Chapter Nine

Trust & Thunder

Ewan shuffled with slow, small steps down the long hall, as if he’d been summoned by his commander. Being summoned by the earl was almost as bad.

A low grumble sounded. A storm brewed and filtered in through the window. It made the air feel moist. The wet heat of the air reminded him of sultry Jamaica. He’d recovered enough to keep his enlistment and journey to the other side of the world. He’d done well. The playwright soldier had turned into a useful man. Would the earl ever see him as such?

With a breath and a prayer for peace, Ewan popped his head in the library. Unfortunately, Lord Crisdon was there.

“Fitzwilliam,” has father said and bounced up from his desk. With a wave of his knurled fingers, he ushered Ewan inside. “Been waiting for you…Son.”

Though the voice sounded pleasant, Ewan knew better. He stood at attention and waited for review.

The man didn’t move, and his lips went flat. Disapproval surely radiated. He moved to the patio. “Come, I have tea and biscuits waiting.”

Hesitating for a moment, Ewan took another breath and pushed forward. “Thank you, but no. I’m journeying into Town shortly.”

His father nodded and took a seat at the table.

A luncheon for two? “Sir, I see you are waiting for someone. I’ll leave you to your privacy.”

“This is for you…Son.”

Ewan’s gut knotted three times over, a silent prayer to the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit—anything to protect him from the fresh hell awaiting from the earl.

“Please sit.”

Unable to think of a plausible excuse, such as Grandbole in flames, he puffed his scarred chest to the maximum. That way he’d still have something inside when his father’s dressing down made it impossible to breathe. “I’ll stand.”

The earl stretched in his chair. His stylish coat and bottle-green waistcoat floated about his thin frame like kingly robes. With his nose lowered, he spoke over his glasses. “Have you solved our problem? Have you convinced the widow to lease the water rights?”

Ewan leaned against the balcony. “Nice day, Father. The weather seems to be turning. It may storm tonight.”

“You have seen her?”

Deciding that looking down upon the man wasn’t working, Ewan took a seat. “Yes, I’ve seen Mother.”

“Not that her. The widow Cecil. Have you reasoned with her? Do we have a deal?”

Ewan chose a very brown and crispy biscuit from the platter and popped it onto his plate. “I did one better. I threatened her. I told her I’d ruin her if she didn’t reconsider.”

His father’s eye grew large, the white part drowning out the beady blue dot one would call an iris. “Son, I didn’t think you had that in you.”

A smile crept over the man’s typically annoyed features and a part of Ewan hated to destroy it, since signs of approval were rare. “Don’t get too pleased. That only gained a slap, and it may have pushed other things into being. Do you know a Mr. Lester?”

The earl didn’t blink, but his biscuit crumbled in his fingers. “Yes. Cecil’s aggressive steward. He’s a conniving devil.”

“Well, he intends to marry Mrs. Cecil.”

His father turned all shades of a rainbow. “We can’t let that happen. He’ll ruin us for sure. Cecil and his mistress-wife have run things equitably until now. Lester must be influencing her. He must be the reason for the change. If he marries her, he’ll control her. You must do something.”

Chewing his treat that he’d amply spread with cream, he tried not to laugh at his father’s belief that it was in Ewan’s power to change Theo’s mind. Until today, they hadn’t been exactly civil. “What do you think I should do? How am I to stop her? She doesn’t work for us. Maybe you’ve forgotten this.”

The earl grabbed his hand. “You’re clever. You can have anything you want. You have to put your mind to it.”

“Like gaining your approval over my choice in professions. Yes, I seemed to have done well with that these past six years.”

The man drew back and through gritted teeth, he said. “Ewan Fitzwilliam, you wanted her once. Go have her now. Take her and the land that would’ve been yours.”

His father had told him what to do and where to go many times, most hadn’t been pleasant, but never this. Ewan brushed a handkerchief to his mouth. “Not that I want or need to have your blessings to go seduce the widow, but I need clarity. You are giving me permission to court her, to bed, or even marry her? Am I correct?”

“You and the wench gave a good show six years ago about being in love. You’ve done your military service, my only requirement. Go take her, with my blessing.”

