West End Earl by Bethany Bennett
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dear Phee,October 5, 1820
You talk in your sleep. Did I ever tell you that? My bed is too quiet without you.
It may make me a sentimental fool, but the day you left, I stole your pillow and refuse to let the maids touch it. Feel free to laugh at the mental image of me comforting myself with a musty pillow. If I sniff deep enough, there are still traces of sandalwood, and finding those final bits of you in my bed seems to be the only way I sleep these days.
Truth be told, I haven’t slept well since the last time we were together. As much as the memory brings me pain, I have to admit that you were perfect in your execution of revenge. Just like during our countless fencing matches, your attack was effective, focused, and brutal. You’re remarkable, but then I knew that.
I knew that, and I still made a hash of us.
Because of my misplaced confidence in my own ability to juggle the world—at the expense of our relationship, I’ve lost you forever.
I’m never mailing this—
Phee stopped reading. The paper’s crinkled lines told a story of being crumpled into a ball. If he’d thrown this away after writing it as a sort of personal journal entry, then she didn’t have any place reading it.
And yet.
Dear Phee.
This letter belonged to her. Whether or not he’d meant to mail it, she held it in her hands now.
I’m never mailing this, so I can speak freely. The Wilhelmina finally arrived in port this week. Crew is in good spirits, but the cargo is a complete loss. I find myself identifying with the ship as I deal with distraught investors—my father being chief among them. Like the Wilhelmina, I’m alive, but empty.
I love you. That wasn’t a lie. I think I’ve loved you since that night in your old room, watching the firelight play across your features, terrified for you. Unfortunately, I’m still terrified for you. Nelson’s connections with your uncle’s ruffians report that Milton has gone silent. I could write you another letter, updating you on the report, but what would I say? “I’m sorry I ruined us, but I love you, and even though your uncle is not making any additional threats, his silence is telling?”
So, I say nothing, and I wait, and I hope that where you are, the halls ring with your laughter, and there’s a pillow that smells like you. I wish it rested beside mine.
A tear snaked down Phee’s cheek before she dashed it away.
Damn the man. And damn whoever had gone against his wishes and mailed a letter she was never supposed to read.
Despite the vicious thoughts, Phee carefully smoothed the paper, then refolded it.
Outside her bedroom window, cool air carried the loamy smell of green earth and the tang of salt spray from the sea that crashed at the base of the cliff where the house perched.
The chair in this ray of sunshine had become Phee’s favorite place in the house. Each night the low rhythm of the waves lulled her to sleep through this window. In the mornings, Phee drank her coffee in this chair, and every day offered a different view. Sometimes fog rolled in and she listened to the gulls cry. Other mornings brought brilliant early sun sparkling off the water.
When they’d arrived at the house, they’d sent the servants back to London, then hired their own staff from the town. Providing immediate employment in a rural place like Olread Cove not only met their needs but quickly ingratiated them with the locals.
The villagers had no reason to believe they weren’t the Widow Hardwick and her cousin by marriage Miss Fiona Hardwick. Emma wanted to keep whispers to a minimum, so she’d left her honorific behind in Mayfair.
Now they’d settle into a quiet life until the baby came, then Emma would decide what she wanted to do next. Phee had promised to stay through the birth before choosing where she’d go. Watching the sea each day, as breathtaking as it was, only reinforced her desire to not spend a great deal of time on a boat. The Continent might be the place for her, instead of America.
Phee turned from the open window, searching for the wrap she’d discarded earlier. A flash of blue caught her eye from under the book she’d read that morning. After slinging the dark wool over her shoulders, Phee tugged on a pair of kidskin gloves and went downstairs. “I’m going on a walk,” she called to whoever might be listening. Emma, the cook, and the maid had been in the kitchen the last time she’d checked.
Salt air slapped Phee’s cheeks as she pulled the heavy wood-plank door closed behind her. She gave the iron handle an extra yank to ensure it stayed closed, as the door sometimes stuck in the doorjamb and didn’t latch properly after a day of rain.
