What would it be like to live in peace with violin music playing only for her? It must be great to awaken without anxiousness or doubts or that awful R word.
A noise from the patio, a branch twittering across the stones, startled Theodosia. Her gaze leapt to the spot where Ewan had stood. Then she remembered her hand pressed against the scars of his muscle-hardened chest. He had suffered. Maybe he had died. Maybe he was a ghost.
“Theodosia?” Frederica’s tone sounded of concern, but one look at the minx’s eyes foretold mischief. “Are you well? Did you get much sleep?”
“A little.”
“Oh. That’s good, very good.” Again, the tone echoed like a purr. “I think you pattered on your patio too late.” She popped a piece of toast, one she’d slathered in butter, into her mouth and grinned.
Her man grin. The one she wore when she received a note from an admirer.
Had she seen Ewan? So, he wasn’t a ghost, only a former lover set on revenge. Was that better? She set down her fork. “What were you doing up so late? You couldn’t sleep?”
Frederica cleared her throat and patted her lips with the starched linen napkin. “Too many bonbons. I regret that I had one too many.”
Regret. If only Theodosia’s were candies. She regretted loving Ewan. She regretted discounting Mathew’s love, even as he’d held her hand during Philip’s birth. She released a pained breath, one stinging from the jagged pieces of her broken heart. “Ester and I are working on a response to the riddle. I want the words to show me, what’s true inside. This man needs to understand what I am, so he can either abandon these letters or move quicker to ask to meet.”
“I knew it,” Frederica said as she sweetened her tea. “You do need poetry, and this man will be better than the squire.”
Ester’s brow wrinkled as she dipped her quill into the ink. “You have hope in this suitor? Why? Is Fredericka-the-Flirt right about poetry, from a man?”
Something in the rhyme. Something in the inked signature. Something in Ewan’s reappearance. It all reminded her of a soft spot hidden behind her lacy tucker, near her bosom where she stashed her hopes. Theodosia picked up her fork again and pricked a potato chunk until it smashed. “There’s something in his words, in his way of asking the question. And a baron would have more influence than a squire. Silly thoughts?”
Frederica reached over and clasped Theodosia’s hand midstab. “Put the fork down. What has that Wedgwood plate ever done to you?”
Releasing the silverware turned hapless weapon, Theodosia chewed her lip. “I’m not myself.”
Flipping the page, Ester never looked up. Her matronly lace mobcap fluttered. The otherwise stylish girl kept reading.
Frederica sipped from her cup. “What—is his letter missing a comma? Is missing punctuation a poor indication of character. I think not.”
Ester waved the baron’s letter. “The gentleman has a rather nice hand. Clever penmanship. He’s educated. I’m glad you are answering him and not settling for the squire.”
“I so agree. Options may be everywhere. Even next door.” Frederica, picking through the platter of fruit for the ripest berries, stuffed a big one in her mouth. “Your landowning neighbor, the Earl of Crisdon. He has two sons?”
Theodosia’s feet grew cold. The need to escape filled every inch of her lungs. She couldn’t eat. If she picked up her fork again, she’d jam it through the table. “He has two. Lord Hartwell who is a viscount and a younger son, but they all hate me. They hate that I married Cecil, that I and Philip own Tradenwood. They mean to destroy me. The younger son, who happens to be Cecil’s distant cousin, came here last night to tell me so.”
Ester gasped.
Her smile gone, Frederica slammed her cup to the table. “No. I won’t let that happen. I’ll get my father—”
“To do what? To defend Cecil’s mistress wife? The duke’s a peer like the earl. He’ll stay out of it, and I couldn’t ask you to do anything that will put strain between you and your father.”
Folding her arms about her, crushing the Mechlin lace of her bodice, Frederica shook her head. She picked up her fork and poked at another berry. “I would try for you or Ester. I could make the duke understand.”
