Authors: Compromised
“Being a second son, Mr. Fontaine had to make his way in the world. Your father would have preferred he put his education to use at the law or stay near home as a vicar or cleric. But your uncle had a taste for the world. He chose the Royal Navy. He died battling the French at Trafalgar.”
Max took this in. “But why would his name and portrait be banished? He was a hero.”
Mr. Merriot put down his glasses and folded his hands over his ample belly, regarding Max with a serious eye.
“Your father…was a good employer, and a man I respected. But he did have his faults.” Max managed to keep his face blank as Mr. Merriot continued. “He was very…disappointed by your uncle’s choice of careers. I think he felt as if he were being abandoned. He never cared much for life beyond England’s borders, but after your uncle left, he outright despised it. When we received word Mr. Fontaine had died, the old Earl began to fold in on himself.”
“He hated my uncle because he left him. Enough to wipe his memory away,” Max stated dully.
“No,” Mr. Merriot replied simply. “I think he removed the portrait…because he didn’t want to be reminded. It hurt, you see.”
Max chewed on this as Mr. Merriot continued.
“It worried us for a time. But you were there, and your father delighted in you when you were small. Your mother tried to be consoling, but she rarely left London…” Mr. Merriot trailed off.
Max sat there silent for a time. Mr. Merriot, his story told (in a rather expedient amount of time for that blustery gentleman), resumed shuffling papers and eyeing Max in turns.
“I was named for him,” Max spoke in almost a whisper. “And then I started to act like him…” Lost in his own thoughts, Max didn’t notice when Mr. Merriot stood, replacing his spectacles on the end of his nose. Awkwardly he patted Max on the shoulder and left the room. The door closed with a soft click.
He could see it now. He could see the reasons, the whys and wherefores his father had leashed Max so tightly as a child. Why he had turned white—with fear, not rage—when he had attempted to sneak off and stowaway on a ship as a lad. That fear of losing someone, or being left alone, drove his father to some terrible actions. Max hated it—but at least now he understood it.
He turned the letter over in his hand. It was so very odd to see his name there, knowing it belonged to another man. How easy it was to slip his finger under the wax seal, cracked and weakened with time.
He had been the recipient of hundreds of missives from his father, but never before had he been so curious to see what he would say. “
My Dear Brother, I hope this letter finds you well and in a timely fashion. Remember, the post outside our borders is not to be trusted, but you should be courteous to whomever carries your letters…Young Max is nearly two now, and a right scamp at that
…the letter went on in that vein, and Max grinned ruefully. There was the same lecturing here that was in the letters he received over the course of his life, but this one he could see was tempered with affection and a little loneliness.
Did his own missives from his father carry those same feelings, and he just hadn’t seen them?
Curious, Max sifted through the pile in which he had found his uncle’s letter. There, mixed in amongst notes to his solicitor, lists of tenants, and old copies of the
Times
, Max found three more letters—all of which were returned undelivered. Looking at the dates, Max could easily ascertain why: They were written before his father was notified of the death at sea.
Suddenly unwilling to sit amongst all the paper and ledgers in the overstuffed study, Max abruptly stood and headed to his bedchamber, taking the letters with him. Once there, he locked the door. In the wardrobe, he located his valise, fished inside its depths, finally locating what he was looking for.
Over the course of his life, from Eton to Oxford to London, the packet of letters had grown to the size and weight of a brick. They had come weekly, always on time, never delayed. Even when he had hated the old man, Max had kept his letters, a habit he attributed it to his own inherited collective tendencies. He hadn’t known why he had thrown the letters in the valise with his shirts and boots. Just a notion, a dim thought that maybe he would want them here.
He sat down in a large armchair by the window. The day was quickly turning to dusk, and in the early summer air, the hills of Sussex seemed to glow with warmth, with magic. Max held the letters to his uncle in one hand, the letters to himself in the other. He began to read.
A
full day and night passed before he put down the last letter his father wrote him, the one prescribing marriage. That missive almost made him chuckle now.
Max stood, stretching his long body. There was a tray of food on a small table by the door, cold now, but Max didn’t care. He was suddenly ravenous. He had read every letter, reviewed every emotion he had felt when he first received them—but now, he could view it with the aid of passed time. His loneliness when first at school, and how he used to pour over the letters, eager for news of anything familiar. The weariness that grew on him as adolescence fought the mold his father had tried to force him into. Every pull, every tear, every moment of rage was remembered. However, this time, he could not picture his father as a horned devil cackling as he wrote his missives. He pictured him much closer to how he had been. Growing old with loneliness, and growing lonely with age.
