The Lord I Left Read online

  But when she opened her eyes—

  Chapter 5

  Henry hated to disturb Alice from her pleasant little nest beside the fire. At rest, the watchful intensity that radiated from her was absent. She looked delicate and beautiful, especially when she let out a long, contented sigh.

  But they could not afford to waste the daylight.

  “Alice,” he said. She didn’t stir.

  “Alice?” Naught but a grunt.

  At a loss, he reached out and gently, ever so gently, placed his hand on her shoulder. “Alice.”

  She murmured something sleepy and he put more pressure on her back.

  She sighed some girlish protest, lifting her head up toward his so sweetly that he leaned in closer, on instinct. His gaze fell to her lips.

  And then her eyes fluttered opened and went wide, and she yelped and clutched her cloak over her mouth.

  Henry bolted backward, nearly knocking over a table behind him.

  “I’m sorry!” he said, aghast at himself for looming over her that way. “You fell asleep. I was trying to wake you.”

  “It’s all right,” she muttered, looking at her shoes. “I was dreaming of … I thought you were someone else.”

  He tried not to speculate about who she’d imagined was shaking her awake, with that earthy smile on her lips and those …

  (Dove’s eyes.)

  He handed her a parcel wrapped in paper, trying not to seem like he’d nearly fallen in a trance in a busy public room of a well-trafficked inn. “Bread and cakes and bit of cold ham, in case you’re hungry later.”

  “Thank you,” she said, looking surprised. The fact that she evidently thought he’d meant to starve her did much to restore his sanity.

  “Come,” he said. “The horses are waiting.”

  Outside, the rain had worsened. He frowned up at the sky. “Will you be all right in this?”

  She scoffed. “Yes, of course. It’s just a bit of rain, not piss.” She raised a brow, like she expected him to admonish her for her coarse speech, but a fat raindrop landed in her eye. She cursed, and another drop landed on her cheekbone, just beneath her sooty lashes.

  “S’pose that’s the Lord, smiting me for cursing in the presence of a vicar.”

  “I’m not a vicar,” he said absently. His thumb twitched with the desire to reach out and wipe the drop away. Which, of course, he didn’t.

  Alice charged away, pulling her cloak over her head. She hoisted herself into the curricle without his assistance. They drove away in silence, though, after a time, she seemed to be in a better mood.

  “I rather like it,” she declared, leaning her head out from beneath the awning and catching a raindrop on her tongue.

  “The rain?” he asked, trying not to stare.

  She licked her lips and settled back. “Mmm. It smells so clean, especially out here, in the countryside. Tastes like winter.”

  He was relieved she was making conversation as though nothing odd had happened, even if the conversation itself was strange. “You prefer the countryside to London?” he asked, unsure how to reply to her assertion that winter had a flavor.

  She stopped smiling. “No.”

  She rummaged in the bag of food he’d given her and took out a hunk of cake. She sniffed. “Mmm. Cinnamon,” she said happily. She tore off a small corner and took a bite. “’Tis very good.”

  He’d thought it would be—it had looked moist and rich, studded with nuts and candied ginger. She broke off another corner and offered it to him.

  “No thank you,” he said. “I don’t eat sweets.”

  “I love sweets. I’d live on sweets alone if given the opportunity.”

  “I haven’t a taste for them,” he said. (A lie.)

  Alice munched reflectively. “It tastes like the cake my sister Liza makes at Christmastide, when she can get the sugar.”

  He was curious about her family. “Mistress Brearley mentioned you have sisters. I am sure they will be relieved to see you. Family is a blessing at a difficult time like this.”

  She only nodded, chewing.

  “I have a sister myself,” he went on. “I haven’t seen her in years. It will be a grand thing to spend a fortnight with her in the country.”

  She swallowed. “Why such a long time?”

  He sighed. “My father disapproves of me. Thinks I’ll harm her chances for a husband.”

  “You?” she sputtered with such force that crumbs flew out of her mouth. “The Lord Lieutenant!”

  He tried to keep any bitterness out of his voice, for it would not do to dishonor his father, whatever their disagreements. “He did not approve of my leaving the Church to scribble on Fleet Street and rave in the streets, as he put it.”

  His father had been furious that Henry had turned down a position as a vicar in their shire—a position his father had strategized and traded favors in order to secure for him—in favor of leaving his curacy to join with a loose circuit of Methodists, and support himself by writing. He’d demanded Henry reconsider.

  But faith was not a consideration. It simply was. His allegiance to the principles of Methodism had made him whole. His heart craved a closer communion with God than the Church of England offered.

  “Well,” Alice said, chewing, “he must be eating crow now that you’ve risen so nicely.”

  Henry doubted it. He’d dearly hoped that securing the position as Lord Lieutenant—a higher honor than a vicar, much more like the high church bishop his father had always hoped he might eventually become—would make the man finally see that his refusal to take orders was not a rebellion. But two years had passed with no more than occasional letters from his mother. He’d spent his holidays with cousins, or with friends. He’d been shocked to receive an invitation home to attend his nephew’s christening.

  “He certainly prefers it to my previous occupation,” he allowed, hoping that much was true.

