A Hint of Starlight

by Connolly, Lynne

  “One day, although it seems a long way away.”

  He leaned back, gazing at the sunny vista ahead. They were moving past the Tower now. Even that appeared dreamy in the bright sun of the late spring. “This is a lovely time of year. It seems a pity to waste it in London.”

  “Yet here we are. I’ve lived here for most of my life. We have—had—a small estate, where we went when the weather became unbearable, but other than that, we lived in Bunhill Row.” She didn’t want him to forget where she came from.

  “I’ve always lived in the far reaches of the Highlands of Scotland.” His burr emerged, very slightly, but it was there. Damaris welcomed it. She preferred this relaxed version of the duke. He seemed like an ordinary person when he was like this.

  Even with his back to them, she could tell his rank. “Does he ever relax?” she said, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “No, don’t apologize. He’s busy flirting with your sister. He didn’t hear you.” Delphi spoke. “She’s always been that way, sir. She says the first thing that comes into her head, when she’s not on her guard.”

  He turned interested eyes to her. “I’m very pleased to hear it.” Their eyes locked and it happened again. She lost awareness of where they were and what they were doing. Only for a second or two, but that was enough to warn her. She could not relax too much in this man’s company.

  He glanced up, over to the south bank of the river. “Shakespeare’s Globe must have been around there. He’s very popular in London, is he not?”

  “Is he not popular in Scotland?”

  He shrugged, a powerful muscular movement when he did it. What would that casual gesture look like if he was wearing nothing?

  Perturbed by the instant visions that popped into her head, she shifted in her seat, moving slightly further away. He tilted his head to one side, frowning. “Have I offended you, Lady Damaris?”

  “Of course not.” For all that she said it, a few inches of blank space separated them, and he let it. Why that should send a pang of hurt through her she did not know, but she was too honest to deny it. Her changed mood must be the shadow of the Tower, but they were nearly past.

  She spread her fan, but she had no chance to deploy it. He gently disengaged her fingers from the delicate confection of bamboo and silk, and plied it himself.

  They were passing through the less salubrious part of London now, heading for the Isle of Dogs, where King Henry VIII kept his hunting hounds. Now it contained the wealth of the City. If the West End of London was concerned with lawmaking and governance, this area was where raw power was made. Ships sailed from here all over the world, with new territories discovered every year. Raw power did not come without sweat, noise and a lot of cursing.

  The barge kept to the center of the river here, the rowers careful to steer a wide berth around the great ships moored at the docks, and the tugs darting between them, taking people ashore, towing the larger vessels, and carrying cargo.

  She wrinkled her nose. “The docks have a particular kind of stink.”

  He nodded. “It’s a dock smell, that’s for sure. I can do little except try to waft the smell away.” He waved her fan, but it did very little to ameliorate the aroma of rotting fish and rancid humanity, blended with hot tar and freshly-sawed wood. His action did, however, make her laugh. “I’m used to it, sir. Our previous residence wasn’t so far from the docks as the present one. If the wind was blowing in the wrong direction, we not only got the smell from the docks, but Smithfield Meat Market, too.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “I am beginning to understand why I prefer the country. But I accept the necessity of these places and I will not turn my back on it.”

  “They dredge bodies out of the water here,” Delphi put in. “That adds to the atmosphere.”

  “Where do they take them?” Damaris had never thought about that part before. Of course, she knew people killed themselves or were killed and dumped in the Thames. She could read accounts of bodies dragged out in the journals, but she generally turned to more important matters.

  Delphi shrugged, and had to tug the shoulder of her gown back into place. “Charnel-houses, moratoria, places like that. Relatives go there searching for their lost ones, but when you’ve been in the river for a week, they’re usually identified from their personal belongings.”

  Damaris shuddered. “Terrible. But the river has been here forever. This time it’s true.” She pointedly addressed the last to the duke, who was watching the sisters with a bemused expression on his face. Too late, she recalled that bodies weren’t a suitable topic of discussion for young ladies. “Perhaps we should talk of something else. The countries the ships go to, for instance.”

