Chapter 8
It had started to rain by the time Tuck reached 14 Grosvenor Square.
He hadn’t planned on visiting Renshaw quite so soon, but after that afternoon in the Brocklehurst garden, he’d been unsettled. He couldn’t focus on anything. Not his expedition, not his research, and not even his quest to find a funder. His brain was like a butterfly, flitting from one shrub to the next, never staying long enough for any permanence. He’d spent an entire week in a fog, and he no longer knew what day it was.
The only thing that held his attention for any length of time was Eloise, and then it was only in pieces. The touch of her bare skin beneath his fingertips, the smell of her hair when he’d nibbled her earlobe, the feel of her hips in his hands.
Eloise.
He stared at 14 Grosvenor Square as if it held answers, but it was only a stone facade now speckled with dark spots as the spitting mist turned to rain. He forced himself up the stairs and found the door opening under his knock. He gave his card to the butler and waited, turning up his collar as the servant went to see if Renshaw was at home.
He stared at his feet, at the door, and at the street behind him, feeling a degree of uncertainty he’d never felt before in his life.
He was a man of science. He’d always known the next step, the next hypothesis, the next experiment. But now, he didn’t know what to do.
Eloise was one thing, but he couldn’t lay all the blame at her feet. When he’d come to London, his objective had been clear. Find a benefactor to fund his expedition to Spitsbergen to continue his research into the aurora borealis.
But now this intention seemed almost foolish and worse, alarmingly naive.
Liam was right. Was Tuck really expecting to make such a journey alone? He hadn’t given it a thought, but he couldn’t ignore his cousin’s warning. Simply surviving on Spitsbergen would be a challenge. He would bring the required equipment, of course, and guides experienced with the harsh climate. But as inexperienced as Tuck was with such extreme travel, even he knew it would test his limits.
And what would he do then? Confide in his sled dogs?
Or was he simply allowing his determination to be swayed? The expedition he wished to undertake would be no holiday to the sunny shores of Italy. It would be grueling at the best of times. But would it be unbearable? Would it be enough to drive him in search of companionship?
He’d always had Liam to lean on. His parents had been attentive and kind, but they were not a demonstrative family, and feelings was not a word spoken in his childhood home. Whenever Tuck had truly struggled with something, he’d always gone to Harrison. The gap in years between them had leant an air of sophistication to his older brother that had given Tuck comfort. Harrison would know what to do. Tuck only wished his brother were here so he could ask him.
Tuck was contemplating the buttons of his coat when the door opened again, and the bland-faced butler informed Tuck that Renshaw was at home.
It was relief to be out of the rain, and Tuck took a moment to take in the small foyer into which the butler had shown him. While shedding his dripping coat and hat, he noticed the space was heavily accented in wooden motifs from the paneling to the intricate trim framing the doors.
He had just handed his gloves to the butler when his eyes fell on something that seemed out of place. It was a small wooden carving of a woman kneeling and holding her extended belly. He’d once had cause to collaborate with an anthropology colleague, and Tuck was fairly certain a similar wooden figurine had been in the man’s office.
But why would the Earl of Renshaw who claimed his most favorite trip had been to the Cornwall coast have an Incan Pachamama statue on a table in his foyer?
Tuck was pulled from his thoughts when the butler gestured for Tuck to follow him. The man led Tuck farther into the house along a central corridor that was fashioned with the same dark paneling as the foyer. Distantly he heard the sounds of a house being attended to by servants, the shifting of cutlery as though silver were being polished and the distinct thwap of curtains being dusted.
When the butler turned into a room off the corridor, Tuck was momentarily concerned the servant had brought him to the wrong place. This was not a public room meant for receiving guests. The moderate-sized room was littered with evidence of a person’s existence from a pile of discarded newspapers to a stack of plates, the remnants of a meal evident on their surfaces. Half-empty teacups covered half the low table set between sofas, and a stack of books had toppled over on the floor beneath it.
Over the sound of the rain, Tuck heard the crackle of a fire and turned to find an inglenook fireplace held a small blaze and before it was a chair in which Renshaw himself sat.
Except—
It was only his mother’s persistence in teaching her children good manners that Tuck didn’t show his shock on his face when he took in the sight of Renshaw sprawled before the fire. Because the earl was, indeed, sprawled.
The older man wore a dressing gown that was approximately two sizes too big, rolled at the cuffs several times, and with elbows worn so thin it was as though the threads of the fabric were held together by mere suggestion. Underneath this, Tuck saw the folds of a nightshirt which ended just above a pair of socks that had melted down around the earl’s ankles and finally finished with a pair of slippers.
