Forever and a Day

by Delilah Marvelle

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The only thing that stops God from sending forth

  a second Flood is that the first one was useless.

  —Nicolas Chamfort,

  Caractères et anecdotes (1771)

  DRESSED IN HER BEST SUNDAY gown, which she’d stitched herself with great pride, Georgia pushed out a breath and glanced around her tenement one last time, lingering in the small kitchen of what used to be her life. Smoothing her still-damp hair, which she’d assembled into a coif she hoped looked respectable, she wandered over to the small wood table and emptied the contents of her box upon it for Matthew to find.

  Leaving the box open, she hurried to the wall and reached up and over the doorless cupboard for her mother’s rosary, lifting the wooden beads off the nail. She kissed them, thanking the Lord in heaven for all of her blessings, and let the beads fold down and into a pile at the bottom of the box before pressing the wood lid back into place.

  Aside from all of her gowns, which she’d bundled up in a large sack, her father’s box and her mother’s rosary were the only things she cared to keep of the life she was leaving behind. One day, when her own children were old enough for stories, she would show them the roots of her past and take pride in it for what it was. Tucking the box into the wool sack, she knotted the material into itself to hold it closed.

  She slid the brass key off the table, grabbed up her sack and opened the door, stepping outside. After turning the key in the lock, she pulled it out and sighed. No more worrying about counting pennies. Imagine that.

  She lingered before the door, touching the well-worn wood panel one last time with the hand holding her key and hoped that the path she had chosen for herself would be everything she had dreamed of and more.

  “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

  She jumped and whirled toward John, who lingered in the open door of his own tenement. His darkened blond hair was matted against his forehead from the rain he had yet to dry from. His shirt and trousers were still as wet as the rest of him.

  She drifted over to his side of the door, bringing her sack against her hip, and paused before him. “Who needs the west when I found all four corners of the world in one man?”

  He folded his arms over his chest, lowering his gaze. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I swallowed too much whiskey.”

  She sighed. “I’d rather we not even talk about it. I’m on my way out. I need to drop off this here key to one of the neighbors and leave instructions for Matthew.”

  John held out his hand. “I’ll do it for you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not givin’ it to you.”

  “He’ll get it.”

  She pointed at him with the key. “Do you promise to deliver this with the right instructions?”

  “Aye.” He set his hand against his chest. “Upon me mum’s grave and soul. That I swear.”

  Knowing his mother had once meant everything to him, Georgia sighed and held out the key. “Tell Matthew to cancel the room, unless he wants the cheaper lease, and inform him that everythin’ I left behind is his to do with as he pleases. He also needs to gather the laundry from the front room, and take it over to the priests over on Barclay, Mott, Sheriff and Ann lest they arrest us all for stealin’ their shirts and trousers.”

  She drew in a breath and let it out. “Tell him that although I’ll miss him in a morbid sort of way, that I’ll not write, because I’m goin’ into respectable society and can’t be associatin’ with thieves. He knows I’ve always felt that way, even prior to Robinson, so it shouldn’t surprise him.”

  John hesitated, reached out and slid the key from her hand. “I’ll tell him.” He shifted closer toward her and lingered, the scent of rain and must clinging to his skin and clothes. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Oh, I will.” She stepped back, cradling her sack up and against her chest. “One last thing. It involves you.”

  He quirked a blond brow. “What?”

  “Remember my good friend Agnes Meehan? The one with the bright blue eyes that always lingered about your mother’s door a few years back?”

  His grin faded. “What about her?”

  “She still isn’t married, despite her father’s grumblings. I know you once had a hot eye for her before she moved west. Get the address from her cousin and buy yourself a stagecoach ticket.”

  “I doubt she even remembers me.”

  “I bet you she does. In the last letter, she asked about whether or not you were still lookin’ to marry.”

  He glanced up, eyeing her. “When was her last letter?”

