Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (22 page)

Laura’s eyes shone with moisture. “Mr. Wynford-Scott is in the stable yard. I’ll walk with you.”

The two women strolled into the damp morning air. Low gray clouds threatened rain, but Elsa would not be put off by inclement weather.

They found Norman in the back of a cart, working with Sir Seymour to affix a bronze alarum bell to a frame that had, in turn, been hastily hammered into the vehicle. Norman lifted his head and smiled at her in greeting, that sweet, boyish smile that melted her bones. She lifted a hand in return.

The beast harnessed to the wagon glumly toed the earth. “Well, well, well.” Elsa sauntered over, hands planted on hips. “Looks like a certain someone will have to earn his supper for once?” Apple tossed his large head and gazed into the distance, avoiding Elsa’s teasing gaze, his demeanor one of wounded dignity.

“All set,” announced Sir Seymour. He clambered out of the cart and came to bow over Elsa’s hand. “You’re very courageous to subject yourself to further scorn, my lady. Whatever comes ...”

“I told her,” Laura filled in.

“Whatever comes.”

Turning her head, she looked to where Norman stood in the back of the wagon. Behind him, the gray clouds were illuminated from within by the morning sun, setting him against a striking backdrop that accentuated the lines of his jaw and broadness of his shoulders in their dark blue coat. A light breeze teased strands of hair peeking out from beneath the brim of his tall beaver hat, tousling them about his ears and strong cheekbones. She exhaled a little sigh. He was
so
delicious.

Soon, the two of them were settled in the wagon, and Norman snapped the ribbons, setting a reluctant Apple to work.

“Did you sleep last night?” Norman asked as the cart merged onto the road leading into Fleck.

Elsa shook her head. “Only a little. You?”

Norman tipped his hat in greeting to a farmer guiding several cows along the road with a long switch. “The same.” He slanted a look down at her. “You know, you don’t have to—”

“I don’t have to do this,” she interrupted, rolling her hand. “So I’ve been told.” With a laugh, she looped her hand through his arm. “Even Apple is committed to the cause now. I’ll not be the one to back away. Perhaps you wish to abandon our plan?”

Norman puckered his lips and twitched his head once to the side. “Not a chance.”

They rolled on into the village, all the way to the green at the center of town. People going about their business paid little notice of the cart with its passengers and strange cargo consisting of a single bell.

Norman gave Elsa a hand, and she gingerly stepped her way into the back. After setting the brake, Norman hopped into the back with her. Elsa clanged the bell for long minutes until people poured from their houses and shops to see what the commotion was all about. Her head threatened to split from the din.

Once a crowd of several dozen had gathered around, Norman raised his hands for quiet. “Good people of Fleck, I bid you a good morning and beg a moment of your time.” His rich baritone poured over the assembly like warm molasses. “Yesterday, many of you saw a caricature that I need not describe further. I have come before you today to disavow that illustration. It was produced by someone attached to my campaign, without my knowledge or consent. However, I wish to personally apologize for the illustration and its distribution, as well as any contention it may have caused to arise between neighbors.”

He glanced at Elsa and nodded. Taking her cue, she drew a deep breath, then stepped to stand at his side. He gave her a private smile of encouragement, but Elsa’s nerves had already settled. Standing beside Norman, she felt like she could conquer the world.

“For my part,” she called out, her voice threadier than his, “I hold no ill will toward Mr. Wynford-Scott for yesterday’s incident.” She met the eye of one of the men who had made a bawdy remark at the mercantile. He ducked his head, abashed. “I know Mr. Wynford-Scott to be a man of valor and integrity. It is my wholehearted belief that he is the best choice for election to Parliament.”

A buzz went through the crowd as Norman shot her a startled glance. Her endorsement had not been part of the plan. Elsa chuckled softly and shrugged. She was a political creature at heart.

“Yeah, but is it true?”

Elsa pulled her attention back to the gathering, her eyes scanning for the speaker. Ah. Mr. Thomson, the baker. “Beggin’ your pardon, milady, but since you’re here to talk about it, that’s what we all want to know. What the picture showed, did it happen?”

