Daisies and Devotion

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Timothy blinked in the muted light of the pub, scanning the occupants until he found the two he was looking for. He did not move toward them right away, taking a few moments to gauge the mood. He’d spent time with Uncle Elliott and he’d spent time with his cousin Harry—they had met at school—but he’d never spent time with them together.

  The stiffness of Uncle Elliott’s posture contrasted with the establishment, which was just a step above grimy. Harry probably chose the place specifically to make their uncle uncomfortable. Timothy let out a breath and steeled himself to play well his part of peacemaker. He’d received the invitation to join them just an hour ago, but it had said the meeting was casual, so he’d been able to still his concern that there was some emergency involved.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” Timothy said cheerfully when he approached the table.

  Harry, who had been lounging against the bench opposite their uncle, grinned up at him and scooted over so Timothy could join him. He wore a shirt but no cravat beneath a black coat more suited for evening than a late breakfast. Timothy wondered if perhaps Harry had not yet returned to his rooms since the night before.

  He looked at their uncle, keeping his society smile in place. “Hello, Uncle.”

  “Good morning, Timothy. I am glad you could join us.”

  “Of course,” Timothy said with a nod. “I would never miss an opportunity for your company, Uncle.”

  Harry snorted and turned so he could lean against the corner of the booth, one leg propped on the knee of the other. Uncle Elliott and Timothy looked at him in tandem, then back at one another as though making a silent agreement to ignore him if he were going to be petulant.

  Timothy pushed his smile a shade brighter to compensate. “What brings you to London, Uncle?”

  “Business mostly,” Uncle Elliott said. “But I thought to visit with my nephews while I was here and see how the two of you are faring.”

  “I am very well—”

  “I am exhausted,” Harry said, cutting off Timothy. Harry yawned loudly, his mouth stretching wide and releasing a less-than-polite odor that made Timothy hold his breath and wish he had not sat so close. “Other than that, I fare just fine, no thanks to you.” He narrowed his eyes at their uncle, and Timothy shifted.

  During prior conversations, Harry had called their uncle a “Grande Dame,” “Hopeless Windbag,” and “Old Codger.” Timothy had laughed off the titles and changed the subject. He did not agree with Harry’s assessments, of course, but he didn’t want to raise contention. Harry hadn’t needed their uncle’s support as he had inherited his father’s estate in west Norfolk a few years back. He had no reason to be so ungracious as far as Timothy could see.

  “Well, I suppose I have my answer as to what terms you and I are on, then,” Uncle said, his eyes flashing as he lifted a mug of ale and took a hearty drink. He turned his attention to Timothy. “Harry did not take well to my presentation last month, left in a bit of a tiffle.”

  Harry straightened from his languid posture and leaned forward across the table. The cords in his neck stood out, and the angles of his jaw were sharp in the muted light. “I’ve no space for your management, old man.”

  “Harry!” Timothy said, staring at his cousin. “Watch yourself.”

  Harry turned his red-rimmed eyes on Timothy. “I will not take direction from you any better than him.” He spat the last word, and Timothy was taken aback by the anger infused in every syllable. Before Timothy could manage a response, Harry put his hands against Timothy’s shoulder and pushed, nearly sending Timothy to the floor with the force. “Let me out,” he said as Timothy stumbled from the bench.

  “For Heaven’s sake,” Uncle Elliott said with disgust as Harry stood up.

  Timothy stood several feet away, surprised by this side of his cousin, though he’d heard about Harry’s temper. He imagined how Harry would relay this story to a friend, “And then I called him an old man, pushed myself from the table, and left him to his beer.” His friends would roll with the telling and Harry would grin.

  Harry pointed at their uncle, staring down his finger. “You will see me ruined—and where will all your conniving manipulation put you then?” He cursed, then turned and stormed out of the pub, a dozen eyes following him.

  Timothy did not sit back down until the door had closed behind his wayward cousin. Even he could not smile through the tension left in his wake.

  “I marvel,” Uncle’s voice was even as Timothy returned to his seat, “that your cousin has not pulled your reputation down with his in this city. How have you managed such a thing, Timothy?”

  “I move in different circles.”

  “Not that different,” Uncle said, shaking his head. “You must put a great deal of effort into showing the contrast. The two of you look more like brothers than you and Peter do; I’m sure people have noticed.”

  It was true that Peter favored their mother’s coloring while Timothy and Harry had the fairer features of the Mayfield line. Harry had sharper lines and a few more inches in height, however.

  “I made a concerted effort to befriend men of character in school,” Timothy said. “Those friends took me home on holidays, and I was polite to their parents and brothers and friends so that I would be welcomed back. I am good with names and remembering details, which allows me to strike up conversation years after my first meeting someone. I have tried hard to earn people’s respect and good graces.” He shrugged as though that were a simple thing to do, rather than a goal he had spent a decade working toward.

  “And you avoid the gaming hells, brothels, and other unsavory society that your cousin immerses himself in.”

