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Freedom's Ring (Sisters of the Revolution Book 3)

Page 14

by Diana Davis


  With any luck, she wouldn’t remember any of this.

  Owen cast one final glance at Temperance, and this time she was watching him. For once, neither of them smiled.

  Perhaps for the first time, they were finally seeing one another for what they really were. And what they would never be.

  Miss Goodwin had a servant load an entire basket of food for his family, and Owen left to deliver it and get back to his work.

  Though he couldn’t remember why just now.

  Owen dropped Miss Goodwin’s basket by his house, much to his sisters’ delight, and arrived back at the office at the same time as a delivery boy bearing a paper-wrapped parcel for Beaufort. Not quite ready to face his work, Owen offered to take it up to him.

  Beaufort’s valet, Westing, showed him into the drawing room, where he found Rose leading young Elizabeth around the room on uncertain legs. “Oh, have you acquired your own duckling now?” Owen asked his sister.

  “Can’t leave it to someone like you, now, can we?”

  “Probably for the best.” Even a fifteen-year-old child was smarter than he.

  Beaufort entered the room, and Rose straightened as if chastened. Beaufort looked from her to Owen and back again, clearly quizzical. Rose curtsied and fled from the room with her charge.

  “I don’t know why she’s so frightened of me,” Beaufort remarked, as if he had no idea how an actual aristocrat might intimidate a poor young girl. “Good to see you, though.”

  “You, too.” Owen had missed even the post-hunt revelry for the last two weeks. Trying to get enough work done that he could justify joining Temperance for her party today.

  Fool that he was.

  Owen offered him the parcel. “This just arrived for you.”

  “Oh, excellent.” Beaufort took it and unwrapped the paper. Inside lay a dark brown coat, finely tailored but without the usual embellishments Beaufort always wore. He inspected the white facings with approval. “Shall I try it on?”

  Owen swept a hand in front of him to give the other man leave. Who was he to tell him he couldn’t change his coat in his own drawing room?

  “Please feel free to sit.”

  Owen took a seat on the couch while Beaufort shed his purple coat embroidered with leaves and vines and shrugged into the plain brown one. “Obviously I wasn’t consulted on the uniform,” he muttered. “Dreadful color, but it fits.”

  The fine color and unique, short cut struck Owen as familiar — it was what the other hunters wore while riding. He hadn’t seen them since the day they’d talked about forming a troop. “Do you think this cavalry is a good idea?” Owen asked.

  “Markoe and I had been discussing it for two or three weeks.”

  “Since the close of Congress?”

  Beaufort adjusted his cuff and nodded.

  “I don’t understand. How could you be so eager for war?”

  “I’m not. You heard Josiah. I don’t want that.”

  Owen would never forget the way Hayes had looked. He’d apprenticed under the man as a lawyer, and he’d never seen Hayes argue with anyone that way. “Then why form a cavalry? Surely you don’t mean to bring that upon us?”

  “No. I’m afraid it’s already at our door, and I don’t mean to be caught unaware.” Beaufort dropped onto the couch next to him. “Are you quite well?”

  Owen simply sighed. He couldn’t even begin to explain what had happened at the party. “Working.”

  “Do take care of yourself.”

  They both lapsed into a pensive silence, though Owen didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.

  “It will never stop,” Beaufort murmured at length.

  His work? It certainly felt that way. But Owen waited for Beaufort to finish his own thought.

  “Nine years Parliament has been at this. They’ll take as much as they can, and if we dare oppose them, they’ll grind our faces until we succumb. And they’ll expect our gratitude while they’re at it.”

  “We live in the greatest country on the Earth. We have our constitution, our freedoms —”

  “They will whittle away at us as long as we let them. I fear if we do not stop them now, they will not stop until we are in our graves. I’m ready to fight for that freedom.”

  He couldn’t help but think of the way the prosecutor was delaying Cooper’s case, and that was far from the only time he’d seen the court attempt to infringe on his clients’ rights. The same power that corrupted a judge could corrupt Parliament, couldn’t it?

