Chapter Sixteen

My Own Man

Ewan sent the toy horse across his desk one last time. The thing buzzed and rolled across the well-worn surface, almost loud enough to drown out the impatient knocking on the door of his leased rooms. He’d bought the toy the other day on one of his walks in Cheapside when, as now, he couldn’t think of what to write. Where was the freedom words had always given him?

The knocks continued. It had to be Jasper. His brother had faithfully come each week to sup. It was something he treasured, but the man probably needed a respite from his daughters and Lord Crisdon.

Corking his bottle of ink, tweaking the position of the horse to his quill, Ewan sighed. “Coming.”

Pulling at his rumpled waistcoat, he rose. His walk to the door held its own lethargy. When he unbolted the sliding lock, he was stricken by something worse than lightning—pure shock. “Mother?”

Lady Crisdon stood fidgeting, as if trying not to touch her white gloves to his threshold. “You haven’t come to see me.”

She had never left her salon all the time he’d been back. Now she stood at his entryway.

Mother sauntered inside, in her dark crimson carriage dress with gold fobbing, making him miss his uniform.

“Ewan. Your father says you won’t return to Grandbole.”

He shut the door and leaned against it. “Well, I suppose it’s something we both share.”

“That is different. I like being in Town for the Season, but you, you should be there, not here.” Her pert nose lowered as she said, “On this side of Town.”

“Why? Did you need me to make another go at widow bait?”

“You liked her once. Your father caught you bedding her. It didn’t take too much of an imagination to think there could be hope—”

“Hope of what? Making my family whole or gaining Tradenwood?”

“Do you hate hearing the truth? If you hadn’t been thought dead, Tradenwood would not have gone to the Cecils. It wouldn’t be in the hands of that…”

“Woman. Is that the word you seek?”

She squinted and her face turned mean, diminishing her fair features. “Usurper. That is more fitting.”

“But wasn’t it you who told her to go to Mathew Cecil? It’s rather cruel to castigate her for following your instructions.” Going over to the door, he held it open. “Good day.”

She didn’t take the hint and moved to his desk. Picking up the carved toy, she traced the rounded lines of the horse’s mane with delicate nails.

A new sense of anger hit his gut, swirling, tightening. How could she touch the toy he’d bought for his son?

She even spun the heavy wheels. “You don’t care that this creature has what belongs to you?”

No charity remained in his soul, for it was clear Mother had never cared that Theodosia carried his child. He pried the toy away from his mother. Safely tucked in the crook of his arm, he released his breath. “She does have something that belongs to me, but because you didn’t care six years ago, I’m rejected now.”

She looked at him as she played with the fingers of her silky gloves. “I’ll apologize to her, if that will make things right.”

He smiled at her and leaned down. “Go whisper your apologies to the boy, Philip Cecil. Do it soon; he’s going deaf. Seems starving makes for long-term problems, ones begrudged words can’t make go away.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “I’m a good person. There are charities that could’ve helped.”

“Yes, I’m sure there are plenty waiting to help a Blackamoor carrying a mulatto baby.” Fingers shaking with repressed fury, he put the toy down, whipping his hand to the door. “Good day, Mother.”

“I’m sorry, Ewan.”

Pointing again at the door, he watched her pout and sigh, reminding him of how she used to make him think Lord Crisdon had been cruel to her. “Go back to Father and make amends with him. You two are of the same mind. Use his money and buy the widow off. I want peace, and it can’t be had caught in your struggles. Theodosia was right to not want to be a part of this family.”

“Ewan.” Her lips thinned and she poked at his sparse chair. “I wanted nothing of the usurper. But that was a long time ago.”

“I love words; Shakespeare’s the best. ‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’ To be true to me, is to know the truth of your cruelty. It cannot be forgotten. I wish I could choose to be a Cecil, not a Fitzwilliam.”

“We are not all bad, Brother.” Jasper strolled inside and headed straight for the toy. Moving it about as if he tried to avoid eye contact, he pushed the horse back and forth. “For Lucy? And am I interrupting?”

“No and no. Mother was leaving.”

She wiped at her mouth and walked to the door, as if her short heels were mired in mud. “Lord Hartwell, you send the girls to me any chance you get.”

“Will do, Lady Crisdon.”

She grasped the revers of his brother’s coat. “Convince him of what he owes to the family.”

“Of course. Ewan, you must support…which side again? The Fitzwilliam side, the one that leads to bickering, or the other, like good old Cecil, who supported family. It’s a tough choice.”

Mother frowned and released him. “Remember who will help your horrible wee-ones get ready for their come-out.”

“Good day, Mother. This is a threat-free dominion.” Ewan took her palm and placed it on his heart. “Go in peace.”

Head drooping, she traipsed away. She might be angry now, but Ewan didn’t think it formed from the right things. That made him dour. He shut the door. “You are early to this side of Town. My neighbors must be curious to see such comings and goings.”

