by Shana Galen
“And you drank like a fish. You stumbled into your mother’s annual charity ball drunk and belligerent.”
Nash did remember that incident. The noise of the orchestra and the people had grated on his nerves. He’d just wanted it to stop.
“I remember. That was when you sent me away.”
“We thought the country air might help revive you.”
“You told me you would never speak to me again.”
There was a long silence. “I think you also said some things that day you might now regret.”
Nash couldn’t remember what he’d said that day. He doubted it was anything he wanted to remember. The point that stuck with him was that his father regretted saying he wouldn’t ever speak to him again. “You have regrets?” he asked, hating that he needed the answer to be affirmative so badly.
“I do. I shouldn’t have sent you away alone. And when I heard about the fire—”
“You mean when the vicar reported me.”
“Yes. And that you had shot Lieutenant Murray, I should have come. But quite honestly, Nash, I didn’t think my presence here would help.”
Nash nodded. “Probably not.” He could admit it now—he’d been out of control. He still didn’t feel he had a good grip on his control. Not unless he was with Pru.
“I thought about sending that giant friend of yours. The one with the pale blond hair and the pugilism studio.”
“Mostyn. His wife is expecting.”
“Yes, and I thought you might need someone you could talk to. Colonel Draven suggested Mr. Payne. I think that was the right decision.”
Nash let it sink in for a moment that his father had consulted Colonel Draven about him. He’d wanted to help.
“Rowden is the one responsible for all of this.” Nash gestured vaguely toward the house and grounds, which he imagined looked a good deal better than it had a few weeks ago.
“And you are doing better too.”
“I pointed a pistol at you,” Nash reminded him. “Again, apparently.”
“Yes, but you also had a woman in your bed. I took that as a good sign.”
“About that—” Nash began.
“If you are about to tell me she is not a lightskirt, you needn’t. She has already informed me of that.”
Nash couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course, she has.”
“She also told me the peacock wandering about the lawn was a sign...from God, I suppose. I have a feeling she might have done more to restore you to yourself than Wentmore or Mr. Payne.”
“She has helped me see the world again,” Nash said. “Though her view of it is quite different from what mine was when I had my sight.”
“I imagine. She is what your mother would call unconventional.”
“And what do you say?” Nash asked, surprised that he really did care.
“I call her odd. But I like her.”
“So do I,” Nash said. “I like her very much.”
Nash clasped his hands behind his back because he wanted to touch his empty coat pocket again.
“Are you thinking of marriage?” his father asked after a long moment.
Nash shook his head. “How can I when I might be sent to the asylum at any moment?” And when he might wake up and think he was in the middle of a battle and shoot her.
“And you might not. I have not decided yet, Nash. I am trying to give you every opportunity.”
“Like a dog you are training who has not yet mastered all his tricks? I won’t roll over when you whistle. If you’re to send me, then do it already. I’d rather be gone than live in this hell of indecision.” Nash walked away, ignoring his father’s calls for him to return and discuss the matter further.
He went inside and made his way into the parlor, where he sat and tried to tamp down his fears. When Rowden had arrived and told Nash of the earl’s plan, Nash had formed his own plan. If he was to be sent to an asylum, he would simply shoot himself in the head before he could be taken away.
But now he wasn’t certain he could go through with it. He didn’t want to die if there was still a chance he might be able to talk to Pru again, touch her, kiss her. Because when he was with Pru—when he even thought about Pru—he forgot his pain. He often had no idea what to say to her, what to do with her, how to react to her more outlandish statements. He wanted to pull her close and at the same time, push her away.
She scared him because he wanted her too much. She was a constant reminder that at one time he’d thought he had everything he ever wanted in life, and he’d lost it all.
He thought he had mourned those losses, but this past day and the very real prospect of losing Pru made him realize how devastating true loss might feel. The idea of living without her—truly losing her—terrified him because he could see the black void of nothingness that would be the rest of his life without her ray of sunlight piercing the dark hole in his soul.
