The Countess's Groom (2 page)

Chapter Three

JUNE 6, 1763

By June, the squirrel was eating from Rose’s hand and Fenmore had permission from the steward to take a week’s leave. He was going to Falmouth—a journey that would use most of his savings—to find out about sailing to America. On the morning before he left, Rose tiptoed into her dressing room and took the case containing her godmother’s rubies down from the shelf.

Boyle was eating breakfast downstairs, but even so, Rose’s palms were damp with sweat as she unlocked the case and raised the ebony lid. Inside, on a bed of white satin, nestled a set of rubies: necklace, brooch, bracelets, and a pair of eardrops. Blood-red stones set in gold.

Rose removed the brooch, locked the case again, and replaced it on the shelf. She tiptoed back to her bedchamber and slid into bed, where her breakfast awaited her on a tray. Her heart was beating fast.

She gave the brooch to Fenmore at the lake that afternoon, while the water lapped at the pebbly shore and the folly gleamed white in the sunlight. Now that his departure was imminent, fears churned inside her. What if he was set upon by footpads? What if he was pressed into the navy? “Be careful.”

“I will, Countess.”

But her fears refused to be quelled. When Rose looked at Fenmore, she didn’t see a servant, she saw the only person she trusted in this world. If something happened to him...

She stood on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Please be
very
careful.”

“I will, ma’am.” He took both her hands in a brief, reassuring clasp. “Don’t worry your head about me.”

But once Fenmore was gone, it was impossible not to worry. The week passed with excruciating slowness. Her anxiety intensified as each day crawled by—and alongside the anxiety, growing robustly, a flourishing weed in a garden of pale and anxious blooms, was doubt.

What if her trust was misplaced?

What if Fenmore had taken the brooch and was never coming back?

…

Will dressed in his new clothes—the shirt with its ruffled cuffs, the double-breasted waistcoat, the frock coat, the brown tie-wig. He surveyed himself in the mirror. He didn’t look like a servant; he looked like a man who had a few servants himself.

Will nodded at his reflection, placed the three-cornered hat on his head, and left the inn, stepping out into Salisbury’s bustling High Street. He strolled along the street, gazing in the windows, and halted at the jewelers.

A bell tinkled as he entered.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The jeweler was a little man with a creased face like a monkey and an elaborately curled wig. “How may I assist you?”

Will took the brooch from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “My mother recently died. She left me her possessions.” Both those statements were true; if the jeweler chose to believe that the brooch came from his mother, it wasn’t his fault, was it?

The jeweler leaned forward to study the brooch. “You wish to have it valued?”

“I wish to sell it.”

The jeweler pursed his lips and scrutinized Will more closely, his gaze flicking from the wig to the embroidered waistcoat to the shoes with their large, shiny buckles. “We don’t usually purchase pieces.”

“I can take it elsewhere—”

“No, no.” The jeweler’s hand closed over the brooch. “We occasionally make exceptions.”

Will watched blandly as the man examined the brooch. At last the jeweler laid the piece on the counter. “I can offer you two hundred guineas. No more.”

Two
hundred
guineas.

Will managed to stop his eyebrows from climbing up his forehead. “That will be fine.”

…

Rose’s relief when she saw Fenmore lead Dancer to the mounting block on Tuesday morning was so intense that her throat closed and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t been mistaken in him. He’d come back.

Once they were out of sight of Creed Hall, Rose reined Dancer in. “It went well?”

“It did, Countess.”

For some unknown reason, his smile made her heart lift in her chest. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said impulsively.

“So am I, Countess.”

Rose urged Dancer forward. They rode through the woods, the horses’ hooves making soft sounds on the loamy soil. She glanced back at him.
He’s my friend.
“Fenmore....will you please call me Rose?” She felt herself blush, as if she’d done something terribly brazen, and hurried on. “If we’re to travel together, you can’t call me Countess.”

Fenmore nodded. “Then you must call me Will.”

The name suited him. A plain, honest, trustable name.

My friend, Will
. Relief at his return rose again, bubbling like joy in her breast.

They held the horses at a canter until they were out of the woods, then Rose let Dancer have her head. The mare plunged forward eagerly. Meadows and hedgerows flashed past.

