by Erica Ridley
He stopped speaking mid-word, eyes wide. “What?”
“You’re in pain,” she continued. He had told her. She hadn’t listened. “You can’t sleep, you can’t walk, you want to retire. You’re right. Let’s do it.”
His mouth fell open. “Now?”
“Yes, now.” She leapt to her feet and retrieved the bucket of type in order to return the rest of her neatly ordered design to the chaotic pile. Her muscles rebelled, but she battered through her grief. “Why stop on Tuesday, when we can stop today?”
She wouldn’t even mind being maid-of-all-work again. Endless, back-breaking chores would give her something to do besides sit around feeling empty.
Father grabbed the bucket from her hands and jerked it out of her reach.
“We have a duty to print.” His eyes shone with zeal. “This is the big Yuletide issue, and the time of year when our community needs us most. People are counting on the Gazette. Our subscribers expect it, and Cressmouth expects it. We’ll announce our retirement on the back page.”
“I’ll send a note,” she said quickly. “Handwritten. To everyone on our list. Here are the dates on the bill at the winter theatre, here are the prices for sleigh rides, by the way you won’t be hearing from us again. We can even re-run last year’s edition, just like you suggested.”
He wouldn’t really ruin the le Ducs’ lives, would he? Not when he could see how much it meant to her. How much Bastien meant.
His implacable tone bristled with superiority. “In addition to our community, we also have a duty to our countrymen. I was right never to trust the le Ducs. They’re criminals. And criminals should go to prison.”
“No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“I’m proud of you,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, beaming at her in a way that he hadn’t since before her mother had fallen ill. “I thought your interest in journalism was a passing phase. I didn’t believe women were even capable of the sort of probing, investigative truth-finding required. After all, you were the trusting miss who invited the scoundrel who…”
Eve’s stomach twisted.
Father curled his lip. “Once our more important subscribers read your article, you’ll have the recognition for ‘real journalism’ you’ve always craved. Maybe you will end up in London, after all.”
Her heart leapt at his prediction, causing her shoulders to crumple in shame. Weren’t those the words she’d been longing to hear? The exact future she’d been working toward? All she had to do to earn the respect of fellow journalists was destroy the family of the man she loved.
Guilt and horror soured her stomach. All she’d wanted was to prove herself, to help Bastien, and instead she’d endangered his entire family. Once again, she’d trusted the wrong man. This time, it was her father. She would not allow him to ruin lives.
“No,” she said again, her voice stronger this time. “I won’t let you do it. I love him.”
Father recoiled, his fleeting respect instantly replaced by years of betrayal and distrust.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said flatly. “Rules are rules. Laws are more important than love.”
“Where does it end?” she asked. “They smuggle illegal shipments, but they don’t drink it all themselves. Am I also supposed to print the names of every squire and aristocrat who enjoys the occasional glass of brandy?”
“If you know their names,” Father said coldly, “then yes.”
“That’s half of England.” Her voice rose. “Many of whom are good people!”
“And perhaps they wouldn’t have been swayed to evil if men like the le Ducs weren’t dangling temptation in front of their noses.” His gaze turned calculating. “This is our opportunity to get rid of them.”
“What about Jack?” she pointed out desperately. “You like him. He’s English, he’s a good father, he’s been our neighbor for decades. You can’t just implicate the le Ducs. Jack’s family will go down with the same ship.”
“Then he shouldn’t have allowed their poison to enter his life.” Father began filling the empty space with new type. He was going to write this article with or without her. “This is our last issue, Eve. We’re going to go out with a bang.”
Chapter 15
Eve thumped on Bastien’s front door.
It was past dawn; the smithy should be open. It was not. Cold and silent, it seemed as empty as this cottage. She knocked harder.
Delighted, Duenna added her voice to the mix.
Father’s walking-stick slowed him down, but temper alone ensured he’d be right on Eve’s heels in just a few minutes. She needed to talk to Bastien.
The door swung open.
She nearly sagged in relief. “Bastien!”
But it was not Bastien. It was a harried-looking footman.
She ran past him. She did not need directions to Bastien’s bedchamber.
He was on his knees in front of a leather trunk, laying perfectly folded shirts and waistcoats in neat stacks. He leapt to his feet in surprise when he saw her.
Not the good kind of surprise. The I-wish-you-hadn’t-come kind.
“What are you doing?” she blurted.
“Packing,” he replied evenly. “What are you doing here?”
But her brain was too jumbled with the scene in front of her to remember any of the careful speech she’d constructed while racing to his door.
“Why are you packing?” She stepped forward uncertainly. “I didn’t think you were leaving until after Twelfth Night. Epiphany, you said.”
“And I didn’t think you were planning to send myself, my brother, and my best friend to the gallows in order to increase the prestige of your quarterly gazette.” He lifted his palms. “Yet here we are.”
She straightened her shoulders and met his gaze straight on. “I’m not going to do it.”
“I am,” came her father’s voice right behind her.
“Thank you so much for dropping by to clarify authorship.” Sarcasm dripped from Bastien’s words. “That question would have kept me up all night.”
Eve whirled to face her father. “You are not going to print a single word.”
