“I’m from Jamaica, my lord, not Demerara.”
He folded his arms and clicked his tongue. “But your pitch. It’s not right for Jamaica. Are you embarrassed about being from Demerara? Such a lovely island. And so friendly. My frigate mates tell some lovely stories about arriving at the hotels for the mulatto balls.”
He winked at her. “You probably were very friendly, Mrs. Carter, a beauty like you.”
I’d never seen such.
The woman turned ruby red. “I am not Demeraran. I didn’t go to the balls.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry. I hinted at you peddling flesh at the main hotel—oh, there I said it. Sorry.”
Mrs. Carter took a step back. Was that a hand on her hip? “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never peddled anyt’ing. I’m from Villa de la Vega, a town central to Jamaica, not the balls.”
“If you say so, ma’am.” Lord Wycliff winked again. “Perhaps I am confused, your tones… I’ll keep this to myself.”
I wasn’t slow, but the sputtering I heard coming from Mrs. Carter made me laugh out loud. “Cousin, it’s not right to tease.”
Neck shifting, head spinning, the dragon backed up. “I see Mrs. Croome by the refreshment tables. Good day, my lord. Ruth, tell your cousin not to joke so much.”
I’d never known the lumbering woman to move fast, but there she was, tottering away as if the plague had broken out.
Wycliff had defended me. I hadn’t asked him to do that to anyone but my parents.
I was grateful.
Grateful for food and shelter and family and now Wycliff, my new family.
“Shall we continue our walk, Mrs. Wilky?”
He said my name with pride. Today was the first time since my wedding that I’d felt this proud.
I was happy to retake the baron’s arm. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. I did lie once about going to her house when I eloped with Adam. She kept my mother encouraged when I disappeared.”
“One mistake doesn’t equal years of abuse. Besides, I couldn’t resist tweaking her Jamaican nose. They are very prideful of their homeland. Unfortunately, the HMS Liverpool was in the East Indies, not the west. My research says Mrs. Carter’s people indeed owned a series of island bawdy houses. Her mother is rumored to be a result of such an encounter.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’m a nosy man. Knowing things is my business, and I was here in enough time to hear Mrs. Carter disparage you.”
“Oh.” It was all I could say. My shock and my gratitude made my head a little dizzy.
“That woman drinks your parents’ raffia, eats their teacakes, and talks ill of you, even with the lovely lady I assume is your mother. Mrs. Carter is a shameful saucebox, a hellish hun.”
The blood stilled in my veins. Then jolted forward and flooded my eardrums. Adam used to make up insults like that. I looked up at Wycliff again, studying his mouth. “When the hun said you were like my mother’s people, does that mean that those lips are inherited from a different free people, like Adam?”
“Noticing my mouth? Is this a new interest? Would you like to examine how it works?”
He was funny, but I sensed his humor was a way to hide.
“If I’m white or mulatto, does it matter? Your sister’s taste in men, and that of her friends, seems to indicate that race does not matter. Your choice of Mr. Marks seems a preference of young Croome women.”
“No. We loved first, then thought about things like that later. For me, I want an honorable and kind man. Someone to be a father to my son and to protect me. That’s my only requirement. Papa has his own ideas. Mama wants to throw a wedding breakfast. If you don’t want to say or if it’s wrong to ask… I want truth in everything. You’ll never know what it’s like to fight to hold on to truth.”
“I know what it’s like to fight to hold on to my dignity and my rights. I know the pressure to give up on hope. Yet, something burned in my chest that didn’t let me give up. I’m thankful for this strength, for my faith. I look at you, standing here in this garden, in your right mind and beautiful and strong. I think we are both blessed.”
The raspy strain in his voice, harsher and hoarser than before, made me sigh. I wondered what horrors he’d lived. What regrets plagued him now?
My hands shook with shame. I’d assumed that since Wycliff looked good on the outside, that he didn’t have pain. I abandoned my resolve not to touch him again and placed a pinkie upon his wrist, where his sleeve exposed his skin.
His arm was rough, bearing evidence of scars. “Sorry.”
“Nothing for you to be sorry about. You are a truth teller, and you know I’m not saying everything. For that, I am sorry.”
