The Bluestocking's Whirlwind Liaison, page 15
Marriage, motherhood. She was being overly fanciful this morning. She’d cast herself for so long in the role of doting aunt, she wasn’t used to thinking about herself in those other roles. She’d quite given up on them, but perhaps not as much as she’d thought. They’d slid back into her psyche so subtly she hadn’t even noticed they were there until this morning’s reminder that they were not for her. There would be no child. No little boy that had Jules’s green eyes, who would run in the spring fields of Haberstock with his cousins. He would have been a middle cousin. There’d already be three cousins older than he and there would doubtless be more cousins to follow. He’d be a middle child in that regard, just as she was. But she’d have made sure he didn’t get lost in the crowd.
Becca set the mug down with a hard, sloshing thump on the table. It was back to work for her. She was only thinking like this because it was nearly Christmas, the season of children. It was for the best that there was no child given that there’d been no talk of a future between them. She could not sit here indulging in such idle fantasies over a child that would never be. She needed to focus on real children, the children at the military asylum. She returned to the worktable and picked up her paintbrush, determined to make a good effort today. This missing Jules would get better with time, she assured herself. It could hardly get any worse.
She’d like to say the emptiness she felt, the distraction she felt, was all his fault, but in truth, the fault was all hers. If he was gone with nothing settled between them but business, that was her fault as well. She’d been the one to set the rules: just one night with no expectations beyond that; no goodbyes in the grey dawn, no mixing of their two roles as business partners and short-term romantic interests. She’d done it to protect them, but mostly to protect herself. From rejection.
Would he still have wanted her if he’d felt obliged to follow up that wanting with a fulfilment of traditional social obligations? She’d not wanted to lose him, to lose this chance at passion. At least this way she couldn’t be rejected. She wouldn’t suffer the indignity of Jules trying to let her down gently. She’d got exactly what she’d asked for: no commitment, no discussion of a future.
And he’d agreed to it.
Perhaps her conditions had been a relief to him. He’d made no secret that he was a rule breaker, that he followed his own dictates, not society’s. He’d not hidden the fact that he was accustomed to many lovers. He was not the marrying sort. And neither was she, although for different reasons. This had worked out just as it should have. But that ending had not made her happy. He should be here, helping her paint the soldiers.
There was a knock at the door and for a wild moment she entertained the idea that it was him, that Jules had come back. But it was only Thomasia wrapped in a cloak, her rapidly expanding belly poking through the folds. Six weeks to go and there’d be a new addition to the family.
‘Sorry, it’s just me.’ Thomasia smiled and shut the door behind her. ‘Missing him?’ Thomasia didn’t mince words as she pulled a stool up to the table.
‘Was it that obvious?’ Becca winced. She’d not meant to be so transparent. It would only invite questions and Thomasia never shied away from difficult discussions.
‘The two of you disappeared for a long while the night of the cider press.’ Thomasia picked up a spare brush and began to work on a soldier. ‘Did you come out here?’ Thomasia didn’t wait for an answer, but perhaps the answer was obvious, too. ‘It’s no wonder you miss him. This place is full of him. Do you want help putting away the reminders?’
‘Would it help?’ Becca asked sadly.
Thomasia shook her head with a soft laugh. ‘No, it doesn’t.’ She rubbed her chest. ‘He’ll still be in here.’
‘I can’t decide,’ Becca admitted, ‘if I want to exorcise him from the workshop or if I want to keep him close, wrap myself up in the memories.’
‘Memories? That sounds quite final. Don’t you think you’ll see him again?’ Thomasia got up and wandered towards the cupboard.
‘The shortbread is on the top right shelf,’ Becca offered. Thomasia was always hungry these days. ‘It is final. We did not talk of the future, not romantically at least.’
