by Rose Gordon
“Aye, sir. I told yer coachman I would.”
“And will you take them for a walk and rub them down each day for an extra two crowns?”
The young boy's brown eyes tripled in size. “Aye, sir. I can do that.”
“Very good,” Henry said, flipping a coin in the youth's direction. “I'll give you the other when I get back and see that they've been taken care of.”
“Aye, sir,” the boy said, looking at the crown. He closed his fingers around it, forming a fist. “I'll take good care of the horses; you'll see.”
“Very good.”
“We're not taking the horses with us?” Laura asked in confusion, when they left the stable and she saw their driver hitching up the two grey horses she'd seen him walking with earlier.
“The journey is too long. We'll board ours and rent horses the rest of the way.”
“Rent horses?” That was the most absurd thing she'd ever heard.
“It'll go faster that way,” he explained, helping her into the carriage. “Otherwise we won't be able to travel as far each day.”
How strange. When she'd traveled from Georgia to New York, they'd had to use their horses the entire way, stopping often for the horses to drink and at night when they were tired, even if it was only mid-afternoon. When the horse was tired, it was time to stop.
Their meal was good, if not a bit overcooked. But Laura didn't mind. In the days when she was a servant in a New York boarding house, she'd learned just how hard everyone worked at those places, and far be it for her to complain about something so trivial and only cause more suffering for the help. She herself had done every chore imaginable, from carrying buckets of hot water up multiple flights of stairs for the personal baths of the wealthy to scrubbing the taproom on her hands and knees with an old wire brush. She hadn't had much choice, unless she capitulated and donned her best gown to entertain the male patrons.
She shivered. Desperation was a powerful incentive, prompting one to do things they'd never do otherwise; but she'd been fortunate enough to survive by selling the majority of the meager belongings she'd been allowed to keep and working at the boarding house to save up enough for passage to England for her and the four gowns she'd refused to part with. She knew she'd never have the funds to buy such gowns again. She also knew she'd need a few nice gowns to bring with her to England if she were to press Elijah to honor the contract. She could easily pretend the rest of her things were lost en route, but she still had to have some nice things.
“Are you ready, Laura? Or would you like another chance to use the necessary?”
“I'm ready now.” She cast a snarl in the direction of the pathetic outhouse. “If I have to go that desperately, I shall just endeavor to use a bush.”
“And if that happens, I shall endeavor to help you by holding your skirt.”
Laura hoped that wouldn't happen; but no less than two hours later, she had to go. It didn't help that every time there was so much as a pebble in the road, the carriage bumped and jolted, making her need that much more urgent, compounded only by Henry's seemingly innocent recollections of his antics as a boy—most of which involved water.
“Henry?” she said, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence about the trips down to the creek he and Elijah used to take as boys.
“Yes?”
“I need to...er....” She bit her lip and pointed out the window.
Henry moved the curtains to the side. “Climb a tree?”
“No.”
“Visit a well?”
“Heavens no,” she blurted. “It's Something else.”
He looked at her blankly.
She dug her teeth into her lip. Was he trying to be obtuse, or did he really not know? “Henry, I need to use a bush.”
“Oh,” he said, frowning. He tapped the top of the carriage. “You should have just said so.”
“I'm sorry; I was trying to be discreet,” she muttered, praying he wouldn't notice the hostility she was certain was filling her voice.
He flicked his wrist. “No need to be discreet. My father wouldn't stop the carriage for us boys unless we told him we had to piss like a racehorse.”
For the second time this morning, Laura's jaw dropped. “Your father? Wasn't he a baron?”
“Yes, he was,” Henry acknowledged, nodding. “He might have had a title, but he wasn't above being scandalous whenever the opportunity presented itself.”
“And your mother, she didn't mind?” That was a stupid question. On this side of the Atlantic or the other, wives all played the same role: do whatever their husbands wanted them to do, speak only when spoken to, and be as agreeable as possible.
“Actually, I think she thought it was humorous—though she was very good at keeping a straight face.” He hollered out the window for the coachman to stop. “You have to understand, my mother is very—”
“Docile,” she blurted before she could think better of it.
He shook his head. “No. Some might think so, but those are the ones who don't know her very well. She's just soft spoken. But she certainly has a mind, which she speaks; and a sense of humor that she shares with those she's close to.”
“Oh,” she said quietly as the carriage came to a stop. It wasn't very likely that Henry's mother would ever care overmuch for Laura. Her stepmother hadn't and neither had Mrs. Swift; Henry's mother would be no different.
As if sensing her thoughts, Henry reached forward and, using the tips of his fingers, tipped her chin up so she'd be forced to look into his eyes. “She'll love you.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because you'll be my wife.”
~Chapter Eighteen~
Like the good husband he'd vowed he'd be to her one day, Henry did what he could to help Laura find a private spot to attend to her personal needs. She wouldn't let him near her, of course, and that was just as well. He had no real desire to put either of them through such humiliation.
When she finished, he helped her back into the carriage and on they went.
