“Flatterer.” Her eyes narrowed. “You must want something from me. Maybe we can trade. My granddaughter for…?”
“I’m here, in fact, to inquire about the past. You were friends with Miss Abigail Troworth, were you not?”
“I was. I still miss her.”
“She had a companion. A young girl. She would have been around fifteen at the time.”
“No.” Mrs. Wallace shook her head. “She absolutely didn’t.”
“Perhaps she would not have brought her about everywhere. But I am positive that Lady Camilla Worth was her companion.”
“Angela Burbury was her companion, and she was fifty years of age.” Mrs. Wallace frowned. “But… Camilla? Lady Camilla?”
“Yes.”
Her frown deepened. “Tall thing? Skinny? Freckled? Dark hair, brown eyes?”
“Yes,” Christian said. “So you do know her.”
“She had a lady’s maid named Camilla,” Mrs. Wallace returned. “Something of a maid-of-all-work, actually. But not a lady. Surely not a lady, for all she could ape proper speech.”
Christian didn’t say anything.
“Camilla Worth. Oh, dear. That was the family name of the Earl of Linney, was it not? That…unfortunate one who…”
She looked over at him and her lips pressed together.
“Her father was a traitor,” Christian said. “That doesn’t mean she should be passed around and used as a maid.”
“No, no.” The woman shook her head. “I am quite in agreement. I hate to think that is what happened—but.” Her frown grew. “She said something once. I am afraid—no, I am certain.” Her fingers tapped on the table in front of her in agitation. “This is why I hate the present. One is always learning dreadful things that rather destroy one’s appreciation of the past. When I was twenty, and I learned how sugar was made, I was most angry. I had not realized that sweets were so barbaric, and after that, I could never again appreciate a good biscuit.” She looked upward and shook her fist at the painted ceiling. “Damn you, knowledge! Ruining everything good, once again. Learning things is most inconvenient.”
It was likely less convenient, Christian suspected, to be the girl pressed into service. Or the slave who died producing white sugar.
“Do you happen to know where Lady Camilla went?”
“Ah.” Mrs. Wallace set her fingers to her temples. “I believe she went to Edwina Hastings, who lived here temporarily for her husband’s health. But then he died, thank God, and she went back to her mother’s people in Sussex. I believe that Ca—Lady Camilla, that is, went with the household. She was said to be good with children.”
Of course she had been.
Of course Judith had been in tears over what had happened to her sister. He could hardly blame her.
“Have you Mrs. Hasting’s direction?” he asked.
She had.
Chapter Twenty
When Christian sat down to write to Judith on the train to Sussex, he had at first intended to let her know everything he had discovered.
Somehow, however, his starts all became false starts.
Dear Judith,
Good news! Your sister is possibly not dead, although I won’t be certain until—
No. That was not the way to write this letter. He crumpled the paper, tossed it to the side, and started once more.
Dear Judith,
It appears that Miss Troworth in Bath did not quite claim Camilla as a companion. Instead, she used her as something of an unpaid servant. But on the plus side, the family who hired her thereafter may have intended to give her wages, so—
Not that either. A second ball of paper joined the first on the floor of the train carriage.
Dear Judith,
I’ve been reading your brother’s journals. You’ll be delighted to know that I was indeed overly optimistic in imagining what I might make of these names. Your brother was neither stupid nor ineffective. While I can discover everyone who violated England’s treaty with China, the more names I add to the list, the more I realize that I was foolish to imagine something could be done to held these men accountable. The small traders, perhaps, but some of these men are at the highest levels of government. I cannot imagine them being held to account.
What this means, I cannot say. In other news, your sister is still missing, so sorry, and…
No. He couldn’t say any of that, either.
Dear Judith,
I have discovered where your sister was four years ago, and with any luck, she might still be in service—
Dear Judith,
I’ve slept properly for the first time in months. It turns out, I was wrong. I didn’t need your brother’s journals. I needed a better plan. I—
Dear Judith,
Have you noticed that I have an unfortunate propensity to make the worst possible joke at the worst possible instant?
Well. I’ve been researching Camilla’s whereabouts, and I have absolutely nothing to say, so… Who was Shakespeare’s greatest chicken-killer?
No. Even I can’t continue after that. I give this letter up in disgust.
He settled on this:
Dear Judith,
My business is taking me longer than I had expected. I know you had a great many matters still pending when last we…
Talked? Kissed?
…saw one another. Please let me know if I can be of service.
Yours truly,
Christian Trent
Marquess of Ashford
Her reply made its way to him not in Sussex, but in Gloucester, where Mrs. Edwina Hastings had gone after remarrying.
Dear Christian,
Everything is as well as can be expected. It has only been five days, and I am entirely competent to manage my affairs for that length of time. We have shelter; we have bread. The latter is terrible, but I do what I must in the name of pedagogical soundness.
Thank you for your inquiry.
