Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (23 page)

“Return to
your seat,” George ordered.

As soon as
Nithercott disappeared George pulled Celine into a hug.

It was a hug
that was meant to comfort her and it did. She lay her head on his shoulder
taking deep ragged breaths.

The panic
receded, and she slowly became aware of his arms around her, his chin nestling
at her nape and her own hands clutching a fistful of his shirt.

She
stilled.

He moved
away searching her face.

She looked
back at him from beneath heavy lashes, a blush tinting her cheeks.

He frowned.

She tilted
her face up softly, her lips trembled and parted.

He
hesitated, unsure of what she wanted.

Her chest
rose and fell in anticipation. Her eyes dazed, her skin heated and flushed. The
air seemed charged, the world outside forgotten. She waited ….

He cocked
his head to one side, reading the signs but uncertain. His hand rose and fell
back to his side.

She licked
her bottom lip in blatant invitation.

Still he
did not move.

Her eyes
narrowed, and with a growl of annoyance, she pounced. She grabbed the back of
his head and kissed him on the mouth.

He was
stunned but not for long.

The moment
he recovered his wits he was more than happy to oblige her with an equally
heated response.

When the
kiss ended Celine burst into tears.

“Amy, I am
sorry. The attack on our lives was too close for comfort and it simply
triggered our deepest instincts and we kissed. It was only a kiss. You still
love Harper—”

“Philbert,”
she wailed, “his name is Philbert.”

“Yes, him.
Now stop crying please. Here, I have a handkerchief … No wait, it is dirty …
This one is clean. Now, in life and death situations things often get out of
control and we do things we don’t want to, and a kiss is not something to worry
about. I am sure Dauncey … err … your poet must have kissed plenty of women …
no, no, I never meant to say that. I am sure he has been loyal. After all, who
would kiss a fat, dim witted poet, only a fool—”

“Lord
Elmer,” Celine choked out, “for goodness’ sake, do not utter another word.”

George
nodded and pressed his lips together. They sat in silence until the carriage
stopped at The Devil’s Pitchfork.

“We have
arrived,” George said. “Let Nithercott investigate first and make sure
everything is in order. I don’t want to put your life in any more danger. We
will wait in the carriage.”

Celine
nodded, her mind in turmoil. She was busy dissecting the difference between
kissing George and kissing Philly. If George’s kiss was like a lavender satin
bonnet with rose bud trimmings, then Philly’s kiss was like a spinster’s cap.
If Philly had made her heart beat faster, then her heart thundered at the sight
of George. And if the thought of Philly made her smile, then George made her
laugh.

She dug her
nails into her palm … Her heart and mind were in conflict. A gruesome battle
was occurring inside her head while her emotions churned and heaved in
confusion.

“He is
inside,” Nithercott arrived to tell them.

Celine
moved and George caught her hand. “Is it safe?” he asked his valet.

Nithercott
nodded.

George
turned to Celine. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

She saw the
concern in his eyes. “I want to do this alone.”

He nodded and
dropped his hand. “It is time to meet your poet. I wish you luck, Celine.”

“Amy. For
you my name is Amy,” Celine replied, her eyes on the inn.

They were
parked near The Devil’s Pitchfork sitting inside a holey carriage. Philbert
Woodbead was inside the inn and all Celine had to do was walk a few dozen steps
and meet him.

After ten
minutes they were still outside The Devil’s Pitchfork and Celine had still not
walked those few dozen steps.

George
watched her quietly. He seemed to understand that she needed this time to come
to terms with what was going to happen.

Celine
stared up at the grey sky through the hole in the roof of the carriage. She was
afraid. What if he no longer loved her, or worse, what if he still did?

She
wondered if she had romanticised the depth of their love in the time they had
spent apart. Had she truly loved him to distraction or was her head stubbornly
insisting on continuing a love that her heart had never felt?

A drop of
cold water fell on top of her nose.

“It is going
to start raining,” George spoke up, “and our carriage can no longer shelter us.
I think you should go inside.”

Celine
swallowed nervously but did not move.

A bullet
scraped George’s hat momentarily distracting her.

George looked
out of the window, “It is only an unhappy husband. Hurry, Amy, go inside. Don’t
worry, I can handle this one man alone.”

Celine
picked up her parasol and adjusted her gloves. She would have liked some more
time to prepare herself, but what with an unhappy husband out for George’s
blood, it wasn’t really possible.

Ready or
not, this was it. Taking a deep breath she descended from the carriage and
walked into The Devil’s Pitchfork.

She looked
around the inn.

