Wakefield, West York, September 1863.
It was a shock when Wakefield spoke to her directly, so much so that Sharla could not compose a polite reply. In her mind, a single phrase repeated itself. My husband spoke to me!
It was her shock that made her do what she did next, which changed everything. After all, it had been…how long since he had addressed her? Three, no, four weeks. Yes. Four weeks and three days, since Dane Balfour, the Duke of Wakefield, and her husband of two years and four months, had met her gaze.
Before she could recover enough wit to stutter a bodiless “Th-thank you,” to his comment that she looked “quite charming this morning,” Wakefield moved on. He strode across the gravel to the group of gentlemen—lords, all of them—who stood in a loose cluster discussing the merits of horse and rider.
There were eighteen horses strutting restlessly about the imposing front façade of Wakefield Manor. They blew heavy billows of steam as they pranced, for the morning was crisp. The air thick with wreathes of mist that muffled the chink of harnessing and the low conversations as the hunting party waited for the call to hunt.
The Wakefield butler, Mayerick, moved among the hunters, handing up mulled wine to riders, his footmen following him with trays of cups.
There was even one lady among the riders. Clarissa, Lady Carstairs, was sitting with perfect stillness upon her mare, sipping tea, her dark riding habit arranged decorously around her limbs.
Hounds circled the horses’ legs, fretful and eager to begin. They knew this annual ritual as thoroughly as the riders, who had traveled from as far afield as the Orkneys to attend.
Sharla’s gaze drew back to Wakefield. Dane, she reminded herself, for sometimes it was an effort to recall his first name. He had been “Wakefield” in her mind since he’d slid her engagement ring into place.
The Duke stood with his hands on his hips, his jacket open and pushed aside, laughing with the other gentlemen. Even though he did not hunt, he wore a hunting outfit every bit as natty and refined as those the others were wearing, for he was the host of this hunt. His boots gleamed, his cravat was perfectly tied, the cloth of his breeches was immaculate.
Sharla let her gaze wander over Wakefield’s face. The high cheekbones and black brows over sky blue eyes. The curly, dark hair that framed it. The sharp chin.
As she had asked herself many thousands of times, Sharla wondered what had gone wrong. How had her marriage grown stale and moribund, barely a moment after the wedding?
What had she done, or failed to do? There was surely some feminine secret of which she was ignorant that would relieve her of this unhappy state? How would she ever know what that was? She could not ask Elisa as she might once have, for Elisa was beyond her reach. Elisa’s two friends and confidantes, Natasha and the Princess Annalies, who might have helped Sharla with frank wisdom, were also out of bounds for the same reason.
Sharla smoothed her hands over the folds of emerald blue sateen skirt she wore. It was a wrapper, yet so cunningly designed no one would guess just how casually she was attired. The hoops were the newest kind that projected further behind than in front. The hem of the wrapper featured a twelve-inch deep border of red and gold braid and panels of embroidered flowers. The braid also cinched about her waist.
The sleeves were the new kind with the tight wrist and wide elbows, which made them very comfortable to wear.
Did she really look charming? Certainly, no one outside the inner-most circles of London was wearing these hoops, yet.
She glanced at Wakefield once more. He was speaking with Mayerick as the gray-haired butler held out a glass of the port that Wakefield preferred. Had she done something to encourage Wakefield to speak to her, just now? If only she knew what that was! She would repeat the action a hundred times over.
The skittish horses sidled. As sometimes happened, they moved in unison, a collective body prancing sideways, shying from some imaginary threat as the mist rose around them.
The group of men, her husband among them, took a step out of the way. The closest rider snapped his whip against the withers of his mount, bringing the stallion back under control. The horse bridled at the whip, its eyes rolling. The application of discipline was not calming it at all.
The rider applied the whip with even more resolve.
Unlike the other men standing around him, who merely laughed, or watched with interest, Wakefield flinched backwards at the snap and whistle of the leather. His eyes narrowed and a furrow grew between them. His hand came up defensively before he caught himself and put it back by his side.
He glanced around to tally who had noticed his reaction.
Sharla dropped her gaze, even though he had seen her.