Yes, Lord Crisdon had lost his mind. Fear over his money drying up with the water rights had pushed him to the edge of insanity. “You’ve been in the sun too long, old man. You should go inside and rest.”

“You’ve done what I required, now pick up where you left off. And wear some of the fine jackets and dressings I bought. You’ll have to beat Lester to catch her eye.”

“I thank you, but I’ll borrow a room for now. I have my own things.” He wanted to shove the words, “I’m my own man” down his father’s throat, but this might be his father’s only way of showing kindness.

Ewan softened his tone. “You are giving me your blessings to attach to Cecil’s widow. We must be in serious trouble.”

“Lester will be the death of the Crisdon Farms. If sacrificing you to the Blackamoor is the answer, I’ll pay that price.”

Well, that wasn’t a compliment, yet being reminded how expendable he was to his father’s plans was normal. Ewan stood up and folded his hands behind his back. “Six years is a long time. I’m not sure what I…”

The blank look in his father’s eyes, the thinning of his lips to a pale line, told Ewan that no logic would sway him. “I’ll consider your thoughts, but tell me, does Mrs. Cecil have a right to hate us, you?”

His father looked out toward the fields as he jammed a biscuit into his mouth. “Yes” came out with crumbs.

“Why?”

“I was very cruel to her. I had no sympathy for her when I thought you dead. Her cart vanished, and I banished her from working our fields. I wanted her gone.”

His father’s tone held steady as he recited how he had given a flower seller a death sentence. Getting to town on foot was almost impossible and a guarantee to be robbed or assaulted. And what would you bring to Town? Twigs? She couldn’t pick the fields. “So you made her life difficult.”

“Yes. Your loss made things unbearable. Your mother blamed me, but your wench did us all one better. She went after Cecil and now she’s taking her revenge.”

Ewan worked the knots in the back of his neck, the new ones that the truth imparted. The villain of his life was not a Circe. Theo was a woman, grieving her lost fiancé and made destitute by his vengeful father. “She has every right to starve our fields as you did her.”

His father grimaced and dipped his chin. “But I’ve made up for that in my offers, double market price.”

“She wants twenty times.”

Lord Crisdon snorted his tea. “No. That’s outrageous. You must stop her. Go down to Tradenwood and convince her to relent.”

“I know you prefer to snap your fingers and make problems and flower sellers disappear, but that’s not going to happen. Do you think it easy to fix six-year-old damage? You ruined things.”

The earl looked up with eyes that showed no remorse. “I know. Your mother will never forgive me. Even after learning you lived, she refused to come back to Grandbole. Her Tradenwood is lost to her. I’ve ruined this place for her.”

“I’m sorry for you, Father. I saw Mother. She said to tell you she agrees with you.”

Lord Crisdon’s brows raised, but he said nothing.

Looking at his freshly polished slippers, Ewan stepped toward the railing. “Do what you can. Love is too much to let go of without a fight. Or so I am told.”

Again, the man nodded in silence, as if he couldn’t fathom what Ewan said or couldn’t talk to him about things held close to his heart. Either scenario did nothing to fill the void in Ewan’s chest. “I’m going to Town. I’m meeting with a theater owner. I’m hoping he’ll want to produce my play.

“Sit, Son. Tell me about it… I want to hear about this passion that drives you. I’d like to help.”

Like one of the characters in his play, Ewan began to recite generic lines about his play, the same ones he’d use to sway Mr. Brown the theater manager. His father nodded and smiled his crocodile smile. But in Ewan’s core, he knew Lord Crisdon’s actions were pretend. The earl needed his spare to win the rich widow. Money trumped race. Money made the man feign interest in his second son.

“Very good, Son. Your mother is proud of such creativity, too.”

Ewan let his lips form an upside-down frown. He could pretend, too, and took his time relishing in the false praise, pretending each word, each labored syllable of his father’s, carried enough heft to outweigh old disappointments.

Thunder crackled in the distance. He lifted his gaze to trace the lightning. He missed where it hit but became entranced by one of Tradenwood’s chimneys, remembering Theo’s passion.

His father moved from his chair and headed to the library doors. “Son, you seem lost in your words. Maybe you should rest and think about swaying Mrs. Cecil to our cause. Family is most important.”

