Chapter Eighteen

Moving Forward Without You

The sun glaring through Wycliff’s bedchamber window was a sight to behold, bright and burning through the wretched curtains. He still hated mornings, even more so after a night like last night.

A bar fight wasn’t good, but he’d had to punch someone.

Wycliff’s old, dark heart had started to polish up, to shine like it was healed.

Rubbish.

Losing the same woman twice gutted him. Life had been better when all he’d focused on was revenge.

Coughing, he sat up. The stench of the freshly-whitewashed walls irritated his sore throat.

Man. Ruth had a good punch, but she should strike at villains, not a man desperate to love her. A week had passed, and his throat still hurt.

Wycliff staggered out of bed and pulled the curtains shut, letting his sleep-deprived eyes rest. “Lawden, no sunlight. You’ll not make me into a man who likes the morning!”

His shout went unanswered.

That was probably for the best.

His foul mood had surely tested his man’s patience.

Rubbing at his rumpled hair, Wycliff thought of his mission. He yanked the linen panels open again.

Grooms circled the lawn below. Others protected Nineteen Fournier. Mrs. Johnson recognizing him had complicated matters.

Being on the outs with Ruth, Wycliff couldn’t oversee their safety or make eyes at her or try to make her laugh again.

That galled.

Wycliff unclenched the curtain, his hands had twisted it miserably. The linen was badly wrinkled. No amount of smoothing and patting fixed it. He didn’t need to add another task for Lawden or the limited housekeeping Blaren House employed. All this was a job for the mistress of his house. Ruth should be with him, hiring and instructing the domestic staff.

His wife.

She hated Adam, and now she hated him.

How could the truth go so wrong?

Ruth was angry, hurt, lost. She was stretched to a breaking point, like this mangled curtain.

He’d seen men break on the HMS Liverpool, seen that glassy look before they’d fallen to pieces. Wycliff was smart enough to know her reaction wasn’t from his direct words with Mr. Croome. It was from something deeper. It had torn up his innards, seeing the pain on her face.

Was this reaction from the violence of their ambush or the violence of being one of Talease’s girls? Or both? Though the madam was decent enough, her patrons could be any dreg of inhumanity with a coin.

A knock.

“Come in,” Wycliff said and prepared for more problems.

Lawden entered with a mug of steaming coffee in his hand. “Good, my lord, you are up.”

Wycliff took the warm cup. The roasted nuttiness of the steam wasn’t enough to lift his fouled mood. “Nothing good about it but coffee.”

“There is good, my lord. Captain Steward has kept his word. He’s refused all of Johnson’s and your uncle’s shipments.”

That was good. Wycliff’s plan was moving along. “Yes, their mercantile stock will rot on the docks. Let’s start calling notes. That will lead to others doing the same.”

“My lord, your uncle does have other shippers. Smaller firms who are not in the same dire straits as the captain.”

“True. But Steward is the largest and the other fish will demand full payment before any goods are loaded. Their remaining money will be eaten up, trying to stay out of debtors’ prison.”

Wycliff slurped the coffee. It was hot and stung his raw throat. “I need Uncle Soulden and Johnson to crumble before the month ends.” He took off his robe and wandered to his closet and picked through his waistcoats. Dark, darker, dark with green. This damask print was surely Croome fabric.

“Send a few grooms to my father’s…to my country estate. Bring his trunks, the oldest ones from the attics. One of them may have my half of the marriage registry. I should gift it to Mrs. Wilky as a wedding present from me for when she accepts the good barrister.”

“She hasn’t accepted yet.”

“She will. The registry is the perfect gift. Something she can burn to be free of Adam and me.”

“You are one and the same, my lord. Have you forgotten this?”

He glared at Lawden.

“Sorry, my lord.”

“And I need answers from Madame Talease. She’s not been at her in-town bawds. Perhaps, I can pay her to visit Blaren House. She likes gold.”

Lawden kicked at the blankets that Wycliff had fought and tossed to the floor. “That’s a mighty change in your mood and moral fidelity. Is burning the registry document to free you, too?”

“I wasn’t an angel, Lawden. But no. Not that kind of visit from Talease. My profile is too visible to be gallivanting on isolated roads. Mrs. Johnson has seen me several times at the Croomes. That’s dangerous enough, but I have control in the crowded city.”

“Will do, my lord.” Lawden picked up the sheet and threw it on the mattress. “Have you thought about trying to see Mrs. Wilky again?”

“No. She kicked me out. Perhaps I should burn the registry. It would remove proof of her impending bigamy.”

“You’re accepting this? That’s unlike you, my lord, especially when you have something in your head.”

