Julie Anne Long - [Pennyroyal Green 08]

by It Happened One Midnight

  And then she looked harder.

  It was the Queen of Hearts. She was wearing a green dress, and her eyes were a vivid green rimmed round in gray, and she had a little pointed chin and delicate slashes of eyebrows.

  Most striking of all was the hair.

  “Copper-colored hair and all,” he whispered.

  She couldn’t see it through her tears. “Copper!” she choked wonderingly. “Yes.”

  “Burnished copper,” he embellished triumphantly, still on a whisper.

  She laughed shakily. “Yes!” she approved on a whisper, too. “But . . . how . . .”

  These seemed to be the only words she was capable of speaking today.

  “I commissioned a deck, Tommy. Wyndham had already done your portrait, so he painted it from that. I made him work around the clock for a few days. And I made sure you were the only person in that deck. Not only that, but you can buy the Thomasina de Ballesteros deck in the Burlington Arcade.”

  She recovered then, and choked a laugh. “I hope we make an immense profit.”

  He heard the word “we.”

  She understood how he heard it when he went suddenly very still and alert.

  A man alive with a hope he hardly dare harbor.

  She couldn’t postpone it any longer. She’d best tell him what she came to tell him.

  “Jonathan . . .” she said hesitantly. “It’s . . . I’m afraid I have something to tell you, too.”

  He’d survive a few moments of torture, the beast. It was only what he deserved.

  She almost took pity when she saw how instantly gray and taut his face went. He loves me. He loves me. He loves me. The thought was a hosanna, and exultation. And she took no pleasure in hurting him.

  Still, a little theater wouldn’t kill either of them. She’d get the torture over with quickly.

  “Very well. Tell me what you need to tell me,” he ordered curtly. Still tense and slit-eyed and gray-faced. Like a man braced to have a bullet extracted from his flesh.

  “Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”

  He hesitated, much the way she had. And then he inhaled for courage and thrust out his hand.

  And slowly, with great ceremony, she poured the strand of pearls into his palm.

  He blinked. He looked down at them and frowned faintly. “I don’t . . . that is . . . what are . . .”

  “When you deposited the money in my account, I used all of it to buy them back from Exley & Morrow. I’ll have them returned to Prescott tomorrow.”

  And the dawning of realization on his face was glorious. “You believed in me,” he said slowly. “You trusted me.”

  “Of course I did. That, and I love you more than life itself.”

  She saw her words enter him like cupid’s arrow. He closed his eyes swiftly, as if bracing against an onslaught of emotion. He mouthed something that might have been “Hallelujah.”

  Then he opened them again, as if he couldn’t bear not to see her in the aftermath of those words.

  “Say it again.”

  “I love you.” Those magical powerful words that she never dreamed she’d be able to say to anyone.

  And look, look what it did to Jonathan Redmond’s face when she said them. What a humbling power she held.

  He recovered, and smiled a slow satisfied smile. “Of course you love me. How could you help it?”

  He gathered her abruptly into his arms then, and he bent to kiss her senseless.

  And then her senses congregated again and clamored for his touch everywhere she could possibly be touched.

  “And you’ll marry me?” he wanted to know. He murmured this in her ear, before he applied a tongue to it. Her breath caught, and she turned her head to press her lips to his throat. How swiftly his heartbeat was beating. For her. He loved her.

  “I’ll marry you,” she gasped.

  Because he’d dragged his hands softly down over her breasts and cupped them, and she felt the surge of wildness overtake her.

  He kissed her again, and his hands went to work on the laces of her dress.

  “Excellent. Because, as I may have mentioned, I love you, Tommy, and I really think I may perish without you.”

  “Will it kill your father if we marry?”

  He gave a laugh. “You sound just a bit hopeful. But never fear. My father will love you, too.”

  “How is that possible?” She’d gone to work on the buttons of his shirt.

  “Because I told him he will. Oh, and he will. For you and I, my love, my dearest Tommy, and our children, and our children’s children, are not only going to own much of England one day . . . we’re going to rule it, too. Starting with this mill. This mill is ours. Starting with laws about child labor. Let me tell you how.”