It was a
low roofed, wooden establishment, the wood being dark, dusty and grey. The
floor was peppered with peanut shells, and a small fire burnt in the fireplace
at the back of the room. The fire did nothing to light the room nor did the
windows admit any light. The fire did however contribute to the smoke in the
room, for the chimney, it seemed, had never since its construction been
cleaned. Her lungs complained and she stifled a sneeze.

She counted
five men sprawled over wooden chairs with tankards of ale sitting in front of
them. None of them looked like her Philly … except … She squinted … A man in a
familiar parrot green patchwork coat sat reading a book right at the back of
the room.

She rubbed
her eyes and inched closer to the parrot green patchwork coat. She observed the
man for some time, her tentative steps getting closer and closer to the table
at the back of the room.

Finally her
mouth dropped open in horror.

She gurgled
and wheezed.

Philbert
Woodbead was now, she moaned softly in despair, no longer fat. In fact, he was
most certainly reed thin.

It took a
few moments for the truth to sink in. She eyed his gaunt face, his thin bony
hands and the wispy beard. Another thought struck her. Philly had not only
become thin, but he had also become handsome.

Her Philly
was now a thin and handsome poet.

She
clutched the nearest chair for support. For a moment she felt like turning
around and running screaming from the room.

Her eyes
squeezed shut and she took a few rapid breaths. So what if he was now handsome?
He was still her Philbert and she loved him for his beautiful, immature soul
and not for his features or figure.

She slipped
her hand into the hidden pocket in her skirt and took out a brandy flask.
Taking a big gulp of the contents and letting the warmth give her courage she
walked up to the man at the back of the room.

“Philly?”
she asked, her voice trembling.

Philbert
glanced up, “I am sorry, I will have the money tomorrow.”

“Eh?”
Celine asked in confusion.

“Didn’t
Hammer send you? No … How about Strangeways? Stubbs, Norris or … let me see… Steering?”

Celine
shook her head, her eyes wide.

“Then who
the devil are you?”

“Celine,”
she whispered and then recalled the veil she still had attached to the bonnet.
She unclipped it and let it fall.

He stared
at her face and then peered and squinted. His face cleared, “Celine
Fairweather, how are you? It is wonderful to see you. I never thought …” He
half stood up and gestured to the chair opposite himself.

She sat
down.

“Would you
like something to drink?” he asked.

She shook
her head.

He nodded
and leaned back in his seat, “So what brings you here? A lady like you
shouldn’t be visiting this part of town.”

“You left
the painting ….” She trailed off.

He ran a
hand under his collar, “Painting? Ah yes, that was a long time ago. Goodness,
time flies and all that.”

A barmaid
with her ample bosom on display arrived at their table, “Anything to drink?”

“Tea,”
Philly answered the bosom.

She
departed with a lusty wink.

“How are
you?” Celine asked, watching Philbert watch the barmaid’s hips sway away.

“Good,” he
replied shortly. He started playing with an empty glass on the table.

“Have you
been writing much?” Celine asked after a moment of silence.

“Plenty. In
fact, a fellow wants to publish my work. I have asked him to hold off until I
can be sure he is a reputable sort. Don’t want him running away with my hard
work and calling it his own.”

“I still
have your poems,” she tried again.

After a
small heavy silence, he said, “Yes, well, about that, I hope you won’t mind
terribly, but can I have them back?”

“Have them
back?” she asked in confusion. “Have what back?”

“The
poems,” he replied apologetically. “You see, I was robbed by a highwayman. You
must have heard of the Falcon? Yes, well he is planning to build a library for
his apple dumpling, that is his missus, once he retires. He told me all about
it while divesting me of all my belongings. He took the poems for his library,
and you are the only one who has the copies ….”

“I will
give them back to you,” she replied.

He nodded,
his mood visibly improving. He pulled out a cigar and lit it.

The stench
of stale beer mixed with the odour of cheap tobacco and unwashed feet had
Celine quickly reattaching the veil.

Philbert
eyed her across the table, the smoke curling out of his nostrils, “London is
wonderful, is it not?” he asked. “The modes of transport alone are remarkable.
Have you ridden on one of the flying coaches yet? You must. It is an experience
in itself. They are sprung, can you believe it? I don’t think Londoners can
conceive what a jolting the carriages in Finnshire give. And the leather straps
that hold the body together—”

“Body?”

“Yes, the
body of the carriage. Remarkably strong leather straps. Keeps the carriage from
flying apart. And some of the carriages are lined on the inside with velvet. Father
never had one of those. And the beautiful silver mouldings and the iron with
not a speck of rust …”

Celine
yawned into her gloved hand. She wondered if it was time to go.

The barmaid
with the ample bosom arrived to deposit the tea.

Philbert
thanked the bosom, and before he could once again launch into the description
of a chaise or a landau Celine spoke up, “You have lost a lot of weight.”