Renshaw stood, his arms going wide in greeting, which drew apart the panels of the dressing gown to reveal the tea-spotted nightshirt Tuck had glimpsed along the gown’s hem. “You came to visit an old totter, I see! A man of adventure. I knew it at once. Welcome, young Ryan.” He gestured for Tuck to join him before the fire in the opposite chair, and it was a second before Tuck remembered how to move his legs.
“Renshaw,” Tuck said by way of greeting, but the earl waved him off.
“The name is Tippy. I never very much liked anyone who called me Renshaw, and I like you. So please, Tippy.”
Tuck nodded and took the seat the older man indicated.
“Now then,” Tippy said, resuming his own seat.
Tuck steeled himself, wondering if the man would cross his legs out of habit, but thankfully he didn’t, settling for placing his feet flat on the floor. Tuck relaxed, drawing in a much-needed breath at having been spared seeing quite so much of the earl. “What has brought you to my doorstep? Have you heard tales of my cunning exploits and come to see for yourself whether or not it’s true?”
“I’m afraid the only thing I’ve heard of you or your reputation is what you have said yourself. That you’re an old totter.”
Tippy barked a laugh and clapped his hands together. “I shall sleep well tonight knowing my reputation is intact.” He waved a fist in triumph before settling back into his chair. “Regan, a tea cart is in order I should think.”
Tuck gave a start, not having realized the butler still stood in the door. The servant gave a bow in acknowledgment and slipped out the door.
“Well, if it’s not tales of my daring escapades, then what has brought you here?”
Tuck looked back at the earl, resolve forming in his gut. “I’m afraid I’m at a crossroads in my life, and I haven’t the slightest idea which way I should go. The other day at the garden party you struck me as a man of many experiences, and I suppose I have come to you for advice.”
It wasn’t until his face grew serious that Tuck realized the earl smiled a great deal. Tuck felt a modicum of guilt that he should affect the man’s expression so.
“A crossroads, you say?” He made a snuffling noise of understanding. “It was many a time that I stood at a crossroads myself, young man. What is it you face? Is it a business conundrum or a personal one?” He clapped both hands on the armrests of his chair, curling his fingers tightly about them. “Heavens above, do not say it is a crossroads of love.”
Tuck felt the earl’s words like a spear to the chest. “I think it might be a professional crossroads that has been muddied by love.”
Tippy squinted even more than he usually did. “Love has befuddled your plans, hasn’t it?” He slapped an armrest now with the open palm of one hand. “The same thing has happened to me, I must say.” He pointed a finger at Tuck. “Do you know I almost became the Prince of Hanover over a misunderstanding about a pretzel?” He shook his head. “And that was only on my Grand Tour. It was quite a way to start one’s life, don’t you think?” He pushed himself up in his chair. “Now tell me about your crossroads, Ryan.”
“Please call me Tuck.”
“Tuck? Why that’s the name of an explorer. I thought you were a man of science.”
Tuck couldn’t help but smile. “I am a man of science.”
“Does this muddied crossroad change that at all?” Tippy asked, swirling his finger in front of him as if to indicate the confusion of the situation.
“I don’t think anything will change that,” Tuck said, feeling the sincerity of his words.
“Ah,” Tippy said, sitting back. “A man of resolve. I like that. Go on.”
“You are aware of my intention to launch a research expedition to Spitsbergen to research the aurora borealis.”
Tippy gave a nod.
“I came to London to find a benefactor for the expedition, and instead I’m afraid I fell in love.”
Tippy’s smile was slow with some kind of self-satisfaction but even worse his eyes glinted with knowing. “Isn’t it a terrible thing the way love can surprise a person? Does the lady feel the same in return?”
Unbidden came the echo of Eloise’s voice that night in the courtyard when he’d touched her bare flesh.
I want you.
He swallowed. “I think it’s safe to say she does.”
“Then I take it the problem is not unrequited love, which leads me to believe it’s something else that has muddied the crossroads.”
“I cannot take a wife.” He’d never before thought of marriage, so focused had he been on his goal, but hearing himself say it now felt like dodging the truth. Because it wasn’t that he couldn’t marry Eloise because of his work. He couldn’t marry her because she was courting his cousin.
“And why not?”
The question confused Tuck so much so that he immediately said, “I beg your pardon?”
Tippy tilted his head. “Why not take a wife? You make it sound as though the feat were impossible when I can assure you it happens every day. Even to people who shouldn’t be married at all.” This last bit was said with a sarcastic grin.
