Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (11 page)

But when it was done, as he held her while she slept and his raging erection slowly subsided, Norman began to feel guilty. Worried he’d taken advantage. But she’d been so cold with him the next morning, had spoken of their time together so callously, he’d felt rather poorly done by. She’d used him for her own purposes. He had participated willingly, of course, gladly; but his heart had been engaged while hers had not. He’d done everything in his power to assist and defend Elsa from her own destructive impulses, and in return, she’d crushed his hopes like a cockroach beneath her dainty heel.

Brandon had compared Elsa’s habitual drunkenness to a sickness, and Norman, too, had sensed that she’d had little control of her own actions, especially the night of the revels.

But ... well ... he couldn’t ignore, or forget, that her reckless behavior and her rash actions had led to the spread of the fire in the hall and now, finally, had culminated in the course of Norman’s life being thwarted for two years.

He would be one-and-thirty years old when he’d be eligible for consideration for the bar, but would this blight on his record not tarnish it, taint his reputation as a barrister before he’d even begun advocating in court? Would he ever recover from this?

And who was to blame? Elsa Bloody Fay was who. Norman may have been the fool who brought her into Gray’s Inn, but all the rest was her doing, and he’d taken the fall for it.

Since the day he’d left her at the door of Berrybrook Cottage, he’d not had a single word from Elsa. No note of thanks for his escort, no syllable of apology for the wreck she’d made of the revels and his prospects. Her persistent silence confirmed that their interlude really had meant nothing to her, that he’d been no more than a diversion to stop herself from turning to drink that night.

“To news of a more reliable sort,” said Sheri, yanking Norman from his gloomy ruminations, “Elsa says one of the MPs of her borough there in Fleck recently died. Old Ben Jonson—you remember him, don’t you, Henry? We met him down at Elsa’s place that once. Jolly fellow, had a mince to his step, but Elsa was always fond of him. Died in a boathouse. Delightfully tawdry, Elsa says, just the way the old chap would want to go. Now there’s to be a by-election to fill the seat, so she’s campaigning on behalf of her husband’s cousin. She’s in alt to be back at the politicking, but the Fays have always held sway in that district, so it won’t be anything like a challenge. The Whigs never even bother to run a candidate, since the Fays are Tories. Whoever Elsa tells people to vote for, they will.”

“But it keeps her busy. Just what she needs,” Brandon said, nodding his approval.

Henry’s hand hovered above a plate of sweetmeats before he selected a sugared almond. “I’m glad for her,” he added, popping it into his mouth.

“And I,” Sheri contributed. “Things are looking up for her.” He leveled a sharp look on Norman. “Nothing to say, counselor? You’re usually the moral pillar of our little society, chirping on about moderate living and civic duty. Lady Fay’s new lease on life must cheer you to no end.”

Norman swallowed on a dry throat. What was there to say? He glowered. “Oh, believe me, Zouche, I’m cheered,” he drawled. “Endlessly.” While Elsa’s life might be on the way up, Norman’s had tumbled around his ears. And it was all her doing.

It seemed grossly unjust that Elsa could so easily walk away from the mess she’d made. While Norman was trying to salvage the remains of his prospects, Elsa was helping another man advance his. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. An empty seat in Commons should go to a truly deserving candidate, not be bestowed upon Elsa’s cousin-in-law at her say-so. Why should she have her way in this, when Norman’s choices had been taken away? Why, he should—

The sound of Sheri’s quizzing glass tapping the table brought Norman’s eyes to his friend’s. As if reading the train of Norman’s thoughts, Sheri quirked a brow and said, “Ever considered a seat in Commons?”

Not until this very instant, and his reasons for even thinking of it were best left unsaid. He shook his head. “I’ve only ever wanted to be a barrister.”

Sheri crunched a walnut. “Yes, well, you can’t have that.” His urbane voice carried an undertone of ruthlessness. “It’s time for a new plan. You could do this.”

“You’d be brilliant, Norm.” Henry offered an encouraging smile. “Can you imagine having Parliament staffed with men actually educated in the law, instead of the shiftless gadabouts we’re usually inflicted with?”

Brandon’s dark head tilted thoughtfully. “It’s a solid alternative to advocating, Norman, at least for the time being. I think you should consider it.”

