Chapter Eighteen
Sarah swallowed, but it did absolutely no good.
Her heart was still hammering. Her fingers tingled with anticipation and panic, her legs like one of those jellies Cook made in the autumn.
She tried to bring her hands together, but that didn’t make any difference.
Fear rippled through her chest, her heart pumping it through her body so every inch felt the dread she could not quell.
“Ready?”
Sarah stared at her mother. What on earth had possessed her to agree to this? It was absolutely ridiculous—she should have known it would be a mistake.
Why had no one stopped her? Why had her mother not told her categorically not to be so idiotic?
Sarah swallowed in an attempt to moisten her lips, then croaked, “I cannot believe you are going to permit me to do this.”
Mrs. Lockwood’s eyebrows shot up. “Me?”
“You did not stop me,” Sarah whispered as the noise in the room increased.
Her mother looked astounded. “You—I was the one who told you not to do it!”
Mr. Norton’s bookshop was starting to crowd. There were far more people than Sarah would have supposed, yet the door kept opening and they kept pouring in.
Some she recognized. Most she did not.
At least you have not agreed such a thing during term time, Sarah tried to tell herself. Just think how many insolent gentlemen from the university would see you embarrass yourself!
“Yes, I presumed it was open to the public, but…well. I rather wanted you to want me to be there.”
Her stomach swooped painfully. Montague would not be coming. Sarah had hoped…it had been foolish to go to his room yesterday, but she had been unable to help it.
There was so much unsaid between them; that was the trouble. Sarah had strode past the porter, ignoring all his shouts as her feet made their way by memory to Montague’s room—
The door had been open. The room empty, save for one armchair, covered by a dustsheet. Sarah had sat on it slowly, attempting to take in the truth her eyes were telling her, even if her heart did not want to listen.
He was gone. Montague Lancaster, Duke of Caelfall, had left Oxford.
And he hadn’t even said goodbye.
“But I shouldn’t be a second thought. I don’t want to be far down the list. I should be your first want. Goodbye.”
Guilt seared through Sarah’s already constricted chest as the chattering noise rose in the bookshop. She was to blame. There was no knowing what might have happened between them if she had gone earlier, caught him before he had left.
Not to apologize. Even in the midst of her panic, Sarah snorted at the very idea. It was not her fault she wanted to keep him safe! It was not her fault she feared what could happen to him in France. After all, look at what had already happened…
A squeeze on her arm. Sarah’s head jerked up. “What?”
Mrs. Lockwood frowned. “Pardon, Sarah.”
Sarah was not listening. “You can pretend to disapprove.”
“What?”
“Pardon, you mean.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Are you giving me cheek, young lady?”
But Sarah saw her way out—it was so simple. “Y-Yes. Yes, I am—you should send me home this instant. I’ll go now—”
“Sarah Maria Lockwood, come here,” Mrs. Lockwood said firmly, grasping her arm as she made to get away.
Sarah’s breath was shallow as seats all throughout the bookshop started to fill. Even the ones close to the stage.
She must have been mad to think this was a good idea—mad! Why had she not realized just how many people would be here? Oh, she would be having words with Mr. Norton after this; he should never have allowed her to—
“Sarah Lockwood, you are about to give a poetry recital, not battle a dragon to the death,” her mother said severely. “Besides, I thought you wanted to do this! I thought this the whole reason you wished to take those foolish fencing lessons!”
Sarah dropped her gaze at the mention of the fencing lessons.
It had been only through a mistake that she had met Montague. The first time she had sought a poet, and failed miserably. The second time, she had been seeking a fencing tutor. And she had found one. And he had taught her more than she could ever possibly imagine.
But Sarah had never actually thought she would finish it. Never thought her mother would drag her to the recital, telling her a promise was a promise, even if made to a tradesman.
And she had never believed so many people would attend…
“I didn’t think it would be like this,” she breathed.
Her mother snorted. “What, you think a poetry recital is delivered to a completely empty room?”
“Mama!”
“Well,” said Mrs. Lockwood. “I am proud of you, that I am.”
Sarah blinked. Had her mother really said…
“You know, I always wanted to be a botanist,” her mother said dreamily.
“A botanist!”
Sarah stared at her mother. This was a dream, surely. She was merely dreaming about the poetry recital at Mr. Norton’s bookshop; this could not actually be real.
Her mother, a botanist?