  She had no doubt Matilda had listened to every word. No doubt they would suffer for their transgression later. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

  “What for? I found the information deeply enlightening.” The duke gave her a slumberous smile. “With most other young ladies, I’d be bored stiff by the time we got here. They would unfurl their parasols and pretend not to notice the naked men and the curses.”

  “We’re used to it,” Damaris said. The lower dregs of society thought nothing of stripping if they had a filthy task to fulfill. The male part, at any rate. The female part often wore the same clothes year in, year out, only adding layers in the colder months. A lot of the smell came from them, and some odors were impossible to get used to.

  “We don’t all smell of honeysuckle and lilacs in the Highlands,” he said.

  “They are the most overlooked of plants,” Dorcas put in, turning her head to smile at them. “Highly scented flowers are often small and undistinguished.”

  “Sometimes they come in one glorious package, like a rose,” Damaris said. She had no illusions. If the duke compared her to a rose, she would know his words were base.

  “They do, but that can be too much. An overblown rose is a sad sight.” The duke heaved a heavy sigh, but he was smiling. “I dislike too many roses. They are too perfect, and too flamboyant. I prefer the treasures grown in secret.”

  A sigh told Damaris that his words had reached her sister. A hidden rose, Dorcas. Damaris considered her the loveliest of the three sisters, but Dorcas would have none of it. She was not special, she would say. Perhaps she did not want to be. She had done her best to deny her beauty. Even now, she wore her hair scraped back from her forehead, the curls ruthlessly pinned into submission, and her gown was neither as frivolous nor as fashionable as her sisters’. Or as Matilda’s finery, come to that.

  Damaris flicked the lace at her elbows, quietly pleased with the finery and the fact that she could afford to wear double ruffles every day if she wanted to.

  A few whistles and insults were sent their way, but she was used to that, and didn’t turn a hair, merely fixed a pleasant smile to her features and allowed the footman to lower the sides and front of the canopy under which they sat to give them some privacy.

  The enclosed space shocked Damaris. She was too close to Glenbreck, this was too intimate. His breath heated her cheek when a lurch sent them sideways, followed by a shouted apology from the men outside. Tense, she waited for events to escalate. Dockers and sailors weren’t known for their respect for other river-dwellers. They could be in trouble here.

  His arm went around her waist. Too shaken to consider propriety, she snuggled close, and his heat invaded her so that she wanted to stay there for the rest of the day. Except, of course, she could not.

  Matilda cleared her throat. She had turned in her seat and she was watching Damaris. With more speed than finesse, Damaris pulled away from her protector, and leaned against the armrest on the far side of the shallop.

  The incident did not lead to anything more alarming. The servants rolled up the sides and pulled back the drapery before them, so they could once more see what they were passing. “Some barges have cabins,” Matilda commented.

  “I don’t like them,” Kilsyth responded. “I tho
ught of having one installed, but when I take to the water, I like to know where I am. Sitting in a small room seems to defeat the purpose of the trip.”

  Matilda said no more, but she did fold her arms and say, “Humph.” Kilsyth met her gaze, his mouth twisting in a sardonic grin. Matilda unfolded her arms.

  Behind them, Damaris met Glenbreck’s amused smile and had to purse her lips in order to stop herself following his example. Beneath, though, her darker self loved that Matilda was bested, for a change. She made a formidable chaperone, but she did it on her own terms, not taking nonsense from anyone.

  Least of all a Scottish duke.

  “A guinea on Adam.”

  She had not heard that, surely, or felt Glenbreck’s hot breath on her cheek one more time as he whispered the words in her ear. Her laugh made her close her eyes. He was utterly wicked and he should not say such things. Not that she could say that aloud.

  The City woman and the duke seemed to enjoy sparring with one another. Delphi shot them a look full of mischief; she was enjoying the exchange as much as her sisters were.