Two hours later, it was time to change horses again and have a bit of refreshment; then it was back on the road again.
Most young couples eloping would go to Gretna Green, for it was known for its hasty marriages—some of which literally took place over an anvil.
But Gretna Green or Lamberton or just a field across Scotland's border, it didn't matter. In Scotland, all it took was for the two people to proclaim themselves in front of two witnesses and they were forever married. Laura didn't strike him as one who'd love to think back to her wedding day and remember standing in a dirty smithy shop reciting her vows. He'd never seen her as happy as when they were horseback riding or dancing, and unless he were gravely mistaken, he had a feeling she'd far rather have a wedding in an open field, which is what he hoped they'd find when they arrived.
In the interim, he'd have to remember to keep his hands to himself and make idle chit chat.
The idle chat-chat was easy enough. He asked a string of inane questions about her favorite color—which was red; book—she didn't have one because she didn't like to read; flower—hepatica, something native to the Southern United States if he had to guess; hero—George Washington; then when she was done answering, he answered the same: green; anything fiction and unromantic; he didn't care, a flower was a flower; and his hero was his father. Of course, that perplexed her, and he could understand, given the things he'd said about his own father; but nonetheless, the late Edward Banks, Lord Watson, was the hero to many young men, Henry notwithstanding.
Now, the keeping his hands to himself bit was a tad more challenging. Even in a crumpled gown and with her hair falling all over the place, she was breathtaking and he itched to touch her. But he wouldn't; not until they were married. He owed her that much. For how could he be a good husband if he couldn't first be a good intended? Besides, how romantic could it possibly be to consummate your relationship in a carriage that concealed no noise?
At night, he did h
is best to guard her reputation and paid for separate rooms, something he had no plans of doing on the way back. No, on the way back, they'd share a room and a bed; and if his desire for her now was any indication for how it would be on the way back, it'd take them two weeks to return to Watson Estate with all the stops he planned to make on the return trip. He shifted in his seat.
“Would you like one of these blankets?”
Henry started, “Pardon?”
Laura patted the stack of black lap blankets folded next to her. “Would you like to sit on one? It might help make you more comfortable for about forty-five seconds.”
“Oh.” She must have noticed his shifting and made the assumption that he was uncomfortable, which he was, but not from sitting. It was a different type of discomfort. One she probably didn't understand. Or perhaps she did... She was married once before. He cleared his throat. “As wonderful as forty-five seconds of comfort sound, I'm actually not too terribly uncomfortable. I've traveled in all sorts of conveyances for the better part of the past decade; so this carriage, while not the best sprung, isn't so bad.” He flashed her a grin. “I guess my bottom just got numb somewhere along the way. But if you're uncomfortable, I can have the coach stop so you can get out and walk around a while.”
“No. It took a while to get accustomed to all of the bouncing, but I'm not exactly uncomfortable. You forget, I have about a foot of padding under my skirts.”
Why yes, I had forgotten that; perhaps I need to take a peek under them to remind myself of just what you're wearing. He bit his tongue to keep such a vulgar statement to himself. Her previous declaration might have been an oversight on her part: whether because she was sheerly exhausted or, in her American way, didn't realize she'd spoken so scandalously, he'd never know; but it didn't mean he needed to say anything inappropriate in response.
“We'll be there tomorrow morning,” he said softly. “We'll stop within about two hours of the border tonight, then cross tomorrow morning.”
She nodded and turned back to stare out the window.
“Do you see anything of interest?”
She shrugged. “It's starting to all look the same, but it's still beautiful.”
Henry craned his neck to look out over the endless green fields and the rolling hills in the distance. He'd been all over England, the continent and even the world for his work, never once stopping to think about the landscape. “It is beautiful,” he commented, surprising himself.
She shot him a wry look. “Did you just now reach that conclusion?”
“Actually, yes.”
Shaking her head, Laura returned her attention to the window. “Does Scotland look like this, too?”
“I have no idea,” he murmured. “I'd assume so, at least the southern part.”
“Have you never been to Scotland?” If he wasn't mistaken, it sounded like there was a glimmer of something foreign in her voice, excitement perhaps.
“I've been.” More times than he cared to count, he'd been there to shut down some whiskey stills.
“Is there anywhere you haven't been?”
“The Amazon.”
She turned to face him, her brows knitted together. “The Amazon?”
“It's a river in South America,” he explained. He stretched his feet out in front of himself as best he could and crossed his ankles.
“Why would you want to go there?”
He tipped one shoulder up in a lopsided shrug. “Because I've never been.”
“And of all the places to go, you'd want to go to a river in South America?”
“Yes,” he said, matching her flat tone. He idly rubbed the sides of his shoes together and snorted softly. “When I met you in New York, I was supposed to be down in South America, exploring the Amazon.”
“You were? But I thought you were a spy.” She clapped her hand over her mouth with an echoing pop.
