by Daria Vernon
“I think that’s an admirable trait,” said Beth. “It was not my intention to demean it.” And because of that trait, Allison’s wound swiftly evaporated. She smiled and rested her head affectionately on Beth’s shoulder.
Beth’s intuition kicked up again as she felt the presence of Rhys like a warm glow from behind. Conquer grandly. What did such a judgment even mean to her? When the man she couldn’t get off of her mind was a sailor-gone-thief that once thought to ransom her? But Beth appreciated kindness too. She’d once seen Rhys’ kindness like a thread of light slipping through a pinhole in the dark.
Beth wasn’t like her cousin. All-loving. All-trusting. Yet she had come to trust him. It happened when he’d knelt across from her in the ravine, outstretching his hand. He’d told her that she would not survive a night in the woods. It was no manipulation—only the truth. As he’d delivered that cold news, she could see in his eyes how he hated to be the bearer of it. From then on, she had trusted him. Even now, she realized. The distrust that darkened her heart now was not of him but of herself.
“Well . . .” The expectant tone of Allison’s voice was clear, but Beth wasn’t certain what it was expectant of.
Allison added another skip to her stride to keep up with Beth. “Cousin, I shall burst inside if you do not start indulging me about what happened this morning.”
Oh, that.
Beth smiled and lifted her chin smugly.
“Don’t think I’ll stop asking. You know I possess the stamina to harass you all night.”
“You’re more demanding of secrets than the maenad.”
Allison’s voice rose indiscreetly. “Ah yes, your imaginary friend in captivity.”
“Oh, hush.”
“If you won’t speak, I will.” Allison stole a glance over her shoulder as if the topic of their impending conversation needed pointing out. Beth stiffened her arm sharply to make her friend face forward again.
Allison leaned in. “He is very fine.”
Beth cracked a smile.
“I nearly choked this morning when I heard his name out loud—when I realized I was beholding the subject of your grand affair. I could stab you for not telling me that your man, your highwayman, was at the ball. Tell me, have you properly reunited with him?”
Beth put on the sedate expression that she had perfected for card games.
Allison narrowed her eyes with intent. “Dear cousin, you look overheated.” Allison whiiicked her fan open in front of Beth’s face, catching her on the nose. Beth swatted the irritating thing away.
“It’s not so easy as that.” Beth’s voice wavered.
Allison lowered the fan, turning serious. “How do you mean?”
“Everything feels so difficult now that it’s real. A memory and a person are two different things.”
“That may well be, but you’ve spent years wanting that memory to be real again.”
“I haven’t.”
“Truly, Beth? Because a large cape that you took from the downstairs cupboard at Greenthorne tells otherwise.”
Beth’s elbow tensed on her cousin’s arm. “How do you know about that?”
“I was with you the very moment you spotted it. Mrs. Brimble complained of its disappearance, and I knew a fox didn’t run off with it.”
Beth tried to extract her arm from Allison’s, but the girl only locked Beth nearer.
“Beth, just act as yourself.”
“My old self? My Dyckson self? My ruined self?”
“You can’t go back and just pluck one of your ages from memory. You have to be all of them. Before Dyckson, after Dyckson. Before The Ordeal and after it. Else you will always be mourning every person you ever were.”
Beth met her cousin’s eyes and saw the optimism there. Had she been more like Allison, a decade ago? Had she ever possessed this sort of wisdom?
“My life has taken some interesting turns to bring me here.”
“Exactly,” said Allison eagerly. “Don’t you suppose it means something?”
Beth’s skirts swished up ahead of him, keeping time with her swift and elegant gait. Rhys regretted that the morning’s conversation had been one of distress instead of all the things he’d hoped.
When he’d discovered her safe and alert in the ivy, all he’d been of a mind to do was drop down against her and drink of her health. Memories of her features had been slipping through his fingers one-by-one throughout the purgatory of their separation. He was parched for reminders.
Reminders that may never come.
