Wrackwater Bridge, Yorkshire
December 1817
Their stockinged feet thumped and slid across the floorboards in the upstairs hallway of the vicarage as Davy Redfern parried Lewis’s lunge. They’d held their lessons in the garden until last week, but December’s arctic chill had forced them indoors. The corridor was too narrow, and though it was near noon on a sunny day, the light that filtered through from the bedroom windows was insufficient. That didn’t seem to bother Davy—he’d never fenced in a proper salle, after all.
“Good parry, Davy.” Wouldn’t the instructors at Angelo’s laugh at the thought of Lewis teaching fencing, even if his pupil was barely eleven and there was no payment involved? Hell, Lewis was laughing too. It had been a slow process, but after nearly three months, both Davy’s swordplay and Lewis’s instruction were improving.
From her perch in the nearest doorway, Kate, Reverend Redfern’s elder daughter at age eight, tossed the dark curls that were so like her mother’s. “He was all off balance, though. You could have run him right through.”
She sounded aggrieved that he had not.
“That’s enough for today,” Lewis said, giving Davy a bow to end the bout. The boy returned the courtesy in a perfunctory fashion before turning on his sister. Lewis couldn’t see his expression, but he knew these children now and he could make a good guess.
“You’re just jealous, Miss Busybody,” Davy taunted. “You’ve got no further than learning the grip.”
“Am not Miss Busybody,” Kate cried. She marched past them and ran down the stairs.
“That was ungentlemanly,” Lewis commented as he replaced one of the chairs they’d cleared from the hallway. “So is sticking out your tongue.”
“I don’t see why she has to watch all the time,” Davy grumbled, setting the other chair in its place and then sitting to put on his shoes.
“Because she is jealous, Davy. She hasn’t quite the strength for it yet, or I’d be teaching both of you.”
“Aw, girls don’t fence.”
“Why shouldn’t they, if they want to? Give Kate another year, she’ll be ready.”
Davy screwed up his face in disgust.
They shrugged on their coats and folded the foils in their canvas wrappings to protect them on Lewis’s return ride to Sir John’s estate, where he had lived since his return to Yorkshire in August. Davy headed for the stairs at a run, but after a quick glance at Lewis, he restrained himself to a more sedate pace.
The tumult in the vicarage kitchen stopped Lewis in his tracks, as it always did. Currently, the small room held Mrs. Redfern, her three youngest children, the cook-housekeeper, and Nancy, the day girl. While Kate jabbered about the fencing lesson, five-year-old Barbara snatched some bit of food from the baby. His howl of rage could surely be heard in York.
Calm as always, Mrs. Redfern cast her pretty smile toward Davy and Lewis, greeting them as though she stood in an empty parlor rather than the midst of a whirlwind.
“Have a bite to eat,” she said. “There’s a plate here for each of you.”
“I can’t stay,” Lewis replied. “Sir John could arrive home at any time, and I—”
“Yes, and he might not come until tomorrow. Sit down and eat. You’re too thin.” She heaped his plate with cold beef and cheese, added a thick slice of bread and a gobbet of butter, and handed it to him.
He looked askance at the crowded table, but in the face of her bland assumption that he would follow her orders like any of the children, he found a chair and sat on it. She plunked an ale down in front of him, pulled a stool from somewhere, and squeezed her slender form between Davy and himself.
“So, Mr. Aubrey, Kate tells me you passed up an opportunity to rid the world of young Davy.” She tousled the lad’s hair and he grinned at her.
“What is all the commotion here?” Tall and hearty, the vicar entered the room with his eldest boy. His grin belied the gruff voice he’d affected for the occasion. “How are we supposed to concentrate on Virgil when we can’t hear ourselves think?”
“Papa!” Barbara all but fell off her chair in her rush to hug her father’s knees. He swept her up and nibbled on her neck while she screamed with laughter. Mrs. Redfern brought him a plate. He returned his daughter to the floor and bussed his wife on the lips, right in front of them all.
Lewis rose to his feet. “You may have my chair, sir. I must be going.” He donned his greatcoat and hoisted the foils from their spot in the corner, along with a knapsack filled with this week’s borrowed books.
“Wait, I’ll walk out with you.” Mr. Redfern shook his finger at little Barbara. “The pixies had best not eat my lunch. Barbara, I leave you in charge!” Giggling, the girl carried his plate to Lewis’s vacated place at the table. Then she climbed up to kneel on the chair and set herself to keep watch.
Mrs. Redfern detained Lewis with a hand on his arm, the levity gone from her expression. “I hope all goes well. We shall miss you.”
