Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (14 page)

“Well, neither of us can come to the other’s home until the election is over, or risk our assorted menfolk accusing us of duplicity,” Elsa pointed out. “The village is neutral territory. Speaking of duplicity, what can you tell me about Fleck’s favorite Whig?”

Elsa had kept an eye on her drive, expecting Norman to appear, not sure whether she hoped for the visit or dreaded it. Thus far, it had been a moot point, for he had not come.

Laura twirled her parasol between her fingertips. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me, of course, but last night, Sir Seymour told Mr. Wynford-Scott that they would spend today visiting the mills and some of the outlying farms. Mr. Wynford-Scott is most eager to prove himself a friend to the common man. He said something about farmers being like mothers to us all. Mr. Alderly laughed, but you know, I think Mr. Wynford-Scott really meant it.”

He would have, Elsa thought. Norman had a way of seeing the good in others—or the potential for it. Even her, she realized. Though she’d shamed herself with drunkenness in front of Norman numerous times, he’d still asked her help with his Christmas revels.

For the first time, she wondered why. She’d been a mess back then, starting her day with gin in her tea and continuing to imbibe until she passed out at night. As she’d pointed out to whoever would listen, Norman was an intelligent man. Inexperienced with women, perhaps, but he was well aware of her predilection for drink. Hell, on more than one occasion, he’d had to see her home when she was too far gone to take care of herself.

And yet, knowing what he knew about her, he had asked her to assist him in staging what would be an incredible feat for him at Gray’s Inn. He’d trusted her. Believed in her.

Misplaced trust
, said the little voices.

She’d spoiled his important night; it was true. But that didn’t give him leave to come here and torment her, to stir Guilt and Shame back to life when she’d being doing so well to forget the muck she’d made of everything in London.

Unaware of her companion’s dour musings, Laura went on, “And then tomorrow, Mr. Wynford-Scott is going canvassing here in the village. Oh, there’s Mrs. Keane,” Laura interrupted herself to wave at the barber’s wife stepping out of the vicarage, cradling her infant son.

Laura and Elsa bent over baby Jacob and lavished him with compliments. As Mrs. Keane went on her way, Elsa felt a pang of longing in her heart. Politics were a cold replacement for a child, but she would find a different sort of fulfillment as Oliver’s political hostess.

“When I came down this morning,” Laura said, her eyes also following the young mother, “Sir Seymour and Mr. Wynford-Scott were already gone from the house. I was glad to have our meeting to look forward to, for I don’t care to be left alone with Mr. Alderly.”

Elsa raised her brows. “What’s he done?”

“Nothing, he’s just too ... oh, I don’t know. Too polished, I suppose. Too witty. Too charming. Too well dressed. He’s perfectly polite, but I can’t help but think there’s a hidden meanness beneath all that civility.”

Elsa suppressed a shiver. Her friend’s words reminded her of her late husband. Her gaze moved down the lane where she saw an enormous horse plodding their way, a smallish figure on his back, and a tall man striding alongside. When they came a bit closer, Elsa could see that it was Sir Seymour astride Apple. The squire’s face was pale, his lips pulled tight.

“Sir Seymour!” Laura ran to intercept them. “Husband, what’s happened?”

Norman caught Elsa’s eye. A shadow of worry creased his brow, but he nodded at her in greeting.

Sir Seymour made a bow from the saddle, which drew a wince. “Good morning, my dear. Lady Fay. Nothing to worry about, darling. Just wrenched my knee, is all.”

“Where is your horse?”

“Left him at Olstead’s place. Made a damned fool of myself bragging to Mr. Wynford-Scott here how Jasper and I could take the millstream. Cleared it just fine, but the horse landed hard and stumbled. Pulled his shoulder, I think, and down I went.”

“You made a fine showing,” Norman assured the squire. “Lady Beaufort, you’d have been proud. Your husband threw himself clear of the horse and rolled, nimble as an acrobat. If it hadn’t been for catching his foot on a root, he’d not have a scratch on him.”

“Generous assessment,” Sir Seymour grumbled. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hobble from here. The surgery’s just there,” he said, pointing, “and sitting on this confounded broad beast of yours has made me numb in places I’d rather not mention in front of the ladies.”

