Chapter 12
Theo sat on the fence outside the stables, his newly received letter lying open in his lap.
Accounting for mail delivery times, and Theo sending his letter three weeks ago, Wescott had taken a good long while to pen the response, but this had not cooled his temper.
Theo had seen other letters from him, and the writing in this one was different—still clearly Wescott’s, but the t-crosses and i-dots ran too long, and the few splotches on the paper indicated Theo’s uncle-by-marriage had been in a foul mood.
He expected Wescott would summon him to London—that, or send him some money to go back to France if his arrival in England was deemed premature. But no, the earl wanted Theo to stay where he was.
And rob the duke.
He also chastised Theo for daring to conscript and risk losing his life.
A fair point, but the wording didn’t make it any easier to accept.
But he’d made a mistake, and he was lucky to still be alive.
God knows what kind of revenge Wescott would enact upon Uncle Gustave if, after all the work the earl had put into his upbringing, Theo went and got himself shot.
He grunted and crushed the letter in his fist. His own foul mood, and the reluctance to follow Wescott’s instructions, were inconsequential. He’d have to do what Wescott wanted; he owed him far, far more than that.
“Hello,” a cheerful voice broke into his cloudy thoughts. Emmeline stood a few feet away, dressed for a walk, clutching a little beaded purse.
He didn’t know why his heart jumped when he saw her—and frankly, in his situation, it didn’t matter. He stuffed the letter into his pocket. “How can I help you?”
“You don’t need to help me.” She leaned on the fence, playfully tilting her head. A stray lock of hair brushed her cheek, and Theo squelched the desire to tuck it away. “You’re not really my servant, remember?”
True. And he’d thought any day now he’d have to talk to her about his departure.
If Wescott had wanted him in London, Theo would have to go, and hopefully Emmeline could resolve the servant deception she’d created.
After all, he’d be safe in London, and she’d surely be in no danger from dismissing her false servant.
It was all moot, though. Their deception would last a little bit longer.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I was wondering if you’d like to go on a walk with me. To the old castle ruined by the fire.”
“Why didn’t you ask Lord Farenham?”
“Oh, he’s busy. Writing letters and the like.”
Theo raised an eyebrow. “I believe I saw him leave just earlier.”
She grabbed a fistful of her skirt and wrung it in her hand. “Okay. I asked him. He said no. Maybe he doesn’t like the outdoors.”
Lord Farenham came by the stables daily, usually taking his horse out on a ride or hunt. Aside from that, Theo had regularly seen him walking around with the determined stance of a man who needed to get out to clear his head.
But a bit of sadness had crept into Emmeline’s eyes, and she looked at the ground, still working her skirt.
“Yes, probably,” he said. “Let’s go, then. I’m all caught up with work.”
A wide smile lit up her face. “Well, you are supposed to be working for me. I don’t think they’ll mind.”
“Touché.”
So, off they went. The walk—and, he had to admit, Emmeline’s company—did him well.
They chatted about the village gossip, the ridiculous theories rising from people finding Theo’s uniform (he was being referred to as The Phantom of France now), how the weather was fantastic for the season, and how Emmeline had made a faux pas at dinner last night, picking the wrong spoon and nearly pushing the duchess into a fit.
“I did always think I’d make a horrible aristocrat,” she said.
“Aren’t you one?” Her father was a viscount. Surely, that counted.
Her eyes grew wide. “I mean, uh—I’m not really born for this.” She finally pushed that stray lock of hair off her face. “What would you do? If you could do anything. What do you think you were born to do?”
He looked down at his boots, kicking aside the long, greenish-yellow grass. “I’d like to work for a newspaper. As in, write for it.”
“Really? That’s fascinating.” She smiled at him. “Are you good at it?”
He shrugged. “I suppose.” Wescott had made sure he was at least passable in everything a gentleman’s education covered.
Although he didn’t get the chance for many writing-based activities on the farm.
“My father worked for a newspaper. A revolutionary one. Uncle Gustave says he’d always told him he’d get in trouble that way.
That he should come back to the farm. But Father wouldn’t listen.
” How strange that a memory could still grip him so, even with it being second-hand knowledge.
“What did he write about?”
“He didn’t write, but he did put together the articles,” Theo said.
“The paper was pro-revolution, so they had plenty to write about. How the King and the Queen were spending the people’s money for frivolous activities.
How Robespierre was their solution and salvation.
How the war with Austria was bad, and the English were spying on them … ”
“Don’t they always?” she mused.
He smiled. “We can’t seem to get along.”
“Technically, I’m only half English.”
“Right, Wales.”
She licked her upper lip, and he forced himself to look away from it. “Yes.” She almost sounded like she had to convince herself. “Family. Welsh. You know a lot about us, considering you’re not really working for us.”
