“Sadly, capon is not available here,” Joss couldn’t resist teasing Augusta as they made their way to a corner table. “After becoming used to the fine dishes put forth by Lady Tallant’s cook, I do hope you will be able to find something acceptable to eat.”
“I’ve no doubt I will,” she replied. “I am so tired of capon. And truffles and roe and potatoes and rosewater ice. Give me coarse brown bread and pigs’ trotters.”
Joss laughed, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling beam in the corner, and drew forth a chair for his dinner companion.
The sleet had transformed again into drizzle by the time they reached the door of his lodging house, and the pair of them splashed through the sodden streets to the White Hart Inn, a stone cube of a public house across the road from the Pump Room. The White Hart was, as usual, swarming with foot traffic and new arrivals by carriage. It served as both a destination for travelers to Bath and a haven for those in search of a hearty meal. The crowded room steamed with wet cloaks and sodden boots, the smell of people and coal and the odd wet dog—and above all, of roasted meat and yeasty-sweet spilled ale.
Sturdy and old and comfortable, the public room’s floor was made of wide planks, the once-rough wood tables smoothed over time by thousands of palms and plates. A wall of windows flanked the front entrance, allowing gray daylight to filter in. The low ceiling of the room caused voices to bounce and echo; the only way to be heard was to lean in close, to speak low.
As Joss drew his chair closer to Augusta’s, facing out into the large room, he decided this was an enjoyable arrangement. “Do you have a preferred meal or beverage? The menu is limited, I do warn you.”
“Whatever you think Mrs. Flowers would like.” She looked about with some curiosity.
“As Mrs. Flowers would never gainsay any gentleman, I shall order whatever seizes my fancy.”
She shrugged free from her long wool cloak, then drew off her gloves. “How I yearn to discover what seizes your fancy, Mr. Everett.”
“Careful, careful. That sounds as though you’re pondering a spot of indecent talk. At least wait until you have the excuse of a bellyful of spirits.” He raised his hand and a barmaid wandered over.
“Small beer for the lady,” Joss said. “Ale for me. And two mutton dinners.”
The thin young barmaid had a rushed, worn look, as though she had been working for so many hours that fatigue had sunk into her bones. When she looked at Augusta, though, her shoulders straightened and her tiredness seemed to drop away. “My lands.” Her light eyes wide, she dropped a curtsy. “Shall I get ye the private dining room, my lady?”
Augusta’s brows knit with surprise; before she could reply, Joss spoke up. “This is quite all right. Thank you, miss.”
Still staring at Augusta, the barmaid dropped another curtsy, then tucked a strand of dark hair under her mobcap and hurried off to fill the order.
Augusta leaned toward Joss, her voice low in his ear, “‘My lady’? Why in heaven’s name would she call me that, and stare at me as though I had two heads?”
“Not two heads, but probably the loveliest gown she’s ever seen.” Thus given permission to look her over, Joss studied the bits of Augusta he could see over the tabletop. Though her pale pink gown was of a simple design, its exquisite tailoring marked it as costly—short sleeves trimmed with a fold of satin, and more satin piping the low vee of her bodice above a red sash. With her bright hair and lily skin, she looked like a garden brought indoors. A startling, lovely picture at any season, but especially on a cold March day in the middle of a muddy city.
At some point while he studied her, Augusta had picked up her gloves and, one finger at a time, began turning them inside out. “I didn’t realize it was anything special. My gown, I mean.”
“That’s all right. The barmaid did think so.”
This simple statement seemed to trouble her. She frowned at her gloves, worrying at their well-made seams and turning them right way out again, until the barmaid returned with two tankards. One for Joss, one for Augusta. She cast another longing look at the gown as she set down the beverages.
“Miss,” Augusta faltered. She blushed, looking as ill at ease as Joss had ever seen her, then held out her ivory kid gloves. “These would look so pretty against your fair skin and dark hair. Would you care to have them?”
“I, my lady?” The barmaid took a step back.
“Not ‘my lady.’ Just ‘miss,’” Augusta corrected. “That is—‘Mrs.’ Yes, I should like you to have them. If—if you want them.”
“Oh. Oh, thank you, my lady—I mean, Mrs. Yes. Thank you.” With a hesitant hand, the young woman reached for the gloves. For a moment, she only stroked the soft kid, looking as though she did not dare to draw them from Augusta’s grasp into her own. Augusta rose from her chair, just enough to lean over the table, and she pressed the gloves into the barmaid’s hand.
“Enjoy them,” she said. “I hope your fellow shall notice how lovely you look with them on. But really, he should notice your loveliness all the time.”
