Page 10 of Holding Onto Love (The Taverstons of Iversley #2)

V anessa knew she had to take this day by day. She must trust herself to make decisions as they came. Any mistakes would have to be lived with or corrected. This was all simple: she should not make it hard.

Her money was low. Not her assets, her coin.

She scrutinized the contents of her jewelry case, now spread across her narrow bed. And discovered she was not the coolly detached assessor of gemstones that she claimed to be. She remembered each gift. Each occasion. Each non-occasion. Jasper had not thrown presents at her as an easy way to buy affection or evade apology. He’d chosen special things for special moments. Oh!—her pearl necklace. Her eyes moistened. She couldn’t part with any of this.

What a fool she was being! She could not afford sentiment. She had to let go .

She should have sold it all before leaving London, and given the money to Will to invest in some sort of trust. It surprised her that he hadn’t thought to suggest it, but she could not blame Will. Not when she’d made such a point to him of her independence.

She picked up a bracelet studded with sapphires. Everything was real. Jasper did not believe in paste. One could not sell jewelry, not this type of jewelry, in Cartmel. Either it would brand her at once as a retired courtesan, or people would suspect she had been a lady’s maid who absconded with the family jewels.

This was not an unsolvable problem. She needed only to write to Will and he would come fetch whatever she needed to sell. Yet she hated to inconvenience him so dreadfully. Perhaps she might write to Mr. Taverston. Crispin said Reginald could be counted upon. But what an embarrassing request to make. And what would Lady Georgiana think?

Vanessa had never met the woman, this erstwhile rival for Jasper’s affection, but Crispin admired her. What a futile thing, to wish for the good opinion of a lady whom she had never met and would never meet.

Besides, contacting Reginald would be tantamount to contacting Jasper.

She didn’t have time for this, she thought impatiently. Charlotte Gowe would be here any moment.

Vanessa and her neighbor had developed a Monday morning ritual. Charlotte would send her two little boys to the fields with her husband, tuck her baby girl into a basket, and bring her down the road. She also brought two cups, drizzled at the bottom with honey from the hives her husband kept. Vanessa supplied the boiled water and the tea. It was her near-empty tea caddy, in fact, that had alerted her to the dwindling of her funds.

Imagine, the Earl of Iversley’s mistress unable to afford tea. But she wasn’t that, anymore. She was a woman with finite resources. If she wanted funds, she would have to do without some of her jewels.

Vanessa took another glance out the window to see Charlotte walking toward the house. Her cotton frock had all the color washed out of it, but her round face was pink with the heat. She swung the basket to and fro gently. Sweet Kate would be sleeping by the time she arrived. That’s what they called her. Sweet Kate. Never Katie or Kitty or Kate. Always Sweet Kate, as if she had been christened so.

Vanessa dug her nails into her palms. Another emotion she would not allow herself to feel, not even to name. Of course, she and Jasper never had any children. And she and Henry…had no children either. No living children.

Charlotte came up the walk, careful not to bump the basket against her legs. Vanessa shut the door to her bedroom, then opened the front door before her friend knocked.

“Come in! The water’s boiling.”

Charlotte handed her two copper cups. “I can’t stay long. Petey’s got the trots. Dan took him but says if he’s not better, he’ll send him home. I figure I’ve time for just a quick cup.”

“Oh, poor Petey! Does he hurt?”

“That boy never hurts. We wouldn’t have known he was sick except—” She made a sniffing sound and wrinkled her nose. “You know.”

Little Dan was six. Petey five. Sweet Kate would be a year old come August. Vanessa clenched her hands around the cups. Then she set them on the table. “I’ll fetch the pot.”

The teapot was a chipped old clay thing that had come with the house. Vanessa suspected the previous occupant had brewed up some earthy concoction from local herbs rather than actual tea by the lingering odor of it. The first few times she’d used it, she yearned for the delicate Wedgewood teapot left behind in Bleeker Street, then resigned herself with the thought that at least it wasn’t the gaudy, gilded pot that her mother had used.

But then once, watching Charlotte sigh over the honey-sweetened tea, with a wistful smile on her face and the words—“Aren’t we just like the Queen, now?”—Vanessa decided the pot wasn’t the important thing. In fact, she wondered if the Wedgewood wasn’t gaudy too, just in a different way.