Judith Worth
Mistress of half the upper-floor bedroom
Dear Judith,
I see we’re making a snail’s progress: Climb two feet up the wall, slide down one while we’re resting. I certainly didn’t mean to imply any incompetence on your part. But as a personal matter, I’ve found that issues are easier dealt with when discussed with friends, instead of borne individually.
Try it; you might like it.
Christian
Master of all I see
(Particularly when my eyes are shut)
Dear Bill,
If you must know, I had been missing your advice—however ridiculous it is—with regards to my younger brother. He has suggested numerous occupations he might take on in lieu of returning to that group of youngsters who proclaimed him an ugly duckling.
To wit: He wants to join the Navy.
Or possibly, to just own a boat and/or ship of some sort. (They are apparently not the same thing.)
Or maybe, he prefers to simply run away. He and his sister have had lengthy conversations on this exact point, which I find increasingly disturbing. Young swans these days haven’t any sense whatsoever.
Any advice to give?
Yours,
Fred
Left pond, amongst the algae
My dearest Fred,
Young swans never have any sense, unfortunately. But luckily, they rarely have follow-through, either. Let him dream whatever he wishes for a few days, then demand that he figure out everything that must be done to achieve his dreams.
Chances are, the paperwork will catch him up.
Yours truly,
Bill
Dear Christian,
You were right. I assigned Benedict reading on trade routes, and he is currently complaining that everything is too difficult. It turns out, Newton is correct: Objects at rest tend to remain at rest, and twelve-year-old-boys are even more resistant to motion than regular matter.
Huzzah!
I have been so centered on my own worries that I have forgotten to inquire about you
r business. How goes it?
Judith
Dear Judith,
Well, I spent all yesterday walking to a town just north of Warwick. The stream had flooded, and while I could get past on the makeshift raft they’d rigged, the horses I’d hired from the station could not. It turns out that the man I’d needed to see was in Trowbridge, though, but the time wasn’t wasted.
There were a great many ducks present, there to cavort in the flooded stream, and I passed the hours pleasantly thinking of you.
I was going to work in a joke about how I missed your mallard-dictions, but written down, it doesn’t have quite the same flare. Maledictions. Mallard-dictions. It doesn’t even look right. Some jokes just don’t work in print, which is why I have nonetheless tried to render it here so you can laugh at my cleverness. Or abuse my stupidity.
Whichever brings you more joy.
In any event, I have high hopes for this fellow outside of Trowbridge. It can’t be long now, and then I’ll be back. Perhaps we might talk then.
Yours,
Christian
Judith knew she should not let herself dream.
Yet as she walked down the Mayfair street, she could feel herself wanting to do so. It was as if someone had attached a hot air balloon to her spirits and lifted them a hundred feet in the air despite her better impulses.
After weeks of friendly conversation—weeks of trying not to remembering his kiss, and failing utterly—Christian had sent a note around late last night.
Back in town. Need to see you. Can you come by in the afternoon? I’ll send the carriage.
She’d told the boy there was no reason to send anything. But those words—need to see you—had somehow burrowed under her skin. They’d given her steps an extra spring. They’d felt like a cool breeze in the midst of a sweltering heat. It was all an indication of just how far she’d let her standards fall, that she smiled at the thought of Christian needing to see her the day he returned to London.
Don’t, whispered her rational mind. Don’t believe. This is foolish.
But the sun was shining and the skies were blue, and as foolish as it would be to construct a daydream about a future with Christian, rejecting her current happiness would be rather like throwing away perfectly good bread because children were starving in St. Giles.
Why not enjoy what she had while she could?
God. Bread. She was happy enough that even the thought of perfectly good bread—warm and fragrant, smelling of yeast and slathered with butter, instead of a hard, scarcely chewable lump that vaguely resembled coal in taste and texture—could not destroy her mood.
She smiled as she rapped on the door to Christian’s home. She grinned as she ascended the steps to his office behind the butler. And when he stood for her as the door opened…
She’d forgotten what it was like to smile because someone else was smiling, to feel that they were linked, that his delight was her joy.
She’d missed him. His hair was in messy, dark curls, but he looked…rested, perhaps, was the right word for it. More at peace than she’d seen him.
She couldn’t help but smile, and he apparently could not help but smile back. She might have basked in his smile for hours.
She was in desperate straits and she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Lord Ashford.” She nodded at him.
“Lady Judith.” His eyes rested on her. He’d looked at her precisely like that when he’d seen her on the street after eight years. But he’d not smiled, not like this.
He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. “Do you want anything to eat?”
“Real bread,” she said immediately.
He blinked. “Not scones? Not biscuits?”
She shut her eyes and shook her head. “Real bread. Warm bread. Soft, but with a good, crisp crust. The kind where you can just sink your teeth into it and…and eat it.”
A silence fell on the room, and she opened one eye to see Christian watching her.
“You’re passionate about bread, all of a sudden.”
“Theresa has been making punishment bread.”
“Ah.” He touched on his cravat, loosening it a little as if uncomfortable.
