The Water's Kiss (5 page)

“Mmmm, perhaps.” Landsdown wasn’t drunk. Evan had sensed that the earl wanted the other man drunk, for some reason he didn’t understand.

“I think he’s part rat, somewhere deep inside,” Tetley had chortled. “Have to be, with some of the clients he manages. Can’t be a solicitor without a bit of rodent in you.”

And with that, Evan realized they were talking about his father.

To Landsdown’s credit, he’d not said any malicious or negative words against Evan’s father. The incident left a sour taste in his mouth, though, but also a valuable piece of information he collected, like pennies in a cup.

When Landsdown ended the possibility of engagement to Claire, his father had said plenty bad about the earl, so in Evan’s mind, they were a bit even. And when Evan had suggested he appeal directly, his father had shot him down, hard.

“Not worth the bother!” Sebastian Michaelson had thrust his hands into his hair and shoved back so hard Evan was certain the scalp would begin to bleed. “I have tried, and tried, and the...the cur will not speak with me!”

“Father!”

“Oh, stop. You’ve heard the words before. You’ve been to war, for God’s sake.”

“I went to war for my sake, not God’s.”

“Well, right now Landsdown thinks he is God. Or, at any rate, a Queenmaker. He truly believes he will have three daughters as queens and grandsons as kings! Mad!” Sebastian had smacked the heel of his hand against the edge of his thick oak desk.

“Let me talk with him,” Evan had pleaded. Why had he asked permission? He should have just gone. The spell Father had over him sometimes made him question his own judgment. Leading men in battle had been no problem. Making instant decisions that led to lives being sacrificed had not made him falter.

Here? Now? He felt like a ten year old.

Extinguishing that feeling was critical as the seconds passed and his father pondered. A slow dawning peeled back Evan’s hesitation. Being at war hadn’t made him a man. This moment, though, would.

“No! I still manage some of his money. Losing his daughter is a sad, infuriating turn of events. Losing his money – that would put me into mourning.”

Had Evan actually opened his mouth and responded instantly, profanity worse than any sailor’s would have spewed out of his mouth like vomit. Instead, he waited, watching the clock over Father’s head as it ticked off fifteen seconds.

Finally, he spoke. “I will speak with Landsdown, Father. Just because you failed does not mean that the same fate holds true for me.”

As he left and heard his father’s angry mutterings, he was grateful for his own paper-thin restraint.

On the ride to the Hanscombe estate, though, the horse heard what was meant for his father, seeming to take the insults personally as he sputtered and walked along slowly, maliciously obeying his master – but on his own terms.

“Bavaria? What is Bavaria? It sounds like a disease a cow might contract,” Claire declared, crinkling her nose in disgust.

“It is a kingdom,” her father puffed. “While quite new, and just established a few years ago, the king has a son who shall rise to be king himself one day. And you, my dear, would make a perfect Queen of Bavaria.”

“I should sooner be Queen of the Fairies, father, and eat their droppings on my morning toast.”

“Claire!” he shouted.

She had let her mouth get the better of her and bowed her head in deference. “I apologize, Papa.”

His lips pressed together in anger, he nodded curtly. A cold dread seeped into her bones; this was real. Papa had sent inquiries. Bavaria? Was that even in Europe?

As if reading her mind, Papa said, “It is south of Prussia. A perfectly fine state. Maxmillian I is the current king and his son, Ludwig, seeks a wife. You might find him to be a good match,” he sniffed, as if she had said otherwise.

Truth be told, she didn’t care if Ludwig was seven feet tall and made of gold. She wanted Evan, sweet, tempting Evan, and being married off to some new prince wasn’t going to get her closer to her true love.

“When will you hear more, Papa?” she asked, keeping her head bowed.

Dismissive wave. “Weeks, my dear. I will keep you informed.” His clipped tone told her to leave; she slipped out of the library and fairly ran to her rooms, flinging herself on the bed. Supper had passed and the day slipped away as dusk emerged, soaking up the light and making the evening chill seem as cold as deep winter’s weather.

“Miss?” Bridie entered the room, standing near Claire’s sobbing body, hands clasped before her in an eternal gesture of patience and deference. “Can I help you with your dress?” Ever polite, Bridie was a steady presence, nearly as wide as she was tall, with a smile that seemed to stretch all the way around the world. Her apple-red cheeks, flaming hair, and freckles that never ended made her seem friendly, open, and more of a comfort than any other person in Claire’s life. While not quite a friend, Bridie was more than a maid, and right now her companionship was sorely appreciated.

Claire turned her back to her maid, a gesture not of shunning but one of practicality, for the young Irish girl worked the complicated buttons until Claire was free. Bridie had been with her since they were children, one of the many young, poor girls who came to England in search of a home and a job. Claire knew little of Bridie’s home life but gathered from the way she flinched when any man raised his voice that she had not fared well in her early years. Hired at the house at age thirteen, Bridie was barely two years older than her lady; her sister Mary was just eleven months older than Bridie, and had worked at the estate as Sara’s maid.