The horse was still sidling, not responding to the whip. Instead of trying something different, the rider cursed and applied the whip even harder, his face red as the creature refused to obey.
The stallion’s rear legs were too close to Wakefield. The horse was swinging about, tossing its head, oblivious to anything but the terrifying fingers of mist climbing its legs and tickling its chest.
Sharla acted before consciously making a decision to do so. She brought her hand up as she moved forward and caught the stallion’s cheek strap as it swung its nose against her raised hand. The stallion tried to throw its head up to loosen her grip. Sharla had expected it to do just that. She hung onto the leather, all her weight holding down the creature.
She patted and smoothed its nose, murmuring reassurances.
With a soft snort, the horse grew still.
Still patting the smooth nose, Sharla looked up at the rider. “Do not use the whip again.”
The rider, a middle-aged man she thought might be the Baron Macy, spluttered, his face turning red once more. “How dare you—”
“Your attempts to discipline your mount are endangering those on foot,” Sharla said, overriding him. “Contain yourself and your mount, sir, or retire from the hunt.”
Macy gawped at her. “Of all the cheek!” he managed, at last.
“You heard my wife, Macy.” Wakefield stepped up beside her and looked up at the man. He didn’t have to crane his head nearly as much as Sharla did. “The hunt is about to begin. Settle the animal, or you’ll ruin it for everyone.”
The hunt master gave a low call and the horn sounded. The dogs brayed an eager chorus.
Macy hitched the reins and tapped his heel into the stallion’s side. He clicked his tongue. The stallion wheeled about, tearing the bridle from Sharla’s hand. With a dip of its rear, the stallion shot off, following the pack as it raced across the field toward the woods, where the hunt would begin.
A dozen or more men holding broken-open shot guns ran across the field after them, the dogs with them.
Mayerick and his footmen hurried back inside.
The area in front of the Manor was empty of all but the two of them.
Sharla dared look at Wakefield. He was following the hunt party as it disappeared, leaving swirling mist behind. His hands were fisted by his sides. When the last hunter vanished from view, he turned and stalked inside, leaving Sharla alone with the cold fingers of mist.
The tiny moment of détente was at an end. She moved back inside and made her way through the morning rooms on the warmer, southern side of the Manor, to her own private morning study.
With a heavy heart, she settled behind the desk to read her letters. That was where Wakefield found her, twenty minutes later.
He barely met her gaze. As usual, he examined the room, the floor, his hands. The view through the window was a particular favorite.
“Your Grace?” Sharla asked, putting her pen down.
“It occurs to me…” He cleared his throat. “You have not had a single member of your family here to visit. Not once.”
“No, your Grace.”
“Nor have you visited them.”
“My place is here.”
“Your place is a lonely one. Even the most devoted and hard working wives find time in their schedules to visit family.”
Her heart squeezed. “You want me to leave, your Grace?” Had she erred so wildly that now he wanted to be rid of her?
For the first, his gaze met hers. “I was attempting to be…kind.” His gaze shifted away once more. “As you were.” He added it softly, almost as if it was an afterthought.
Sharla swallowed. “Thank you, your Grace, but…”
“I would have you call me Wakefield, at least,” he shot back, this time turning to face her. She had angered him enough he could look at her now. “You are as trapped in this as I. The privileges of intimacy should be yours.”
Sharla realized she was twisting a curl of loose hair about her fingers and put her hand back on her lap. “Wakefield,” she repeated awkwardly.
“It occurs to me,” he added, “that your family’s famous Great Gathering is next month. Why is it you have not attended since I met you?”
Sharla bit her lip. “There is no polite or simple answer to that, Your— Wakefield.”
“Do you decline to attend because I am included in the invitations?”
“I…” Sharla’s pulse thudded in her temples. “I had not even considered that you would naturally be expected to attend with me.”
He relaxed. “Then your objection is…?”
Sharla tightly twisted the lock of hair. She could not explain her reasons to Wakefield. As her husband, he would feel threatened if he knew she avoided the Gatherings because Ben would be there.