“The least said on the subject,” Judith said primly, “the better. I am not going to give in and let her off her punishment. But I will eat your bread.”
“I would never deny you the opportunity to eat my bread,” he said in a rough voice.
“With butter?” Judith offered innocently. “Because I do love a good hot loaf, particularly when it has been lovingly caressed with a touch of butter, freshly churned.”
He made an inarticulate noise.
“Sometimes,” Judith confided, “I like to spread a layer of butter on my bread and then lick it—”
“Oh my God,” Christian said, clapping a hand to his forehead. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
She laughed. “Talking about how I’d like to lick your butter? Why, yes. I am. I always used to talk of food with you. Do you find it strange that I should do so now?”
“But…” He looked upward. “You were…back then. You were young. Innocent.” He swallowed. “You used to eat strawberries…”
“Do nineteen-year-olds not eat?” She batted her eyes at him innocently.
He shut his eyes. “There was one time over breakfast when you were enjoying it. You were really enjoying it. I was uncomfortable. You asked me if something was wrong with the seat on my chair. You offered to come over and make me comfortable.”
“I remember.”
“I…just…” He looked over at her. “Were you doing it on purpose then, too?”
“For God’s sake, Christian.” She smiled. “I was nineteen, not stupid. Half my friends were already married. I tried to get you to kiss me for half the summer.”
He made a choking noise.
“And you were so adorable,” she continued, “trying so hard not to say anything. I thought you knew.”
“If you had any notion how much discomfort you caused me…”
“Then I wouldn’t have changed a thing,” Judith said.
His eyes met hers. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to do so.”
He rang a bell. When the servant appeared, he asked for bread and butter and lemonade.
“So,” he said, as they waited for the servant to return. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about food.”
“No?”
“I asked you to talk about what I’ve done these last two weeks.”
Judith looked up at him.
“I went to Bath to find your sister,” he said. “I knew if I asked about I could find word of her.”
She could feel her skin getting cold. “But you wrote me from Sussex. And Warwick. And…”
He nodded solemnly. “And all the other places I didn’t tell you about.”
“And she’s not with you.” Judith swallowed. “Dare I hope that…” But she couldn’t complete her sentence. She was afraid to hope.
He shook his head. “But it’s not as dire as it sounds. I found out where she was not two months ago. I believe that wherever she is, she is safe.”
Her heart began to pound. Not swiftly, nor vehemently, but like a clock ticking just a little more loudly. Her throat felt dry. “Where was she?”
“Just outside Trowbridge. She was staying with the local miller. By all accounts, yes, she was acting as an unpaid servant.”
Judith felt her hand clench into a fist.
“A rector who was traveling through found her, recognized her, and took pity on her. He took her in.”
“Who was it?”
Christian made a face. “There things become murky once again. His last name started with a P. But don’t look at me like that. The Church of England keeps records. There aren’t that many rectors who could answer to that description, and traveling through that area? That limits it quite a bit. I came back to London because we can find her more easily from here. It’s simply a matter of time and proper advertising.??
?
“No.” She wasn’t sure if it was a denial or an agreement.
“Judith.” He leaned forward. “We’ve almost found her. I’ve talked to people who saw her two months ago. She was well; they said she was happy. All we need to do is find this P-something fellow. We can advertise; I didn’t want to do that without your permission. But we can find your sister. I assure you, you mustn’t give up hope now.”
“I haven’t.” Judith looked up at him. She was hoping more than she should. “I can maintain hope,” she said quietly.
“Good. Because I’m not finished. I told you my solicitor had promised to do research on that one pesky question regarding your Mr. Ennis. The research is completed.”
“Oh?”
“The answer is: nothing. They found nothing. Not one precedent that would lead to this behavior on your solicitor’s part. No explanation.”
“That sounds utterly awful. Why are you smiling?”
“Because that is the answer,” Christian said. “I know you feel some degree of loyalty to your Mr. Ennis, but with that research in hand, you can go to him and threaten him with exposure. Agh is not some novel legal theory on his part. It was an admission of guilt.”
Judith exhaled. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. She still didn’t.
“I don’t believe you’ll even have to bring suit against him,” Christian said. “Your problem is solved.”
The problem was solved. Solved, by discovering another person Judith could no longer trust?
Mallards.
But life was what it was. She’d lost Mr. Ennis. But perhaps she’d gained…
Christian was still smiling at her. She looked at him—really looked at him. “Christian. I thought you were away on business.”
“And so I was.”
She turned to him. “I thought you were away on your own business. Something that was important.”
His eyes met hers. Her heart was pounding a rhythm in her chest. “And so,” he said slowly, “I was.”
The door to the office opened and a maid in a brown uniform entered. “Here you are, my lord.” She set a tray on the table.
It was bread. It had been sliced by the kitchen into thick, uniform slices. Warm. Steaming. How she’d had the luck to arrive when a freshly baked loaf was ready, Judith would never know.