An Unexpected Encounter ( Half Moon House, Novella 1)
Page 11
“Anything,” he declared.
“Let us make regular spectacles of ourselves,” she suggested.
Aurelia laughed, but the baron pulled her in for a kiss, right in front of the entire party.
“A daily spectacle,” he vowed. “I shall insist upon it.”
Epilogue
Once again Hestia Wright sat in her carriage on Great Russell Street. As before, she watched and waited. This time, however, her carriage sat further down the street and her heart filled with joy and satisfaction as the unlikely trio emerged from massive church doors instead of through the museum gates.
She smiled at the sight of them, so happy together and surrounded by a small group of family and friends. James Vickers was not among them, she knew. He had taken her advice and kept himself busy elsewhere today. He had taken to heart a few of her other suggestions as well, and she held high hopes for him.
Skirts and bright ribbons fluttered in the breeze and the high, bright laughter of children floated toward her. A small gathering of spectators and well wishers, congregated outside the church, broke into applause as the baron and his bride each took the hand of their little girl and whisked her lightly down the steps towards a waiting landau. They cheered louder still as, once his family was settled, Lord Cotwell stood and tossed handfuls of shining coins in their direction.
Hestia’s smile faded, though contentment still warmed her, even as the carriages started to move away and the crowd began to disperse. She leaned forward; ready to signal her driver to move on, when a ray of morning sun broke through the crowd, aimed straight for the church, where it lingered in a disheveled cap of masculine blonde hair.
She paused, caught, as she had so many times before. That shade always tugged at her heart and mind. Most days she only spared a glance, suffered a quick, dark pang and went about her business. Today, though . . . today that unruly mop of blonde hair belonged to a strange young man who looked alone and careworn—and just about the right age.
The combination was irresistible.
She climbed out of the carriage without assistance and stilled her protesting coachman with a wave of her hand and the order to wait on her. Then slowly she strolled toward the low steps of the church where the young man loitered.
“A joyous occasion,” she remarked. She gave a nod toward the disappearing carriages and dispersing crowd.
“Aye,” he agreed with a sigh. In one hand he carried a folded length of baize fabric and in the other he worried two of the baron’s pieces of silver. “Happiness comes easier to the wealthy blokes.”
“Why such bitterness?” Hestia asked kindly. “Surely you don’t begrudge them their joy?” She nodded at his hand. “It appears they’ve shared a bit with you.”
“No,” he agreed, flinging himself down on the cold stone step. “I can’t wish them anything but the best, in the end. But I also can’t help wishing for more o’ the same, for myself.”
Abruptly, Hestia sat down beside him. She smiled at his surprise and smoothed her skirts. “Tell me about it.”
His jaw tight, he stared at her. She saw the moment he decided to obey—and out poured his story. He’d gone to work in the back rooms of a cheese shop as a boy, advanced his way up to clerk, worked hard to learn the business and had, for the last year, nearly ran the place himself as his master’s health deteriorated. Now the man was set to sell the place.
“I’d buy it, if only I had the blunt. It’s all I know. I’ve ideas, too, to expand the place.” He sighed. “But I’ve give over half my wages to help my family since I was knee high and don’t have near close enough saved, yet.”
Hestia nodded. “Something tells me there’s a bit more to it, is there not?” She raised a brow. “Surely there’s a girl involved somewhere?”
The young man gaped. “How’d you know?”
“Long experience,” she said with a shrug.
Flushing a bit, he nodded. “Margaret’s her name,” he confessed. “And she’s right comely, too, with a smile that would fair dazzle a man.” He groaned and hung his head in his hands. “But her sire’s a butcher and a solid businessman himself. He won’t have her marrying a mere clerk—let alone one whose place hangs on the temperament of an as yet unknown buyer.”
Propping his chin on his hand, he sighed again. “Hopeless, it is.”
“Perhaps not,” Hestia mused. She thought a moment then frowned. “Have you a pin or a clasp on you?”
Mystified, he patted his pockets. “No, I don’t think so.” His eyes lit up and he began to unfold the baize, which turned out to be a starched apron. “I might have a bit of wire in here, though. We use it to hang signs.”
“Perfect. Loan me a bit, would you? About six inches, folded over itself tight.”
He did as he was bid, offering up the length of wire and waiting to see what she would do. Hestia took it and slid it into her hair, then removed the bejeweled comb that held her coiffure high. Her heavy locks immediately slipped a little but she ignored it and pressed the ornamented comb into his hand.
“A German prince gave me this. We took a boat out at midnight, on a clear mountain lake. The sky was bright with stars and the water like glass. Their reflections shone nearly as bright beneath us, so we felt we flew amongst them in the night.”
He swallowed.
“The jewels are real. The diamonds could not rival the stars that long ago night, but they should bring you more than enough to purchase a cheese shop.” She smiled. “And a bride.”
“No, my lady.” Shaking, the lad pressed the comb back to her. “Indeed, no. I could never repay such a debt.”
“I don’t ask you to repay it. Only to pass the kindness on sometime, when you are in a position to do so.”
He stared, slack-jawed. “But . . . why?”
“Because you remind me of someone. Someone dear, but far away.” Hestia bit her lip. “And I hope that if ever he finds himself in need, then someone will be moved to help him, too.”
She stood as he began to stammer his thanks, and started toward her carriage. “Remember, please, to be kind in your turn?”
He jumped up, comb clutched tight, calling assurances and blessings.
Hestia allowed her coachman to assist her inside. “Home,” she whispered. And so she carried on, as she always did, with head high and heart aching, and no one the wiser.
About the Author
Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was destined to write Regency Historical Romance.
A Golden Heart Award winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough romances to recognize the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party--even though he wore a tuxedo t-shirt instead of breeches and boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys. Though she spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She's working on it.
Deb loves to hear from readers! You can contact her at her website at www.DebMarlowe.com
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And don’t miss the other books in the Half Moon House Series
The Love List
and
Coming Soon: The Leading Lady
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