“There you are,” Pru said, and for a moment Nash wondered if he was imagining her. But then she was beside him, her hand on his, kneeling next to his chair. “I saw you speaking with your father. Did he tell you?”
Nash gripped her hand tightly. “He’s still deciding.”
“Still...oh, you mean about the asylum. Idiot. I won’t let him send you to an asylum.” But something in her voice sounded unsure. “So then he didn’t tell you how much he loves you?”
Nash gave a short laugh. “No.”
“Or that he’s proud of you?”
“No.” Sometimes he felt quite dizzy speaking to her. She said the most unexpected things. “Did he say that to you?” Nash asked.
“Not exactly, but I thought for sure the peacock would sway him.”
“Why would the peacock—” Oh, why waste the time he had with her trying to parse out what he would not understand anyway? “Pru.” He took her hands. “I apologize for yesterday. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”
“If I recall, I was the one who chose the position.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, and I don’t want your apologies. I only have a moment before Mrs. Blimkin or the vicar finds me, and then I shall be put to work again. And that means I only have a moment to tell you.”
Nash braced himself. She was leaving him. She’d finally had an invitation to stay with her sister. Or she couldn’t risk being caught with him again. She wanted to end things. The black void opened, and Nash stared into the swirling abyss.
“Tell me then,” he said, his voice flat.
He heard her take a shaky breath and realized it must be worse than he thought. She was never scared to say her mind.
“Go on,” he demanded. He wanted the bandage ripped off. The pain would be so great, he might welcome the nothingness of the void.
“Fine. I wanted to tell you that—”
“Miss Howard!” came a distant voice. It was Mrs. Blimkin.
“Coming! Nash, I wanted to tell you that I—” She swallowed again.
“Say it.” His voice was harsh, and her hand in his flexed.
“I love you,” she said, the words sounding like bells tumbling out of a box. “I love you, Nash Pope. That’s all I wanted to say.”
“Miss Howard! There you are. Oh, am I interrupting?”
Nash sat perfectly still. He didn’t move, didn’t react when Pru released his hand and stood.
“Not at all, Mrs. Blimkin. Do you need help?”
“I do.”
Their voices faded as they moved away, and Nash looked down again. But the abyss was gone. The maw had closed. Pru loved him.
It was a fact. It was a truth. She had said it, her voice low and full of emotion. She loved him—despite his blindness, despite his weakness and terror yesterday, despite the very real possibility that he would soon be residing in an asylum.
Pru loved him.
Heavy footsteps sounded and the door creaked. “Are you well?” Rowden asked, his voice coming from the doorway. “You look as though you were just punched in the brea
dbasket.”
Nash nodded. “I feel like I’ve been punched.” He turned to look at the shape that was Rowden. “Pru loves me.”
Rowden blew out a quick breath. “Did you just realize that? I suppose you can’t see the way she looks at you. She’s been taken with you from the start.”
“What do I—what am I supposed to do about it?”
“Do about it? How the hell do I know? Love her back, I guess.” Rowden walked away, and Nash shook his head.
If only it were so simple.
PRU HAD KEPT BUSY THE rest of Friday, and Saturday morning she’d arrived at Wentmore just as the sun came up. There was much to do and only a few hours before the festival would begin.
“Slow down, dear,” Mrs. Brown said when Pru dropped a basket of folded tablecloths on her way outside. “You needn’t hurry. Sit a while, if you like. With all the servants the earl brought, we’ll be done in no time.”
But Pru needed to be busy. If she paused to think she would remember Nash’s expression when she’d told him she loved him. He’d looked as though he’d been struck by lightning. He clearly hadn’t expected her to say such a thing. He clearly didn’t love her back; else he wouldn’t have looked so shocked.