The man left and Ewan returned his gaze to Tradenwood’s chimney. The sturdy dark brick offered puffs of white, seemed like it reached for something. Theo should reach for something. For a moment, Ewan wanted to be the person she reached for, even if it was merely for friendship. Maybe that would make up for his father’s evil actions. Then they could see whether she’d be reasonable with the lease.

As a peace offering, he would change the name of his Circe without her signing anything. Flora sounded better, yes Flora the Flower Seller sounded much better. Would that be enough for her to trust him as she had years ago in a thunderstorm?

Lightning crackled above and he slapped the rail. Reach for me, Theo.

“Sir, the gig is pulled around and ready to go.”

A groom had poked his head through the threshold. “Lord Hartwell wants you to leave early to beat the storm.”

“Thank you.” Donning his top hat and gloves, he climbed onto the driver’s seat and took the reins—pondering if Theo would ever trust a ghost, a Fitzwilliam ghost, one who came to her, still doing his father’s bidding.

…

Theodosia adjusted her gloves, creamy satin wonders with silver threads that shimmered in the dim light of her carriage. Sliding the cuff up and down, she tried to ignore each rumble of thunder. The rain had stopped before she could use it as an excuse to beg off. And the clouds had disappeared in the dusk. She shouldn’t be nervous. This night would be over quickly, her friends would be happy, and Theodosia could return home to Philip.

The fear of Lester snatching up her boy tonight diminished. He wouldn’t come harass her for a couple days, not after giving her a fright and a warning to think about. But he’d be unstoppable the minute he suspected her of plotting against him, and once he discovered that Philip was becoming deaf, he’d use his illness to make her do anything. She quivered. For a moment, she didn’t want to be brave. She wanted to sink into the darkness of the carriage and hide. Against her will, her thoughts turned to Ewan. She’d heard the concern in his voice, felt the comfort of his arms, and had melted from the heat of his bluer-than-blue eyes.

He’d held her as if he cared. He’d pledged to protect her, as if she were special to him. That’s how it had been so long ago, him seeming to care for her, and he had pushed her to new experiences, to depend upon him, to dream with him. She had wanted to elope and be his. Those eyes. It would be too easy to fall back into the caring, the holding, the needing of him.

Thunder clapped at the same time a tap pounded her door. Both made her sit up, shivering straight.

Her footman poked his head inside. “Mrs. Cecil, it will be only a few more moments. The entrance is being cleared.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

When the man left, her knuckles balled, ready to rap the ceiling and signal to her driver to head back to Tradenwood and Philip. At least her boy wouldn’t be upset by the noise. The flashes of light might even make him giggle, if he lay awake. Of course, he wouldn’t be scared like her. You must hear thunder to be upset by it.

With Mathew gone, stormy nights sent her skittering. She’d scoot down the hall, scoop up her son, and tuck him into her big bed. It made the storm tolerable, knowing he lay safe beside her, and she by him. Snuggling in her arms, with his toothy giggles, Philip looked happy falling asleep, his bluer-than-sky-blue eyes slowly closing.

Goodness, she loved her boy, and she needed so desperately to be strong for him, but it was so hard with Lester counting the days to the end of her widowhood. And Ewan, pretending to care, only to get her to sign papers. Men. Maybe they could be bribed, given something to go away. Lester and bribery seemed a good mix. But what of Ewan?

She pressed at her temples, trying to push her fears to the back of her head, maybe into her tightly braided chignon. Lightning flashed in the distance. She gulped then counted the seconds before hearing the low moan. The storm could be right over her fields.

Hoping for rain, she opened the door a little and stuck a hand out. Nothing. Not even a tiny droplet, nothing to justify returning home, locking the doors, and sending the girls a note of apology.

The door swung and she froze until the face of a footman became clear. “Miss Burghley says to come, ma’am. Follow me. The crowds have moved inside. Your entrance is clear.”

Girding up her strength, she banished her frets to the place she’d banished Lester and Ewan for the night. Fluffing the hood of her cape, almost hiding beneath gray fringe, she noticed the crowd had shrunk. Only a few stragglers stood at Theatre Royal, Covent Garden’s main entrance on Bow Street.