  She bit back a smile. “A month ago.” She leaned toward him and poked his chest. “Just stay away from the whiskey and razors thinkin’ it’ll impress her. Because it won’t.”

  He reached out his other hand and skimmed her arm, his features twisting. “I’m sorry, Georgia. I didn’t mean to make a mess of things. I just—” Grabbing her, he yanked her hard against himself, awkwardly squelching the sack between them. He buried his wet head into the curve of her shoulder.

  She stiffened but realized the poor man was only looking for comfort. She wrapped an arm around him, adjusting the sack between them, and patted his back with her free hand, her fingers sticking to his wet linen shirt. “There, there. I forgive you. So go on and forgive yourself.”

  He nodded against her shoulder, tightening his hold.

  Footfalls bounded up the stairs and paused on the landing somewhere off to the side.

  Sensing it was Robinson, she stepped outside the embrace and pointed at John one last time. “Write Agnes. Don’t sit about Orange Street waitin’ for somethin’ better to come along, because it won’t. We Irish have to align our own stars given that everyone else seems to think they own the goddamn sky.”

  “Right you are in that.” He nudged his shaven chin out in the direction beyond her. “I suggest you leave. Your Brit is waiting.” John held up the key, assuring her Matthew would get it, and put up a hand in farewell, before quietly disappearing into his tenement. Lowering his gaze, he shut the door.

  Georgia lingered, hoping John would someday know happiness. With a sigh, she swiveled toward the direction of the stairs and hurried toward Robinson with her sack. “We can go.”

  Robinson met her gaze. “You cannot be holding men like that anymore, Georgia.”

  Her brows rose. She jerked to a halt and thumbed toward John’s direction. “I barely kicked that one to the pavement. Don’t you be next.”

  He glanced away, adjusting the wet linen shirt that clung to his wide chest. “This isn’t about jealousy. In my circle, from what little I do remember, men and women do not touch each other like that unless they are married. And even when they are married, such things are only done in the confines and privacy of their home. I just don’t want my father to judge you.”

  Her heart sank knowing that most likely his father might never accept them. But at least they would be together and in each other’s arms every day and every night. “I understand.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “I actually came up here to clarify some etiquette before I formally introduce you to my father. When you and I are alone, you may freely call me Robinson, but in the presence of others, especially my father, you must refer to me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Tremayne.’ It is a sign of respect. Will you be able to remember that?”

  “Of course. You are ‘Robinson’ when we are alone and ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Tremayne’ when we are not.”

  “Very good. Whenever you speak to my father, regardless of whether you and he are alone or in the presence of a thousand, always refer to him as ‘Your Grace.’”

  She blinked. “As in the grace of God?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that a bit sacrilegious?”

  He let out a laugh. “I suppose it is. ’Tis something we will both have to swallow. The man is staunch and therefore you’ll need to play into his idea of respectability when in his presence.”

  “You
mean you want me to act like this?” Thrusting out her chin, she stiffly held out both hands before her, ensuring her sack didn’t fall from her hand, and wobbled about for him from side to side.

  He leveled her with a stare. “Are you being serious?”

  She laughed, hitting his arm with her free hand. “I was tuggin’ your rope. I know exactly what you mean.”

  He laughed and dabbed her nose with a cold finger. “I want you to spend as much time with my father as possible. That way, he will get to know you for the queen that you are. Make your time with him count. Do you think you can impress him with intelligent conversation devoid of all things crass?”

  “Of course I can. I’ve seen plenty of upper-circle women converse with upper-circle gentlemen over on Broadway. Watch.” Georgia regally set her chin, softened her lips and kept her features calm and poised. Demurely meeting his gaze, she intoned in her best prim and most civilized voice, “I do believe I shall faint from displeasure knowin’ this foul weather is goin’ to ruin not only my lace parasol but my bonnet.”

  Robinson boomed with laughter, his features twisting in merriment. He staggered backward, bumping against the wall behind him, before falling forward again. He laughed and laughed and laughed until there were actually tears emerging from the corners of his eyes.