  “Nevertheless, a cabin might have prevented the young ladies hearing language they should not be exposed to. How am I to keep them pure when they hustle through such nonsense?” Matilda was definitely agitated.

  “It was merely a ferryman setting up a backwash,” the duke replied. “The language probably helped him regain his proper path across the river. They have muscles like tree trunks. Have you noticed? All that rowing against the tide makes them formidable. When I want to sponsor a sporting contest, I look to the river for my candidate.”

  “Fisticuffs!” Matilda snorted. That was a sign that she was forgetting her ladylike manners. “More of the gentlemanly behavior they talk about in such high terms?”

  “Indeed, madam.” The duke’s graceful bearing and manner did not suggest fisticuffs to Damaris. Perhaps the man had more to him than he was letting out. “What would I know of a bout of bare knuckle fighting?”

  Glenbreck made a sound at the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a choked laugh, but he said nothing.

  Once around the oxbow sweep surrounding the Isle of Dogs, which was not truly an island, they were close. The two towers of the magnificent Greenwich Naval College came into distant view, getting closer every moment. They had traveled perhaps seven miles, and it was still morning. The oarsmen had made excellent time.

  “I could stay here all day,” Damaris said in an excess of emotion.

  “Indeed, it is very pleasant,” Dorcas said, her voice quieter, “but I confess if I had to travel much farther, I might become a little—unwell.”

  “You’re ill?” Alarmed, Damaris leaned forward to touch her sister’s forehead. With a note of impatience, she tugged off her glove with her teeth, and dropped it somewhere, she wasn’t quite sure where. She touched Dorcas’ forehead again. “You do feel a little warm.”

  “We may stop somewhere first,” Glenbreck said. “I have bespoken a repast at the inn, so we may pause there before we proceed.”

  “No, truly, I’m quite all right.”

  Despite Dorcas’ protests, Damaris was concerned. She held her peace because Dorcas hated fuss, but as she leaned back, she caught the duke’s concerned gaze. She shook her head, and he seemed to understand, for he said no more. He leaned back, so he could see both women.

  His unspoken concern was the best thing that he could do.

  The barge floated to the dock, the land getting closer. It seemed an age since they’d had their feet on dry land. However, when Dorcas rose and took a footman’s hand to disembark, she closed her eyes, and went pale. Turning away, towards a patch of grass, she was violently sick.

  “She has headaches,” Damaris murmured to Glenbreck. He nodded, and helped her off the shallop. Damaris went immediately to her sister but Matilda was already there, her arm around Dorcas’ waist.

  Dorcas was already apologizing, but Kilsyth waved that aside. “We cannot choose when we are ill,” he said. A footman silently handed him a covered silver cup. The duke handed it to Matilda. “Cool white wine,” he said. “I had some on ice. I suggest we find somewhere for Lady Dorcas to rest.”

  “She has attacks,” Matilda said. “Appalling headaches that fell her completely. I can take care of her, but that means you are without escort.”

  “Indeed,” Dorcas said after dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief. She took a cautious sip of the wine, then gave it back to Matilda. “It is something that has happened before. There is no cause for alarm.” She was in tears, her discomfort evident to all.

  Blackridge, who had been quiet for most of the trip, beckoned a footman over, and murmured something to him. The man bowed and ran off. “I have a better idea. Will the lady recover soon, or does she need to rest awhile?”

  “I’m fine now that I’m on dry land,” Dorcas said. “I had a headache when I rose this morning, but I chose to ignore it.”

  Blackridge leveled a stern look at her. “The truth, please.”

  Dorcas sighed. “Sometimes they last for more than a day.”

  The big man nodded. “I had an aunt who suffered so. They are more than headaches, are they not?” He went on without waiting for an answer. “I own a small house in the vicinity. It would be my honor to have you as my guests so that you may rest. It will be quieter than the inn.”

  “We’re not so far away from home,” Dorcas protested. “I’ll be fine at the inn.” But she was squinting, a sign that the light was hurting her.

