Married At Midnight (12 page)

London, June 5

It was certainly true that one could take the man from the country, but one could hardly take the country from the man.

The London apartment was furnished modestly, with rugged pieces that served only to emphasize the meagerest of beginnings. Thom made no apologies for his provinciality. It was part of who he was. No matter the formality of his education, he was

still a boy in ragged breeches, and would surely go to his grave with figmental holes upon the soles of his shoes.

He struck a match, sinking back into his favorite chair as it flared. He lit the cheroot, and sucked sweet smoke into the back

of his throat as he surveyed the familiar room.

His da had taken up woodworking after retiring, as London hardly offered occasion to "get the dirt under

one's nails." A

simple wooden rocker sat beside the hearth, evidence of his father's labors; draped over it was the plush quilt his mother

had lovingly stitched for him all those years ago, "for those cold nights away at school."

It was just the two of them now, he and his da, as his mother had passed on some years before.

He'd thought a move from the country where his da had been alone would prove beneficial, but damned if his old man hadn't been behaving strangely of late. All day, he'd been coming into the room at intervals as though he had something to say, and then departing, shaking his head like an absent-minded old fool

—something his wily old da certainly was not. At sixty-eight years of age his old man was as shrewd as they came. Thom supposed he
did
have something to say, but it certainly wasn't like him to keep it to himself. His father had certainly never had much difficulty in speaking his mind.

It wasn't long before his da peered into the room once more; this time he entered carrying a small carton before him.

"Are you busy, son?" he asked.

Thom eyed his father somewhat discerningly. It didn't take a mastermind to deduce he was not. "No," he answered anyway.

"Good. Good." His father approached with his box, and for the first time in his life Thom thought his da appeared old. His mother's death had aged him, surely, but somehow, in the space of these few days, he seemed .. . wizened. He didn't speak, nor did Thom. He simply watched as his father placed the small open carton upon the table beside him. Concern for his

father kept his attention from the box for the moment.

Thom sat up within the chair, and withdrew the cheroot from between his teeth. It was only then he noticed the folded parchment clutched within his da's fist, and his gaze converged upon it. Somehow, he understood that its contents were

the source of his father's agitation. He handed the letter to Thom and then sat within the facing chair.

Waiting, it seemed.

"What is it?"

"Open it," his da bade him.

Thom set his cheroot down within the ashtray, and then did as his father requested, unfolding the parchment. The date upon

it was five days past, the scribble unfamiliar. He started to turn the paper over to find the signature, but his father prevented

him with a hand.

"Read it first, Thom," his father directed him rather sternly.

His brow's drew together as he turned the paper over to begin.

"Dearest Mr. Smith,"
he began aloud.
"I realize it has been some time since our previous
correspondence
..." And then

he lapsed into silence as he continued, the tone of the letter becoming entirely familiar.

I'm quite certain I don't know why I'm writing to you with this dilemma, dear sir, but you have
always seemed

so inclined to listen to my ravings
—
do you remember all those hours I rambled away so, while
you tended the roses? I must have worn your patience thin, and yet you listened to me ever
mindfully, imparting now and

again such wonderful jewels of wisdom for me to ponder. Did I ever thank you properly?

Thom peered up from the letter, eyeing his fidgeting father with some bewilderment. He wasn't entirely certain he wished to continue, but curiosity, and something more, got the better of him and he continued, his heartbeat quickening.

It seems that once again I find myself rambling to you, albeit upon paper
—
though I do hope you'll
bear with

me. Good Lord, how to begin .. . From the first, I suppose. By the time you read this I shall be
most likely wed
—
not that I wish to, you see, but it seems I've hardly any choice in the matter. I
have
already written my agent with the necessary terms, and he is even now conducting a rather unconventional search on my behalf. For a husband ...

The letter continued, explaining rather directly the terms of her father's ludicrous will. It expressed with some vehemence,

her distaste for the proviso, and her reluctance to comply. And yet, her tone was wholly resigned.

He peered up once more, not quite certain how it was he was supposed to react to the letter's disclosure.

Or to his father's apparently well-kept secret.

"You've corresponded with her before?"

His da nodded, indicating the carton at his side. Thom peered into it, finding the answer to his question. It was filled to

brimming with old letters. Though his brain went suddenly numb, his hand reached into the carton, withdrawing a letter ... addressed to his father ... from Victoria. And then another. And yet another. He cast an unsettled glance at his da as he removed the fistful of papers from their storage box.

In all these years, he'd never dared seek her out— not even for a fleeting glimpse—not since the day he'd left Blackstone

at her father's dictum.

He'd been handsomely compensated for his departure, of course—his father, as well. Thom had been afforded an education the likes of which no lad of his station might ever have dared even to covet. And his father had been given a substantial enough pension so that he might be able to enjoy the last of his years without working his fingers to bloody nubs. Thom might have been grateful for that much, but instead he'd chosen anger as his balm. He'd wallowed in it, sworn by it.