Tuck couldn’t help smiling in response even though his insides felt like they were twisted up like a length of licorice. “It isn’t so much as I cannot as I should not. I’ll be leaving in the fall for an inhospitable clime. It would be foolish of me, if not simply irresponsible, to take a wife on such an excursion.”
“You would not leave her behind as so many explorers do?” There was something odd about the way Tippy asked the question, but Tuck was too caught up in his own thoughts to think much of the tone.
“I wouldn’t think of it. Why bother marrying at all if one thinks to leave the woman behind to fend for herself? That would be more irresponsible than taking her to the Arctic regions.”
Tippy extended his short legs as far as they would go, crossing them at the ankles. “Well, I see the problem then. You’re thinking of all the things that could go wrong with this love of yours when instead you should be thinking of everything that can go right.”
“I beg your pardon.”
Instead of answering, Tippy scrambled to his feet much like a dog would after rolling on its back in the grass. He made his way over to the bookshelf along the wall, retrieved something, and returned in short order. He handed the object to Tuck.
He was surprised to find it a simple frame with—of all things—a daguerreotype encased in it. It was Tippy, although much younger and with more hair atop his head, and he was seated next to a woman who towered over him. The difference in height was accentuated by the hat she wore that contained a small bird’s nest from which erupted a peacock feather. The image was slightly fuzzy, indicating the pair must have moved during its processing, and as the woman was clearly laughing in the print, Tuck surmised that to be the culprit.
Tuck looked up to find Tippy smiling fondly at the print.
He tapped the frame. “Taken in Brighton. Oh, how excited we were to find a man there with a camera.” He spoke the word, clearly annunciating each syllable as though the word were unfamiliar to him. “My Carolina was the daughter of a textile merchant. Her father had made a fortune in broadcloth.” Tippy laughed now, waving both hands at the frame as if to push all of the nonsense away. “My father said she was wholly unsuitable to be a countess, and I married her anyway. Ran off to Gretna Green, we did, just like they do in the novels. My father was furious, but what could he do? I was his only son, and his pride in the title was of more importance than his concern for my reputation.”
Tippy turned and walked back to his chair before collapsing into it, his laughter dying on his lips. He wagged a finger at the frame Tuck still held. “Carolina saved the title, but my father was too proud to admit it. She’d learned a thing or two from her own father about business, and she advised the title of Renshaw how to invest properly. I’d be moldy and festering in a distant cousin’s Cumbria estate right now if it weren’t for my Carolina.” His eyes changed then, and he went away somewhere, deep into his memories, and Tuck couldn’t help but wish that one day he’d have the blessing of deep memories into which to escape.
Tuck tapped the frame himself now. “So you’re telling me it’s all right to marry for love?”
The very idea seemed whimsical, and he felt foolish speaking it aloud.
Tippy clamped both hands around the armrests of his chair and surged forward, leaning over his legs to say, “Not at all, young man. I’m saying don’t be so focused on the thing you think you want when something better is standing right beside you.”
Tuck had the sensation of falling even though he hadn’t moved, but he was prevented from saying more when the tea cart arrived. Tuck set aside the framed daguerreotype and offered to pour.
Tippy waved a hand for him to proceed and fell back in his chair again. “Two sugars, son, and I’ll tell you about the greatest adventure Carolina and I ever embarked upon.”
Tuck couldn’t stop a smile even as he felt the unsettled feeling grow in his stomach, the very one he had come here to banish only to find the earl’s words making it burn hotter. “And where did this adventure take place?”
Tippy smiled. “In the wilds of Norfolk!” he cheered.
* * *
Eloise would become a nun.
No, that was too obvious.
She’d run away. To the Continent. No, to America. Yes, America. No one would think to look for her there surely.
But what would she do for money? Father would likely cut her off. Wouldn’t he? She’d have to find another means of supporting herself. But…what? She was terrible at embroidery, her stitches having a mind of their own it seemed. Her watercolors were dismal, and her penmanship left much to be desired. It wasn’t her fault really. She didn’t have the time or patience ink and blotter required, and sometimes her letters were a frightful mess. At least they were legible. Mostly.
Perhaps she could be a secretary somewhere. But for who? A company? Going into trade? Oh God, her mother would be humiliated.
“If you keep it up, darling, your thoughts will give you a migraine.”
