Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (8 page)

“Come now, Elsa,” Oliver coaxed. “I’ve scarce laid an eye on you since you returned from Town. You’ve declined all of my invitations, have been ‘not at home’ most every time I’ve called. You didn’t even bother attending the Fleck Seed Exchange and Assembly, despite having organized the blasted event the previous three years!”

Elsa felt his slightly-too-close-set eyes upon her. She turned her head, feigning intense interest in lichen clinging to the trunk of a winter-nude elm.

Oliver’s complaints tugged at her heart. Whenever Elsa and her husband were in Fleck, Oliver had been a regular fixture while Harvey tended to his duties as paterfamilias and lord of the manor. She’d not seen her cousin-in-law as frequently since Harvey’s death, but Elsa always made it a point to visit with Oliver whenever she was at Berrybrook. Though their familial relationship existed merely through marriage, Oliver and his often-absent brother, Rollo, were the only family Elsa had left. Her avoiding him these last months must have been puzzling to Oliver—if not hurtful.

Always hurting, always disappointing
... Guilt and Shame’s whispered words swirled and coalesced into a stone that lodged behind her sternum. Elsa rubbed the spot, trying to massage the pain away.

“Forgive me, Cousin.” She cast a glance to him. “We did have tea—”

“Once,” he interjected. “Soon into the new year. I seem to recall you burst into tears over the crusts on the sandwiches.”

Elsa winced. Things had been so hard then, when sobriety was new and unwelcome. It was still hard, and still unwelcome, but she’d grown accustomed to the wearying grind of it. “I told you I hadn’t been well. I’ve been ill much of the winter.”

Oliver handed her over a puddle. “Were you not a most respectable widow,” he said, his light tone belying the bite of his words, “I might suspect your emotional outburst and subsequent refusal to see me—indeed, to see anyone, from what I’ve heard—indicated a ... condition, shall we say, rather than an ailment.”

Elsa choked back a gasp. Caught in her throat, it transmuted into something else. Thirst. Thirst that crept up onto her tongue, binding it, forbidding her words.

No matter. Guilt and Shame had plenty.
No baby. No child. Hurt Harvey by refusing to give him an heir.

If she had a drink, she could wash those mean thoughts away, swallow and swallow until only the burning of the liquor and comfortable numbness in her soul remained—

Ruthlessly, she next checked her craving.
You will not drink. You. Will. Not. Drink.
Biting the inside of her cheek, hard and harder, the electric twang of pain finally overwhelmed the urge.

Not my fault
,
she then mentally snapped at the tutting monsters.
I did my part. It’s not my fault there was no child.

She drew a breath. Another. Forced her face into a placid mask of composure. Dropping Oliver’s arm, she turned to face him full on. Holding his gaze, she loosened the frog of knotted silk at the neck of her cloak. Head held high, she drew the garment off, allowing it to fall heedlessly to the ground at her feet.

Oliver’s eyes remained locked on Elsa’s. She raised a brow in challenge. Color spread across his cheekbones. All at once, his gaze raced down her front to her midsection, where it lingered while his face continued to redden.

Slowly, he stooped to retrieve her cloak. Shook it out. Settled it on her shoulders. “Forgive me, Elsa.” He spoke haltingly. “There have been ... unkind rumors. Since Cousin Harvey’s passing.” He shifted his weight, dark eyes focused several inches to the left of Elsa’s head. “Some friends passed through the village last week, on their way from London to Martlesham. One of the gentlemen asked after you, and when I said you hadn’t been well ...” Oliver’s mouth twisted. “I should have known better than to listen to Town gossip. I should have ignored them, the way I’ve always done until now. Forgive me. Please do.” He offered a sheepish smile.

Elsa blinked, her thoughts and emotions in such a disordered state she could scarcely formulate a response. Oliver had probably heard nothing about her that wasn’t true, excepting the conclusion the busybodies drew. Far be it from her, however, to dissuade Oliver from talking himself out of believing sordid tales. Briefly, she wondered what he would say if he knew the truth, that she was so lost to drunkenness that she had spent the winter drying out and scared to leave her house, lest she confront temptation.