Tugging on her bonnet as she walked, she tied the ribbons under her chin. Truth be told, she missed the hats she used to wear with male clothing. A bonnet covered her baby-duck-fluff hair, which resisted all efforts of taming as it grew, but it still seemed like playing dress-up. Wearing a dress felt more natural now, but the bonnets? Not so much.
The favorite walking path she’d found wound around the top edge of the cliff, then led down a rocky slope to the beach where Phee collected shells and colorful glass worn smooth by the water. No doubt the breeze would ensure any wisps of hair uncovered by her bonnet stayed vertical for the rest of the day, but this restlessness within her surpassed vanity.
Gravel shifted beneath her feet as she deliberately lengthened her stride, walking as she had when she’d been living her brother’s life. Emma had been working with Phee to change her walk, but for a moment, Phee wanted the familiar. The easy.
Cal’s letter had been simultaneously hurtful and beautiful. Bad luck that she’d get that missive today of all days. She’d thought she was ready to leave the past behind, and then Cal’s penmanship had snagged her calm into a tangle, and now she wasn’t sure she could do the one thing on her agenda.
Phee had to send the death notice to the Times. The final piece of letting Adam go. Her steps quickened until she ran, heading toward the cliff edge as if chased by a literal ghost instead of a figurative one.
Adam had been gone for over a decade, yet sending a letter to the Times felt like a death of another kind. She and Emma had decided, after their visit to the gravestone outside the Arcotts’ home, that Adam deserved a headstone. A marker with his name, commemorating his life, short as it had been. Even if the death date was wrong, Adam’s name belonged in stone next to the other in Warford, beside the vicarage. To those in London who cared, Adam Hardwick would die tragically young, which was nothing but the truth.
A tear wet her cheek, although Phee didn’t remember crying again. She dashed at it, inadvertently wiping her face with the letter from Cal, which was still clutched in her hand. Holding the paper to her nose, she tried to catch a whiff of his spicy gingerbread scent, like he’d confessed to searching for sandalwood on his pillow.
No such luck. For some reason, that brought another tear to her eye.
Cal’s sweet letter, pretty apology, and declarations of love were for Ophelia.
Crossing her arms across her middle, she stared out at restless waves. All that remained of Ophelia was a headstone in a graveyard in Northumberland. She’d become someone new. Again.
Like it or not, she would be Fiona now, and she must move forward. That meant some things had to stay in the past.
No countess of mine will have scandal attached to her.
Opening her fist, Phee let the paper flutter in her palm, hovering and falling until it caught the wind and took off. Like a tiny kite, the paper rode an air current, lifting and floating with a freedom she envied. Finally, the letter to a woman who no longer existed floated over the cliff edge and disappeared into the waves below.
Unless Cal showed up on their doorstep to make those proclamations to her face, there was nothing to be done. A letter was lovely, but at the end of the day, they were words he hadn’t meant to send. Empty words.
Just like names were words, and a death notice didn’t make Adam more dead. Phee took in a deep breath of salt air and straightened her shoulders. Maybe today she would get that death notice written after all.
Adam needed to die. Only then could Phee truly live.
* * *
Dear Emma,October 12, 1820
Another week of silence from my baby sister, and I have no choice but to assume you have yet to forgive me for what happened. Is this some kind of sisterhood you two have formed? If so, I’m glad Phee has you in her corner.
Please don’t feel caught between us. If given the chance to do everything over, I’d definitely make different choices.
I’d treat Phee like a partner. I’d spend more time planning a future with her than dealing with our father.
I’d have told you that Roxbury demanded payment to leave you alone. I would do many things differently.
Thank you for being a better friend to Phee than I was.
Tell the baby—whom I’ve decided to call Mortimer Hildegard unless you write back and tell me otherwise—Uncle Cal loves him. He loves you too, brat.