The two women shared a smile: one plain and one vivid, one tired and one cosseted. Somehow, they both looked prettier in their moment of shared delight in a simple pair of gloves.
But it was not so simple, was it? The gloves she gave away with scarcely a thought were forever beyond the means of the barmaid. Of men like Joss, should they wish to give her a gift.
He had thought to draw her closer by bringing her to a place where he belonged. It was so easy for the truth to find them, though; to remind him of the chasm between them.
As the delighted barmaid swanned away to fetch their dinners, Joss folded his arms against a crawling frustration. “Why flaunt your wealth by giving such a gift to the barmaid? You do not even know her.”
“I know something about her.” Her gaze followed the thin figure between the tables; the woman now seemed to have a spring in her step. “She likes pretty things. And she probably doesn’t have as many as she deserves.”
“How are you to know what she deserves?” What if she turned her attention to him next? If she gave him charity, he could not abide it—but the alternative was to think he deserved nothing.
“I don’t. I don’t know anything about what she deserves, or you, or anyone else in the world. All I know is what I deserve, and I know that I have far more than that. So someone else in the world probably has less.” She ran her hand over the wood of the table; to her bare fingers, it must feel smooth and faintly sticky from spilled ale. “A pair of gloves won’t make a difference to the barmaid. Not really. But it made her smile for a few minutes. Isn’t that better than if she never smiled at all?”
Maybe. But when the smile disappeared, it was all the more difficult to bear. Like a promise broken. “It’s not your responsibility to make anyone smile.”
Her brows lifted. “Josiah Everett. I have little responsibility in the world, but I have a great many gloves. Please stop your caterwauling.” A tremulous smile touched her lips. “You said I was worthy. I want to be, even just in small ways.”
With such gifts, she wanted to help herself along with others. Charity he could not stand, but generosity with a dash of self-interest—well, that he could bear quite well. “You are worthy no matter how you treat others. And I am sorry I was harsh. You were kind to her. You showed her that a fellow human noticed her.” He gave his tankard a half turn but did not lift it. “These are not the small things you might think them.”
Her brows had practically reached her hairline by the time Joss finished speaking. “You are giving me quite a bouquet of kind words. I must take care not to let them go to my head. This beer, however…” Putting the tankard to her lips, she took a long drink of the small beer. Joss had tasted it before: yeasty sweet and amber colored, with a thick, sudsy head.
Her throat worked. As she lowered the tankard again, a bit of foam was left on her top lip.
He had no right to reach out a thumb, to brush it feather-lightly over the curve of her mouth. No right, yet he wanted to so much he had to clench his fist. You would do, Joss reminded himself against a groaning throb of lust. That’s all she said. You would do.
Until she could say more than that—with words, not only with a stolen, fiery kiss—he must keep his hands to himself.
Pink tongue darting out, she licked her lip clean, then spoke. “I like this place, Joss. It’s…alive.”
“Alive? In what sense?”
“Interesting. Busy. Loud.”
“It certainly is those things. But there’s nothing particularly romantic or elegant about taking mutton in a public room.”
“There’s nothing shameful or improper about it either. Just as there’s nothing admirable about having a cook prepare far more food than anyone could ever eat, then wasting it with a languid appetite.” Her brandy-brown eyes drank in the room as eagerly as she had drunk the small beer. “I’ve never eaten in a public house before. Can you credit that? My parents always wanted the best for me, and when I traveled, that meant taking my meals in the carriage with a lady’s maid. In truth, I didn’t even travel much. Life was in London. Business was in London.”
“Life was business?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I suppose it was.”
He had never wondered whether a life of only the best could limit one’s choices. With wealth, how could a person not pursue whatever he or she wanted? But each class had its own expectations. Its own proper sphere, outside of which one was not to stray.
It was a relief when the barmaid returned with their dinner, for Joss wasn’t sure how to reply.
“We’ve a fine cheddar,” said the young woman. “I brought you a wedge of that, plus the mutton and potatoes. Will there be anything else, my lady—Mrs.?”
Joss had become invisible, it seemed. This was often the case when he ventured into public in London. His plain clothing and dark complexion suited him for shadowy corners, to be overlooked until needed.
Just now, he didn’t mind a bit. All the better to look at Augusta’s sunshine face, at the smile with which the barmaid’s long day was brightened.
“Thank you,” said Augusta. “That will be all.” After the barmaid had bobbed another curtsy and turned away, Augusta leaned forward. Her eyes closed as she inhaled the aroma of the meat. “This smells wonderful.”
