Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (20 page)

Lady Beaufort cut a glance over the rim of her teacup. “You’re terribly composed for a man likely to suffer crushing defeat.”

“Laura!” Sir Seymour exclaimed.

“Well he is!” she rejoined. Then to Norman again, “You aren’t one of those who is deceptively calm right up until the moment he picks up an ax and kills everyone in the house, I hope.”

Norman made a thoughtful noise. “Having never perpetrated ax murder against an entire houseful of inhabitants—or even a single individual, I’m afraid—I suppose I really couldn’t say. Should this ever turn out to be the case, I’ll be sure to advise you.”

“Thank you; I’d be most appreciative. Darling, would you pass the salt?”

After a hard month of campaigning, Norman was grateful for a quiet morning. He took a long walk after breakfast and put his mind toward the composition of his speech. Lady Beaufort had not been remiss in her observation: Norman was sanguine about his imminent loss to Oliver Fay, and he also knew his composure did not mask an underlying rage that could erupt at a moment’s notice.

Elsa was the reason for his serenity. Having their stolen hours in the boathouse to look forward to made it easier to bear the hostile words flung at him from the same villagers who had so recently lauded his progressive ideals. When his calls for reform were answered with accusing cries of “radical,” when another door slammed in his face, Elsa remained the calm harbor in his heart. He could not fear defeat or wither under public scorn, not when he was simultaneously fortunate enough to have the affection of the most beautiful, sensual woman he’d ever beheld.

Later, as he sat in the library, going through the soothing motions of putting quill and ink to paper and turning abstract ideas into concrete symbols, he felt come over him a great sense of ending. At the conclusion of this by-election, Norman would have no reason to tarry in Fleck and would once more have to turn his mind toward finding a means of supporting himself.

... and, perhaps, of supporting a wife?

The nib of his pen skittered across the paper. He quickly blotted the mistake and bent his head to his task, forbidding himself from entertaining such notions. His future was too uncertain right now to take a wife, and besides, Elsa had given no indication that she desired more from their relationship than what existed at present.

Glancing at the tall clock, he began putting away his writing utensils. He’d worked through luncheon and had to hurry to prepare for tea with the Ladies’ Auxiliary. As he gathered his papers into a neat stack, the library door opened, and Alderly strode through, a parcel tucked under one arm. His boyish face split into a wide grin.

“I hope that’s your victory speech there,” he said, jerking his chin to Norman’s manuscript.

“Riding high on the purchase of a new article of clothing, Alderly? I’ve seen delusion like this before. A friend of mine was once so enraptured of a new pair of gloves that he spent three days chasing down beggars just so he could press coins to their palms with his gloves. Claimed it to be a double charity, sharing both his money and the feel of that supple leather.”

Alderly raked a hand through his hair. “Better than gloves, my friend.” Setting the rectangular parcel on the table, he tugged loose the knot of twine and folded back the brown wrapping paper. It was a stack of papers—a drawing of some sort was on top, but from this angle, Norman couldn’t quite make out the depiction.

Alderly took the top leaf from the stack, turned it, and slid it across the table. “You’re back in this contest, Wynford-Scott. You’re going to win.”

A short time later, Norman would have to wrap his cravat around his swollen knuckles and report to Lady Beaufort that he was, in fact, capable of a sudden and ferocious outpouring of violence.

• • •

“You’re practically keeping Town hours again, milady,” Foster scolded as she drove another pin into Elsa’s hair. The morning had nearly passed, and Elsa was only now dressing for the day. “Trouble sleeping?” the lady’s maid inquired. Her tone, Elsa noted, was politely neutral.

“A bit,” Elsa said just as carefully.

Foster’s hands stilled on Elsa’s dark tresses. “You should have told me, Lady Fay. I’d have given you something to help you sleep. I’ll give it to you tonight, if you’d like.”

The vinegar, to prevent pregnancy. Elsa had been careless, she knew. It was just ... somehow, when she was with Norman, she felt as though nothing bad could touch her. Whenever they were together in the boathouse, the rest of the world had a tendency to recede to insignificance.

She wasn’t sure what to make of these feelings, as they were unlike any she had experienced before. She’d felt mindless lust often enough, knew the symptoms of carnal infatuation. She’d felt fondness for friends, like Sheri, whom she loved with comfortable affection. This was all of those together, and something entirely new. With Norman, she did not feel reckless, even when he fucked her from behind over the rail of a dilapidated sailboat. And she did not feel staid, even when they did nothing more than hold hands and talk about whether the upcoming season of theater promised to be any good.

