by Ann Clement
“It was here, Mama, like on a shelf.”
“Are we in trouble, Mama?” William asked.
Mary shook her head. “No, my darlings. But now run outside and play. Perhaps the Black Knight will come back.”
The boys scampered away.
Letitia looked at the box. Would Percy know what was inside?
As if conjured, Percy emerged from the side corridor. In one hand, he held an open letter, undoubtedly the missive from his solicitor. The folded one in his other hand had to be the reply he would give to Mr. Welch’s messenger. His grave expression deprived the box she held of its sudden importance.
Letitia put it in the top drawer of the commode. After all the time it had spent behind the painting, there was no rush to reveal its contents at this very moment.
Percy stopped when he noticed them, his face deadly serious. Her heart fluttered with premonition.
Mr. Wilkinson did not hesitate to ask what she was thinking, “What news, my boy?” Worry thickened his voice. “You look as if disaster looms on the horizon.”
“I fear it does, sir,” Percy replied. “And not even figuratively speaking. Our navy is preparing for war with Bonaparte. He’s apparently ready to invade the British Isles.”
As Percy had anticipated, the news struck hard. Mr. Wilkinson suddenly seemed much older. He bowed his head and murmured something while Mary patted his hand, the impish laughter gone from her eyes. In silence, they made their way back to the drawing room.
Welch had written from London that the invasion was just days away. Percy found no pleasure in announcing such news. And when he learned about Thomas’s expected return to England, his heart squeezed with uneasiness. According to Welch, preparations had been observed on the other side of the Channel. Reconnaissance boats had been coming closer toward the British shores for about a week. He urged Percy to come to London and personally oversee the completion of the contracts he had been negotiating with the navy as there surely would be no time to discuss details by post once the French attempted the landing.
“I shall inquire about Indigo upon my arrival there, sir.” He turned to Mr. Wilkinson, whose complexion was ashen with worry. “Perhaps she will change course and drop anchor in Bristol. I’ll send you word immediately.”
“Thank you, my dear boy. I cannot abide waiting when there is nothing I can do except hope for the best. Perhaps it will be a lesson for my son to stay where he ought to be, at Pythe Park, instead of seeking all sorts of danger all over the world. I’m afraid, Ethel, that your return to London will have to be postponed.”
“I have no notion of going anywhere until Thomas is back,” Ethel mumbled, nervously twisting the ribbon of her sash. Her cheeks were as pale as her father’s. Percy felt a twinge of sympathy.
No one, of course, said anything aloud about the possibility of Indigo falling into French hands, though all must have been thinking about it.
“I will be going early tomorrow morning,” Percy said.
Their guests left soon afterwards. Percy watched with sadness Mr. Wilkinson’s stooped posture and slow progress as the elderly man walked toward his carriage. Would his father have grown old in the same way had he lived? Mr. Wilkinson’s health had been worsening steadily over the last few years. Percy hoped the unsettling news would not bring on another bout of illness. It was time indeed for Thomas to stay home for more than a few months.
“I want to go with you,” Lettie said when they waved off their guests and walked inside.
“I would like nothing better,” Percy replied, meaning it entirely, “but it might not be the wisest decision under the circumstances. Welch seems convinced beyond any doubt that the invasion is coming. If he is correct, then it may be necessary to leave London in great haste, and that may require traveling on horseback.”
He would never willingly subject her to any danger, and Lettie could not argue. She was no horsewoman.
“How long will you be gone?” she sighed, resigned, her brow creased with worry.
“A fortnight, I expect.”
That night, they spent considerably less time sleeping.
At dawn, he carried her to her bed and then returned to his room to prepare for travel.
Letitia hated separations. First, John had left for Egypt, promising to bring her some treasure of the pharaohs, but instead all she got was his military knapsack and a handful of letters, including the last one scribbled just hours before the battle and his death.
Then her mother had died under the double strain of grief from the loss of her only and beloved son and the mistreatment at her husband’s hands. Letitia’s father had put the guilt of John’s death squarely on his wife’s shoulders, blaming her for John’s decision to buy a commission against his father’s will, and never lost an opportunity to berate her for depriving him of his heir.
And then, even Father was gone, his mind on the trouble in his West Indian plantations in the aftermath of the Saint-Domingue uprising. In the nearly three years he was away, he did not write Letitia a single letter.
Now, Letitia missed Percy. The nights without him were insufferably lonely. She felt bereft of the warmth and safety of his body around hers when they fell asleep together. She missed his lovemaking. He had kept his promise; she had entered the world that was not supposed to exist in a married life, at least according to Lady Alicia Bidwell. And during the day, the house was palpably empty without him, despite the fact that he never spent much time within.
Her days, though, were busy.
Mrs. Baillie sprained her ankle on nothing more than the gravel path in her little garden, but the doctor confined her to bed until it healed completely. Letitia visited the elderly lady every day, reading to her aloud over a cup of tea until Mrs. Baillie fell asleep.