Claire sighed as she undressed down to her chemise, reaching for her evening robe and pulling it on. “A cup of tea?” Bridie asked, hanging Claire’s clothes carefully, smoothing the wrinkles with her hands, then turning to her own, simple, gray cotton frock, smoothing it across the swell of her hips. Stomach clenched and slightly sour, Claire didn’t want tea, but nodded. She suddenly needed some peace, and Bridie would have to go into the kitchen to fetch the tray, leaving Claire a bit of breathing space.

The maid stopped at the threshold and paused. “Yes, Bridie?” Claire asked.

Reaching into her pocket, Bridie pulled out an envelope. “If it pleases you, Miss, would you kindly read this to me?” The envelope she handed Claire was of a familiar paper. Sara’s. please read this to me?” The envelope she handed Claire was of a familiar paper. Sara’s.

“So your sister has written you?” Claire smiled.

Bridie sighed, a great
whoosh
of relief. Her face brightened. “Yes, Miss. Someone did the writing for her, of course, but I can’t read it. Could you, please? I don’t want to ask just anyone, for
he
might learn of it.” Her face twisted with the word
he
.

Claire knew full well why;
he
was the reason the sisters were apart.

Mary’s husband.

It had taken a tremendous amount of work, and not a small amount of disapproval from Papa, to convince him to help Mary. Steven, Mary’s husband, worked in the stables at the Michaelson’s estate, whipping horses into shape and breaking their will. Applying those same techniques to Mary had meant the girl came to work with bruises, scratches, and wounds – injuries she stayed quiet about, lying when asked what had happened.

By the third, “Oh, Miss Claire, I fell. I’m so clumsy!” in response to a question about a black eye so profound that the individual knuckles of the inflicter could be seen in the bruise itself, Claire had finally insisted Mary tell her the truth. Instead, the maid had fled, off to Sara’s rooms to hide with her own lady.

Her twin had been as repulsed and confused as Claire. When Sara’s betrothal to her prince was announced, Bridie had come to Claire with a plan.

Now, Claire opened the letter and read aloud from the handwritten note, the penmanship so poor and the spelling quite weak. The person Mary relied on must have been half-illiterate, but Claire could understand the intent:

Bridie,

Me and the lady are here and safe. Oh, how they have so much! My werds are not good enuf to tell you how nice it is here. The sun shins all the time. It is so new. I am happy and hope you are, too. Please thank Miss Clair for me and tell her I will alwas be graytful.

Your luvin sister,

Mary

Bridie’s eyes teared up and she reached for Claire in a sudden embrace. “Oh, Miss Claire, thank you so very much! You saved her life!”

Claire returned the embrace, her arms sinking into Bridie’s waist. “I did no such thing! I just asked Papa to let her go with Sara.”

After releasing Claire, Bridie sniffed, then wiped her eyes with her apron. “You did so much more. You and Miss Sara. You know Your Grace weren’t pleased to send Mary off.” Her voice trailed down to a fearful whisper.

“Then let us not speak of it more.” She handed Bridie back the letter and smiled.

Bridie caught her sadness, cocking her head to the side as she studied her lady’s look. “You’re sad about something, and it’s not my sister. Whatever is wrong?” Claire stiffened and Bridie pulled back. “Unless you do not wish to talk to me. I can go,” she added, realizing she might have overstepped her place.

Claire sighed. “No, Bridie, stay. I am just sad that Evan has not fought for me.”

“Not fought for you?” Bridie cried out. “But of course he has!”

“No. Papa pointed it out today. He broke off my betrothal and Evan seems to have accepted it without argument.”

Opening and closing her mouth several times as if to say something but hesitant, finally Bridie uttered, “Oh Miss Claire, he loves you so! It’s in his eyes. Those eyes are so bright it hurts to look at them. Yet,” she giggled, “it is always worthwhile. Like a little present to brighten your day, a look from Mr. Evan is.”

A fleeting, almost physical memory of Evan at the waterfall flickered through her mind, the lush sensation of her own physical form so close to his almost tangible, as if she could reach into her own thoughts and touch his face, stare into those brilliant eyes, taste those lips.

Bridie interrupted her reverie. “Perhaps he has a good reason,” she announced, her voice emphatic with certainty.

A small fawn played at the wood’s edge on the lawn, within direct view of Claire’s window, dusk making the air seem thick, the animal moving slowly, as if through water. Horse hooves clopped loudly in the courtyard, frightening it away. Claire watched the deer disappear into the woods, scared by something large and mysterious.

“Whatever his reason, it still hurts,” Claire replied, her eyes filling with tears.

All Bridie could do was look down, nod in agreement, and leave her miss to her own thoughts. “I’ll be back with tea in a moment,” she said, closing the door.

Without purpose, without intent, Claire felt her eyes close, her head float into nothingness, and when sleep took over she was too tired to register her own relief. She would dream of long carriage rides and a stark, distant land with oversized people bearing red gifts and too much wine, with evil smiles and needy hands. In the morning, she would remember nothing, though, but the twinges that turned to thick vibrations of pain at knowing she was so powerless against her own fate.

“You have no appointment, Sir,” the Landsdown’s footman, Charles, patiently explained to Evan as they stood in the grand, marble-lined foyer of the earl’s mansion. He’d known the man since childhood, and hope had sprung within when he’d answered the door, but no level of familiarity would help him now. The resolute look on Charles’ face told him he’d not have the earl’s attention.