“I know. We’ll stop for the night closer to the coast.” Phee wrapped her arms around him one last time and closed her eyes for a moment. Needing to say everything in case this turned out to be the last time she saw him, she pulled away and looked him in the eye. “Thank you for everything. I love you. I wish you’d been my father.”
He swallowed roughly. “You’ve always been mine. Sometimes God brings us children that don’t share our blood. Come home when you can, my darling girl.”
One more hug, and then they took their leave. They’d need to push hard to get as much distance as possible between them and Warford before nightfall. She knew from experience that Milton had spies everywhere.
* * *
“I’m going to look ridiculous,” Phee grumbled, even as she continued sewing neat stitches in a perfect row.
“No,” Emma said. “You will look lovely. What’s going to look ridiculous is your hair. And that’s why God made bonnets. Has it always poufed like that?”
“Yes, unfortunately. As a child I had ringlets. But no matter what I did, it always became a tangled rat’s nest by the end of the day. Honestly, I think dealing with my hair at a longer length will be what I hate most about living as a woman again.” Phee snipped the thread. “There. Can you help me into it?” They were at their fifth inn, taking a deliberately leisurely approach toward the tiny seaside village of Olread Cove. They’d arrive at the leased house the following day.
During the interminable days of travel, Phee and Emma kept their hands busy by making alterations they’d marked and pinned together the evening before.
Seeing the grave again, this time so close to the end of her charade, had left Phee unsettled. Sleep had been poor, and a fidgety unease made her jumpy. What if she wasn’t ready for the next step? What if she couldn’t unlearn the pieces of her brother she’d adopted? The walk, the manner of speaking—none of that was right for a lady. Layers of binding, a shirt, jacket, waistcoat, and cravat had been an armor of sorts, protecting her from the reality of being alone in the world.
The sounds of the bustling inn drifted through the wooden-plank floor as they removed her men’s garments and she donned the gown. They’d done some version of this to fit the dresses each evening, but as Emma helped her with the pins and tapes, Phee knew. The gown was ready.
The fine chemise, gossamer thin and trimmed in delicate lace, was the prettiest thing she had ever owned. She couldn’t help but think of how Cal would react if he saw it. The thought brought a pang, so she stuffed it down. He’d become part of her past. This was the time for creating a future.
Tomorrow they would tell the coachman that Adam’s cousin Fiona had arrived during the night and Adam had set off early ahead of them. Then the charade would begin. The coachman and other staff would return to London as soon as they arrived in Olread Cove, and no one would be the wiser that Adam wasn’t waiting at the cottage like they said.
A petticoat trimmed in embroidered green silk leaves peeked out beneath the gathered hem of the skirt. She had no shoes to match, but she’d found a pair of walking boots at a used clothing stall during their travels.
The sturdy little boots made her feel better. They felt solid on her feet, like her tall boots had, and in a way this ladylike footwear straddled two worlds. The old existence of breeches and cravats, and her new reality of skirts and fripperies.
“What made you pick this copper shade?” Emma asked.
Because Cal had once told her she’d look lovely in copper or green, and no matter how hard she tried, Phee couldn’t forget a single moment of their time together. “I thought the shade would suit me,” she lied.
Using the windowpane, the women stood side by side and studied their reflections.
“The Widow Hardwick and her cousin by marriage Miss Fiona Hardwick,” Emma said, imitating the tone of Higgins announcing visitors.
Phee lost her voice, overcome by the picture they made. Except for her hair, she looked like a sophisticated young lady.
“Stop staring at your duck fluff, Phee. You have all the time in the world to grow it out now.”
And Emma was right. Wasn’t that the damnedest thing.
