Chapter 17 #2
Willie made a sound of disgust in her throat, but refrained from commenting.
She, Farnsworth, and Brockwell walked outside with us. “Join Willie and me for a chop later?” Brockwell asked. “Let’s say eight at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. I want to hear how you found those girls.”
Willie nudged Farnsworth in the ribs. “He really just wants a report on his Edinburgh counterparts. The stupider you can make them seem, Barratt, the better.”
“I’m coming for a drink, too,” Lord Farnsworth piped up. “You know I like these rambunctious inns you find, Willie. They’re full of interesting folk.” His face brightened. “We can plan the next book-hunting expedition. I think we should go to Transylvania.”
Willie rolled her eyes. “Ignore Davide. He likes the gothic penny dreadfuls. I reckon we should go to America. We can help Duke settle in while we’re there.”
“He can settle in on his own,” Brockwell said gently. He put one arm around her waist, as Matt had done with India, and kissed her cheek, knocking her hat askew in the process.
She removed it altogether and leaned into him.
“We’ve already decided on Italy,” I told them.
“And neither of you are coming with us,” Oscar added.
A hansom cab pulled up alongside us, carrying a familiar passenger. I stumbled in surprise at the sight of her and felt quite foolish about it when Oscar remained composed. After all, he should be more startled than me at the sudden appearance of his former fiancée.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “What are you doing here?”
Lady Louisa looked as pretty as always in a green-and-white-striped waistcoat over a white chemise.
Her fair hair was artfully arranged in ringlets that framed her face, giving her an almost childlike appearance.
She crooked a gloved finger, beckoning him to approach the carriage.
He did not, so she got out and approached him.
“May we speak in private, Oscar?”
Brockwell steered Willie away, much to her irritation, and Lord Farnsworth trotted along after them. I remained, since Oscar and I had another call to make, but I gave them space. Not so much space that I couldn’t hear their exchange, however.
I watched on as Louisa grasped Oscar’s hands between both of hers and gave them an imploring shake. “Oscar, I need to speak with you.”
He pulled free. “I have no wish to rehash our relationship, Louisa.”
“Is that why you haven’t answered my letters?”
“I’ve been away.” He sounded as though he was going to leave it there, but added, “Even so, I wasn’t going to respond. It’s over between us. It has been for some time. We’ve both moved on. You’re married, so I hear.”
She winced and folded her arms across her stomach. “We rushed into it. I should never…” She shook her head.
“You should never have chosen a husband purely because he’s a magician?” Oscar gave a hollow laugh. “We all warned you, Louisa.”
“He’s a good husband. At least, he tries to be. But I don’t love him. I still have feelings for you.” She suddenly reached for his hands again. “My affection for you is stronger than ever.”
He removed his hands and stepped back. “I’m sorry, but any lingering feelings I harbored for you have now completely vanished. Go back to your husband, or don’t. I don’t care. Goodbye, Louisa. Don’t try to contact me again.”
“Is there someone else?” she called out as he walked away.
She couldn’t see his smile, but I could. “Yes.”
“Who?”
He didn’t answer. He joined me and we continued walking. I glanced back to see Louisa climbing into the cab. “That encounter helped prepare me for our next port of call,” Oscar said. “How about you?”
I wasn’t ready to visit Lady Coyle, but I never would be.
She was as hospitable as a rainy day at the park.
This visit was even worse than the last one, thanks to the noise and activity.
The noise came from her son, Valentine, crying somewhere in the house.
The activity came from men removing her furniture.
“Selling a few more things?” Oscar asked, casually.
“It’s none of your business.” She stood in the middle of the empty entrance hall, chewing on a thumbnail as two men struggled to carry a large armoire across the tiles.
“It’s not a voluntary sale, then.”
Her icy glare slid to him. “What do you want?”
“We want to tell you what a low act it was to notify Defoe about the book in Kinloch’s possession. You knew we’d try to purchase it from him after reading his letter to your husband.”
“You’ve said your piece, now leave.” She strode to the door, a signal for us to exit.
Upstairs, Valentine’s crying got louder. Lady Coyle didn’t react. Surely, she heard him. I had a mind to find the child myself. He was clearly in need of comforting. From the angry look on his mother’s face, he wasn’t going to get any comfort from her.
“We should go,” I said quietly to Oscar.
He nodded but didn’t move. “I hope Defoe paid you well for your betrayal,” he said to Lady Coyle.
“Betrayal?” Lady Coyle scoffed. “I owe you nothing. You and your vile, perverted friend got what you wanted—”
“My what?” Oscar bellowed.
“He’s one of those men who likes other men. It’s obvious to everyone. Are you and he special friends?”
I pushed Oscar through the door before he could inflame the situation. He surprised me, however, by offering no resistance.
“Bloody awful woman,” he said. “Ignore her, Gavin.”
My strides lengthened in my eagerness to get away from Lady Coyle.
And from Oscar, too. I couldn’t face him, not with my cheeks flaming.
I felt hot all over, my collar too tight for my neck.
I loathed that my body couldn’t control its visceral reactions.
Life would be so much easier if my emotions weren’t on full display for everyone to witness.
Oscar came up alongside me, as calm as could be.
He probably didn’t even realize I was rushing.
“It doesn’t bother me that she thinks you and I are more than friends.
Nobody else thinks that. Anyway, she was probably just lashing out because she was angry at her furniture being taken away.
Seems she really is struggling financially. ”
I stayed silent, despite the jumble of responses vying for space in my head.
“It’s all right, though.” Oscar sounded hesitant. He was rarely hesitant. “It doesn’t affect our friendship, nor will it stop us traveling together. Your interest in men doesn’t—”
I stopped. Turned. “My what?”
Oscar cleared his throat. He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. But I do want to make it clear that I’m not interested in you in that way.”