  She blinked. By Joseph, she’d never seen him laugh so hard and couldn’t help but feel offended knowing that her best attempt at being civilized was being mocked. “Did I do it wrong?”

  Still laughing, he waved toward her face with a forefinger as if attempting to rearrange her features and choked out, “That wasn’t exactly what I call…intelligent conversation.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Oh, yes, it was. Don’t ever do that again.” Still laughing, he yanked the sack from her arms and held out his other hand. “Come. The marshals guarding the carriage are soaked to the skin and my father is as restless as they are. Even worse, people are gathering out of curiosity.”

  Grasping his hand, she quickly followed him down the stairs and out into the rain, which had lessened to a soft mist. She nervously gathered her beige cotton skirts, lifting them above her ankle boots to keep them from touching the mud. Clean. She had to stay clean.

  Just as she was about to step off the pavement, Robinson grabbed hold of her waist and scooped her up and into his arms, balancing her and the sack all in one sweep.

  “Oh!” Her heart skipped as she grabbed on to his soaked coat to steady herself within his muscled arms. She glanced up at his well-stubbled face, which hovered barely above her own. “Whatever are you doin’? I can carry myself, you know.”

  “I’m ensuring you don’t touch the mud.”

  She grinned. “Where, oh, where have you been all my life? You could have saved many a gown for me.”

  He grinned, in turn. “I regret not having been able to arrive into your life sooner, madam, but I intend to save every last one of your gowns from here on out.” Carrying her toward the open door of the carriage, he leaned her up and toward the landing within the carriage, righting her effortlessly.

  The familiar scent of mulled spice and cedar tugged at her senses from the interior. It reminded her of when she’d first met Robinson on the street. It smelled like him.

  Catching herself against the doorway, she hurried in and plopped herself onto an incredibly plush, soft seat opposite a stiff, aged man with silvery hair that had been swept back with tonic.

  The duke adjusted his well-fitted black coat about himself and leaned back against the upholstered seat as if to better observe her.

  Noting those handsome, rather kind brown eyes intently scanning her face and gown, she primly arranged her best Sunday dress about herself, ensuring that it covered her ankles.

  She smiled brightly, placing her bare hands on her lap atop each other, as she’d seen wealthy women do whilst riding about in their open carriages, and offered, “Good mornin’, Your Grace. I apologize for makin’ you wait. ’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance and I appreciate your generosity in allowin’ me to come.” There. That was certainly polite enough without slathering too much honey all over the man.

  Holding her gaze, the duke inclined his silvery head toward her, but said nothing.

  At least she got the incline of a head and a direct look in the eye. That was far more than she was used to getting when heading into shops with placards in the window saying No Irish Need Apply.

  The carriage gently swayed as Robinson’s tall, muscled frame entered. He bent forward to prevent his head from hitting the velvet-pleated ceiling above them and seated himself beside his father, directly across from her, as the door to the carriage was slammed shut by the footman. Robinson leaned forward and set her sack beside her on the seat, tucking it deep into the corner. Leaning back again, he set his broad shoulders and cleared his throat, holding her gaze as if preparing her for a very long and very separate journey ahead.

  She gathered by the way he had opted to sit next to his father, instead of her, that a man was not supposed to sit anywhere near a lady whilst in a carriage. She had a niggling feeling that there were several thousand unspoken rules she had yet to learn. And here she thought wealthy women had it easy.

  Georgia paused and glanced around the lavish space of the carriage. Tut, tut, tut, was it ever fancy. One could turn it into a harem given that every inch of its walls and ceiling was fastened with gray velvet.