* * *
It had been ten days since he’d heard her voice, and Cal might go mad during the lifetime ahead of him filled with this awful silence. Not that he’d expected Phee to reach out with news, but Emma hadn’t written either. At his desk, Cal pushed aside the contracts for Gaffney’s cider operation, the message he’d received from the captain of the Wilhelmina this morning, and the ledgers awaiting his attention. It hadn’t been good news for the investors, and unfortunately, Eastly wouldn’t see a single penny back. That was the nature of investments—some worked out, and some failed. But this failure killed any hope of Eastly paying his way out of the Rosehurst pickle.
Yet none of those burdens weighed as heavily as the absence of Emma and Phee. He pulled out a sheet of paper.
Dear Emma, October 5, 1820
The house seems empty without you here, chattering while sprawled on your favorite chaise in the gold drawing room. Perhaps once you’re settled in your new house, I could send it to you. Think of it as a belated wedding gift. It may make you feel more at home. Although I admit, I hope you’ll return to London after the baby is born.
Have you considered names? Are you feeling better? I hope the travel wasn’t too much for you.
I know you’re mad at me about everything that happened at Lakeview, but I pray you’ll write anyway.
Love,
Cal
He hesitated, then sighed. No one said he’d have to mail every letter he wrote. And damn, he missed talking to Phee. Out came another sheet of paper, and although she’d never read it, he began to write.
Dear Phee, October 5, 1820
You talk in your sleep. Did I ever tell you that? My bed is too quiet without you.
Pouring out his heart was cathartic in a way. Like lancing a wound, although that was a disgusting comparison. But then, his feelings at the moment weren’t exactly pretty either. He didn’t have poetry to offer the one who’d stolen his heart and his sister. So the letter became honest and messy and didn’t make him look good—he sounded pathetic and broken without her. But putting on his mask hadn’t been the point.
He read it over, signed it with a flourish, then promptly crumpled it in his fist and threw it in the rubbish bin by the desk. The stack of ledgers sat as silent witnesses to his foolishness. Beyond the door, Higgins’s voice rumbled an order to another servant. The few steps from the desk to the door were tiny procrastinations, but Cal welcomed any excuse to put off his next task.
“Higgins? Could you send up a pot of coffee? I have a long night ahead of me, I’m afraid.”
The butler dipped his head in a shallow bow. “Yes, milord. I’ll notify Cook.”
“Thank you.” Cal stood awkwardly, not quite leaning in the doorway but not having any reason to linger either.
“Will there be anything else, milord?” Higgins asked.
Cal sighed. “No. I’m putting off dealing with my father.” The admission slipped out, and he couldn’t call it back.
“In that case, I’ll have Cook add cake to the tray.” Higgins turned, but Cal would have sworn he saw a hint of a smile on the old retainer’s face.
At least now he’d get cake. There was always a silver lining. Cal turned toward the massive mahogany desk. The ledgers waited exactly where he’d left them. He was rather hoping they’d grow legs and run off, but no such excuse presented itself.
Time to get to work. Because in that stack of ledgers was the answer to his troubles. He hoped. Even with the loss of the Wilhelmina investment, somewhere in those columns of numbers must be the solution to paying his father’s debt with something besides Cal’s bachelorhood.
He sat, wishing for the hundredth time that he’d chosen a more comfortable desk chair. It would be a long night, or week, or however long it took him to find a way to save the estate.
The baron’s good will was at an end.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dear Phee, October 5, 1820
You talk in your sleep. Did I ever tell you that? My bed is too quiet without you.
It may make me a sentimental fool, but the day you left, I stole your pillow and refuse to let the maids touch it. Feel free to laugh at the mental image of me comforting myself with a musty pillow. If I sniff deep enough, there are still traces of sandalwood, and finding those final bits of you in my bed seems to be the only way I sleep these days.
Truth be told, I haven’t slept well since the last time we were together. As much as the memory brings me pain, I have to admit that you were perfect in your execution of revenge. Just like during our countless fencing matches, your attack was effective, focused, and brutal. You’re remarkable, but then I knew that.
I knew that, and I still made a hash of us.
Because of my misplaced confidence in my own ability to juggle the world—at the expense of our relationship, I’ve lost you forever.
