Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters)

by Wylde, Anya

  Her Philly was now a thin and handsome poet.

  She clutched the nearest chair for support. For a moment she felt like turning around and running screaming from the room.

  Her eyes squeezed shut and she took a few rapid breaths. So what if he was now handsome? He was still her Philbert and she loved him for his beautiful, immature soul and not for his features or figure.

  She slipped her hand into the hidden pocket in her skirt and took out a brandy flask. Taking a big gulp of the contents and letting the warmth give her courage she walked up to the man at the back of the room.

  “Philly?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  Philbert glanced up, “I am sorry, I will have the money tomorrow.”

  “Eh?” Celine asked in confusion.

  “Didn’t Hammer send you? No … How about Strangeways? Stubbs, Norris or … let me see… Steering?”

  Celine shook her head, her eyes wide.

  “Then who the devil are you?”

  “Celine,” she whispered and then recalled the veil she still had attached to the bonnet. She unclipped it and let it fall.

  He stared at her face and then peered and squinted. His face cleared, “Celine Fairweather, how are you? It is wonderful to see you. I never thought …” He half stood up and gestured to the chair opposite himself.

  She sat down.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  He nodded and leaned back in his seat, “So what brings you here? A lady like you shouldn’t be visiting this part of town.”

  “You left the painting ….” She trailed off.

  He ran a hand under his collar, “Painting? Ah yes, that was a long time ago. Goodness, time flies and all that.”

  A barmaid with her ample bosom on display arrived at their table, “Anything to drink?”

  “Tea,” Philly answered the bosom.

  She departed with a lusty wink.

  “How are you?” Celine asked, watching Philbert watch the barmaid’s hips sway away.

  “Good,” he replied shortly. He started playing with an empty glass on the table.

  “Have you been writing much?” Celine asked after a moment of silence.

  “Plenty. In fact, a fellow wants to publish my work. I have asked him to hold off until I can be sure he is a reputable sort. Don’t want him running away with my hard work and calling it his own.”

  “I still have your poems,” she tried again.

  After a small heavy silence, he said, “Yes, well, about that, I hope you won’t mind terribly, but can I have them back?”

  “Have them back?” she asked in confusion. “Have what back?”

  “The poems,” he replied apologetically. “You see, I was robbed by a highwayman. You must have heard of the Falcon? Yes, well he is planning to build a library for his apple dumpling, that is his missus, once he retires. He told me all about it while divesting me of all my belongings. He took the poems for his library, and you are the only one who has the copies ….”

  “I will give them back to you,” she replied.

  He nodded, his mood visibly improving. He pulled out a cigar and lit it.

  The stench of stale beer mixed with the odour of cheap tobacco and unwashed feet had Celine quickly reattaching the veil.

  Philbert eyed her across the table, the smoke curling out of his nostrils, “London is wonderful, is it not?” he asked. “The modes of transport alone are remarkable. Have you ridden on one of the flying coaches yet? You must. It is an experience in itself. They are sprung, can you believe it? I don’t think Londoners can conceive what a jolting the carriages in Finnshire give. And the leather straps that hold the body together—”

  “Body?”

  “Yes, the body of the carriage. Remarkably strong leather straps. Keeps the carriage from flying apart. And some of the carriages are lined on the inside with velvet. Father never had one of those. And the beautiful silver mouldings and the iron with not a speck of rust …”

  Celine yawned into her gloved hand. She wondered if it was time to go.

  The barmaid with the ample bosom arrived to deposit the tea.

  Philbert thanked the bosom, and before he could once again launch into the description of a chaise or a landau Celine spoke up, “You have lost a lot of weight.”

  Philbert spat some of the tea out. After delicately dabbing his chin, he said, “Yes, well, father has not called me back, and the world seems to share his opinion of poets. My creativity has not been appreciated, and the pay is not sufficient. What with the costs of staying in London, I quickly spent all my savings. A month of starvation followed where I truly became an impoverished poet.”

