A Fine Gentleman

by Sarah M. Eden

  “We are close, Jason,” Jean said as they continued onward. “I am certain of it.”

  “Close, yes. But will we find anything beyond that wall other than an abandoned estate?”

  Jean slapped a hand on his back. “You must have faith, mon ami.”

  Somewhere in the distance, birdsong echoed. A breeze picked up. How idyllic the scene was. Mariposa might find some peace there once the war was finally over. Of course, that meant she would leave England, an eventuality he was not yet ready to consider.

  “How long have you been in love with Mariposa?” Jean asked without preamble. They had become such swift friends that the question did not at all feel prying or presumptuous.

  “I honestly have no idea.” Jason picked a long stem of grass. He vaguely remembered using grass as a whistle in his childhood. The time he’d spent with Philip and his conversation with Mater weeks earlier had kept those almost-forgotten moments fresh in his memory of late. “I did not feel it coming on by degrees. Rather, in a sudden moment of clarity, I simply realized I couldn’t live without her, that her happiness had become paramount.”

  “Not the most comfortable of notions, is it?” A marked degree of empathy accompanied those words.

  “Not comfortable in the least.” And yet it wasn’t miserable either. “Ours was not the easiest of beginnings. This was not at all the outcome I had expected.”

  “My wife and I began much the same way.” Whenever Jean spoke of his late wife, a poignant mixture of pleasure and pain entered his expression. “We were employed in the same home, I as tutor for the sons of the house and she as governess for the daughters. She found me quite lacking in my post. I thought her overly proud and possessing too high an opinion of herself.”

  Jason chuckled. “That is not the most promising of beginnings.” He tied his stem of grass into interlocking circles, just as Mater had always done when the two of them had sat on the banks of the Trent eating pilfered ginger biscuits and talking at length on any number of subjects. Whether the contentment he felt beneath the uncertainty of this search stemmed from the pleasant companionship of his new friend or the inherent beauty of his surroundings or the inevitable influence of love, he couldn’t say. But something had changed in him.

  “It is not the beginnings that matter, Jason, neither the endings, but all the many moments in between.” Jean, Jason had discovered, was something of an amateur philosopher.

  Though Jean could not have yet reached his fiftieth birthday, Jason could not help thinking of him, to some degree, in a fatherly role. He offered advice and insight and support that Father would have had he been there to do so.

  “The degree to which my wife and I disliked each other on the day we met did not come close to matching the love we felt on the day we were parted,” Jean said. “The two were not even comparable.”

  “If you could go back to that first day and live it again, give yourself the chance to not misjudge her,” Jason asked, “would you?”

  Jean did not immediately answer. His lips pressed together, and he swallowed with some difficulty. The usually unflappable man struggled a moment against a visible surge of emotion. When he spoke, his words were quieter, heavier, and the slightest bit broken. “If I could relive any day with her, any at all, I would without hesitation. I think that is why I was so frustrated with you in that mail coach. Watching the two of you was like seeing my Elizabeth and I all over again. You had everything within your reach, and you didn’t even know it.”

  Jason tossed his grass chain out into the field beside them. “I didn’t know it,” he acknowledged. “I had no idea I was in love with her.”

  “And,” Jean added, “no idea she was in love with you.”

  Jason wanted to believe that. He held out some hope, but Mariposa had never said the words. Until she did, he couldn’t be certain.

  “Would you relive that first day you met Mariposa?” Jean asked.

  “The first several,” Jason said. “I thoroughly misjudged her. The opportunity to rectify that mistake is more than tempting. If I could undo that, I would.”

  “Her lies no longer bother you?”

  Jason shook his head. “I will always value honesty, but she taught me to not be so quick to condemn.”

  “The very best of relationships encourage us to be better than we are, to become more.”

  Mariposa had most certainly done that for him.

  Jean motioned ahead. “I believe that is the very large tree we are searching for.”

  There was, in fact, a tree far taller and wider than any of the others growing directly at the side of the road they walked on. And as predicted, a path, smaller than the road they were on but wide enough to accommodate a carriage, turned off the road directly beside the tree.

  “Shall we see if we find a meadow down this path a bit?” Jason suggested.

  “Oui.”

  Just as they were told by their cautious guide, the path led to a wide, open meadow. A tiny voice carried on the breeze—not spoken words but a lilting song.

  “Do you hear that?” Jason looked around in all directions, attempting to locate the source.

  “A child, I would guess.”

  Jason agreed. The voice definitely belonged to someone young, though where that person might be remained a mystery. “How is it that we are surrounded by a meadow and can see for some distance yet can hear someone we cannot see?”

  “The vagaries of fate, my friend.” Jean stopped on the path and narrowed his eyes as he scanned the surrounding countryside. “If I am not mistaken, we are searching for someone small, perhaps easily hidden.”

  Jason’s ears perked as the song continued. The tune was unexpectedly familiar. After a few bars, he recognized it. He caught the flow of lyrics and began stumblingly and quietly singing along. “We sing, and we roar, and we drink and call for more and make more noise than twenty can.” Jason shook his head in amazement. “Though the lyrics are hard to understand with such a heavy accent, I know that song. I’ve heard former soldiers sing it. Stanley himself did on occasion.”