Sincerely,
Cal
Dear Emma,October 20, 1820
How is little Mortimer Hildegard? Is he/she kicking yet? I remember our mother’s joy when she felt you stirring in her womb. Her eyes would light, and she loved to hold my hand to her belly to see if I could sense you moving. I couldn’t until the last month. Then your constant tossing and turning would make her entire stomach roll and shift, and it gave my young brain nightmares. So, thanks for that.
I wanted to let you know that I’ve come to a decision. Father didn’t overstate his circumstances. I’ve looked over the books, checked every avenue, and ran through financial scenarios until I’m falling asleep at my desk and dreaming of dancing columns of numbers. Unless he sells everything unentailed and lives with strict discipline (ha!) at the family seat for the next few years, paying the debt to the baron will be impossible. There’s one clear path that will save the estate and serve the tenants. I have to marry Violet Cuthbert.
It will be a Christmas wedding.
Cal
The pen hovered over the page for so long, ink dripped from the tip and fell to the paper with a splat. He wanted to ask how Phee was. If they were comfortable, if the villagers were friendly. And then he wanted to ask about Phee again. If she was happy. If she laughed, or if she moped about like he did.
When he’d visited a couple of days before, Miss Cuthbert hadn’t been any happier with the news than he was. Especially since he’d arrived in her drawing room looking like a grieving wreck. After he explained that the one he loved had married another, Miss Cuthbert patted his hand and suggested they make the best of it. The baron had been thrilled that the Earl of Carlyle had come to call—and all that implied—so he’d been happy to make himself scarce from the Egyptian-themed drawing room. The sarcophagus looked on disapprovingly when Cal and Miss Cuthbert spoke honestly about the situation.
Despite the Season and the house party, she didn’t have a beau who’d caught her eye. They agreed that perhaps a friendly marriage would do, since high passion clearly wasn’t working out for either of them. When they’d first met, Miss Cuthbert had told him she would do her duty, and that was what it came down to.
They were pawns to their fathers. And in the baron’s defense, it was a brilliant marriage for his daughter. It wasn’t egotistical to say so. If Cal were a better son, he’d be content with a beautiful blond wife.
But he missed Phee. He didn’t want blond curves. He wanted red curls on the pillow, finely made bones, her contagious laugh, and easy friendship.
The sand he threw on the ink scattered across his desk, but it was hard to care. Standing to stare out the window, Cal shoved his hands in his pockets. The trees along the street were vibrant with color, but he’d become so gray inside, their hues seemed garish. Soon the weather would turn cold and wet, with a biting wind that cut through even the sturdiest clothes. In his current condition, Cal would blend right in.
The glass reflected a sight that made his lip curl. Blond hair hung lank around a face half covered with stubble. Kingston had despaired and threatened to quit, but Cal had consoled him with a promise that he wouldn’t go out in society again like this. Which gave Cal the perfect reason to decline every invitation—he’d promised his valet.
In fact, Cal had rarely left the library in the last two weeks. The staff tiptoed around as if afraid of spooking their master, who’d clearly gone feral, and a disturbing smell permeated the room that he was afraid might be him.
From the doorway, Higgins cleared his throat. “These arrived via messenger from your solicitor, milord.”
Cal glanced over his shoulder. Higgins held a brown leather satchel. Probably the wedding contracts. “Set it on the chair. And post this letter to my sister. Thank you, Higgins.”
Cal faced the window again, taking in the view but seeing nothing.
Higgins cleared his throat. “May I get you anything, milord? Coffee? A tray of food? Cook would love to send some of her ginger cakes, I’m sure.”
“No, thank you.” A leaf skittered by on the pavement, propelled by a breeze as it trailed along Hill Street. Down the lane, a child’s laughter echoed off the stone buildings. Cal felt no more connected to the world beyond the windowpane than to the one inside his house. As if he’d separated from his body and now remained blessedly numb. Numbness had to be better than hollow pain.
The door closed, and the library fell quiet once more. Ethan had called earlier in the day, but Cal had put him off, needing to write the letter to his sister before he lost the nerve. Something about telling Emma, and by extension, Phee, made the situation too real. Here in his library, hiding from the world, he could pretend his engagement was hypothetical or another tall tale he’d share over brandy. Remember that time Eastly traded me for a horse, and I outmaneuvered him?