She was hurt. Hurt and healing. And he was the wound.
Still, something had slipped in their conversation that he clung to—the suggestion that he loved her. Her words—quickly passed over in the moment—had jarred him to his core. He hung on to that word, toying with it all afternoon. Love. Did he love her? How could he even tell when he’d never encountered it before?
He’d hardly had enough shore leave in his whole life to utter more than a compliment before bedding a woman. Prior to his night in the woods with Beth, he’d been years without knowing a woman.
Rhys’ thoughts had slowed down his walking. Yet he noticed one who was even farther behind the group. He stopped, waiting for Beth’s father, Barnaby, to catch up.
“You don’t have to slow down for my sake.” The old man tried to wave him off, but Rhys fell into step with him.
“I wanted to thank you again for your hospitality.”
“Thank the Weldons.” Mr. Clarke patted Rhys’ back jovially but frowned. “Tell me Mr. Booker, have you any concern that Desmarais might be nearer than Hull?”
“You mean, do I think he might be in Bartswell?” The man’s worried lip was answer enough. “Of course, it’s possible. Don’t let it spoil the night though. Beth will be safe.”
“You’ll be kind enough to escort her this evening?”
Oh, that he should even ask.
“Of course, Mr. Clarke. She won’t leave my sight. My associates from the Home Office stayed in town last night. I sent word ahead that they should be alert tonight.”
“Bless you for your reassurance. Though I can’t say that I’ll ever be rid of the anxiety.”
“That’s natural enough. She’s your only daughter.”
“Almost my only family now, since my sister passed.” Mr. Clarke went quiet, fiddling nervously with his watch chain.
Rhys must have realized it before, but somehow, hearing the words aloud drove them into his heart more acutely. He’d once allowed this man to fear for his only child and right after the death of his sister. It was monstrous.
Any words he’d thought of saying were now knotted in his throat. The long grass silenced their footsteps. The elder Weldons and a small clutch of their friends tripped on their silks and heels as they moved through the field. Rhys could not believe he’d once likened Beth to their sort. As if bidden, Beth’s laughter trickled back from where she walked with her cousin.
“Do you think she’ll be safe on the Continent?” asked Mr. Clarke.
“I’m sorry?”
“I worry about her when she leaves. If that awful man wants something. He was born in France, you know. He knows the country there. She thinks she’ll be safer if she leaves, but what if he follows?”
“Mr. Clarke, forgive me, but I’m not certain that I follow. Does Beth have plans to travel?”
Mr. Clarke threw him a pitying gaze that made his heart sink. “Has my girl told you nothing of anything?”
Nothing of anything. Rhys cleared his throat.
“She has a right to be cautious around me.” Rhys didn’t know why he said it, but there it was, out in the open for interpretation. Mr. Clarke let it lie.
“She was inspired by Miss Weldon’s tour.”
“No, she didn’t tell me.”
“How can you protect her if
she doesn’t tell you such things?” Mr. Clarke shook his head.
“I haven’t been forthright with her that protecting her is my aim, though she obviously understands it. She’s no fool. I suspect she’d be offended by the prospect of outright protection.”
“But she needs pro—”
“Maybe she doesn’t.”
Mr. Clarke’s brows climbed so slowly that Rhys wondered if he’d overstepped in cutting the man off. There were an awful lot of rules among the landed folk, and he couldn’t claim to have them all pinned down yet. It was true though. Beth could fend for herself like few people could. It was this enterprising bent of hers that attracted him so much.
“Yes. Maybe she doesn’t,” mumbled Mr. Clarke, nodding. “She’s a monster sometimes.”
Rhys’ head snapped in alarm toward the old man. The words had been as indifferently delivered as Rhys’ invitation to the fair.
Mr. Clarke’s eyes went wide at whatever expression of shock Rhys wore. “I mean it in the fondest possible way. I mean it as a father.” A tired smile peeled across the man’s lips, and Rhys matched it. A silent understanding passed between them. The understanding that Beth was as rare as a wolf in an English forest.