“No, sweetness. His world won’t see I am an honorable man’s widow. If I can’t find a new husband to fight Lester for Philip’s guardianship, I’m doomed.” She lifted her dark palms, which still held stains from the past. “Why can’t I take Philip and leave here? I could take care of us. Cecil left me money. I’m sure we could make a new start. I’d let you all know where we settled so you could visit. And you’d have to. You two complete my life.”
Ester dropped her quill. Frederica her fork. “No,” they both said.
Pushing back in her chair, Frederica stared ahead. “We have to give this plan a chance. You have one offer, a cheap one, but it is still a squire. Then there is the poetic baron. He might be the one.”
“Mathew Cecil was the only man I could trust. They aren’t him.”
Blowing a curl from her eye, Frederica’s light skin looked quite red. “Ohhh. You say this speech all the time. Might I remind you of all the hard work you and old man Cecil did to make these flower fields produce? Do you wish Philip to lose his inheritance? Cecil loved that boy. He’d want him to have everything.”
This was true, and how could she deny what Mathew wanted, after all he’d done for them? “If Cecil knew how treacherous Lester was, he would have never left him as a guardian.” That had been his flaw. He had trusted too deeply.
Frederica frowned. It looked so misplaced among her lean cheeks and a pert nose given to wiggles. But could she know that Theodosia feared ever finding someone who saw her as equal?
Ester put down her quill. “First pass, done. Dearest, it’s not that bad. Quite improved. You impress me.”
Impressions were momentary things, like a boy loving her…until his father changed his mind. And how would things fare when Ewan’s play, the one he’d boasted of last night, played at the theater, offering lies and half-truths?
Even if, somehow, Ewan and Mathew shared blood, Ewan was a Fitzwilliam and Fitzwilliams were nasty, evil people. How could she stop them?
Theodosia looked down and rubbed at her wrists. She’d gripped them too tightly with her full-on fretting. Resigned, she smoothed her thick cuffs and steeled her spirit with Mathew’s words.
Theodosia, you are a light rising from obscurity. When you focus on helping others, the darkness you think you have will be like the noon sun.
“I need to get this letter sent as soon as possible, so I can focus on the festival. The workers and vendors will have a day like Mathew Cecil would give. I couldn’t give them their due last year with Cecil so sick, then dying.”
Frederica’s brow lifted as she patted berry juice from her lips. “You both need to stop fretting. Ester, stop killing us with your slow edits.”
Ester again waved her hand and frowned. “Final pass almost done. This can’t be rushed, and Theodosia should know my opinion won’t change because of a misplaced comma.”
Starting to pace, Theodosia paused and decided to tell her truth. “Would your opinion change if it were made public that Mathew Cecil’s widow had been an ignorant street beggar? That she made herself a harlot to survive and somehow managed to marry a wealthy man?”
The foul statement consumed all the air, burning up all the noise in the room like a greedy flame. Yet as she caught Frederica’s gaze, her hazel eyes weren’t filled with pity, but something akin to defiance. “Why stop at such a small insult? You and I are lucky by-blows and Ester’s people would still be in Africa, if not for being such great sailors, coming before the slavers invaded.” She stood up, marched to Theodosia, and gripped her shoulders. “We are misfits. And never good enough. With true friends, true lovers, none of this matters. You are decent, decent to us, to everyone. That’s what matters.”
As much as she wanted it to be true, it wasn’t. The Court of Chancery would take
her son from her and give control of his health to mean, horrible Lester. Unspent tears built in her throat, thickening it and drowning all hints of that R word. Sniffing, she nodded.
Ester’s face lifted and a droplet rolled down her cheek. “Done. This letter is done. It’s very good. We should still work on your spelling, but your teacher is proud of the formerly ignorant street girl, as you say. Frederica is right. You are a beloved friend. Theodosia Cecil is a kind soul, with a head for numbers, though not so much spelling and punctuation.”
Holding her arms wide, Theodosia stood. “You’re both such dears.”
The chair screeched as Ester slid out, and she and Frederica rushed to Theodosia and embraced.
“I don’t know how I’d do without you all,” Theodosia said, still fighting a full-on cry.