Thomasia returned with the shortbread tin and held it out to her. ‘Just one night to satisfy longing and curiosity and hopefully scotch the desire for more?’ she said matter-of-factly, saving Becca the embarrassment of confessing what had happened upstairs. Thomasia sighed and sat back down. ‘That sounds remarkably similar to the situation Shaw and I found ourselves in.’ She took a thoughtful bite of her shortbread. ‘We promised ourselves one night, nothing more. Then one night became two weeks. We’d have two weeks and then we’d let each other go—Shaw to London for Parliament and me to wherever.’
Becca looked up from her painting. She’d not heard about this hidden detail behind Thomasia’s romance last autumn with the man who was now her husband. Thomasia smiled. ‘It wasn’t something to discuss out loud. You and Mother and Father had left for London to see Anne and Thea. Shaw and I had the Hall to ourselves. I wanted no promises between us. I couldn’t bear the idea of breaking those promises or putting Shaw in a position to break them. I knew I’d ruin him if our association became known.’ Thomasia had been a mother to a child born out of wedlock at the time, absolutely anathema to man looking to make a career in Parliament.
‘It’s not like that between Jules and I, though. Shaw wanted to marry.’ Becca couldn’t think of a man more different to her upstanding brother-in-law than Jules. ‘Jules is charming and flirtatious, he’s handsome and wild. He has a woman in every town. He’s not looking to settle down any time soon and I knew that. I always knew that.’
Thomasia took a thoughtful nibble of the shortbread. ‘You think he’s too good for you. You think you can’t hold on to a handsome man.’ She reached for Becca’s hand. ‘Look at me, Sister. You have long underestimated yourself. What makes a man handsome is that he sees your true worth, who you are on the inside. What I love about Shaw is that he sees me, Becca. He’s not like those men in London who danced with me because I was pretty and popular.’ She frowned. ‘Becca, does Jules make you feel beautiful?’
Becca blushed, but found the courage to meet Thomasia’s gaze. ‘Yes.’ She’d felt like a queen in his arms—no, not a queen, a goddess and he her reverent supplicant. ‘He doesn’t look through me like the men in London did. He looks into me.’ He saw her, the person who was satisfied working in the cottage, the person who was happy to forgo instant fame in lieu of serving the greater good with her creations. ‘We complete each other, I think. I am the quiet to his loud, the thought to his ideas. I fill in his gaps and he fills mine.’ She’d not thought about it that way before. They weren’t opposites, though, not entirely. Beneath their differences, they were the same: two people looking for some place to belong, to fit in, or maybe they were looking for someone to fit with. But what happened when one person thought they’d found that fit and the other didn’t? Would she be doomed to spend the rest of her life missing that piece of herself?
Thomasia squeezed her hand. ‘Does he know how you feel?’
‘No, we promised not to talk of it.’ That seemed the height of foolishness now in retrospect.
Mischief lit her sister’s eyes. ‘Then you must tell him. If he knows how you feel—’
‘No, absolutely not!’ Becca was quick to interrupt. ‘That might send him running for the proverbial hills.’ She couldn’t bear that. It would colour her memories of all the good that had passed between them and it might ruin the future of her business prospects with Howell Manufacturing. He wouldn’t want to be in association with a woman who was hungering after him.
‘Or it might send him running right back into your arms.’ Thomasia was undaunted. She leaned forward and Becca did not like the look in her sister’s eyes, it always boded trouble like the time Thomasia had plotted for them to steal some tarts from the kitchen before dinner. They’d been caught red-handed. Sort of. What they’d thought would be sweet strawberry tarts had been sour instead. Cook had been prepared for them and swapped the real tarts out with a decoy. They’d not stolen dessert again. ‘What if you went to him?’ Thomasia began to plot.
‘That would be terribly forward. I can’t just show up in Manchester. Besides, the factory doesn’t know I’m R. L. Peverett. I can’t go even under the guise of checking on work.’ Thomasia might have the aplomb to show up unannounced, but Becca could never see herself pulling it off.
‘All right, what if you had a reason?’ Thomasia pulled a letter from her pocket. ‘I came down here to deliver this. It arrived with the post while I was visiting Mother. Maybe this is your reason?’