Norman promised to do so. Hours later, sleepless in bed, he stared sightlessly at the ceiling, attempting to ignore what sounded like a bread riot in the nursery upstairs, while turning the notion over in his mind.

Once he’d had some time to really consider the matter of standing for Fleck’s vacant Commons seat, Norman had readily envisioned himself arguing a bill on the floor. It wouldn’t be very different from arguing in court, with the notable exception being that he’d be advocating the best interest of all subjects of the Crown, not just an individual standing trial. Certainly, he had an abundance of ideas pertaining to the law—he’d been studying nothing but for the better part of a decade. He could work in Commons, might even be good at it, as his friends had asserted; it was just the small matter of getting elected that had him stymied.

His entire life to this point had been geared toward his ambition to become a barrister. What did he know of running for a seat in Parliament?
Not as much as Elsa Fay
, said an unwelcome thought. Norman punched up his pillow and flopped back with a scowl. Bother Elsa Fay. She wasn’t a consideration here. Or shouldn’t be, anyway. He had to think of his own livelihood, and consider whether he truly had something to offer as a member of Parliament. Heartless ruiners of careers could not factor into his decision. If Norman was going to do this ...

He
was
going to do this, he resolved. No matter he didn’t know how to run a campaign. Other people knew, and he wasn’t too proud to ask for help. He was going to stand for that seat and win. If, by happenstance, Elsa received some well-deserved comeuppance as a result of Norman snatching victory from her claws, he would be gracious enough not to enjoy it.

Too much.

“Almost to 100,” Elsa marveled after making the morning’s mark in her journal. Ninety-seven days ago, Elsa didn’t think she’d survive a week without alcohol, much less months. As recently as a month ago, her outlook had still been bleak. She’d been on the verge of collapse. In the past few weeks, though, she’d turned a corner. The morning ritual of tallying her progress no longer felt like tracking the days of a prison sentence, but rather had become one of her favorite moments of the day, an opportunity to recognize her progress and motivate herself to meet the challenge of another twenty-four hours without alcohol.

As she tucked the journal back into the drawer, Foster came in with the morning tea. “Will you wish to change, my lady?” Foster asked, nodding to indicate the blue dress Elsa had already donned.

“No need. I’m just running into the village for some ribbons later.” She smiled at her maid, and her maid smiled back. Foster’s pinched features had slowly softened in pace with the easing of Elsa’s torments. For the first time in years, Elsa and her maid were comfortable with one another. Foster was no longer guarded; Elsa no longer defensive.

After taking her tea, Elsa donned half boots but impulsively declined to wear a bonnet, then set out the door. Once the weather had turned milder, Mr. Dewhurst’s advice for taking daily exercise had become another behavior she relied upon to maintain her sobriety. Though the cravings weren’t as bad as in the beginning, they were still present. She still experienced anxious energy that used to be her cue to have a drink. Now, she found she could curtail most of that energy by vigorous walking as she went about her visits or errands.

Elsa lifted her face to the sky, relishing the warm sunlight bathing her face. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so well. She was almost a girl again, her blood coursing with vitality as she hummed along with birdsong and stopped to bend her nose to a pretty roadside weed. Those dark times—especially her last days in London—were behind her.

As she entered the village proper, Elsa slowed to a stroll, exchanging greetings with several people as she made her way to the mercantile.

She glanced toward the new hustings on the village green at the center of town, before which a small group was gathered. Erected in anticipation of the upcoming election that would send her cousin-by-marriage, Mr. Oliver Fay, to Commons, the hustings’ boards were straight and bright, and the pleasantly sharp aroma of fresh wood hung in the air.

Upon the raised platform stood a man addressing the assembly. Elsa’s breath caught in her throat. She would know that larger-than-life figure anywhere.

Her first response was delight. She’d missed his strong, steady presence and his sweet, secret smiles.

But that brief joy quickly gave way to confusion. What was Norman doing here, in Fleck? Bemused, Elsa’s feet carried her forward to join the group.

“... time is right to address the concerns you have not just for Fleck, but for the nation,” he was saying. Norman’s gestures were stilted, as if he were unused to talking before a crowd, but his deep voice carried easily. “As an inhabitant borough, Fleck has the opportunity to send a strong message with her ballot. Your voices are not just those of freemen.
All
householders in Fleck have the franchise, and with it, you will tell Parliament that the people are ready for change.”

