by Merry Farmer
If he had been the only one in the shop, Basil could have had a quick word with him and been done with the embarrassment. But a pair of middle-aged ladies stood gaping at him and Elaine beside the stand of journals close to the front door. He’d only barely managed to wash up, he was wearing mismatched clothes, and he hadn’t shaved or brushed his hair. If they’d had any hope of keeping the change in their relationship from the rest of Brynthwaite, those hopes were immediately dashed.
“Good morning Mrs. Norris, Mrs. Garrett,” Elaine greeted them cheerily, as though the fact that she was holding Basil’s hand and dragging him through his own shop wasn’t a dead giveaway to their activities.
Neither woman managed to find their voices before Elaine tugged Basil out into the street. She charged off, smiling up at the morning sunlight, breathing in deeply. “I don’t think I’ve met a more beautiful morning in ages,” she said. A moment later, she missed a step and winced. “Oh, I am sore.”
It was just their luck that she said it as they were passing in front of the Crimpley house, where Crimpley’s maid, Joanna, was sweeping the front steps. The young woman gaped, then darted inside the house as soon as Basil and Elaine had passed.
Basil didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. Their business would be all over town by the time he walked back up the hill from the train station.
“Elaine, slow down,” he said, trying to draw her into a more sedate pace. He should at least tuck her hand into his arm and escort her properly rather than holding hands like two carefree school children.
But she said, “There isn’t time. See? The train is already at the station.”
She was right. With a muttered curse, he picked up his pace, whisking her along. His clock must have been running slow. If they didn’t run, she would miss her train entirely. Brynthwaite saw its fair share of trains, but theirs was more of a pass-through stop than a destination. No train ever stayed long.
The engine had already started to puff and the wheels to move as they rushed up the stairs to the platform. “Wait!” Basil called to the conductor as he stepped up onto the second-class car and began to shut the door. “Hold up. One more.”
Elaine laughed beside him. “I’ve always wanted to jump onto a moving train.”
Basil barely had time to send her a flat, disapproving look before rushing her toward the slow-rolling train as it picked up speed. She reached for the handle beside the still-open door and hefted herself into the car. Satisfied that she’d made it, Basil stopped to catch his breath.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Elaine called from the doorway as the train picked up speed. She waved and blew him a kiss, then waved again. “I love you!”
Heat flooded Basil’s face, both from the pleasure of her words and the fact that at least a dozen people on the platform had witnessed the whole scene. People who knew the two of them, knew their history, and would be able to guess the current state of affairs. But Elaine continued to wave at him, so he did the only thing he could. He stood there and waved back, in spite of the nosy neighbors looking on, in spite of the ache of exhaustion that threatened to overtake him, in spite of the inexplicable pain that watching her disappear around a corner left in his heart.
He continued to watch her train, long after she’d ducked inside. Watched it still as it gained speed and rushed out of sight, even as another train pulled into the station to take its place.
“Got her where you want her at last, eh Wall?” Roger Lakes thumped him on the shoulder as he walked past.
“Oy, it’s about time,” Bert Norris said, elbowing his buddy, John Jones, as the two of them looked on. “I had money on the two of them making a go of it by summer.
Basil’s face continued to heat. He turned to face the men. “I’ll thank you to be a little more considerate, gentlemen.”
“We’re on your side, mate,” Lakes laughed. “We been waiting for you to get your oar in for years now.”
Basil scowled. “I did not get my—”
“Basil!”
Every nerve in Basil’s body yanked taut and his blood ran cold at the sound of his name. Not because of the name itself, but because it was shouted at him by Malcolm Campbell.
“Basil Allenby, you wretched, cowardly excuse for an earl,” Malcolm continued to shout in his Glaswegian brogue as he marched around the back of the train that had just arrived and stormed toward him. “I have been looking for your sorry arse for more than a year now. Missing Earl of Waltham my left nut!”