Whatever this was warranted more consideration. In the meantime, she must not be complacent. “Thank you, Foster. I would appreciate your sleeping remedy.”

“I’ll see to it, milady.” The maid turned to fetch Elsa’s dress from the bed, a robin’s-egg-blue muslin printed with roses of yellow and pink. “I’m glad Mr. Wynford-Scott is standing for our seat here. He’s a good man, very decent. I hope he wins.”

Elsa ducked her face at the warmth sweeping over her chest and rising up her neck. “Perhaps he shall, Foster. Perhaps he shall.”

She walked to the village and lifted her face to the sky as had become her custom. In addition to cataloging the myriad wonders of nature, Elsa savored the sensations of her own body: the languor of satisfaction, the loose-limbed sway of her hips, the delicious ache of her flesh at having been well used.

For the first time, she felt like a whole and complete person, in and of herself. Elsa made her own choices. She was not dictated to by a harsh husband, nor driven to destroy herself by her demons. Every day, Elsa chose not to drink. And every night, she chose to give herself to Norman. In the hours between, she could fill her time with meaningful activities. If she never hosted a political evening again, she could enrich her life with friendships. She could help her neighbors. She could find a thousand things to do besides drink. Her time with Norman had taught her that. There were unexpected joys to be had in life, and she wanted to be sober and clear-eyed so she could find them.

A buzz of anticipation hung over the village. The hustings cast its long shadow across the green. Elsa would miss it when it was struck following the polling in two days’ time. Until Oliver had printed that dreadful broadsheet, Elsa had truly enjoyed the contest. Campaigning was a different animal than the political hostessing she had done on Harvey’s behalf. During her marriage, there had only been one general election. Though she and Harvey had ostensibly campaigned in Fleck on behalf of the Tory candidates, it had been an uncontested election, and so their efforts had been minimal. This by-election, on the other hand ... this had been
fun
.

She had Norman to thank for that, as well. Had he not stood for the seat, she never would have had the opportunity to participate in a hotly contested election, would never have been compelled to think up new and creative ways to promote her candidate, or to exercise her knowledge of Parliamentary and legal matters that had so long lain unused.

A shriek of laughter drew Elsa’s attention to where a crowd was assembled in front of the mercantile. A queue of customers streamed in and out in numbers she’d never witnessed there before. A batch of adolescent males formed a tight semicircle in front of the shop window, while little clusters of two and three individuals were scattered in front of the store and around the square, heads bent over some sort of pamphlet.

Elsa’s heart sank. What had Oliver done now? Having cut her association with his campaign, she’d no more insight as to what new depths he may sink than the average Flecker. She’d no doubt, though, that he was up to something, some last sally of political scandal to serve as the coup de grace to Norman’s candidacy.

She recognized a few residents of Weatherhill Lane in one of the little groups. Little Mary, one hand clinging to her baby brother’s, waved to Elsa with her other hand clutching her toy soldier. “Mummy, look! That’s her, from the picture!”

Elsa approached the group. Mary’s mother glanced up, wide-eyed, and stepped in front of her children. Another woman, one of the spinster sisters, snatched her copy of the paper behind her back.

“What is this? Let me see, please.” Elsa extended her hand.

The old woman’s lips pinched in a tight knot, and she turned her back on Elsa. The young mother swept Mary and Sammy into her arms and trotted away without a word.

All around, Elsa’s neighbors and acquaintances, people she’d counted as friends, were noting her presence. Dove from the Rabbit’s Glen hung out the tavern window, her pretty face contorted in a sneer. “Slut!” she yelled. “Swill tub!” The finger the barmaid aimed at Elsa gave no doubt as to whom she referred.

Numb with shock, Elsa spun and forced her way through the crowd jostling for entrance to the mercantile. A man stepped out of the shop with the paper held aloft to his face. Elsa snatched it from him.

“Hey!” he cried. “I just paid a ha’penny for that!”

Clutching her plunder to her chest, Elsa whirled. The press of people caged her in. “Oh, milady,” said a jeering male voice. “How much for a dance? Buy you a pint?”