  “I would guess, then, whoever our songbird is, the child was likely here at the time of Albuera and heard the British soldiers singing their ditties.” Jean’s search became ever more determined. “The child would be that much more likely to know the location of Prado Verde, even if it has been abandoned for years.”

  Jason could see nothing around them except grass and the occasional tree. “But how do we locate the slippery fellow?”

  “Sing,” Jean said.

  “Sing?”

  Jean nodded, still searching for their serenader. “Perhaps if he hears you singing, his curiosity will bring him out of hiding.”

  “It isn’t the most appropriate of songs.”

  The look he received clearly communicated Jean’s annoyance at the pitiful objection.

  Jason groaned in defeat and, in a voice far louder than it was refined, sang out. “I am the king and prince of drinkers . . .”

  Jean laughed out loud.

  Jason continued with gusto, hoping the embarrassing interlude would prove beneficial. “Ranting, roaring, rattling boys . . .” He searched as he sang. Before he’d even completed the brief chorus, a head popped up from around the back side of a thick-trunked tree.

  “Keep singing,” Jean instructed in a low voice.

  “We despise your sullen thinkers.” His voice broke as he reached for the high note. He was certain he saw the little imp laugh. “‘And fill the tavern with our noise.’”

  A high but confident voice joined in with the nonsensical refrain that followed. “We sing, and we roar, and we drink and call for more and make more noise than twenty—”

  The boy must have been struck in that moment with the realization that the men with whom he sang, albeit at a distance, were strangers. He stopped abruptly, then turned and ran.
/>   Jean shouted something after him in Spanish. Whatever he said worked. The boy stopped and turned back, eyeing them cautiously.

  Jason kept his mouth shut and let Jean do the negotiating. He recognized only a few words, among them Prado Verde and sí.

  Jean leaned closer to Jason and said, “The boy says we are very near Prado Verde.”

  “The locals have been very helpful,” Jason acknowledged.

  “He also warned us it has been empty forever.”

  Jason’s confidence flagged significantly. “Forever?”

  Jean shrugged. “It likely seems that way to him.”

  They followed the lad at a distance of several paces, something the boy seemed to insist upon. The child could not have been much older than ten, perhaps eleven years old. He wore clothing little better than rags. Dirt covered every visible inch of him. His midnight-black hair stuck out in every direction. Jason had seen the boy’s English counterparts on every corner in London. The world had far too many children with no one to look out for them.

  As they trailed the boy across a field, he began whistling. Jason listened a moment, then smiled. His smile quickly gave way to a laugh.

  “I take it you recognize this tune as well?” Jean asked.

  “Whoever is responsible for that boy’s musical education ought to be whipped.”

  “Another inappropriate song, then?”

  Jason chuckled. “To listen to his repertoire, one would think the boy was a drunkard.”

  “And we are following him around the Spanish countryside.” Jean looked exaggeratedly horrified. “We ought to have limited our guides to wary farm women and men working in their barns.”

  “If you had told me six weeks ago that I would be following anyone around the Spanish countryside, I’d have thought you mad.”

  Jean sighed and grinned. “But that, my friend, is what love does to a man.”

  “Undermines his sanity?”

  “Absolutely, monsieur. ’Tis a sweet madness indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “This ’ere’s Conway, late of the infantry. He spent his childhood in the country and is keen to go back.”

  Mariposa wrote down the information Black shared with her. He had been invaluable in the work she was doing. Philip’s admonition had remained with her long after she had returned with Abuela to London. She needed to discover who she was and what she meant to do with her life.

  Stepping inside her rented London house and seeing Black there, as well as Will, she’d had a sudden burst of insight. She knew firsthand the toll of war, and she had seen far too many of England’s soldiers forgotten and neglected on the streets of London. Papá had willed her an income sufficient for her and Abuela’s comfort. The unexpected boon from her late Uncle Robert gave her the ability to do something more.

  “Conway,” she said, attempting to set the nervous man at ease with a reassuring smile. “I know of an estate in Shropshire in need of an assistant gamekeeper. Do you have any experience with animals?”

  Conway nodded eagerly. “Me grandfather was a gamekeeper. Took me along on his walks over the fine estate where he worked.”

  Mariposa loved that these arrangements fell so nicely into place. “We will provide you with the funds to reach your destination. The rest will depend upon you.”

  “I ain’t afraid to work,” he told her. “And I’ll do anything not to sleep on the street anymore.”

  Over the past two weeks, she had heard the same thing again and again from men who had placed their very lives on the line only to return home to poverty and hopelessness. Mariposa had not entirely overcome her struggles. The war still haunted her, and she yet grappled with feelings of failure, but she was finding some peace in offering hope to others who had lived through similar horrors.