  “Your last letter, it said …” Celine struggled with the words. “It said that you were waiting for me.”

  “Did it say that?” he asked in surprise.

  Celine bit her lip. She did not have the luxury to play games, “Phill … I mean, Mr Woodbead, you said that you would love me forever. You wrote that you were waiting for me, and you painted the name of this inn …” She trailed off.

  “Miss Fairweather,” he soothed, “really, you couldn’t have expected me to wait, and after all it has been months since I saw you.”

  “You said you would love me forever. Forever means eternity and not a few months,” she pointed out.

  He hurriedly continued, “Besides, at that time you must admit I was not very pleasant to look at. A fellow like me was thrilled that someone like you fancied him. And now that I am an emaciated, handsome, impoverished poet things are different. And a girl like you deserves marriage, and my financial state is such that I don’t think I can even offer you a cup of tea, forget a house and garden.”

  “I see,” Celine said her lips pursed in disapproval.

  “I am glad you are taking this so well. You were always a sensible sort,” he smiled.

  Celine realised that she did not like his smile. In fact, she had never liked his smile. His smile was outright ghastly.

  He seemed unaware of her rapidly changing mood. When she continued to remain silent and not shriek and break the teapot on his fragile empty head, he further brightened and asked, “Say, would you happen to have a pound or two to spare. I am sure my poems will be published soon and I can pay you back or you can keep a couple of the poems in return. After all, you had the pleasure of reading them for so many months for free … Where are you going?”

  Celine did not answer. She opened her reticule, slapped a few coppers down on the table and started walking away.

  “My poems.” he called.

  “You will have them by tomorrow,” she threw over her shoulder.

  Back on the street Celine lifted her face up to the rain. That, she felt, had been an utter disaster.

  A carriage came hurtling around the corner and George’s arm shot out, clasped her around the waist and yanked her inside. They continued to hurtle down the street, this time towards the Blackthorne Mansion.

  Celine sat with her hands folded on her lap, her eyes pinned to the arrow sticking out of George’s hat.

  “I am terribly sorry about picking you up in an unseemly way, but I think Lily’s husband is lurking around the corner, and I think he has been practising with a bow and arrow—”

  “It’s fine,” Celine cut in.

  After a few moments, George asked, “Are you alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain, for I can see your lips quivering? If you would like to cry ….”

  Celine put her hands to her face and her shoulders shook.

  “Amy,” George said with a hint of panic in his voice, “don’t cry.”

  When she continued to shake uncontrollably, George removed her hands from her face in order to gently wipe away her tears.

  “You are laughing?” he asked in shock. “I thought things had not gone well.”

  “You were right, things did not go well.”

  “Did it go splendidly then?”
/>   “He wants his poems back.”

  “Tragic,” he said shaking his head.

  “Lord Elmer, I know why I am laughing, but what in the world is tickling you? You are grinning like a fool.”

  “I am a fool. A beauty-fool,” he chuckled.

  Celine eyed him in disgust, “Beauty-fool?” and then she burst out laughing. “That,” she giggled, “was terrible. So terrible, in fact, that now I am depressed.”

  “Amy, are you laughing or are you crying?”

  “Both,” she said, smiling broadly with tears running down her eyes. “I am the fool, Lord Elmer. A silly romantic fool who dreamt of love and roses. I am sensible and practical. I solve everyone’s problems. I am dependable. How could I have stuck my head in a cloud of love and froth?”

  “Amy,” he said sobering, “love is the most beautiful feeling in the world. It is the only feeling that matters. Don’t close your heart to it.”

  She wrenched her hand away, “Love does not exist, Lord Elmer. And if it did, I wouldn’t know it even if it bit me on my rosy buttocks.”

  “You have rosy buttocks?” he asked, his eyes widening. He leaned forward in his seat and then altogether stopped breathing as he waited for her answer.