  Matilda gave a terse nod. “An excellent plan, sir. I’m sorry this expedition must end so soon, but Dorcas should not proceed.”

  “There is no need.” Dorcas was near to tears. “You should go ahead. I promise, all I need is a little rest and I will be fine.”

  She continued to protest until the carriage arrived that was to take them to the inn. The blinds were already drawn. “I have an idea,” Blackridge said. “If we divide the party into two, we may be perfectly comfortable. I will stay with Lady Dorcas and Miss Cathcart. Once she feels ready, we may travel to the house in gentle stages. Glenbreck and Kilsyth may escort Lady Damaris and Lady Delphi to Flamsteed House, then join us later for dinner.”

  Chapter Seven

  Damaris felt guilty for the way her heart lifted. Although she insisted she could easily come another day, the notion of seeing those treasures she had yearned for so long quickened her heart. She swallowed her disappointment. How could she think of such matters when her sister was feeling so wretchedly ill?

  “I will come with you,” she said to her sister. “Of course I will.”

  To her surprise, Dorcas shook her head vehemently. When she had one of her headaches, Dorcas preferred to move as little as possible, so the gesture must have cost her. “Please go, Damaris. I truly do not want people fussing around me. I want a dark room, something to drink and rest. I will recover, never doubt it. Please go about your day. Don’t fuss.”

  Matilda put her arm around Dorcas. “She needs peace and quiet, not people asking her what she wants every five minutes. My mother used to suffer so, although she found that a few drops of laudanum in water helped her.”

  “No,” Dorcas said quickly. “I have never found that helps, except to make me sleepy.”

  “If you are sure we can do nothing to help…” Kilsyth said doubtfully. “Blackridge’s house is a snug place, and you should be comfortable there.”

  He exchanged a glance with Glenbreck, who nodded.

  Despite the protests of Damaris and Delphi, the plan was decided upon. Normally, Damaris and Delphi would not be considered proper chaperones for one another, but this was not a normal situation, and after they had sworn they would not go out of each other’s sight, Matilda finally agreed to the plan.

  They waited until Matilda and Blackridge tenderly bestowed the invalid in the carriage. It drove away.

  “I would not have considered the plan,” Damaris said, “but of all things, Dorcas hates fuss. Knowing we were all
waiting on her would likely make her worse.”

  “It’s true,” Delphi agreed. “Though I hate to see her like this, a few hours’ rest will usually set her right.”

  “Poor lady,” Kilsyth murmured.

  After a light repast at a nearby inn, the small party, somewhat subdued, set out for Flamsteed House.

  Once back in the open air, Damaris’ spirits rallied. She enjoyed the walk, with the view of the house as a target. The neat, red brick house with white trim was three stories high, with several turrets, topped by leaded, bell-shaped roofs, no doubt where observations were conducted. “The Astronomer Royal lives here,” she told her sister, “although he must be a very busy man.”

  The Observatory was perched on a hill where, the duke informed them, an ancient building called Humphrey’s Tower used to stand. “They used the stones from the old building to construct the new one,” he said.

  “Very economical of them.” Damaris gazed at the building, awed that, finally, she would set foot inside. The duke was walking far too slowly for her liking, but to hurry would be to confess how much she longed to see it. When she had thought Dorcas needed her, she found she could view the cancelation of her treat with equanimity, but now her excitement rose again.

  She was almost choking with the effort to appear cool and even bored by the time they had climbed the hill and stood before the entrance. Then Glenbreck glanced at her.

  All her effort to remain calm was in vain. His eyes showed amusement, and even pleasure, their depths warm. He knew. “I feel it, too,” he said.

  “Have you been inside before?”

  He nodded. “Once or twice.”

  Of course he had. Doors would open at his request because of his rank and his sex. While Damaris did not object to many of the petty concerns that meant a woman could not visit certain places, or do certain things, astronomy was so close to her heart that she could not do anything except resent what kept her from it.

  Glenbreck was not at fault. He could not know how much she wanted this, and when he finally discovered it, he determined to help her get her wish.