Lawden was right. Wycliff was a goal-driven man, but what could he do if Ruth had decided against him? “I’ve already died to her. Only one man has been successfully resurrected.”

“Two, if you count Lazarus, my lord. If you’re going to wallow in the scriptures, be more precise.”

“Precision, truthfulness. They both seem problematic.”

Lawden went to the bed table and picked up the book of poems written by Wycliff’s mother. “I see you’ve been reading the loss poems.”

“Well, she had a way of describing death and endings. ‘She feels the iron hand of pain no more.’ Something good about that.”

His man sighed aloud. “No one is good with endings, my lord. Your pappy was not. Neither are you. What’s that gut telling you, Wycliff?”

“End my pursuit. Focus on finding Cicely. Send Mrs. Wilky that porcelain statue on my desk as a present, for she’s the bride that escaped. Send the frog puppet for Christopher.”

“Your gut says all that? It’s mighty talkative to be a liar. You are a man of war, not a prince of peace.”

“What?”

“You don’t give up. You made a mistake. You miscalculated. What man in love doesn’t?”

“But she hates me.”

“She hates Adam Wilkinson, the boy she eloped with. I watched you two. I saw how she leaned into you when she was weak. She may dislike Adam, but Lord Wycliff has a chance.”

“But aren’t I both, Adam and Wycliff?” He started pacing. “She tossed me, Wycliff, out.”

Lawden opened the curtains wide. The sunlight roared inside, filled the room, and made the ghastly red-painted bed shine.

He rubbed his throat. “I’ve been trying to get her to remember our great love of the past. Maybe that was my mistake, trying to remind her of Adam. Maybe she needs to see me, the not-Adam version.”

“Yes. Show her what there is to love in Wycliff. Amplify what she loves.”

“You are writing poems, too, Lawden?” He slurped his coffee and paced in circles from the closet to the bed table. “Don’t be Adam?” He thought of Ruth and what made her smile. “I think I should be Wycliff, the big cousin.”

“Yes, my lord. You have a responsibility to the young boy.”

“Christopher. He’s a good boy. He’s my heir. He’s a sweet child who thinks well of Adam. He will continue to think well of me.”

He downed the rest of his mug, then handed it to Lawden. “Christopher needs someone to teach him how to hunt frogs. I can keep a more careful hand in observing and protecting the Croomes if I’m welcome at Nineteen Fournier.”

“Frog hunting is a fine pursuit. A lot nicer than roughhousing on the docks. You might find it a better thing to dwell upon than beatings.”

“I didn’t do anything too bad.” Lawden must’ve heard about the barroom brawl. “Like I said, I wasn’t always good.”

Lawden shook his head. “My lord, you have too many things in motion to be reckless. You haven’t won, yet. Your uncle is a dangerous man.”

He was right.

It was dangerous to walk the docks with Uncle Soulden growing more desperate. And good old duplicitous Nickie could still cause trouble, too.

“No more Wicked Wycliff. I’ll be more careful. I just needed to smell the water, look at the good souls working the lanes. It grounded me. The punching did help. Find the best place in London to hunt frogs. I think I and my little cousin need to do just that.”

“Good, my lord.” Lawden tossed him his mother’s book and bowed, juggled the mug in his hands, then left.

Wycliff’s thoughts turned to his mother. He went to the window.

Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,

Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;

Mother’s words of sorrow mirrored the gloom in his spirit. Now the morning had made things bright again. He could make sure the Croomes were safe and get to know better the boy who should be his son.

That’s what Wycliff should do, care for his heir.

His faith, that all would work out for the better, was still inside. His hope was deeply rooted, just like his need for revenge.

Both halves of Wycliff had to win.

…

I kept my lips firmly positioned in a frozen smile and hoped it wouldn’t melt and expose me in Mama’s parlor. In my hands, I held a beautiful piece of parchment wrapped with a ruby-red tie.

Clancy removed his silver tray on which he’d carried Mr. Marks’s note. Perhaps the butler thought that the parchment bound in ribbon deserved an honorable way to be delivered.

But this note was from Mr. Marks.

It meant no visit, no tea with him today.

It saddened me, but I only half-expected him to show. The first time I’d received a letter with fancy ribbon, I’d felt so special. This prestigious man I’d been corresponding with through the London Morning Post had taken the time to bind his letters to me. I didn’t realize that all his legal briefs were sealed in this manner. It was convenient for him to do so.

Mr. Marks’s letters talked of his passions for the law and his need of a marital partnership to support it. Having spent the past week with Lord Wycliff, I realized the difference between attentiveness and tolerance.

How had I set my hopes so low?

When had I decided I didn’t need attentiveness?