His father had continued on as gardener at Blackstone for less than a year after his own departure to Eton. No time at all for Thom to get over his resentment enough to ask after Victoria. In his anger and youthful pride, he'd vowed to eradicate her

from his memory, and to vindicate himself to the bloody world. And so he'd committed his years to furthering his assets and

his influence, resolving to show Blackstone that he could make money enough to provide for any man's daughter. Somewhere along the way, he'd forgotten his raison d'etre. Growing his business and his money had become objectives in themselves,

and he'd stepped upon heads aplenty to gain whatever he'd desired. And yet he'd never truly forgotten her.

That much was painfully clear to him as he stared at the elegant scribble of her pen.

"She spent much time after you left reading within the rose arbor," his father explained- "I got to know her very well."

Thom couldn't be certain what he was feeling. It was unreasonable to love a mere memory so fiercely.

And yet there was

no denying the churning feeling in his gut, or the anger he suddenly felt at his da for keeping the letters from him. "You

never said." His tone was clipped and cool, restrained.

It was a long moment before his father seemed able to respond. "I thought it best, son," he answered in a gruff voice. "Her

da gave us so damned much money to leave her be. He didna even want me near her, and so he asked me to go, too. Your

ma and I decided it was best to hide the first letters."

"The first letters," Thom said, eyeing his father coldly. "What about the rest?"

His father shrugged, seeming suddenly fragile and melancholy. "It seemed the right thing to do."

What good would it do him to be angry now? What was done, was done, and the time to make things right with Victoria

long since past. Thom felt a sense of emptiness as he reached into the box, his eyes scanning the addresses. "None to me?"

"None to you," his father answered.

Why did that suddenly dishearten him all the more? Provoke him, even? "Then you did nothing wrong, did you? These

letters are addressed to you, not to me. It was your right to show them to me, or not to, wasn't it?"

Again, his father shrugged. "I think you should read them, Thom," he said only, "before you decide what to feel."

Christ, but he suddenly needed to read them. Damn, but he'd regretted all this time never knowing how she'd fared, never having asked, never having dared to insinuate himself upon her life. He'd gone through his years shoving her image from his memory, trying not to think of her a'tall, because every time he did, he saw her face as he'd left her that day at the foot of

their favorite hill— and he'd felt the anger anew that he'd been judged and found unfit for the company of the
little princess

of Blackstone.

They'd been little more than children then .. . but Thom believed he'd loved her in the purest sense of the word. She'd been

his very best friend, his confidante, and none of the proper lovers he'd known since—even in their maturity—had ever come close to filling the void that Toria had left behind.

So much time had passed ...

He began to read, commenced with the letters that he already held, and found that they'd been written within the past two years; no mention of him, a'tall. He pulled out more, and found one that had been written soon after his departure. The entire letter was an inquiry of him:
How did he fare at school? Did
he ever ask of her? Did he like his new friends? and had anyone thought to send him a blanket?

because in the winter one could never have quite enough.
He glanced up, his gaze drawn at once

toward the rocker, to the blanket his mother had sent him that first winter. His eyes stung suspiciously.

Victoria's concern for him, even after all these years, warmed him, pricked at his heart.

His da seemed to know what he was thinking. "Your ma wept for weeks after you left, feeling helpless. It wasn't until

Victoria suggested sending the blanket that she found an outlet. She commenced to stitching it for you at once, and she

and your sisters worked night and day to complete it."

Thom turned to look into his father's eyes; they were weary and red-rimmed over the memory he'd shared, but full with affection. "I've never said this to you, Thom. And perhaps I'll never get the chance to say it again . .. but I love you, son. Anything your mother and I did, we did because we thought it was the right thing to do."

"I know da," Thom said, and numbly reached into the box again. He searched and found a few more written around the

same time: more of the same page-long inquiries.

There was a long instant of silence between them. "I realize that it's been a long time, son, but read them all, and I think

you'll know what to do," he said. "A man must do what he must, you realize?"

Thom nodded, and was vaguely aware that his father left him at some point to peruse them in privacy.

The majority of the letters had been written in the first three years of his departure to Eton. And then they had slowly

dwindled. The last few years her letters had been sparse, nor had she asked after him any longer.

A tinge of melancholy filtered through him.

If he closed his eyes ... he could almost remember the way she'd looked the day she'd told him she could no longer see him ... the anguished expression upon her face ... her beautiful hair aglow beneath the noonday sun, her green eyes sparkling with those precious diamond-like tears.

He could hardly forget the way it had made him feel.

For the first time in his life he'd been made painfully aware of the differences between them. Somehow, in all their childhood together, he'd managed to overlook the disparaging differences in the sizes of their homes. He'd managed to forget.. . when she'd smiled at him . .. that he'd had holes in his breeches, and sleeves that were entirely too short.. . while she, on the other hand, had worn silks with fragile white lace.

He'd failed to comprehend what it had meant that whilst she'd had servants to tend her, his family served.

That day, in his childhood innocence, he'd promised never to forget her. God only knew he'd tried, despite his vow.

She'd promised never to forget him, too.

He stared at the letters scattered now about him; so many letters. She'd kept her promise for so long, and he'd failed her.

He could still make amends.

It wasn't too late.

His father was right, he did know what to do. She needed a husband, did she?