Four Weddings and a Sixpence

by Julia Quinn

  Aunt Callie and Aunt Hennie could manage the basics of cooking, and their housemaid Martha knew a bit, too, so they would not starve. Provided, of course, that they had provisions to prepare. Enter Bea. She was a wreck in the kitchen, but shopping was nothing more than basic maths, right? She could buy ham. A leg of lamb? Not a problem. She did wonder at the extensiveness of the list she’d been given, though. Could they really need four loaves of bread? Two rashers of bacon? How much did her aunts intend to eat?

  With a shake of her head, she resolved to cut the list in half (at the very least), pulled open the door to Farnsworth’s Family Butchery (est. 1612, a longstanding Wallingford tradition), and smiled broadly at the proprietor.

  “Miss Heywood!” Mr. Farnsworth called out. “What brings you in? Mrs. Wembley still with her sister?”

  “Yes,” Bea replied, “for at least a week, I think, possibly even two.”

  Mr. Farnsworth sucked in his breath. “Glad I’m not a fly on that wall. She hates her sister.”

  “Really?” Bea asked.

  Mr. Farnsworth—ever the gossip—nodded. “Talks about her all the time when she’s in here. Wretched thorn in her side, she always says. But then again, she’s not exactly a stroll in the park, is she now?”

  Bea gave a little shrug and a nod, about as much of a response as she was prepared to offer. Mrs. Wembley was not particularly long of temper, but she was an excellent cook, and Bea saw no reason to antagonize her, even in absentia.

  “Don’t suppose any of you can cook,” the butcher said.

  “Well, we can manage toast.” Bea looked down at her list. “And bacon, apparently.”

  “Miss Martha knows her way around a kitchen,” Mr. Farnsworth said, reaching into his case. “Don’t let her tell you she doesn’t. Now, what do you need today?”

  “Aunt Hennie made up a list,” Bea said with a frowning shake of her head, “but I have to say, I think she may have been somewhat ambitious.” She held it forth, letting Mr. Farnsworth’s sausagy fingers take hold of the slip of paper.

  He chuckled aloud as he read Henrietta Heywood’s spidery writing. “Why don’t I just give you what Mrs. Wembley usually takes?”

  “That would be marvelous.” Bea fiddled with the clasp of her reticule. “How much will it be?”

  He waved her off. “You can put it on your account. I’ll send a bill at the end of the month.”

  “No, no, I would rather pay you now,” Bea said. She’d wrestled the household accounts from Aunt Hennie the previous month and had been horrified by the state of their finances. No more putting anything on account until their debts were paid off. Honestly, it was a wonder the village merchants still welcomed their business.

  “As you wish,” Mr. Farnsworth said equably. He did not mention that they still owed him over two pounds for previous purchases. For which Bea was quite grateful.

  “Anything else?” he inquired, handing her a chicken, thoughtfully cut into pieces. “I’m leaving off the leg of lamb. I don’t think you need it.”

  “Not to mention we don’t know how to cook it,” Bea said with a laugh.

  “Miss Martha knows,” he reminded her.

  “Martha’s got her hands full,” Bea assured him, “but I will certainly seek her advice should we need to prepare anything more complicated than eggs and toast.” She held up her package. “And bacon. Perhaps we shall eat breakfast all day long until Mrs. Wembley returns.”

  “Should I take back the chicken?”

  “Oh no, I’m only joking. Even I would grow tired of bacon after two weeks of nothing but. Now”—she set down her packages and pulled her change purse from her reticule—“how much do I owe you?”

  Mr. Farnsworth told her, and she counted out her coins, carefully avoiding the sixpence that she’d stashed in the purse after the wretched thing had nearly given her a blister the day before.

  “Here you are,” she murmured, dropping most of the necessary coins into the butcher’s hand. “Just one more pen—oh!”

  Bea didn’t know how it happened, and in fact she was of enough scientific mind that she knew it couldn’t possibly have happened, but she could have sworn the sixpence vaulted itself from her purse.