Rose drank in the scents of summer. She felt as if she could gallop forever. She was lighter than air, flying, soaring.

Finally she eased Dancer to a trot and looked back at Will. He caught her glance and grinned.

They rode back through the fields, scattering sheep, jumping the hedgerows. The dark woods surrounding Creed Hall came closer, until Rose could almost feel the coolness of their shade.

She put Dancer at the last hedgerow. By the time the leaves fell from the trees she’d be in America—

Dancer stumbled as she landed. Rose pitched over the mare’s shoulder, hitting the ground hard. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. For a dizzy moment the world spun around her.

“Countess!”

Rose blinked up at the sky.
Ouch
.

“Countess!” Fenmore loomed above her. She heard concern in his voice; saw it on his face as he dropped to his knees. “Rose!”

“I’m fine.” Rose pushed up to sit. She gave a shaky laugh, brushing dirt from her riding habit. “That was my fault, not Dancer’s. I wasn’t paying attention!”

Will ignored her. He examined her thoroughly, checking her arms and legs, flexing each joint. Lastly he ran his hands carefully over her skull and held her face cupped in his hands, examining her eyes.

“My dignity is damaged, but nothing else.” Rose pulled a face. “I promise you!”

Will released her. “You’ve scratched your cheek.”

“I have?” Rose touched her cheek, where it stung slightly. Her gloved fingertips came away a little bloody.

Will pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to her face. “Hold this. I’ll catch Dancer.”

The mare hadn’t gone far. She came when Will called her.
She trusts him as much as I do.
Fenmore gathered the trailing reins and stroked Dancer’s neck, soothing her. His white-blond hair gleamed in the sunlight.

Rose watched them approach, man and horse. Something tightened painfully in her chest: regret.
Will Fenmore, I wish I had married you, not Henry Quayle
.

Rose shoved the thought aside and stood. She could never have married a man like Fenmore. If not Henry, then she would have been contracted to another nobleman wealthy enough to pay her father’s debts.

Will looped Dancer’s reins over a branch. “Let me see your cheek.”

Rose removed the handkerchief.

Will stroked her cheek with a fingertip. Her skin shivered at the light touch. “It’s stopped bleeding. How do you feel? Can you ride?”

They rode back to the lake and tethered the horses. Rose sat on the folly’s steps while Will cleaned the blood from her face with a damp handkerchief. “All gone,” he said, sitting back on his heels.

“Thank you.” On impulse, Rose leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Will stood, putting distance between them. “I don’t think it will scar.” He walked down to the lake and rinsed the handkerchief.

Rose looked down at her hands.
I shouldn’t have done that
. “Tell me how it went in Falmouth,” she said into the awkward silence. “Did you sell the brooch?”

Will came back to the folly. He sat, laying the handkerchief out to dry between them. The white square of fabric felt like a barrier. “I sold it in Salisbury,” he said. “I thought I’d get a better price there. It’s a bigger town.”

Rose nodded.

Will withdrew a leather pouch from his pocket and held it out to her. “Two hundred guineas.”

“You keep it. I don’t want Boyle to find it.”

Will looked at her for a moment, then nodded and tucked the pouch back into his pocket.

“Tell me about Falmouth.”

“Falmouth.” Will rubbed his forehead. “We’ll need a few weeks there before we sail, maybe even a month. There’s a lot needs to be done. We have to provide our own food for the voyage.”

“We do?” Rose stared at him in dismay.

“Don’t worry. There are ship chandlers in Falmouth. They have everything we’ll need for two months at sea.”

She nodded, relieved.

“Should be several ships sailing in July and August. We just need to pick one that’s going where we want. The thing is, Countess, the ships are trading vessels and mostly the passengers are indentured servants who travel in the holds.” Will grimaced. “I had a look at one. You wouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t mind.” To escape Henry, she’d willingly travel in a ship’s hold, however uncomfortable and dirty it was.

Will shook his head. “We can get you a cabin, pay an officer to move out for the voyage—you’ve enough money for that. But...I spoke with a number of people and they all said it’s not safe for a woman in a cabin alone. You need someone with you, and since I’ll be belowdecks you’ll need to hire a maid.”

