My Wild Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  “Ah,” Oxley said. “I see you’ve met my mother.”

  Elias glanced back and forth between Oxley and the painting. He could see it now. Oxley’s hair was dark rather than flaxen—and certainly not as silky as the woman’s in the portrait—but there was no doubt they were related.

  “Captivating, isn’t she?” Oxley sat down and stretched his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles.

  Terrifying, too. “What was she like?”

  He shrugged. “I never knew her—at least not enough to remember her. She died giving birth to my brother when I was very young. But apparently she was somewhat of a paragon.”

  Neither of Oxley’s parents were living, but there was no evidence that their absence affected him. Sometimes Elias felt as though he himself had lost both parents, even if it wasn’t true. He rarely saw his mother, and she was hardly the picture of matronly care even when he did. From all he could tell, she forgot about him entirely most of the time.

  It was with a jolt that Elias realized the anniversary of his father’s death was in two days. He felt a sliver of guilt for having forgotten, even if only for a day. His mind had been so taken up with everything else.

  Oxley was watching him with interest, and Elias cleared his throat.

  “You seem…different.” Oxley took a drink of his brandy, still watching Elias.

  Elias managed a chuckle. “What do you mean?”

  He raised a brow. “You haven’t made a single joke at my expense since I walked in the room.”

  “We’ve only been here two minutes.”

  Oxley shot him a significant glance. “An eternity to go without some of Elias Abram’s wit.”

  “I must be entering my dotage,” Elias said, looking down at his glass and swirling the liquid around.

  “Hardly,” Oxley said. “Out with it, then. What ails you?”

  Elias pursed his lips. “The truth is my mind isn’t easy. It’s why I’m here.” He met Oxley’s gaze. “I need your help, Ox, if you can give it.”

  “Anything. What is it?”

  This was the difficult part. Oxley wasn’t exactly the type to laugh at one’s expense, but Elias hadn’t been at all reluctant to share his views on women in the past, and he had little doubt that Oxley would see through him if he tried to hide the truth behind his visit. He cleared his throat. “When I met you at the inn, you had some conversation with John Stratton.”

  Oxley nodded.

  Elias fixed his gaze on his friend. “I need to bring him down.”

  Oxley’s brows flew up. “Bring him down? Why?” He readjusted in his seat. “What I mean is, I can’t say that I’m opposed to it—the man is insufferable. But I never took you for the feuding type.” His brows came together. “Nor did you seem to be acquainted with Stratton when we spoke with him at the inn the other day. Can’t see what cause you’d have to wish for his downfall.”

  Elias smiled. “You complain about my becoming soft and then give me grief for wanting to take a man down?”

  Oxley waved his hand. “That’s different. Harmless banter.” He locked his gaze on Elias. “What you’re asking is different.”

  Elias nodded slowly. “It is.” He set his glass on the table next to the settee, leaning so that his elbows rested on his knees. “Stratton is making threats. Not to me, precisely, though I’m not unaffected if he makes good on them. But I wouldn’t be here if it was just me he was threatening. He’s threatening Mr. Donne.”

  Oxley grimaced. “I can’t say it surprises me. They’ve been at each other’s throats for years, and now more than ever with this talk of changing the borough lines. But it’s a moot point, in my opinion. I can’t see the vote happening. At least not for some time.”

  “That seems to be the consensus among rational people. But Stratton doesn’t seem to be rational, and neither does Donne. It’s Donne’s daughter whose reputation Stratton is using as leverage against him.” He fiddled with his fingers and forced himself to look up and meet Oxley’s eye.

  Oxley’s gaze took on a hint of intensity. “The one you were with at the inn?”

  Elias’s fingers stopped. He hadn’t realized Oxley knew it was Edith who had been at the inn. He had been relieved when Oxley hadn’t pressed him for information, but it seemed he hadn’t needed to. “Yes. But….”

  Oxley smiled. “I caught a glance of her at The Old Dog.”

  “I can explain,” Elias said, but Oxley waved him off.