We took another silent lap about the party. This had to be the longest I’d been outside.
The world didn’t look so scary in Wycliff’s shadow. I understood he knew pain, probably horror. I found an odd camaraderie in that.
“Honor and kindness are your only preferences for a husband, Mrs. Wilky?”
“Well that, and not a sack of bones. You know how skinny your cousin was.” I sighed. I was more sad than mad about Adam, another first in a long time. “But his kindness won me over. He was very clever.”
The baron looked over my head and then maybe to the sky. “Since I’m not a sack of bones, reasonably intelligent, and wish to lavish attention on you like a queen, do I have a chance to deepen our friendship?”
“No more jokes, Lord Wycliff. Let’s find my mother.”
He bit upon the lip I’d begun to admire. “Or let’s find a truly private place to answer your questions. What Mrs. Wilky wants to know, she should know.”
I threaded my hand more tightly about his arm. He headed us toward the house. A wave of happiness skipped through me like my rocks skimming the surface of the fishpond.
We halted, a dead stop in front of my mother.
“Ruth, Mrs. Carter says you have a guest. I’ve been so busy with the party I assumed him a friend of Mr. Marks.”
“No, Mama. This is my friend. This is Lord Wycliff, my late husband’s cousin.”
I tweaked my spectacles and observed the surprise in her countenance. It was small then broke over her face in an unexpected smile. Then I saw the glint in the baron’s eyes as he kissed her hand.
I hadn’t lied.
I hadn’t lied, and now she believed, at least a little. “This was my Tuesday appointment, to meet him.”
“It’s a pleasure finally to greet you, ma’am, and on such a joyous occasion, a lovely garden party. My beautiful cousin was so gracious to invite me.”
I stared at him. Such earnest words. His tone sounded sincere.
“Yes. Yes, Ruth is.” My mama’s small voice was low, barely a whisper.
But I knew her.
Her calm words masked her shock. I reveled in that moment. I wanted to strut in lacy puce slippers and dance with Wycliff spinning me in a crazy waltz. But I stood still and smiled.
“You must come to dinner, Lord Wycliff, sometime next week. My husband has gone inside to rest. He’s still gathering his strength.”
“Yes, from the warehouse fire. I used to love that warehouse. I saw it often from the docks.”
Mama’s face looked different. Something worse than shock, maybe conviction bloomed in that quivering lip. Maybe she was sorry for not believing me. Maybe she could be proud of me for surviving.
“It would be my honor, Mrs. Croome. I intend to see a great deal of Mrs. Wilky these next few weeks. I intend to get to know this part of my family and seek my fair cousin’s advice on decorating my Mayfair townhouse.”
“Mayfair? Yes, if Ruth is up to helping.”
“Mrs. Wilky was going to show me more of your house. I do love the Huguenot architecture.”
“Show him, Ruth.” Mama kissed my cheek and went back to the party.
My joy at her shock disappeared. This couldn’t be this easy.
One word from a man couldn’t be all it to
ok.
I was shaking when Wycliff placed my hand on his arm, livid when he guided my slow steps toward the house, ready to erupt when I saw the dark hall floor under my slippers.
People came inside, stepping around us, but I could go no farther.
Wycliff put his hand to my waist and moved me to the side, into the hall near Papa’s study.
This wasn’t proper, but it felt natural, his hands on me.
His countenance was close. His breathing was as labored as mine. “Let’s let you rest, then go outside onto the street. Privacy for us.”
“The front of the house? No. I’ve had enough of being outside of these walls.”
“I see, Mrs. Wilky. You still don’t trust me?”
“I just met you this week, Lord Wycliff. You’ve studied me and my family. I know nothing of you.”
“It’s enough. It’s more than enough when you just know we are to be friends. I need you to—Lawden’s at the door.”
He lowered his head as if he were pained. “It seems I have to go. I’d like to come for a walk tomorrow.”
My pulse raced. “No. There’s something planned.”
“The next day.”
“Saturday, no, and Sunday’s church.”
