your eyes unbecomingly, elder brother that you are, when I say how very proud of you I am that you have chosen to fall in love with a woman of conviction and vision, one who will stand up to your often tyrannical tendencies and challenge you to improve yourself.”
Improve himself, he thought with a snort. Caroline was mighty free with her judgements for a chit barely twenty-four years old. Who did she think she—
“Mr. James, we need to send someone to the docks to fetch a tympan,” said his shop foreman, Mr. Beckwith. “It should have arrived a few days ago, but the shipping company hasn’t delivered it and we can’t coax this old one through one more run.”
“I’ll go,” Sam said abruptly.
“We can send one of the boys,” Mr. Beckwith protested. “Ye needn’t waste your time on such an errand.”
“I said I’ll go,” Sam said shortly, and then embarrassed at his tone, said, “I need to stretch my legs. Been at my desk too long today.”
Mr. Beckwith nodded in understanding and Sam turned to fetch his coat and hat.
He walked the four miles to the shipping office his foreman had mentioned, forcing himself to notice the increasing Philadelphia traffic, the new shops that had opened, the chill of the breeze. None of it helped. Despite his best efforts, his sister’s words clanged in his brain and awoke his memories of his aborted courtship of Sarah Draper.
He knew he’d made hash of his proposal, knew he’d handled the whole episode in the worst possible manner. His sister had long berated him for what she called his high-handed, inconsiderate meddling (she’d repeated the phrase often enough over the years that he was never likely to forget it). He didn’t mean to be managing—oh very well, he amended, he did like to manage things. He was a born problem solver and so far his success rate at problems as diverse as handling a skilled labor shortage to reworking the plumbing of his Philadelphia home was fairly high. He’d even nudged Trowbridge to confess his feelings for Caroline back when they first met in Italy, though to hear his sister tell it, she’d managed just fine on her own.
The point being that when it came to Sarah Draper, he had to admit that he had embodied every adjective Caroline had hurled at him over the years. The problem was that he’d never loved a woman as he loved Sarah He had been completely out of his element on how to progress their relationship, especially since they’d skipped many of the formalities in a courtship and progressed straight to the physical delights. Then too, he admired her. He laughed humorlessly as he picked his way across a muddy street near the docks. He was well aware that his admiration of her abilities should have made him even more respectful when it came to her wishes and opinions. His purchasing those gowns and other sundry items in his mind were a paltry way for him to help her and to show her how he felt. It had never occurred to him that she would view his actions as some sort of statement that she couldn’t take care of herself.
He shook his head as he entered the shipping office. This was why women were so infuriating, he thought. They had to read meanings into things that didn’t have meanings. They misinterpreted simple gestures into hugely complicated statements.
It was a delight to deal with the surly old shipping clerk inside the cramped, smelly office. By his grunt, Sam clearly understood he’d been instructed to state his business. When, without a word, the man turned and left the small room, Sam knew the package was being fetched. And when the grizzled man grunted at the customer behind Sam after handing over the box, Sam knew he’d been dismissed. Easy, clear, uncomplicated communication. That was all he asked for.
With renewed determination to put frustrating women from his mind, Sam spent the walk home planning his renovations for his warehouse.
Two days later, he was walking the streets again, this time with no errand to run, simply a mind to clear. He’d dreamed of Sarah again, damnit. He dreamed of her frequently, but last night he’d had the most intensely erotic dream about her and when he’d awoken—long before dawn—he’d been unable to stop thinking of her. Again. Time, it seemed, was not doing its purported job in solving matters. If anything, it was making matters worse.
The hackneyed phrase, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” flitted through his brain and he sighed heavily in disgust.
A cry of distress was a welcome distraction from his thoughts. He dashed down the street toward the sound and careened around a corner into a sort of alleyway between two buildings.
A woman was huddled on the ground, a broken basket at her side. Sam saw two young men fleeing down the narrow passage and made to give chase. Nothing would have pleased him more than to take out his frustrations by pummeling two bullies who sought to prey on a woman. He took a step in their direction, his muscles bunched to sprint when a broken sob drew his attention and he realized that it was more important to aid the criminals’ victim.
Crouching, he laid a hand on her shoulder. The woman cried out and jerked away.
“Easy, easy,” Sam said. “I’m here to help. I mean you no harm.”
The woman stared at him, wide-eyed, for a moment before saying, “Sie namen alles.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, recognizing the language as German but not understanding a word. “Ich spreche kein deutsch.” That and ordering a beer was the extent of his vocabulary in German.
The woman nodded and gestured to her broken basket. A few small packages remained inside—a small bag of beans spilling open, a loaf of bread, worse for the wear for its travails.