  “There is no need. You know your affairs, Abram, and I’ve known you long enough to know you wouldn’t compromise Edith Donne.”

  Elias pressed his lips together then sighed. “I wouldn’t. And yet, if Stratton puts it about that we spent the night at The Old Dog, that will hardly matter.”

  Oxley drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. “Why not marry her, then? Why go after Stratton?”

  Elias looked down at his hands again, debating how much to say to Oxley. He was asking for the man’s help. It was better to make a clean breast of it. “Because I love her.”

  Oxley’s fingers stopped, and he narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  Elias gave a wry laugh. “That’s because none of it makes sense. Believe me.” He shrugged. “She doesn’t want to marry me, but her father insists upon it due to the threat of Stratton. I need to remove that threat.”

  He tried not to wriggle under Oxley’s gaze.

  Oxley finally let his eyes drop, rubbing absently at a spot on his pantaloons with his thumb. “I don’t know Stratton terribly well. But I’ve heard enough and seen enough of him to guess how he works. He and Donne have Kingsbridge in their pockets, and while I’m no great lover of Donne, I would take him over Stratton any day. Stratton doesn’t show me his true colors—always the picture of civility when I speak with him—but I’m not as big a fool as he thinks I am. I have my suspicions about how he’s managed to be reelected time and again.”

  Elias sat forward on his chair. “That was what I was wondering about. He threatened not only Donne but also Miss Perry from the inn—don’t know if you saw her. Young woman in mourning. He wrung a statement from her condemning Edi—Miss Donne for conduct unbecoming a young woman of gentle birth.”

  Oxley’s eyebrows snapped together. “Then I imagine the reports and rumors I have heard are true. Where there’s smoke, there’s bound to be fire, and Stratton seems to have a veritable blaze going.” His brows rose, wrinkling his forehead. He sipped his drink. “It is my suspicion that the few voters in the borough don’t vote for him out of any particular affection. I would start there.”

  Elias blew air through his mouth. “I had the same thoughts—it stands to reason that a man who will extort one man won’t stop at the one. But what incentive will they have to come clean about things to a stranger like myself if Stratton is holding something over their heads—if he’s coercing them under threat of exposure or ruin?”

  Oxley put out his hands, palms facing up. “Me.”

  Elias waited.

  “There’s a reason Stratton fears me. He knows my family is strait-laced when it comes to these things. My father had no patience for the games people would play in Parliament, and he trained me the same way: to respect the responsibility of my position. Men like Stratton often have little care for anything but squeezing the last farthing out of their place in Parliament. He’s taken pains not to do anything to make an enemy of me, for he knows I could have him removed from Commons if I had reason.”

  Elias tapped his hand on the arm of his chair, thinking. “You’re a good man, Oxley. But what, then?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “Use me as protection. If the voters will tell you honestly of their dealings with Stratton, I will offer them my protection—financially, if it is needed. But I suspect that Stratton will remove the threats when he discovers that the alternative is losing his seat. You need merely use my name. Tell him that you’ve provided me with an account of his doings.” He chuckled. “To say truth, I would love to see his face when yo
u do.”

  He pulled out a sheet of parchment then reached for the quill on the desk, dipping it into the nearby well. “Here are the names and addresses of a few men who might be able to enlighten you regarding Stratton’s dealings.” The quill scratched on the paper for a moment, before Oxley set the quill back in its stand and sanded the wet ink.

  He stood, and Elias followed, feeling overwhelmed at his friend’s generosity.

  They walked out of the room together, making their way toward the front door, and Elias set his hat on his head, frowning. “I didn’t expect you to offer yourself, Oxley, you know. I merely hoped you might point me in the right direction.”

  “Nonsense. You are doing me a service. If word gets about that Stratton has had to change his ways, perhaps others will follow his example. I only wish it weren’t necessary.”

  Oxley handed him the paper, and they embraced a final time.