Except Ben had not attended for two years, either. Jenny’s happy letters, describing the last two years’ Gatherings, always mentioned who had failed to appear, the known reasons why, along with the far more intriguing speculations about why not.
Elisa would be there, however. “My mother…I mean, Elisa…” Sharla began, then fell silent. How could she explain to Wakefield she had cut off all communications with Elisa since before her wedding? Any attempt to explain would bring her to revealing the reason why she had not spoken to Elisa for over two years: Wakefield himself.
“Your relationship with the Lady Farleigh is not cordial?” Wakefield asked.
“It is not.”
“Might that have something to do with your marriage?”
Sharla looked up at him, too startled to respond.
His face was rigid, with no expression to tell her what he was thinking or feeling. “All reports from far and wide talk of the deep connections between every member of your family,” he said. “Too deep, some say. I am no judge. If you are experiencing a rift, it can only be because of me. I would leaven that damage, if I can. Write to your mother. Tell her we will attend this year.”
Sharla shook her head. “My cousin Cian is the host of the Gathering, now.”
“Then tell your cousin you will be there.” Wakefield pointed to the stack of stationery on her desk. “Do try to produce a legible hand for this letter, hmm?”
Sharla scowled. Everyone commented on her writing. “I will write, if you insist.”
“I do. We can attend and both be miserable.”
“You would be miserable?”
Wakefield smiled. It was small and wise with self-knowledge, yet it was there. “I have heard stories about your Great Family for years—enough to know I will be judged and most likely found wanting. Your cousins are an exclusive set. Dukedoms do not impress them, while commoners are met with open arms.”
“Jasper Thomsett might not be a peer, but he is not at all common,” Sharla assured him, picking up her pen. While she dreaded confronting Elisa, her heart was hurrying along a little faster and warmth trickled through her at the idea of seeing everyone. Jenny—oh, she missed Jenny, with her beautiful eyes and her caustic tongue. Will and Jack, Cian and Iefan…Blanche and Emma, too. The twins and little Annalies.
Ben had buried himself in London, concentrating on his career, they all said. He would not be there. It would be safe enough, if she could avoid Elisa.
Happily, she bent to write her note to Cian, gnawing her lower lip as she worked to form good, round letters.
She forgot Wakefield was there until she looked up and saw the room was empty once more. She understood. He had delivered his kindness. They were even.
How long would it be before he spoke to her again?
* * * * *
The only reason Ben let the match linger for five rounds was because Israel Smith had almost begged him not to finish it off too fast. “The boys like a good bit of blood and guts. If you don’t give it to ‘em, they’ll go elsewhere.”
“They want to see a man fall and not get up again,” Ben corrected him. “What does it matter if it happens in round one or round twenty?”
Israel shook his mane of silver hair and wiped another glass with his apron. “You know something about bare knuckle boxing, my lad, and nothing about simple human nature. They want to worry and second-guess themselves about their wagers. They want the outcome to be in doubt right up to the end. If you step into that ring and drop the Merseyside champion inside a minute, then they miss out on all that suspense.”
“You want me to lie to them?”
“I want you to entertain them!” Israel picked up another ale glass. “It isn’t lying if you give them what they want.”
“I’ll try,” Ben said heavily.
Israel seemed to take pity on him. “Look, I know you could drop the champion in a single blow. So does most of London. You won’t besmirch your reputation if you string it out for a while.” He tilted his head. “You like the prize money, don’t you?”
Ben sighed and agreed, because the money was good. The first time he had climbed into the ring and knocked out the reigning champion, the rush of the fight itself had faded after a few minutes. On the other hand, the dirty, crumbled pile of Sterling notes and the heavy bag of coins Israel Smith shoved at him had extended the glow of achievement for days afterwards.
Tonight’s match was against the visiting Liverpool champion, Hyram Ott, who stood six foot three and weighed seventeen stone. Ott had won against the best—Jem Mace, Nat Langham, Sam Hurst and Tom King. Israel had been very pleased to secure him even for one night, for a match featuring Ott would fill the yard behind his pub. It would also fill the pub itself long after the match ended.