Rose looked down at her lap. She pleated a fold of damask. “Would a woman traveling alone with servants attract more attention than a woman traveling with her husband?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want us to stand out. I don’t want anyone to notice us.”
If Henry finds us, he’ll kill us
. Rose shivered. “Can’t we pretend to be married? Can’t we share a cabin?”

“Countess, the cabins are very small. There may only be one bed.”

Rose bit her lip. She pleated another fold of damask. “Then I’ll travel in the hold.”

“With the indentured servants? No.”

“But—”

“It’ll be crowded. If fever breaks out it’ll spread fast.”

“Then you shouldn’t be down there either.”

“I’m stronger than you.”

Rose smoothed the damask over her knee. If Will became ill on the voyage, if he died...

She tried to imagine arriving at an unknown shore, alone. Fear shivered through her again. “No.” She lifted her head. “We’ll share a cabin. And if there’s only one bed, so be it. I trust you, Will.”

He met her eyes. “I’m not sure I trust myself. I like you too much, Countess.”

He wants to bed me.

Rose stiffened and drew back from him. Revulsion crawled across her skin.

Fenmore looked away.

A strained silence fell. She stared down at her hands, clenched on her lap. Which was the better outcome? For Fenmore to travel in the hold and perhaps die of illness? Or for them to arrive at their destination together?

I can’t do it without him
.

If being bedded by Fenmore was what it took to be free of Henry, so be it.

Rose lifted her head and looked at Fenmore, at the sun-browned skin and white-blond hair. He wouldn’t be like Henry. He wouldn’t deliberately hurt her. She tried to recapture the emotion she’d felt earlier—regret that she’d not married him instead of Henry—but it refused to come. She took a deep breath and forced herself to say the words: “If that happened, it would be all right.”

Fenmore turned his head and met her eyes. “No. It wouldn’t.”

She saw on his face, heard in his voice, that it wouldn’t be all right for him—and in that moment she knew that even if
he
didn’t trust himself,
she
did.

“I trust you, Will.” Rose reached out and laid her hand on his forearm. “We’ll share a cabin.”

He swallowed. “Countess...”

“I know you’d never hurt me.”

He stared at her, his eyes intensely blue. “No. I would never hurt you.”

“Then we’ll take a cabin together. It will be all right, Will.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yes,” he said firmly, as if to himself. “It will be all right.”

Rose took hold of his hand.
I trust you
.

Will hesitated, and then returned the clasp. “There is joy in marriage, Countess. If you find the right person to share your life with.”

Rose was suddenly breathless. There was such intensity in his eyes that she could almost believe he saw all the way inside her, to her soul. She forced herself to inhale, to speak. “How do you know?”

“I just know.” His voice was certain, adamant.

Rose was intensely aware of his hand holding hers—warm, strong, calloused. She swallowed, and tried to gather her wits. “Did your parents...?”

“No.” Will released her hand. He grimaced and rubbed his left forearm. “Theirs wasn’t a good marriage.”

“Did your father work at Creed Hall? Was he a butler?”

Will shook his head and rubbed his forearm again. “He was a coachman.”

Rose frowned. “Is your arm hurting?”

“What? Ah...no.” He stopped rubbing his arm. “My father...when he drank spirits, it was as if a devil took hold of him. He used to beat my mother.” His mouth tightened into a grim line. “Once, when I was eight, I tried to stop him. He broke my arm.”

“Oh.”

“The old Earl dismissed him.” Will rubbed his arm as if it still ached. “I don’t know where he went. He could still be alive, for all I know.” He stared at the lake for a moment, frowning, then turned his head and looked at her. “You don’t need to be afeared of me, Rose. I never drink spirits. If that devil is in me, too, it’s never getting out.”

“I know.” She could no more imagine Will hitting her than she could imagine the sun falling from the sky. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed his lean, brown cheek, a friendly kiss, as a sister would give a brother.

“Countess, you really shouldn’t—”

“Rose,” she said firmly. “If we are to be traveling companions.” She clasped her hands around her knees. “When will we leave?”