“You wouldn’t believe how informative living with the servants is. I could tell you the number of socks the duke has if such information weren’t inappropriate for your ears.”
“Oh, now you have to tell me.”
He laughed.
“Come on!” She hopped in front of him. “Is it above or below ten pairs?”
“You don’t really need to know, do you?”
“You’re no fun.”
Perhaps he wasn’t. But she made him have fun. “What if, instead, I tell you something more scandalous? But you won’t be able to tell it to anyone else.”
Her eyes grew large as she continued to walk backward, treading a fresh path through the field. “Oh, what? I won’t tell. I promise.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m only half French. My mother was English.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “That is scandalous! One could say you’re at war with yourself.”
One could, indeed, say that.
They continued the walk as Theo shared more details.
Not that he knew much himself; only what Father had written to Uncle before he died.
Mother came from a well-regarded family and, while accompanying her father on a business trip to France, met a revolutionary in Paris, and they fell in love.
Emmeline ooh-ed and aah-ed and picked up a flower and twirled it in her hand.
It wasn’t just her lively countenance that lifted his mood, though.
Like that night when he told her about Jean-Baptiste, something about her made him want to talk to her, confide in her.
All the little spillings of his soul would be safe with her.
Soon, the dark silhouette of a ruin rose on the horizon, perched precariously at the edge of a cliff. They picked up their pace until they reached a half-collapsed entrance.
“It looks beautiful,” Emmeline said.
The scorched stones, overgrown with ivy and moss, were indeed hauntingly pretty. Looking far up to the tallest tower still standing sent a shiver down Theo’s spine. It must’ve been glorious once.
“Come.” Emmeline grabbed him by the hand and entered.
The small central courtyard was surrounded by arched hallways, some of them half-collapsed. A black trail led across one side, stretching toward the sky—the path of the flames. A fountain, set in the center of the courtyard, was overgrown in weeds, once painted stones weathered and patchy from age.
“This way.” Emmeline led him away from the courtyard and through a corridor until they found a long, spacious room. Part of its ceiling had given in, now lying on the ground in a heap of rocks.
“Careful,” he said. “The structure might not be stable.”
She nodded, stepping lightly as she inspected the room.
The walls were strange here, with large, lighter patches in symmetrical shapes. Perhaps paintings or mirrors had once hung on them? And the little metal bits sticking out—they must’ve been used for sconces. It would’ve been a grand room back then; a reception room, or a ballroom, perhaps.
Emmeline returned to him, pouting, as if unsatisfied with their discovery. “Let’s check some other places, too.”
“Check for what?”
“I mean, go see them.”
They found a solid enough staircase leading up, and they climbed. “You seem to be quite adept at finding good views,” he said as he looked through a slit, revealing the ocean beyond.
She paused and whipped back.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “You reminded me of … someone.”
Upstairs, they found another hallway and checked more rooms—a continuous stream of bare walls and leftover broken or scorched furniture.
While Theo was examining the remains of a massive bed, he heard Emmeline gasp, and he stepped back into the hallway just as she slipped into another room.
He followed. The room she’d found had wooden flooring that had partially given in, with the rest looking no sturdier.
Across the room, past a few planks, an untouched corner remained, with a small metal chest lying on the ground.
Emmeline was going straight for it.
“No!” he yelled.
She turned around. “It’s fine, I’m light—” And then the rotten wood beneath her feet gave in.
Theo lunged forward, interrupting her scream as he caught her hands, flattening himself on the floor.
“Theo!” She swung wildly beneath him.
“Hold on. I’ve got …” His eyes darted around. There was nothing he could use for support, to push himself off and raise her up. Damn. “Hang on.”
Her fingers were so slippery. He grunted, trying to readjust and hold her by her wrists instead.
The wood underneath him creaked and groaned as if growing tired of holding them. Emmeline continued to hang above at least a two-story drop over the ruined ballroom below, the hair escaped from her bun whirling around her face. Inch by inch, Theo slipped toward the precipice.
“We’re going to fall,” Emmeline breathed.
“I’ll pull you up. Just wait…”
She looked up, her eyes wide. “You’re sliding toward me. The floor can’t hold.”
“I’m not giving up!”
One of her hands slipped; she screamed and swung in a wide arc. “You have to let me go, or we’ll both fall.”
What on Earth—“Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s how it always is in the books.”
In another situation, he might have laughed. “This isn’t a book!”
“Theo, let me—”
With one last loud crack, the floor gave in. Time slowed as Theo was dragged into the depths with Emmeline. For the longest second, he considered how to save them. If he could reach her and wrap her into his arms; if they fell at the right angle, could he make them roll away—
Below them, a few feet off the ground, the air shimmered like it would on a blistering hot day. Theo caught Emmeline and pulled her into a hug. He prepared for the inevitable crash with the ground …
And then the ground disappeared.