“’Ere now, I don’t care ’bout Parliament,” called Freddy Thomson, the baker. “I’m up making bread before those toffs in London have gone to bed for the night.”

A rumble of agreement passed through the crowd.

“And how much are you paying for wheat?” Norman asked. “And the rest of you, how much do you pay for the day’s bread?”

“Too much,” said another man. “Freddy charges dear.”

“Got no choice!” the baker replied hotly. “The cost of wheat’s through the bloody roof. I barely cover my own expenses. You see me prancing around in a high wig?”

An odd example of prosperity, but it gave the grumblers pause.

“You see?” Norman raised a finger. “But a relief bill passed through Parliament could lower the cost of your corn, Mr. Thomson, thereby reducing the price of bread for the rest of you.” He paused while the throng mulled over this line of reasoning, then added, “But you gentlemen already know all this. I trust Mr. Fay has put forth his suggestions for making Parliament work for you.”

A sort of stunned silence muted the crowd. Mr. Oliver Fay had done no such thing—he’d not once addressed the citizens of the borough of Fleck in any terms but social. The good villagers cast puzzled glances to one another. Elsa could sense their dawning dissatisfaction; an answering unease pulsed through her middle.

Norman’s eyes found Elsa. He lifted a brow, his knowing gaze sardonic, and bent his head in the slightest gesture of acknowledgment. Heat flashed through her cheeks.

Beside the hustings, at the foot of the platform stairs, were Elsa’s friend, Lady Laura Beaufort, and her husband, Sir Seymour Beaufort. When Norman began speaking again, Elsa skirted the crowd and made her way to Laura’s side.

“Good morning, Lady Fay.” Sir Seymour tipped his hat and bowed. He straightened and gave her a shrewd look. “Delighted to see you here, ma’am, though I’d rather hoped to see your cousin, as well.” He leaned as though looking behind her. “No? He could not join you? Ah, well.”

“Good morning, Sir Seymour,” Elsa answered. She cast a questioning look at her friend and was startled to spot a blue-and-buff rosette on Laura’s bonnet. “Lady Beaufort, a word, if you will?” She pulled her friend to the side and hissed, “What is this?”

“That’s Mr. Wynford-Scott, from London. He’s standing for the Whigs, for poor Mr. Jonson’s vacated seat. Sir Seymour thinks the Whigs finally have a good chance of taking one of Fleck’s seats. He predicts Mr. Wynford-Scott will be a great credit to us in Parliament and might even swing this borough for the Blues in the next general election!” She was flushed and a little breathless by the end of her recitation, her eyes twinkling with the excitement of involvement. Elsa knew the symptoms well, for she’d experienced the same during her heyday of political hostessing. Even her cousin’s unchallenged—
previously
unchallenged—campaign to become Fleck’s junior MP had stirred up those old feelings.

“But ... but ...” Elsa sputtered. She pointed an accusing finger at the Whig-colors ribbon Laura sported. “You promised to help me with Oliver’s victory celebration. I was just on my way to order
orange
buntings from Mr. Goff.” She placed meaningful emphasis on the Tory party’s color.

Laura’s eyes clouded. “I know!” she cried, clasping Elsa’s hand. “And I’m ever so sorry, Elsa, dear. When you and I spoke of the celebration last week, I’d no idea that Seymour was in communication with Mr. Wynford-Scott and already planning to sponsor his candidacy. And ever since he arrived here three days past, well, it’s just been a whirlwind of preparations. I haven’t had a chance to—”

“Three days?” Elsa dropped her friend’s hand, taking a step back. “Mr. Wynford-Scott has been in the neighborhood for three days?” Why hadn’t he called on her? He should have done. Unless he didn’t
want
to see her. Unless his sudden departure from her doorstep had been an abandonment in truth, and he wanted nothing more to do with her.

Why, then, would he come here, seeking a seat in Parliament from Fleck, standing against Elsa’s cousin? Had he come to torment her? To punish her for the things she’d said that last morning?

Just then, Norman finished his speech to rousing applause. He descended the steps, his gaze fastened on Elsa, appraising. With every step he took, her heartbeat quickened.

Sir Seymour stepped in front of Norman and pumped his hand. “Marvelous start, sir! Really got their attention. Fleckers aren’t used to being spoken to about political issues. Once they’re accustomed to the idea, I daresay it’ll catch like wildfire. You’ll win in a landslide.”