“I had a busy day. Was a bit of an errand boy. How are you feeling?”

He leaned over his writing desk and again positioned the toy about a thumb’s width from his papers. “Good.”

Jasper tossed his hat on the chair and snaked off his gloves. “You don’t look good, but I have some news that might uplift your spirits. I had a nice conversation at Burlington Arcade.”

“Burlington Arcade?”

“Yes. I checked my box. It had a reply from my widow. You sure you are feeling well?”

Ewan spun around to see his brother hovering a bit close. “I said, yes.”

“Good.” Jasper reared his fist back and belted him in the mouth, knocking him flat. Ewan fell, barely missing the desk.

The man wiped his knuckles with a handkerchief from his pocket, then extended a hand, lifting Ewan from the floor. “You deserve that.”

Rubbing his stinging jaw, Ewan nodded. “You still pack iron in your fists. Glad you went for the face, not the chest.”

“Well, I do want you recovered.”

“Sorry, Jasper, but I tried to keep you from the widow Cecil. It didn’t seem right.”

“You are not very Fitzwilliam. That’s why you did it wrong. The conniving is supposed to advance things. Not waste my time or the good widow’s. And we left the poor girl without a response for weeks.”

He nodded, all while exercising his jaw, opening and closing his teeth. “So she sent a letter of regrets. Did she rail on about me seducing her, then leaving her in dire straits?”

Jasper’s face lit up like bright candles in a chandelier. “No. That would have been more interesting. No, she said… Well, maybe you should read for yourself.”

Ewan took the paper and scanned the lines. It said nothing of her complaints from the carriage. It read:

I have no clever rhyme, just truth. I grieved so long and hard over my first love, carrying him in my heart that I missed the joys in front of me. I live with the guilt of not being enough help for my child.

Something lodged in his throat. Remorse and a judgmental nature made for difficult mouthfuls.

I feel the weight of a sorrow-filled heart finding new love when I thought it closed. I feel so heavy.

“That’s what she wrote.”

His brother took the letter back and pointed at the last lonely sentence, a swirl of black ink on the very ivory paper. “The guilt of a surviving heart is mighty heavy.” Jasper’s eyes dulled. He pulled a flask from his pocket but then pushed it back inside. “She closed with: If you can understand these regrets, I look forward to meeting with you and the mutual acceptance of our proposal. That is bold; she’s not even waiting for you to kneel.”

“Not me. That’s not my letter.”

“You dolt. She is saying that she was in love with you. And she, like me, clung to sentiment too long. She has expressed her fears, yet she still reached for you, us.”

Ewan couldn’t give in to hope. She was engaged to another. He flipped his head side-to-side. “She has refused me to my face.”

Jasper shook his head. “She refused the man who threatened her with a play and who originally left her in order to gain the old man’s approval. She doesn’t know the new Ewan, the one who’s stood up to his father and, it appears, his mother, too.”

Optimism started filling his heart but leached out. His lungs must still have holes. “Why can’t she say these things to me? Not a letter.”

“That is a minor concern, if you love her. You do love her, don’t you?”

What did his feelings matter? He craved a dream so much he’d bought a toy for a boy he could never father. He shrugged. “She’s made her choice. It wasn’t me.”

“Sad. That would make the errand I ran for her silly.”

He stared at his brother, all while daring his own heart to slow its rush, a tiny bit of hope stirring it. “What did she have you do?”

“I’ve come from Covent Garden. She gave me her mark to pay any fees to sponsor your play. She charged me with spending up to a thousand pounds for a play that disparages her, for a love she can’t forget.”

“What? She can’t fight my battles.”

“Perhaps, but Brown is waiting to see you. The widow Cecil was right. He’s open to bribes to withstand Father’s threats. Go settle things with him and then go answer your newspaper bride.”

“My play has to stand on its own. I couldn’t let you bribe him. I can’t let Theo—Mrs. Cecil pay my way, either.”

Raising his arms to stretch as if he tired of being a busybody, Jasper yawned. “So are you going to go fight for the play? Our newspaper bride?”

If he could get this play sold, despite Lord Crisdon, and despite Theo’s offer, that would be the way to prove his merit to himself. “Take me to Brown. I am selling a play today. Then you are buying me dinner.”

“What of the widow? She isn’t married yet.”

“She has chosen her new husband. Perhaps, I should let her have her peace.”

Jasper seemed downtrodden again, but he donned his hat and started to the door. “Perhaps, she’ll get to that wedding day and change her mind.”

Ewan spun the horse toy again before following his brother. If the good widow was ready to spend money on Ewan’s dreams, maybe that was a signal that she was ready to trust him again. He’d haunted her to change her mind, but would she come to Ewan and bewitch him with her changed heart?

…

Holding his breath, Ewan stood at the side of the curtain. He mouthed the line in silence as the actress said Cleo’s infamous line, “The price to my heart is a banknote you can’t pen.”