  He lifted her up onto the desk, and furled up her skirts, his mouth never leaving hers. She reached for his trouser buttons, and had them open with scandalous rapidity.

  “Our children’s children?” she whispered.

  “Our beautiful, brilliant, fearless, scrappy, courageous, copper-headed children. We ought to have at least ten of them. I have it on good authority.”

  Though in a way, they already did have hundreds of them, just as he’d told his father. In mills all over England, waiting for their help.

  Imagine that. That Gypsy girl had been right.

  “Ten? We’d best get started, then.” Tommy was practical.

  And so—for the sake of England’s future, of course—they got started.

  And didn’t finish for hours.

  Epilogue

  THERE WAS AN EPIDEMIC of stiff necks in Pennyroyal Green.

  Generally Pennyroyal Green parishioners had no difficulty deciding where to point their eyes during Sunday services—after all, one simply wanted to look at the Reverend Sylvaine regardless of what he was saying—and not even his recent marriage to the most unlikely woman imaginable had dimmed his ability to fill the pews.

  But for six Sundays in a row Reverend Sylvaine had competition for his parishioners’ attention.

  Breathlessly, silently, frozen with fascination, everyone listened and watched. Isaiah Redmond had neither blinked, nor flinched, nor smiled while banns were read for his youngest son and a certain Thomasina de Ballesteros, a heathen name if ever there was one, some sniffed. (Mercifully, no rumors about Tommy had yet wafted from London to Sussex on the winds of gossip.) Others surmised she must be of Spanish royalty, what with her fine looks and bearing, or otherwise Isaiah Redmond never would have countenanced the match. For Isaiah Redmond’s back remained straight, his gaze remained focused, his expression remained mildly interested, and he never so much as twitched a muscle or raised a brow, let alone a protest.

  He also never once looked at Jonathan or Tommy. Let alone spoke to them. Nor did matriarch Fanchette Redmond, though one had the sense that her neck was quivering with the effort not to turn. But then she was a mother, and looking at her children was a difficult-to-combat instinct.

  The parishioners hardly knew where to look.

  Jonathan weathered his silent father and the curious stares with a shifting blend of wary aplomb—inscrutability was an art form with Isaiah Redmond, and one never quite knew what the man had up his sleeve—and serene certainty, for love had encased him in a bubble of invincibility that concerns about the future couldn’t penetrate. Tommy bore the curious stares of the townspeople like a queen, and if while the banns were read she surreptitiously gripped his hand the way she used to grip her father’s medal, Jonathan would look down to where their fingers twined, awestruck and honored and grateful that the bravest person he knew would turn to him when she needed courage. It was what he was born to do: ensure her safety. He would endeavor to deserve her trust every day of his life.

  For three of those weeks Jonathan and Tommy stayed with Miles Redmond and his wife Cynthia in a Sussex estate Miles had rented nearby, but Jonathan divided much of his time between London and Lancaster and Sussex.

  During the fourth week, a parishion
er who happened to be awake exceptionally early one Saturday—namely, Mrs. Sneath—witnessed Jonathan and Tommy leaving the church in the pale gold morning light, followed by Mr. Miles Redmond and his wife Cynthia, the Earl of Ardmay and his wife the former Miss Violet Redmond, and the celestially handsome Lord Argosy.

  But not, it was noted and much discussed, by Mr. Isaiah Redmond.

  Or by Fanchette Redmond.

  And this supplied conversation kindling throughout the town for yet another week. When word of Jonathan’s marriage spread through the village, the disappointment at being deprived of a spectacle of a wedding was grave—for not a word had been spoken about the event in advance—yet was rather offset by the revelation that the popular young Mr. Redmond had never looked more gloriously handsome and so happy, and that his bride, heathen name or no, looked like the sun itself, as beautiful as an angel, and Mrs. Sneath relayed this story so well at the weekly meeting of the Society for the Protection of the Sussex Poor that there wasn’t a dry handkerchief after the telling of it, and much of the embroidery was inconveniently dampened.

