Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (15 page)

Norman thanked the sisters for their time and strode down the brief walk, his eyes narrowing on Elsa’s little parade as he approached the next house. If she thought he would be outdone by gaudy showmanship, she would soon discover the error of her assumptions.

Jaw clenched, Norman raised his fist and pounded on the door.

• • •

“And who is this?” Elsa stooped to smile at the girl peeking around her mother’s skirts.

The mother, clutching the candles and soaps Elsa had produced from her basket of canvassing goodies, stroked the child’s head with her free hand. The woman’s husband and Oliver stood off to the side, their heads bent in conversation. “This is our Mary.”

“Hello, Mary,” Elsa said. “How old are you?”

“I have a brother!” Mary yelled in reply.

Elsa widened her eyes. “Do you? Is he here? I have treats for the both of you.”

“Sammy!” The girl spun and ran, yelling for her sibling. A moment later, she returned with an even younger tot in tow, his pudgy hand clasped in hers.

“For you, Mary.” Elsa reached into the basket and produced a length of orange ribbon. “For your lovely hair. And for you, Sammy, look!” With a flourish, she produced a wooden soldier painted the requisite orange. The little boy squealed with delight and immediately stuffed the doll’s head into his mouth.

“I want a soldier, too!” Mary wailed. “Here Sammy, I’ll trade you my ribbon for the solider.” The baby, uninterested in the finer points of the barter system, yowled in protest when his sister tried to pry the toy from him.

“That’s quite all right,” Elsa said with a laugh. “You may have the ribbon and a soldier of your own, too, Mary. I should have asked which you’d prefer.”

On the street, the musicians struck up the music Elsa had instructed them to play after she and Oliver had spent ten minutes at each house. She rose and took the mother’s hand. “They’re absolute darlings.”

“Thank you, Lady Fay,” the woman answered. “And thank you so much for the lovely gifts. Mary, what do you say to Lady Fay?”

“Fank you,” Mary intoned then scampered back into the house.

Oliver was taking his leave of the husband. Elsa took the man’s hand when Oliver released it. “Thank you for your time,” she said. “You have a beautiful family. I hope we can count on your vote.” Then she planted a kiss on his cheek, prompting cheers from the onlookers.

Their merry little troupe moved on to the next house. As Elsa swept through the front gate, she glanced down the lane and saw Norman speaking with the householder several doors down. The householder, however, kept glancing down the lane at Elsa’s canvassing party, leaving Norman struggling to hold the man’s attention. A satisfied smile curved her mouth. This was her one-hundredth day without drink, and she felt like celebrating. How better than to spread music and gifts to her neighbors—especially if doing so could detract from the man who was trying to rob her of this victory? Thanks to Laura, she’d known ahead of time where Norman would be this morning. Her political activity was the one thing she had ever done successfully. She needed this, needed to prove to both herself and Norman that she was good at this—better than him.

More doors knocked upon, more gifts given, more children admired, more cheeks kissed. One enterprising oldster told Elsa she’d have the promise of his vote for Mr. Fay if she bussed him on the mouth. Elsa feigned uncertainty until the crowd cheered her on; then she kissed the fellow’s lips with a loud
smack
.

“I have your word, then,” Elsa laughed as they turned to leave, “and I’ll hold you to it!”

One of the women swapped Elsa’s empty gift basket for a full one. The lads playing the flute and violin marched in a circle, showing off the banners they wore like capes, painted with the words: A VOTE FOR FAY IS A VOTE FOR FLECK! “Onward!” called one of the men. Oliver gave Elsa his arm, and they turned to the next gate ...

Just as Norman reached it.

• • •

Oh, wasn’t this just rich. Norman stepped to the gate just as Elsa and her cousin reached it from the other direction. Why couldn’t they wait a few minutes for Norman to speak to the residents first? Or skip this house and come back later? Elsa’s grin was more a baring of teeth, and her cousin likewise had peeled his lips back in something cordial-adjacent.

“Good morning, Lady Fay,” Norman said, tipping his hat. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“The pleasantest,” Elsa agreed, her convivial tone belied by the flash of ire in her eyes. “Lovely weather we’re enjoying today.” Behind her, the Tory supporters were falling quiet. The violinist, oblivious to the import of the confrontation, kept sawing his bow across the strings; the other musician bopped his head with the flute.

