by Lorri Dudley
“Darling.” He brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and his fingers left a streak of crimson down her moon-pale face. “I’m here. Everything’s going to be all right.” He desperately scanned up and down the street and screamed a hoarse plea. “Help! Somebody, help us!” Where were all the people strolling the avenue only minutes before?
The only reply was the scuffled footsteps of the leader. He reached down to brandish the weapon while his accomplice stood there immobile.
Harrison’s gaze dropped back to Laura. The lines of pain faded from her face, softening her features, and her hands moved to her belly. Her breathing shallowed as blood filled her lungs. She couldn’t speak, but she mouthed the words, I love you.
Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Don’t leave me.”
But the light in her eyes dulled. Waves of grief inundated him, and a choked moan escaped his lips, “No, God, please no. Not her.” He rocked back and forth. “Not Laura.” He glanced down through the haze of tears. Her arms were still wrapped around her stomach. As if she embraced their unborn child while they slid together into eternity.
The henchman yanked his scarf down and knelt next to him. Harrison watched the man’s chapped lips move, but no sound could penetrate the haze in his mind. A deep scar on the man’s upper lip zig-zagged back and forth as finally the words came through. “I-I didn’t mean to do it. It just went off. I didn’t shoot ‘er.”
“You fool,” growled the leader. “You let him see your face.”
A second explosion sounded, and Harrison tumbled into darkness.
It was daylight when he awoke chilled to the bone and face down in the damp earth. His head ached like an ax had embedded in his skull, and his extremities stung with a prickling numbness.
He licked his dry lips and tasted the slimy tang of mud.
“This one’s been picked clean already.” The small voice seemed to come from beyond a thick fog. “We could get a pretty farthing for ‘is boots.”
A sharp pain jabbed in his side. “Uff.”
“This bloke’s still alive,” a young boy cried.
Harrison’s hands slid through thick mire laced with pebbles. A sense of foreboding loomed, but his brain felt as if the sludge had somehow seeped in, making every thought painful.
He attempted to push himself up. Clumps of dirt and water reeds tugged on the right side of his beard. He lifted his upper body an inch, but his arms were as weak as a newborn babe’s. He collapsed back into the muck.
Hands tugged and pulled at him until he was rolled onto his back. The sun pierced his eyes like knives, sharpening that ax in his head. He squinted at the hovering shadows until one of the figures leaned over him, blocking the sun. Harrison blinked as his eyes adjusted.
Boys. Two skinny lads who couldn’t be older than ten stared down at him. Dirt smudged their small faces and caked their overalls. Their pants were rolled up to their knees, and they stood wiggling their bare toes in the slime of the riverbed.
Mudlarks. He’d never expected to encounter the young children he’d often seen trolling the Thames at low tide searching for treasure. Seems they had no qualms about stealing from the corpses, but he wasn’t a corpse.
What was he doing in the Thames? Harrison forced himself to remember, and once he did, the crushing pain nearly pressed him back into the mud.
Not his beloved Laura, his beautiful wife. The echo of the gunshot rang in his ears. Flashes of her pale skin and the crimson blood on her lips ripped through his mind. God, why? She’d been with child. They’d just been talking about names. The deep ache in his heart squeezed the air from his lungs.
He closed his eyes, willing himself into nothingness, ready for death’s cold grip. His son would grow up without a mother and never know his little brother or sister.
Maxwell. He forced his eyes open as he pictured the boy branding Laura with a sloppy wet kiss before being led off to bed by his nursemaid. He was probably waiting by the window for them to return home.
With newfound strength, Harrison struggled to a seated position and whispered through lips encumbered with mud, “Bow Street. Find a Bow Street Runner.”
The boys took off running.
Harrison held his throbbing head in his hands. But no physical pain could hurt as much as the ache in his heart.
Current Day
Georgia gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “You were shot? And your wife and child…” Her breath was but a whisper. “I can’t imagine. How did you… How are you still alive?”