Once that letter was posted, it would all be real. He would marry Violet Cuthbert so the lives and properties of his father’s tenants would continue undisturbed, and Eastly would gain a racehorse he didn’t know what to do with. The idiocy of it all was so overwhelming yet melded rather perfectly with this undeniably depressive turn his life had taken.
When the wood door rasped against the floor again, Cal sighed. The servants were concerned; he understood that. But this hovering about him like a bunch of nursemaids needed to stop. “What now, Higgins?”
“My husband is worried about you, which is inconvenient for me. And when it’s inconvenient for me, it becomes your problem.” Lottie didn’t wait for an invitation. She sailed in on a lemon-scented breeze, then took a seat by his fireplace. Cal couldn’t help but straighten his posture when she snapped, “Take a seat, Calvin. If you wanted sweetness and light, you shouldn’t have turned away Ethan this morning. Now you have to deal with me, and I have enough on my plate without worrying about your pretty little head as well. Sit.”
He sat. The path of least resistance was often the smarter option with Lady Amesbury.
“You look like hell, you haven’t seen Ethan in days, and everyone is concerned for you. Ring for brandy or coffee or whatever will get you talking. Because this is ridiculous.” She motioned toward Cal’s general person.
Higgins entered with a cart. He must have scuttled off for refreshments the minute Lady Amesbury arrived. Never mind that the master of the blasted house had left strict instructions barring visitors. Lottie’s smile and murmured thanks to his butler confirmed his suspicions. They were plotting against him, but Cal couldn’t make himself care beyond a faint stirring of indignation.
Pouring with a serene expression, she handed him a cup and saucer, then bit into a small frosted ginger cake. She settled deeper into the chair. “Now, talk.”
Cal took a sip of the coffee. Like everything else recently, it inspired neither appreciation nor satisfaction. It was just brown bean water that helped him stay alert until he could retire for the day and stare at his bedroom ceiling. “I’m fine,” he lied.
Her snort wasn’t delicate or amused. “Try again, but make an attempt at honesty this time.”
The cake didn’t tempt him in the least, but he took a bite to avoid answering for a few seconds. Words gathered in his throat, turning the sweet treat to ash. “I’m getting married.”
Lottie froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon? To whom? And how did we not know you were courting?”
“Violet Cuthbert, daughter of Baron Rosehurst. My father traded me for a horse. Ethan might have told you about that a few months ago. Well, it’s come down to it. I can’t escape the situation.”
If Lottie rolled her eyes any harder, they’d stick, and she’d be staring at her own brain forever. “Calvin, darling. Yes, you’re beautiful, but I also know you’re uncommonly intelligent. Others might not give you credit for that, but I know. You are not a damsel in distress, so stop acting like it.”
“What are you talking about?” Cal’s question was automatic, but her statement stung. All his life, he’d garnered praise for his looks—something entirely out of his control. Not once had he gained notoriety for competently handling his family’s affairs or making his own fortune on the Exchange and through investments.
“You’re handsome, titled, rich, and wickedly smart. Stop standing on the sideline of your own life and take charge, for God’s sake. Your father is an arse and a grown man. His consequences are his, and the natural result of his actions. Those problems are only yours to deal with if you take that responsibility on yourself.” Lottie’s voice was firm, her focus on him unshakable, and for a moment, Cal envied Ethan. To have such a partner in your life, an equal and a fighter, must be amazing. That Phee had been all those things wasn’t lost on him.
“It’s my father. He’ll be ruined if I don’t do this.”
She made a dismissive noise in his general direction, then took a sip from her cup. “Nonsense. The Eastly title has the entailed estate, which will provide an income if he doesn’t make an utter hash of it. Even if he sells off literally everything else, he will still be head and shoulders ahead of the average British citizen. To whine about his lot only shows what a spoiled brat he is.”