Basil swallowed hard, glancing to the men who had been teasing him just moments before. Their faces had all gone slack with surprise. Not one of them looked as though they were in a hurry to get on with whatever business had brought them to the station. Of all the times for him to be caught off-guard in public, it had to be the moment Malcolm caught up with him.
Wincing, he turned to face his old friend. “Malcolm. It’s good to see you.”
Not a single, fierce line on Malcolm Campbell’s glowering face had changed. He was the same raging devil that he’d been for the last twenty years of their friendship. They’d fought together, drank together, whored together, sobered up together, and joined the world of government and politics together, which was how Basil knew the size of the trouble he was in.
“Don’t you pretend nothing is wrong here, you bloody bastard,” Malcolm continued to roar as he closed the distance between the two of them. “We thought you were dead, you miserable prick. Katya thought you’d been done in by highwaymen. Peter was furious that you weren’t there for his wedding.”
“Peter remarried?” Basil’s brow went up.
“Yes, and Alex tied the knot last summer as well. And you missed it, you tosser.”
“I—”
Before Basil could defend himself, Malcolm threw his arms around him in a bear-hug that nearly squeezed the air out of his lungs. It was just long enough for Basil to let his guard down, and as soon as he did, Malcolm let go, pulled back, and punched him across the face. It was a soft blow by Malcolm’s standards, but it left the circle of curious onlookers gasping and muttering about the scene unfolding in front of them.
“I missed you too, Malcolm,” Basil sighed, gingerly holding the side of his face. As if he needed any more bruises after the night before.
“What the hell have you been up to, man?” Malcolm continued to yell at him. “There’s an election going on. You’re needed in London.”
“London?” Lakes asked from the sidelines.
Malcolm ignored him. “You’re our strongest ally in the House of Lords, or at least you were before you buggered off to this backwoods.”
“Hang on,” Norris started to protest.
“House of Lords?” Jones asked.
At last, Malcolm looked around, noticing their audience. “Don’t you know who this is?”
“Don’t,” Basil warned him, as serious as he could be.
“He’s Basil Wall, the bookseller,” Norris said.
Malcolm barked a laugh. “Bookseller?” He arched a disbelieving brow at Basil before turning back to the others. “This man is the Earl of Waltham.”
“Gracious me. The missing Earl of Waltham?” Mrs. Pennington, one of Brynthwaite’s worst gossips, the last person Basil needed witnessing the current scene, said, stepping around some of the men to get a good look.
“Not missing anymore,” Malcolm told her with a cheeky laugh. “I’m here to drag his sorry hide back to London.” He turned to Basil with narrowed eyes. “We need you. You’re the only one who can sway the May Flowers.”
“The what?” Basil shook his head.
Malcolm didn’t have a chance to answer. It was as though he had fired a gun. Within seconds, the crowd that had watched the whole scene unfold burst into murmurs of awe and amazement. Mrs. Pennington and several of the men rushed toward the stairs, descending into the town. Basil dropped his shoulders and sighed, staring warily at Malcolm. Within minutes, the entire town would know who he was. His life as he’d known it for two yea
rs was over.
“Come on,” he said, resigned to the worst. “I’ll take you up to the bookshop and show you who I am now.”
He rested a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder and led him to the stairs, but Malcolm flinched away as they walked. “Who you are is the man we need in London to convince the May Flowers to steer this election in the direction it needs to go.”
“Peers of the realm do not campaign,” Basil said as they descended to the stairs into the street. “It might not be the law, but it is long-standing tradition. So I don’t see what use I’d be.”
Already, every person they came across as they climbed the hill to the center of town looked on with wide eyes and whispers behind their hands. Basil found himself standing straighter, the posture that had been drilled into him as a member of the nobility returning like an old coat he was forced to put on again.
“Do you have any idea what’s been going on down there?” Malcolm asked, his rage now mingled with concern. “Do you know what Shayles and his cronies are up to? Did you hear anything at all about the fuss Turpin caused last year and how it almost brought Alex down?”