Philbert
spat some of the tea out. After delicately dabbing his chin, he said, “Yes,
well, father has not called me back, and the world seems to share his opinion
of poets. My creativity has not been appreciated, and the pay is not
sufficient. What with the costs of staying in London, I quickly spent all my
savings. A month of starvation followed where I truly became an impoverished
poet.”

“Your last
letter, it said …” Celine struggled with the words. “It said that you were
waiting for me.”

“Did it say
that?” he asked in surprise.

Celine bit
her lip. She did not have the luxury to play games, “Phill … I mean, Mr
Woodbead, you said that you would love me forever. You wrote that you were
waiting for me, and you painted the name of this inn …” She trailed off.

“Miss
Fairweather,” he soothed, “really, you couldn’t have expected me to wait, and
after all it has been months since I saw you.”

“You said
you would love me forever. Forever means eternity and not a few months,” she
pointed out.

He
hurriedly continued, “Besides, at that time you must admit I was not very
pleasant to look at. A fellow like me was thrilled that someone like you
fancied him. And now that I am an emaciated, handsome, impoverished poet things
are different. And a girl like you deserves marriage, and my financial state is
such that I don’t think I can even offer you a cup of tea, forget a house and
garden.”

“I see,”
Celine said her lips pursed in disapproval.

“I am glad
you are taking this so well. You were always a sensible sort,” he smiled.

Celine
realised that she did not like his smile. In fact, she had never liked his
smile. His smile was outright ghastly.

He seemed
unaware of her rapidly changing mood. When she continued to remain silent and
not shriek and break the teapot on his fragile empty head, he further
brightened and asked, “Say, would you happen to have a pound or two to spare. I
am sure my poems will be published soon and I can pay you back or you can keep
a couple of the poems in return. After all, you had the pleasure of reading
them for so many months for free … Where are you going?”

Celine did
not answer. She opened her reticule, slapped a few coppers down on the table
and started walking away.

“My poems.”
he called.

“You will
have them by tomorrow,” she threw over her shoulder.

Back on the
street Celine lifted her face up to the rain. That, she felt, had been an utter
disaster.

A carriage
came hurtling around the corner and George’s arm shot out, clasped her around
the waist and yanked her inside. They continued to hurtle down the street, this
time towards the Blackthorne Mansion.

Celine sat
with her hands folded on her lap, her eyes pinned to the arrow sticking out of
George’s hat.

“I am
terribly sorry about picking you up in an unseemly way, but I think Lily’s
husband is lurking around the corner, and I think he has been practising with a
bow and arrow—”

“It’s fine,”
Celine cut in.

After a few
moments, George asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Are you
certain, for I can see your lips quivering? If you would like to cry ….”

Celine put
her hands to her face and her shoulders shook.

“Amy,”
George said with a hint of panic in his voice, “don’t cry.”

When she
continued to shake uncontrollably, George removed her hands from her face in
order to gently wipe away her tears.

“You are
laughing?” he asked in shock. “I thought things had not gone well.”

“You were right,
things did not go well.”

“Did it go
splendidly then?”

“He wants
his poems back.”

“Tragic,”
he said shaking his head.

“Lord
Elmer, I know why I am laughing, but what in the world is tickling you? You are
grinning like a fool.”

“I am a
fool. A beauty-fool,” he chuckled.

Celine eyed
him in disgust, “Beauty-fool?” and then she burst out laughing. “That,” she
giggled, “was terrible. So terrible, in fact, that now I am depressed.”

“Amy, are
you laughing or are you crying?”

“Both,” she
said, smiling broadly with tears running down her eyes. “I am the fool, Lord
Elmer. A silly romantic fool who dreamt of love and roses. I am sensible and
practical. I solve everyone’s problems. I am dependable. How could I have stuck
my head in a cloud of love and froth?”

“Amy,” he
said sobering, “love is the most beautiful feeling in the world. It is the only
feeling that matters. Don’t close your heart to it.”

She
wrenched her hand away, “Love does not exist, Lord Elmer. And if it did, I
wouldn’t know it even if it bit me on my rosy buttocks.”

“You have
rosy buttocks?” he asked, his eyes widening. He leaned forward in his seat and
then altogether stopped breathing as he waited for her answer.

“It is not
seemly to talk about buttocks, Lord Elmer. I don’t know why I said such a thing,”
she said primly. “I think I am distressed. Distressed enough to forget about
the fact that I am a lady because … because I thought I loved a fat poet with a
good heart called Philbert Woodbead. Instead, I found a pompous, skinny
heartless rat.”

“Perhaps
you needed to meet him to learn the truth, to learn the difference between a
passing fancy and everlasting love.”