Elmwood #3
“Auntie Floret so enjoys a large party,” said Lady Isobel, “but being my companion often prevents her from partaking in such things. I am generally at home and seldom entertain. I’m afraid I prefer the company of my horses in the country to a ballroom of suitable company in Neck.”
Han snorted out what Elmwood was fairly certain was a laugh, then raised her glass, as if toasting a bawdy jest. “I’ll drink to that, my lady,” she said, then tossed back her wine.
Miss Floret and Lady Isobel both blushed scarlet—but, Elmwood suspected, for very different reasons.
Han had a sort of smoldering intensity that Elmwood could see was not lost on Lady Isobel.
Elmwood had never been especially attracted to the silent, broody type, but Lady Isobel clearly had questionable taste at best, at least if her attraction to him was any indication.
“Hear, hear!” she cried, draining her own glass and then smiling brilliantly at Han.
Han remained expressionless, but he saw the muscle in her jaw clench, as if an answering smile was trying to break free.
“Oh, the fish!” said Lady Croft as her footman came in carrying a platter of enormous fishes stuffed with goat cheese and dried currants.
“Your sister tells me that, like me, you are very fond of horses, Lady Han,” said Lady Isobel, ignoring her fish in favor of continuing to beam at Han.
Han floundered, as if this much of Lady Isobel’s focus was too much to face head-on.
“It’s just Han,” she said.
“Oh!” said Lady Isobel. “Then you must call me Issie! Do you keep a large stable here? There’s certainly room for it.”
“Two workhorses and his Lordship’s horse. We haven’t need of more than that.”
Elmwood’s mind flashed to the sensation of being astride a horse and then the world tipping sideways. He grasped the edge of the table to steady himself.
“I certainly have no need of thirty horses, but that does not stop me from acquiring them!” said Lady Isobel.
Then she reached out her hand and laid it on Han’s wrist. “You must come and see my stables sometime. I believe I have some of the fastest horses in Eldmere, but it is ever so difficult to find a riding companion who will help me put it to the test! Everyone is always telling me that I ride too fast and put myself in danger.”
“You do,” said Miss Floret.
“Nonsense, Auntie! Han would be brave enough to ride with me, wouldn’t you?”
Han had gone perfectly still when Lady Isobel placed her hand upon her wrist. Elmwood knew from having touched her himself that Lady Isobel had no Charm, but to see the look on Han’s face, he would have thought she’d just been caught out by the Charm thrill again.
“If you wished it, my lady,” Han said.
“Please, I insist you call me Issie. Now, tell me, what are your thoughts regarding how much fresh fodder is healthy for a broodmare?”
“Is she already bred?” asked Han.
“No, but I want her to be perfectly fit when she is,” said Lady Isobel.
They continued to talk about horses and breeding them, and Elmwood tried not to pay attention.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t manage to keep his mind steady at the mere mention of horses; he could.
The world was full of horses, and sometimes they must be discussed, even by him, and if dwelling on that fact caused his nose to fill with the scent of sweaty horseflesh and blood and his heart to beat erratically—well, it was a temporary discomfort that would pass.
So he did his best to ignore their conversation, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white.
Then Lady Isobel’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Yes, darling Erol, you must tell us, how is your beloved Storm? You spoke of him so fondly, it is as though I have ridden him into battle myself. I am certain there is no finer charger in all of the country!”
Elmwood flinched, closing his eyes against the sudden onslaught of memory.
The sound of Storm screaming filled his ears, transporting him.
That field in Relance was thousands of miles away, but each breath he took seemed to give him less air than the one before, as if he were once again pinned to the earth…
“Storm perished in the war, Lady Isobel,” said Winthrop. Elmwood wasn’t certain if he said it quietly or if his voice was muffled by the pounding of Elmwood’s own pulse in his ears.
“Oh no!” cried Lady Isobel. “I’m so sorry! To lose a horse is to lose a friend. I know that your own trusty steed could never be replaced, but I recently bought the finest colt I’ve seen in years, and I am now determined that you shall have him as a wedding present.”
Elmwood hardly heard her. Images began to flicker in his mind. Mud everywhere. A torn face, eyes twitching open…
He forced himself to pry his own eyes open, and there was Lady Croft, gazing at him from across the table, a worried line marring her perfect brow. He focused on her face, willing his mind to think of her instead of the battlefield.
“Are you well? You were making a noise,” she said quietly.
He realized everyone else was staring at him again.