Eloise glanced over at her grandmother who sat in the chair opposite, clicking knitting needles together although Eloise hadn’t seen the woman complete a single stitch in the half hour they’d been sitting there in front of an empty fireplace in the family drawing room of Stoke Bruerne House.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your thoughts, child. I can hear them from here. They have the unfortunate racket of a steam locomotive.” Grandmother Bitsy wrinkled her noise. “You should really find some better thoughts before these ones give you a case of hysteria.” Grandmother Bitsy flung her hand to the right as if to emphasize and pulled her knitting needle clean out of the stitches that had been made previously. She bent her head and resumed stitching even though one side no longer held any stitches.
“I wasn’t thinking of anything,” Eloise lied. “It’s only so much change has occurred recently.”
Grandmother Bitsy looked up, her eyes clear. “You’re thinking Gwennie’s gone off and married that sheep farmer, and now Annie’s married that grim-faced duke. That leaves Ardley entirely up to you, and if you don’t win his proposal, your mother will skin you alive.”
Eloise swallowed. “That’s putting a rather fine point on it.”
But her grandmother was right. Annie had surprised all of them by marrying the Duke of Grimsby the previous week in a private ceremony by special license. The circumstances which had led up to the wedding were still rather suspicious, but Annie had seemed more herself than she had since marrying her first husband, and Eloise couldn’t help but think perhaps the grim-faced duke—as her grandmother called him—might be good for Annie.
But her grandmother was correct. The pressure on Eloise to win the hand of the Duke of Ardley had just increased tenfold.
It was only her, the solitary remaining Bounds sister, who could catch the second duke on the market that season and fulfill their mother’s every wish. And although Eloise was loathe to admit it, it would likely end the feud between Nancy and Viscount Bowes with Nancy coming out the winner.
Perhaps there was a book in the library which explained how one emigrated to America. Eloise should go look for it straightaway.
She didn’t move, however. She remained slumped in her chair and instead reached over to the table beside her and plucked a chocolate biscuit from the plate there. She popped the entire thing into her mouth and chomped lazily.
Grandmother Bitsy pursed her lips. “Do you know when you were born I cried?”
Eloise stopped chomping. “I’m sorry?” she mumbled around the mouthful of biscuit.
“I cried,” Grandmother Bitsy repeated. “I was convinced I wouldn’t live long enough to see you grow up.”
Slowly Eloise pushed herself up. She felt tendrils of hair come loose and fall about her shoulders as she’d had her head pressed to the back of her chair. She tucked some loose strands behind her ear and eyed her grandmother.
“That’s so terribly sad. Why would you think such a thing?” Eloise asked.
Grandmother Bitsy barked a laugh. “Because I was old then and I’m older now, and I’m afraid I’m going to be disappointed again.”
Eloise stared. “Disappointed? Again?”
Grandmother Bitsy gave up the pretense of knitting. “Do you recall your childhood, Eloise? I mean, with any kind of clarity?”
Eloise adjusted her shoulders and pushed another strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Of course, I do. I had a lovely childhood.”
“Yes, it was terribly lovely, but do you recall what it was like growing up with your sisters?”
“Yes, I should say so.” Eloise frowned in confusion, wondering if her grandmother had finally had leave of her senses.
“Gwennie was always the bold one. Do you remember? She never backed down, not even when it came to smallpox. Don’t you agree?”
Eloise couldn’t stop a smile as she pictured Gwen as a small child. “Even then she would fist her little hands and stick her chin out.” Eloise shook her head. “I was never afraid when Gwennie was there.”
Grandmother Bitsy nodded. “Exactly. And what about Annie?”
Eloise shook her head again but more emphatically this time. “Oh, Annie wasn’t bold. She was…strong. When Gwennie was taken away because of the smallpox I remember being so frightened. I hid under my bed in the nursery, and Annie came and coaxed me out. She said Gwennie would be back to boss us around in short order.” Eloise smiled at the memory. “She was right.”
“And what about you?”
Grandmother Bitsy’s words were exact, and they had the effect of ripping Eloise from the comfort of thinking of her sisters in their childhood.
“Me?” she asked warily.
“You. Do you remember what you were like?”
Eloise shrugged. “I suppose I was like any other child. Prone to mischief with my sisters but generally obedient.”
Grandmother’s bark of laughter was so unexpected it sent Eloise back in her chair.
“I beg your pardon,” she muttered defensively.
“You were not obedient, Eloise Cassandra.” Grandmother Bitsy shook a knitting needle at her. “And that was why you were my favorite.”
“I was your favorite or I am your favorite?” Eloise asked cautiously, wondering if such a question was too selfish.