  No, that couldn’t be the same thing. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Well, we shall see what the king says. There’s hope yet.”

  “Dearest?” Mrs. Beaufort’s voice carried from the corridor before she appeared in the doorway wearing what appeared to be a man’s dressing gown.

  Owen and Beaufort stood. At the sight of Owen, Mrs. Beaufort pulled the collar of the dressing gown higher, as if even her neck needed covering.

  Beaufort was already across the room. “What are you doing out of bed, my love?”

  “I just needed — what are you wearing?”

  Beaufort glanced down at himself. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Not a stitch of embroidery. Did Gloucester finally hound you into it?”

  Owen couldn’t imagine the Gloucester Fox Hunting Club prevailing upon Beaufort.

  “No, my love,” Beaufort said. “This is for the Light Horse.”

  “Oh, that.” She looked up at her husband. “I would speak with you privately.”

  A long minute of uncomfortable silence passed. Beaufort cleared his throat. Finally he addressed Owen. “Don’t mean to keep you from your work.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” He hoped the heat in his cheeks didn’t mean he was blushing. He should have understood Mrs. Beaufort’s implication sooner.

  Owen hurried down to the office. He’d hardly set to work on Mordecai’s contract when Beaufort rushed down the stairs, back in his purple coat, his cloak over his arm. “Is Josiah in?” he asked.

  The clerks pointed to Hayes’s study. Owen couldn’t remember the last time Beaufort had stopped in to visit with Hayes, but this visit was so short that they couldn’t have spoken much. Grinning like a madman, Beaufort whirled his cloak about himself and left.

  Owen set aside the contract for a moment to review his criminal cases. Cooper was finally on the schedule for next week. The prosecutor had delayed the trial so long Owen had hoped it would lead to a dismissal. Instead, the delay had produced inconsistent witnesses. It had taken Owen weeks to figure out what they meant to say. If what he’d learned was true, one witness had to be lying — Cooper was far too feeble to have assaulted anyone — and the prosecutor knew it. Securing a trial by bench had been a hard enough fight, when the prosecutor knew full well forcing Cooper to pay for a jury trial instead would only line the government’s pockets and send Cooper to the almshouse.

  Temperance had been right about one thing: Antony Cooper was a poor old man. He didn’t deserve to be tied to the stake for every last farthing he had. He’d probably already paid it to the jailer.

  Beaufort’s words returned to his mind. If the officers of the court who lived among them could think so little of their neighbors, was it really so hard to believe that distant Parliament would whittle away at them?

  The king truly was their last hope. What would he say to their petitions?

  Better to dwell on the country’s problems than his own — but best to work on solving his client Mordecai’s. Owen picked up the contract again.

  Temperance was not normally one for her younger sisters’ riddles, but she hadn’t anything else to do three days after Euphemia’s party. The formerly mild winter had changed its mind, and she had no desire to go out in the snow, even if it were to see Godfrey Sibbald.

  “What has teeth but will forever remain hungry?” Mercy lounged on the drawing room couch, an old quilt tucked up under her chin.

 
Patience sighed heavily from the writing desk. The snow kept her from Papa’s office but not from her law books.

  “You could certainly go upstairs,” Constance pointed out. She and Verity huddled together on the floor closest to the fire. Constance turned to Mercy. “Is it a . . . fish?”

  “No,” Temperance said. “A clock gear?”

  “Has a clock gear teeth?” Verity asked.

  “Of course it has,” Patience muttered.

  “Sorry.” Verity cast a scornful scowl at Patience’s back and huddled closer to Constance.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Patience said. “Shouldn’t take it out on you. You’re not the one I’m upset with.”

  If Temperance had had any question — and she hadn’t — it would have been answered by the dark glower her sister cast her. Temperance’s only reply was a slow blink. She’d piqued that particular sister’s ire enough over the years that she had little patience for Patience’s impatience.