Becca grabbed for the letter. ‘Did you read it?’
‘Becca, would I do that?’ Thomasia feigned shock.
Becca shot her a sharp look as she slit the envelope open. ‘Yes, you would.’ She scanned the note, revelling in the sight of Jules’s handwriting. She swallowed, hardly daring to believe it. ‘He wants me to come to Manchester.’
Thomasia beamed. ‘He misses you, too.’ She nearly crowed. ‘I knew it.’
‘No,’ Becca cautioned, unwilling to let herself get too carried away, ‘it’s for business. Of course, I can only come as a representative of R. L. Peverett, but they want to celebrate the first production of the ophthalmoscope. There will be a ball and other activities.’ She would get to see Jules again. Her heart did a happy skip at the thought before other considerations took over.
‘I know that look.’ Thomasia sighed. ‘This should be good news, but it’s not. What is it?’
‘The ball, the city. We’ll be on his ground. What if I don’t measure up? What if he realises I’m just a country girl? I’m no good at such events and he’ll be...dazzling. Perfect and I’ll be...not perfect.’ It would be London all over again and he’d see her limitations once she was away from Haberstock Hall.
‘Nonsense, I won’t hear any of that talk.’ Thomasia rose and dragged her by the arm. ‘We’re marching straight up to the house and going through your clothes at once. There’s no time to lose. You have clothes still from London. We can pay a visit to the dressmaker in the village for ribbons and lace to trim them up a bit. Remember, it’s Manchester, not London.’
* * *
It was hard not to be buoyed by the twin prospects of Thomasia’s enthusiasm and seeing Jules again, but also it was difficult not to worry—there was the deception to consider. She’d be walking into the lion’s den, facing the people she was deceiving. When she’d devised her plan, she’d not considered that. Nor had she considered actually falling for her business partner. A week of preparations flew by until at last her trunk was packed and there was nothing to do except to get on the train. Becca was full of nerves as she boarded the train. Despite Thomasia’s encouragement, her head was swimming with what ifs. What if his family discovered she was R. L. Peverett? What if Jules discovered she was nothing more than a country mouse? What if she embarrassed herself and him? The whole world she’d built over the last months would come crumbling down. But there were other what ifs, too. What if she told him how she felt? That she didn’t want just one night? What if she said the three words in her heart: I love you? What would happen then? Did she want a proposal? All she was certain of when she boarded the train was that no matter what happened in Manchester, her life was going to change. Nothing would be the same afterwards.
Chapter Seventeen
What if she’d realised her folly in the intervening weeks? What if she was only coming because of the ophthalmoscope? Jules was plagued by what ifs as he stood on the bustling platform of the Manchester station waiting for the train to disgorge its passengers. Two weeks without Becca had been...well, it had been too long and he’d leave it at that. To name it otherwise was complicated. Was this love? He suspected it might be and that scared him.
What did he know of love? Could he make her happy?
He saw her first. She emerged from the train car and paused at the top of the steps before disembarking, her gaze sweeping the station. Looking for him? Or simply surveying the new territory? He stepped back, wanting a moment to watch her, to have her to himself. She looked quietly stunning in a plum-coloured two-piece travelling costume trimmed in black braid he’d not seen before. Her glossy walnut tresses were tucked up beneath a fetching but decorative hat, her hands sheathed in black leather gloves. He drank her in, letting the details of her wash over him before he waved and wove his way through the crowd to her side.
‘Becca, you’re here. I’m so glad.’ He hazarded a quick kiss to her cheek, a gesture that would go unremarked in the busy station. He tucked her arm through his and ushered her through the crush of people.
‘It’s much busier than Broxbourne.’ Becca had to raise her voice to be heard and he laughed, but there was no chance for conversation until they were settled in the coach. Did she feel it, too, he wondered as he took the seat across from her—this thrum of excitement between them and the undertone of tension, too, the kind of tension that came once the initial thrill of reuniting passed, especially when a relationship was new and people were still learning one another.