  Today the excitement at church continued.

  The parishioner’s necks quivered with the effort not to whip to and fro like weathervanes, from Redmond to Redmond to Redmond. For Violet Redmond’s new baby was to be baptized after Reverend Sylvaine read the first lesson, and instead of the traditional two Godmothers and one Godfather, it seemed the little one was to instead have one Godmother—Mrs. Cynthia Redmond—and two Godfathers, Mr. Miles Redmond and an almost unbearably dashing, blond, more-than-ever-so-slightly dangerous looking gentleman by the name of Lavay, the first mate of the earl’s ship. For Violet Redmond of course wouldn’t be able to resist exciting a bit of controversy even after she was safely married.

  Jonathan was not immune to the temptation to whip his head around the congregation, too, but he managed to do it surreptitiously, with glances. His eyes snagged on Olivia Eversea, who was wedged between two of her brothers. She must have sensed it, because her eyes flicked toward him; for a second, they held gazes. Olivia, who like Tommy, was driven by a passion for causes. Olivia, who had allegedly broken Lyon’s heart and driven Lyon away. And Jonathan had a swift traitorous thought: Did Lyon deserve her? What drove Olivia? Did she miss his brother as much as Jonathan did?

  He jerked his stare away when the tiny lace-bedecked Ruby opened her mouth in a howl that elicited sympathetic clucks and chuckles from the congregation. Suddenly the memory of roars of Gypsy laughter echoed in his head: ten children, ten children, ten children . . .

  He must have tensed just a bit, because Tommy squeezed his hand and the corner of her mouth twitched, suppressing a smile. Over the past several weeks Jonathan had spent his time between Pennyroyal Green, Lancaster, and London. With the assistance of Tommy and Mr. Romulus Bean and even Argosy, who had been conscripted into the process but had proved startlingly useful once given something to do, they’d made headway into finding loving homes and excellent apprenticeships for nearly all of the youngest children, and hired adult replacements for them; at a higher cost, to be sure, but Jonathan was certain he would be able to offset the cost with increased profits. And he’d also introduced Tommy to Violet. Violet had first regarded Tommy with gratifying astonishment, then stunned glee—for Jonathan’s sudden engagement was highly unexpected and delightfully controversial. And then she’d collected herself and had become a cool haughty silence and a stare that nevertheless spoke loudly: Prove to me that you’re good enough for my brother.

  And so for a time, Tommy and Violet had eyed each other with the wariness of cats while Jonathan looked on. Until:

  “I’ve always wanted a sister,” Tommy had finally said truthfully yet cautiously—for one would need to be a bit mad to wish for a sister like Violet. And Violet, made magnanimous and soft by motherhood and still inclined to weep a little at sentimental things (which infuriated her, as she was fiercely loyal but not at all sentimental), swept Tommy into her arms. Jonathan doubted the friendship between two such . . . distinctive . . . personalities would always be quite so effortless and giddy, but this would do for a beginning.

  His father and mother, however, had not spoken to him in weeks. Not since his father had turned over the Thomasina de Ballesteros card.

  Jonathan hadn’t precisely avoided them. And it didn’t appear, at least, that they’d been avoiding Jonathan. But the silence was just rather tacit. And he knew that Violet and the earl had been invited to join his father and mother for breakfast after the baptism. Quite pointedly, a similar invitation had not been extended to Jonathan and Tommy, or to his brother Miles and his wife Cynthia. For Cynthia wasn’t welcome in the Redmond home, either.

  Little Ruby Alexandra predictably and understandably roared in astonished outrage when she was dipped in the font. Jonathan looked forward to telling his niece about the time her mother had threatened to throw herself down a well after an argument with a suitor.

  And that’s when he glanced toward his father and mother now, a reflex, and saw his mother reach for his father’s hand, much the way Tommy had reached for his. Jonathan was beginning to understand how much could be conveyed in utter silence between two married people.