  And rolled right out the door just as another customer walked in.

  “Just a moment!” Bea yelped, abandoning her purchases as she dashed outside. The stupid coin might be the bane of her blistery existence these days, but she couldn’t lose it. What would her friends say?

  Practically tumbling down the two steps to the pavement, she looked this way and that until her eyes caught the glint of sunshine on metal and she launched forward.

  Just in time to see someone else’s hand scoop it up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said assertively. “That’s mine.”

  A man she did not recognize tossed the sixpence in the air and caught it neatly in an overhand grasp. “Used to be,” he said with a cheeky grin. “But it’s mine now.”

  She drew back, startled by his rudeness. “No, you don’t understand. I was in the butcher shop, and—”

  “And you let it go,” he interrupted. “Now it’s mine.”

  “Sir,” she said, scooting forward to block his way on the pavement. “I must protest. Mr. Farnsworth will attest to my honesty in this matter. He saw the whole thing.”

  But a quick glance over her shoulder told her that Mr. Farnsworth was busy with his other customer. And if Bea reentered the shop to attract his attention, the scoundrel before her would surely depart.

  “Look,” Bea said, trying to sound reasonable, “I’ll give you a different sixpence in its place.” Which was highway robbery, but what else could she do? She needed that coin. She did not believe it carried luck; in fact, she was quite certain it did not. But it was important. It held memories, happy ones of laughter and friendship.

  It was the one thing she and her friends still shared.

  The man drew back, his dark eyes flashing with new interest. “You’d pay me for this?”

  “I would.”

  “You’d give me a sixpence.”

  “Yes,” she ground out.

  His hand came up to stroke his chin. “Then I think you’d pay me double.”

  Bea gasped. “What?”

  He shrugged. “It’s obviously worth more to you than a sixpence.”

  “Oh, for—”

  “Is there a problem?” came a new voice.

  Bea had never thought she’d be delighted to see Lord Frederick Two-Names again (she’d quite forgotten what he was properly called), but she couldn’t have been more grateful to see him staring quizzically down at her with his one spectacular eye.

  “None at all,” the man—Bea refused to even think of him as a gentleman—said smoothly.

  “That’s not true!” Bea stood at attention, her arms like fisted sticks at her side. “This man has stolen my sixpence.”

  “Your sixpence,” Lord Frederick repeated, his tone possibly suggesting that he found this to be quite a lot of drama for a sixpence. Or maybe not. He had rather a cool countenance. Bea found him impossible to read.

  “It is my lucky sixpence,” she ground out, mortified to be saying such a thing to a man of science.

  Lord Frederick gave a dispassionate glance to the other man and said simply, “Give it back.”

  The man’s upper lip curled. “I picked it up off the ground.”

  “After it fell from my purse and rolled out of Farnsworth’s!” Bea cried, half ready to throw her arms up in frustration. “Honestly, I told him I’d give him a different sixpence, and now he’s demanded double.”

  “Is that so?” Lord Frederick murmured. But it was much more than a murmur. There was danger lurking in his voice, and when Bea caught sight of his face, she almost backed up a step.

  Some would say his eye patch lent him a menacing air, but Bea knew better. That eye patch was the only thing keeping him from incinerating the thief on the spot. His good eye was practically shooting fire; Bea couldn’t imagin
e what it would be like to face the full force of his glare.

  “Bollocks,” the thief spat, flicking the coin into the air toward Bea. “’Snot worth it.”

  The sixpence landed on the ground, and Bea stooped to retrieve it, deciding there was no point in a display of pride. But when she stood back up, she noticed that Lord Frederick had taken a step to his left, blocking the other man from departing.

  Bea’s eyes widened as Lord Frederick said with devastating quiet, “You will watch your language in front of a lady.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll have to hurt you.”

  Bea jumped forward. “Oh, this isn’t nec—”

  Lord Frederick silenced her with a hand, never once taking his eye off the scoundrel’s face. “Will you apologize,” he said, again with the menacing calm, “or will I hurt you?”