The man removed his tall beaver hat and scrubbed a hand through short, dark hair frosted with silver. “Are you better now?” he asked when she neither gave nor denied forgiveness. “I trust you are, else you wouldn’t be out like this. I can see now that you’ve been unwell. Your eyes are tired ...” His voice trailed away. The horse huffed impatiently. Oliver glanced at the beast, then back to Elsa.

At last, she managed a wan smile. “Better now, yes. Thank you.” She started back in the direction of home. It was time and more for this outing to end. The fresh, cool air, which had initially enlivened, now darted painfully up her nostrils to needle behind her eyes. The wholesome exertion of muscles had become fatigue.

She took Oliver’s arm once more, experiencing a distance from him, though less than a foot separated them. While Oliver spent his days in idle amusement, Elsa engaged in daily battle against herself. He knew nothing of her trials. To be sure, she wouldn’t want him to, would fight to conceal her shameful secret, even as she resented him for not knowing. Why didn’t he get on his horse and go away? Their meeting was spoiled, didn’t he see? Ruined by his unkind allegation, which skirted all too close to the part of herself she never indulged in Fleck. Ruined by the truths she would never tell.

Only one man had known her secrets, had seen her for the shattered woman she was, had witnessed and known and still had given her kindness. Had offered his strength. Had sheltered her in his arms.

Until he washed his hands of her at the earliest possible moment.

If Norman Wynford-Scott, with his gentle eyes and tender heart, had been driven away at the last by her licentious nature, there was no chance Cousin Oliver would ever accept the whole of her. He was family, yes, and he was a friend. But how true a friend was he, really, if she could not confide in him? And family relationships, she knew all too well, were never as simple as one could hope. And so she would go on in her loneliness, waging her private war.

As they neared the stone pillar that marked the drive of Berrybrook Cottage, Oliver asked, “Have you heard the news about Mr. Jonson?”

Elsa tilted her head. “Ben Jonson? Our MP?” Oliver nodded. “No. What of him?”

“He’s dead. My groom told me this morning, before I rode out. They found him yesterday in the old boathouse.”

That startled Elsa from despondent thoughts of her own woes. “Oh no,” she said, mournfully. “He was such a dear.” As one of Fleck’s two members of Parliament, Ben Jonson had frequented her suppers and salons in London. The older man had a wicked sense of humor and a boyish gleam in his eye. He’d reminded her of an elderly Sheridan Zouche, in fact, and she rather suspected the resemblance was a large reason why she’d taken so to the irascible MP.

“That leaves just Mr. Trumbull in Commons for our borough,” Oliver observed. “There will have to be a by-election to fill the seat.”

Elsa scowled, bothered that instead of reflecting on the man who had died, Oliver instead chose to dwell on a hole left in Parliament.

“Who do you suppose will take the seat?”

With a sigh, Elsa shook her head, her eyes scanning the green shoots nosing their way up through the black soil on either side of her drive. Were they daffodils? Crocuses? She remembered discussing new bulbs with Mr. Whittle last autumn, but couldn’t recall what she’d told the caretaker to plant. Sobriety had revealed many such blank places in her memory, unnerving voids where her life was supposed to be.

“Oh, Oliver, I don’t know.” Her tone was more cross than she’d intended. “I’ve not been involved in politics for years.”

“But ...” A shadow crossed his face. “Our family ... Cousin Harvey, that is ...”

Yes, yes, Cousin Harvey.
Elsa’s late husband had dominated the political scene here in Fleck. Besides his seat in the House of Lords, Harvey had used his influence in the borough to handpick the representatives he wanted elected to the House of Commons. And he got his way. Always. As had every Viscount Fay before him, going back as far as anyone could remember. And as his wife, Elsa, too, had held sway with the villagers. Were Harvey still alive, he would have pulled Elsa aside this morning so that, between the two of them, they could determine the best choice for filling the vacancy. Harvey always said Elsa had the political instincts of a man. It was the only thing he’d liked about her. The only thing she was good at.

But that was all over now.

She crossed herself with one arm, propped her other elbow on her wrist, and idly stroked her throat, back and forth, as she once more regarded the mystery plants. “You should be having this discussion with Cousin Rollo. It’s Lord Fay’s duty to lead the way in this matter.”