“It was like a little creature being muffled under a pillow, my darling,” said Lady Isobel, not quietly. Well, fuck. This was humiliating.
“I’m fine. Very fit. Fine, I mean,” he said.
Then the footman entered with the next course and distracted everyone, which merited some small measure of gratitude.
However, the dish he set before Elmwood was a platter of smallish birds, their buttered skin glistening, and Elmwood’s gorge rose in his throat.
For most of his youth, he had refused to eat meat or birds, but being a soldier had broken him of that affectation, as his father had called it.
Now it no longer bothered him most of the time, but there was something so horribly fleshy about seeing them splayed before him…
Enough, he thought. He just needed to make it through this dinner, and then he could return to his bed and perhaps everyone would leave him in peace for a little while. That was all he wanted.
Well, perhaps not all he wanted. Lady Croft was still watching him, her concern blatant on her face. Her regard was the only thing anchoring him to the present. He hated that he had disappointed and hurt her the previous night.
He was then gripped by an impulse he would undoubtedly regret.
“I propose a toast,” he said, loudly enough that everyone stopped and turned their full attention to him once more. Mindful of his quaking hand, he carefully picked up his glass and raised it in polite society’s version of Han’s earlier tavern salute.
“When I came to Merewyth, it was not under happy circumstances.”
He paused, thinking. He wanted to apologize to Lady Croft for being so useless and cowardly and unable to help her.
He wanted to tell her that he wished he were a man worthy of her kind impulses and her egg-frying lessons and her mind-addling beauty, but he couldn’t say those things with everyone else watching, and after this dinner was over, he would have no further opportunity to say anything to her at all.
“Lady Croft. We have had our neighborly misunderstandings, but I wish for you to know how deeply I esteem you. Your generosity, your dedication to your convictions, and your kindness have no equal. So I must apologize. I am very sorry for my failings and for my rudeness. Most of all, I am sorry that I am incapable of offering you anything to equal the friendship you have shown to me and now to my guests. To Lady Croft, and to her hospitality.”
He gave a flourish with his glass—thankfully his hand cooperated—and then he drained it.
Lady Croft was still staring at him, eyes huge and mouth slightly agape. Had he embarrassed her? Well, she would have to forgive him for that as well. He just hoped that she understood him.
Everyone else was staring at him as well.
Why? It wasn’t so out of the ordinary to thank one’s host. He thought he’d done rather well conveying his gist to Lady Croft without spelling it out for the entire company, but you wouldn’t know that from their faces.
No, you’d think he’d fallen to his knees and professed his undying love for her, judging by the assortment of looks they were all giving him.
A hot blush crept up his cheeks. Saints and kings, would there be no end to this utterly wretched day? How many more courses need he suffer through before he could return to Merewyth and suffocate himself with a feather bolster?
Lady Croft was still unreadable, but he was quite certain that whatever his apology had made her feel, it had not done her any good.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Han was as inscrutable as ever.
Miss Floret stared at him with eyes like rapier blades, no doubt already penning a letter in her mind to alert the authorities of his location.
Winthrop looked horrified, no doubt wondering if he would have to make good on his threat to turn himself in since Elmwood had failed so miserably at upholding his end of things.
And Lady Isobel had the expression of someone who was clinging to a piece of flotsam, trying desperately to convince herself that it was still a boat.
They had all been muddling through dinner in fine fashion, he reflected, until he’d ruined it.
They had all been living their lives in fine fashion as well, until he had become a blight upon them.
He was like a wasting disease that swept through an encampment and massacred whole regiments.
They would all be so much better off if he had died in that field in Relance, as he had been meant to, rather than cheating fate with his brutish Charm.
Indeed, the best—the kindest—thing that he could do for all of them was to rectify that mistake. He decided then, in that silence, that it was time for this whole absurd charade to end.
He would settle what affairs he could, then leave Merewyth and give himself up to the law and face the consequences of his actions at last. Lady Isobel would be free to find a more suitable match.
Winthrop could focus on his own life and stop wasting his brilliance on Elmwood.
Lady Croft could be rid of his uselessness.
Truly, it was the only way to set things right.
“Begging your pardon,” said Lady Croft’s footman. He stood in the doorway, half-drowned, water running off of him in rivulets and pooling on the floor.
“Ed!” cried Lady Croft. “What has happened to you?”
“It’s the storm, my lady. The roads are flooded!”
“Good gracious,” said Miss Floret. “However shall we make our way back to Merewyth?”
If the roads were impassable, then that meant…
“It appears you shall all have to spend the night,” said Lady Croft.