The young man helped her down and guided Theodosia to the west side of the building. They would pass the king’s entrance, and she prayed the Prince Regent wasn’t there. She wanted to blend into the dark and not be seen by those looking for royal blood, not a mixed-up mongrel’s.

Theodosia wanted to strike at her own temples. Such thoughts, such fears. That wasn’t who she was, but insecurities always invaded during thunderstorms, when memories became inescapable. She picked up her skirts and paused at the door the man opened. “Are there people waiting inside this way?”

“A few, but this way is private. The duke makes sure of that.”

Frederica’s father was amiable. Theodosia had only met him once. He had looked at her strangely but was polite. Hopefully, the womanizing duke didn’t see what she saw sometimes in the mirror. Bits of her mother. She dipped in her reticule and pulled out a coin. “This is yours if you lead me to the box.”

The fellow dimpled as the shine of the bright pence often lent itself to creating love. “Yes. ma’am.”

Doing this, going out in public without being on Mathew’s arm, made her nerves tingle. It was harder than she thought. And tonight, after being in the fields with Ewan and Lester—it reminded her of how alone and unprotected she was.

The young man led her into the darkened stairwell. Thunder rumbled. It echoed along the walls that seemed to close in. Just a passing storm. She followed and tried to stop chewing her bottom lip, but that proved more difficult.

They climbed and climbed and climbed some more until they reached a landing that led into a nice-sized room.

The footman pointed and then continued inside. “Not much further. And you see, this lobby is empty. Always on dark money night.”

She filled her lungs, in and out. Gladness from being out of the stairwell overcame her as much as finding this lobby empty, but she chose to ignore his phrasing of her outing. He wouldn’t steal her peace. This is how things were in London and far better than what it could be, if you had no money.

Theodosia straightened her shoulders and strode across the carpet as the proud widow of a good man. Enough of ghosts, slurs, and Lester. She wouldn’t let anyone stir up anymore uneasy inside.

Then a zigzag of light sailed at the window. The noise would come soon.

She froze, her feet unable to move. Not until she heard the sound.

“Ma’am.” The footman tapped her elbow. “Your box is waiting.”

It hit and she panted. She should turn from the window, the swords of light dancing and fighting. The next rumble shook the building and everything in her chest. It wasn’t safe to move. No one said it was safe to move.

“Mrs. Cecil. All is well. Come with me, Mrs. Cecil.”

That soft voice sounded like Frederica’s. “Come along. The duke’s box awaits.”

Pearl-colored gloved hands claimed Theodosia’s and unwound her fingers from the tight clasp she had about her arms.

Shaking, she stood next to Frederica.

“See, we only need to go a few more steps. Then we are in papa’s box.” Frederica, in lockstep with Theodosia, held on to her waist and marched her inside.

Before the black velvety curtain closed behind them, Theodosia stuck out her palm with the shiny copper penny. She gave it to the footman. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t his fault she let thunder scare her, but her word was good. Always good. Shamed, Theodosia drew deeper into her cape. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a spectacle of myself.”

Frederica gave her another hug. “No one but a footman saw you. We are not in front of the theater, and in a few more minutes, Ester will be engrossed by her actor. The man took the stage, and she set down her book.”

Ester offered a smile, then a giggle. “’Tis true. Mr. Bex has a lovely voice.”

Still embraced by Frederica, she moved to the seats. Four chairs were pulled to the rear. Ester sat in the one closest to the corner with her crimson satin overdress swishing about pearl slippers and a pink skirt. She cupped her hand to her face and became engrossed by whatever happened below, the music and a baritone’s direct address. No one would see them unless they made a scene. If the orchestra kept playing over the thunder, no one would know it was dark money night.

Sitting, she pulled off her cape and tucked her neat silver slippers beneath her. When Frederica nodded and smiled, she knew her gown, with dark silver cap sleeves and a misty gray bodice and skirt was a success. “I am so glad you came. You need something different from mourning.”

“This gown is still half mourning. My Mathew is still honored.”

As she took her seat, Frederica’s face lost its natural glow, not upon her smooth skin but her eyes. They dulled in the dim light. “You can live and still honor him. That is what he would want for you and Philip.”

Theodosia clutched the girl’s gilded glove to her bosom. “I know he’s honored by the friends I keep. I am honored to be here.”