“Bet a half-pint’ll do the trick,” said another man. “Lusty ones like her flash their goods cheap.” Rollicking male laughter followed this comment. A rough hand snatched at her skirt, while a woman shrieked, “She
touched
me! I’ll have to burn this dress.”

Blood pounded in Elsa’s ears. She couldn’t breathe, just kept jabbing with her elbows and clawing at limbs blocking her way. At last, she made it through the mob and gasped a lungful of air. She staggered a few steps, then looked at the hard-won paper, now rumpled.

It was an illustration, a lampoon in the style of Cruikshank. In it, a woman poised on one toe atop a table, the other leg kicking up behind her. One hand hoisted her skirts high, while the other clutched a bottle. Three men stood at her feet with leering expressions, while another, much larger, man stood off to the left side, his hands clasped in an attitude of pleading. In the background, flames partially obscured a coat of arms on the wall.

A spidery scrawl labeled the tallest man in the caricature as “Mr. W.-S.” A speech bubble above his head read:
My lady, I implore you to stop! You’re burning down the Inn!
The woman’s reply:
Let it burn, so long as the wine does flow! Excellent hosts, I’ve a powerful thirst, who will fill me up?
The trio at her feet clamored their offers:
Here’s a vote
, said one;
I’ve a vote and a flagon
, said the second;
My vote and my flagon are bigger than the rest!
boasted the third. Another bubble for the woman, lower, to indicate her response to the men:
I
’
ll take them all!

Across the bottom was etched the title of the piece: LADY F’S REVELS AT GRAY’S INN.

When she glanced back at the drawing again, she spotted another figure on the right, this one an old man with a long nose.
Bencher
read his label.
D—it, W.-S., there will be h-ll to pay for this!
the man vowed, glaring across the page at the giant on the left.

The bottom dropped out from ... everything. Suddenly, Elsa understood that Fleck would no longer be her safe harbor. The shouted insults were superfluous, the apple core that struck the side of her face unnecessary.
Yes, yes, I know
, she wanted to say, but she could form no words.

Shame poured through her, scalding and thick, obliterating any other sensation, until Elsa swore she’d never felt anything else in all of her days. Her feet were rooted to where she stood in front of the mercantile while the citizens of Fleck bayed.

At last, she put one foot forward, and then another, although she made no conscious decision to do so. Her mind was paralyzed, only peripherally aware of her surroundings. Howls of derision followed her to the door of the Rabbit’s Glen tavern.

Inside, she went to the counter and met the proprietor’s pained gaze. “Mr. Denny,” she said in a calm, detached tone, “a bottle of scotch, if you please.”

With Norman’s frantic urging, Apple accelerated all the way to a trot. “Damnation, horse, go faster and I’ll give you an entire sugar loaf.” Unmoved by his master’s attempt at bribery, the beast continued on his jaunty way. It was a brisker pace than Norman could have achieved on foot, but his teeth ground in frustration at the lack of speed.

Maybe she hasn’t seen. Maybe it’s not too late.
When he arrived at Berrybrook Cottage and vaulted from the back of his winded steed, his hopes were instantly dashed.

The front door flung open on Foster, the abigail’s thin face pale, heavy lines of worry creasing her forehead. “Thank God! I don’t know what to do.”

“Where is she?” he asked as he bounded up the front steps.

Foster wrung her hands as if she’d peel the flesh from them. “Locked herself in her room with a bottle of spirits. Why would she do such a thing?” The abigail’s voice wavered. “She’s done so well these recent months.”

Norman slid a folded copy of the hateful illustration from his pocket and silently handed it to Foster. Not bothering with the pretense of not knowing the location of Elsa’s room, he took the stairs two at a time and knocked on her door.

Silence.

From the entryway, he heard Foster’s gasp of dismay. “My lady,” she moaned. “Oh, my poor lady.”

“Elsa,” Norman called, knocking again. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

His gut twisted with worry and a heaping dose of guilt. When Fay had that scandal sheet printed, Norman should have withdrawn from the race. He’d sensed there was a danger of Elsa being exposed, but he’d thought he could mitigate the risk by refusing to speak out on the matter. His silence had left the way clear for Alderly to concoct and enact this dreadful scheme. As a result, Elsa would be ostracized from the town she loved—had already been, else why would she presently be locked up with a bottle of oblivion?