“It’s a month and more ’til we leave for Bath. You’ll see me again.”
“I should hope so! You’ve not drawn Barbara’s likeness yet.”
Lewis smiled. “She doesn’t sit still long enough, ma’am.”
With a laugh, Mrs. Redfern shooed them out the door into the freezing sunshine.
It felt good. Fresh and clean, the way winter should feel. Last night’s frost lingered in shady corners, and smoke from the vicarage chimney curled into the crisp afternoon air. It would be different in London, or even in Bath. He’d spent several weeks there after leaving London, helping the Wedburys settle in, exploring the town with Cassie, and thinking about how close he was to Bristol. He nearly bought a ticket one day, merely to find Anna’s house and gaze at the rooftop. A ridiculous notion. She’d made her wishes clear.
Mr. Redfern drew a deep breath as they ambled along the brick pathways that led through the garden to the stables. “Ah,” he said. “Peace and quiet.”
Lewis gazed at him in surprise. “But you seem to enjoy the chaos, sir.”
“Oh, a certain amount of disorder makes life exciting, and children bring the very best sort of disorder. But frequent escapes keep it all the more enjoyable. I know you understand. I’ve seen the relief on your face when you walk out that door.”
“Please don’t take it personally, sir.” Lewis placed a hand over his heart. “Your family charms me.”
The vicar nodded. “I know. You may say what you think, with me.”
“It’s merely… I don’t believe I’ve stepped inside a kitchen since I passed the age of ten. My parents would be appalled by the scene I survived just now.” The sheer raucousness of it made him wince. Yet Lewis had developed tremendous admiration for these people in the past three months. They took serious things seriously, and in between, they lived in joy.
Mr. Redfern chuckled. “I must remember never to invite your parents to dine, Mr. Aubrey! I see what you mean, though. They are staid, and ever so genteel, and aim to remain that way. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“No? Perhaps not. Nevertheless, I always preferred the Wedburys.”
“You must still prefer their house to your own,” said the vicar. “Because you’d hardly need to live there merely to exercise the horses.”
Lewis smiled for Redfern’s benefit. His choice of residence had nothing to do with the house or the horses, and everything to do with his parents. “The horses are one of several excuses Sir John gave to make me feel better about not paying rent.”
“And now he’s bringing his son home, merely for a month’s visit, leaving the ladies behind in Bath. At the holiday season, no less.” This fell into serious territory, and Redfern’s tone reflected that. “How peculiar for everyone.”
“I fear it will be a grueling exercise.”
“What do you expect to see, Aubrey? You’ve been so reticent—forgive me if I’m treading where I don’t belong. From the little you’ve said about Mr. Wedbury’s condition, I’m surprised they would undertake such a journey.”
Lewis paused, staring down at the unidentifiable brown stems of whatever had grown in the little plot where they stood. “I believe they’re hoping to see some improvement amid the familiar surroundings of home. With the difficulties of winter travel, I thought they’d wait until spring. But Sir John has estate business, and Jack was eager to come, and so it was arranged.”
It was clear from their letters that Sir John and Cassie had misgivings. Jack’s anticipation, however, seemed unclouded by qualms about the journey, the weather, or any other rational concern. In a hurried scrawl that could pass for young Kate’s, he wanted to know if Cook would have his favorite lemon tarts—Lewis made sure of that. And whether the fish were biting—It’s December, Jack, I can’t change the calendar. It did not bode well.
Though Lewis said none of that aloud, Mr. Redfern must have sensed his unease. Shaking his head, he put one hand on Lewis’s shoulder. “I’m right sorry, lad. I remember meeting the two of you soon after we arrived in Wrackwater Bridge last year. As close as brothers, the way you went everywhere together, finished each other’s sentences. Perhaps closer than your own brother.”
Lewis gave a snort of derision. “As you stand closer to me than the sun, sir.”
But his mind was not on Gideon. “I’m not even sure he’s still Jack. Does that make sense?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
They rounded the corner and came in sight of the stable yard. A groom jumped up to fetch Lewis’s mount. “I devoutly hope you’ll find your anxiety unnecessary. Please call on us if there’s any way we can help. I’m honestly not sure how we will manage without you. Between Davy’s fencing lessons, and numbers and letters with the little ones, and your excellent drawings, you’ve wormed your way into every heart in our home. You should have seen Nancy carry her portrait home to her parents. So careful to keep it clean and unwrinkled, so proud and happy! We are honored to have come to know you these past few months.”
Lewis’s face burned. “Good God, sir! The honor is all on my side!”