West End Earl by Bethany Bennett
Chapter Twenty-Three
You grew up here?” Emma’s face pressed against the glass of the carriage window, making her words echo with a tinny quality.
“Near here, yes. The manor house is down that lane and then through the woods, past the pond. According to Nelson, Milton is in London. Or he was as of two weeks ago. So we should be safe to visit Vicar Arcott, then leave Warford before anyone knows we’re here.” The familiar houses of the village appeared, then disappeared in succession outside her window. After the first night on the road, they’d broken off from the caravan of carriages and sent the others on toward their rented house in Olread Cove, while she and Emma had continued to Northumberland. Not only was the whole caravan of luggage not needed in Warford, but there was zero chance of such a spectacle being overlooked in the village. One carriage was far more stealthy, all things considered.
In John’s last letter he’d claimed Vicar Arcott was weak but continued to improve, despite all odds. John also reported his engagement to Daisy, the baker’s daughter.
“They’re not expecting us, but I don’t think we need to stay long,” Phee said.
Finally, the church with its tidy graveyard and snug vicarage came into view.
Vicar Arcott himself answered their knock. In that moment, she was a little girl again, faced with the one adult who always had a hug for her. He opened the door, stood shocked for a heartbeat, then opened his arms, as he always had.
“You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you up and walking again,” Phee said into his chest. He was still frail and likely always would be. Her arms easily wrapped around his torso. But saints be praised, he stood there under his own strength.
“Darling girl, you look tired. I didn’t expect you.” Arcott pulled away enough to examine her face with a concerned frown. Then he looked over her shoulder. “And you brought a friend.”
Phee turned to Emma. “This is Lady Emma Carlyle, now Lady Emma Hardwick.” She glanced at Arcott. “She knows everything, but the staff does not.”
Vicar Arcott eyed them, then the fine traveling carriage. “You’d best come inside,” he said in a low voice.
Phee directed the coachman and groom to where they could water and rest the horses behind the vicarage, then sent them on to the tavern in the village for their supper.
Inside, the cottage remained exactly as she remembered it. Gratitude that she could stand here one more time, when she’d been so sure the visit in May would be her last, made tears pool. For once they were happy ones. Turning to Emma, she said, “This is the closest I have to a home. I learned my sums and my letters at that table.” She pointed to the scarred wood where a plate and glass remained from the vicar’s last meal, with a dark cloth serviette folded neatly beside them.
Emma’s eyes were wide as she took in everything. It was a far cry from the London townhome on Hill Street. The entire house would fit inside Emma’s bedchamber, but Phee couldn’t be prouder to share it with her.
“This is where I came from. And the vicar is the finest man you’ll ever meet.” Phee hugged the older man with one arm around his waist, overwhelmed at seeing him again.
“Are you hungry? Mrs. Courtland left a pie, and I can put the kettle on.” Without waiting for an answer, the vicar shuffled toward the hearth, kettle in hand.
Emma opened her mouth, but Phee cut her off. “Mrs. Courtland makes the best pies. You don’t want to miss the opportunity to taste one. Vicar, let me do that. I’ll make the tea. Take a seat and get to know Emma.”
Once he’d served the pies, bursting with late-summer berries and encased in a flaky crust like only Mrs. Courtland could make, Phee poured tea for everyone and finally joined them at the table.
“Where’s John?” she asked.
“Finishing the lessons at the schoolhouse. He’ll be home late.” Arcott turned to Emma. “He’s marrying soon. A girl he’s been sweet on for an age.”
Emma nodded, but she looked a little lost, as if slightly out of her depth outside a posh drawing room. Phee smiled, then closed her eyes in bliss when the first bite of pie hit her tongue.
Following her lead, Emma took a bite, then made a happy little moan before covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, that wasn’t a ladylike sound. This pie is perfect, though, isn’t it?” Her cheeks blushed a vibrant pink as she took another bite.
“I told you. Mrs. Courtland’s pies can’t be missed.” Phee reached over and covered Arcott’s gnarled fingers with hers. “Vicar, I have a favor to ask. I’m afraid I need your help one last time.”
“Is it time for Adam to finally be at peace, then?”
“Yes.” Her throat tightened around the word. “We won’t publish the death notice quite yet. But it’s time. Emma needed help, so she will be Adam’s widow.”
Arcott’s eyes filled with tears, and his fingers shook when he turned his hand over to squeeze hers. “What shall your new name be, child?”