“It’s my paper,” he reminded her. “And my printing press.”
“I know a man with a smithy,” she shot back. “He’ll loan me a hammer.”
“Rules are rules, Eve.” God, how she hated that phrase. Father shook his walking-stick toward Bastien. “When criminals break laws, there are repercussions. I need only pen a letter to the closest MP, and—”
“—and it’ll be your word against mine.” Eve’s voice was as hard as her resolve. Father would no longer wrest control of her life from her. Nor would she allow him to destroy anyone else’s out of misplaced superiority.
Bastien did not look convinced.
She turned to her father and crossed her arms. “What proof do you have that anything untoward has occurred?”
He pointed his finger. “Sébastien le Duc is packing a suitcase right before my eyes, ready to scurry away from justice like the rat that he—”
“He’s packing. Most people who are going on a journey pack luggage to take with them. He and his brother have made no secret of their desire to go home to France. Since they don’t intend to return here, wouldn’t it be far stranger if they were not taking care to prepare their belongings accordingly?”
Father stared at her. “But you said—”
“—that their smithy was the heart of Cressmouth. You destroyed my type, but I still have the handwritten original. If we print the Gazette, it will be with that article on the front page.”
Bastien’s brow furrowed. “If you print the Gazette?”
“Father wishes to retire and sell the machine for parts. If my proposal does not meet his approval, I have encouraged him to retire posthaste. Indeed, you own a smithy. Would you be interested in purchasing bits of secondhand iron to smelt down in your forge?”
His confusion did not lift. “But… you wanted…”
“I did
want,” she admitted. “Ambition gave me a reason to live, when I needed it most. I love to write. I wanted to use that talent to build others up, not tear people down.”
Father leaned on his cane, his eyes angry. “If you don’t run that story, there’s no glory for you. No recognition as a respected journalist. Those papers you dreamed of working at will never know your name at all.”
“True,” she said quietly. “Words have power. And mercy is just as potent as destruction.”
She turned to Bastien.
He visibly tensed.
She deserved that.
Eve let out a deep breath. “When I trusted the wrong person, I lost more than my mother. I lost my father’s respect. And I lost my faith in myself. Over the years, I also lost sight of the most important truth of all: Nobody’s perfect. Not you, not me, not even Father, though he’ll never admit it.”
Bastien’s dark gaze was indecipherable.
Father’s empurpled countenance, less so.
“You can’t ignore blatant disrespect of our government and our laws when it’s happening right under your nose,” he spluttered.
“It won’t be.” She gestured at the trunk. “He’s leaving.” She lifted her eyes to Bastien. “And if he can still tolerate my company, I’ll sail off with him.”
Bastien froze, his gaze still and bright, his thoughts unfathomable.
“F-fine.” Father’s face was ashen, as though he’d just now realized he should take his daughter’s feelings seriously. “We won’t print the article. But if you think I’m inviting a known blackguard into my life…”
“I’m not inviting him into your life.” She turned back to Bastien. “I’m inviting him into mine.”
His brown eyes searched hers. “You’d walk away from everything you know and love… just to be with me?”
“I don’t want to leave Cressmouth,” she admitted. “But I don’t want to lose you more. I love you, Bastien le Duc."
His mouth parted, but no sound came out.
Her cheeks burned. “I was consumed with ‘investigating’ others so that I wouldn’t have time to examine myself. I’ve always known you planned to leave. I never guessed you’d be taking my heart with you. I couldn’t let you walk away without knowing the whole truth. In case you didn’t hear it, I’ll say it again: I love you. No matter what.”
There. The words were out, and words had power. But would they be powerful enough?
Or was it too late?
Chapter 16
She loved him.
Bastien stared at Eve’s upturned green eyes, shining at him with a mix of both hope and resignation.
She loved him, was prepared to defy her father and overlook a few hundred counts of tax evasion and illegal transportation, was even willing to step on a boat and say goodbye to everything she held dear…
And she didn’t even realize he loved her?
Before he could set the record straight, Lucien stepped into the bedchamber behind Eve’s father.
Just what the situation needed: more spectators. Every muscle in Bastien’s body tensed.
“Grand frère…” He pointed toward the corridor. “Out.”
Lucien stepped further inside. “I’ve been listening since they arrived, but I can’t see faces from the hallway.”
“This is England.” Mr. Shelling’s face grew mottled. “Speak English.”
“This is their house,” Eve hissed back. “Do you want them to come tell you what to do in yours?”
“Oh, very well.” Lucien let out a long-suffering sigh. “I like her.”
Bastien ignored him and turned to Eve.
“Last night, I received the passage to France I’d sent away for.” He cleared his throat. “Do you know what my first thought was when I saw those tickets?”
She tilted her head and frowned. “‘I hope I don’t lose these?’”
“My first thought,” Lucien agreed, and patted the breast-pocket where he’d sequestered the tickets.
“‘I can’t walk away from Eve,’” Bastien corrected softly. “Those tickets had once symbolized escape and freedom and finally going home. Now they felt like the opposite. Running away from what I truly desired, launching myself further from my true home. The freedom I needed most was the freedom to choose what I really wanted.”