  “It is not seemly to talk about buttocks, Lord Elmer. I don’t know why I said such a thing,” she said primly. “I think I am distressed. Distressed enough to forget about the fact that I am a lady because … because I thought I loved a fat poet with a good heart called Philbert Woodbead. Instead, I found a pompous, skinny heartless rat.”

  “Perhaps you needed to meet him to learn the truth, to learn the difference between a passing fancy and everlasting love.”

  “Love is a risk for a woman in this world, Lord Elmer. I took that risk and now it is time to be rational. You on the other hand have the luxury of experimentation and adventure. You can never understand the world from my eyes.”

  “I have a mind, Amy, not a block of wood up there.”

  “You are a man and …” She bit her lip.

  “And therefore as sharp as a toothless lion, as able as a one winged bird or as clever as a blunt bonnet pin,” he completed.

  “How did you—”

  “I read that book. You had left it in the library.”

  “You read Mrs Beatle’s book for accomplished English ladies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that is what you base your life on and I wanted to understand. Listen to me, Mrs Beatle is loony, barmy and mad. She should be locked up in Bedlam. Anyone who asks you to collect broken buttons and make teeny tiny rabbits out of them is—”

  “Lord Elmer, that is enough. How can you expect me to take advice from someone who refuses to be responsible in his own life? Who runs away from his father’s house like a child seeking fun? Who lives the life of a court jester constantly trying to amuse and be amused? In fact, you cannot step out on the streets of London without a pirate shooting at you or an enraged husband trying to strangle you—”

  “I understand you are hurt, but please remember it was that poet of yours that broke your heart. I had nothing to do with it and therefore do not deserve this—”

  “You are right,” Celine cut in, her voice rising. “You do not deserve to hear the truth. The truth that you are an irresponsible creature with the intellect of a five year old child. You are a thief and a scoundrel who has stolen poor Sordid Sandy’s family recipe. How do you think she is feeling? Did you ever consider things from that old woman’s point of view? You are so undependable that I would rather walk through Hyde Park with Dorothy’s pet chimney sweep than with you. You would get me killed, while the chimney sweep would only get me sooty.”

  “Listen now, that is unfair—”

  “Unfair? Since the day I met you things have gone wrong. My life has been in constant danger, my hair does not stay in place, my heart beats so fast that at times I think it is going to bound out of my chest and go running away ….”

  “Your lips seek mine,” he continued softly.

  She snapped open a parasol and kept it pointed towards him in defence. He had that look in his eye—hooded lids, lips parted and flame tipped ears. He wanted to kiss her. Again.

  The carriage came to a halt.

  “Lord Elmer, thank you for helping me find Philbert.”

  “Is that all you want to say to me?”

  She licked her dry lips, “I …”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you, and I hope we shall meet again sometime in the future.”

  “Amy, stop a moment longer. I need to speak to you about something. I wanted to ask you if—”

  “Lord Elmer, I will be late for dinner.”

  “Shall I see you in your room tonight?”

  “I don’t think it would be proper.”

  He made a frustrated sound, “Do you have to be so bloody starched all the time? Everything has to be proper with you. You live your life like an unhappy colonel, following that idiotic Beatle’s advice on how to be a refined English lady. You don’t know if you are Amy or Celine. Stop lying to me, stop pretending to be someone you are not. You want to go off on an adventure just as much as I do. I have seen your eyes glint in pleasure every time you took down a pirate and no point in denying it. You need to learn how to live, to be honest with yourself. Stop trying to make life comfortable for others. Make it happy for yourself first.”

  “I see,” she said quietly. “This is goodbye then, Lord Elmer. I don’t want to burden you with my starched self any longer.”

  She leaped out of the carriage and raced towards the mansion. She ignored his call and only paused once she was safely in her own room. She locked the door and leaned against it.

