A Fine Gentleman

by Sarah M. Eden

  The coach slowed down. Mariposa’s eyes met Jason’s in the little remaining light, a question in their brown depths.

  “We’re probably headed uphill,” Jason explained quietly. “They’ll ask us all to step out of the carriage to take the strain off the horses.”

  “And we . . . ?”

  “Will walk along behind.”

  “Lovely,” she answered with an amused smile.

  Yes. She is lovely.

  The coach came to a stop, and all passengers were instructed, as he had predicted, to disembark and continue the uphill journey on foot. They would be permitted to climb aboard once the hill had been crested.

  The tedious ascent gave Jason ample opportunity to think. What had happened to him in the last few days? He had ever been unflappable and serious minded, as his profession required. He’d been unwaveringly honest, even condemning those who embraced deceit of any kind. And yet, there he was, walking along a dark road, dressed more like a tenant farmer than a barrister, answering to an assumed name, teasing a young lady, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. He had left behind a desk full of work and a long list of clients, neither of which he’d even thought about in the hours since Mrs. Aritza’s tearful arrival at Lincoln’s Inn until now. He had a more pressing responsibility to Mariposa.

  That responsibility had led him to this ruse. He was playing a part, dressing rather ridiculously, acting irresponsibly. He reminded himself forcefully of—

  “Ah, lud,” Jason muttered under his breath. Philip. He was acting precisely like Philip.

  He had good reason, he reassured himself.

  And Philip doesn’t? a voice in his head demanded.

  Jason stopped in his tracks. He’d never considered the possibility. He’d always known Philip was pretending to be a mindless fop. But he’d assumed it was irresponsibility and disrespect for his position and title. What if there was a legitimate reason for it?

  “Jason?” Mariposa’s cautious inquiry snapped him from his contemplation.

  He turned to look at her, though she was little more than a silhouette in the dark, walking along beside him.

  “If I make a confession, do you promise not to laugh at me?” She posed the question with a heavy dose of wariness.

  “I give you my word,” Jason said.

  She took a quick breath, then spoke swiftly. “I am afraid of the dark. I have been since we crossed España. The danger was always highest at night, and I—”

  Her confession sped up with each word. Jason reached out and pulled her closer to him, his arm around her shoulders.

  “I used to lie awake for hours, waiting for something horrible to happen. I was the only one to keep mi familia safe, and at night, I could not see what might be coming. No one was there to help. Santiago would cry, and I could not comfort him—I felt no comfort myself. I still do not like being out at night.”

  Jason squeezed her shoulders. “You are not alone now, Mariposa,” he whispered to her. “You are not alone now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jason could see that Mariposa was exhausted. Three times the passengers making their way north with the Royal Mail were required to brave the dark, chill night and walk behind the lumbering vehicle up rather steep ascents.

  “While I am grateful the horses have been saved so much effort, I should like to have been spared myself,” Mariposa had said under her breath as they made their way up yet another slope.

  “Perhaps if you’d be willing to pull the mail coach to the next stop, the driver would consider allowing you to remain inside during our next climb.”

  Mariposa laughed, as Jason had intended her to. He’d discovered she was every bit as uneasy in the dark as she’d professed to be. During each outdoor trek, he had attempted to distract her by asking questions about her family.

  Jason learned a great deal about his companion. Hers had been a gentle and nearly ideal upbringing before the war. The years since had brought almost unimaginable hardships. Yet she found things to laugh about as she recounted events in her life. One particularly poignant theme ran through her stories: her brother Santiago meant a great deal to her. She spoke of him almost as one would her own child. Mingled with her happy memories was an ever-deepening sense of desperation. The boy’s fate weighed heavy on her.

  Jason too recounted events from his own past as they made their way up the various hills along their route. He told her of moments he hadn’t thought about in years: Philip and Layton declaring themselves the “Jonquil Freers of Prisoners” and taking it upon themselves to help their younger brothers escape punishments. The “battles” they had enacted along the banks of the Trent at Lampton Park. Father laughing rather uproariously at any number of absurd pranks the brothers played on one another. Mother sneaking ginger biscuits into her reticule so she and Jason could share them in secret behind the tool house not far from the river.

  Long stretches of silence filled the night as they continued their trek north, both Jason and Mariposa lost in memories. He thought of his own brothers and how frantic he would be if any of them were missing. Her Santiago, however, was too young to care for himself, making his disappearance far more worrisome than that of a man grown.

  Only he and Mariposa remained inside the coach as the sun began to peek over the horizon, the vicar having permanently disembarked in the middle of the night and Mrs. Brown having left them shortly before sunup.

  Jason hovered somewhere between asleep and awake, bouncing and swaying with each movement of the coach. He had moved to the opposite bench after Mrs. Brown’s departure, giving Mariposa room to lie down. She had been sleeping quite soundly but did shift and turn in her sleep until she’d managed to get comfortable. Having a smaller frame allowed her to lie on the bench curled into a ball without any gangly limbs jutting out at awkward angles. Jason had contented himself with leaning into a corner, his feet up on his own bench.