Pru didn’t regret saying the words. She rarely regretted anything, and why should she regret telling the man she loved how she felt. She might have waited for another chance to be alone with him, one where they might not be interrupted, but she didn’t have the luxury of time. If the earl did send Nash to an asylum, Pru wanted him to know how she felt. She wanted him to know she would never abandon him.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Brown,” Pru said, gathering the tablecloths and making her way outside to begin covering the tables. The sky was cloudy this morning, promising rain later in the day. Pru hoped it held off until late afternoon. The bite in the air also hinted at the coming winter. Pru did not relish the thought of long weeks and months inside the vicarage with nothing but sermons to read. Wentmore was too far of a walk to attempt in inclement weather. Mrs. Northgate was close enough, but if she went there, she risked seeing Mrs. Northgate’s grandson.
Pru sighed as she began shaking out tablecloths and laying them over tables. She still didn’t know what to do about George Northgate. Certainly, he wouldn’t accost her at the festival. There would be too many other people around. But he would look for an opportunity soon afterward. Who could she speak to about him? Mrs. Northgate was the first person that came to mind, but George was her own grandson. Of course, she would take his side. Perhaps if Pru phrased it as a hypothetical...
The hair on the back of her neck tingled, and she looked about, knowing Nash must be near. She spotted him, having just emerged from the house. He was a vision, and she had to take a bracing breath at the sight of him. Clopdon had outdone himself. Nash was dressed in dark breeches and coat with a waistcoat the color of...Pru looked down at her new dress. It was almost the same russet color as her dress. She’d never seen the waistcoat before, which meant it might be new. She suddenly felt a rush of affection for Clopdon. The dear man.
Nash was standing outside the house, like a feudal baron surveying his domain. She realized it wasn’t the waistcoat that took her breath away as much as the way the sun streamed over him, making his dark hair look almost fiery and highlighting the curves and planes of his face. She wanted to go to him and kiss him, but she controlled her impulse and shook out another tablecloth. Good thing as the earl emerged from the house to stand next to his son a moment later. The two spoke briefly, and Pru’s quick glances at them were enough to have her worried.
The earl still seemed stern and, when he looked at Nash, his gaze was assessing. He was still deciding whether or not to send Nash away. He was still waiting for Nash to do something that would seal his fate. Pru snapped a tablecloth so hard that the sound echoed. She didn’t care. The earl obviously hadn’t listened to a word she said yesterday, and she had to take out her anger somehow.
Pru had hoped to have a moment alone with Nash—he might tell her he loved her back. She almost laughed at the thought. More likely, so he might tell her she was an idiot and why couldn’t they just have a bit of fun and not be so serious? That’s what Abubakar had said when she’d asked how he felt about her. She hadn’t loved him, but she’d desperately wanted to be in love. With Abubakar, she’d known there was nothing but lust between them. She’d felt more for Nash from the beginning, though.
But there was no opportunity to speak to Nash alone before the first guests for the festival—the vicar and Mrs. Northgate—arrived. They arrived together, which puzzled Pru as she hadn’t thought the two had much affinity for each other. Pru went to greet her guardian and her friend then took Mrs. Northgate aside on the pretext of showing her the table where she could put the apple tart she had brought.
“I thought you did not care for the vicar,” Pru said.
Mrs. Northgate gave her a sharp look. “Well, good day to you too.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Good day. How are you? The weather looks like rain, does it not? I thought you did not care for the vicar.”
Mrs. Northgate laughed. “I don’t care for religion, and I don’t care to be chided for not attending church. The other day when Mr. Higginbotham drove me home, I told him we would be good friends if only he never mentioned the subject again. He declined, of course. He has a moral duty or some such rot. Oh, my! Yes, this looks very well, Miss Howard.”
Pru smiled at the way Mrs. Northgate nodded in approval at the tables draped in white and festooned with ribbons and colorful bunches of leaves. The tent for the baked goods being entered in the contest was decorated in a manner similar to the tables. It was located south of the tables and the stage where announcements could be made and where Dr. Langford had promised to play his violin.