How? Why was he spared and not Laura? That was the real question, and one to which he didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know why God spared me. Even though I won’t know this side of heaven why God chose to take Laura and the baby, I’m grateful that Max didn’t lose both of his parents that night. I can only trust God had a reason, because I should have been dead. Somehow the bullet only grazed my temple.” He released a sigh that seemed to hollow out his entire being. “You never anticipate one small impulsive decision setting the tide of life against you.”
They sat in silence as the scenery floated past. Georgia leaned against him as if to absorb some of his pain. Like she understood, and in some way, he knew she did. Since telling the investigators, he’d never retold the full account of what happened that night. He exhaled a long breath and released years of pent-up despair. He glanced down at Georgia’s small frame resting her golden head on his shoulder.
Would she now recognize his true identity? He cleared his throat. “I appreciate you allowing me to re-tell my tale. Surely, you’ve heard it circulated?”
She lifted her head, and her eyes were twin pools of sorrow. “Yours is a tragic story. I’m so sorry for what you suffered.” She peered over her shoulder at Max’s sleeping form. “And Max, my heart breaks for him.”
“You hadn’t heard it before?”
Her slender brows drew together. “The story is vaguely familiar.”
She must have seen his shock for she began to explain further. “Please, don’t be offended. Papa and Mama didn’t discuss much in front of me, and back then, I was still behaving like a boy and didn’t listen to my sisters’ silly, girlie gossip. Then, when I had my first season, I became fodder for the tongue waggers. In order to escape their scathing remarks about my behavior, I avoided all forms of gossip. I still find myself wanting to take cover when someone has a juicy tidbit.”
He chuckled to himself. God, you have an amazing sense of humor. Who would have thought you’d send this exasperating, impertinent woman to help heal my wounded soul?
As they pulled up in front of Fredrick’s house, Max still slept soundly in the back of the wagon. Harrison assisted her down from the carriage and walked her up the steep stairs to the main door. “Thank you again for your help at the school.”
“I truly enjoyed it.” Her eyes reflected genuine honesty.
“If you’d like to come again, we could arrange it.”
She smiled, and Harrison felt his breath catch at the beauty of it. “I would like that.”
The door swung open, and Hattie’s large form filled the entrance. “Dere you are. We’ve been callin’ after you. The dress lady is here for yer fittins.”
Hattie shooed Georgia inside to a flurry of activity. As he walked back down the steps toward the wagon, his heart grew heavy with a restless uncertainty. He paused, wondering what God was trying to tell him. No inner voice pressed words into his spirit, so he climbed into the front seat.
A sleepy Max awoke and crawled over the seatback to sit next to him. He draped an arm over his son and pulled him closer.
“Papa?”
“Yeah, son.”
“I like Miss Georgia.”
Harrison’s lips couldn’t seem to help a grin. “What do you like about her?”
“I dunno.” He let out a yawn. “She likes all the same things I do, and she looks out for me. She lets me take all the credit for catching the big fish, even though she does most of the work.” Max turned to fa
ce him. “She can’t take Mama’s place, but maybe Miss Georgia could be my earthly mama until we get to see Mama in heaven? Do you think?”
A tingle shot down his spine. “Well, uh…” He stuttered, searching for words that wouldn’t break the heart of an eight-year-old. “We will … er … have to pray about that.”
“Papa?”
“Yes, Max?”
“I have been praying for it.”
Those words pierced Harrison’s heart, bringing the sting of hot tears to his eyes. His son wanted an earthly mother, and he’d been praying for Georgia to fill the role. He glanced up into the bright afternoon sky and wondered if God was already working on his answer.
Chapter 16
…Though small, the island has many of the amenities you would find in London, and we do not lack. There is even going to be a ball at the Artesian Hotel. It is to be a grand affair.