Phee smiled. She’d thought long and hard about this. “Fiona. Then I can still be Phee. Same last name, I think. A distant cousin, if we can do that.”
He nodded. “You’ll need a baptism record. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to ask you to lie again.”
“This will bring us full circle. I took your place in the world, but now I can give you another.” The teacup rattled in the saucer when he set it down. “Go visit your brother while I find the right record book.”
The chairs scraped against the floor when they rose, then Phee held the door open for Emma.
Early evening sunlight dappled the leaves overhead as they wove through the headstones in the graveyard. At the right marker, they stopped, and Emma hugged herself at the sight. “Doesn’t it disturb you to see your own name in stone like that?”
Phee sighed. “It hurts more to not see his. It’ll actually be a relief when this is over and I can visit a headstone with Adam’s name.” Reaching out, she trailed a hand over the curved rock face, sweeping at a bit of moss that clung to the O in Ophelia.
“I don’t know how you did it, Phee. You’re remarkable,” Emma said.
Phee knelt and rested her hand on the grass atop the grave, the ever-present grief for her brother welling to the surface. “No,” she whispered. “I survived. That’s all. We do what we must. I miss him, though. I wish you could have known Adam.”
Emma placed a hand on Phee’s shoulder. “I knew a version of him. And next, I get to meet Fiona.”
As Phee looked up at her, backlit as she was by the sun, the resemblance to Cal was strong, and it added another layer of ache to her chest. “Please, God, let this be my last name change.”
Vicar Arcott was a man of his word and, thankfully, was willing to falsify records one more time. An hour later she kissed him goodbye, and he pressed a slice of pie into Emma’s eager hands at the carriage door. “Don’t stay in the village. Milton will get word if you do, especially with this fancy rig,” he said.
“I know. We’ll stop for the night closer to the coast.” Phee wrapped her arms around him one last time and closed her eyes for a moment. Needing to say everything in case this turned out to be the last time she saw him, she pulled away and looked him in the eye. “Thank you for everything. I love you. I wish you’d been my father.”
He swallowed roughly. “You’ve always been mine. Sometimes God brings us children that don’t share our blood. Come home when you can, my darling girl.”
One more hug, and then they took their leave. They’d need to push hard to get as much distance as possible between them and Warford before nightfall. She knew from experience that Milton had spies everywhere.
* * *
“I’m going to look ridiculous,” Phee grumbled, even as she continued sewing neat stitches in a perfect row.
“No,” Emma said. “You will look lovely. What’s going to look ridiculous is your hair. And that’s why God made bonnets. Has it always poufed like that?”
“Yes, unfortunately. As a child I had ringlets. But no matter what I did, it always became a tangled rat’s nest by the end of the day. Honestly, I think dealing with my hair at a longer length will be what I hate most about living as a woman again.” Phee snipped the thread. “There. Can you help me into it?” They were at their fifth inn, taking a deliberately leisurely approach toward the tiny seaside village of Olread Cove. They’d arrive at the leased house the following day.
During the interminable days of travel, Phee and Emma kept their hands busy by making alterations they’d marked and pinned together the evening before.
Seeing the grave again, this time so close to the end of her charade, had left Phee unsettled. Sleep had been poor, and a fidgety unease made her jumpy. What if she wasn’t ready for the next step? What if she couldn’t unlearn the pieces of her brother she’d adopted? The walk, the manner of speaking—none of that was right for a lady. Layers of binding, a shirt, jacket, waistcoat, and cravat had been an armor of sorts, protecting her from the reality of being alone in the world.
The sounds of the bustling inn drifted through the wooden-plank floor as they removed her men’s garments and she donned the gown. They’d done some version of this to fit the dresses each evening, but as Emma helped her with the pins and tapes, Phee knew. The gown was ready.
The fine chemise, gossamer thin and trimmed in delicate lace, was the prettiest thing she had ever owned. She couldn’t help but think of how Cal would react if he saw it. The thought brought a pang, so she stuffed it down. He’d become part of her past. This was the time for creating a future.
Tomorrow they would tell the coachman that Adam’s cousin Fiona had arrived during the night and Adam had set off early ahead of them. Then the charade would begin. The coachman and other staff would return to London as soon as they arrived in Olread Cove, and no one would be the wiser that Adam wasn’t waiting at the cottage like they said.