The group came over a gentle rise that revealed Bartswell below them. The May fair centered on a bonfire that glowed like an iris, staring up into the sky. The sight reminded Rhys of a boyhood that was robbed from him by labor. Tonight, he could indulge. The thought was wholly foreign, but he knew who would remind him to enjoy it, and he couldn’t wait to be down there in the masses with her.
The daytime festivities were waning as they entered town. The maypole was already tightly wrapped in its ribbons and sat ignored. A handful of boys wove through the crowd with torches, lighting lanterns and braziers—signaling the transition to the festival’s wilder, nighttime state. Kegs of ale were rolled into the town center and propped up in booths. Some patrons were already ahead in their cups. They rocked on their heels, leering at the casks, their mouths watering as they waited for the tap.
Upon entering the throngs, much of the group splintered off, including many of the nobs from breakfast that Rhys neither knew nor cared about. The core group, the Weldons and the Clarkes, remained and closed ranks against the swell of bodies.
Beth and Allison were still tightly linked. They halted abruptly as a stranger cut past them. Rhys gently tripped against Beth and put a hand to her back to keep from falling into her.
“Sorry.”
She looked over her shoulder to meet his eye. He expected to see a warning there. Instead, he saw curiosity.
“I forgive you.” She said it too softly to rise above the din, but he understood it on her lips.
Perhaps they could start anew.
Chapter 21
How could anyone enjoy themselves amid such a crush of bodies? The street ahead of Beth was packed with all manner of tottering folk and their mugs full of belch.
“Beth, my skirt is getting stepped on. It’s too much.” Allison clung so tightly to her arm that Beth wondered if it might not be easier to drag a stubborn mule through the throngs. Beth was taller than Allison but even on her tiptoes, she couldn’t see a good path over the crowd.
“That way.”
Beth turned to the sound of the decisive voice behind her and saw Rhys pointing over the heads of the masses, down a narrow lane.
The next road over was much quieter than the raucous hub of activity near the bonfire. Here, the daytime vendors were packing up their wares, but it was something farther up the street that caught Beth’s eye. Cages. A traveling menagerie.
Beth glided in a trance toward the first cage. It was large enough that it might contain their entire little party, yet was too small for its tenant—a dark and rounded mass, a bear. She recognized the beast from an oil painting over the library’s mantel back at Ashecote. Only here, it looked far less menacing, as appealing as a kitten . . . yet despondent too.
A hand rested on her hip and she didn’t jump at the touch the way she had at the ball. Now she knew it was only Rhys, placing a gentle hand on her before speaking. It wasn’t a habit of her own ilk, but her body settled at its tenderness.
His breath warmed her ear as he leaned down from behind her. “Have you seen one before?”
Beth shook her head. “Have you?”
“I have. Regrettably, it was in a cargo hold and looked just as sorry as this fellow. Perhaps you’ll see another bear someday. A wilder, happier one.”
Perhaps someday soon. Perhaps on my tour. The excitement that rose in Beth at the thought of her impending voyage was quickly tempered by the awareness of Rhys’ hand on her. She’d not told him yet.
She spun in his grasp.
“I’m sorry, Rhys, there’s something that I—”
“Apologizing? For what, dear Beth?” He reached up to brush a stray lock from her eyelashes. It was the first time he’d done so in three years, and never was there a thing so reassuring as the brush of his knuckles against her cheek. He wasn’t teasing. He truly believed she had nothing to atone for.
But he doesn’t know—
Beth’s guilty thoughts ebbed. Suddenly she could think of little else but the fact of their nearness.
Allison slid up beside them for a look at the bear. “Good Lord, what a thing!” As her eyes settled on the creature, her expression of gleeful shock fell into one of grief. It seemed they all shared in their pity for the poor thing. Allison recovered swiftly, as was her habit. “There’s more up ahead!”