  Timothy did not approve of Harry’s behaviors, or his treatment of their uncle, but he also did not like to stand in judgment. “I do not think Harry feels the need for society’s approval the way I do.” Harry’s father had been of a good family, with a successful estate for Harry to rise to. Harry had come into that inheritance some five years ago and lived well from the proceeds. To succeed in London, a man needed two of three things: manners, money, or connection. Timothy lacked money, but had managed to keep his connections and his manners sharp. Harry lacked manners, but had strength within the other two.

  Uncle Elliott grunted, which Timothy chose to interpret as agreement.

  “He seems rather put out with you, Uncle.”

  Uncle Elliott chuckled just as the barmaid brought out three plates filled with sausages, eggs, and beans. Timothy leaned back to allow the woman to slide the plates onto the table in front of them.

  “Where’s the third?” she said, holding the last plate with a dirty towel.

  “He remembered an appointment,” Uncle Elliott said, then looked across the table. “Do you think you can put away his portion?”

  Timothy nodded quickly, his stomach growling, and soon had two plates before him while trying to keep his excitement in check. For the most part, Timothy subsisted on whatever fare was offered through the visits, parties, and balls of the ton during the season so as to avoid the expense of purchased meals. They did not serve sausages at soirees, and he had not had such a meal as this in weeks, let alone two plates’ worth. The pub might be dirty and dark, but the food was first-rate.

  “As I was saying,” Uncle Elliott said a few minutes later when Timothy’s eating had slowed enough to allow conversation. “Your cousin did not take well to my marriage campaign.”

  “Marriage campaign?” Timothy repeated after he swallowed.

  “That is what Peter called my . . . gifts. A friend has taken it as a title—marriage campaigns—as though I am some knight of valor.” He shrugged, but also smiled.

  Timothy nodded and wondered at this friend. It seemed his uncle was deliberately not giving details.

  “Harry has deemed it a meddlesome manipulation.”

  “Really?” Timothy said, genuinely surprised
. “He is not being forced to accept.”

  “Precisely,” Uncle Elliott said with a touch of exasperation in his tone. “How I wish your cousins would see this campaign as you do, Timothy. It is supposed to be a help, not a hindrance.”

  Did that mean all of his cousins had reacted as Harry had? “How can it be a hindrance?” That made no sense to Timothy.

  Uncle Elliott did not answer right away. Someone lit a pipe, adding the sweet fragrance of tobacco to the other smells of baking bread and sizzling sausages. “I have refused to pay off Harry’s debts.” He followed the confession with a bite of sausage.

  Timothy lifted his eyebrows. “Debts?” Harry lived in one of the more expensive boardinghouses in the city and had just purchased a new curricle. “But his father’s inheritance, surely—”

  Uncle Elliott shook his head. “The motivation behind my campaign was to encourage each of you to live respectable lives. Harry, it seems, is not interested in doing so.”

  “But he expects you to pay off his debts?” Timothy still found that shocking. He was so careful with his expenses and had never asked for additional funds, already feeling unworthy of his uncle’s generosity. Harry had income. Land. A spark of anger rose in Timothy’s chest, and he shook his head.

  “Just one last time,” Uncle Elliott said. “Which is what he said the time before. Suffice it to say, I have refused.”

  Timothy considered that. “Did you not worry that, upon presenting the . . . campaign, he will simply marry to secure the funds to pay off the debts?”

  “Indeed, that is a worry,” Uncle said with a pucker between his gray eyebrows. “And I also worry he will attempt another mortgage on his estate or sell off more of the land he cannot afford to sell or end up beaten senseless in the gutter.” He shook his head. “At least the marriage campaign requires he measure up to something—I have to approve his choice just as I have to approve yours.”

  That did not seem to be an exact prevention, and Timothy felt sorry for whichever woman might end up in Harry’s net. Timothy had been gifted a London house and acres of land upon a respectable marriage—what had Uncle given Harry?

  “Enough of that,” Uncle said, flourishing his fork as though to punctuate his sentence. “How are things for you, Timothy? I assume you are not angry with me for the campaign.”

  Timothy laughed. “Between the campaign and a double breakfast, I am anything but angry with you, Uncle. You have my absolute devotion.”

  Uncle Elliott speared another bite of sausage and asked after Timothy’s own endeavors of wife hunting.

  Timothy did not want to give his uncle reason to worry on his account, so he kept the details vague. “I am determined to make the right choice, now that I have the choice to make,” he concluded. “If not this season, then the next. I have to remind myself that I am not in any great hurry.” And yet he was tired of this lifestyle.

  “I am glad to hear it, but what of this young woman you wrote of in your last letter who is introducing you to new debutantes? That is quite an advantage.”

  “She is a good friend,” Timothy said simply. “Her sister is married to my friend from school, Lucas Landsing. That is how Maryann and I met.”

  “But you have no accord with Maryann herself?”

  Not . . . exactly. “We have accord,” Timothy said carefully, thinking of how seeing her at an event would make him smile and how he appreciated her honesty with him. “But we are ill-suited as a couple.”

  “Why is that?”