“You were speaking of the vicar’s rotten moral duty,” Pru said a moment later.
“Horrid girl. That was not what I said. But he did go on and on about it, so I told him that whenever we met he could have five minutes exactly to preach and convert me. I have a small watch you see.” She withdrew the pretty gold piece from her reticule. “I would time him and at the end of five minutes, he must shut up. And it’s worked remarkably well. I can almost tolerate the man now.” Mrs. Northgate set her tart on the table.
“How...lovely,” Pru said. “But you did not want to come with your family?”
“Oh, those girls will take hours to dress their hair and change their clothes. I’m an old woman. If I wait for them, I will be dead.”
“Don’t say that!”
“You’re still young. When you reach my age, death is not so frightening. But look what we have here. My, but he is the vision of his father when his father was younger. The earl was the only man for whom I would have ever thrown my Mr. Northgate over.”
“Mrs. Northgate!”
She cackled. “Oh, he never gave me so much as a second glance. I was pretty enough, but he was only attracted to money. The countess came with a large dowry and an excellent pedigree, so I suppose he got what he wanted.” She patted Pru’s hand. “And so did I.”
“Do you miss him very much?” Pru asked. “Mr. Northgate, I mean.”
“Every day.” She gave Pru a meaningful look. “When you’re young, it seems like you have all the time in the world. But it will be gone before you know it. Don’t waste a single moment.”
“I won’t,” Pru said.
Mrs. Northgate laughed. “I do believe you!”
The guests continued to arrive, and Nash and his father greeted them all. Pru kept busy helping in the competition tent. All of the entries had to be catalogued and assigned a number. Mrs. Blimkin was in and out, complaining that she was fair starving because she was one of the judges and did not want to eat before the contest began. She claimed it was to preserve her palate, but Pru rather thought it was because she wanted to have room to eat more.
Once the competition began, Pru slipped out and started for the east lawn to watch the children’s
games. She could hear the children’s laughs and shouts and squeals of delight. Nothing gave her more pleasure than watching children play. But she’d barely taken two steps before a hand caught her arm. She turned, expecting the vicar—or truth be told, wishing it were Nash—but she instantly recoiled.
It was George Northgate.
“Good afternoon, Miss Howard,” he said, smiling pleasantly.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Northgate,” she said, trying to pull her arm away. But his grip held, and even as he smiled, he forcibly escorted her toward the back of the tent, which was bordered by the informal gardens and well hidden from view. Pru struggled but his grip was unbreakable. She thought of screaming but then how would she explain? Northgate, with his back up against a wall, would reveal everything. The vicar would be required to take some action, perhaps to send her away. She couldn’t leave Nash now. Not in his greatest moment of need.
Northgate shoved Pru to her knees and held her in place with a hand in her hair. She winced at the pain of his tight grip and recoiled as he tried to push her toward the fall of his breeches.
“Good afternoon, slut. I’m here for my apology.”
Pru knew she should just give one and hope that would suffice for now. Perhaps if she apologized, he would allow her to go. She had no illusions he would not seek her out again, but she would be more careful in the future.
“I’m waiting.”
Pru tried to form the words, but she just couldn’t do it. She would rather face every kind of indignity before apologizing to this man. As her father had always said, she had an allergy to authority, and she simply could not give in.
Pru shook her head stubbornly. “Go shove a stick up your arse,” she ground out, trying to keep her voice from rising at the increasing pain in her scalp.
“Foul-mouthed bitch,” he said, reaching for the placket of his breeches. “I’ll give you something to do with that mouth.”
His hand on her hair tightened as he pulled her closer. It felt as though he was pulling half her scalp off. Her nerves screamed and she could barely focus on anything but the pain. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something happy—the peacock’s splayed tailfeathers, her young niece’s smile, Nash’s gentle touch.