The actress did it, head held high, then strutted off the stage with her hips swaying. The audience erupted. The laughter and claps shook the place. This was the third week of the play, but the moment felt like the first time.

Brown came up to his shoulder and chuckled. “This play is a hit. I must admit, you coming to Covent demanding I buy this play for a measly fifty pounds was a gamble I was willing to take.”

All smiles, Ewan tugged his coat. “I knew these words were gold. I knew how the audience would love them. Admit it, Brown, this was a great deal, only cost you a few more author’s benefit nights.”

“Yes. It took the fear out of me crossing Crisdon. He hasn’t made a peep of problems. Yet, with this being the third night of your author’s benefit to a packed crowd, minus my fees, you stand to clear a tidy sum. What are you going to do with this small fortune?”

He hadn’t thought about it. A bigger flat? A gig of my own, instead of borrowing Jasper’s? “I don’t know, but I’ll have to make it good.”

“Well, maybe you should take some time and start thinking about your next play. I’ll want it. You even got the old Duke of Simone to come, dark money and all.”

Ewan’s pulse raced, thinking of the last dark money night. That night when he’d first given in to his attraction, when he’d believed Theo would be his. So many things he hadn’t known about her, hadn’t thought to know about her.

She had trusted him in that moment and he’d taken the opportunity to seduce her again. What a foolhardy thing for a man in love to do. But if she were here seeing his play, the least he could do was thank her. If not for her trying to help him, he might not have pressed Brown. He wouldn’t be living the dream of his heart, seeing his play performed. “I’m going to see if the duke has brought all his special guests.”

Not waiting for the final act, he spun and was out of the theater, heading to the private stair before Brown’s gobsmacked mouth closed, releasing cigar-tainted breath.

Conquering one tier of steps, then another, Ewan stood tall on the final landing.

What if she’d changed her mind, come to see his play, but the shy girl lost her nerve and couldn’t tell him? That’s how he wrote it in his head. His heart pounded as he made it into the lobby. A few people lingered, but most were in the packed boxes. He headed to the final one, Simone’s box.

As he approached, Ewan heard laughter and hoped there was that one off-note in the tones, caused by someone biting her lip. Impatient, he pulled back the curtain. The duke’s box was crowded, but to the back were two beauties, Theo’s friends. Two, not three.

His heart dropped. He backed out, closing the dark curtains.

Disappointment wrapped about him like the shroud to this box. Of course, she wouldn’t come. The stubborn woman was probably off with her squire on a wedding trip. She hadn’t changed her mind.

Before he could turn and go back down, the curtains parted and Miss Ester Croome came out. She had a hand to her mouth as if she struggled to say something, but nothing came out.

“Yes, Miss Croome.”

She took a breath. “Mr.…Mr. Fitzwilliam, I thought that…you’re well?”

He put his hands behind his back. “Yes, and you look well. How is Miss Burghley?”

“She’s fine. She’d come say hello, if she wasn’t afraid of disturbing her father. It’s rare for him to come…with us.”

Shifting his weight, feeling foolish, he nodded. “So I hear.”

She waved her ice-blue fan that perfectly matched the lace on her long gown and crisp bonnet. “Your play is very good. Your Egyptian character Cleo. She’s nothing like a certain friend of mine.”

“I know. Your friend was never this character. Tell the new bride that, next time you see her.”

Miss Croome’s brows rose. “You don’t know. She didn’t marry the squire. She begged off. Miss Burghley and the duke, they helped her get a solicitor. They drafted things for Lester to sign, but he won’t. Now she’s fighting him at the Chancery to change the guardianship.”

Ewan didn’t know what to react to first, that Theodosia didn’t marry or that she was fighting for Philip. His heart answered both. “She’s still unmarried and she’s in court. Did she get it done?”

The young woman looked to the floor. When she raised her head, he saw fear in her chestnut eyes. “She hasn’t heard yet, but it doesn’t look good.”

Anger heated in his bones. He scrunched up his fists. “Can’t they see Lester has no interest in the boy?”

Miss Croome yanked off her light gloves, exposing her smooth chestnut skin. “It’s difficult for the courts to rule against a man for someone less-than. Lester has even used the accident at the festival against her. Mrs. Cecil is desperate. She’s sending the boy abroad tonight, and she’s selling Tradenwood to the Earl of Crisdon…your father, tomorrow. Then she is leaving for good.”

He started backing up. “I don’t think she’s taken into consideration what her cousin thinks of this plan. Excuse me.”

Ester rushed forward and hugged him. “Keep my friend and her son here.”

“I’ll try my best.” He started down the stairs, only stopped at the office to collect his benefit even before the play was done. He had to hire his way to Tradenwood and haunt his cousin one more time. She needed to see he was his own man in need of the right woman. Surely, she’d let him prove he’d fight every hell to save their son.