—From Lady Tessa Pickering to her sister-in-law, Nora Lennox
Max’s question filled Harrison’s thoughts as he stared at his meager wardrobe. He fingered the different fabrics. In London, he’d had closets full of clothing. How had he let his apparel get this bad? He pushed through his everyday wear into the back of the closet and imagined Georgia’s face when she saw him at his finest instead of his worn regular dress. One of her genuine smiles would make the effort worth it.
She’d assisted him in the schoolhouse every day since that first. She took to teaching so well that by the end of each afternoon, Harrison would swear she practically glowed.
Today, she’d been especially joyful, but he attributed it to anticipation for the ball. All of the Islanders were abuzz about it. Nevis had many small social gatherings, but every Rousseau gathering at the Artesian Hotel was the grandest.
Typically, Harrison avoided such pomp and stance. Rousseau used the ball as a way to show off his station and the luxuries it afforded him, even if they were ill-gotten off the backs of mistreated slaves. The man was an oily tyrant who thought he was the self-appointed king of Nevis.
Harrison’s jaw tightened. The idea of Georgia being paraded around on Rousseau’s arm as if she were an expensive bauble was what had made Harrison start digging through his closet for something to don.
He selected a couple of jackets. Hopefully, one would still fit. He hadn’t dressed in his finest since…since London. Laura’s face appeared before him, hazy in his memory. He could still summon her smile and hear her laughter ringing, but the rest of her faded like the early morning mist in the warmth of the sun. He wanted to grasp hold of her memory, but as always, pain followed in a flash of light and the echo of a piercing gunshot. Her final moments as the light left her eyes were forever etched in his memory. He wiped his hand on his trousers as if he could still feel the vibrant crimson of her blood, warm and sticky on his fingers. Fresh agony stabbed his heart, making it impossible for him to move until it passed. Why would the beauty of her life fade, but the raw anguish of her death remain so vivid?
Harrison shook his head to clear it, forcing his attention back to his clothing. A loose thread hung from a jacket. In his past, such a thing would have been unacceptable. He tugged the string loose and slid his arms into his double-breasted waistcoat. The formal black had grown a bit snug in the shoulders, but the fine kerseymere hadn’t faded.
After lifting his collar points, his fingers fumbled to tie his cravat into a proper knot. His valet used to be able to tie it with his eyes closed. Harrison peered into the looking glass, but instead of seeing a sophisticated dandy from the upper echelons of polite society, he pictured Beau Brummell, the acknowledged leader of fashion, casting him a contemptuous eye and saying, “Linton, old chap, do you call this a coat?”
Harrison flicked dust off the shoulder. He was well inlaid. Why had he allowed himself to become so common? Part of him had stopped caring. Who needed fancy clothes to oversee a sugar plantation and teach children? The fickle idols of high society no longer mattered to him. He enjoyed the anonymity of his current life. He savored the privacy. Why then did he now stand before the looking glass, dressed in outdated clothes and longing for something a bit more luxurious?
Max rushed in like a whirling waterspout. “Papa, Papa.” He skidded to a stop and whistled. “Wow, Papa, you look bang-up-to-the-mark.”
Harrison smiled at his son’s awed expression, suddenly feeling like he was prepared to meet with the king himself.
“Are you going to the Artesian Hotel?” Max’s voice was breathless with excitement. “Will Miss Georgia be there? Will you dance with her?”
“Slow down. That’s a lot of questions.”
Max’s brows lowered into a frown. He dragged over a nearby chair, crawled on top, and stood up until he was close to eye-level with his papa. His eyes narrowed with an intense gaze. He wiggled his papa’s cravat.
“Better,” he said, then smiled. “So, what’s your plan?”
When did his son turn into a man?
“I’m going to the Artesian Hotel, and yes, Miss Lennox will also be in attendance, along with Lady Pickering and Uncle Fredrick. There will be dancing, but whether I decide to dance is still to be determined.”
Harrison gazed at the younger version of himself and ruffled his son’s hair. In a few years, he’d be gracing the ballrooms of the Quality. Harrison’s brow furrowed. Or would he?