“Then Tuesday, it is, cousin. Please, no refusing me, Tuesday, Mrs. Wilky. I haven’t met my little cousin, Christopher.”
I remembered how I dreaded Tuesdays. I thought of how the knitters would act when they saw the baron. And Chris, Chris needed to meet him. “Yes, Tuesday.”
“Look at me, Mrs. Wilky. I cannot wait to be here again. I’ll do what it takes to win your trust fully.”
Against my better judgement, I leaned in, on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, but I missed. I brushed his lips, then his furry dimple stroked my nose. It didn’t feel bad. The opposite of bad.
Mistake.
His Bay Rum scent clung to me as his strong hands returned to my waist.
Bigger Mistake.
I let him.
Part of me wanted to linger like this. I was lucky he had to go.
“I’m loath to leave, Mrs. Wilky.”
“A walk on Tuesday with my son, Lord Wycliff. You’re smart, smart like Adam, but he’d never trick me. He’d never hurt my boy. I’m taking a risk to introduce you to my greatest treasure, my Chris.”
“You’ve always taken risks.” Wycliff’s gray-black eyes bored down upon me. “I’m worth it. I’m sensitive to your predicament. You can trust your friend to protect you.”
He pressed his mouth to my open palm. The heat of his breath burned through my glove down to my damp skin. The softness of his lips on my wrist whispered trouble. “Tuesday, noon, Mrs. Wilky, we begin with another walk.”
Beginnings.
They brought fortunes and dangers. Was knowing Wycliff—mysterious, nosy, sensual Wycliff—worth the bargain?
Everything screamed yes. I clenched the hand he’d kissed to my bosom. “Tuesday. No being late. No new bruises.”
With a larger, wicked smile, he turned, tugged on his hat, and then he and his manservant left.
There was no reason to venture back into the garden party.
My friend was gone. The only person who truly believed in me and Adam had left. Little Christopher didn’t count. He believed in Father Christmas, too.
I unfurled my palm.
And thought of Wycliff returning Tuesday. It couldn’t come fast enough.
Chapter Fifteen
A Walk with Cousin Wycliff
Knit one. Purl one.
My fingers worked fast. This poor scarf had started to take shape. My concentration seemed perfect, but it had to be. This knitting Tuesday in Mama’s parlor was different.
Wycliff’s appearance at last week’s garden party had spread like fire. My past was in question, but in good ways.
Knit one. Purl one.
No sneers.
Knit one. Purl one.
No taunting advice.
Knit one. Purl one.
No Mrs. Carter. Her chair sat empty.
I should rally and gloat, but my nerves were in a full-speed hurly-burly, thinking of Wycliff, wondering about him.
By accident or by choice—some hidden desire had stirred deep in me. I’d allowed him the liberty to hold me. And I’d almost taken the liberty to kiss him.
Well, actually I had kissed him, if that barest lip to lip counted. Did it count if I thought of Adam when we touched?
The watch on my chain read thirty after eleven. He was to be here at noon. I had to be calm. I had to be smart. I had to undo this last purled row. It was uneven.
Mrs. Daly leaned over and sipped from her tea. “It’s a shame Mrs. Carter’s gout is bothering her, the poor dear.”
“Yes. It is a shame,” Mama said. She reached for my chain and straightened it. “She will miss the baron’s visit today.”
Mama seemed nonchalant, talking about her friend, but I caught her looking toward the window and the something extra in her voice when she mentioned Mrs. Carter.
When I squinted, I saw Mama’s purled row was uneven, too.
That was odd for her.
Mrs. Johnson kept looking at me. Her creamy brow looked moist. She fidgeted in her chocolate-colored carriage gown. The lady was nice enough when she wasn’t joining in on the teasing.
“Are you well, Mrs. Johnson?” The words were out of my mouth before I’d thought better of it.
The woman shrugged. Her complexion seemed flustered with ruddy-red cheeks. “Yes, Mrs. Wilky. I’m fine. Just a little unsettled. My husband’s business is in trouble. He is seeing a lot of unrest on the docks.”
“More repercussion from Nacknel’s suicide?” Mrs. Daly brushed her hands of the crumbs from the lavender teacakes she’d devoured. “I’m hearing that many of the shippers are experiencing delays. It’s chaos.”
