The Suffragette Scandal
Page 33
Better to begin early. Free raised her chin. “Well, let’s get started.”
Chapter Ten
THE STABLES WERE QUIET and peaceful, pleasantly dark after the midmorning sun. Edward felt totally at odds as he stepped inside. His right hand had hurt last night; it ached now. His palm was dark red with a forming bruise—but nothing was broken, and pain was the least of his worries.
Patrick Shaughnessy stood at the far end of the stables, examining a mare’s hind leg. He glanced up as Edward came in, but kept on with his work with no more than a nod of acknowledgment. Patrick’s father had been like that, too—not one to interrupt his work unless there was blood or a broken limb.
After a moment, Edward mounted the ladder to the hayloft and found a pitchfork. Pitching hay with his bruised hand was a difficult prospect. At first, the pain was just a twinge, but it grew to a sharp throb. Every forkful hurt a little more. It was as good a reminder as any. Deep down, there was nothing but pain.
It took some ten minutes for his muscles to remember the proper rhythm for the work. The pain concentrated in the palm of his hand, pulsing in time to each thrust.
All you see is the river, but I care about the roses.
Hard to remember there was more than the river, when it had once overflowed its banks and swept him away. He’d almost drowned. He’d learned his lesson: Don’t go near rivers. Don’t go anywhere near rivers.
Miss Marshall spent her life daring those more powerful than her to swat her down. The hell of it was, her determination was some kind of contagion. He could feel it infecting him, making him believe. Making him tell himself lies like I could do some good and I want her forever.
He gritted his teeth and pitched hay, picking up a heavy forkful and letting it slide to the box in the stall below.
No, he had to remember that she was wrong. You had to keep your eye on the river, no matter what she said. If you let your control slip, rivers would pull you under. In your desperation, you’d claw at anyone around just to get a gasp of air. You wouldn’t even realize the harm you’d done until it was too late.
“I think,” Patrick’s voice said behind him, “that Buttercup has had enough now.”
Edward stopped, breathing heavily, coming back to himself. He set the pitchfork down, looking out over the stables beneath him. Horses munched peacefully on oats and hay, tails swishing in idyllic rest. A stallion stamped restively and shook its head.
It was peaceful here, and part of him wanted to take up residence in this stable. But there was no way he could crawl back into his childhood.
Instead, he looked back at Patrick. “You have always been my greatest liability,” he said solemnly.
Another man might have taken offense at those words, but Patrick understood him.
“It never mattered where in Europe I went,” he said, “or how much time elapsed. You never stopped mattering to me—you and Stephen. I wished I could be the hardened fellow who never cared. But I saw Stephen the other day…”
Edward shrugged.
“You never wished for any such thing,” Patrick said stoutly.
Edward contemplated this. “Yes. You’re right.” He sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the hayloft. “After all these years, after everything I’ve done. You’re still more my brother than the man who shares my blood. The surprise isn’t that I’m still hanging around you. It’s that you’ve not recognized me yet for what I am.”
He had tried. God, he had tried to drive Patrick away. He’d told him every vile thing he’d done—as if he, like his friend, were Catholic, and Patrick his confessor. Every forged letter. Every piece of blackmail. Every wrong act, he’d relayed to his friend by letter. Every time he’d been certain that this brazen theft, this false story, would set his friend against him.
“Oh, I know what you are,” Patrick said quietly. “I’m just waiting.”
Edward flexed his hand. “Love is hell,” he said shortly. “It makes me realize I still have something to lose. It was bad enough when it was just you and Stephen.”
“Oh?”
Edward kicked his legs angrily into space. “Oh.” He let that syllable hang for a few seconds before continuing on. “You were right, you know. Miss Marshall is very clever.” That was all he needed to say.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Patrick asked.
There was part of him—a foolish, damnable part of him—that wanted to give the answer that would make his friend smile. I’m going to stay in England and woo her.
He had but to hear the thought to recognize its impossibility. If James discovered Edward hanging about England for good, he’d never rest for fear that he’d lose the title and his estates. And if Edward was found in the company of Frederica Marshall, James’s sworn enemy? James might finally muster the nerve to do more than burn down a few buildings.
Edward could take over the title. Announce himself as Edward Delacey. He prodded the idea gently in his mind; it felt as sore and tender as his bruised hand. The water he’d landed himself in was deep indeed, if he’d even consider the possibility.
Edward shook his head. “I’m going to do the same thing with Miss Marshall that I do to everyone I love. I’m going to leave before I can do her harm.”
Patrick looked at him, his mouth quirking skeptically.
“I will,” Edward said. “Just as soon as I can get everyone else to leave her alone.”
EDWARD RETURNED TO CAMBRIDGE in the afternoon, but when he arrived at the press and opened the door, he almost turned on his heel and walked away. Stephen Shaughnessy stood two feet away.
The other man didn’t look around as Edward stood in the doorway. His back was turned to Edward, and he was gesticulating in exaggerated motions, arguing in excited tones. He was almost Edward’s height. A massive change since Stephen had followed him around all those years ago.
Here he was, still following him around. Inconvenient as ever. Edward found himself smiling.
Stephen and Free—no, he’d best keep his distance as much as possible—Mr. Shaughnessy and Miss Marshall had their heads bent over a table.
“No.” Miss Marshall brandished a blue pencil. “You can’t say Dukes get all the attention. That sounds bitter, and you mustn’t sound bitter.” She crossed off a line as she spoke.
Edward could turn around and return in half an hour. By then, Stephen would no doubt have departed. No matter what, he couldn’t risk being recognized.