Ester held her a little tighter. “You’re too hard on yourself. If it were numbers, you’d best Frederica and me.”
“You can’t leave us,” Frederica said, with a voice that didn’t sound steady or cultured.
The love in their voices spoke to Theodosia more than words. She still had those who cared for her, and shoulders to cry upon when things became worse.
And they would worsen with the Fitzwilliams coming at her. She rubbed her jaw, smoothed the lace at her neckline, and decided to tell the newest threat. “The Fitzwilliams are threatening to scandalize my name if I don’t agree to their terms, but I won’t sell this place or the fields. You all are right about what my husband wanted. This is my son’s home, his legacy. I’ll do what I must to protect it, even marry a squire who can’t hold my gaze.”
Frederica moved and picked up the cut of foolscap that Ester had stewed upon. “You wrote this, Theodosia, because you know the squire is not for you. Your next husband could be swayed to sell the pieces of the business not entailed to your son. And what if evil Lester bribes him into siding against you? Philip’s care could be in jeopardy. Don’t accept the squire out of fear. Fear is the wrong motivation.”
But the R word and humiliation were. Their power seemed greater than a vise, worse than horrible thunder coming for her. She mopped at her brow. “Let’s get this draft ready, while I can still hope.”
In silence, her friends nodded. They retook their seats and resumed their routines: berry selecting and reading.
Frederica leaned forward. “Well, maybe you’ll attract someone at the theater next week. My father has agreed to let us use his box, if we promise to be discreet. And before you say no, Theodosia, you can go in gray or black. You should get used to being out again. Nothing’s better at discretion than a dark theater.”
Ester’s nose wrinkled. “If it’s dark, who will see us, or us them?”
Frederica twirled a strawberry on her plate. “We’ll see them and enjoy the music, even if we must sit at the back of his box. It’s not important to be seen, but to be there.”
Theodosia nodded, but couldn’t come up with a reason not to go. Outside of Tradenwood wasn’t always welcoming. She’d have to find an excuse. The risk of leaving Philip alone at night was too great.
Her fingers tightened around the note to her fantasy suitor, coiling it within her palm. In her heart, she knew she’d met her new husband, the squire, for he’d already asked to marry her and she had a feeling he’d go through with it, unlike Ewan Fitzwilliam. She’d tell the squire after the festival, before Lester or the Fitzwilliams, especially her ghost, took her choices away.
…
Ewan pulled Jasper’s gig close to the mews at the rear of the family’s London townhouse. He stepped out and handed the reins of the fine beast to a groom.
The boy pulled the gelding into a stall and hitched him. The horse, pewter colored, with a high gait and a finely arched back, marched inside, as if this pen was something he owned.
Marvelous. Ewan almost envied the horse as it pawed at the earth, acting every inch the thoroughbred, not an animal with a layman’s job. Maybe the horse knew something the ton couldn’t conceive, that dignity and a profession weren’t scandalous, but cleansing to a man’s soul, even a jaded one. Not that he wished to be neutered. Ewan had big plans to be productive, with a wife and loving family—as he’d planned with Theo. Her handprint on his jaw, even the sting, had remained as he’d slipped into Grandbole. He could still move her. That would prove useful.
“Mighty nice horse, sir,” the groom said as he brushed down the gelding. “Shall I wipe down the seat, give ’er a nice cleaning?”
“Yes.” That would be a good thing to do for Jasper. Though Ewan had the money now to buy one of his own, the upkeep and stabling would consume his meager pension. A gig would be an indulgence he’d procure after his first author’s benefit night. He’d be able to tell by the crowds if his play was a success.
Theo had taught him to be frugal. She had always calculated hidden costs, thinking about things others didn’t notice. The way she reacted to his threat last night had the makings of a hidden cost. The sooner Ewan could figure out what that cost was, the sooner he could get her to relent.
He dug into his pocket for a coin and showed it to the groom. “There’s an extra bit for a good job.”
The boy smiled then went back to brushing the silvery coat.