Sam gathered the basket together and offered the woman a hand up. She rose gingerly, dabbing gently at her cheek, where a bruise was already forming. She peaked inside the basket and moaned.
“What was in here?” Sam asked, needing to say something.
She stared uncomprehending at him, but as he pointed into the basket and turned a hand up in question, she nodded, then gestured eating and feeding a baby.
He nodded, his expression grim. He thought of Sarah’s stories of being robbed and fury at the assailants who would threaten and steal from people weaker than themselves filled his chest even as he ached with longing for Sarah.
“Come,” he said gently, urging the woman out of the alley.
She looked at him suspiciously, clutching her broken basket to her chest.
He sighed in frustration, trying to figure out how to convey his meaning. He’d always been terrible at charades—Caroline had long said so. S
he claimed his only use at a charades party was to provide a bit of hilarity due to his ridiculous gesticulations.
Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a two-dollar note. The woman frowned and a storm of angry German met his ears.
“No! That’s not what I meant!” Sam protested, having an idea of what she suspected. Why hadn’t she yelled like that at her assailants? Surely they would have fled if only to save their ears. He rubbed his forehead and tried again.
“Money,” he said, holding up the note. “Food,” he said, making eating motions. “Shop,” with a point at her basket. “Oh for the love of—here, take the money. You buy the food yourself. He considered the two-dollar note. Though he knew what ink and paper cost in bulk, he had no idea the cost of bread and milk. He pulled out another bill and added it to the first. “Food,” he said again. Warily, the woman took the money and edged around him. Once she was out of the ally, she darted around the corner and down the street.
Sam followed more slowly, not wanting her to think he was following, but also full of vim and vigor from not being able to chase down the two thugs. Once he saw the woman enter a shop, he lengthened his stride, determined to burn off his jumpiness through sheer miles.
Over the next month, Sam walked so many miles he had to visit his tailor to take in his trousers and sent two pairs of shoes to the cobbler for new soles. He was returning from one such long walk when his housekeeper handed him the day’s mail.
He shuffled through the stack of invitations as he walked upstairs for a hot bath. Twenty minutes into his walk, it had begun to rain—a cold, sleety kind of downpour. He should have turned back immediately, but he’d had another dream about Sarah. It had started off with the same erotic undertones of kissing and touching, but before it woke him with steamier images, suddenly he was wandering dark empty streets. He supposed it was Southwark, but wherever it was, he was searching for Sarah and with each passing step he became more frantic to find her. He’d lurched awake, his heart pounding, his hand searching in the sheets for a missing Sarah.
He’d known he was going to need a particularly long walk to exorcise that dream and so even though he’d left the house without an umbrella, when the rain started, he’d simply jammed his hat down further and turned his coat collar up. Now, however, he was chilled to the bone and wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a hot toddy, and a hot fire, preferably all at once. He entered his bedroom and shuffled to the last envelope, smiling when he recognized Caroline’s handwriting. Tossing the other missives onto a bureau, he began tugging at his cravat.
The maid who’d been sent to draw his bath and tend the fire came out of the bathing room. “It’s all ready for you, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said. A knock at the door heralded a footman with his toddy and as soon as he left, Sam stripped down and eased himself into the steaming water. His frozen toes tingled painfully as feeling returned to them, but it was worth it to be immersed in warmth. He reached for his drink and Caroline’s letter and began to read about her return to England, the upgrades she and Trowbridge had begun to make on Heathmark Manor—“ah, already spending the dowry,” Sam murmured with a grin—and the various events she planned to attend. Or perhaps had already attended. He rather skimmed over that part and was about to turn the page when Sarah’s name caught his eye. He backtracked and read the entire paragraph more carefully. Tea with the dowager Lady Trowbridge, yes, yes…shopping…wedding ball of Lady Eleanor Chalcroft and Lord Reading. Aha, Sam thought, this must be it.
“The wedding was perfection, as one would expect from the union of two earldoms—really though, if they weren’t so obviously in love, one might resent that they did not spread such earlishness around to those of lesser status. I don’t refer to myself, of course, completely besotted as I am with Trow—“
“Yes, yes, Caro. Get to the point,” he muttered, but did not skip a word lest she say something of Sarah.
“And despite the obvious love match, there are those envious young ladies who even still make such a complaint. I suppose the gentlemen may think it too, but if so, they don’t voice the opinion, at least where I can hear it. I shall have to ask Trowbridge if he’s heard any such talk among the bachelors.”
Sam gritted his teeth and kept reading.