She also went daily to Pythe Park, hoping to divert Mr. Wilkinson’s mind from his son’s dangerous journey. She usually found him poring over the newspapers and waiting for the mail to come. The truce between her and Ethel was carefully observed on both sides. So much so that Ethel came to visit her at Bromsholme twice and didn’t even insist on being shown to the orangery anymore. Letitia wondered if Ethel’s subdued reluctance to go past the hallway on each occasion resulted from the lingering guilt over the ribbon. But she had no intention of reviving that subject.
Mary came for tea once, bringing with her some new needlepoint designs she had promised Josepha.
And while Endymion’s sprawled, sleeping figure was taking shape on the canvas, Letitia also began painting miniatures. She was working on a self-portrait. It would be a Christmas gift for Percy. Then she would paint one of him for herself.
Miniature painting had been—in what seemed to her now someone else’s life—a part of her plan to escape from Percy. Nearly three months later, that plan seemed strangely unreal. She didn’t want to be away from him. Ever.
She also embarked on another not very pleasant task. She wrote to her father. The letter was composed with utmost care and took her two evenings to complete. She knew he would not read it kindly. Chances were he would not read it at all. But she had to try.
It centered on a carefully worded question as to whether he would consider giving them, as a belated wedding gift, a few of the objects removed from Wycombe Oaks that she knew were in his possession. The list was short, not by choice but of necessity. Asking for too much would certainly mean getting nothing at all. She hoped he would not dismiss her request out of hand.
She waited with great anxiety for his reply.
It came four days later.
Letitia worked in the orangery, putting the final touches on Endymion’s torso. She had partially changed his pose since asking Percy his opinion. The supine figure had now one leg bent at the knee, the foot resting on the ground. It gave her the chance to better show his strong, shapely calf muscles. The reposing shepherd exuded strength and masculinity no goddess, o
r any female, could walk by without taking notice.
She stepped back from the canvas, eyeing the touch-ups she had just added, when a fast-moving object on the outskirts of the gardens intruded upon her peripheral vision. She glanced up in time to see a carriage racing toward the driveway.
Her heart slammed wildly in her chest. Could this be Percy? Wiping her hands on her apron, Letitia ran for the door.
By the time she reached the entrance, Slater was already there, and the carriage reappeared on the driveway, rattling toward them at a dangerous speed. It was not Percy’s.
Its urgent progress brought on more deafening pounding of her heart. Oh Lord, please let it not be any bad news…
Moments later, she recognized her father’s traveling carriage. It continued without slowing down until it reached the portico, and the coachman stopped the sweating four horses inches from the steps. The footman sent by Slater barely had time to reach the carriage and roll down the steps before the Earl of Stanville’s feet stomped out, narrowly missing the servant’s hand.
Letitia stood all this time by the door. This was a surprise she hadn’t even considered. A tiny ray of hope fluttered in her heart. No doubt, her father came in answer to her letter.
But the hope died as soon as she saw his face.
“Good morning, Father.” She made an effort to sound happy, though his thunderous expression smothered all expectations. “Do come in and take some refreshments. Unfortunately, Percy is away. You should have let us know ahead that you’d planned a visit.”
“I had no such plans,” the earl barked, reaching the doorway. “I came to have a word with you.”
She indicated the door, then turned and preceded him just before he strode in. He tossed his hat at Slater, whose distant gaze focused on the wall above their heads.
Letitia directed the footman hovering by the drawing room door to bring the tea tray, but her father stopped him without ceremony.
“No! I’m leaving.”
“You are leaving so soon?” she asked when they found themselves in the drawing room. “Perhaps you can find time for a cup of tea.”
But he wasn’t even listening. He marched to the window and back toward her until they were mere feet apart.
“Do not ever send me anything like this again,” he hissed, pulling from his pocket her letter crumpled into a ball. “How dare he demand anything? The greedy bastard, did I not give him enough already?”
“Father,” she said, appalled by his language, “as long as you are under this roof, you will please refrain from referring to my husband in such a manner. Percy does not know about the letter. It was my idea.”
“Ah.” He scowled. “Then it is settled. You will keep from sending me any requests. In fact, you will keep from contacting me at all. I see no need for any exchange between us again. Good day to you!”
He shot her a furious glare, turned on his heel and marched out without further ado.
Letitia willed herself to stay where she was, fighting the growing pressure behind her eyes. Within moments, the carriage containing her father raced away in the same manner in which it had appeared, judging by the sounds that reached her from the driveway.
He might have been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. Perhaps that was what just happened. Her overanxious mind conjured him up in person. But then, would she not have a different answer if he were just a product of her hope?
From her place by the window, Letitia watched the diminishing cloud of dust marking her father’s departure and swallowed the tears that threatened to spill no matter what she did.
Why had he bothered to come at all? It would have been much easier to send a letter. No, he had to be traveling this way for other reasons, because it made no sense to come from London or Berkshire just to utter a sentence or two.
But above all, what was it about Wycombe Oaks that evoked such emotions? And why did her father’s demeanor ring with fear?