Chapter Ten
THE STABLES WERE QUIET and peaceful, pleasantly dark after the midmorning sun. Edward felt totally at odds as he stepped inside. His right hand had hurt last night; it ached now. His palm was dark red with a forming bruise—but nothing was broken, and pain was the least of his worries.
Patrick Shaughnessy stood at the far end of the stables, examining a mare’s hind leg. He glanced up as Edward came in, but kept on with his work with no more than a nod of acknowledgment. Patrick’s father had been like that, too—not one to interrupt his work unless there was blood or a broken limb.
After a moment, Edward mounted the ladder to the hayloft and found a pitchfork. Pitching hay with his bruised hand was a difficult prospect. At first, the pain was just a twinge, but it grew to a sharp throb. Every forkful hurt a little more. It was as good a reminder as any. Deep down, there was nothing but pain.
It took some ten minutes for his muscles to remember the proper rhythm for the work. The pain concentrated in the palm of his hand, pulsing in time to each thrust.
All you see is the river, but I care about the roses.
Hard to remember there was more than the river, when it had once overflowed its banks and swept him away. He’d almost drowned. He’d learned his lesson: Don’t go near rivers. Don’t go anywhere near rivers.
Miss Marshall spent her life daring those more powerful than her to swat her down. The hell of it was, her determination was some kind of contagion. He could feel it infecting him, making him believe. Making him tell himself lies like I could do some good and I want her forever.
He gritted his teeth and pitched hay, picking up a heavy forkful and letting it slide to the box in the stall below.
No, he had to remember that she was wrong. You had to keep your eye on the river, no matter what she said. If you let your control slip, rivers would pull you under. In your desperation, you’d claw at anyone around just to get a gasp of air. You wouldn’t even realize the harm you’d done until it was too late.
“I think,” Patrick’s voice said behind him, “that Buttercup has had enough now.”
Edward stopped, breathing heavily, coming back to himself. He set the pitchfork down, looking out over the stables beneath him. Horses munched peacefully on oats and hay, tails swishing in idyllic rest. A stallion stamped restively and shook its head.
It was peaceful here, and part of him wanted to take up residence in this stable. But there was no way he could crawl back into his childhood.
Instead, he looked back at Patrick. “You have always been my greatest liability,” he said solemnly.
Another man might have taken offense at those words, but Patrick understood him.
“It never mattered where in Europe I went,” he said, “or how much time elapsed. You never stopped mattering to me—you and Stephen. I wished I could be the hardened fellow who never cared. But I saw Stephen the other day…”
Edward shrugged.
“You never wished for any such thing,” Patrick said stoutly.
Edward contemplated this. “Yes. You’re right.” He sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the hayloft. “After all these years, after everything I’ve done. You’re still more my brother than the man who shares my blood. The surprise isn’t that I’m still hanging around you. It’s that you’ve not recognized me yet for what I am.”
He had tried. God, he had tried to drive Patrick away. He’d told him every vile thing he’d done—as if he, like his friend, were Catholic, and Patrick his confessor. Every forged letter. Every piece of blackmail. Every wrong act, he’d relayed to his friend by letter. Every time he’d been certain that this brazen theft, this false story, would set his friend against him.
“Oh, I know what you are,” Patrick said quietly. “I’m just waiting.”
Edward flexed his hand. “Love is hell,” he said shortly. “It makes me realize I still have something to lose. It was bad enough when it was just you and Stephen.”
“Oh?”
Edward kicked his legs angrily into space. “Oh.” He let that syllable hang for a few seconds before continuing on. “You were right, you know. Miss Marshall is very clever.” That was all he needed to say.
“And what are you going to do about it?” Patrick asked.
There was part of him—a foolish, damnable part of him—that wanted to give the answer that would make his friend smile. I’m going to stay in England and woo her.
He had but to hear the thought to recognize its impossibility. If James discovered Edward hanging about England for good, he’d never rest for fear that he’d lose the title and his estates. And if Edward was found in the company of Frederica Marshall, James’s sworn enemy? James might finally muster the nerve to do more than burn down a few buildings.
Edward could take over the title. Announce himself as Edward Delacey. He prodded the idea gently in his mind; it felt as sore and tender as his bruised hand. The water he’d landed himself in was deep indeed, if he’d even consider the possibility.
Edward shook his head. “I’m going to do the same thing with Miss Marshall that I do to everyone I love. I’m going to leave before I can do her harm.”
Patrick looked at him, his mouth quirking skeptically.
“I will,” Edward said. “Just as soon as I can get everyone else to leave her alone.”
EDWARD RETURNED TO CAMBRIDGE in the afternoon, but when he arrived at the press and opened the door, he almost turned on his heel and walked away. Stephen Shaughnessy stood two feet away.
The other man didn’t look around as Edward stood in the doorway. His back was turned to Edward, and he was gesticulating in exaggerated motions, arguing in excited tones. He was almost Edward’s height. A massive change since Stephen had followed him around all those years ago.
Here he was, still following him around. Inconvenient as ever. Edward found himself smiling.
Stephen and Free—no, he’d best keep his distance as much as possible—Mr. Shaughnessy and Miss Marshall had their heads bent over a table.
“No.” Miss Marshall brandished a blue pencil. “You can’t say Dukes get all the attention. That sounds bitter, and you mustn’t sound bitter.” She crossed off a line as she spoke.
Edward could turn around and return in half an hour. By then, Stephen would no doubt have departed. No matter what, he couldn’t risk being recognized.