Vanessa returned to the table, poured, and then sat in the chair she would drag in from the parlor whenever Charlotte came to call. She could picture the look on Jasper’s face were he to see her like this. A mixture of consternation and amusement.

Oh, good Lord. Enough of Jasper. Looking at his gifts had put her in a mood.

“No alphabets today?” she asked Charlotte.

Charlotte had asked Vanessa to teach her to read. The woman had applied herself to the task with vigor at first, but it was slow going. Her enthusiasm had faded. Vanessa hesitated to push her. Was it condescending to wish her neighbor was literate?

“No time.” She sipped. “Maybe you should teach Petey and Little Dan instead.” She added a mirthless laugh.

“You all three could learn.”

“No, I don’t mean to bother you more. Besides, I’d have to convince Dan.” Charlotte rolled her eyes.

Vanessa hadn’t figured out yet whose word held sway in that household. Charlotte acted as though she bowed to Dan’s will, but Vanessa had yet to see the evidence.

“Oh, but since we’re talking about reading! I almost forgot,” Charlotte said. “Sherwood has a letter for you over at the tavern.”

Here in Cartmel, the tavern was the post. The letter had to be from Will. No one else knew she was here.

“I hope it hasn’t to do with the house.” Vanessa bit her lip. “I thought I signed everything I had to sign. I suppose I better walk over there later.”

Charlotte giggled. “I’m sure Sherwood would be happy to bring it by. I could have Dan drop a word.”

“No, thank you. I could do with a stroll.”

Sherwood considered himself quite the Corinthian. Amusingly enough, many of the ladies of the town seemed to think he was too.

“Have you talked to Lydia recently?” Charlotte asked.

“Just quickly. At church.”

Charlotte flushed. Vanessa noticed she missed church fairly often. She once mumbled an excuse, something about Sunday being Dan’s day to “sleep late,” which sounded rather scandalous for Cartmel, so Vanessa never referred to it again. She refilled Charlotte’s cup.

Charlotte swirled her tea, mixing the last little bit of honey at the bottom. “She didn’t say anything about Herve’s cousin?”

“Who?” Vanessa knew nothing about Herve, let alone a cousin.

“Herve’s a tanner over in Barrow. His cousin lost both his legs. Both of them. Herve asked Jon if there might be a place for him at the boot mill.”

Jon Compton called his cottage a mill. Vanessa understood that people for miles around ordered his semi-customized boots for men of theirs in the army, knowing that the government procurers could not keep the constantly marching soldiers well shod. The Comptons tried to price their wares low—not to undercut their competitors but because their customers were not well off. They turned out several pairs a week. Quality boots. Vanessa admired them. But a tiny part of her scoffed at the notion that an output like that qualified their endeavor as a mill.

“Lydia didn’t mention it. But I’m sure they’ll find something he can do.”

Charlotte nodded, but not as though she were convinced. “He wasn’t a soldier though. The cousin. He was drinking and fell down a hill.”

“And lost both his legs?”

“It was a big hill.”

Vanessa caught back a laugh. It wasn’t funny. But she had an image of a foxed fellow tumbling down a hillside and leaving his legs at the top.

“He isn’t a drunkard though. Just had one too many.”

“You know him?”

Charlotte nodded. “I was born in Barrow.”

“Well, talk to Lydia. I’m sure if you vouch for him…”

Sweet Kate startled awake with a cry. Then a grunt. Then a foul odor filled the air.

“Oh, no,” Charlotte groaned. “Sweet Kate’s got what Petey’s got. I better get her home and wash her off.” She scooped up the basket and cast a sorrowful glance at the cups. “I’ll come back for them or send Little Dan.” She hurried out the door.

Vanessa watched her go, but her thoughts were elsewhere. With the Comptons and their boots and the two desperate old soldiers they employed. They could grow it. Their “mill.” They could grow it. Mr. Brunel’s building in Portsmouth, with at least two dozen men, churned out a hundred shoes a day.

But Mr. Brunel was an engineer. With machinery. Complicated, precision machinery. That took money. More money than four years of accumulated jewels were worth.

Vanessa sighed. What had gotten into her? She didn’t think about mills. She didn’t want to be thinking about mills. Certainly not thinking about investing in mills. Ever .