Beth took Rhys’ arm, and Allison couldn’t conceal her delight as he proffered his other arm to her.
They stopped at a pen that contained all manner of hoofed animals, each painted as though by a different artist and each with horns uniquely sculpted. Behind them, a small ass ate hay, looking quite plain among his brethren.
Beth looked over her shoulder. The rest of their group, the elder set, had only just reached the bear. Lady Weldon looked ready to swoon. Beth exchanged a smile with her father before feeling a tap at her shoulder.
“Uh, Beth?”
There was something ominous about the caution in Allison’s voice. Beth turned to find her cousin looking elsewhere. What was it? Beth’s eyes took in the bobbing heads of dozens of people, and she wondered what she was supposed to see. Her stomach clenched as she remembered why Rhys was there at all—Desmarais?
But no. Allison had at last been kind enough to point to a little dais across the street, where a large dog rested at the feet of a seated man. No, not a dog, a wolf.
Beth was so entranced that she could hardly tell if she moved toward it by her own power or if Rhys were guiding them there.
“It seems you are capable of finding all the non-existent wolves in England.”
Beth nodded at Rhys’ comment. She herself could not believe it.
“See,” said Allison. “I told you yours must have escaped from some menagerie, and now I’m certain of it.”
“So, Beth.” Rhys gestured to the tame specimen before them. “Think yourself good enough to take down another one?”
The wolf’s docile panting belied its wild nobility. Its keeper was dressed in gaudy yet threadbare clothes and sat on his tattered chair as though it were a throne.
The wolf held Beth’s eye, shooting visions of a winter’s night through her soul. She relived the quick fight, heard the yips and growls, felt them tearing viciously at her petticoat—but the memory ignited no fear, only respect and curiosity as she observed the lupine ambassador before her.
Rhys spoke up so that the man holding the wolf’s lead might hear him. “How much to touch the wolf?”
“Thruppence.”
The man’s eyes wandered to Beth and looked her up and down. His lips curled in approval. “Or nothing at all, for the lady.”
Rhys scowled at the man’s leering and han
ded him the full price. Beth leaned over the lip of the stage and stretched her fingertips into the deep bristles of the wolf’s shoulder.
“Raised him from a pup to be like this,” said the man.
Beth looked up.
“Took it from its mother?”
The man’s chin tucked in offense.
“Nay. Found ‘im orphaned in Scandinavia. You can see the rest of our beasties for a few more coins, if you please.” Beth’s eyes followed his to the other row of cages that Allison had ventured toward.
“No, thank you.”
“You certain? We’ve got a lion.”
Beth ignored him, quite done with seeing caged animals.
The beast leaned into her hand, warm and seemingly pleased by the touch. The depth of its coat consumed her fingers. The wolves in the forest had been ragged and starved, standing on legs like needles. This one was hale. She leaned in as far as she thought its keeper might allow.
“I’m sorry for your brother,” she whispered.
Another hand slipped into the depths of fur alongside hers.
“Ay!” The man snapped at Rhys.
“I paid the three pence, didn’t I?”
The man cowed under Rhys’ gaze and settled back into his seat, sniffing in displeasure.
Rhys’ strong fingers found Beth’s. She could feel his eyes waiting for her to look up, and when she did, she was cleaved apart by the familiarity of his gaze. The shadow of the tight shave he’d had at the ball was fast growing in, reminding her of the man she’d known before—a man who saw in her all of the strengths she thought she’d lost.
“Good heavens, Bethany, sometimes you are too much. Touching one of these beasts.” Beth looked over her shoulder to find Lady Weldon fanning herself and wearing a look of disgust—a look that was growing tiresome.
Beth smiled. “Did you forget the breakfast conversation, Lady Weldon? I’ve touched one before, remember? When I fought it for my life . . . and won.”
“It’s true. She killed it. She was covered in its blood.” Rhys dashed off an exaggerated look of affection at her. His playful encouragement brought her spirits even higher.