  Elias went on his way, determined to speak to at least two of the landowners whose names Oxley had given him. Time was running short, but if he spent the night at one of the nearby inns, he could pay a visit to Stratton in the morning before returning to Shipton House. Before freeing Edith.

  Chapter Thirty

  Elias was not at dinner, and when Viola mercifully inquired about his absence, Matthew merely shrugged.

  “I am not the man’s master, you know. He said something about wishing to visit his father’s grave—the anniversary of his death is sometime soon, I think, but…” Matthew trailed off, his concentration shifting to the task of stabbing two stubborn peas with his fork.

  The anniversary of his father’s death? No wonder Elias had been so affected by Miss Perry’s situation at the inn. He had enough to deal with without worrying about Edith.

  She felt her mother’s eyes on her and met her gaze squarely, even though her stomach felt uneasy. She had little appetite—for food or conversation—but she tried valiantly not to show it. There was a constant stream of talk, largely maintained by Viola and Matthew—but the company felt thin without Elias’s presence. It was impossible not to remark his absence—he had a personality that filled a room.

  When the women rose, leaving Matthew and Solomon to their port, Edith walked up beside Viola, hoping to avoid her mother, who had been watching her enough during the meal that Edith suspected she had intentions. Edith had no desire to discuss the situation with her mother.

  “You missed the reading,” Viola said, accepting Edith’s arm with a bit of surprise evident in her eyes. Had Edith been too hard on Viola? Not everyone was as well equipped to deal with her abrasive manner as Elias was. She shut her eyes, annoyed at the way her mind seemed intent upon noting all the ways Elias was what she needed.

  “I know. I wasn’t feeling terribly well earlier, and you know how poetry affects me.”

  Viola looked up at her, a bit of hurt in her eyes, but Edith smiled teasingly down at her. “I’m only joking, Vi. I would like to hear some of your work. Do you know any of it by heart, or shall I have to wait for the next formal reading?”

  Viola nodded quickly, and Edith’s heart twisted at the light in Viola’s eyes at her invitation.

  “Come, then.” She pulled Viola down onto the chaise beside her, determined to listen to the verse without giving any evidence of how she truly regarded it. “Tell me your favorite lines—that is, I imagine poets have preferences in their own work?”

  Viola smiled a bit sheepishly. “I hope so because I certainly do.” She sat straighter, taking in a breath and setting her hands primly in her lap.

  “When summer sun gives way to autumn chill,

  When wintery ice doth quell the daffodil,

  Unchanged, my heart beats ever calm, serene.

  For you, my love lives firm and evergreen.”

  There was silence, punctured by the conversation of Edith’s mother, Mercy, and Solomon on the other side of the room.

  Viola’s brows drew together, searching Edith’s face. “Did you dislike it terribly?” She rushed on, “I have only recently begun to try my own hand at verse, but I am afraid it is rather childish.”

  Edith swallowed and cleared her throat, her heart aching. “Not at all. It was quite lovely.” She managed a smile. “You shall be very well served by all this wisdom when you find the gentleman worthy of your affections.”

  Viola smiled, dismissing Edith’s comment with a shake of her head. “It is one thing to read or write poetry—it is another thing entirely to live it, I think, and you are far ahead of me in that regard.”

  Edith reared back. “Me?”

  Viola looked at her, wariness entering her eyes, but she nodded. “I am sure you have no wish to hear it, but you are the picture of everything romantic.” She touched one of the tresses that had come loose from Edith’s bun. “Dark, passionate, confident.” Seeming to realize how strange her gesture was, she dropped her hand. “I can quote poetry and tell you all the figures I most admire in literature, but you are the true romantic.”

  Edith laughed, shifting in her seat. “The woman who has railed against marriage nearly her entire life?”

  Viola looked at Edith with her direct, guileless gaze. “Yes. I have read about many women just like you—women under whose skepticism and refusal to marry is, in fact, a determination to marry for nothing but the truest of love—and a despair of its existence. The opposite of a romantic is not someone who never marries, you know. It is someone who marries for purely practical reasons.”

