by Wylde, Anya
“I saw him with Lady Lydia. The one he was engaged to before our marriage. The same Lady Lydia that creates frozen droplets on the tips of my hair every time she speaks. They were kissing,” Penelope announced.
“Terrible, and here your wife is carrying your child. Insensitive I say,” George piped up.
Celine dropped the butter knife and took hold of Penelope’s hand in concern. “Penny, are you alright? Lydia has not entered this mansion, at least not while I have been here.”
“She did too. In my dreams. I saw him kiss her and then we argued.” Penelope insisted.
Celine gaped, “You mean you are stewing because the duke had an affair and argued with you in your dream. All this happened in your head and you know this, and yet you are angry with him? I don’t understand.”
The duke dabbed his mouth and stood up. He went around the table and soundly kissed his wife. “You can argue with me some more in your head, my love. I am afraid I have work to do and I cannot participate. But my dream self is all yours. Do what you like with him.”
Penny’s mouth trembled watching him leave. She picked up the jam pot and flung it at the door. “I hate him.”
“No you don’t, you love him,” Celine said smiling.
Penelope’s head turned in her direction.
The teapot was lying very close to Penelope. Her hand inched towards the pot, but before she had reached it both Lord Elmer and Celine disappeared from the room.
***
“It is a lovely day,” Celine said strolling down the garden path. She carefully circumvented the statue of a smiling Phoebe with a half-moon crown on her head. Sir Henry in his younger days had commissioned the marble statue for guests that particularly annoyed him. It was engineered in such a way that whenever someone walked under it, they triggered a hidden mechanism that caused jets of water to gush out of the crown of the statue instantly drenching the unsuspecting creature.
“Blast,” Lord Elmer exclaimed, “I am drenched. Did you know this bloody thing was a fountain in disguise?”
“No,” Celine replied, batting her lashes innocently.
He smiled, “I wish I could understand you. Are you a sensible girl who refuses to be called by a sensible name like Amy, a good girl with sparks of mischief, a delicate young thing who barely blinks at the sign of danger, or a well-mannered young lady who has had the audacity to fall in love with a fat poet called Cuthbert. You, my dear Amy, are a contradiction.”
She winked and handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face.
“Jasmine,” he said holding her handkerchief to his nose and inhaling the scent. This time he winked.
She flushed and turned away.
They walked in comfortable silence for some time.
She was content to gaze out at the beautiful landscape thinking restful thoughts. The sun was bright enough to make her squint and scrunch up her face, the heat welcome after the long cold winter months. She could feel the rays digging into her very bones, warming her up inside and out.
“The duke,” George said breaking the silence, “is an acquired taste. Just like fish eggs.”
“I adore him,” she said.
“Yes, I noticed your dubious taste in men.”
“What sort of a girl do you like?”
“All sorts.”
They came upon an artificial lake and for a moment stood gazing at the shimmering water.
Celine sat down on the garden bench and Lord Elmer joined her.
“Do you have a good dowry?” he asked, closing his eyes and tilting his face up to the sun.
“No,” she replied opening her pale green parasol.
“Hmm, and your poet is penniless. How will you live? I think women in love stop feeling hungry. They fail to remember that after marriage you will need to feed yourself and your husband. You will no longer be in your father’s house dinning on pigs and wings.”
“I will manage,” Celine snapped. She had always imagined her and Philly owning a sweet little cottage draped in honeysuckle and wild roses. They would have a tiny kitchen with a maid of all work. In winter they would sit by the fire, sing songs and eat their supper. Now all she could see was a single pea and a boiled potato on her supper plate that she would have to share with not only Philly but also her six wailing children and the dog.
“The duke will give you a dowry. Your sister will ensure it,” he mused, failing to notice her glare.
“I shall not take it.”
“Does Dimber Mort know that your sister has married the Duke of Blackthorne?” he asked standing up and walking towards the lake.
She followed more slowly. “His name is Philbert. And I am not sure if he knows about Penny. I don’t think I told him about it … but someone in the village could have.”
“I see.” He walked to the edge of the lake and bent to test the water, “Amy, don’t mention where you are staying or that your sister is now a duchess to Bacon Fat until the very end of your meeting with him.
After a moment of receiving no response, he looked back to find Celine had halted a few feet away from him.
“Come here,” he called out to her. “I think I spotted a pretty fish.”
She shook her head and backed away.
He frowned and gazed back at the water.
“What is it?” he asked coming up to her. He took her chin and tilted her face up, searching her eyes.
Celine’s heart stopped, her fears faded, and the world narrowed to a point. The warmth of his fingers on her chin coursed through her veins and she emitted an undignified squeak.
One powerful, masculine eyebrow rose in question and she felt her knees go weak. She had to get away from him, away from his earthy scent, away from his crystal clear blue eyes … away from his touch.
She slipped under his arm and hastened towards the mansion. “What is our next step?” she asked in a falsely cheerful voice.
He looked towards the water one last time before quickly following her. “Tomorrow we shall visit The Winged Horse. It is an inn where a number of gamblers meet. A man there says he has met your poet and knows where he can be found.”