“I was. And I was exactly where they'd sent me; but Elijah and I had told our family that we were going to explore the Amazon, and if the opportunity presented itself, we might sneak into the United States.” A lead weight pressed against his chest. Had they truly been in South America when Alex had sent word of Father's condition, they'd have made it back to spend more than mere hours at his bedside. Instead, Alex had sent it to where they'd told him they'd be staying in South America; then the agent who was there had to find a way to get word to Henry and Elijah. By the time they'd gotten word and found a safe port to travel home from, they'd missed the majority of his illness and were only there to say their goodbyes.
Laura's voice floated to his ears. He swallowed convulsively to get past the lump of emotion that had lodged itself in his throat. “I'm sorry; what did you say?”
Her face fell. “Nothing.”
“No, it was something.” He sat up straight. “Would you please repeat it?”
“I just wondered how you became a spy.”
“Elijah.”
“Elijah?” she repeated, frowning. “Don't tell me, your mare started losing races against the other boys' horses so you decided to spy and see if Elijah was wearing her out before the race?”
“No,” he said with a chuckle. “I knew the rascal had been doing that.” He wagged a finger. “And don't think for one moment that I didn't get him back for it.”
Laura's eyebrows lifted. “I wouldn't dream of doubting a brother seeking revenge. Dare I ask what you did in return?”
“Castor oil.”
She cringed. “Remind me not to get on your dark side.”
“That won't be a problem. A twelve-year-old boy uses underhanded tactics; a man of seven-and-twenty uses his words.” He scratched his jaw. “But that isn't what you wanted to talk about. You wanted to know how it was I ended up in New York, staying with your in-laws while our countries were at war with one another.”
She offered a slim smile. “I didn't realize I was so transparent.”
“I'd be curious, too.” He shrugged out of his overcoat and loosened his cravat. The carriage was hot and those articles of clothing only added to the heat. “When I was eighteen, Elijah and I were caught fleeing a boat that was carrying whiskey into England. When we were caught, we were given the option to work for the crown or go to the gaol. It didn't take half of a second to decide that, and for over nine years, we traveled wherever they wanted us to go, including the United States.”
“Was Mr. Swift somehow involved in the war?”
“I don't know. I wasn't really there to spend much time with Mr. Swift. I was there to gain introductions to his friends—those who might be funding the war. But we never could find out who those were, or even if they existed; and when word reached us about my father, we were relieved of our mission.”
“Did you make it?”
He took a hard swallow. “Barely; we had to find a port in Canada that could bring us up to Scandinavia. Then we traveled by a combination of steam packets and mail coaches to get here with only hours to spare.”
“I'm sorry.” Her voice was a broken whisper and her eyes shone with what appeared to be tears.
“It's not your fault. It's not anybody's fault. It was just the circumstances.”
She nodded sadly, wiping away a tear.
“Gads, you didn't even know him, Laura.” He hated tears. Hated them. For as tall and strong as he was, with the ability to maneuver without being caught or act out any role ever given him, the only thing that had the ability to gnaw at him and make him feel absolutely helpless was tears.
“Perhaps not your father,” she said with a sniffle, turning to look out the window.
Her gesture, so simple and without malice, was the equivalent of a punch to the gut. “When did your father die?”
She didn't respond.
“Laura?”
She faced him and blinked back tears; her eyes now red around the rims and glistening with tears.
Whether from instinct or a strange surge of protectiveness, Henry reached over and pulled her onto his lap. “How old were you
?”
“I—I don't know.”
“You don't know?” He didn't mean for it to sound as if he were mocking her; it just came out that way. If it had been so long ago that she didn't remember how old she'd been, she likely didn't even remember the man; so why on earth was she crying?
Laura closed her eyes and a sob wracked her body. “When I was seventeen, he took me to New York to marry and then returned to Georgia.”
Henry's arms tightened a fraction around Laura. “He might still be alive,” he said hopefully.
She shook her head sadly. “No. He'd been sick for some time. The doctor advised him not to travel to New York, just to stay home and enjoy what time he had left. But he'd insisted on seeing me wed.”
The unspoken reality of her father's fate hung in the air. If he'd survived the return journey, he'd undoubtedly perished by now. It had been at least seven years. “I'm sorry,” Henry whispered hoarsely against her hair.
She looked down to where her bare hands were folded in her lap, her body shaking with silent sobs.
At a loss for anything to say, Henry carefully guided her head to rest against his chest and rested his cheek against the top of her head.
~Chapter Nineteen~
Scotland.
Finally.
They'd been traveling for what felt like weeks. And for all Laura knew, they had been. After her embarrassing display on Henry's lap over her father's death, she'd fallen asleep in his strong, warm hold, only waking to be told that they'd arrived at the inn where they'd be staying for the night.
With her still in a daze, he'd carried her up to her room, and that was the last thing she remembered until he'd awoken her this morning to get into the carriage again.
With all the travel and emotions she'd endured as of late, it was no surprise she'd been so exhausted.
But now, they'd crossed the border and her life was about to change once again.
“Is the grass blue?”
Henry tore his eyes away from the window just long enough to cast a confused look at her and then plastered his face against the window again, looking longingly at something.