  Edith’s heart was thumping against her chest. “And what if my reasons for not marrying are practical ones?”

  “Are they?”

  Edith swallowed, regretting her own question. She looked away. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I want anymore. But it hardly matters. My future is decided for me.”

  Viola rested a hesitant hand atop Edith’s. “You refer to your father and his demand that you and Elias marry? I am very sorry, Edith. And I feel responsible.”

  “You?”

  Viola nodded. “You would not be in this situation were it not for the idea we had of including you in the joke.”

  Edith shook her head, feeling her eyes prickle. “It is not your fault.”

  Viola didn’t look convinced. “But even if you are forced to marry, your future is still yours.”

  “Still mine?” She laughed her incredulity. “How can you say so?”

  Viola raised her brows and sat taller, and Edith could feel what was coming.

  “’For what is wedlock forced but a hell,

  An age of discord and continual strife?

  Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss,

  And is a pattern of celestial peace.’”

  Edith laughed, though she couldn’t help wrinkling her brow. “And that is your argument that my future still belongs to me? It sounds rather like an argument against it. ‘What is wedlock forced but a hell?’ That is precisely what I embark upon. Forced wedlock.”

  Viola lifted her shoulders. “Unless you choose to enter into it willingly. Marriage is but one choice—an enormous one, to be sure—but so much else has yet to be decided. Your husband may have been chosen for you, but it remains for you to decide how you will approach your marriage to him. Shall you spend the rest of your life regretting what is already set in stone? Will you live separate lives—passing ships on a wide ocean?” She glanced falteringly at Edith, and her voice became soft and hesitant. “Or will you choose to love?”

  “Love is not enough.” Her eyes roved to her mother. She always looked her best when her husband was away, and tonight was no exception. “Love grows cold.”

  “It can, certainly. But to love is a choice, and it will always be a choice—a choice that must be made every day. No one can force you to love, and no one can keep you from it but yourself. It may seem easier or safer not to choose it, but I believe that that choice can ultimately lead to nothing but regret.”

  Mercy approached, smiling at Viola. “Your knowledge is required, Vi. Aunt Agnes insists that it
was Christopher Marlowe who said ‘If little labour, little are our gains,’ but I told her I was certain that it was George Herbert.”

  “George Herbert? No, no!” Viola shook her head emphatically. “You are both in the wrong. It was Robert Herrick.”

  “You are certain?” Mercy said doubtfully.

  Viola looked to Edith, clearly hesitant to leave in the midst of such a conversation, yet incapable of allowing Mercy and her aunt to go on thinking something so demonstrably wrong.

  “Go,” Edith said, pushing Viola up to a stand with an understanding smile. “Set the world right.”

  Edith watched Viola walk away with Mercy, the former’s hands gesturing passionately as she spoke. Edith’s own smile faded as they retreated farther.

  She had admittedly thought little of Viola since becoming reacquainted with her over the past two years, and she felt a pang of guilt for how she had acted toward her. She had been so convinced of her beliefs and the rightness of her position that she had looked down upon her cousin’s romanticism.

  But now? She would give anything for Viola’s trust in humanity, her unwavering optimism.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when Elias arrived at The Bull for the night, and though the evening had been productive and triumphant in many ways, his brow was heavy. It had taken all of his persuasive powers and assurances to draw out the truth from one of the two men he had visited, a Mr. Gaines. Once the man had opened up, though, the confidences poured out, obliging him to invite Elias to stay for dinner in order to explain the entirety of the circumstances.

  Mr. Stratton was every bit the scoundrel Elias had supposed he might be—and more.

  In the beginning of Mr. Gaines’ association with him, Stratton’s ambition had masqueraded as kindness. He had offered to sell some of his land to nearby yeoman farmers who were struggling after two years of below-average crop yields. Too expensive for the farmers to afford outright, the pieces of land were offered with an agreement that they would be paid over time, with interest, to Mr. Stratton.