Chapter Four
Edmund wasn’t joined in the garden, as Rose had predicted. He walked alone, slowly meandering through the borders and admiring the artful placement of flowers in contrasting colors. He wondered if Rose had any hand in the organization.
He must really banish thoughts of her from his head.
“— can certainly stay with you if things are perilous. There are rumblings in the subcontinent, you know. Some officers will take their wives with them. Better to pack your own than be tempted by foreign fruit.”
Edmund stopped short as tobacco smoke and voices wafted from one of the downstairs rooms. A gentleman shouldn’t eavesdrop...
But I am quite sick of pretending to be a gentleman.
Edmund sidled closer, head cocked. It was obvious that wives were the subject of conversation.
Bryce doesn’t have a wife—yet.
Rose.
“I had heard the British East India Company’s own militia would quell the Punjabi battalions.”
“If you can call them battalions. Backward natives.” Bryce’s voice was heavy with scorn.
Edmund was pleased to detect a note of argument in Lycombe’s voice. The mild-mannered gentleman’s voice turned vigorous. “I’m the last man to say that young Queen Victoria should refrain from expanding our glorious empire—but aside from the fact that they worship their heathen gods, I hardly like to call them backward. Their language, poetry, architecture—”
“Yes, yes. They’ve got some good points, I suppose. They grow the best tea in the world, I’ll give them that.”
“Indeed.”
“After we quash the lot of them, they’ll need officers and regiments to keep order and uphold Her Majesty’s standard! I’m sure I’ll be selected. My father was a close, personal friend of Viscount Hardinge.”
“Mm. Your income, Bryce. You mentioned it in the carriage. Did that include the purchase of your commission? What about stoppages?”
Locke couldn’t help but smile as Bryce’s hearty voice turned into a muted mumble.
But I shouldn’t care. It’s no affair of mine. I shouldn’t even be here. If my horse hadn’t thrown a shoe just as Lycombe’s carriage was passing, I wouldn’t have seen him for another year or two.
Home was a place to wallow.
Berlin, Hamburg, and Vienna were places to hide, conduct business, and make some minor attempts to endure polite society.
“Lycombe, it’s a fair offer for her. Rose seems a sweet, amiable girl. Her manners and virtue are impeccable—how could they be anything else with you and your good lady wife raising her down in this remote spot in Surrey? But surely you aren’t holding out for any better offers? To be blunt, there won’t be any for Rose, not with young Charles taking the bulk of the land and with your two other daughters to marry off as well.”
Edmund’s hand tightened on his walking stick.
Love, you fool. You’re talking about a wife, a person who should share your joys and sorrows. Bryce sounds as if he’s trying to pick out a saddle, not a woman.
Locke pressed close to the side of the house, straining to hear. He held his breath so as not to miss a single word, not caring if he should be caught eavesdropping. Let them say he was a peculiar, sour old man, despite being in his “prime.” It was already said throughout London and the Home Counties—by the few who still remembered his name.
Lycombe must have felt some similar sentiments, but his voice held a note of resignation. “What about some measure of affection, Bryce? She is my oldest child, and I love her dearly. Rose may dress simply and not give much thought to her appearance, but she is a lovely woman. She may not have another suitor presently, but we are not given much to society, tucked away in our remote corner of the county, as you say.”
“Well...” Bryce’s uncertain voice revealed he was caught off guard, but like any good soldier, he rallied. “I’ve had little opportunity to form a deeper friendship with her, sir. But I should like to. Yes, it is plain to me that she is a lovely girl with a good heart. I would cherish her and always ensure she is safe and cared for—on my honor as an officer.”
Drat him.Locke turned away, chest tight and knuckles white.
Wheeling about, he stormed back into the house, walking far faster than usual so that he swayed and swung crookedly as his bad leg bowed out to take his weight.
An elderly manservant blinked in startled sleepiness as Locke sped through the dimly lit rear hallway. “Sir Edmund, madam has asked me to—”
“Thank you. Show me to my room, please. Can you procure several sheets of writing paper, ink, and pen?”
“Yes, sir. At once, sir.”
ONE MUST BE DISCREETwhen putting pen to paper. One must not be rash.
One false word will get you banned from the house and shunned throughout the district.
Locke paced, angry at himself and angrier at the world.
Why had he married Catherine?
She was pretty, and her father was a wealthy man who steered him toward profitable investments. Catherine had money and beauty. Upon reflection, she was a flirtatious woman, one might even say she was a coquette.
It made me feel like I’d really put one over on the other fellows. Look at quiet little Locke with his minor barony and his little flat in the town. He belongs back in the country with his horses and cows.
But not so when I had Catherine.
Locke stared at the blank paper, chest loosened from his unreasonable anger, but now puffing up and down like a bellows.
Fool.
Catherine didn’t like being married to a “cripple.” She didn’t like being the lady of a country estate when she found out it was primarily about looking after the tenants and the rents, worrying about hawks taking the lambs, and monitoring the gamekeeper’s reports of poaching. Far more time was spent watching her husband manage their small estate than was spent on hosting balls and parties.