  Alice chortled. “Don’t we all.”

  He sighed. He would be the first to admit that his time at Saints & Satyrs had not been his finest moment. He’d begun his role with grand ambitions to meld his faith with his mission to bring morality to London’s streets—to expose sin, hypocrisy, abuse. But the more his circulation rose, the more his publishers wished for wild stories to drive it ever higher, and the more his ethics became subject to negotiation. He’d become apuff with his own vanity. He’d lost his way.

  He’d welcomed the work for the Lords as a chance to return to work of moral value.

  But with it had come the new temptations.

  Bodily ones.

  None of which he cared to share with Alice Hull.

  Alice chewed meditatively, having progressed from cake to ham. “Well, then, if he’s not fond of you, why are you visiting?”

  “He’s hosting a small party to mark the birth of his first grandchild. My brother’s son. I believe that is the reason for the invitation. Since it coincided with the conclusion of my investigation, I decided to take time in the country to write my report. Spend time with my family.”

  He hated this gulf between them, especially now that it was coming time to have a family of his own. He’d done everything he could think of to ensure that this trip went well. He’d borrowed the elegant curricle from Lord Apthorp so that he would not anger his father, who was sensitive to appearances being from low origins, by arriving in a badly sprung rented chaise or, worse yet, on the mail coach. He’d sent ahead his mother’s favorite tea from London, his brother’s favorite tobacco, his sister’s favorite chocolates.

  He said a silent prayer that this visit would go well. Dear Lord, please bless us with a warm connection and better understanding, so that love and harmony may flourish in our hearts at last. Grant me the strength to honor my father. Grant me his forgiveness.

  “Pardon?” Alice asked around a mouthful of cold meat. She’d taken off her gloves to eat and he noticed her hands were turning blue. It was considerably colder on the wooded road, especially in the rain.

/>   “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Your lips were moving.”

  “I was praying.”

  She wrinkled her nose and returned her attention to her luncheon.

  “Would you like me to say one for your mother?” He suspected he knew the answer, but he felt compelled to try again.

  “No, thank you,” she said around a bite of ham.

  “Very well.” He’d say one for himself. Please Lord, let me get your child Alice to Fleetwend in time to say goodbye—

  “She’d be quite proud of me, conning passage home from the likes of you,” Alice said, interrupting his thoughts. “She’s always after me to cozen to the quality.”

  “You hardly conned me. And I’m hardly the quality.”

  “Oh, you’re quality as far as Margaret Hull’s concerned, Lord Lieutenant.” Each breath sent out puffs of steam into the air, which gave the playful tone she’d taken a somewhat puckish, elfin quality that made him want to stare at her.

  “What’s your mother like?” he asked.

  She shivered violently, and he wondered if it was the chill or if he’d erred in asking her to speak of the woman she was worried about. “Oh … a proud character. Right about every subject she’s ever had the pleasure of announcing her opinion on. Tough as a piece of sterling. Hair just as silver, though she’d beat my knuckles with a spoon for mentioning it.”

  She laughed softly. Sadly. “She disapproves of me. Thinks I disport myself too freely with the boys and poison my sisters’ minds with my coarse tongue and strange ideas.”

  He felt foolish for thinking he had nothing in common with Alice Hull. For he knew exactly the combination of affection and pain in her voice.

  “It’s difficult,” he said.

  “What is?” she asked, shivering again.

  “How much one loves one’s parents, even when one is at odds with them.”

  Alice said nothing, making him feel a bit foolish for speaking so freely.

  The roads had become muddy, and the horses moved more slowly, kicking up muck in their wake. Alice breathed in through her nose, and he felt her tremble beside him.

  “Alice, are you well?” he asked softly.

  “I’m fine,” she said, through chattering teeth. But she did not look fine. He could see her shaking as she stiffly jammed her fingers back into her gloves.

  “You’re cold. You’re shivering. I’m worried you’ll take ill.”

  “The trouble is not my health,” she snapped, glaring at him. “It is the fact that my mother is dying, and I am four counties away.”

  He chewed at the inside of his cheek.

  She sighed deeply. “I’m sorry. I’ll be just fine.”

  But he slowed the horses so that he could meet her gaze directly.

  “Really,” she protested. “Please drive on.”

  “I’m so sorry, Alice,” he said. “I’m so sorry you must endure this.”

  She grit her teeth and looked away from him. “It’s no fault of yours, unless you have the power to stop country women’s hearts.”

  He sucked in his breath. “I regret I lack the power to fix the weather or your mother’s health. I meant it’s your suffering I’m sorry for.”

  “Then please stop adding to it and understand I don’t wish to bloody talk.”

  Chapter 6

  Henry did not reprimand her sharp tongue or offer to pray for her withered spirit.

  Either might have been preferable, for instead he just looked stricken and fell silent.

  She would rather tumble out the side of the curricle than cry in front of him, so she struck up her humming. She shut her eyes and put her breath into it, blocking out awareness of anything save the sound of her own voice.

  It lulled her into sleep, a state she’d always found easy to lapse into, particularly when she wanted to be alone. This time, she did not dream.