“You arrogant fool, Oscar!” Out of all the things I could have said—wanted to say—that was the first thing that popped out? I should have apologized, but instead I made it worse. “I am not interested in you. I’m not interested in anyone in that way, man or woman.”
Instead of being put off by my outburst, Oscar dug in. “You may not be now, but when you meet the right fellow—”
“Stop! You’re wrong.” I went to walk off, but returned.
Now that I’d started, I couldn’t hold my tongue, even though my head knew I shouldn’t speak my mind.
Nothing good ever came of that. But it was as though my thudding heart and rushing blood were pumping the words out of me, and the valve couldn’t be closed against the flood.
“That’s the problem with you, Oscar. You always think you’re right. ”
“Gavin—”
“And another thing. I know why you want the tattoo flying spell. You think it will help you feel powerful and put others in awe of you. You’re tired of coming second, losing out to someone else. India chose Matt over you. Louisa chose magical children over you. Miss Wheeler chose Defoe.”
“She didn’t choose Defoe. She chose freedom and independence. That’s a concept I fully support.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Now who’s the one who thinks he’s always right?”
Why was he so calm in the face of my tirade? I felt like a torrent was surging through me. After saying my piece, the torrent had lost some of its power and was now more of a swell. Still, I was discombobulated. My thoughts were disorganized, something I wasn’t used to.
I set off at a brisk pace, as much to get away from Oscar as to expend the excess energy coursing through me, so that I could once again think properly. Oscar didn’t follow.
After a good walk around Hyde Park, I became very aware that saying my piece changed nothing. In fact, I may have made it worse. Oscar probably thought my outburst was a diversionary tactic to stop him thinking I liked him in that way.
Should I address the issue, but with a calmer manner? Or let the matter slide altogether in the hope all would be forgotten?
Considering we were going to travel again in the future, it was probably best that I cleared the air.
I bought a piece of paper at a stationer’s shop and wrote a note to Oscar asking him to meet me at the chophouse fifteen minutes before eight so we could talk before the others got there. I handed it to his landlady and asked her to deliver it for me.
I made sure I was early for our meeting at Ye Old Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street.
Oscar and I regularly met there, since he was familiar with it from his newspaper days.
Its low ceilings, and wood-paneled walls reminded me of my father’s study.
Even the worn leather upholstered seats and the smell of brandy took me back to the days when I’d sit in the big armchair by the fire and read one of his books while he worked.
The clientele made me feel comfortable, too.
The literary set often met there to draw inspiration from one another, and educated men discussed theories in dimly lit corners, while journalists boasted loudly about their latest article.
Many greeted me with a nod or shake of the hand, a clap on the shoulder or an offer to buy me a drink.
I declined them all. I’d spotted Oscar waiting for me.
Although I’d arrived early, he was even earlier. He sat in a booth, two tankards of ale in front of him. He pushed one toward me across the table as I sat opposite.
“Let me begin by apologizing,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation. Some things shouldn’t be delayed, and an apology to my best friend was at the top of that list. “I said some awful things that I regret. I was angry, but that’s no excuse.”
“It is quite a good excuse.” Oscar smiled, but it quickly faded when I didn’t return it. “I’m sorry, too, Gavin. I didn’t listen to you. I should have let the matter drop.”
“Thank you.” I touched my tankard against his, then sipped.
Oscar watched me over the rim of his tankard as he sipped, too.
“You were right, though. About me. I was going after the tattoo flying spell because of my issue with coming second. It stems back to my childhood and my brother. Isaac is an ink magician, too, but unlike me he has a head for business. That, and being the oldest son, meant he inherited the family ink-manufacturing company. I never wanted it, but perhaps there is some lingering resentment within me still, deep down.”
“Oscar,” I gently chided. “There’s nothing wrong with you. I didn’t mean any of what I said.”
He set the tankard down and loosely circled it with both hands.
“I’ve been thinking…perhaps we shouldn’t go searching for the book with the tattoo flying spell.
We’ll forget we ever heard about it. We’ll look for another book instead.
Something less controversial, but important.
Another seminal work, like Mackenzie’s.”
I placed my tankard on the table and tapped my finger on its side.
I didn’t like seeing him so low, and all because I was embarrassed.
I’d had a few hours to mull it over and now knew that it was embarrassment that spurred me to lash out, not anger.
A part of me wanted to explain further to Oscar, but it wasn’t the sort of discussion men had with each other, and certainly not in a chophouse on Fleet Street where we knew three-quarters of the patrons.
“And let Defoe get his hands on the tattoo spell?” I shook my head. “That’s even more dangerous than you getting it.”
One side of his mouth lifted with his half-smile.
“Besides, I’ve now got my heart set on an Italian adventure.”
The other corner of his mouth joined the first in a relieved smile. He lifted his tankard in salute. “Italy it is.”
Willie slid onto the bench seat beside me, knocking my elbow and making the ale spill over the rim of the tankard. She placed an arm around my shoulders. “Celebrating without us?”
“I’m toasting Gavin,” Oscar said as D.I. Brockwell sat beside him. “If it wasn’t for him, a madman would still be on the loose in Edinburgh.”
“Tell me every detail,” Brockwell urged.
Willie glanced up as a familiar voice declared in a drunken drawl that he had a salacious piece of gossip about one of the queen’s grandsons. “Do it quickly, before Farnsworth gets us all thrown out.”
“They won’t throw him out,” Oscar said. “They’ll clamor to buy him another drink to get him talking.”
I laughed, and he joined in.
I felt better for having apologized. Now we could both move forward. He may not believe me when I said I had no romantic interest in him, and so we hadn’t really resolved the issue, but in a manner befitting well-brought-up Englishmen, we’d repressed it.
For now.