A rumble of agreement circled the cart. Elsa and Norman were isolated in the midst of gossipy villagers hungry for the juiciest scandal to hit the borough in years. Norman’s mouth hardened; she saw his shoulders pull back, ready to do battle defending her.

It wasn’t necessary. Elsa knew Fleck. She’d known this was coming. She lifted her chin, refusing to appear weak. “Yes, it happened.” An excited murmur swept through the assembly. Elsa raised her hand for silence. When she had it, she continued, “That illustration depicts what I consider to be the lowest point in my life. You see, for some years, I have struggled with the habit of drunkenness, and that night at Gray’s Inn was the culmination of a period of ever-increasing consumption of spirits. I am not proud of what happened, but after that terrible night, I made a drastic change in my life. Since that night, for 115 days, I’ve not had a single drink of intoxicating liquors.” There was a smattering of applause, but most people just looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Denny,” she addressed the tavern keeper standing near the rear of the crowd, “I see the look you’re giving me. I bought scotch from you yesterday. As you may imagine, I was feeling very low after certain events, and I felt driven to drink.” Someone in the audience gasped. “But, I did not. Thanks to the intervention of a dear friend, I remembered my promise to myself, and I threw the liquor away.”

There was a rousing cheer, and the smile Norman beamed at her radiated pride and admiration.

The crowd dispersed after that, with a few people approaching the cart to shake Norman’s hand. The abashed man shuffled over and apologized to Elsa for his behavior.

Back on the seat, Elsa waved as they pulled away from the green to continue their tour of disavowal and confession. Norman was quiet, only clucking directions to his reluctant draught horse as they wended their way through the village.

For Elsa, the experience of public confession set something inside her into motion. Pressure built up in her ribs. More than anything, she wanted Norman to know her. Only a full accounting would do. “I have these awful voices inside me sometimes,” she blurted, “Guilt and Shame, telling me how wretched I am, how little I’m worth.”

Norman’s startled eyes flew to hers, his brows drawing together in a hard line. He pulled Apple to a stop in the middle of the narrow lane and turned to face her. Though she held his gaze, Elsa shifted nervously. He would call her crazy now or demand additional information.

He didn’t.

“Where did those voices come from?” he asked instead, pinning her with a fierce gaze.

“I don’t ... They’re just there.”

“Since when? Did you parents tell you you were worthless? A governess, or a tutor?”

She shook her head and lowered her eyes, her chin quavering. This was a mistake.
Please don’t ask me about him. Please don’t—

“Was it your husband?”

The weight of years bore down on her shoulders, pressing her into herself. Elsa covered her face and curled downward until her forehead came to rest on her knees. Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs.

Norman plucked her from the seat and settled her into his own lap. His body curved protectively around her, sheltering her while she cried.

“I never had a babe,” she gasped. “Every month, when my courses came, he beat me. He stuffed my bloody rags into my mouth so the servants wouldn’t hear and he ... he ...”

“
Shh
, it’s all right,” he crooned, rocking her side to side. “You don’t have to tell me. That’s all over now, Elsa. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you ever again.” For a while, he simply held her, his chin tucked over the top of her bonnet, with one hand cradling her ear and the other stroking up and down her back.

“You’re so brave,” he murmured. “My beautiful, brave Elsa. You did nothing wrong, nothing to deserve such treatment. Many women are barren; that’s no moral failing, it’s simply—”

She laughed bitterly. “I couldn’t begin to tell you whether or not I’m barren because, you see, Harvey was impotent. He couldn’t reach completion.”

Norman’s body stilled around her; a dangerous energy pulsed through him. Then his hand resumed its path up and down her spine. Elsa expected him to ask more, maybe a reckless shred of her heart even wanted him to press—to ask if that’s why she’d bedded a dozen men since then, desperate to prove to herself that his inability hadn’t been because she was undesirable, as Harvey frequently claimed—but Norman didn’t. He didn’t. He just held her and kissed the top of her head and her temple and her cheek and then her head again.

“This is why it was so important to me for Oliver to win the seat in Parliament. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is politics—helping a man’s political career. If I can’t do that, I fear succumbing to those voices again, sliding back into my drinking habit.” She drew a shuddering breath. “That was my fear, anyway. Ever since I left Oliver’s campaign, I’ve determined that it doesn’t matter if I’m never involved in politics again. I won’t allow this thing to best me.”