An exasperated sigh was Oliver’s only response, but it said everything:
Rollo is not here. He’s out of the country, God knows where, and I’ve no way of reaching him. Even if I could, what would be the point? He takes no interest in his own seat in Lords, much less Commons.

This had been the situation almost since the moment Rollo stepped into his inheritance. He’d dipped into the very considerable Fay fortune and embarked on the life of travel and luxury to which he’d always believed himself entitled, with scarcely a backward glance for the responsibilities tied to his newfound affluence. The once-strong Fay dynasty had dwindled down to two: a younger son and a widow.

The widow in question shivered inside her cloak. Loitering at the top of the drive had allowed the damp cold to seep through her layers of clothes. She was ready for the coziness of her little house, for Mrs. Whittle to fuss over her a bit with a warm brick under her feet and a cup of tea tucked into her chilled palms. She lifted her face to Oliver, a practiced smile-grimace firmly in place, the one that communicated,
It’s been lovely, but I really must go
, only to find him watching her with a pained look of his own.

“I thought I might stand for the seat myself.” He cringed as he spoke, as if anticipating derision.

She did nothing more than cock her head. Oliver? In Commons? The idea sparked something that had lain dormant inside her for a long time, part of her mind that quickly analyzed Oliver’s suitability for the post. Certainly, the Fay name still carried weight in this borough, and Commons was a, well, common destination for younger sons who wished to make themselves useful. But Oliver had always been one for country living, hunting and fishing and gadding about in the woods. He’d spent little time in London. Being a big name in a small town suited him fine. He’d done very well as a minor member of the prominent family in the neighborhood.

“Why?” she asked, tilting her head to the other side, peering at her cousin in a new light. “You’ve never expressed interest in politics before.”

Still, if she squinted her eyes and leaned in close, Elsa could almost see potential in the notion. With the viscount’s prolonged absence dragging into its third (or was it fourth?) year, Oliver might be feeling pangs of duty, a sense that he should Do Something to serve the people upon whose backs the Viscounts Fay had made their fortune.

Oliver pulled a face. “Politics?” He said it like a dirty word. “No, my dear. No. I fear the political mania that infects our family bypassed my branch of the tree, as I share my brother’s antipathy for all things civic.” He wiped his palms against his waistcoat.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Elsa took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Then why in heaven’s name would you stand for the seat?”

“Because I am a Fay,” Oliver pronounced solemnly. “And even if I care nothing for the government, I do have a care for my family. Maintaining our prominence requires that we hold prominent positions.”

Well. Not quite a burning in his bosom to serve king and country, but it was something, she supposed. Something heartfelt, at least, if not noble. She clasped his hand. “I wish you luck, cousin.”

When she moved to pull her hand away, he gripped harder. “I thought I’d have a little reception. To announce my candidacy to the local gentry, you know. And I hope you’ll do me the favor of acting as hostess.”

Elsa stilled. A thrill shot up her spine at the words
politics
and
hostess
once more being placed in close proximity in regard to herself. But a reception would involve alcohol. Her blood leapt even as her mind panicked.

“I don’t, I’m not ...” she stammered, shaking her head.

“Please, Elsa.” His eyes were all desperate imploring. Like Norman’s had been when he’d asked her to help with the revels.

And see how that turned out.

“Please.”

Her breath stuttered. How long could she and her sobriety hide in her cottage? Unless she meant to become the crazy old hermit lady children whispered scary stories about, she’d have to face this eventually. And she was stronger now. Even if the sheer effort of not drinking was nearly all-consuming, she was doing it. Most days without tears.

She bit her lip, considering. Oliver clasped his hands to his chest, begging. Maybe praying.

“Very well,” she relented. “I’ll help you with your reception.”

Oliver grinned, and Elsa tried to ignore the dreadful voices. She could do this.

We’ll see
, they trilled anyway
. We’ll see how this turns out.

• • •

That very day, she sent invitations to all the important families in Fleck and even dashed off a letter to Mr. Trumbull, in London. He was already back in Town ahead of the opening of the spring session of Parliament, and while he would almost certainly decline the invitation, she hoped he would send a letter in reply, endorsing Oliver’s candidacy. While no Whig stood against Oliver, a vote of confidence from the remaining member of Parliament for the district would be news worth sharing at the reception.