Joss sawed at his mutton, then speared a bite. It was tough, but well seasoned and rich. Satisfying after a long, cold morning and a short, cold walk.
“I had curried mutton once in London,” Augusta said, cutting at her own dish. “At an odd little restaurant in George Street. My father wanted to meet the owner, and I begged him to take me along. The man was a Hindu Indian who had once worked for the British East India Company.”
Joss had just taken a deep pull of ale. Dark and sweet upon first taste, yet bitter as it rolled through his mouth. Clunk. He set down his tankard harder than he intended to. “What did you think of the place?”
She freed a bite of mutton and speared it on her fork. “As I remember, the meat was tender and had a lovely flavor of spices. Clove, I think? It was unexpected, and I liked it.”
“I imagine it was delicious.” During Joss’s childhood, his grandmother’s Calcutta-born cook still worked at Sutcliffe Hall. Though the aged man usually prepared English fare, he was permitted to cook Indian food when the Sutcliffe family was absent from the estate. Not for decades had Joss tasted a sauce laced with clove and cardamom, with earthy cumin and bright turmeric, or torn into flat bread so chewy it resisted one’s bite. But he would always remember the feeling of warm, floury dough dusty on his fingertips, of spice popping on the tongue.
“Since I was just a girl, my father didn’t allow me to speak to the owner myself,” Augusta added, “but he seemed to like the man a great deal. My father loved to speak with anyone who had a notion and turned it into a business. People with dreams turned real.” She chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t think the restaurant is open anymore.”
“Oh.” Joss cut more of his mutton into rough-sawed pieces. “I wonder what happened to the man. If he stayed in England.”
“I don’t know, but I was glad to get the chance to go along. I always liked learning things. Seeing places most women didn’t get to see, not merely the back room of a dressmaker’s shop or the corners of a London ballroom.” Her jaw was set as she hacked at the wedge of cheddar they had not yet touched. “Do you want some of this?”
“Certainly.” He took a ragged chunk of cheese from her and bit it, letting the curds squeak in his teeth, salty and sharp. Before Augusta could do further damage with her knife, he pulled the board toward himself and began chopping off small slices. “I assume what your parents thought of as the best was not always what you wanted the most.”
She shrugged. “What parents and offspring are always in perfect accord?”
“A good question, and the answer is probably none.” She didn’t return his smile; her expression had not shed the worried pucker he had hoped to chase away. “Augusta. You called on me today—very scandalous of you, I might add—because your mind was burdened with many weighty thoughts. I have tried feeding you into a contented stupor, but you won’t have it. So instead I shall sit here and eat cheese. If you wish to unburden yourself, my ears are at your disposal.”
She traced the metal hoops that gave shape to her wooden tankard. “I don’t really want to talk at the moment. I would rather listen.”
Joss dropped the knife in a parody of shock. “Surely not.”
“Indeed, it’s true. A paragon of masculinity once told me I ought to tell less and ask more.”
“He was being far too harsh. Indeed, he sounds like the sort of fellow who is often more harsh than he ought to be.”
“He is honest,” Augusta said. “Which I have come to…to value.”
A smile touched his lips; he felt as though she had touched him far more deeply. “What would you like, then? A story? Perhaps one about a kind fairy who gives kid gloves to everyone, at least until fairyland’s supply of kidskin is exhausted.”
“No, no fairy stories. I want an answer. An honest answer to just one question.”
The answer doesn’t matter as much as the question. Chatfield’s calm words rang in his ears. In this corner, hidden behind a wall of sound and bustle, they were nearly as alone as if the room were empty. “One answer, then.” What her question might be, he could not imagine.
She scooted her chair nearer until she could whisper below the din. Breathing deeply, she shut her eyes. “Why do you wear sandalwood oil?”
When her eyes opened, she was so close—close enough, almost, to capture.
He did not know the name of his favorite flower. He did not even know if it was a real fragrance or something concocted by a gifted perfumer. He only knew that its scent lay sweetly in the hollow of her throat, and that he wanted to lean closer. Breathe her in, take her in his arms, make her some part of him and himself a part of her.
But it was impossible. Not only because of honor—an efficient summation of thirty-one years of difficult decisions—but because he belonged nowhere but alone. Always alone, outside the clique of society or the camaraderie of the servants. Part English and part alien; part respectable and part scandal.
He did not want to be alone.
He traced a crack in the tabletop, where the old, time-rubbed wood had long ago split apart.
“I choose sandalwood,” he said, “because it reminds me of my birth. You see, my grandmother was born in India, and my mother was half-Indian.”