“All will pass, ladies. It always does.” Mama’s voice was soothing, but her stitches on the canary yellow blanket she knitted became worse.
Was Papa’s business in jeopardy, too?
He used the shipping lanes to transport goods. I glanced at Mama, tweaking my spectacles to see what she wasn’t saying.
Crisp white mobcap, pressed and pinned in place covered her stately graying locks. The azure-blue silk gown with shiny brass buttons on her long sleeves seemed a little fancy but highlighted her pale-gold skin. Were more guests coming or was this pomp for my baron?
“Ruth, do you need to change? Your cousin will be here soon.”
I was comfortable in my light-gray silk. Long sleeves, not much trim. It was a simple gown, one that said walking, not courting.
Mrs. Daly smiled at Mama, like they’d forged a conspiracy. “Yes, Lord Wycliff. I hear he just inherited his barony.”
“Yes. He’s in financing,” Mrs. Johnson said, then sipped her tea. “Shipping finance.”
Mrs. Johnson seemed agitated and too concerned with the baron’s business, but I’d not inquire. Adam’s number crunching had been deadly. I’d have no part of Wycliff’s situation.
I purled another row, right spacing, even. “Lord Wycliff, my late husband’s cousin, will be here soon. Let’s not let him catch us gossiping.”
I loved saying husband, loved the reaction they all wore—frozen smiles, eyes lowering. Penance, perhaps? If I glared at each of these awful counselors long enough, I might see respect.
So, I did.
Pow. I caught Mrs. Daly—she smiled back.
Wham. Mrs. Johnson peered at me. Boy, she looked guilty.
Snap. Mama. Glorious Mama, nodded and beamed, beamed at me.
It was silly and childish and freeing. I loved it.
The sound of the outer door opening and shutting made me shiver with pleasure. I turned to the window. A big blur, a carriage-sized blob was outside.
Wycliff had arrived early. And there went my courage.
I held my breath, listening for footsteps, but all I heard was Clancy’s heavy footfalls.
The parlor door opened with a ba
ng.
“Lord Wycliff has come calling, Mrs. Croome. He’s here to see Mrs. Wilky.”
I lifted my head and caught his gaze. I sensed his confident smile, his swagger as he advanced. “Ladies.”
In the baron’s arms were two bouquets, one fine set of hothouse roses, the other a bunch of daisies, each wrapped in crisp white paper.
“For you, Mrs. Croome.” He gave the roses to Mama. Then he spun and presented himself to me.
Glad for once to wear my spectacles, I savored the sight of him. Dark bottle-green waistcoat cut over snug beech breaches, finely polished boots. I didn’t mind his freshly trimmed beard or how it framed his handsome face. Sort of made him mysterious, like a pirate with a sjambok. The dormant adventurer inside me perked up.
I took the daisies and sniffed the sweet petals. Daisies were happy flowers, so free and easy.
“Leave your knitting, Ruth,” Mama said. “I’ll put it away for you. Clancy, find vases for these lovely flowers. Thank you, Lord Wycliff.”
The butler took the bouquets and began to leave, but not before Wycliff pinched off a daisy and put it in his buttonhole.
Adam used to do that.
I ducked my eyes to the scarf I was knitting for Mr. Marks’s upcoming birthday, but my head was filled with Wycliff. How could such a simple thing like a daisy in a buttonhole make me happy?
“Mrs. Wilky?”
The baron’s raspy voice centered me, led me back to the truth of where things were. Though he looked like Adam, Adam was gone, and wasn’t returning.
Wycliff extended his hand to me.
I took it. Rising from my chair, I noted again how good the creamy-white petals and happy brown button of the daisy looked against his ebony tailcoat.
The baron was tall and handsome and endearing with the flower, but was I admiring a memory or my husband’s cousin?
“Mrs. Wilky, I’ve thought of nothing else but our walk.”
Mama picked up my yarn and jabbed the needles into the bundle. “You’re going outside, Ruth? Mrs. Fitterwall has made tea and a light nuncheon upstairs in the dining room.”
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