Norman assisted Sir Seymour down. The squire put his arm across his wife’s shoulders, and together, they staggered to the surgeon’s house just down the way.

After the couple disappeared through the door, an awkward silence fell between Elsa and Norman. They looked at one another, the air thick with things better left unsaid.

“I’d best be on my way, then.” She nodded before adding, “Good morning, Mister—”

His hand shot out, clasped her shoulder. “Elsa, don’t go. Please. I don’t like this coldness between us.”

“How novel, to hear you pleading with me to stay, as I so clearly recall begging the same from you, when I was in need. A request you flatly refused.” She widened her eyes as if an epiphany had just come to her. “Perhaps
that’s
the reason for this coldness between us.”

Lifting his hat from his head, Norman swiped the back of his wrist across his brow. His face was smudged with dirt. “That’s not how it was, Elsa. You’d made it clear you didn’t want anything more from me after ... Well, after.” Elsa’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and he hastily went on, “Besides, you needed to do things on your own, didn’t you? Fight your habit. Stand on your feet and face it down yourself.” He smiled, that shy, lopsided, boyish smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and her stomach flip. “You did it, didn’t you? I knew you would. And you look wonderful now, Elsa, healthy and well and beautiful and—”

“So why are you here?” she blurted, tamping down the little spurt of pleasure at his compliment. “Why have you come now, if I need to stand on my own? Because you
are
here on my account, aren’t you?”

“Elsa ...” he said cautiously. “It isn’t so simple.”

“Aren’t you?” she insisted. He said nothing, just stood there looking so torn, like she was the one hurting him, instead of the other way around. “I don’t understand you, Norman. You abandoned me months ago. And yes, I did find my way through it, but it was hell, Norman. It was hell. I really could have used a friend.”

He flinched. “Are you saying I should have spent the winter living in your house?”

“Of course not, you great lummox, but you could have written. You could have asked how I was getting on. Instead, I only had the occasional note from Sheri, and those have become nothing but bland niceties since he married. As it should be,” she added primly, “but it didn’t leave me with much in the way of contact with the outside world.”

A muscle in Norman’s jaw ticked. “Perhaps I should have written,” he conceded, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I didn’t know whether my correspondence would be welcomed. And there were matters demanding my attention.”

Something in his tone raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. “What matters?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t signify.” Apple bent his neck and lipped Norman’s pocket.

“Are you carrying sugar around? He’ll burst his buckle, if you aren’t careful.”

“He likes it,” Norman answered defensively, fishing out a treat for the greedy equine. “I feel badly that he has to carry gigantic me around. The occasional lump of sugar seems fair compensation for services rendered.”
Elsa couldn’t resist softening at the sight of the large man feeding his horse a sweet, his pale face streaked brown. “Why are you dirty?”

“Mr. Olstead’s plow had flipped into a ditch. The way it was laying, it was too much for his horse to drag out on its own.”

“So ...
you
teamed up with the horse to pull out the plow? Why didn’t you have Apple do it?” At Norman’s scandalized expression, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes, how forgetful of me. Poor, overworked Apple. Wouldn’t like to make the draught horse pull anything. Heaven forfend.”

He laughed at her teasing, a wonderful, open-throated sound that made her close her eyes in pleasure. Her blood quickened, and needy sensations darted across her skin. She never took a lover while she was in Fleck, but it had been a long time since she’d had an assignation. Months and months. The sample she’d had of Norman’s lovemaking that fateful night in the inn now seemed a stingy morsel. She wanted to go to bed with him. Badly. But it couldn’t happen. Not in Fleck. Perhaps nowhere. Not when he stood in the way of her regaining her place in London political circles, the one place she knew she could live a fulfilling, sober life.

“Go back to Gray’s, Norman,” she said quietly when his laughter subsided. “Surely you’re due to be called to the bar this term. Withdraw from this campaign. Please.”

He took a step closer. And another. Elsa’s stomach fluttered. One of his hands cupped her nape, the other slipped to the small of her back, and he pulled her close. She’d missed them, those hands that had brought her such exquisite pleasure. To have them upon her again was bliss. He was warm and smelled of dirt and horse and fresh air and still that steady, sure aroma that was pure Norman. Her breasts plumped, her nipples taut with anticipation.