  The sixpence thief moved to slug his opponent in the belly, but Lord Frederick was too quick, and before Bea could even blink, he’d blocked the blow and landed a bruising punch to the other man’s face.

  Bea’s mouth fell open as the bounder dropped to the ground.

  She looked up at Lord Frederick, then back to the man on the ground, then back to Lord Frederick. “You didn’t have to . . .”

  “I assure you, I did.” He gazed down at his fist with a rueful expression. “I’m going to feel this tomorrow.” He stretched his gloved fingers, then bent them again, wincing as he went through the motion. “Pity.”

  “I should get you some ice.” Bea glanced over her shoulder at the butcher shop. “Perhaps Mr. Farnsworth . . .” Her words trailed off when she realized that Lord Frederick had, without seeming to look down, planted his foot on the thief’s midsection, preventing him from rising.

  “An apology, if you please,” Lord Frederick demanded.

  “For the love of—”

  Lord Frederick’s boot made a rather sudden shift in position.

  “I’m sorry!” the man yelled.

  “Very well, then,” His Lordship said, removing his foot. He turned back to Bea. “May I escort you to your next engagement?”

  “Oh,” Bea said, feeling strangely breathless, “that’s not . . .” She took one look at his face—utterly impassive and polite, and yet with that hint of ferocity in his eye—and revised her statement. “Thank you,” she said. “That would be most welcome.”

  He nodded and held out his arm, but she motioned to Farnsworth’s. “I need to retrieve my purchases. If you don’t mind . . .”

  “I will await you here,” he confirmed.

  Bea scurried back into the shop, where Mr. Farnsworth was still helping a customer, seemingly oblivious to the drama that had unfolded on his storefront pavement.

  “Miss Heywood,” he said in his usual jovial tones. “It’s all right there on the counter.”

  She nodded her thanks, and then, deciding that she had no need to witness the thief’s departure, took just a little bit longer than was necessary to make her way back outside.

  Sure enough, Lord Frederick was now alone on the pavement, tucking his pocket watch away just as she emerged. “Miss Heywood,” he said, reaching for her packages.

  Bea stood dumbly for a moment before releasing them into his care. She was so used to fending for herself—and of course for her two aunts. The mere motion of handing her parcels to a gentleman felt rusty.

  “I need to stop by the baker’s,” Bea said awkwardly. “Some bread, I think, and scones, if she’s baked some today.”

  He dipped his head graciously and allowed her to lead the way.

  “I don’t normally do all the shopping,” Bea heard herself explain. “Our cook has gone to Nottinghamshire to be with her sister. She’s sick. The sister, that is, not our cook.”

  Why on earth was she saying all this?

  “With a lung ailment,” she blurted out.

  And why couldn’t she seem to stop?

  “I do hope she feels better soon,” Lord Frederick said. His lips curved. “The sister, that is. Not your cook.”

  His voice held enough warmth to indicate that he was teasing, and she smiled sheepishly. “I’m sure Mrs. Wembley would welcome your well wishes, too. She’s likely half out of her mind by now.” And then, because such a statement seemed to require further explanation, she confided, “She’s not terribly fond of her sister.”

  He cracked a smile. “All the more admirable that she’s gone to care for her, then.”

  “It’s what you do,” Bea said, cocking her head to the side as she looked up at him. “When you’re family.”

  “I suppose it is. Although I must say, I can’t imagine any of my brothers rushing to my side for a lung ailment.”

  “No? What about—” Bea cut herself off in horror. She’d almost asked about his eye. What on earth was she thinking?

  There was a beat of silence, just long enough for Bea to want to dig a hole and throw herself in it.

  But then Lord Frederick turned to her with a wry expression and said, “They did come for that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, the words tumbling from her lips.

  “Don’t be.”

  “But I am. It was so terribly rude of me, and—”

  “Stop,” he said, and while she was still desperately trying to determine just how badly she’d offended him, he added, “please.”