Mrs. Lockwood gave a sad smile. “That is the trouble with being a lady, Sarah. Do not think I do not understand, for I do. I was young once. I had dreams once.”
Dreams of being a botanist?
Sarah was nudged awkwardly by someone behind her, her attention entirely transfixed on her mother. “Why did you not become a botanist?” she could not help but ask.
Mrs. Lockwood delivered the snort of derision Sarah knew all too well.
“Me, Miss Markham, a botanist? What was I supposed to do, batter the door down at a university? Stage a protest outside Kensington Gardens and demand to be apprenticed? Rail outside the House of Lords and beg for a woman’s right to work? ”
Sarah could not help but grin. “Maybe. At least one of those, if not all of the above!”
Her mother held her gaze for a moment, and there was such wistfulness in her expression that Sarah’s heart softened.
She squeezed her mother’s hand. “I wish you could have become a botanist, Mama.”
Mrs. Lockwood took a shuddering breath. “And I wish you could see yourself as I see you. A beautiful, proud poet who is about to give her first poetry recital, and amaze the world.”
It was such a touching thing to say that, for a moment, Sarah could not speak. Her eyes filled with tears. It was the praise she had never expected to receive from her mother. That it should come at such a time as this—
“Ready?” beamed Mr. Norton, who somehow appeared by their side.
Sarah froze. Ready for—surely he could not intend her to go first! There were at least two gentlemen scheduled to perform before her; he could not expect her to—
“Good luck!” her mother said brightly, releasing Sarah’s hand and pushing her to the stage.
Sarah’s heart skipped a beat as she was stepped onto the makeshift stage. Her feet echoed on the boards. The room fell silent as all eyes turned toward her.
Now she did not appear to have a heart at all. It was not beating. She definitely had a stomach. It was about to return her breakfast to the stage—not that she had eaten much. Her nerves had overcome her then and they would overcome her now.
Footsteps. Sarah turned to see her mother approaching the stage and relief soared through her. Her mother would not actually allow her to shame herself, ruin all chances of matrimony by reciting a poem on stage! Certainly not one she had written herself!
“Yes?” she said eagerly.
Mrs. Lockwood handed her what appeared to be a very large sword. “Here you go.”
Sarah stared at the blade as the pommel was placed in her hand. “What the—”
“It was your Great Uncle Rupert’s,” her mother said, by way of explanation. “I had it brought down from the attic. A prop!” she added, as though it was obvious. “For your poem!”
Sarah’s arm sagged at the weight of the heavy blade. Now, finally, she understood why Montague—why the Duke of Caelfall was so emphatic about the difference between a foil and a sword.
Why, the foils she had practiced with were light, easy to manipulate, a joy to move through the air. And this? This lump of metal already made her shoulder ache.
“Thank you all so much for coming,” said Mr. Norton pompously as he stood beside her on the stage. “Norton Bookshop welcomes you! We have three delightful poets today…”
All she had to do was walk off the stage, Sarah told herself. She could leave at any moment; she was no prisoner!
And yet, her feet did not move and a strange flicker of rebellion against her own instincts twisted in her stomach.
Why should she not recite a poem? With a sword in hand, Sarah thought. True, it was not what most people expected of a young lady…but then, the one gentleman she might have convinced to consider her as a bride had left Oxford forever.
Why not ruin her reputation?
“—Miss Sarah Lockwood!”
A burst of applause made her look up. Mr. Norton was clapping as he stepped off the stage, leaving her alone there.
And then there was silence. One could have heard a pin drop—or a sword drop, she thought, if her arm gave way.
The only sound was the frantic beating of her heart.
Sarah swallowed. “A great tale I have, and will tell you the tale…”
Once she started, it was not so bad. At least, she thought, the opening of her poem had been completed many months ago.
She had known it by heart long before she had taken the rash decision to sign up for this poetry recital.
It did not include anything on fencing and not much in the way of love, so the words trickled off her tongue.
“With a mighty great roar that rattled the sky,
The battle commenced under dark blackened cries…”
Just once Sarah’s gaze caught her mother’s, but she swiftly looked away. Her mother’s eyes were filled with tears, and she did not want to wonder whether it was through pride or despair at her terrible poetry.
And that was the only reason why Sarah looked at the very back of the bookshop, toward the door. Toward freedom, a potential escape.
Except she could not have walked through the door if she had tried, because there was a man standing there blocking the path. A tall man, with dark hair and knowing eyes.
Montague.
“And then with a-a…a…”