Such emotional journeys require sustenance, he rationalized, as he thoroughly decimated the cold chicken. After he was good and stuffed, Max rang for his valet.
“Have Jupiter saddled, Harris.”
“Yes, sir,” replied that good man. Then, tentatively, “Are you well, sir? The past day…”
“Has been illuminating,” Max finished for him. As he pulled on his boots, he added, “And yes, Harris, to answer your query. I am well.” He sighed and leaned back, feeling lighter than he had in quite a while. Harris bowed and turned to leave, but Max called him back.
“I have one other task for you.”
IT
only took Harris an hour to locate the portrait of Max’s uncle in the attic. He was a Fontaine, Max said when he charged Harris with the task, and deserves to hang in the hall with the others. While Harris rummaged in the dusty garret, Max took Jupiter across the grounds, running as fast and meandering as aimlessly as the horse wished to.
The weight in his chest, the one that had settled in so deep for the past seven years, was gone. He felt the sunshine on his shoulders and finally felt peace.
When Jupiter’s wanderings took them to the edge of the sea, Max pulled him to a stop. He looked out over the blue waters of the channel, the wind whipping through his hair with the briny smell of the sea whispering of adventure.
He had been a shuttered, angry young man for so long. Tethered, idle in his hiding. He had so often longed to flee across these waters. But now, standing by the edge of the sea, the title of Earl of Longsbowe resting firmly on his shoulders, he no longer wished to escape his life. He simply wished to start it.
BACK
at the manor house, Max took a few moments to admire his uncle’s portrait, sitting in its rightful place next to his father’s. Then, he turned north to London.
IN
Max’s experience, even the most jaded of London Society did not offer up “congratulations” upon the death of one’s parent.
So it was highly perplexing when upon alighting from his carriage in front of Longsbowe House (later than expected, as he had headed toward Weymouth Street before Harris reminded him he no longer lived there), no less than three sets of people passing by offered up their congratulations and best wishes for his future.
Unable to comprehend all the well wishing he received while wearing a black armband of mourning, Max simply shrugged it off as an oddity, as he had far more important things to do. Such as, after a change of clothes, repairing directly to the Altons at Number Seven.
He had told Gail he would sort everything out, and that entailed speaking with her father. Truthfully, he was not looking forward to the conversation. Remembering all too well his first interview with Sir Geoffrey when he applied for Evangeline’s hand, he could easily imagine what the gentleman would think of his transference of affections. But it was best done as soon as possible, and Max was eager to see Gail again. Just one smile, he thought. One smile, and he’d walk into Sir Geoffrey’s library with no hesitation. Hell, he’d walk through fire.
These pleasant thoughts in his mind, Max almost knocked over Mrs. Pickering, who emerged from the door of Number Seven just as Max climbed the front steps, her twin daughters in tow.
Really, Max thought, those girls would never do well for themselves until they began to dress differently.
“Mrs. Pickering”—Max tipped his hat after he steadied himself—“good morning.”
As the twins made identical curtsies, Mrs. Pickering cried, “Lord Longsbowe!” in a high-pitched voice that may very well have indicated delight. “Returned to town, how wonderful! The Alton ladies have been quite desolate without you. One Alton lady in particular,” she finished with a roguish wink. Not many shrill women could pull off a roguish wink, but Mrs. Pickering managed superbly.
Max covered his perplexity with a polite smile. What did she mean by that? Unless, Mrs. Pickering was far more acute than she seemed, and Gail…
“Yes,” the twin he thought was Lilly piped up, interrupting Max’s thoughts. “We were all so thrilled when we learned of your engagement.” After a pointed look from her sister, indicating his black armband, she added, “Er, and so sad when we heard of your loss.”
Max frowned in confusion. What on earth were they talking of? He hadn’t yet asked Gail to marry him, of that he was certain. He had it all planned, too. He would take Gail down to the lake where they first met, unceremoniously throw her in, and then, while she sputtered and raved, he would sink to one knee in the muck and beg for her hand. It would be…
A cold chill settled over Max’s entire body, as the polite smile he kept pasted on his face began to crack. And then, he knew.