Mama set down her knitting. The pale-blue booties she was making for Mrs. Johnson’s baby-to-come were almost complete. “How’s Mr. Marks today? Will he be running a little late?”

“He’s fine.” The words left my throat, easy and sweet. I hid the disappointment stewing in my stomach. “He apologized for missing church Sunday.”

“He’s a hard-working man.” Mama unrolled her knitting wool. Her voice was very even. She should be disappointed from all the work she and Mrs. Fitterwall had done to prepare teacakes and biscuits for my tea.

I tweaked my spectacles and took a closer look at Mama. The woman didn’t have on a mobcap. In fact, her typical walking gown was replaced with a resplendent burgundy carriage gown. “Mama, are you going to visit Mrs. Carter? Is her gout still bothering her?”

“Not today. But I may later in the week.”

That was too succinct of an answer. Mama wasn’t one to run on, but she seemed to be turning and looking at the clock on the mantle. “You look very pretty today, Ruth. Emerald green suits you.”

I had dressed with a little flair. I wanted Mr. Marks to notice me. I liked the color, liked the way the gown nipped at my waist, the fullness at my hips. Yes, I’d dressed for him and for me.

Well, this would be the perfect clothing for knitting. “Thank you, Mama.”

“Will Mr. Marks be here soon?”

My gaze dropped to the note in my lap. Having to say no thawed my frozen smile. “No tea today.”

“You were going to be in the formal dining room with him?”

The surprise in my mother’s voice shook the confidence I had, my resolve in accepting Marks’s absence. “I’ll make great progress on my knitting.”

“If you accept him, how much of your life will be spent waiting?”

“I don’t know.” I held my breath for a moment. “I think that this is not going to work.”

One. Two. Three. I waited, counting the seconds before she admonished me for being foolish, of losing this respectable man.

But she said nothing.

She looked over her shoulder toward the clock.

“Mama, do you have anything to say?”

Head down, her tidy gray locks looking shiny and satiny, Mama looped woolen yarn about her needles. “Read your letter. You must know where you stand.”

I made up fanciful reasons in my head—A burning building, a lost orphan, ten other widows in dire straits. I pulled at the ribbon and unfolded the letter. “Books. He has to study case law. He thinks he may show next week, definitely next week.”

“Will he show up for his own wedding day?”

Ah, the tigress did have an opinion. She’d approved of the barrister at Yuletide, but was she like Papa, rooting for the baron now?

Ester barreled into the parlor, her hands full of charcoals. “Did I leave my sketchbook in here? Ruth, I thought you’d be upstairs having tea with the handsome barrister.”

“No. Not today. Something has come up for him.” Again.

My sister offered me a small smile and patted me on the shoulder. “He’s a busy man. You see how long Bex’s days are.”

But her man always came home to her and acted as if he hated to be parted from her. I was happy for my sister, truly happy. I merely wondered if I’d ever be as fortunate. When would my Job’s luck turn good?

Maybe it had started to change, but I’d let my fears chase Wycliff away. He’d said to write to him. Maybe I should.

“Why don’t you and Ruth enjoy the tea upstairs?” Mama said. “I can—

“What is he doing here?” Ester bolted to the window. “Why?”

“He who?” My heart beat hard. Mr. Marks had changed his mind. “My barrister? What a lovely surprise.”

“No, it’s Wycliff, and he’s carrying a bouquet of daisies. Did you invite him, Ruth? I thought you banished him.”

Chucking Marks’s note on the table, I craned my neck to see what Ester saw, but these old lenses showed nothing but blurs. “I didn’t invite him.”

Mama rose from her chair and balled up her project. She jabbed her needles deep inside the wool. “I accepted his invitation. He’s here for me and Christopher.”

Ester and I weren’t twins. A few years separated us, as did our differences in height and Shakespeare and knitting, but we looked at each other with identical mouths, wide-open Os.

Clancy announced the baron and led him into the parlor.

I fiddled with my spectacles to get a good look at him.

He made a slight nod in my direction but went straight to Mama.

She held her hand out to the exquisite man.

Buff breeches, a chocolate-brown coat, and ebony-colored waistcoat embroidered with indigo stars—why did he have to look so well and be here, when all I had was a note?

“Mrs. Bexeley, Mrs. Wilky.” He bowed to us but then turned again to my mother. “These are for you, Mrs. Croome. Are you and my little cousin ready?”

“Yes, Mrs. Fitterwall is getting Christopher dressed. He’s been jumping up and down all morning since I told him.”

“Come, Ester, help me catch our little frog.”