I’m never mailing this—
Phee stopped reading. The paper’s crinkled lines told a story of being crumpled into a ball. If he’d thrown this away after writing it as a sort of personal journal entry, then she didn’t have any place reading it.
And yet.
Dear Phee.
This letter belonged to her. Whether or not he’d meant to mail it, she held it in her hands now.
I’m never mailing this, so I can speak freely. The Wilhelmina finally arrived in port this week. Crew is in good spirits, but the cargo is a complete loss. I find myself identifying with the ship as I deal with distraught investors—my father being chief among them. Like the Wilhelmina, I’m alive, but empty.
I love you. That wasn’t a lie. I think I’ve loved you since that night in your old room, watching the firelight play across your features, terrified for you. Unfortunately, I’m still terrified for you. Nelson’s connections with your uncle’s ruffians report that Milton has gone silent. I could write you another letter, updating you on the report, but what would I say? “I’m sorry I ruined us, but I love you, and even though your uncle is not making any additional threats, his silence is telling?”
So, I say nothing, and I wait, and I hope that where you are, the halls ring with your laughter, and there’s a pillow that smells like you. I wish it rested beside mine.
A tear snaked down Phee’s cheek before she dashed it away.
Damn the man. And damn whoever had gone against his wishes and mailed a letter she was never supposed to read.
Despite the vicious thoughts, Phee carefully smoothed the paper, then refolded it.
Outside her bedroom window, cool air carried the loamy smell of green earth and the tang of salt spray from the sea that crashed at the base of the cliff where the house perched.
The chair in this ray of sunshine had become Phee’s favorite place in the house. Each night the low rhythm of the waves lulled her to sleep through this window. In the mornings, Phee drank her coffee in this chair, and every day offered a different view. Sometimes fog rolled in and she listened to the gulls cry. Other mornings brought brilliant early sun sparkling off the water.
When they’d arrived at the house, they’d sent the servants back to London, then hired their own staff from the town. Providing immediate employment in a rural place like Olread Cove not only met their needs but quickly ingratiated them with the locals.
The villagers had no reason to believe they weren’t the Widow Hardwick and her cousin by marriage Miss Fiona Hardwick. Emma wanted to keep whispers to a minimum, so she’d left her honorific behind in Mayfair.
Now they’d settle into a quiet life until the baby came, then Emma would decide what she wanted to do next. Phee had promised to stay through the birth before choosing where she’d go. Watching the sea each day, as breathtaking as it was, only reinforced her desire to not spend a great deal of time on a boat. The Continent might be the place for her, instead of America.
Phee turned from the open window, searching for the wrap she’d discarded earlier. A flash of blue caught her eye from under the book she’d read that morning. After slinging the dark wool over her shoulders, Phee tugged on a pair of kidskin gloves and went downstairs. “I’m going on a walk,” she called to whoever might be listening. Emma, the cook, and the maid had been in the kitchen the last time she’d checked.
Salt air slapped Phee’s cheeks as she pulled the heavy wood-plank door closed behind her. She gave the iron handle an extra yank to ensure it stayed closed, as the door sometimes stuck in the doorjamb and didn’t latch properly after a day of rain.
Tugging on her bonnet as she walked, she tied the ribbons under her chin. Truth be told, she missed the hats she used to wear with male clothing. A bonnet covered her baby-duck-fluff hair, which resisted all efforts of taming as it grew, but it still seemed like playing dress-up. Wearing a dress felt more natural now, but the bonnets? Not so much.
The favorite walking path she’d found wound around the top edge of the cliff, then led down a rocky slope to the beach where Phee collected shells and colorful glass worn smooth by the water. No doubt the breeze would ensure any wisps of hair uncovered by her bonnet stayed vertical for the rest of the day, but this restlessness within her surpassed vanity.
Gravel shifted beneath her feet as she deliberately lengthened her stride, walking as she had when she’d been living her brother’s life. Emma had been working with Phee to change her walk, but for a moment, Phee wanted the familiar. The easy.