*

Vanessa tidied her cottage, worked in her garden, let down a hem then tacked it up. She made herself a meal of bread and chopped boiled eggs. Then tidied again. Anything to avoid sorting jewelry into piles.

It made sense to retrieve the letter first, she decided. Then send a brooch along with her response to Will. She’d only send one piece and pray it arrived unpilfered. Afterward, she could tell her tale: she’d borrowed something from a friend in London who needed it back.

She tied on her bonnet and walked to the tavern. Better to do so early in the day before men started to gather. It was a short walk. Just two dusty roads. She passed two ladies from church who were picking flowers by the roadside. Vanessa exchanged greetings with them, but since they seemed deep in conversation, she did not stop.

The tavern was a two-room affair. A large one for drinking and a small one for everything else. Sherwood was sweeping out the large room in preparation for the evening’s onslaught.

“Mrs. Wardrip!” Sherwood beamed at her. He had a gap between his two front teeth she could drive a barouche through. “Come for an ale?” He tried out a wink. Most men shouldn’t and he was no exception.

“Just my letter, thank you. Mrs. Gowe said you had one for me.”

“Indeed, I do. Just a minute.” He swept his motes into the corner, propped his broom, and left her, saying, “May take a few to find it.”

She waited. Sweeping wasn’t enough. The floor needed a scrubbing. The walls, too. She shifted from foot to foot. What could Will be writing to her about? It couldn’t be about the house. He’d handled the transaction, and he was scrupulous.

Worry pressed down like a weight.

It wasn’t just Will’s letter. She was worried about all of it. Money. Boredom. She liked Charlotte very much, but she had to admit, their conversation didn’t flow. She liked Lydia, too. But she remembered Lydia differently. She’d been a general to them. Now she was just Lydia.

Vanessa didn’t need a general. She needed friends. She missed Effie and Rose back in London. The two women along the roadside—she didn’t even remember their names—had made no effort to draw her in. Why would they? She had nothing in common with anyone here. She couldn’t even pretend to be flattered by Sherwood’s attention. It was indiscriminate and the man had no charm.

It was all so much effort. Trying to make a new life. Hiding her old one. She knew she was being crotchety and probably snobbish. But she feared she would never belong here. Or anywhere. Ever again.

She had no one. She was beginning to wonder if even Jasper had forgotten her. If he’d found his countess yet.

“Here it is.” Sherwood emerged from the back room waving a letter like a banner. “A man’s handwriting. I guess I have a rival.”

Subtle as a hammer.

She took it from him, glad at least that it didn’t occur to him to keep waggling it playfully out of reach, and stuffed it quickly into her reticule.

“Thank you, Sherwood.”

“Stay a while. I’m not too busy for a chat.”

“I’m afraid I am.” What excuse could she make? “Washing to do.”

He nodded sagely. She made her escape. She walked a half mile to the crossroad where an ash tree shaded the path. It was a pretty day. There was no one near, and her dress was lightly blotched anyway from her earlier gardening, so she sat on the ground and took out her letter.

The handwriting was not Will’s. She wasn’t sure whose. It bore a simple wax seal with no mark. The paper was beset with creases and dull with grime. It had come a long way. She broke the seal.

My dear Mrs. Wardrip—No doubt you will have heard by the time this finds you, but I am filled with an uncharacteristic enthusiasm for putting pen to paper and could not put head to pillow until I wrote to you, too. We have won. Won. Shout with me: Vitoria! The rest is sweeping spent ashes into the hearth. Do not let anyone tell you—not that anyone would—that Wellington is less than a god. (I do not say God, lest I find myself stricken down in the moment of celebration.) There is much to mourn. And I will begin to do so tomorrow. But for tonight, I am merely joyous to have been here, to have added my small piece. Vanessa—Henry and his brethren—all those brave, brave men—did not sacrifice in vain. That is what I wanted to say. Not to crow our victory. But to tell you your husband’s death had meaning: if not to you, if it still does not seem so to you, then know it has meaning for hundreds of thousands. Napoleon’s defeat is nigh.—By the Grace of God, Your servant—Lt. Crispin Taverston

Oh, Crispin. Tears ran down her face. She murmured, prayer-like: “Thank you for remembering Henry. And all of them.” Those dead in battles already forgotten. Lesser battles. Lost battles. Crispin did not forget them. He had not forgotten her.