Engagement. The prescribed month of acquainting time had long since come and gone. It must have been announced. If the Pickerings knew, everyone did. He was officially engaged.
To Evangeline.
When at last, Max was admitted to the drawing room, Romilla greeted him with cries of rapture, Evangeline with a demure nod, and Gail with silence and a stony stare out the front window.
She most certainly was not smiling.
HE
exited Number Seven an hour later, desperate to hit something. He had sat there, between Romilla and Evangeline, unable to do more than seethe, while Gail…Gail did nothing.
He placed the blame for this disaster exactly where he knew it should go: Romilla. Why was the announcement not discussed? Why had he not been at least informed? He managed to glean from some pointed conversation that the announcement had been placed in the
Times
a fortnight ago! How could he have been unaware that whole time?
You did this,
his mind raged as he watched Romilla command the whole room like the conductor of an orchestra.
You brought this to pass.
Even though some bothersome little corner of his brain played devil’s advocate, pointing out his own involvement in the affair, the rest of him was ready and willing to indict Romilla Alton on the unpardonable charge of unwanted interference. In fact, the only thing that kept him silent in his seat while Romilla and Evangeline chattered over him about lace or some such stupid thing, was the half dozen or so ladies that came to pay calls—all of whom were eager to offer their congratulations.
And all the while, Gail did nothing. She sat at the window seat, staring out onto the street, paying only enough attention to the conversation to give short, distracted answers when asked a question.
It was as if she had transformed back into that wallflower that had too little confidence in herself.
When Gail rose and left the drawing room, giving the excuse of a previous appointment, Max’s hangdog gaze followed her out the door.
Romilla’s gaze, on the other hand, followed Max’s, with an expression decidedly more disapproving.
ONCE
outside, Max tried to decide between running all over town looking for Gail or repairing to Jackson’s Saloon to vent his spleen when someone familiar handed him Jupiter’s reins.
“Jimmy!” Max cried, happy to find an ally. Although to be quite honest, Jimmy’s expression did not read “ally” so much as it did “hostile.”
“Sir,”
he said through tight lips, before turning away and heading back to the stables, causing Max to give chase.
“Jimmy! Wait. You must help me, I need to see Miss Gail alone. Er, again.”
The young man turned, his eyes hard.
“Sorry,
sir
, I doubt the lady would want that.”
“Jimmy, please,” Max begged, adding impetuously, “I’ll pay you. Fifty pounds if you bring her to me.”
Jimmy, not even taking a moment to consider such a large sum of money, simply turned his head and spat on the ground.
Max took the gesture as it was intended.
“My apologies. That was insulting.” He ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair. “Something became mixed up and turned around while I was away, I realize that. But please, help me see Gail. I only want to fix this.”
“And how would you be fixin’ it,
sir
? By makin’ love to one girl and marryin’ her sister?”
Max sighed deeply, but before he could explain the situation, Jimmy continued. “I shouldn’a helped ye before. I may only be a stable hand, but you, sir, are no—”
“I suggest you think carefully before finishing that sentence,” Max said darkly, giving his best imperious glare. Apparently, the imperious glare of an Earl is far more effective that that of a Viscount, because Jimmy did indeed think twice about insulting him. The silence gave Max the time necessary to press his case.
“Please. I love her,” was all he had to say.
Jimmy, ever the romantic, could not be unaffected, and considered Max thoughtfully for a moment. “You’ll not hurt her? Not try nothin’?”
“Never,” Max replied immediately. “You’ll stay within sight at all times.”
“Damn right I’ll stay within sight at all times,” Jimmy replied, “with a hunting rifle to boot.” He rubbed his chin, considering. “All right, I’ll help ye meet her. When an’ where?”
Max felt such relief fill his chest, it was all he could do to keep from embracing the groom. “Thank you. More than words can say.”
“Don’t thank me,” Jimmy snorted. “Half the reason I’m doin’ this is so I can watch her order you to hell with me own eyes.”
IT
may not have looked like hell in the beautiful grotto, but Max certainly felt to be assigned to some form of perdition. Waiting was torture. He had ridden immediately to this place once deciding on it with Jimmy—a place that brought forth powerful memories for him, and he hoped for Gail as well.
He had found it instinctively this time, Jupiter’s hooves following an invisible path to the hidden copse. The warming weather of summer had made the grotto lushly verdant, the sun dappled through the trees on this perfect afternoon, but none of this natural beauty could calm Max’s racing thoughts.