Cal’s letter had been simultaneously hurtful and beautiful. Bad luck that she’d get that missive today of all days. She’d thought she was ready to leave the past behind, and then Cal’s penmanship had snagged her calm into a tangle, and now she wasn’t sure she could do the one thing on her agenda.
Phee had to send the death notice to the Times. The final piece of letting Adam go. Her steps quickened until she ran, heading toward the cliff edge as if chased by a literal ghost instead of a figurative one.
Adam had been gone for over a decade, yet sending a letter to the Times felt like a death of another kind. She and Emma had decided, after their visit to the gravestone outside the Arcotts’ home, that Adam deserved a headstone. A marker with his name, commemorating his life, short as it had been. Even if the death date was wrong, Adam’s name belonged in stone next to the other in Warford, beside the vicarage. To those in London who cared, Adam Hardwick would die tragically young, which was nothing but the truth.
A tear wet her cheek, although Phee didn’t remember crying again. She dashed at it, inadvertently wiping her face with the letter from Cal, which was still clutched in her hand. Holding the paper to her nose, she tried to catch a whiff of his spicy gingerbread scent, like he’d confessed to searching for sandalwood on his pillow.
No such luck. For some reason, that brought another tear to her eye.
Cal’s sweet letter, pretty apology, and declarations of love were for Ophelia.
Crossing her arms across her middle, she stared out at restless waves. All that remained of Ophelia was a headstone in a graveyard in Northumberland. She’d become someone new. Again.
Like it or not, she would be Fiona now, and she must move forward. That meant some things had to stay in the past.
No countess of mine will have scandal attached to her.
Opening her fist, Phee let the paper flutter in her palm, hovering and falling until it caught the wind and took off. Like a tiny kite, the paper rode an air current, lifting and floating with a freedom she envied. Finally, the letter to a woman who no longer existed floated over the cliff edge and disappeared into the waves below.
Unless Cal showed up on their doorstep to make those proclamations to her face, there was nothing to be done. A letter was lovely, but at the end of the day, they were words he hadn’t meant to send. Empty words.
Just like names were words, and a death notice didn’t make Adam more dead. Phee took in a deep breath of salt air a
nd straightened her shoulders. Maybe today she would get that death notice written after all.
Adam needed to die. Only then could Phee truly live.
* * *
Dear Emma, October 12, 1820
Another week of silence from my baby sister, and I have no choice but to assume you have yet to forgive me for what happened. Is this some kind of sisterhood you two have formed? If so, I’m glad Phee has you in her corner.
Please don’t feel caught between us. If given the chance to do everything over, I’d definitely make different choices.
I’d treat Phee like a partner. I’d spend more time planning a future with her than dealing with our father.
I’d have told you that Roxbury demanded payment to leave you alone. I would do many things differently.
Thank you for being a better friend to Phee than I was.
Tell the baby—whom I’ve decided to call Mortimer Hildegard unless you write back and tell me otherwise—Uncle Cal loves him. He loves you too, brat.
Sincerely,
Cal
Dear Emma, October 20, 1820
How is little Mortimer Hildegard? Is he/she kicking yet? I remember our mother’s joy when she felt you stirring in her womb. Her eyes would light, and she loved to hold my hand to her belly to see if I could sense you moving. I couldn’t until the last month. Then your constant tossing and turning would make her entire stomach roll and shift, and it gave my young brain nightmares. So, thanks for that.
I wanted to let you know that I’ve come to a decision. Father didn’t overstate his circumstances. I’ve looked over the books, checked every avenue, and ran through financial scenarios until I’m falling asleep at my desk and dreaming of dancing columns of numbers. Unless he sells everything unentailed and lives with strict discipline (ha!) at the family seat for the next few years, paying the debt to the baron will be impossible. There’s one clear path that will save the estate and serve the tenants. I have to marry Violet Cuthbert.
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