Frederica gave a nod and half a smile. She was a sensitive type of girl, but did she know how much of a struggle it was for Theodosia to be away from Tradenwood and Philip on such a horrible stormy night?

With no more cheer to offer, she closed her eyes and sighed inwardly, setting her hopes on hearing the dramatic lines and the swirl of the violins—all while wishing the storm would end and free her from fear.

…

Ewan stood in Mr. Brown’s office at the Royal Theatre, Covent Garden. It was quiet now, most of the actors were on stage. The play had begun. He listened for Shakespeare’s words to be recited in direct address. He closed his eyes. Oh, for that day when his play would entertain crowds.

How much would they love his current creation—Theo, as a saucy Circe? Or would they prefer the version bumbling about in his mind, the one about the woman whom he held in his arms, the one who needed him? Theo had changed. She’d never truly showed herself vulnerable, only scared of thunder.

Today, she had been different. And yes, his wary chest had puffed up in pride when she’d turned to him. Yet, how long could a peace between them last? A day, a month, a year?

The roar of thunder blended with clapping. The first act must be over. The footfalls of the actors sounded, as did a violinist. The intermission between scenes—had Petruchio accepted his fortune by marrying Katherina? The farce made of Shakespeare’s boastful idiot and his shrew bride was a sight to behold onstage or in Ewan’s mirror. Yes, he was a boastful idiot to be thinking of Theo returning to his arms.

The storm boomed and rain pelted on the ceiling with a heavier rhythm. It was like a gong, echoing and cleansing him of wanting her. It helped him refocus on his purpose of being at the theater. He had come to sell his play without the earl’s assistance or his blockage. Now, at least, his father wasn’t using his influence to stop Ewan’s plays. He hoped.

The door opened and Mr. Brown, a portly fellow with thick glasses and balding head, entered. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem at all.”

The man flopped on a well-worn leather chair.

A hint of tobacco touched Ewan’s nose. The man’s delay, had it been a vice? There were flecks of rain on his coat. “You’ve come from outside?”

“We’re making some dark money tonight and had a bit of trouble.”

The term sounded odd. He felt his brow wrinkling. “What is that? Dark money?”

“The Duke of Simone pays me a little more to allow his by-blow and her Blackamoor friends to set up in his box from time to time. They usually sit quietly, not upsetting anything. Nothing harmed seating them in the highest box with the private staircase. If notable nobles sat in their boxes, they’d go unnoticed.”

Ewan’s gut twisted at the disdain coming from Brown’s alliteration and his garish laugh.

At least when Jasper had asked of Theo, his voice sounded of curiosity or brotherly probing. This man’s tone bristled with condescension, perhaps even masked hatred, like the earl’s.

Ewan rolled his shoulder to allay some of the tension tightening his neck. “But tonight was different. What happened with the Blackamoors?”

The man scratched his chin hairs, then leaned back in his chair as if set to spin a long yarn. “Seems one of them, the one with slant eyes… She had a fit caused by a little thunder. The footman thought she was going to start screaming or crying.” Mr. Brown rummaged through his desk, as if he hunted for something.

Ewan braced to keep his own composure. His pulse raced, then slowed, as he glued his low-cut boots to the ground. Could Theo be here?

Brown chuckled, then slapped his desk. “You should see them all gussied up like regular women.”

“But they are women, sounds like women with means.”

“I don’t care what they are. If the duke is paying and none of my other patrons are aware, I keep the money, dark and lovely.”

How money changes things. Theo, the rich widow, was now an acceptable choice of brides, to even the earl, but Theo the Flower Seller was not. One could be in the theater like normal women, if the price was right. Ewan soured immeasurably, wanted to walk away, but respectable theater was small. If he couldn’t get his play here, there would be no chance at the Royal Theatre, Drury Lane. “Well, hopefully, there will be no more complaints and your guests get to enjoy this play.”

“I must say, the duke’s by-blow could be mistaken for a lady if not for the thickness of her lips.”

He obviously didn’t know the joy of kissing such plump wonders. Ewan wondered if Theo’s were still extraordinary.

The man stretched and laughed. “The one with the slant eyes, she could be a looker, too, if she wasn’t so dark.”