  She swallowed and nodded, wanting more than anything to render yet another apology. But that would clearly be the wrong thing to do, and it made Bea wonder how often apologies were rendered for the sake of the giver, rather than the recipient.

  “It was a carriage accident,” he said abruptly.

  Bea looked over in surprise. She had not expected him to say anything further on the subject. And she had the strangest feeling that he hadn’t expected it, either.

  “I still have the eye.” He looked over at her, and she realized that he had positioned himself on her right. Did he do that as a matter of course, so that he might more easily see his companion? She closed her left eye, intending to assess her own peripheral vision, then quickly opened it again. Had he seen her? She did not want him to think she was mocking him.

  He gave a little smile—a very little smile, actually, but there was just enough ruefulness to it to tell her that he’d seen what she’d done and he understood why. “I’m told it’s disconcerting,” he continued. “It’s quite clearly sightless.”

  She nodded. She had seen people with blind eyes. It was difficult not to look, especially at first meeting.

  “I expect that I damaged the surrounding muscle,” he continued, surprising her with his forthcoming manner. “It does not move properly. Nor does the pupil dilate and contract.”

  “Really?” she said, turning to him with interest. How fascinating. Gruesome, but fascinating.

  He blinked, looking vaguely surprised by her tone.

  Bea thought for a moment. “I wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said quickly. Where on earth were her manners? She had just sworn to herself that she wasn’t going to ask questions, and then the very first chance, I wonder popped out of her mouth.

  She’d always been far too curious for her own good.

  “What do you wonder?” he pressed.

  She sucked at the inside of her cheek, debating the wisdom of further inquiry before deciding that he didn’t seem too terribly angry with her. And she was curious . . .

  “Does it give you headaches?” she asked.

  His lips twisted into an endearingly dry smile. “I was clouted on the head with the better part of a chaise and four, so yes, there have been headaches.”

  “No,” she said, laughing despite herself, “I mean now. Because of the light.”

  A wrinkle formed in his brow. “I’m not certain I grasp your meaning.”

  “If your pupil does not expand and contract properly,” Bea explained, “it cannot regulate the amount of light entering into your eye.”

  His head tilted, indicatin
g for her to go on.

  “I am sometimes afflicted with a headache when the air is overly bright,” she continued. “But is that because I am seeing the light or simply because it’s there?”

  He stared at her.

  “Does one actually have to see the light to be caused pain by it,” she explained. “Or to be more precise, to realize that one sees it. I wonder if . . .” She felt her cheeks begin to grow warm. Her words had wandered off among her own thoughts, something they did all too often in the face of scientific inquiry. “I’m sorry,” she said, forgetting that she hadn’t meant to apologize to him again. “You must think I’m terribly silly.”

  “No,” he said slowly, “I think you’re probably quite brilliant.”

  Her lips parted. Honestly, she forgot to breathe.

  “I do get headaches,” he confirmed. “But I have no idea if it’s because of the light. I’m not sure that there is a way to determine the cause.”

  “I suppose not.” Bea frowned. The sciences had not been a feature of her education at Madame Rochambeaux’s, but what she had lacked in formal schooling she had made up for with a voracious appetite for books, and she was well familiar with the scientific method. To properly determine if bright light was causing his headaches, one would need to eliminate all other causes, but surely that would be impossible, given that he had, as he’d said, been whacked over the head with a good portion of a carriage.

  Or perhaps it was the bad portion. She rather thought any portion of a carriage was bad if it was connecting with one’s skull.

  “Miss Heywood?”

  She looked up into his amused expression. “Sorry. Woolgathering.”

  “I’d offer you a penny for your thoughts, but I rather think a sixpence would be more in order.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “I suppose you think I’m very silly.”

  He quirked a brow.

  “Lucky coin and all that.” She was embarrassed even to mention it, but after his gallant behavior, she didn’t think she had the right to avoid the topic. Although he would never know the full truth of it—that her friends were convinced it would lead her to true love.