“I read about it in the papers,” Basil muttered, trying not to feel guilty for failing to rush to the aid of his friends when they needed him. They’d done all right for themselves in the end.
“Turpin is on the rise again,” Malcolm said. “He’s campaigning like a madman to keep his position in Commons. There’s a group of women—young women, most of them titled ladies, some newly wed to the most influential voting men in the country. They’ve formed a not-so-secret society that they’re calling the May Flowers.”
“What does that have to do with the election?”
“Everything,” Malcolm said, his tone grim. “The influence they wield is staggering. The married ones have their husbands by the balls, and the unmarried are using the prospect of marriage to them as a gambit to sway votes.”
“Good for them,” Basil said, a wry grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. They sounded like precisely the kind of women Elaine would approve of.
“Good for them,” Malcolm repeated. “Bad for us. Nothing any of us say is making as much of an impact as we want it to, because we don’t have anyone on the inside.”
“What about Katya?” Basil asked. “This sounds as though it’s precisely the sort of intrigue she laps up.”
Malcolm scowled, his face flushing. Apparently that battle or dance or whatever it was called was still going on. “Katya tried, but these little…ladies consider her too old for their circle.”
Basil arched a brow, certain Malcolm had wanted to call the women something far more colorful. “If Katya can’t wheedle her way into the cabal, then what use could I possibly be? How could a weary old man like me have a chance of changing the minds and informing the opinions of this season’s most sought after debutantes?”
“They’re not in their first season, you know,” Malcolm growled as they crossed the central intersection of Brynthwaite. Everyone was staring at them, proving Basil’s theory that the truth would spread faster than he could walk to keep up with it. “Most of them are scattered on either side of thirty.”
“Still.” Basil shrugged. “What makes you think my running back to London like Waltham House is on fire would have any effect at all on how a group of high-society women convince their husbands to vote?”
Malcolm paused, prompting Basil to stop and face him. “Nobody knows for certain, but it is widely agreed that Lady Elizabeth Royston is the ring-leader of the group.”
Basil’s heart dropped like a rock into his stomach. Elizabeth Royston, formerly Elizabeth Grey. Formerly his Elizabeth, the one he’d humiliated himself over, the one he’d fled from. A thousand painful emotions hit him all at once—heartbreak, anger, pathos, and guilt. He could see in Malcolm’s eyes that his friend could read everything he was going through, and that he wouldn’t let Basil retreat a second time.
“No,” Basil said, shaking his head and marching on. “I’m not going back to London and renewing my acquaintance with Elizabeth.”
“You’re the only one who has any hope of getting close enough to her to find out what the May Flowers are up to, how they’re planning to influence the election.”
“Ask their husbands,” Basil called over his shoulder as Malcolm followed him down the street. “There’s a reason I’m not one of them.”
“We have.” Malcolm caught up with him. “The results were inconclusive. We need someone with a very special touch.”
“I’m not sleeping with anyone for political gain,” Basil insisted, lowering his voice when a passing neighbor glanced his way.
“Who asked you to sleep with them? That’s entirely up to you. Just flirt with them, get them talking. Convince them that our cause is their cause.”
“Elizabeth is intelligent. She likely already knows,” Basil grumbled.
“Lady Creswell is part of the cabal as well,” Malcolm said. “And Alice Lindsey.”
Basil winced. Two more women from his past. How many other former lovers lurked in the group?
“No. I left that life behind two years ago,” Basil said as they approached his shop. He gestured to the shingle over the door. “This is my home now. This is my life.”
“I can’t for the life of me understand why,” Malcolm huffed. “You’re an earl, for God’s sake. You have responsibilities, traditions to uphold. You can’t just go swanning off to the far ends of the kingdom because, because what?”
“Because I’d had enough,” Basil sighed.
Malcolm snorted. “It was the women. I can’t believe you abandoned your entire life because you’re clumsy with women.”
