Chapter 25 #2
Who would have known the Earl and Countess of Tindall held an enthusiasm for plucking trout from streams?
He marched her toward the river, opining on a certain Mr. Walton who had written a book about angling, pointing to a tome as they passed the picnic blanket. The rods were grey because Mr. Walton had said so.
The earl guided her past the other man still fishing, toward the willow tree. At the water’s edge, he held up his rod. “Look here, see how I finesse the line.”
All seriousness in his country attire, Julian’s father began to move the rod back and forth whilst pulling on the silken line.
She was supposed to be a fly. Or the little piece of fluff at the end was.
But she was to think like a fly, particularly a yellow fly, which was the obligatory bait for the month of June.
“The fly only skims the water,” he said. “Are you listening to me?”
His imperious tone struck her as out of place to the character he had presented. This would soon be a disaster if she did not apply herself to the requirements at hand, chiefly that she be a biddable pupil.
“Yes, my lord. The fly only skims the water.”
He cast the rod.
She leaned forward to watch the yellow-and-black fluff hop along the water. No fish appeared. “What percentage of time does a fish bite?”
His dark brows flattened. “Percentage?”
“How many number of times, on average, must you cast before catching a fish?”
“Why does this matter?”
“I suppose one would wish to know if they were being successful at their endeavors.”
The earl bent forward so she could see him without the effort of looking up. His eyes flicked to the cross at her neck. “Endeavors, is it?”
“Forgive me.” She didn’t know why she asked for forgiveness, except his question demanded an apology like a screw at her spine.
He chuckled, a razor’s edge to the sound. “My dear Miss Babbington, what have you done which requires forgiveness? That you endeavored to marry my son?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are a sly one, aren’t you?” He withdrew a cigar. Reeds rustled behind her. Footsteps sucked at mud.
The burly man appeared, lighting his lord’s cheroot. His hands were like gauntlets, scars lacing the knuckles.
The sweet, sinister smell unfurled from the fiery end.
Kitty looked to the darkening sky, her heart increasing its pace. The large man had not left the earl’s side.
“My lord, the hour draws late,” she said.
“You are a lovely young woman, Miss Babbington. I can see why Julian chose you. Along with beauty, there is an air of intelligence about you. Pragmatism. Which my son sorely requires.”
She peered through the willow’s branches, up the bank to Clara, spying only the horse’s grey muzzle and the hem of Clara’s petticoat. “I must return home. It has been a pleasure.” She didn’t care what words poured from her mouth. She needed to leave.
Cigar smoke wafted between them. The earl stepped aside, his arm leading a path up the bank. “It has been a pleasure indeed, Miss Babbington.”
“Thank you.” The brutish man refused to move. Kitty skirted him on the water’s edge.
“Cyril,” the earl barked.
A hand seized the back of Kitty’s cloak. Before her mind could account for events, another hand grabbed hold of her hair and shoved her face in the river. Her back strained against the force holding her down. Her lungs emptied of air as her hands flailed in the water.
Julian! Julian help me!
The hand yanked her up, her face inches from the river. Her hair floated in the water around her.
“Miss Babbington,” the earl said coolly. “Do you think I would allow my son to marry a papist whore? Allow our name to be sullied by a Roman slut?”
She gasped for air, every available bit of it, knowing, knowing she was going back to the water.
“M-My lord, I attend the Anglican service.”
“Again, Cyril.”
Cyril thrust her down, farther than before, and held her there longer. She tried not to scream but the inky murk, the growing doubt that she would survive, forced a scream and with it her air. Her eyes squeezed in their sockets. Her lungs begged for her to breathe.
Julian! Oh God, Julian, please!
Cyril wrenched her up.
Air roared into her lungs. She screamed to Clara. “Run! Ruuuuuunnn!”
“You will never marry my boy,” the earl said, “do you understand? He is reckless and headstrong and defies me at every turn, but he is my son. And I know what is best for him. And you, girl, will bring him, our family, nothing but trouble. What do you think would happen to my eldest son’s political career if it were known there was a Catholic whore in our family? ”
“M-My lord, I attend the Anglican service.”
“Again, Cyril.”
Kitty filled her lungs. Cyril shoved her under again.
Clarity flowed within her. Real courage is going forward when the outcome is uncertain, Julian had once said. You have shown great courage.
She pursed her lips. She exhaled, a bubble at a time.
She concentrated on her raging heart. She tried to slow its pace.
She relaxed her limbs, wasted no energy.
What did the earl want? For her to agree not to marry his son.
She could agree to anything. It wasn’t binding.
This was her life. And agreeing would save her child.
Cyril hauled her up. She choked on the intrusion of air.
“Miss Babbington?” the earl asked, almost kindly.
“I—I will not marry him.” I love you, Julian. I will never forsake you.
“Excellent. Give me your ring.”
I love you, Julian. This means nothing. You know you are in my heart forever, and we will be together.
She yanked the ring from her finger. The earl plucked it away.
“And while we are on the topic of your filthy idolatry, and you so courteous to oblige my fatherly entreaties, allow me to provide more incentive to keep your smutty person from my Andrew, besides your own life. Father Dunlevy. Do you know what will happen to your priest when he is reported?”
Hot tears shocked her cold cheeks. She shook her head, tears marking tiny circles in the water waiting below.
“Perpetual imprisonment, if not death. You would feel terribly guilty wouldn’t you, sending your confessor to his end? And if you do not comply, if you relay to my boy, any of this, you will go to your maker, knowing you have condemned a man to death. Take her to the blanket.”
Cyril pulled her to her feet, dragging her toward the blanket. Clara was gone. The footmen were gone. Upon the blanket sat a lap desk with quill and ink. A towel was shoved at her chest. She was ordered to dry herself and then shoved down to the blanket.
Cyril placed a paper on the desk and inked the quill, opened her fingers, and placed it in her hand.
The earl’s cigar glowed in the twilight, lighting his eyes a devilish black. “You will write what I say to the letter. Dear Julian…”
Kitty wrote out the words as commanded, praying Julian would see immediately that they were not her words.
Not the opening and certainly not the ending of sincerely.
She wept quietly at the words, what they would do to her love when he read them.
If she could not tell him they were lies, he would hate her forever for the agony they created.
It would break his heart. His beautiful, independent, stubborn heart.
Cyril took the finished letter and handed it to his lord, who skimmed the page, stuck the cigar in his teeth, and folded it. Eyes narrowed to lifeless slits, the sheer power of his position was forged in every cruel plane of his aging face, in every line of his lean form.
“Well done, girl.” He looked to Cyril. “Kill her.”
“No!” Kitty scrambled on all fours across the blanket, clutching his leg. “My lord, I am with child. Your son’s child. Please. I beg you! Have mercy. Save my child!”
He threw his cigar at her skirt, embers sparking and dying on the pink wool. He kicked his leg free. “Your pleas have no bearing on my decision.”