No payment in advance of seeing the work—another Theo lesson. Ewan started down the alley toward the street. His nose wrinkled at the stench, the sourness in the air, the horse leavings. The city was nothing like the fields of Grandbole or those of Tradenwood. And every morning Theo awoke to the scent of fresh flowers.
He didn’t have time to be jealous of her. No, he’d stewed most of the night on why? Why hadn’t mother told me?
He waited for the butler to answer the door to the townhouse. The wind brought the smell with him, like it gave chase. Stewing, his gut knotted. What if Mother thought him incapable of handling another disappointment? Yes, he’d lost out on inheriting Tradenwood because of an inaccurate field message of his death. He could live with that, but losing it to a cousin who had made Theo its owner—that was tough. His stomach turned again and not from the stench of the road behind him.
The door opened and an older man in shiny blue livery stood there. “Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
“Yes, I am here to see the countess.”
“She’s taking breakfast in the salon.” The man turned and pattered down the gilded hall, stopping at a heavily trimmed door. He ducked inside and then popped back out. “She’ll see you now.”
Ewan fumbled with his jacket button, one of the garments his father had stashed in the room he wanted Ewan to stay. It had stung, sliding it on after hearing Theo’s accusation about him not being his own man, but he needed to hold his mother’s full attention. Buttons and baubles easily distracted her and gave her the opportunity to meander away from facts. He needed truth. He needed it badly.
Entering the bright sunlit room, he stopped and saw a smiling cherub in a pale pink morning gown.
Mother touched at her lacy mobcap, then extended her hand. “Ewan? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Stepping fully inside, he met her at the large breakfast table. “I came to see the best lady in the world.”
Her dimples spread and made her lapis blue eyes sparkle. “Then I forgive you for missing my party last night. Sit down, sweet boy.”
Ewan stumbled. I am a man, one who fought death and won. How can I still be a boy to her—to Theo? He sighed as he plopped in an open chair to her right.
“I wasn’t too mad at you. Although Mrs. Whilton’s niece was disappointed.”
“I’m sure they both will live and find another impoverished playwright to pass the time with. Perhaps a better card player.”
Her nose wrinkled. “So what has you out and up so early? Have you accepted my offer? Will you leave your horrid flat and come stay here with me?”
“No, Mother. That’s not why I am here.”
She put a flaky, pale biscuit that smelled of fine butter and orange bits on his plate. “I have plenty of room. I’m sure you
could write dozens of things. It’s so nice here, not so dreary.”
Dreary? Was she comparing the small townhome to his flat or to Grandbole? He broke his biscuit up into bits. They would be easier to swallow once he steered the conservation to the street address he sought. “I’m content where I am.”
Her chin lowered and she swirled her teacup. “I understand, but it’s easier here.”
Unease settled in his gut, mixing with the cinnamon of the biscuit. Her residence in Town sounded more permanent than staying for the Season. He caught and stilled her elegant hand. “I’m happy with my own flat, but you, you are the Countess of Crisdon. Even you must return from the ball at the stroke of midnight. Grandbole is at a loss without you.”
“You look nice, dear.”
“I take it you don’t want to talk about Grandbole?”
She touched his coat, smoothing the lapel. “These full revers look best on you. I would love to send you to the tailor for more. I want to treat you.”
The coddling he had enjoyed, as a protection against his father’s temper, had never stopped. It hadn’t stopped after being breached at six, going to war at twenty, or returning now as a man. Probably would never stop, unless he did something. Patting her fingers away, he leaned close. “This is the earl’s tailor. He’s quite good. I borrowed it so I don’t feel obligated or more leech-like.”
“Your father’s doing?” The small fine wrinkles that dared to touch her creamy countenance deepened as she seemed to stare through Ewan. “Well, you should’ve worn it last night. I had a very disappointed young lady here. It was awful moving things about to find her a new card partner. You hampered all my plans.”
“Jasper changed my plans.”
She set another biscuit in front of him, but he hadn’t eaten much of the first.
Another distraction. He pushed the plate away. “Jasper took me to see—”
The Bittersweet Bride Page 7