“Instead of the usual wedding breakfast, or perhaps in addition to it, for there is every chance they had a wedding breakfast and simply didn’t invite everyone, the Earl of Southampton hosted a ball in honor of the newlyweds to which we were invited. The earl has not hosted an event in nearly thirty years, or so Trowbridge’s mother informed me, and he clearly had decided to make up for his deficiency in grand style for if there was a cut flower left in London afterwards, I will be surprised. The food was divine too! My favorite being the lemon cream—“ at that, Sam smiled.
“Though it was a crush, Southampton was rather exclusive in the guest list and as a result, one could actually stroll through the beautiful rooms without having to squeeze between people and carry on a conversation without shouting.
“The dancing was divine, as the orchestra—“
“Caroline,” Sam growled. The damn bath water was growing cold. He quickly stood, dried off, and wrapped himself in a brocade robe before taking a seat in front of the fire in his bedchamber. He scanned the letter to find his place and resumed reading.
“And it was after a particularly lovely quadrille that I noticed Trowbridge had partnered with Miss Sarah Draper.”
Sam sat up straighter, intent on the page in front of him.
“She looked beautiful, as I’m sure you can imagine. She wore the most cunning gown of pale aqua.”
Sam smiled. When he thought of Sarah looking beautiful, it was when she had not a stitch of clothing on, her only covering the fall of silky dark hair. Shaking that distracting image from his head, he focused again on the letter.
“She was quite the belle of the ball and in fact was claimed for the last dance by a high ranking member of the nobility. As I am still new to England, I took it on the good faith of my mother-in-law that he is considered quite an eligible bachelor.”
It was ridiculous, really, that Sam’s fingers tightened into fists, crumpling the edge of the letter. Preposterous that his blood surged, pumping his muscles as if in preparation for a fight. He’d been away from London for more than three months. He and Sarah had parted in anger. There was absolutely no reason for him to feel jealous. None! And yet he found himself smoothing the creases of the letter to see if Caroline mentioned Sarah’s reaction to this would-be suitor.
But Caroline, ever the annoying younger sister, had already moved on to another topic. He skimmed through the words, barely registering her announcement that she was expecting.
“I still have months to go, of course, but I do so wish you were here, brother dear. You have ever been a source of comfort and support for me and while there is certainly nothing you can actually do for me, I should find your very presence comforting.”
And then the last line of the letter: “Sometimes we need people not because they can fix everything. Sometimes we simply need them because of who they are to us.”
Sam stared at that last line. While it could certainly be interpreted to support her request that he return to London for the birth of her baby, something told him Caroline did not refer to herself in that sentence. She was rather more blunt about her requests.
He surged to his feet and paced in front of the fire. What was Caroline trying to tell him? Damnit, he knew what she was trying to say. She’d chided him often enough on his overweening desire to fix things. But why would she phrase it in such a way? Had she spoken to Sarah? Had Sarah told her what happened between them? The idea that his sister knew details of his failed love life was disturbing, but ultimately, he knew Caroline only had his best interests at heart and he knew she had very much approved of the notion that he was in love with Sarah.
He re-read the last line, then went back and re-read the paragraph describing Sarah. Surely if Ca
roline thought Sarah had moved on and was allowing herself to be courted by some—what was it? “high ranking member of the nobility”—she would have said so. Or better yet, not mentioned Sarah at all, fearing it would bother him to hear she was moving on with her life. Despite her love of tormenting him, Carline was actually very protective of him.
No, Caroline was definitely sending a message. While she was generally not so subtle in her messages—correction, he thought with a smile as he poured himself a drink, generally not so subtle with him, as she considered him a bit of a dunderhead when it came to emotional astuteness—she generally always had a point. He sipped the rich brandy and considered what it was Carline thought he should do. Clearly she wished him to return to England so she must believe there was a chance of patching things up with Sarah. But is that what he wanted? He stared out his bedroom window, though he could see nothing except his own reflection in the rain-spattered darkness.
“Damnit,” he muttered again. Of course he wanted to patch things up with Sarah. It didn’t matter if he’d only known her a short time, if he’d been away from her an even longer time. The fact of the matter was, she was in his blood. She’d reached down to his very soul and entwined herself around it and life was just not going to be right without her in it. But what would that life look like with her in England with a vocation that was so important to her and him here in Philadelphia with a thriving business?
He tossed back the last drops of brandy and absently browsed through the rest of his mail. He’d thought them all invitations to various society events, but there was another envelope from England. His heart sped up. He didn’t know what Sarah’s handwriting looked like and while he would say these letters had a masculine slant to them, still…
It was not, in fact, from Sarah, which in all fairness, had been a ridiculous notion, and he felt equally ridiculous for being so disappointed. He focused again on the words. Ah, another disappointment. The printer he’d met with in London, who’d contracted to reprint some of his maps of the States, was facing dire financial straits and would not only not be able to proceed with the reprints, but was in fact going out of business by the end of the month.
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