  She sent them each off to their new lives with her best wishes, with encouragement, and with the request that should they meet a dark-haired woman or brown-eyed boy with the name of Thornton, they should send word back to her. She could help and change lives. She could give meaning to her survival of the conflict. Perhaps in time her efforts would also help her find her family. As she had feared, her mother and brother were not at Thornton Manor in Norfolk. They never had been. She had no idea where else to look for them.

  Mr. Jones, a man of business recommended to her by Philip, made note of the arrangements she wished put in place for Conway. The one-time soldier was summoned by Hansen, Jason’s kindhearted and invaluable secretary, who, upon hearing of Mariposa’s endeavors, had volunteered his own time to help. He would explain to those who would be traveling how they would make their journey, whom to ask for when they arrived at their new place of employment, and the many other things they needed to know.

  “Conway was the last for today,” Black said. “Heaven knows there’ll be plenty enough more by next week.”

  There would, she feared, always be more.

  Abuela shuffled over to Conway, whom she’d not met, and lovingly patted his cheek. She had embraced Mariposa’s endeavor with a tender compassion. None of their soldiers ever left feeling anything less than cared about and valued.

  During these weekly arrangements, Mariposa often thought about Stanley Jonquil and the despair she had seen in his eyes. How she hoped someone was showing him compassion and reminding him that he was loved.

  It was, however, Jason who most occupied her thoughts. She had not seen nor heard from him in the three weeks since he had abruptly left Scotland. Not a single word had come from him, no note saying he regretted not being able to call on her, no explanation of his continued absence. Hansen had indicated that Jason had not, in fact, returned to London, that he had not been in his office in more than a month. He had made arrangements for his colleagues to see to his clients, but no one seemed to know when he would be back.

  Just as she’d sworn to Jason, Mariposa was doing her utmost to trust him. She told herself his absence had a reasonable explanation, that he hadn’t forgotten her or decided she wasn’t worth his time or attention. She tried very hard to have faith in the strength of his word and, much to her surprise, was not struggling as much as she once had.

  Perhaps she was beginning to heal.

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Jones. As always.”

  He neatly stacked his papers. “It is my pleasure to honor my brother’s memory by helping those who fought as well.”

  Mr. Jones had lost a brother in the war. Mariposa had learned of loss in Hansen’s family as well. The decades of strife had left few families unaffected.

  Abuela sat beside Mariposa at the parlor table. She held out a folded missive. “This—it is for you.”

  Mariposa hesitated. “Do you suppose this letter contains bad news? The previous one certainly did.” It had brought word that her last remaining hint as to her family’s whereabouts had proven fruitless.

  Abuela shrugged in the customary way.

  Mariposa took the letter, curious. When she had first come to England, the arrival of an unexpected note or letter had struck fear deep in her heart. That she now felt intrigued rather than scared stood as a firm testament that life had indeed changed.

  “It is a dinner invitation,” she told Abuela after reading the missive’s contents. “A dinner to be held tonight.” She allowed her excitement to bubble over into a grin. “At Lampton House.”

  “Jasón is returned?”

  She looked over the brief invitation once more. “There are few details. A small family dinner at Lampton House. That is all it says.”

  “Do you wish to go?” Abuela asked her.

  “I do.” She did not even have to ponder. If there was any chance Jason was there, she very much wished to go.

  Abuela smiled at her. “Then we will go. And we will wish very much for your amor to be there.”

  o

  Mariposa had seldom been so
nervous. Black grinned as she descended the stairs, and she returned his smile with a tremulous one of her own. Abuela had produced, seemingly from nowhere, a gorgeous gown, white with a sheer red overdress, the color beneath rendering the color above less scandalous. Mariposa felt beautiful.

  She stepped into the entryway only to find Jason himself standing there waiting for her. Mariposa’s heart simply halted, stunned into silence.

  And then he smiled. “Good heavens, Mari. I have missed you.”

  It was quite the most wonderful thing he could have said. She intended to return the favor and say something tender and sentimental. Instead, she blurted, “You look tired.”

  He silently chuckled. “I imagine I look tired because I am tired.”

  “Are you ill?” The possibility immediately struck fear into her heart. Was something wrong? Did he need a doctor? A tisane?

  Jason took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I am not ill. I have simply had a great deal of work to do lately.”

  “Oh.” Mariposa knew her discouragement surfaced in her voice. All those weeks, his work had kept him away? That couldn’t be correct. Hansen’s report belied that explanation. Business away from London, perhaps?

  “Now you think you have discovered my priorities, don’t you?” His thumb caressed the back of her hand, sending shivers up her arm. “Two months ago, you would have been correct. My career occupied my every moment and nearly every thought. Then a lovely young lady came into my life and nothing has been the same since.”

  “I don’t believe lovely was the word you used at the time.”

  Jason’s hand brushed along her jaw. “It ought to have been.”

  She leaned into his caress. “I have missed you as well.”

  His hand still holding her chin, Jason kissed her cheek. He stayed there, his face nearly touching hers.

  Mariposa took in the spicy scent of him. How had she lived so long without this man?

  He sighed her name, and she melted. Jason shifted, and his lips hovered over hers, his warmth washing over her. Mariposa slid her arms around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, his embrace both firm and gentle.