  Was she lying to herself, she wondered. Was she not a genteel young lady but a naughty, wild, fickle young woman who fell in and out of love with the changing seasons, who enjoyed flinging pirates out of carriages and kissing men, specifically a handsome, mischievous man with a dimpled cheek called Lord Elmer?

  Her eyes fell on her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Who was she, she asked herself again. A good sister, an obedient daughter, an accomplished lady, or a simple girl who only wanted to love and be loved?

  She searched her reflection for answers. Her bun had uncoiled allowing her damp tresses to escape and hang limply over her shoulders, while her skirts were drenched and stained with mud … But it was her eyes that disturbed her the most.

  The dark eyes looking back spoke of a love and friendship lost.

  Chapter 27

  Celine was amazed at how unhappy she was. In fact, she was so unhappy that her mind had decided to soothe her soul by playing music in her head. It started with the gentle sounds of a violin, which was soon accompanied by a flute and piano. Within a few moments it was as if an entire orchestra was playing inside her head. She sobbed and wondered at the injustice of it all. Her own brain was mocking her, for the music was jaunty.

  She wiped her eyes and lifted her head off the pillow. The music was loud, she realised, too loud to be simply playing in her head. The sounds of laughter filtered into the room on the heels of the happy music.

  Her misery was momentarily forgotten. Her curiosity was peaked. She quickly shoved her feet into slippers and raced out of her room. At the landing she paused and stared down into the Great Hall.

  The sight made her gasp.

  She could see people in glittering gowns, giant hairdos and unfashionable wigs milling about. A long table in the corner held dishes piled high with fruits, meats and breads, while hundreds of candles and glass lamps made the Great Hall seem enchanted.

  Celine could not believe her eyes. She rubbed them twice and the vision remained.

  A fully fledged ball was in progress downstairs.

  “Hopkins, wait,” she called out to the duke’s valet, who was strolling past her wearing a coat and tails. In his hand he held what looked like a glass of champagne.

  She blinked at his attire.


  He smiled and took a sip from the glass.

  “Hopkins, what is going on? How did the duke allow all these people to enter the mansion? I thought only family and close friends were allowed to visit us considering Penny’s condi—I don’t understand … Hopkins, a ball is in progress. It is, isn’t it?” A thought belatedly struck her. What if her misery had caused her to lose her mind and that is why she was seeing Gwerful in a puce coloured dress with prancing squirrels embroidered on the hem wearing a fruit bowl for a bonnet.

  Hopkins soothed her, “Your eyes are not deceiving you, Miss. A ball is truly in progress. The ball is for the duchess and no one from outside has been invited. The people below are the servants of the Blackthorne Estate. The duke said the duchess wanted a party and dancing—”

  “And he gave her a ball with two hundred people and not a single person from outside. He made her happy and adhered to propriety,” Celine finished. The duke hadn’t told her because he knew she couldn’t lie. Penny would have guessed that she was hiding something, and then the surprise would have been ruined.

  “The orchestra is playing in the other room,” Hopkins added. “The musicians are not allowed to look upon the duchess. And in the morning room the duke has hidden fourteen doctors and three midwives in case dancing disagrees with the duchess.”

  Celine smiled, “This was a wonderful idea.”

  Hopkins took another sip of the champagne. His tongue nicely loosened, he said, “It was Lord Elmer who gave him the idea. Lord Elmer had planned the outdoor meal indoors and made the duchess laugh. The duke wanted to do something bigger and grander than that, so he planned this ball.”

  She opened her mouth to ask yet another question when a sudden hush made her pause.

  She turned back towards the Great Hall, and from her excellent spot on the landing she noticed Penelope enter the room.

  It was clear Penelope had just woken up from her nap. Her curly brown hair was trying to escape from her head, her pale blue evening dress was crumpled, and the corner of her eyes were crusted. She shuffled into the room holding her swollen belly, her mouth parted in shock.

  The duke who had been sitting in the corner wearing his full evening attire stood up.