His pulse ticked up. “With straight onyx hair?”

Brown guffawed, then shot up. “Fitzwilliam, did you see her?”

“Yes.” A thousand times in his dreams. There was only one Theo, with beautiful almond-shaped eyes, afraid of thunder. “She is some looker.”

Brown shuffled more paper as Ewan leaned against the door. Theo was here, away from Tradenwood on a night like this. Why? She was so different, a ball of compelling opposites that drew his attention like no one else.

Thinking of her, feeling that old draw, made Ewan impatient. He twisted his hat within his palm. “So you’ve had a chance to review my play?”

Brown sat again. He searched his desk and finally settled on pages at the bottom of his pile. “I did. Outrageous. I think it will be the talk of London. Theo the Flower seller is outrageous.”

“Well, I’m working on that character’s name. I think Flora the Flower Seller.”

“Don’t change a thing. I like it.”

“Well, I’ll… keep that in mind, if you are going to buy the play, or Cleo the Flower Seller will bring in the allure of Egyptian culture.”

“Perhaps. I do want to buy it. This will sell lots of tickets, but Fitzwilliam… How do I ask this without sounding condescending?”

With all the things he’d said about Theo and her friends, did it matter? Ewan stiffened his stance, all but locking his knees as he’d done in the regiment. “Say it. Shoot, then reload.”

Brown started rocking in his chair. He tapped his fingertips together, as if he were praying, but this man didn’t seem the type to have been to church in years. “I do a great deal for my wealthy patrons. I don’t like getting crossed or my license to be threatened. Does Lord Crisdon approve of this? Your father can make everything difficult, difficult with tradesmen and creditors, if you cross him.

“I’m my own man. I can handle the earl. He’ll be no trouble to you.”

Standing, Brown stuck out his hand. “Then you have a deal. How soon can you get the final draft to me?”

Ewan shook the man’s hand, pumping it with vigor and a sense of accomplishment. “A fortnight.”

“Good. I can start planning. Work on getting the earl here for the opening?”

That would be a miracle. One with strings from the devil, no doubt. “I’ll see what can be done, but this deal is based on the merits of the play. Nothing more.”

Catching the man’s sneer-like smile, Ewan donned his hat and pivoted to grip the door handle, but turned back for a moment. “A fortnight for the final play. Have the contracts ready.”

“It’s a good play. We stand to make a lot of money. And I still like that name, Theo, Theo the Flower Seller.”

“It will be Cleo, Cleo the Flower Seller in the final draft.”

Nodding, Ewan closed the door behind him. His moment of success felt a little slimy. He wiped his palms upon his jacket. This was the theater. Some wore masks and costumes. Others showed you who they were. Mr. Brown, as his father would put it, was a necessary means to accomplish Ewan’s goals.

Thunder crackled loud and hard as Ewan exited the theater. The rain had slacked to a light pelting. The next hoarse rumble in the sky didn’t make him dash to the mews for his brother’s gig. No, Ewan turned the corner and sought out the lone stairs that led to the highest boxes. He trudged through puddles, sloshing cold water on his formerly buffed boots. It didn’t matter. He needed to see if the story being written in his head was correct. That the heroine of his heart was misunderstood. The earl’s wrath had made her vulnerable, easy pickings for Cecil. A grieving soul was easy to mislead by a rich predator or made a villain in a farce by a playwright who needed a villain for his own bad choices.

Six years ago, that strong, opinionated girl had become frightened by the storm. They couldn’t elope, not in such a deluge. So, they had holed up together in the carriage house. It was the first time they’d ever been alone. Except for a holding of hands, a shared laugh in a thick grove nestled behind the carriage house, or a gleefully stolen kiss near Grandbole, he’d never fully given himself to her, never felt so much love in her dark eyes. Not until that moment.

Knowing how his father was, why had Ewan believed the lies and made Theo a gold-seeking mistress? Anger pained his breath as he pried the stairwell door open. He’d written the wrong fiend.

It wasn’t a feeling of accomplishment for selling his play that drove him up those treads. It was that small lump in his scarred chest that tightened, thinking Theo was near and frightened—thinking of her clinging to him again like she had today made him take the stairs by two.