Her empathy was palpable. “I’ve spent my life yearning for that freedom.”
“I’ve spent my life waiting for you,” Bastien said. There was no point in making her wait longer to hear the words. He intended to tell her over and over again for the rest of their lives. “I love you, Eve Shelling. I love your village. I love your dog, even though she knocked me into a puddle while I was wearing my favorite waistcoat—”
“Not the one with blue-and-green spangles,” Lucien whispered in faux horror.
Bastien carried on. “I know what it’s like to lose one’s home. I would never inflict that on someone else. Nor would I ever ask someone I cared about to give up their aspirations.”
“Don’t write about us, though,” Lucien muttered.
Bastien sent him a glare. “She’s not going to write bad things.”
“Tell her to find a new aspiration,” Lucien insisted. “Tell her that being a ‘real’ reporter isn’t as elegant as she thinks. Tell her that if she was a journalist in London right now, she’d be writing about the Tottenham Court Road beer flood whilst standing knee-deep in fermented porter.”
“Shut up, Lucien.” Bastien paused. “Wait. You’ve been reading the newspapers?”
“Slowly,” his brother admitted, self-conscious. “I’m tired of the children’s books in the castle circulating library. I have The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes memorized. Please don’t tell anyone.”
“We’ll talk later.” Bastien turned and took Eve’s hands in his. “I can’t promise you a better life than the one you have right now. All I can promise is to be in it, from this day forward, come what may.”
“Except gallows,” Lucien put in. “That would stop things.”
Bastien sent him a quelling look over one shoulder.
Lucien held up his hands. “If I had the money, I’d buy the printing press from her father and give it to Eve.”
Bastien arched his brows. “I thought you planned to take every possible penny to France.”
“Are we both still going to France?” Lucien countered. “It sounds like you want to stay.”
Bastien did want to stay. That was what he was suggesting.
But where did that leave Lucien? Bastien couldn’t keep smuggling, which meant his only income would be the smithy. If he didn’t sell, there’d be no buyer. No buyer, no money. No way for Lucien to support himself in France.
Bastien couldn’t ask Eve to give up her dreams, but he would never force his brother to do so, either.
It was an impasse.
“What’s wrong?” Her hands trembled in his, the fingers suddenly cold. “It’s not possible, is it?”
“We’ll make it possible,” he said quickly. “I’ll make it possible.”
“Bastien… can solve… anything,” Lucien added in thickly accented English.
Eve and her father’s jaws fell open with perfect synchronicity.
Lucien gazed back at them smugly.
“I’ve got it.” Bastien’s blood raced with excitement.
Lucien blinked.
“Très vite.” That was fast. “Even for you.”
Bastien shook his head. “The answer was here all along. I didn’t see it because we weren’t looking for ways to stay.” He switched to English. “The Harpers made an offer for the smithy.”
Eve gasped. “That’s…” Indecision flickered across her face. “Is it wonderful or terrible?”
“The best news in the world,” he assured her. “They’re willing to pay handsomely for the smithy, but they don’t have a blacksmith to run it. Lucien will be off in France spending their coin, but I’ll be right here on the farm. They’d have to pay me, of course, to keep managing
things until they can find someone to replace me…”
Eve’s eyes twinkled. “No one could ever replace you. I’m pretty sure a front-page article to that effect will be published in this month’s edition of the Cressmouth Gazette. The Harpers will simply have to keep paying you until you voluntarily choose to retire.”
Mr. Shelling let out a long-suffering sigh, and turned to Bastien. “You should think about raising your salary.”
All three of them whirled to face him.
He leaned on his walking-stick. “If I’m to be saddled with one of you, I want to be certain you can take care of my daughter. Then again, I don’t know that I am landed with you. Is there a question you’ve been meaning to ask me?”
“With all due respect, sir…” Bastien looked him in the eye without blinking. “The lady clearly stated that she would like to be the one making decisions about her life.” He dropped to one knee and lifted Eve’s fingers to his chest. “My dearest love, with every beat of my unabashedly French heart, it is you and you alone who—”
“Yes,” she blurted, and launched herself into his arms.
Lucien placed his hands to his throat. “Quick, papa, write to the nearest MP. Your child is wrinkling Bastien’s waistcoat!”
Bastien was too busy kissing his betrothed to dignify his brother’s comments with an answer.
Besides, if the root cause of a man’s disheveled apparel was going to be because he’d been passionately embracing his bride-to-be…
He rather thought he was starting to like wrinkles.
Epilogue
24 December, 1814
* * *
In the end, Lucien le Duc didn’t have to purchase the printing press after all in order to give Eve unfettered access to it.
Mr. Thompson, Marlowe Castle’s solicitor and manager, acquired the press and all its accoutrements for the castle trust, and employed Eve as editor-in-chief of the now monthly Cressmouth Gazette.
The charts of sleigh ride prices and the theatre schedule were still there, along with plenty of cheerful froth about wassail recipes, carol lyrics, the proper tending of a Yule log, and how to decorate one of the local evergreens like Queen Charlotte had done with a yew tree.