What on earth was he to do? How did he fix this? What if Gail refused to see him? What if she came, but refused to see him ever after? Hours had passed in this way, Max pacing the ground, sitting in the gazebo, standing up again, pacing some more, his mind torturing him with “what-ifs.” Jupiter munched on grass, obliviously content in the knowledge that he was a horse, and therefore not given to getting himself stuck in untenable situations. Or, at least that’s how it seemed to Max.
Such was how Gail found him—pacing, sitting abruptly, standing, and shooting dark looks at his horse. She took a moment to watch him, too sad to smile at his antics. Then she emerged from the trees, Jimmy and his hunting rifle not ten feet behind.
Max immediately stilled, watching her alight from QueenBee, who immediately joined Jupiter. She walked with measured paces, keeping herself from running either to or from him. He showed great restraint in meeting her halfway.
“Gail,” he breathed, moving to embrace her, but she stiffly backed away. She did not meet his eye as she gave a formal curtsy, replying, “Lord Longsbowe.”
So this is how it was to be, Max thought, breaking a little with the need to touch her, and yet not being permitted. She was too lovely to look at, in a new crimson riding habit.
“What happened to your other habit? The, er, green one?” he blurted out.
“I burned it,” she replied, ice in her words.
Of the many small cues Max had received regarding Gail’s state of mind, this spoke the loudest.
“You’re angry.”
“You’re engaged. My congratulations. I can think of no better Countess than my sister.”
“Oh yes there is, there is her sister,” Max retorted, only to see Gail’s eyes narrow.
“Please, do not try to placate me with hollow promises. I have no sympathies left for you to prey on.”
“Gail, darling.” He reached for her again, this time she made a decided step back, maintaining the distance between them at all times. He slowed his step and his breathing. “I didn’t know it was going to be announced, I swear. True, a month was prescribed, but no certain date attached. I would never have left London. I would have stopped it.”
Gail looked at him like he was crazy. She felt the sudden urge to laugh. “You would have stopped it?” she sneered, disbelief dripping from her words. “Your Lordship, please don’t plead ignorance, for I am not. You announced it.”
“What?” he asked, startled. “How?”
“You sent notice to the papers. I realize that was a very eventful day for you, what with your father dying and deflowering me, but surely you can recall sending notice earlier of your impending nuptials.”
“I did no such thing!” he stated vehemently.
“It was in the papers that morning!” she replied hotly. “That morning, after we…” A choke had crept into her voice, robbing her of the emotional detachment she employed like a shield. He watch as she swallowed her anger and summoned a wry tone of voice—but she could not stop her eyes from shining with tears. “I woke up, and there were all these people in our drawing room, congratulating Evangeline on snaring you. And I thought, this is a mistake, they’ve got the wrong girl. But then I saw Mr. Holt and the paper itself, and I…I knew myself for a fool. I’ve been silly and stupid and wrong before, but never have I been so damned ashamed of myself.”
“Gail, I never thought…” But Max was lost in his pain for his Gail, for what she had been through. What he had abandoned her to.
“I was
so
convenient, wasn’t I? Creeping into your room—silly me! Thinking I might be wanted. But who would want me?”
She raged blindly, anger spewing forth, cutting at him as surely as a rapier would.
“I want you. You know that,” he tried gently, and in an added attempt at humor, “and I assure you, you are the least convenient creature in the world.”
She simply stared off sadly. Coldly.
“When I never received an answer to my letter…” She shook her head at her own foolishness. “I half expected you to rush to London once you received it, but at the very least I thought you’d send a reply.”
A lone tear trailed down her cheek, she kept her profile to him. He didn’t reach for her.
“I never received a letter,” he said quietly. Another tear rolled, but she simply shrugged.
“Does it really matter now?”
“Yes, it matters,” Max replied, emphatic. “If I had, I should have seen your name and flown back here. The whole time I was away, you were not far from me. Every damn day I thought of you. Every damn hour.”
For a moment it seemed she might believe him. Then she looked up at him, all the tears she had for herself gone from her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was bare.
“Where do I stand with you, Max? Where the hell do I stand with you? One moment I’m the love of your life, and you mine, and everything will work itself blissfully out, but that’s not what happened, is it? All that occurred was we stayed on the same course set out by circumstance months before, with you marrying Evangeline, no matter your feelings for me, or hers for you, or what you and I have known together.”