  The carriage rolled ahead, jerking her far forward and toward them. She squeaked, popping both hands out, and caught the edge of the seat to keep herself from spilling forward altogether. She gargled out a laugh in response to her own squeak and slid farther back against the cushioned seat, rearranging her skirts. “I about fell off my seat with that one. You’d think they’d warn a woman with a bell or somethin’. Unlike you boys sittin’ in flaps and trousers, I got a full set of skirts that could’ve damn well left me showin’ nothin’ but arse over turkey. And that certainly wouldn’t have been good.”

  Robinson pressed a rigid hand to his mouth and glanced away, shifting toward the glass window at his elbow. He closed his eyes.

  Oh, no. She had said arse, hadn’t she?

  She leaned back awkwardly against the upholstered seat and set her chin, feeling her cheeks growing unbearably warm. She glanced toward the duke, whose gray brows were still lifted toward his hairline. “Forgive me, Your Grace. My mouth has yet to fully kiss the true meanin’ of bein’ civilized.”

  The duke leaned over toward Robinson, who still sat with his hand over his mouth. “Oh, London will be impressed with this one.”

  Robinson dropped his hand heavily into his lap and blew out an exasperated breath. “London be damned. What do they know about good character?”

  Georgia pressed her lips together, knowing Robinson was nobly defending her. Drat his father. If the old man thought she couldn’t be all boring and civilized like him, he had yet to see Georgia Emily Milton at her finest. She’d put every last woman in London to shame even if it meant biting her tongue until it bled, because she was marrying her Robinson and getting her field and her apple trees.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Even God cannot change the past.

  —Agathon, Nicomachean Ethics (Aristotle)

  (as published in 1566)

  The Adelphi Hotel

  “I LEFT EVERYTHING UNTOUCHED. Everything.” The duke gestured toward the large suite beyond the open door. “Mock me for being sentimental, but I was so panicked about your disappearance that I felt if the servants touched even the bed, it would prohibit your return.”

  Gripping the frame of the doorway, Roderick leaned in and scanned the overly decadent French-inspired room. A sizable four-poster bed had been done up with mounds of sterling white coverlets and goose-down pillows. No more chairs, thank God. A mahogany table was set off to the side, laden with piles of books. A chair beside it had also been laden with books. This explained all of the stories and words in his head. He apparently had a fan
cy for literature.

  Though he tried to envision and match at least one of those items in his head and remember what this room might have meant to him, nothing came. Not a whisper and most certainly not a shout. Just beyond that table, a towering wardrobe and several open trunks revealed far more clothing than any one man really needed. And there was not one, but three walnut lacquered sideboards that had been tucked against the palomino walls with a mirror over each. Every sideboard had everything he needed to attend to his appearance as well as many daily comforts and extravagances. From tonic to brandy.

  He paused, his gaze falling on several crystal decanters of port and brandy alongside matching glasses all perfectly lining the top of the main sideboard. It appeared he liked to drink.

  Roderick glanced back at his father. “How long have we been renting here? And what have we been doing with our time?”

  His father’s gray brows came together. “You and I have been renting several rooms for about seven months now and spent most of our hours investigating leads and interviewing debauched areas and souls I would rather forget.” A breath escaped his father’s lips. “Your disappearance was unnerving. I didn’t know if it was related to Atwood’s circle of people or because something else had happened.”

  Roderick’s brows came together. “Who is this Atwood you keep referring to?”

  The duke smiled, his eyes unexpectedly brightening. “Once you have been properly tended to and settled in, we will talk more and get you reacquainted with your life.” The man set his aged shaven chin and turned toward Georgia, who lingered quietly in the corridor behind them. “Follow me. There is no need for you to linger about this corridor.” The duke paused and flippantly tossed back at him, “I had the footman assign her to room eight and twenty. That will ensure she is within your reach whenever you feel the need to call on her.”

  Roderick drew in a ragged breath in agitation, feeling both his honor and Georgia’s being slapped. And this was just the beginning. “Whilst I appreciate the arrangement, Your Grace, I ask that you not insinuate before her or myself that her only purpose is one suited to a bed.”