  He just wasn’t certain precisely what was being conveyed between his parents in that moment.

  And then the service was over, and everyone stood to file out of the church.

  Just as the sky opened up and the rain plummeted.

  With disconcerting rapidity the pathway into town turned into a bit of a muddy soup, driving all the parishioners who’d walked to church into the warm welcoming arms of the Pig & Thistle across the road to wait out the downpour.

  Leaving a cluster of silent Redmonds standing bemusedly in front of the church. For Jonathan and Tommy and Miles and Cynthia had walked to church in the clear cold morning, while his father, mother, Violet and the earl had arrived in the Redmond carriage.

  For a moment, the silence was taut enough to be thumped like a drum.

  And then his father turned and addressed Jonathan as if they’d spoken only yesterday.

  “Why don’t we put the ladies in the carriage and have them taken back to the house? The four of will surely survive a walk in the rain if it continues.”

  The ladies. Meaning Cynthia, Violet, Tommy, and their mother.

  And Jonathan, for a moment, was speechless. As was Miles, apart from a brow that shot up.

  The ladies in question seemed to be holding their collective breaths.

  “Why don’t we?” the Earl of Ardmay said smoothly.

  And thusly a quartet of silent, astonished, wide-eyed ladies and one baby were duly assisted into the carriage, which rolled away.

  Leaving a quartet of silent men behind.

  “We could walk back now,” Jonathan mused. “Or . . . we could have a game of darts at the Pig & Thistle and wait it out.”

  His father turned to him. His face was unreadable. And then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Darts it is,” his father said.

  “I’ll win,” Jonathan said, after a moment, unable to resist.

  A hesitation.

  “Perhaps,” his father said easily, after a moment. “Perhaps not.”

  With a smile that was faint but real.

  It was the perfect answer, as far as Jonathan was concerned.

  And they all made their way into the Pig & Thistle.

  “PACKAGE FOR YOU, sir.”

  The Duke of Greyfolk looked up at the footman hovering in the doorway, and beckoned him forward with a sweep of his hand, as he settled his haunches into the indentation in his favorite chair in the library where Thomasina and Jonathan had peered in at him one midnight.

  He accepted the small paper-wrapped bundle and sliced the string with a letter opener.

  The first thing revealed was a folded sheet of foolscap. He thumbed it open and read:

  This gave me courage when I needed it. I hope it will remind you of how brave you can be.

  He parted the la
yers of tissue and stopped when he caught a glimpse of red.

  And carefully, from its generous nest, he lifted his medal.

  About the Author

  San Francisco Bay Area native JULIE ANNE LONG originally set out to be a rock star when she grew up (and she has the guitars and fringed clothing stuffed in the back of her closet to prove it), but writing was always her first love. She began her academic career as a Journalism major, until she realized Creative Writing was a better fit for her freewheeling imagination and overdeveloped sense of whimsy. And when playing guitar in dank, sticky clubs finally lost its “charm,” Julie realized she could incorporate all the best things about being in a band—namely drama, passion, and men with unruly hair—into novels, while also indulging her love of history and research. Since then, her books have been nominated for numerous awards, including the RITA®, Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice, the Holt Medallion, Bookseller’s Best, and the Quill, and reviewers have been known to use words like “dazzling,” “brilliant,” and “impossible to put down” when describing them.

  Visit Julie at www.julieannelong.com, www.julieannelong.typepad.com, or www.myspace/julieannelong.

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  Praise for the novels of

  JULIE ANNE LONG

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  “A fresh voice that stands out in a chorus of Regency historicals, Julie Anne Long entrances with deftly woven humor, strong and believable characters, and a genuinely rich and emotional resolution. Delicious and delightful!”

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  By Julie Anne Long

  It Happened One Midnight

  A Notorious Countess Confesses

  How the Marquess Was Won

  What I Did for a Duke

  I Kissed an Earl

  Since the Surrender

  Like No Other Lover

  The Perils of Pleasure

  Copyright