“I abandoned a life I never wanted in the first place because there didn’t seem to be any point left in living it anymore,” Basil argued.
“So you did what?” Malcolm shrugged. “Buggered off to the middle of nowhere to hunker down in a pile of dusty books?”
“I have a life here,” Basil growled. “I have friends. I have….” His throat closed up at the thought of Elaine, of how beautiful she’d looked in his arms that morning, of the exuberant way she’d made love to him, of the simple cheer of her laughter as the two of them took their afternoon stroll by the lake.
“Bloody hell, man,” Malcolm said, a wry grin splitting his otherwise serious face. “There’s another woman, isn’t there? You ran away from one bit of skirt only to get tangled up in another.”
“Elaine is not a bit of skirt,” Basil hissed, leaning toward his old friend with cold threat in his eyes. “I love her. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
Malcolm snorted. “Well, she’d better be willing to pack up and move to London if she wants you, because that’s where you’re going.”
The day was long and exhausting. Mr. Sudbury behaved like a gloating, condescending ass the entire time Elaine was in his office. Sitting through his insufferable lecture on propriety and how she could have avoided her eviction if she’d simply behaved as a woman ought to had been doubly uncomfortable, as the act of sitting in itself was surprisingly painful. Not even memories of how she’d become so sore could console her from the humiliating way Mr. Sudbury denigrated everything she was and hoped to be.
Elaine had signed the papers, fled the bank, and made it to the train station in Windermere just in time to see the train she should have taken back to Brynthwaite pull out of the station without her. She would have caught it if Mr. Sudbury and his associates hadn’t made her wait an extra forty-five minutes for her appointment. She was convinced they’d delayed her out of spite, and spite was all she felt for every single man, woman, and child who had ever bullied her into being someone she knew she wasn’t.
She nursed that spite as she waited an hour and a half at the Windermere station for another train to Brynthwaite. On any other day, she would have ignored the stares and pointing her appearance always elicited. But she was fed up to her teeth with the unfairness of the world and the maliciousness of those who saw individ
uality as a sin. At least she had Basil to go home to.
When the next train finally arrived and she was seated awkwardly inside, she consoled herself by imagining what she would find when she returned home. Basil would have brought all of his things back from the pub, of course. He would greet her with a reassuring smile and open arms. After she vented her rage about the way she was treated, he would kiss her and caress her. They would go upstairs and shed her clothes, and even though she might not have been quite fit enough for a repeat of the night before, surely there was a way to engage in sexual intercourse gently.
She was shaken from the light sleep her imaginings of such things had lulled her into as the train jerked to a stop at the Brynthwaite station. Still bleary, she gathered up her things and made her way to the end of the second-class car to hop down onto the platform. All she wanted to do was go home. She was used to being stared at by all and sundry, but for some reason, probably her terrible mood, the stares everyone gave her felt different.
“Evening, m’lady.” Jerry Root, the station’s porter, doffed his hat to her as she walked past on her way to the stairs.
“Good evening,” she sighed in return.
She would have thought nothing of the way he addressed her, except that once she’d made it to the street and began trudging up the hill, Petunia Jeffries curtsied to her with a smirk. “Good evening, my lady,” she said, then burst into laughter.
Elaine scowled at her and walked on. But Petunia wasn’t the only one to curtsy to her. In fact, every third person she came across curtsied or bowed, treating her as though she was a clown princess from some circus.
“So good of you to grace us with your presence, countess,” Joanna Talbert said with an elaborate curtsy as Elaine passed in front of the Crimpley’s house.
“Countess?” Elaine scowled at her.
“Yes, my lady. Or is there some other word for an earl’s whore?”
Elaine gaped at the young woman’s audacity. She had no idea what the joke was, but it wasn’t funny. “I’m not a whore,” she snapped, all of the peevishness that had been building within her since Windermere exploding. “Mr. Wall and I are in love.” She tilted her chin up with pride.