  She managed to cover a smile at that thought until Patience went back to her studies.

  Had she taken something of Patience’s and failed to return it lately? She’d given back the shoe buckles she’d worn to Euphemia’s party, but they seldom laid claim to things in that way.

  “It’s a saw,” Mercy said. “It has teeth and cannot eat.”

  “You could say that of a clock gear, too.” Verity consulted Mercy. “Couldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Temperance, Patience and Constance all said in unison.

  “That answers that question,” Mercy murmured.

  Constance fluttered her fingers. “I have one. What has a mouth but will never say a word?”

  Temperance buttoned her lips. She knew better than to give the real answer: Patience’s temper.

  Aside from Patience’s anger, the afternoon had been pleasantly drowsy and cozy. It was almost as nice as that evening before the fire with their parents and Owen.

  Mercy answered. “A river.”

  “Oh, you’ve heard that one?”

  Verity sat up. “I’ve got one! When is a boy most like a bear?”

  “When he growls at you,” Mercy guessed.

  One part of Temperance’s mind was suddenly very concerned about what her youngest sister had got up to — but the bigger part was remembering the look Owen had given her at Euphemia’s party, shortly before he’d left. She hadn’t been able to catch him on his way out.

  But, then, she’d made such good progress with Godfrey that she hadn’t really tried.

  What had gotten into Owen? What had she done to deserve that look on his face — anger, sorrow, resignation?

  Yes, she could have warned him what she was about, but surely he would at least appreciate the thought. His work was so important to him, and his family even more so. This way he would have everything he wanted.

  It was exactly what Temperance would have wanted in his situation. Why, it wasn’t that different from what she wanted in her own.

  And then she remembered when he’d seen her as he’d entered, the way he’d lit up. That was no candle. That was a lightning bolt.

  A knock at the door interrupted their leisurely lolling about. “When he’s barefoot!” Verity whispered, quickly hopping into the nearest wingback chair. Constance took the other chair before the fire, and Mercy sat up, tucking the quilt away.

  Ginny appeared in the doorway. “Gentleman to see you, Temperance.”

  “Oh, show him in.” Temperance straightened in her chair. This must be Owen, and they could set to rights whatever had gone so terribly wrong.

  “Mr. Godfrey Sibbald,” Ginny announced.

  Temperance startled a bit as the man she’d spent so much effort pursuing had finally come to her.

  “Girls,” Patience said, her voice carrying an edge. “Upstairs.”

  Verity groaned under her breath but collected Mercy. Patience gathered her law books to follow them with one final hard stare at Temperance.

  What, was she worried Temperance might debauch herself with Constance in the room? Temperance greeted Godfrey, who rewarded her with an elegant bow. He took a seat on the couch nearest to her.

  She reached over to squeeze his hand. “So good to see you. What brings you by on such a snowy afternoon? It must be ever so important to go out in this weather.”

  “Yes,” Godfrey said, “I think it is.” He twiddled his thumbs around one another.

  Was he nervous? She had better put him at ease. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and offered an encouraging smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “Um.” He seemed to grow more nervous still. “I simply have a question for you.”

  Although she’d managed to finally engage him in conversation at Euphemia’s party, Temperance had no idea what he might be so nervous to ask her. “What’s that?”

  “I was wondering if you might permit me to —” He swallowed hard. “To court you?”

  “Why, Godfrey, darling, of course! I’d be delighted.”

  “Oh, thank you.” He released a breath, his shoulders dropping as if relieved. ‘Then I shall be going.”

  “Oh? You wouldn’t like to stay and visit?”

  Godfrey froze, his eyes slowly growing wider. “Of course I would,” he hurried to correct himself. “But with the weather, my coach is in the street — you understand?”

  She understood having a coach waiting, but she did not understand why one would leave someone one was courting. Winthrop had always made it quite difficult to leave him. “I see,” she said at last. “Allow me to walk you to the door.” She called for Ginny, who brought back Godfrey’s cloak before Temperance signaled her to give them space.