A petticoat trimmed in embroidered green silk leaves peeked out beneath the gathered hem of the skirt. She had no shoes to match, but she’d found a pair of walking boots at a used clothing stall during their travels.
The sturdy little boots made her feel better. They felt solid on her feet, like her tall boots had, and in a way this ladylike footwear straddled two worlds. The old existence of breeches and cravats, and her new reality of skirts and fripperies.
“What made you pick this copper shade?” Emma asked.
Because Cal had once told her she’d look lovely in copper or green, and no matter how hard she tried, Phee couldn’t forget a single moment of their time together. “I thought the shade would suit me,” she lied.
Using the windowpane, the women stood side by side and studied their reflections.
“The Widow Hardwick and her cousin by marriage Miss Fiona Hardwick,” Emma said, imitating the tone of Higgins announcing visitors.
Phee lost her voice, overcome by the picture they made. Except for her hair, she looked like a sophisticated young lady.
“Stop staring at your duck fluff, Phee. You have all the time in the world to grow it out now.”
And Emma was right. Wasn’t that the damnedest thing.
* * *
It had been ten days since he’d heard her voice, and Cal might go mad during the lifetime ahead of him filled with this awful silence. Not that he’d expected Phee to reach out with news, but Emma hadn’t written either. At his desk, Cal pushed aside the contracts for Gaffney’s cider operation, the message he’d received from the captain of the Wilhelmina this morning, and the ledgers awaiting his attention. It hadn’t been good news for the investors, and unfortunately, Eastly wouldn’t see a single penny back. That was the nature of investments—some worked out, and some failed. But this failure killed any hope of Eastly paying his way out of the Rosehurst pickle.
Yet none of those burdens weighed as heavily as the absence of Emma and Phee. He pulled out a sheet of paper.
Dear Emma,October 5, 1820
The house seems empty without you here, chattering while sprawled on your favorite chaise in the gold drawing room. Perhaps once you’re settled in your new house, I could send it to you. Think of it as a belated wedding gift. It may make you feel more at home. Although I admit, I hope you’ll return to London after the baby is born.
Have you considered names? Are you feeling better? I hope the travel wasn’t too much for you.
I know you’re mad at me about everything that happened at Lakeview, but I pray you’ll write anyway.
Love,
Cal
He hesitated, then sighed. No one said he’d have to mail every letter he wrote. And damn, he missed talking to Phee. Out came another sheet of paper, and although she’d never read it, he began to write.
Dear Phee,October 5, 1820
You talk in your sleep. Did I ever tell you that? My bed is too quiet without you.
Pouring out his heart was cathartic in a way. Like lancing a wound, although that was a disgusting comparison. But then, his feelings at the moment weren’t exactly pretty either. He didn’t have poetry to offer the one who’d stolen his heart and his sister. So the letter became honest and messy and didn’t make him look good—he sounded pathetic and broken without her. But putting on his mask hadn’t been the point.
He read it over, signed it with a flourish, then promptly crumpled it in his fist and threw it in the rubbish bin by the desk. The stack of ledgers sat as silent witnesses to his foolishness. Beyond the door, Higgins’s voice rumbled an order to another servant. The few steps from the desk to the door were tiny procrastinations, but Cal welcomed any excuse to put off his next task.
“Higgins? Could you send up a pot of coffee? I have a long night ahead of me, I’m afraid.”
The butler dipped his head in a shallow bow. “Yes, milord. I’ll notify Cook.”
“Thank you.” Cal stood awkwardly, not quite leaning in the doorway but not having any reason to linger either.
“Will there be anything else, milord?” Higgins asked.
Cal sighed. “No. I’m putting off dealing with my father.” The admission slipped out, and he couldn’t call it back.
“In that case, I’ll have Cook add cake to the tray.” Higgins turned, but Cal would have sworn he saw a hint of a smile on the old retainer’s face.
At least now he’d get cake. There was always a silver lining. Cal turned toward the massive mahogany desk. The ledgers waited exactly where he’d left them. He was rather hoping they’d grow legs and run off, but no such excuse presented itself.
Time to get to work. Because in that stack of ledgers was the answer to his troubles. He hoped. Even with the loss of the Wilhelmina investment, somewhere in those columns of numbers must be the solution to paying his father’s debt with something besides Cal’s bachelorhood.
He sat, wishing for the hundredth time that he’d chosen a more comfortable desk chair. It would be a long night, or week, or however long it took him to find a way to save the estate.
The baron’s good will was at an end.