Ester’s head swiveled between Mama’s and mine. The girl lifted her hands to send me some sort of signal, but everyone did as Mama wanted. Ester followed Mama, almost dragging from the room.

The baron and I were alone.

I counted to three, pinned a smile to my lips. “I thought we had an understanding, Lord Wycliff.”

He flopped into Mama’s chair. “Yes. You made it clear that you want nothing romantic between us.”

I tucked away a confession of thinking of sending for Wycliff. “Then why are you here?”

“I promised the boy to teach him the proper way to chase frogs. I keep my promises.”

“You said that to cheer him up from his fright.”

“No. I said it because I meant it. That boy bears Adam’s name. He’s my heir until I marry and am fortunate to be blessed with a son.”

A son? I hadn’t thought of that.

“I’ve publicly declared that you are Adam’s widow. There are expectations that come with that responsibility. I’m not ignorant of this. Nor do I take the responsibility lightly.”

I hadn’t thought of that, either. “Oh.”

“And until the other half of the registry is found, I should act in a manner that supports our claims. I am tending to my heir, Adam’s son.”

I rubbed my temples. I’d completely missed these notions. My cheeks flushed with shame. I should not have discounted Wycliff’s commitment to my son.

Mama returned with Christopher dressed in a hat and green pinafore that almost matched my dress.

Lord Wycliff bowed to the boy. “Are you ready to go, young man?”

“Gama says you and my daddy were friends.”

Big tall Wycliff bent down to the child’s level. “Yes. The best of friends. It’s a pleasure to know his son.”

He picked up the boy and set him on his shoulder, then stood.

Christopher whooped and held on to the man’s ears.

“Hold on, little fellow.” He held out his arm. “Mrs. Croome, are you ready?”

“Lord Wycliff, I’m afraid I must cancel. Mrs. Carter’s in a bad way. Her gout is acting up. I suppose we must delay. I’m so sorry to have gotten you all the way out here for nothing.”

He frowned for a moment, even biting that maddening lip. “Christopher and I could go on our own, ma’am. Right, young fellow?”

“No. You can’t.” My voice was loud and showed all my fears. “You can’t take Chris.”

“Ahh, Ma, no.” Christopher kicked his legs out. “I want to go.”

My mother looked my way, but she needn’t have had that pleading look.

I launched from the sofa. “My plans have been cancelled for the day. I can go, if you must go today.”

The look on Wycliff’s face wasn’t one of a man triumphant in accomplishing a goal. His eyes were penitent, the dark-gray, almost-black irises. They searched for answers I couldn’t offer. “I suppose it best for Christopher to accompany me with a chaperone. I’m but a stranger to him. Master Wilky, is it fine for your mother to take Mrs. Croome’s place?”

“Mama. Mama. Yes. She should go.”

“You are right, Master Christopher. Your mother does needs to come.” He held out his arm to me. “Mrs. Croome, I won’t have these two out too late.”

“I’m sure you’ll take good care of them. Ruth, I’ll give your best to Mrs. Carter.”

Wycliff may not have been up to something, but the catbird look on Mama meant she surely was. She seemed happy that I was going with him.

We strolled into the hall, and I picked up the wide-brimmed bonnet that I’d set on the entry table.

“Mama, you going to chase frogs, too?”

I looked at my son and the man bent on entertaining him. “No, girls don’t chase frogs. They kiss them and make them into princes.”

“That’s disgusting.” Chris covered his cheeks.

Wycliff laughed, a good hearty one with his raspy throat. “I suppose it is, son. I suppose it is.”

I stopped on the steps as they kept moving. I had to catch my breath. My head echoed the word, son. It was louder than the usual roaring in my ears.

Son.

It was just a label often tossed about to young men, but hearing Wycliff say it to Chris touched something deep inside.

The baron marched back up the steps. He put Chris in my arms, then as he’d done before, he put his arm about me and led me down the steps. The pace was slow. We took them together, one by one.

I closed my eyes and leaned into him. I peeked every few steps and was strengthened by the joy on my boy’s face.

Wycliff settled me into the carriage. He sat me on one side while he and Chris shared the other. He took a frog puppet and put it in my son’s hands.

My sweet boy jumped up and down. He leaped at Wycliff and hugged his neck like the man was a horse.

I saw Wycliff wince even as he hugged my baby. I wanted to know what was wrong, but I was so happy to see my boy being loved that I buttoned my lips. I didn’t want to say anything wrong and ruin the moment.

I closed my eyes. I thought hard about breaking off with the barrister. Was a cousin spending time with my son a balance for an absent stepfather? I’d have to figure things out soon before Chris became too attached, for I had an offer from a man not here but had turned down marriage from the gentleman holding my hand.