Grandmother lowered her knitting needle. “I’m still not sure on that one. It depends on how you behave in the next several weeks. Your very future depends on it, and if you act foolishly, I shall be gravely disappointed and be forced to make Annie my favorite.”
“You would choose a favorite amongst your granddaughters?”
“Of course, I would.”
“Heartless,” Eloise whispered.
“You’ll do the same when you have grandchildren. Trust me.”
“I will not,” Eloise declared, but her grandmother’s knowing smile was disconcerting. “What does this have to do with being disappointed in me?”
“I didn’t say I would be disappointed in you, Eloise. I said I would be disappointed.” She waved the knitting needle around enough to make Eloise worry she might lose an eye. “I would never be disappointed in you. You’re too predictable for such nonsense.”
“Ah,” Eloise scoffed incredulously, her lips parting in affront.
Now Grandmother pointed the knitting needle at her. “Go on,” her grandmother challenged. “Tell me you are not feeling even more pressure now to win the hand of the Duke of Ardley.”
Eloise snapped her mouth shut without saying anything.
“Precisely what I thought.” Grandmother lowered her knitting needle. “Now tell me why you feel such pressure?”
Eloise held out her hands to indicate the situation. “I’m the only Bounds daughter left. Who else is going to win the gentleman’s proposal?”
“Someone else entirely.”
Eloise’s eyes widened. “You’re saying the duke won’t pick me? What’s wrong with me?”
Grandmother Bitsy had the nerve to roll her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with you, child. It’s just you’re wrong for Ardley. The man is an aristocrat in every sense of the word.”
“Grandmother, I’m finding this conversation very confusing.”
“You would be wasted on a man like Ardley.” Again the knitting needle came out to point at Eloise accusatorially. “Your talents would go to rot in such a marriage, and I would be forced to watch you wither away.”
“Grandmother,” Eloise whispered, unable to say anything else.
“You, Eloise, were a wandering child, and you’ve grown to be an imaginative young woman. You’re going to throw away that gift by marrying a stuffy duke?”
“Ardley is hardly stuffy?—”
“The man is as interesting as a starched cravat.”
“Grandmother.” Eloise couldn’t stop the whispered scold, but her grandmother seemed unfazed by it.
“You are not at all suited to the man, Eloise. You need someone with an imagination to match yours, an intellect to challenge yours, and above all a man who can set fire to your passions.”
Eloise was rendered utterly mute from the grip of shock that overcame her then, but it needn’t matter. Her grandmother wasn’t finished.
“If you marry such a man, Eloise Cassandra, you will condemn yourself to a life of misery. Instead of a marriage, you’ll be agreeing to a life in prison. You’re too wild a creature for a duke, and you know it. The only question is if you will do what’s right or what others wish of you.”
Eloise licked her lips and pressed her hands against her thighs. Her grandmother’s speech might have been passionate, but reality was a cold antidote to it.
“Grandmother, you know I wish to marry for love, but practically speaking?—”
“Do you know why I married your grandfather?”
The abrupt change in subject silenced Eloise.
Grandmother Bitsy waited a moment, but as Eloise hadn’t found any words, she went on. “I was with child. Did you know that? I was carrying your father when I walked down that aisle. Your grandfather and I were passionate lovers. The desire between us was scandalous. I had never felt anything so consuming in all my life, and I haven’t since.” She leaned forward, her gaze intense, and Eloise felt her heart hammering in her chest even as her mind blanked, unable to understand what was happening. “You might forget because I’m your grandmother, but I was young once too. I’ve felt desire. I’ve felt love. And I will tell you this now, child. If you ignore the desire and love I know you’re feeling right now, you will regret it for all the rest of your life.”
Eloise shook her head. “But I must marry Ardley. I’m the only one left.”
Grandmother threw up both of her hands as if in resignation, but she still held her knitting needles clasped tightly and yarn went about in all directions. “Oh child, must I point out the obvious to you?” She settled her hands once more, but her eyes were a fury of consternation. “You’re not the only one left, Eloise. You’re not thinking of this clearly.”
Eloise felt the bite of anger coursing its way through her confusion. Her grandmother had the luxury of sitting there in her old age and bestowing upon Eloise any number of platitudes, but Eloise was the one who must face reality, and the reality was she was a debutante who must secure a husband to care for her, and what better husband than a duke?
“I’m seeing things as I must, Grandmother. It’s up to me to win the hand of the duke.”
But Grandmother Bitsy wasn’t finished. “No, child. Annie has already married the duke. Don’t you see? She didn’t leave you to marry Ardley. She set you free.”