“Did you say his name right this time?”
“I wrote it down so I don’t make a mistake.” he said producing the small piece of paper.
“The lump of lard is called Philbert Woodbead,” Celine read. “Do you have to call him names?”
“Yes, it is necessary. I am offering my services for free, and in return for excellent companionship and help, please allow me to call your fat poet names. It gives me great pleasure.”
Her mouth twitched as she returned the paper.
Chapter 18
The sun dipped in the sky and a pleasant spring evening unfurled like the wings of a leathery bat waking up from a good day’s sleep.
Celine and George donned their English springer spaniel hats and prepared to nose around London once again in the hopes of catching the poet’s scent.
“Perkins,” Lord Elmer said, taking the coat and hat from the butler, “lost any teeth lately?”
Perkins slightly unbent his form and his old bones quivered and rattled. He bared his yellow teeth and wheezed.
Celine pressed her lips together as she watched Lord Elmer slowly back away from the butler.
“What’s the matter with the fellow?” he whispered in her ear.
“He is demonstrating amusement, my lord,” she replied promptly.
“Is he?” Lord Elmer asked nervously. After a moment, he said, “I don’t like it. Tell him to stop. At once.”
“Wonders will never cease,” Dorothy commented from behind him. “I have never seen a butler giggle.”
“That’s not a giggle,” Celine began and then stopped. She couldn’t find an apt word to describe what it was. Instead, she said, “I am going for a walk, Dorothy. Be good and don’t tease Gunhilda. And I hope your pet is alive. You haven’t forgotten to feed it have you?”
“Certainly not,” Dorothy said offended. “I take very good c
are of him.”
“Good, and wash your face. You have soot all over your cheek,” Celine scolded.
George cut in smoothly and addressed Dorothy, “Miss Fairweather, you look charming as always. Will you excuse us?”
Dorothy blushed and dipped in an elegant courtesy. “Shall I see you at dinner?”
“I am sorry, but I shall be dining with the duke,” Lord Elmer responded with just the right amount of regret.
“Perhaps next time you can come by for some light supper in the nursery. I will ask the cook to prepare something special if you will inform me in advance,” Dorothy invited.
“I would be honoured,” he said bowing to her.
“You should stop flirting with anything in skirts,” Celine said once they were outside and on their way towards the hired carriage.
“Why?” he asked patting his pockets.
“Because the maids in the Blackthorne Mansion have fallen in love with you, or have you failed to notice?” Celine huffed. “And you shouldn’t encourage Dorothy either. The girl thinks she is in love with you as well.”
“She will forget about me the moment she goes back home. There is no harm in making her a little bit happy or the maids for that matter,” he said in a distracted voice.
“Is that what you are trying to do for me too? Trying to make me a little bit happy?” When he failed to reply, she asked, “Lord Elmer, what in the world are you looking for?”
“For the veil to attach to your bonnet.”
“In your shoe?”
“I was being thorough. I think I left the veil back in my room, and we are supposed to be meeting Mr Bindle at The Winged Horse at five. I don’t think I have time to run back and fetch it.”
“I cannot go without a veil. I would be ruined if someone recognised me,” she objected.
“I have a plan.”
“Yes?”
“I was planning to disguise myself because as you may have noticed pirates are looking for my head on a platter.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Therefore, this morning I pocketed two moustaches. One black and one grey. I couldn’t decide between the two. I think you should wear the one which comes attached to a beard.”
“Wear what?”
“The grey moustache and beard.”
“But I am wearing a Parisian walking dress in peach down with border flounces in the same colour and a green pomona silk hat trimmed with ivory lace and rosebuds.”
“Gloves?”
“White kid.”
“Fascinating. I am wearing buckskin breeches, coat and riding boots. Now, I wonder what could make our attire even more fashionable. By Jove, would you believe it? I just happened to find these two beautiful moustaches. It’s fate. We were destined to wear them. They are just the thing—”
“No,” she said firmly.
“Do you have a better idea?”
Half an hour later the carriage halted and two faces, one masculine and one feminine but both sporting splendid moustaches, peeked out of the window.
“The inn is at the other side of the river. We will take the boat. It will be faster,” he began.
“No,” Celine said firmly.
“No?”
“I am not crossing the river.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to find your poet?”
“Not if I have to cross the river.”
“Your dress won’t get muddy,” he promised. “I will clean your seat with a handkerchief. I won’t let the boatman splash water on you. I will look away if you go green and cast up your accounts. Deuced woman, why won’t you cross the river?”
She pressed her lips together.
He sat back in his seat, “Are you scared of water?”
She glanced away.
“Nothing will happen to you. I know how to swim,” he coaxed.
“I know how to swim,” she snapped. “It doesn’t help.”
For a moment he looked as if he would bang his head on the carriage wall in frustration.
She said in a trembling voice, “I was sixteen when Dorothy fell into the river that runs near my house. She was very young. I saw it happen. I was close enough to help and yet I stood frozen in fright. Thankfully Penelope heard Dorothy’s shouts and came and pulled her out. I just stood there like a fool unable to move.”