  At the door, out of Constance’s view, Temperance took Godfrey’s hand. “You may kiss me,” she informed him.

  “Is that customary?”

  Winthrop hadn’t actually formally asked to court her — although he’d made his intent clear in his letters — but he’d been quite insistent on matters of affection. “Yes, expected, almost,” she said.

  “Oh. Fine.”

  Godfrey made no move toward her, but Temperance was used to taking the lead in this relationship. She stood on her toes to place a kiss on his lips.

  Godfrey pulled away almost instantly. “Thank you,” he said.

  Temperance’s mouth fell open. Winthrop would certainly never have thanked her for such a perfunctory kiss. While obviously gratitude was only polite, somehow Temperance felt insulted.

  “I almost forgot. Here.” He handed her a package. “Good afternoon,” Godfrey said quickly, slipping out the door before she’d had a chance to open the box.

  Perhaps he was shy. He was only twenty-one; he probably had little experience with the idea of courtship.

  Temperance returned to the drawing room and settled in her chair again. Constance was upon her almost instantly. “Godfrey is courting you?” She seemed concerned.

  “Yes.” Temperance had gotten what she wanted, but this time, she felt no flush of victory. Instead, her heart was filled with lead.

  Why was she so disappointed?

  She opened the box and found a delicate silver bracelet with a single diamond in the center. “Oh.”

  It really was everything she wanted. And absolutely nothing she wanted.

  She’d known it from the moment Ginny announced Godfrey. No, far longer than that, but now she couldn’t deny it any longer.

  “What’s the matter?” Constance asked. “Do you not like it?”

  “It’s a lovely bracelet.” Temperance laid it back in the box.

  How had she not seen this sooner? She always knew exactly what she wanted.

  And it was Owen.

  This was terrible.

  Owen practically ran up the stairs and into the courthouse. He’d overslept, he was late, and the snow, falling steadily since yesterday, hadn’t helped anything.

  How many times had his mother clucked over him working by candlelight, tellin
g him he needed his rest? And today of all days, his traitorous eyes had to go and try to steal it?

  He tried to slip into the courtroom’s onlookers as if he’d always been there. Hopefully they were running late as ever. But no, today, the magistrate apparently had kept the pace brisk, because Antony Cooper stood in the dock, searching the crowd like a man drowning.

  Owen straightened his court wig and shouldered past onlookers.

  “Mr. Randolph?” the magistrate barked as he approached the bar.

  “Humblest apologies, Your Honor. Won’t happen again.” He let himself through the gate.

  The magistrate grumbled something indistinct and motioned for Owen to get on with it. Owen adjusted his robes and set his satchel on the lawyers’ table to retrieve his papers. He had to make a statement. Every person in the courtroom had to be staring at him, most of all Antony Cooper only a few feet away.

  He searched through his satchel for his notes. The Mordecai contract, the Wiscombe case, two witness depositions — where were his statements? Owen tried to breathe, think through where he might have left them.

  That didn’t matter now. He couldn’t ask for a continuance because he’d been late and overworked himself. He straightened, nodded to Cooper, and addressed the court.

  His statement wasn’t terrible, per se, but it was a pale imitation of what he’d spent so long drafting and perfecting, with a ridiculous amount of stopping and starting and hemming and hawing. The magistrate’s scowl grew deeper and deeper, although his statement could have lasted no more than five minutes.

  Or less. The original statement was five minutes. This was far shorter, since, he realized as he yielded the floor, he’d forgotten the key tenet of refuting the witness’s testimony.

  He didn’t dare look at the poor old man in the dock now. Had he ruined this innocent man’s chances?

  It was all Owen could do not to pace. The witnesses were called in quick succession, and he’d had enough time to recover his mind that he refuted the inconsistencies in their statements: Antony Cooper could not have been in two places at once, and he lacked the physical strength to assault anyone in the manner described.

 

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