He brought his head alongside hers, touched his nose behind her ear. Elsa felt the hairs of her temple caught on his mouth. Was he going to kiss her? Was he going to—

“I cannot go back to Gray’s,” he murmured, “and I will not withdraw from this contest. I want that seat, Elsa, and I will win it.”

Turning her head sharply to meet his eyes, Elsa’s heart caught in her throat. The soft green of his eyes gleamed with warmth and wanting, and she had the oddest suspicion that when he spoke of winning the seat, he wasn’t talking about Parliament, at all.

The following morning found Norman looking down the length of Weatherhill Lane. Located on the eastern edge of Fleck, the stone-paved street was lined on one side with houses, while the land dropped away on the other side of the road to overlook a dell, through which ran the millstream where Sir Seymour had suffered his accident the previous day.

Each house on Weatherhill Lane had only a scrap of garden, but the residents had made the most of their little portions of earth. He unlatched the gate of the first house and stooped to pass beneath an arbor draped with wisteria vines. A middle-aged woman in a plain brown dress with a white apron tied about her waist answered his knock with a white apron tied about her waist.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Good morning, madam,” Norman said, touching the brim of his hat. “My name is Norman Wynford-Scott, and I am standing for the vacant Commons seat here in Fleck.”

“Are you now?
Hmm.
” She gave a nod of approval. “I’ve lived in Fleck all my life, and no one standing for Parliament has ever bothered coming to my door. Would you like to come in?”

“Jess, who’s there?” called a man’s voice.
“Mr. Wynford-Scott,” the woman returned over her shoulder. “Standing for Ben Jonson’s seat, he says.”

“
What?
” There was a clatter of crockery, and then the man of the house appeared, wiping his palms down the front of his waistcoat. “The Whig, are you, young man?”

“Yes, sir.” Norman extended his hand. “Norman Wynford-Scott, at your service, sir.”

“John Gregory, at yours. My word, that’s quite a grip you’ve got there, young man. I suppose you’re here to persuade me to vote for you.”

Norman chuckled. “I would be honored to have your vote if you feel I’ve earned it. Mostly, however, I wanted to introduce myself and ask what issues are on your mind and discuss what the government can do to help address those problems.”

Husband and wife exchanged an impressed look. Gregory placed a hand on his chest and mummed a chest pain. “The Lord might as well take me now, for I’ve seen it all. A politician asking what he can do for me!”

They passed a lively ten minutes discussing matters ranging from taxation to refuse disposal. Mr. Gregory shook Norman’s hand again before he departed and pledged his vote. Norman was smiling wide as he knocked on the next door. Robin Alderly had offered to come along with the registry of electors so Norman would know ahead of time who dwelt in each house, but Norman preferred to do things this way, learning about Fleck’s constituents from the people themselves, rather than from a ledger.

In the next house dwelt two spinster sisters. There was no vote there for Norman to earn, but that did not stop them from voicing their opinions on civic matters large and small. “Agatha, what was it you said about the window tax? Do you remember? Oh, a year or so ago, I suppose. No, I didn’t think to mark the date! It was so clever, Mr. Wynford-Scott could surely benefit from hearing it. What was that? You’ll have to speak up, dear.”

Norman, too, had trouble hearing the lady, for a clamor had started up at the opposite end of Weatherhill Lane. Glancing toward the hubbub, he saw a group of about a dozen people waving orange pennants and streamers. A fiddler and flutist playing lively tunes gave the procession a carnivalesque air. Two persons broke away from the front, a man and a woman. Though separated by the distance of ten houses, Norman immediately recognized Elsa, her black hair tied up in a crown woven with orange ribbons and her dress likewise festooned with Tory-orange trimmings. The man beside her he presumed to be her cousin, Mr. Oliver Fay. The gentleman wore an orange hat and gloves with his otherwise subdued ensemble. Buoyed by the cheers of their supporters, Elsa and Mr. Fay approached the door of the first house on that end of the street.

What were the odds that on the very day Norman came canvassing Weatherhill Lane—the first time in living memory any candidate had done so, according to the residents—the Fay campaign would show up on the very same street for the very same purpose? “Unbelievable!” he bellowed.

“That’s what I said, when Agatha put it to me that way!” agreed the old spinster. “A tax on air and light—gifts to us from God Himself. By what right does Parliament justify such a taxation?”