Chapter Twenty-Four
As soon as he had done his part with the contracts and ceded the rest to Welch, Percy was back in his carriage on a return journey. Thankfully, talk of invasion proved once more to be just talk, but he did not regret he had come to London. The contracts with the admiralty would bring more money that he could invest in Wycombe Oaks’ restoration.
But now he was impatient to be home.
Lettie was never completely out of his thoughts. Cooped up in the admiralty offices, Percy had spent idle time between his appointments imagining her on a stroll in Hyde Park or, even better, by his side in a curricle or a phaeton. Would she bring along that inseparable sketchbook and her brother’s knapsack?
He should take her somewhere next summer. Percy had always been sorry for not having had a chance to go on the grand tour when he left Cambridge ten years ago. But France had been ruled then by the madmen decapitating everybody and anybody, and generally for imaginary offenses. The whole Continent had been in turmoil. Soon after, he had become too engaged in running his estates. Then he had married. Sarah, though eager to spend time in London with Ethel at a moment’s notice, had always refused to go anywhere with him.
Lettie might not be averse to going to Wales. One of his mother’s estates was there, and he had never been to that rugged country. Or maybe they should tour the properties Stanville had ceded to him in the marriage contract. She should know what was hers.
A feeling of great tenderness washed over him. He missed her with an almost-physical pain. The nights in London were the first ones in more than a month he had spent alone. Without the soft body of a woman pressed against him. Without the pleasure of feeling the light weight of her arm draped over his chest, or her leg on top of his thigh. When he woke up with her so close, he found it difficult to move, reveling in her warmth and softness, while her deep, even breathing told him she was still asleep.
In all candor, until the evening she had braved the threshold to his bedchamber, he really had not known what being married could be like, what it could mean. Lettie would probably be very surprised to learn that until then he had never slept with a woman through the entire night, in the same bed, holding her in his arms and waking in the morning to the pleasure of more lovemaking.
Sarah had never let him stay in her room. Even during those first two weeks of their marriage she had always asked him to leave. He realized eventually that she had borne their physical contact out of duty, not affection. Contrary to what he had thought during their brief courtship, she was not a passionate woman.
But as the time passed, she had grown even colder, no matter what he did. Over the years, almost unnoticeably at first, his affection and desire for her had begun to couple more and more with feelings of inadequacy and guilt, until he had visited her bed only out of duty, hoping to give her the child she wanted so much. Even then he had often felt as if he were violating her. Her passive submission had made him awkward and nervous. Sarah had never desired him, and, eventually, his great love and passion had eroded until nothing but sadness and resignation remained in his heart.
Lettie, who had married him unwillingly and whom he had married with perfect indifference, turned out to be not only a passionate lover, but much more than he had ever expected: a graceful, intelligent, interesting and, by now, irreplaceable companion of his life.
He smiled, thinking how fortunate he was that she had followed his advice and thrown out the window the traditional way in which the affairs between a man and his wife were normally conducted—and moved into his bed. He had enjoyed each and every night since that first one. Perhaps it was Lettie’s uninhibited openness that had unleashed his own suppressed passion, making him feel freer than he had ever been with any other woman. Yet he sensed more in Lettie than only sexual desire. She wanted him as a person. And his soul, starved for a mate for so long, could not resist such temptation.
It also could not ignore the more and more insisten
t voice reminding him that this unforeseen happiness would not last. That he must tell Lettie.
Percy squeezed his eyes shut.
It was a depressing secret no man would want to reveal. Would she feel cheated? How was he going to bear her disappointment? Or even worse, her contempt? Just the thought of her reaction put him in the gloomiest of moods every time he allowed himself to dwell on it.
But he could not hide the ugly truth any longer. The sooner she knew it, the better.
A sharp stab of inadequacy poked him in the chest again. Of all things in his life, this one was beyond his power to mend. The sense of helplessness settled heavily over his shoulders. He was going to fail Lettie, just as he had failed Sarah.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Percy reached the Bromsholme stables just as the mid-September dusk began to thicken into full darkness. He left the horse to a stableboy who bounded out of the side corridor once his presence was noticed, and headed for the house. He had ridden most of the day, bent on avoiding another night of solitude under an inn roof.
But now, back home, the decision to tell Lettie everything dampened his joy and slowed his step. On one hand, it would be rather odd to greet her by launching into explanations she did not expect. On the other, did he have the right to put off his confession until tomorrow? To give himself the gift of one more night in the arms of the woman he loved with every fiber of his being, in spite of the disappointment he was going to deal her in the morning?
Slater hovered by the door, probably by coincidence.
“Shall I order your supper, sir?” he asked.
“Thank you, Slater. I wouldn’t mind a hot bath first if you can have that arranged. Is Lady Hanbury home?”
“No.” The butler shook his head. Percy’s heart plummeted all the way to the stone floor of the hall. “Her ladyship is dining with Mrs. Vernon at Harewood House today. Miss Fourier went with her.” He gazed outside into the growing darkness before closing the door. “Is Pergot not with you, sir?”