  He stretched against the crick in his neck, twisting his back to relieve the stiffness setting in. Sitting up straight, he allowed his eyes to focus. He smiled when his gaze settled on Mariposa. He had learned more about her during the course of their uncomfortable journey than he would have in a year’s worth of Society functions. And surprisingly, he liked what he’d discovered.

  She was intelligent. She possessed a quick wit and a personality that couldn’t help but lighten a person’s mood. Further, she did not pitch herself into hysterics at the first sign of inconvenience. It was almost enough to make him forget her behavior when they’d first met. Almost.

  He shifted his eyes to the window as he noticed Mariposa waking. He didn’t dare risk being caught staring at her. She would not hesitate to take him to task for it.

  She asked him a question in a sleepy tone. Unfortunately, she posed her question in Spanish. Before he had even a moment to remind her of his linguistic limitations, she corrected the oversight. “Have we been abandoned?”

  “In fact, we have,” Jason answered, looking back at her now that her question gave him an excuse to do so. “Our companions have, no doubt, gone in search of a bed that actually allows them to stretch out a bit.”

  Mariposa smiled a little. “That is one of the advantages of being small—the ability to ‘stretch out a bit’ even in cramped quarters.”

  “Yes, well, none of the Jonquils were blessed with shortness.”

  “No. You were cursed with being tall and handsome, poor boys. How do you endure it?”

  Handsome? Did she really think so? She might very well have made the remark as a jest. That proved a thoroughly discouraging thought.

  “You look tired, Jasón.”

  He very much liked her Spanish version of his name. He stretched out as much as the small carriage would allow. “I am tired, in fact. Two hours of sleep will do that to a person.”

  “Two hours?” She sounded appropriately horrified. “I did not rea
lize you were that uncomfortable. You must be exhausted.”

  Pride won out over honesty. “Only a little.” His stomach chose that precise moment to loudly proclaim its empty state. “And starving to death,” he added for good measure.

  “I am rather hungry myself,” Mariposa said. “If only the inn last night had been serving anything but potatoes.”

  That had been an unlucky coincidence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

  She tipped her head, eyeing him with curiosity. “How so?”

  He shrugged and assumed his most casual expression. “They might have been serving turnips.”

  A wide, laughing grin split her face, her eyes dancing. The effect was dazzling. When first he’d seen Mariposa, Jason had dismissed her as only passingly pretty, with a mouth too wide for true beauty. The smile she wore in that moment would have changed the opinion of even the most stubborn of people. Though he was not yet entirely sure what to think of her, he could not deny Mariposa was, at times, positively stunning.

  “After that ridiculous story you invented about my dedication to vegetables,” she said, “it would have served you right if the inn had had nothing but turnips.”

  “In the end, I had no dinner and very little sleep, so I think you have had your revenge.”

  The quip he’d meant to be humorous had quite the opposite effect. Her expression grew almost instantly somber. She slipped to his side of the carriage, watching him with heaviness in her eyes. “I never dreamed you would follow me nor insist on coming along, nor offer to ask your brother if I might stay with him and his wife in Scotland.” Her brow creased with worry, her eyes never leaving his. “I know I have caused you a great deal of inconvenience and difficulty. That was never my intention. I have been a thorn in your side enough the past month or so.”

  Instantly he found himself torn between soothing her worries and allowing her to stew most deservedly in her own juices. She had been a thorn—more than a thorn, a dagger in his side for weeks. The Mariposa he’d spent the last few hours with had wriggled her way into his sympathies. However, the troublemaker Mariposa, whom he had to admit he still watched for warily, needed a moment or two of discomfort. His indecision rendered him entirely silent.

  Mariposa either didn’t notice his lack of response or continued on in spite of it. “I would not at all blame you if you wish to disembark at the next stop and seek out a meal and warm bed. You’ve been vastly more helpful than I at all deserve.”

  He could see by the earnestness of her expression that she was sincere. He remained uncertain of a few things, but there was absolutely no question of his abandoning her. “I do not intend to slip off.”

  She just shook her head. “I realize you feel obligated as a gentleman, but—”

  “Resign yourself, Mariposa. I’m not jumping ship.”

  “But it is not fair of me to ask you—”

  “You didn’t ask me to come along,” Jason pointed out. “I insisted.” He would have done no less for any woman in her situation, regardless of how aggravating she might be.

  “But only because Abuela begged you. You cannot be enjoying this.”

  Enough was enough. She would change his mind if she kept this up, and then he’d hate himself for the rest of his life. A gentleman did not abandon a lady in distress. “One more word of protest out of you, and the next passenger to join us on this journey will hear an endless stream of embarrassing stories about you, Mary.”

  She bit her lips closed. For the space of a moment, she was silent. Then amusement slowly began to replace the worry that had tightened her expression. “I believe you,” she said with the slightest hint of a laugh.

  “That is a very good thing. My threat, I assure you, is not an idle one.”