“Capital. And may I say, Lady Fay, you are looking especially lovely this morning.” Her hairstyle was expertly done, but the simple concept put him in mind of a miss on her way to a country fair. Her dress was an intriguing juxtaposition, an elegant ensemble fit for Town. She wore a spencer of pale yellow velvet over a silk dress of butternut orange—a much kinder take on the Tory hue than the eye-searing shade of the pennants and whatnot the others were bandying about.

“You look like a night sky,” he said abruptly. “Sunset and darkness”—his gaze swept over her gown and cut to her hair—“and the moonlight of your skin. And your eyes are the deepest blue of the midnight heavens, crystalline and perfect, cradling the cosmos in their depths.”

Elsa’s hard smile faltered, fell. A question passed through those indigo irises.

Suddenly aware of their audience, Norman hastily added, “Of course, you’d look better in blue than that abominable shade.” He extended his hand to Elsa’s companion, ignoring the daggers shooting from the lady’s gaze. “You must be Mr. Fay. Norman Wynford-Scott.”

“An honor, Mr. Wynford-Scott,” Fay answered. “Your presence here has certainly invigorated our local political discourse.”

“Thank you. Shall we?” Norman swung open the gate and swept his hand for the Fays to precede him.

Elsa arched one black, winged brow. “Together?”

“Why not?” Norman lifted a brow in return. “It may be illuminating for all involved.”

Norman stood just behind the Fays on the stoop while Elsa knocked. The door sprung open at once, revealing a couple that had clearly been watching the goings-on from their front window. Both husband and wife sported eager smiles. The husband’s face looked freshly scrubbed; his hair bore the furrows of a recent combing.

“Lady Fay!” the woman declared. “And Mr. Fay. And Mr. Wynford-Scott, too, isn’t it? How nice to see you all.
What can we do for you?
” she asked in a wry tone, punctuated by a wink.

“Hello, Mrs. Talwin, Mr. Talwin. How are you today?” Elsa began. “Mr. Fay and I are taking advantage of this beautiful morning to greet our neighbors and offer small tokens of our esteem. Have you tried this new jam Mrs. Duff created? Melon with basil. The most delicious spread ever to touch a scone, I declare.”

Elsa fished a jar out of her basket and pressed it into Mrs. Talwin’s hands. The woman made an appropriately impressed sound. “
Oooo
, delightful! Thank you, my lady. Mr. Fay.” Mrs. Talwin turned expectant eyes on Norman.

Elsa twisted about to give him an amused look.
Beat that
, she seemed to say.

Norman cleared his throat. He might not have baubles and trinkets with which to buy votes, but he did have ideas. Lots of them. “Mrs. Talwin, if you wished to purchase a jar of that jam from Mrs. Duff, how would you reach her?”

The older woman screwed up her nose and looked at her husband, as if wondering whether Norman was trying to fun her. “She lives just over the way,” Mrs. Talwin answered, nodding across the valley. “I’d take the millstream road, cross the bridge, and—”

“And if there’s been a heavy rain?” he interrupted.

“Oh, no, in that case the road would be a mess. The bridge might be under water. I’d have to wait for another day to get my jam.” She hoisted her gift. “Good thing I’ve this one to tide me over!”

“What if I told you,” Norman said, “that the government could send an engineer to survey the millstream road and build a drainage system to divert water away from the road? How about a raised bridge that wouldn’t be washed over with every rain?”

The woman’s eyes were agog. “You could do that?” She elbowed her husband. “Hear that, Mr. Talwin? Mr. Wynford-Scott says the government can fix up our roads! Why haven’t they done it before now?” she asked, turning a befuddled look to the Fays.

Oliver’s lips moved silently. Elsa jumped in with a reply. “The government in London can only respond where it knows there is a need, Mrs. Talwin. Our esteemed opponent has taken note of our admittedly ... adventuresome roads here in Fleck, the same as any passerby could do. But it takes someone with a lifetime’s experience in the community to know what this borough most needs. What Mr. Wynford-Scott suggests is a public roads improvement project that would necessitate a considerable amount of tax revenue to fund. How do you feel about an outsider coming to Fleck and raising your taxes, Mr. Talwin?”

The man shot Norman a dirty look. “Not very well!” His wife shook her head at Norman, as though he’d been caught pilfering from the collection plate.