Elsa’s tears seemed to have knocked loose the last of the plaque of sorrow and guilt and shame that had clung to her heart for a decade. Snug in Norman’s arms, she felt washed clean. Reborn.

Norman’s breath hitched in his throat. “Let’s go back to Sir Seymour’s.”

Elsa lifted her face as a gentle rain began to fall, replacing her tears with nourishing, life-giving water. “No. We started this, and we’re going to finish it.” When his look of bewilderment made no signs of abating, Elsa slid from his lap, took the ribbons from his hand, and snapped Apple into motion.

At Weatherhill Lane, they repeated their joint statement to a new batch of onlookers. Once again, the “Is it true?” question arose, and once more, Elsa spoke the truth.

Afterward, a wisp of an old woman tottered in their direction. “Lady Fay!” Elsa leaned over the side of the cart and clasped her hand. She recognized the woman as one of the spinster sisters who resided on the lane. After an exchange of pleasantries, the woman said, “Lady Fay, I want to apologize to you about my behavior yesterday, giving you the cut as I did.”

“Thank you,” Elsa said with a gracious nod. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate—”

“It was bad of me, milady. Hypocritical.”

“Oh dear, I don’t think—”

“I’m a drunk.”

Uncertain what else to do with that information, Elsa nodded and gave a compassionate smile.

“That’s why Agatha lives with me, so I won’t take to the bottle again.” The woman’s lined cheeks creased in a frown. “I was touched by what you said. You’re so brave. Isn’t she brave, Mr. Wynford-Scott?”

“A veritable lioness,” he answered in all sincerity.

Elsa gave the spinster a hug before the woman went on her way. It was strangely comforting to know that she wasn’t alone in this struggle.

For the remainder of the day, they traveled the width and breadth of the borough, slogging through the rain and mud, stopping to repeat their statement to whoever would listen. Every time, someone would ask Elsa about the picture. And every time, she told the story of her struggle. Often, she was approached afterward by people she had known for years who had kept hidden their own struggles with destructive habits. Middle-aged men and young mothers, crones and fresh-faced youths, it seemed no segment of the populace was without representation in the people who stepped forward to say, “Me, too.”

Despite the blanket Norman wrapped her in, by day’s end, Elsa was dirty, wet, and chilled to the bone. She’d never felt better in her life. When Norman brought her home, he handed her down from the cart and swung her around in his arms.

“Well, we’ve done what we can,” she said when he finally set her on her feet. “The rest is in the hands of the voters.”

Norman tipped her face and kissed her until she was boneless and clinging to him for support. “You gorgeous, magnificent creature.” His eyes were soft with wonder, desire, and something she dared not name. “Whatever happens tomorrow, you must see that you are loved. By Fleck,” he added hastily. “Your friends will not let you fall, Elsa. And neither will I.”

Resting a hand on his broad chest, she felt the strong, steady beat of his heart. How she adored him. “Let’s go win an election,” she said.

The morning of the Fleck by-election started with more rain, but inclement weather did not impede the people of the village and the outlying countryside from flocking to the hustings in their hundreds. Four hundred thirty-seven men had the franchise in this borough, and while not all of them had come, there was a greater turnout than Norman had anticipated. It was difficult to say for certain exactly how many voters were present, as numbers were greatly augmented by the women and children in attendance.

By midmorning, the rain had tapered off, leaving tatters of gray clouds streaming across a pale sky. There was a fairlike atmosphere around the muddy green, with street vendors hawking food while a drum and bugle band blared out marches, attracting a score of children to form up an impromptu regiment and drill their way around the legs of adults. Dogs barked, babies cried, neighbors shouted greetings to one another. The clamor was immense.

Differentiating the gathering from a typical fair were the unmistakable trappings of politics. Tory orange and Whig blue were everywhere Norman looked, in flags and banners as well as in ribbons and other trimmings party supporters had added to their apparel. He noted, with a pang of dismay, that there was far more orange in evidence than the color of his own party, though a great many folks wore no party’s color at all. A few individuals carried flags painted with slogans in support or protest of a candidate or cause.