Who are we together?
That was the question that hung unspoken between them in the carriage. And they were together, whether Becca wanted to admit it or not. They’d been lovers. He’d told his brother about her. He’d taken steps to plan a life worthy of her: the town house, the job. Some might consider that the cart before the horse when so much lay undiscussed between them, but before he could ask for more from her, he had to show her he could offer her more than a smile and charm. Perhaps he had to prove it to himself as well.
‘How is everyone at Haberstock Hall?’ Jules asked as the coach moved into traffic. ‘Thomasia is well?’
Becca smiled, perhaps grateful to ease into things with small talk. ‘She’s huge but, yes, she’s well. She’s eaten all of your shortbread stores at the workshop.’ They laughed together at that and Jules felt some of the tension leave them. They talked of little Effie-Claire’s latest antics, a letter Becca had from Anne and news from the village.
‘Mr Barnes has his colourful shortbread tins in the window of the bakery with big bows on them. They look lovely and there’s a crowd outside the window every day to admire them,’ she told him. ‘And the ladies’ church auxiliary has bought the last of grey flannel at wholesale prices. They plan to make shirts and dresses for some of the children in less fortunate families this winter.’ Becca leaned forward. ‘The ladies’ auxiliary couldn’t have afforded to do that without your idea of the wholesale pricing. Children in Hertfordshire will have you to thank for warm clothes this winter.’ She smiled and he felt as if the sun had come out just for him.
‘I’m glad to hear it. What of your toy soldiers? Have you made progress on them?’ He was aware that this trip to Manchester would take her away from her own Christmas projects. He hoped it wouldn’t put her too far behind.
‘Yes, I worked double time this week, but I think I’ll make it.’ Becca reached into her reticule. ‘I brought you one, as a gift,’ she emphasised, handing him one of the toys. ‘Not for business. Just for you.’ She paused, and he could see she was gathering herself. He braced. ‘I should have given it to you before you left Haberstock.’
He studied the little soldier, pulling at its string and watching its arms raise. ‘Thank you, Becca. I’ll treasure it.’ It would always be a reminder of the happy weeks he’d spent at Haberstock and of the woman he spent those weeks with. ‘I hope when I look upon it in years to come, I will think about how it marked the beginning of...us.’
It was bold statement. He watched her for a reaction. But why not say it? Why not confront the real question: who were they together? Had she come only for the thrill of seeing her ophthalmoscope? Or had she come for another thrill? The thrill of him? The thrill of who they were together? Did she understand that it was the latter which had prompted his own invitation? He put the question to her. ‘Tell me the truth, Becca. Did you come for business or pleasure?’
‘Which one have you invited me for?’ she parried, and he sensed the nerves behind her question. Did she fear that his attentions had waned in their time apart? That he would not be constant?
He reached for her hand, his fingers working the buttons of her glove loose. ‘For pleasure, my dear. Do not doubt it.’ His mouth found the merest spot of bare, tender skin at her wrist, his body revelling in the chance to touch even the smallest part of her after weeks of wanting to hold her, revelling further still when he felt her pulse leap beneath his lips, proof to them both that the magic was still there.
‘The business of the ophthalmoscope was a very convenient mechanism to orchestrate your visit around.’ He looked up, his gaze holding hers. He needed her to see that his desire was real, not some fleeting fancy. ‘I wanted you here.’
‘And I want to be here, with you.’ Becca met his gaze and he saw the truth of that in her eyes, but also reluctance.
He released her hand and waited for the other shoe to fall. ‘But?’
‘There is more to this visit than just being here with you. How am I to be? Who am I to be? I don’t want to disappoint you.’ All of her insecurities were wrapped up in those short sentences and yet her worry was for him. Her concern was on his behalf and it touched him deeply that she’d risk so much of her own personal comfort for him.