Cal’s chuckle sounded rusty, but it felt good to laugh. Lottie had a point, and as usual, she happily speared anyone’s argument with an arsenal of logic.
Unfortunately, she was also acutely observant. She narrowed her eyes. “This level of grime and sloth isn’t due to your father’s latest misfortune. There’s a woman involved. Who is she?”
All the fight seeped from him, and he slumped in the chair. His chest went tight, and Cal wondered for a moment if breath would simply stop under the weight of his emotions. “You remember Adam Hardwick?”
She blinked. “I didn’t know your interests leaned that direction. But if that’s where your heart lies, I see the problem. Being in love with your brother-in-law is problematic at best.”
“Adam was a twin. His sister, Ophelia—Phee—took his place when he died.” He couldn’t say more, because saying her name aloud made his heart race.
Lottie cocked her head, considering. “That explains so much. I wonder why I didn’t see it.”
“People see what you tell them to see. At least, that’s what Phee says.”
“Let me guess—Emma is with child, and your Miss Hardwick stepped in to help?”
Cal nodded. “After I ruined everything. She’s well out of reach now. A relationship is impossible. It doesn’t really matter if I marry Violet Cuthbert or the onion seller on the corner. If I can’t marry who I want, I might as well save my father. Again, and for the last time.”
“I understand you’re distressed and wallowing, Cal. And truly, this is the most epic wallowing I’ve seen outside Drury Lane. But you’re talking nonsense.” Lottie wiped her fingers on a cloth serviette, with dainty motions that were at odds with her tone.
“It’s not nonsense. This is my life, and it’s a disaster.”
“Let me ask you something. Are Emma and your Miss Hardwick in love? Or at least lovers?”
Cal blinked. “Not that I know of.”
“Then what is stopping you from living with them and having a relationship while she plays the part of Adam in public?”
“You mean besides the fact that it’s a scandal waiting to happen?”
“So? Speaking as a former scandal, I can tell you it isn’t that bad when you’re with the right person.”
That hadn’t been his experience. As a child he’d dealt with the whispers, the drama. Boys at Eton had been merciless with their tormenting. Developing a carefree facade had been vital to his survival. If you pretended none of it mattered, it stole the fun out of it, and the boys eventually found other targets. In reality, each barb only reminded him of the truth—his parents didn’t care. He and Emma weren’t enough reason to be civil or to live separate lives so their relationship wasn’t constantly under discussion by all of society.
As an adult, he’d done what he could—and sometimes more than he should—to protect Emma from the lasting consequences of their parents’ choices. Given her the best chances at a good match. Tried to handle everything, until he felt like a performer he’d once seen at a traveling fair who’d managed to juggle a knife, a ball, and a shoe from a child in the crowd.
“If anyone is qualified at handling scandals, it’s you. You’ve been training your entire life for this, and here you are, pouting in your library, instead of doing whatever you need to do to get into her good graces.”
“I won’t ever have heirs.” The protestation sounded weak, but a lightening in the pressure near his heart felt an awful lot like hope.
Lottie shrugged. “Everything entailed reverts to the crown. Our new king could use the boost in his coffers. You know his divorce from Queen Caroline must be bleeding him dry. If the earldom means more to you than Miss Hardwick, you don’t deserve her, anyway.”
Cal felt his mouth go slack. “You make it sound simple.”
Lottie reached for the leather satchel Higgins had brought in earlier. Reading the note attached, she arched a brow. “Wedding contracts, I assume?”
He nodded.
“It is simple. Burn them. Then go get your woman and tell her you’ll do absolutely anything to live out the rest of your days with her. Pass along my condolences to Miss Cuthbert on the loss of her handsome fiancé.” Lottie kissed his forehead in a sisterly gesture that struck him as both sweet and patronizing. “And next time my husband calls, please don’t turn him away. You are surrounded by people who love you and want to help you, if only you’ll let us.”
Lottie set the leather satchel, heavy with papers, in his lap. The door closed behind her, leaving Cal and the tempting flames crackling in the hearth.