  In that instant, Timothy could not remember why they were ill-suited, only that it was a determination they had both made. Then he remembered that she was not blonde or possessed with a tinkling laugh or musical ability. It embarrassed him to think of his list, which was feeling more and more like folly, and yet he could not answer his uncle’s question. Without the list to serve as his guide, why wasn’t he seeking further accord with Maryann? Oh, yes. Colonel Berkins. He remembered Colonel Berkins’s hands on her waist and his kiss on her cheek yesterday afternoon, and his stomach tightened.

  “She has a connection with another man.” Timothy’s mouth twisted when he said the words.

  “And you do not want to interfere,” Uncle Elliott concluded.

  Timothy nodded and took his last bite of sausage—it was very good sausage.

  “And if she did not have this connection with another man, would you be interested in furthering your accord?”

  Timothy chewed thoughtfully as he considered the question. He was comfortable in Maryann’s company, enjoyed their banter, and found her engaging. While he’d once thought her not particularly beautiful, with her round face and rather bland coloring, he’d taken note of her shape these last few weeks—particularly when Colonel Berkins’s hands had emphasized her waist a few days earlier. And her eyes were quite spectacular, to say nothing of the way her smile transformed not only her face but the very air around her. It surprised him that he had not noticed such things the very first time he’d met her. Yet, it felt silly to think he could be attracted to Maryann. She was Lucas’s sister-in-law and . . . not blonde or willowy or demure.

  He swallowed his bite and shook his head. “In all honesty, I do not know, Uncle,” he admitted. “She fairly ties me in knots sometimes with the things she says and the way she confronts me. Last week she told me to get a haircut, a few weeks before that she advised me on which waistcoat to pair with which coat, and she’s told me more than once that she thinks I am a silly man.”

  “And yet you look forward to seeing her, don’t you?”

  Timothy looked up in surprise and met his uncle’s eyes. “I do,” he said. “Which is rather irritating because I do not feel she cares a fig about whether I show up at an event or not.”

  “Really? She does not return your feelings?”

  Feelings? Did Timothy have feelings for Maryann? She had once had feelings for him, but he’d denounced them in a way that still made him cringe. “She has feelings for this other man,” he said to both give an answer and avoid one. “She reminded me recently that I am not her father or her brother and that I should mind my own business.”

  “Did she now?” Uncle Elliott said with a laugh. He took a bite, following it with a drink of his ale. “Women are extraordinarily complex creatures.”

  “Indeed they are.”

  “But,” Uncle Elliott continued, “the right one can light a man from within in ways he will never find otherwise.”

  Timothy raised his eyebrows. “You speak with a certain level of authority, Uncle. Dare I suspect you have found a light from within?”

  “Not necessarily,” Uncle Elliott said. “She remains simply a complex creature for now, but perhaps time will reveal more than that.”

  Timothy grinned and put down his fork. “I am happy to hear such possibilities. Tell me all about her.”

  Uncle Elliott shook his head. “I’ve nothing more to say, but, on the subject of women and lights and whatnot, has Peter told you his news?”

  “Peter?” Timothy had not seen his brother since before the season and could not remember whose turn it was to correspond. “What news?”

  Uncle Elliott grinned. “I shouldn’t want to be a gossip, but I expect you’ll be hearing an announcement soon.”

  I am sorry that your sister was unable to join us, Miss Morrington,” Mrs. Blomquist said from the other side of the table. Maryann didn’t mind Deborah’s absence so much now that she knew the reason.

  “As am I,” Maryann said easily. “I hope she will be restored to her usual self soon, however.” She shared a conspiratorial look with Lady Dominique, the only other person aware of what truly ailed Deborah. Lady Dominque gave a smile and a nod. As Lucas was her only son, she had a great deal of investment in this growing child.

  “Was she not at the opera Monday night?” Mrs. Blomquist frowned, clearly displeased that Deborah had apparently
been well enough for something as trifling as the opera but not in fine enough fettle for tea today.

  “She did attend the opera,” Maryann said in a sympathetic tone. “But I am afraid she likely should not have. She was quite ill through the finale, and it laid her flat for all of yesterday.”

  Deborah had even been sick during the carriage ride home, having had to use Lucas’s cloak to contain the mess. And then, of course, she’d cried for being such a burden. Maryann had helped Deborah calm down upon arriving at home and assured her that Lucas did not regret having married her and that she was not the most ridiculous woman ever created. Deborah had slept most of Tuesday, and had only tea with dinner that night.

  “I’m afraid it is my fault she did not attend today as I insisted she stay at home to rest and work on the seating chart for Lady Dominique’s ball.” She shared another smile with Deborah’s mother-in-law. “I am afraid I was quite fierce with my orders. I can only hope she will still be speaking to me when I return.”

  Mrs. Blomquist brightened at the thought of sisterly rivalry on her behalf. “Well, of course she must rest, then. Please give her my sympathy and wishes for good health to be restored soon.”

  “I most certainly will.”

  “And your ball?” Mrs. Blomquist asked Lady Dominique. “The plans are formulating well?”

  “Yes,” the dame said, inclining her head. “This is the first year I have had someone to help me, and Deborah has proven to be quite capable.”

  Away from Lady Dominque’s presence, Deborah was scared to death that she was going to ruin the annual ball that had been twelve years running. Lucas and Maryann took turns reassuring her that she was an adept hostess and all would be well.