Norman’s startled gaze flew to Elsa. Her full lips quirked. In spite of himself, he admired her quick reply and the acuity with which she’d countered his proposal. The woman knew her way around a government project. Who would have thought a man could find such an attribute arousing? Yet here he stood, fighting to squelch the physical symptoms stirred by her political savvy.

“The Fays have always looked after Fleck,” Oliver offered, his smooth voice a balm to the alarming fright of taxation. “With my brother, Lord Rollo Fay, in Lords and myself in Commons, Fleck will have twice as many Fays championing this district in Parliament.”

“Will it?” Norman interjected. “Where is Lord Fay?” He spread his hands and gestured to the open countryside. “Here? Is he sitting his seat in the Lords?” Elsa’s expression soured; she turned her face away. “It’s my understanding that the viscount is traveling the Continent and has been for some time, neglecting his responsibilities to the very people whose rents make possible his luxurious life. Are you sure the Fays are still the best family to speak on behalf of this community?”

There was a strained silence, which Oliver finally broke. “In answer to Mr. Wynford-Scott’s allegations, I assure you, Mr. and Mrs. Talwin, that I shall execute my duty as a member of Parliament to the best of my ability. And I thank you, Mr. Wynford-Scott,” he added, turning to Norman, “for highlighting a point of concern. I shall think over what you have said, as should we all.” He touched the brim of his hat and briskly strode back up the walk.

With her cousin’s departure, Elsa returned her focus to the stoop. She regarded Norman thoughtfully, her brow pleated and lips pursed.

“Well, kiss him already,” Mrs. Talwin told Elsa. “He’s been bouncing around like a schoolboy this past half hour, waiting his turn for a kiss from the lovely lady.”

At once, Elsa brightened, beaming a smile to the older couple. She circled her arms around Mr. Talwin’s shoulders and kissed his weathered cheek. Mr. Talwin clapped a hand over his face as if to cherish the caress forever.

“I hope Mr. Fay can count on your vote.” Elsa pinned an orange ribbon to Mr. Talwin’s lapel, then added another kiss for good measure.

“I’m happy to kiss you, as well, sir,” Norman deadpanned, “if that will win your vote for myself.”

Mr. Talwin’s face flared a screaming red. His wife hooted with laughter, as did the Fay supporters assembled in the street.

“Get on with you,” Mr. Talwin said gruffly, waving his hand. Then to Elsa, “You should kiss
that
one. He’d pledge for your cousin on the spot.”

Hoots of encouragement sounded from the parade. The flutist trilled. Elsa looked at Norman, raised her brows, and shrugged. She stepped forward, her eyes on his mouth.

Norman bent, catching her around the waist and meeting her lips with his own. The contact thudded through his entire being like a nail driven home. Her mouth was soft, yielding. Her hands splayed over his chest. The exotic fragrance of her perfume filled his nose and wrapped around his brain, driving away every thought but her. Holding her so briefly the day before and brushing his nose over her hair had been a tease, a torment. He wanted her again, wanted to possess her fully.

A muffled sound rose in her throat. Norman lifted his head, met her look of wide-eyed wonder.

“If that don’t turn him Tory,” crowed Mrs. Talwin, “nothing will!”

They said their farewells to the couple, then made their egress down the walk. Of habit, Norman gave Elsa his arm. She tugged on his sleeve and gestured him to bend close. She whispered, “Today is 100 days.”

One hundred days? He frowned quizzically, but she just smiled and kept walking. They were met with such cheers from the crowd as they reached the gate, Norman was put in mind of a newlywed couple emerging from church.

“Well, Mr. Wynford-Scott,” Elsa said, color high on her cheekbones, “you were correct. That was most illuminating. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Lady Fay.” Norman bowed; upon straightening, he met Elsa’s gaze one last time. She gave him a tiny smile, then proceeded onward to the next house.

In his turn, Norman resumed his solitary canvassing of Weatherhill Lane, this time knocking at the homes Elsa had already visited. When he introduced himself at the next door, the homeowner laughed and pointed at Norman’s coat. Glancing down, he discovered that Elsa had pinned an orange ribbon to his lapel while distracting him with her kiss.

Nimble-fingered, quick-witted, politically shrewd, and dangerously seductive—a combination lethal to any man’s senses. Norman couldn’t afford to lose his head here. Elsa was savvy, playing to her popularity with the people of Fleck to entice them to vote for Mr. Fay, but Norman was a quick study. He refused to buy votes with jams and kisses, but he could show this village that he was a true friend and the representative they needed in Parliament.