“I see. Well then let me send Nithercott. He can talk to Mr Bindle for us.” And that was all he had to say about it.
Celine nodded gratefully. She watched him from the corner of her eye while he instructed Nithercott. Her heart suddenly felt full threatening to spill over. She had not wanted false platitudes or pity regarding her fear of water. She knew it was irrational, and he knew it as well. And yet he had said nothing and accepted it. He understood her.
She beamed at him and he catching her expression beamed back. And with all the back and forth beaming, the atmosphere in the carriage reverted back to being sunny.
For the next forty minutes Celine sat knitting a scarf while Lord Elmer took a short nap in a sitting position. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and slept. Just like that. It was a talent worth admiring.
And Celine wholeheartedly admired.
The sound of clicking needles filled the air along with George’s soft snores. Celine’s hands were busy, but her eyes were not. It was only natural, so she told herself, that she happened to spend a good half an hour staring at George.
Her hands itched to smooth away a black curl that was kissing the inside of his ears. She admired the shape of his head, the sensual curve of his nostril, and his long capable fingers. He shifted in his sleep, and her heart sang at the sight of muscles moving underneath his crisp white shirt.
The knitting was forgotten. The blue yarn unravelled unnoticed.
She felt as if some force beyond her control had taken over her limbs. She wanted to … no, she needed to reach across and brush that single lash poised on his cheek.
Her hand lifted … and a rap on the window broke the domestic bliss.
Nithercott had returned from his mission.
Celine shoved the wool back in the bag, and Lord Elmer opened one eye to hear the news.
Nithercott puffed up importantly and said, “I found Mr Bindle lurking outside The Winged Horse. He wasn’t happy about the fact that I had come instead of Lord Elmer. He refused to talk to me and stormed off in anger.”
Celine clucked in disappointment.
“I chased after him,” Nithercott comforted her. “I wasn’t going to let him escape without first doing my duty and garnering the information I had been asked to fetch. I followed him down a darkened alley called Gin Lane. I fawned over his leather boots a bit, complimented his dusty tie and admired the shine on his bald head. It soon restored him to a more amiable mood, and that is when I struck.”
Celine gasped.
Nithercott nodded, “Yes, I struck expertly, like a viper striking its prey. The moment I spotted that his lips were curving up in the hint of a smile, I asked him for the information. I asked him where the poet was, and because I had put the question to him at just the right moment, his smile did not drop. In fact, he grinned even broader and asked me for two whole pounds for the information. I humbly offered him a copper.”
Here Nithercott hesitated.
“Go on,” Celine encouraged him.
He looked at her gratefully and continued, “I offered him a copper, and Mr Bindle, smelling strongly of gin, snatched it out of my hand and took off running. Alas, Mr Bindle knew the alley well, while I did not. He disappeared like a professional crook while all I could do was chew my hat in distress.”
Here Nithercott finished his narration and showed George his chewed hat as proof of the aforementioned events.
It was bad news, but worse news was to follow. Lord Elmer’s second eye sprang open when he noticed a thin bony hand holding a blunderbuss brushing Nithercott’s sweat soaked back. Nithercott had left one crook only to arrive with another shorter, thinner drier one.
�
��One Legged Tim,” Lord Elmer informed her, nodding towards the man with the gun. “Persistent fellow.”
“We ran into each other on the boat,” Nithercott said nervously. “He wants you to follow him. And if you want to see me alive again, then he says that you had better follow him. I truly hope, my lord, that my service all these years has been satisfactory, and if it has, then kindly save my bacon.”
Celine gasped.
One Legged Tim smiled. The left side of his lip curled upwards to show off his solid gold tooth.
“Now look here,” Lord Elmer coaxed, “you and Nithercott are old friends. Why don’t you take the coach driver instead? You have never met him. A fine specimen Jim is. Broad shoulders, good teeth and sharp ears. Best coach driver I have ever had ….”
A church bell pealed in the distance and Celine gasped again. They had exactly one hour to reach the Blackthorne Mansion to be in time for dinner. She had to get home. Her hands twisted together, her eyes beseeching everyone to hurry up.
Lord Elmer was busy selling the coach driver, Nithercott was sweating profusely, and One Legged Tim was fast losing patience.
She had to act now if she wanted to get back home in time. Every minute was precious. Mrs Beatle’s book advised women to be prepared for everything. Never, she had written, depend on a man. Men, she wrote, were ornaments that one pulled out on special occasions or while spring cleaning. The rest of the time they should be safely stored away in either the library or the study depending on where they looked best.
Celine tried to follow Mrs Beatle’s advice as much as possible in her day to day life. Hence she dug into her reticule, pulled out a knitting needle, poked her head out of the carriage window and stabbed One Legged Tim in the eye with the pointy end.
One Legged Tim screeched in agony and stumbled backwards.
While he moaned about being blinded, Celine opened the carriage door, yanked Nithercott inside and rapped the carriage walls.
By the time One Legged Tim recovered they were well on their way home.
Lord Elmer held a knitting needle in one hand and all through the drive he periodically tested the pointed end for sharpness. Nithercott spent the entire ride pledging his life to an embarrassed Celine.