Israel was the only boxing promoter to let Ben in the ring. He had coached Ben in the subtleties of boxing as entertainment. Ben owed him a debt that a few extra rounds with the big Liverpudlian would help pay.
The crowd standing about the roped-off square shouted jeers and insults. They encouraged the man they had wagered would win and screamed at the referee for imagined slights and—only sometimes—for genuine ones. Ott was a clean fighter. He had no need of dirty tricks with his height and weight advantage. Ben had been careful not to let any of his punches land squarely.
Even so, Ott had split Ben’s brow. The blood still slid down his face. His jaw throbbed and his stomach ached. Ott had also landed one on his kidneys that made his back spasm, too.
Ben circled around the ring, sizing up Ott for the watchers, even though he already had the measure of him. The man was clumsy. Strong and very fast…and a blunderer. Typical for a man his size. Also, disappointing. Ben had hoped for more out of the match.
He’d strung the match along for as far as it would go. It was time to win.
Behind Ott, Ben saw Easton Wash, in his dandy’s clothes and tall top hat. The brocade waistcoat gleamed in the light of the oil drum fires that were illuminating the ring. A fine-looking woman in striped blue satin clung to his arm. She seemed to be as interested in the blood and bruising on display as any of the screaming men standing about the ring.
What did Easton want here? This was not his match. Neither Ben nor Ott fought for him.
Ben shook his head to clear it of the distracting thoughts. He didn’t like Easton, although he didn’t know why. He just didn’t trust him, not the way he trusted Israel Smith.
Israel had his pound of flesh. Time to go home.
Ben picked up speed, circling around the ring once more. A cold breeze slid over his bare chest and arms, damp and rich with river smells, sending a shiver up his neck.
Yes, more than time to go home.
He jumped closer to Ott, surprising him. Ott swung fast, as Ben expected. He ducked around the upper cut and planted his fist deep in Ott’s belly. Ott jerked forward, offering his jaw.
Ben took the offer. He gave the blow most of his energy and all of his weight. He poured into it the remains of his sour mood and frustration that he couldn’t have done this in the first round and saved himself the bother and petty injuries.
Ott went down, landing heavily on the cobbles, blood trickling from his mouth.
Ben straightened up and wiped the blood from his brow with the back of his hand.
The crowd was screaming at each other now—settling wagers and disputing others. The result was clear, at least. Ben had won.
Israel Smith lifted the rope for him. Ben ducked under it and took his clothes that Israel handed him. Israel then held out a semi-clean cloth that he waved toward Ben’s eye.
Ben sopped the last of the blood up with the cloth and handed it back. The cut had stopped running.
Hands clapped him on the back and the shoulders. People shouted at him. Most of the calls were congratulatory.
In the ring, four burly men rolled Ott onto his back. They would take the champion to a room upstairs to sleep it off. Ben didn’t feel sorry for the man. If any of his powerful blows had hit Ben squarely, it would be him being carried upstairs.
He drank deeply from the tankard Israel put on the barrel in front of him and pulled on his undershirt.
One of Israel’s runners pushed through the crowd and handed Israel a bag. Israel added the bag to the top of the barrel, next to the ale. “The odds were against you. A good night.”
“My thanks,” Ben said. He eyed the size of the purse. Perhaps it was a good night.
He lifted his gaze. Easton Wash watched him. The slight man touched the brim of his top hat, cane and gloves in his other hand. With a secretive smile, he walked away, the crowd separating for him and his lady as water parted for the prow of a ship.
Ben finished dressing. He did not linger in the bar as Israel preferred his champions do, to encourage drinking. Instead, he found a cab in front of the public house. He sat with the heavy bag of coins next to him, trying to summon the warm glow he normally felt after a boxing match.
It wouldn’t form.
He stared out the cab window, watching London’s dingy, dirty east end roll by and the brighter lights of St. James grow closer. St. James, where the world thought he belonged.
Where did he belong, anymore?
There was a single place where the nagging questions about who he was, who he thought he could be and where he belonged in the world, did not bother him.
Cornwall. The Great Family Gathering, where everyone knew exactly who they were and everyone else accepted it.
He’d stayed away too long.