Of course, he would. Harrison had written the Prince Regent and explained his situation. Certainly, the Prince would grant him an extension. It wasn’t like he’d never planned to return to England.
His anticipation of the coming night dissipated, and his jaw clenched. Heat simmered under his cravat and threatened to spread, poisoning his peace, but he’d not let his anger get the best of him.
God, help me to forgive. Help me to see their reasoning. He knew his in-laws merely desired to see their only grandson, but Max and he had established a life here on the island. His in-laws could travel the Atlantic to visit if they chose.
Instead of writing him to communicate their wishes, they’d sought the ear of the Prince to petition for his and Max’s return. Harrison didn’t enjoy being threatened. If it had been anyone other than Lord and Lady Chadwick, Laura’s parents, the Prince would have laughed at the request. But because of their rank, and his distant cousin, Viscount Ashburnham, spreading rumors about the Duke of Linton’s demise, the Prince Regent summoned him and Max to return. He even threatened to give Harrison’s lands and title to his blasted cousin if Harrison didn’t appear within two months’ time.
Even though Harrison requested an extension, there was no way to know whether his request was granted or if it had even found its way to Prince George. There was every possibility the Prince would make good on his threat. Every day that Harrison stayed on Nevis, he jeopardized his son’s legacy.
Harrison drew in a ragged breath. There was still time. He needed to make certain Fredrick was well cared for before he left. It was why he’d sent for Georgia. And he hadn’t left since her arrival because she’d behaved like she might turn around and sail back to London at any moment.
First she’d been eager to escape back into the grasp of the Earl of Claremont. He remembered all too clearly the earl’s wandering eyes and lustful attempts to lure young women into isolated rooms or darkened arbors. Harrison’s fingers balled into fists as he considered the rogue laying a hand on Georgia.
He didn’t miss the lowered morals of the upper classes. Why did they believe wealth and connections allowed them the right to sin at will? As long as they were discrete, a blind eye would be turned at the frequent romps in the gardens or adulterous affairs among the peerage. Tonight at the Artesian Hotel, he would step back into a microcosm of his old world.
But he was no longer his old self. He was a new creation. God, get me through this.
“If you stick with Miss Georgia, Papa”—Max observed him with a pair of serious brown eyes— “she’ll know what to do. She’s always showing me all that proper stuff. They have a lot of silly rules, but don’t w
orry. She’ll help you.”
Harrison envisioned the soaking wet and outraged Georgia in her pink dress, pink shoes, pink gloves, and matching pink parasol, her eyes spewing sparks as she stood in the wagon. I’m not going anywhere with the likes of you. Oh, yes, she’d help him all right.
He slid his hands under his son’s arms, lifted him off the chair, and placed him back on the floor. He grasped Max’s small shoulder and pulled him against his side. “That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll do just that.” And he would. If he could focus on keeping the supercilious Georgia off balance enough for her true self to make an appearance, he’d not only survive the night, there was a good chance he’d enjoy it.
Georgia’s hand rested on the smooth, superfine material of her father’s jacket as their open curricle bounced over the cobblestones, then pulled up in front of the Artesian Hotel. He’d been almost giddy throughout the day, anticipating the ball.
Papa’s excitement made him appear ten years younger, and he kept glancing at her with sparkling eyes. “My little caterpillar has grown into a butterfly. You have your mother’s beauty. I couldn’t take my eyes off her the first time I saw her across the room at Almacks. I dragged my cousin away from his dance partner for an introduction.” A deep sorrow resonated in his voice. “She has never been far from my thoughts since.”
“You truly love her still, don’t you?”
“I’ll never stop.” The sadness in his eyes gave truth to his words.
Georgia never considered how painful leaving must have been for her father. Would she know a love that deep? She didn’t expect love from Julien. What Papa and Mama shared was unique. A great love with colossal highs and desolate lows.