  When she woke it was to the carriage stopping. She started. Henry was down on the ground, fumbling with the harnesses. It was dark, and cold, and they were outside another inn.

  Alice yawned, and Henry looked up at her. “Ah. Awake at last.” He offered her a hand to help her down. She took it, and noticed how strong and steady his grip was, like she was leaning on an iron rail.

  “We’ll stop here for the night. I secured a private room for you.” He hesitated. “Told them you’re my sister, if they ask.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She felt guilty enough for shouting at him earlier that she did not bother to inquire as to why he minded whoring but not lying. “I’ll just get my bag.”

  “I carried it upstairs. They asked if you wished for supper, but I thought you might prefer a tray to dining in the public rooms. I asked them to bring you something warm. I hope you don’t mind the presumption.”

  “No, thank you.”

  She was surprised that he’d taken such pains after the harsh words she’d spoken to him. She should apologize. But the idea of it exhausted her, so she pretended she was accustomed to such kindness. That she was so spoiled from fine treatment she didn’t even notice it. That she was the type of queenly girl she’d once flattered herself she might someday become.

  Inside the inn was warm and bright. Henry pointed to a door at the end of the hall and handed her a key.

  “They’ve lit a fire for you and there should be clean linens.” He gestured at the room beside hers. “I’m here. Should you encounter trouble please don’t hesitate to wake me. I sleep lightly, and will hear a knock.”

  It struck her that he must think her delicate, because of all her napping. The truth was that she was as sturdy as they came—just excellent at sleeping. Sleep was the only privacy one had when one shared a narrow bed with two squirming sisters, and since childhood it had been her best escape. Save, of course, for music.

  “Thank you,” she told him, meaning for the room, for driving her, and for enduring her poor temper.

  “Of course.” He paused, his face drawn with concern. “Good night, Alice.”

  She nodded. “Good night.”

  She shut the door so she would not have to withstand his look of pity. Her room was small and sparely furnished, but clean and neat. A step above the inns she used to stay at with her father as a girl, where bugs would skitter across her skin and bite her ankles. She removed her rain-damp cloak and changed into her nightdress. A maid came and brought her a steaming bowl of soup and a loaf of hot brown bread with butter. She ate a bit of it, dipping the bread into the broth, but she had little appetite.

  She tried not to think of her mother.

  She tried not to think of how frightened her sisters must be.

  She tried not to think of the terrifying suddenness with which life could rip you open, snatch away all that was good.

  She wished she were at home, tucked among her sisters in their bed, falling asleep to the sound of their breath and snores as she had done back before her father died. Back when they had all been together and secure and happy, and it had been no shame to be the strange one of the lot because life itself was not a risk.

  She’d prayed at night, back then.

  Back before she’d realized prayers were wasted breath.

  She would not think of that.

  She needed to soothe her mind, lest the bad thoughts take her.

  It was too late for singing, so she fished inside her satchel for one for the books she’d borrowed and retrieved the one on top. The pages were coarse, the cover plain brown leather, with no author’s name or title.

  She opened a page at random, and found that it was not a history, as she’d assumed. It was not a book at all, in the formal sense, though it was bound like one. It was some sort of account or journal, handwritten in the precise script of a clerk.

  I have walked a great distance tonight to calm my mind, yet still, it churns with sinful thoughts. It brings me such despair to think that no matter how I endeavor to rid myself of frailty it emerges—as though my capacity for weakness is my most enduring strength. I shall p
ray for greater resolve, though I sometimes wonder if He tires of my prayers.

  How odd. She could not imagine who among the artisans at Charlotte Street might have written such words. She flipped to the back cover, looking for a name, but there was only a date in the same precise hand, followed by a list of duties.

  1. Practice intellectual honesty!

  2. Account regularly to Reverend Keeper!

  It went on just as cryptically, with strange, depressing edicts.

  The next page was even worse.

  * * *

  Daily Regime for Renewed Perfection of the Mind and Spirit

  * * *

  0400: Wake and morning prayers

  0430: Brisk walk, one mile

  0500: Physical exercises for strength of body

  0545: Breakfast

  0600: Prayers and Bible study

  0700: Commence work

  1200: Luncheon

  1230: Resume work

  1900: Supper

  1930: Brisk five mile walk

  2100: Prayers and Bible study

  2200: Sleep

  She squinted at the book in pure horror. Imagine keeping such a schedule if one did not have to. She was no stranger to rising at dawn or to long days of labor—but if she could avoid them, she most certainly would.

  All the time devoted to prayer reminded her of Henry, and his hourly offers to turn the curricle into her private chapel.

  He was so strange.

  There was a kind of charm to him— a touch of nerves, a dab of humor, a flash of kindness—beneath his arrogant exterior. She had not seen this side of him when she’d answered the door on his occasional visits to Charlotte Street, when he’d always seemed pained to be there. She’d certainly seen none of it when she’d given him his tour the week before. He’d spent the whole time with shifty eyes, looking at her as though she was a spider who might lay eggs in his ear at any moment.

  It had offended her, for she’d done nothing salty—merely shown him the rooms and listed the services performed there, even humoring his insulting questions as best she could.