  “Even if it means sleeping another night in a mail coach?”

  “Even then.”

  Mariposa sighed, though without the abundance of drama she’d once given that sound. “You make me rather ashamed of tormenting you so much when we first met.”

  “Ashamed?” He nearly laughed out loud. “You enjoyed every minute of it.” His chuckle burst out at the sight of Mariposa struggling to hold back a grin.

  “You were so easy to tease,” she said. “I shouldn’t have, but—”

  “But you were having such a wonderful time,” Jason finished for her. “I could not make heads nor tails of you and your seemingly inadvertent insults.” The remembrance dimmed his enjoyment of the moment. He simply could not reconcile the two vastly different versions he’d seen of her.

  She raised her eyes to his face once more. A hint of embarrassment lingered in her gaze. “I kept hoping you would see the humor in it all and laugh, or smile at the least.”

  “I was supposed to be amused by a constant stream of lies and aspersions on my character?” That seemed unlikely.

  “I was not so awful as all that.” Apparently she had a rather selective memory.

  “You told my colleagues I was incompetent. Contrary to what you seem to believe, the experience was not one I found enjoyable.” His lighter mood of a moment earlier was quickly dissipating.

  Mariposa shifted to face directly forward, no longer turned toward him. “I am sorry,” she said quietly.

  “That doesn’t particularly help, though, does it? Misters Pole and Thompson still think a client left my office convinced I am unfit for my occupation.” His brother Harold would likely have lectured him on the saintliness of a forgiving nature. With the memory of her insults returning one after another, Jason was not particularly in the mood to offer absolution. “My family yet believes that I am, at least in your opinion, worthless. How exactly were those moments supposed to bring a smile to my face?”

  Mariposa pulled her legs up beside her on the seat, leaning back against the squabs. She turned her face toward the dingy window. “I said I was sorry.” Her voice barely carried across the foot that separated them.

  “You said a great many things, and few, if any, were even remotely true.” Jason wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to accomplish by revisiting her actions those first few weeks. Perhaps he’d thought to receive another acknowledgment of guilt. He might have had the satisfaction of hearing her say she’d been wrong, that he was not the slow-top she’d made him out to be, that she’d come to see some worth in him. His efforts had gained him little beyond a coach filled to the ceiling with silence.

  Nearly a quarter hour passed between them without a single word spoken. Only the sound of the carriage wheels grinding along the road broke the heavy, awkward silence. Jason wondered if, on the other side of her uninformative back, she looked unconcerned or conscience stricken. The Mariposa with whom he’d spent the last twenty-odd hours would likely be riddled with guilt. The termagant who’d frequented his office the past few weeks, however, would feel no such pangs.

  Why must women be so blasted confusing? If she would act logically, perhaps he would react logically.

  He turned in her direction. She still had her back to him. Was she angry? That made no sense. She had ill-used him. So why did he feel the urge to apologize? What would he even apologize for?

  I am sorry you treated me like a worthless piece of mutton for weeks on end? Or I am sorry that I cannot even decide if I can trust you to be honest with me?

  He rubbed at his stiff, sore neck, wondering when he’d so utterly lost control of his life.

  The coach pulled into an inn yard. As it came to a complete stop, Jason didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back. He threw open the door and leapt out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Only by sheer force of will did Mariposa keep the tears from falling. After everything she’d done, she deserved to be abandoned, left to her own devices in a mail coach at some unknown stop on an English road. She was hardly entitled to Jason’s support, but losing it dealt her a blow from which she doubted she would soon recover. He had said he would r
emain with her, but there she was, alone. Just as she had promised Santiago she would not leave him, yet they were apart. Perhaps this was her punishment for failing her brother.

  “You crossed Spain on foot,” she whispered to herself. “You can certainly ride a coach to Scotland.” She would survive. She always did. Survival, however, felt like a rather hollow accomplishment.

  The coach door opened. Mariposa turned just enough to peek, doing her utmost not to let her hopes get too high. She did not recognize the man who entered, likely close to two decades her senior. Remembering all too vividly the bounder who’d accosted her only the day before, Mariposa kept her face turned away from this newcomer. She tied her bonnet firmly on her head and pulled herself into the far corner, determined that the man take little notice of her.

  She closed her eyes and tried to fill her mind with thoughts of more pleasant times. When she was very little, her mother used to sing to her a song about a butterfly in a field of flowers. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost hear Mamá’s voice singing it again. She had sung it to Santiago when his fear and confusion had left him nearly inconsolable. There had once been a time when she and her family had been happy. All she’d wanted since the start of the war was to have those times back again.

  She felt more alone than ever.

  Mariposa heard another passenger climb in. It was the first stop of the morning and the one most likely to see more travelers get on board. Being unobtrusive was decidedly the safest approach. She kept to her corner and, when she opened her eyes, did not allow her gaze to stray from the window.

  The coach lurched as it resumed its journey. With fresh horses pulling, their speed significantly increased from what it had been on the last leg. The inn yard quickly disappeared.