If she was still alive, she’d be a discontented wife, flirting with anything in trousers, just to make sure I was properly in my place—the place of a meek little man with a wobbly leg, not the strapping country gentleman she ordered with her sizeable dowry.
Locke didn’t pace when he was a guest in another’s home. He feared his uneven gait and the thumping of the cane on the floorboards would alert the house to his agitation. Instead, he rocked back and forth, like an irritable conductor tapping his baton, just his upper body in motion so the chair wouldn’t creak.
No one need know how troubled he was. The last thing he wanted was pity. Even sympathy was distasteful.
But a woman of similar tastes and spirits... Could that be something welcome after nearly a decade alone?
MISS ROSE LYCOMBE,
I hesitate to pay my addresses to one with whom I have so meagre an acquaintance, but I trust that as I am an old friend of your father’s and a man whose reputation will bear the most intense scrutiny, I may take the liberty. If my words are not acceptable to you, I beg you to forgive my impertinence and dispose of this letter at once. I will say nothing further about it.
Locke paused and frowned at his tight, scratchy script on the page, reading back his last line. Nothing further about what? Miss Lycombe will think you’re out of your head, accepting a rejection before you offer a proposal. You are doing everything out of order and backwards, you blighted turnip.
The thought of tearing up the letter and starting again was too much for him to bear, so Edmund continued with a frustrated sigh, somewhat narrow features bent low over his work.
I have been precipitous in my haste to assure you my motives are honorable and that my intentions are not to place any undue burden upon you. Allow me to make myself clear, Miss Lycombe.
I have observed a certain gentleman’s interest in procuring a wife from the Lycombe family. This fellow, who I shall not mention by name, seems like a fine man with excellent prospects.
He paused again. It was true. Edmund might not like Captain Bryce, but he was sure that many ladies did. Perhaps Rose was secretly pining for the charming officer with his thick curls and his rakish smile.
What have you got to offer, Edmund, scoffed a little voice inside his head—a little voice that sounded remarkably like his late wife’s.
The answer wouldn’t come, but his hand kept scribbling over the pages as if possessed by some unseen force.
Perhaps I’m trying to finish the job Catherine started years ago. If Lycombe and Bryce see this, I’ll be properly ostracized and have to take up permanent residence abroad.
The idea didn’t worry him nearly as much as it ought.
As I say, this fellow is no doubt worthy of requesting a bride from among Mister John Lycombe’s daughters. Worthy, I say, but not suitable.
I have been married to a woman who was as lovely and charming as a husband could wish for, but we were not “suited.” I beg of you to let me tell you in confidence that being married to one whom you can love but barely tolerate is risking a life of discontent. Marriage with an incompatible partner is like a gnawing pain no physician can cure.
‘Tis my habit to say little and observe more, and thus I was moved to write to you, despite the impropriety. In my brief observance, I have found that the unnamed suitor is fixated upon his own cleverness while his eyes are ever-roving. His strength lies in his physique, and less so his mental faculties. His appreciation runs to the obvious and expensive, as opposed to the subtle and natural.
Miss Lycombe, my tastes are just the opposite, and I venture that yours are the same. You appreciate wit and wisdom, beauty and simplicity. Even in one night’s acquaintance, that much is plain.
Locke stopped, wrist jerking back, and then pen plunging on as he held his breath. It was like that life-altering fall from his horse all those years ago. Edmund could see the injury looming, and yet he fell, helpless to prevent it.
Will you allow me to offer you an alternative, Miss Lycombe? You see, I have dropped the subterfuge of anonymity. I will risk speaking plainly.
If you are desirous of a match and do not wish to be married to a certain officer, however gallant and handsome he may be, I stand ready to offer you—and your parents—a more substantial offer of matrimony.
I remain your most sincere,
Sir Edmund Locke
Edmund blew on the ink to dry it, a sense of curious calm coming over him as he took the pooling wax in the candle on the edge of the desk. He made a little puddle on the folded letter and pressed his gold signet ring to it, sealing it.
Sealing his fate.
Rising in a fugue, feeling oddly disconnected from his body and the missive in his hand, Locke walked to the bellpull by the door of the room. In moments, the elderly manservant, puffing slightly from exertion, appeared. “Will you please deliver this to Miss Rose Lycombe? You must place it into her hands only, please.” Locke handed over the letter and absently handed over a coin as well.
The manservant looked at him in astonishment, trying to hand back the coin. “Sir, the gratuity is not—”
“It is most very necessary. Please give it to her, and if there is any note in reply, you may wake me at any time to deliver it. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, sir.”
“Excellent.” Locke shut the door in the faithful retainer’s face and collapsed on his borrowed bed, staring at the ceiling.
There would be a reply, all right. It would likely come in the form of a screeching harpy, better known as an enraged matchmaking mama who would not have her daughter”s affections dallied with. This feminine rage would be followed by a wounded, aggrieved look from old John Lycombe, a man of modest means but who commanded enormous respect.
I’ll be put right out on my ear.
I deserve it.