Page 10 of Miss Louisa’s Final Waltz (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #4)

Chapter Ten

Louisa Highworth was no fool. She was as certain as the compass pointing north that Robert was a gentleman. She’d suspected something was off with her husband as early as London, even though she might not have been fully aware of it then. There had been a thousand signs. If she hadn’t been as aware of them as she should have been, it was because she’d been distracted by her tumultuous thoughts and emotions.

She occasionally suspected that beneath his frequently cheerful fa?ade simmered a hidden resentment or grudge. The brooding looks he gave her in unguarded moments reminded her that despite all they’d been through, he harboured some aversion towards her, or the class she represented. She couldn’t understand why it bothered her so much to think that he didn’t like her.

Certainly, Louisa could sometimes be absent-minded and oblivious to her surroundings. She had a tendency for wool-gathering, even in the middle of a ball or a cotillon. She was terrible at remembering faces and made no great effort at remembering names. More than once, she confused her suitors. What could one do? These men all looked the same, sometimes even had the same name, and there simply were too many to count.

Once she even mistook the great George Bryan “Beau” Brummel for another Pink of the ton, Lord George Brandon. They’d worn the same clothes, the same cravat knotted in the Oriental style, had the same windswept brown hair, the same burgundy coat. They were even called the same.

It had been an unforgivable mistake. Brummel had been deadly offended and declared that her nickname of Ice Damsel was more than appropriate. But maybe he’d already lost his grip over society by then, for instead of his proclamation making her a social outcast, it had heightened her fame even further.

Yet, regarding Robert, she ought to have noticed the signs earlier. There had been so many details, a random gesture; hands that were meticulously clean and fingernails trimmed; the way he pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open with one hand. Hadn’t she seen the same movement a thousand times in the drawing room? He’d continuously lapsed into refined speech until he dropped the cockney dialect altogether. She could not recall the precise time and place, but he may have done so as early as London. Then there was his posture. When he forgot to stoop, he carried himself with quiet confidence, standing tall and erect, and when he forgot to drag his feet, his step was firm and precise.

He had a penetrating gaze, and little escaped him as he surveyed his surroundings. And when he focused on her, it was with an intensity that she found both thrilling and unsettling.

Robert Jones was a gentleman, all right. There was no doubt.

A gentleman gifted with acting, a gentleman pretending to be a lower-class commoner.

Had her father known?

Surely he must have. Why else would he have facilitated this marriage in the way he had? Did either of them truly think they could hoodwink her for long? They must have hatched this plan together. There was no doubt in her mind that this was what it was; they must have cleared the roads around her house and placed him in that strategic position, together with the cart and the donkey, so that she’d immediately notice him and head in his direction.

Her father and he, they’d certainly put on a jolly good show. They’d managed to deceive her completely. But not for long.

A flash of anger shot through her, but then a resolution formed in her mind.

Very well, if that is what they wanted, she could play this game, too.

She’d leave them in the belief that she’d married a costermonger, and she’d lead the life of the costermonger’s wife with all its hardships and privations.

Her smile was cold and hard.

Which of the two would yield first? Which of them would tire of the game first? After all, he too was accustomed to the comforts of upper-class life and would find it increasingly difficult to maintain a lower-class lifestyle for longer than, she estimated, a fortnight.

Yes, she’d give him a fortnight.

In the meantime, she would try to find Will.

Will had liked to wait for her under the three birch trees, usually with a bundle of bread rolls, saffron cakes, or hard eggs, which they ate by the lake. He also fed her hot buns, misshapen loaves he'd made himself that smelled divinely of nutmeg, cloves, and mace.

Louisa, who ate only morsels at the table, devoured his food like the sun would never rise again.

He gave her little wooden figurines that he’d carved and painted himself. Wizards and sorcerers from Glubbdubdrib, he said. A particularly dainty one, which he’d made in her image. “The Princess of Glubbdubdrib,” he told her. It was her favourite.

His eye bruise was a scintillating blue; after several days it turned green, then yellow. He wore it with pride. “You’re my guardian angel, Lulu,” he told her. “I’m sure they would’ve killed me if you hadn’t come when you did. I’m rubbish at fighting, and I’m not as fast a runner as you are.”

“Stay away from him, Will,” she urged. “I don’t know why George hates you so, but it’s best if you stay out of his way.”

“It’s because I delivered a bun spiced with chilli to the house, specifically for him, you know.” A mischievous gleam danced in his eyes.

“Will! How excessively silly of you! What if Lord Milford had eaten it instead?”

“I attached a note saying it was meant for George.” He grinned. “He hates me, which is fine, because I hate him, too. He can beat me up all he wants, but I’m smarter than him. I’ll get my revenge one day. I can be very, very patient. And when he’s forgotten all about it, when he least expects it, I’ll strike.”

Will found his opportunity one sunny day when Mrs and Reverend Graham invited them to the vicarage for a garden party, with the purpose of raising funds for repairing the church. Louisa came with her father, Lord and Lady Milford, and George. They were having afternoon tea at delicately set tables in the shade of the trees. This was the moment Will had been waiting for. He slid an inflated pig’s bladder under George’s seat just before he sat down. The honk it emitted to simulate flatulence was wet and loud.

The entire tea party froze in embarrassed silence.

George’s face turned deep red.

Louisa choked and nearly spat out her tea.

“Good heavens!” Reverend Graham exclaimed.

Lady Milford smiled painfully and apologised for him.

Mrs Graham immediately offered some fennel and aniseed tea to calm down his digestive tract.

She watched how Will skulked away, collapse against the wall of the house, holding his side, and nearly dying with laughter.

Oh, how happy he was that he’d finally had his revenge on George! From that day on, that was the only kind of tea George was given at teatime. Each cup was a reminder that Will had bested him.

A smile flitted over her face.

They spent many hours on the island reading. Will lent her his tattered copy of Gulliver’s Travels , which they took turns reading aloud. She hid the copy of his book under a floorboard in her room, along with the wooden figurines Will had carved for her, extracting an oath that she would keep them as her greatest treasure. In return, she taught him how to swim.

She also helped him to translate Cicero. She had only been taught the basics by her governess, but she was a fast learner and grasped the Latin declensions faster than he did.

“It’s easy, Will. Look: 'Nor is there anyone who loves, pursues, or desires pain itself because it is pain ...'' Dolor means pain. You add an -em to it to make the accusative case, so it must be ‘dolorem’.”

“Dolor, dolores, dolorem, bah, it’s all the same to me.” He tugged at his hair in frustration. “And it’s so depressingly morbid! Let’s do something fun, Louisa. Let’s row over to the island and have a rollicking adventure.”

She liked to tease him, too. “You don’t know how to swim, you don’t know how to fight, you can’t run particularly fast, either. You don’t know any Latin. What do you know how to do, little Will?”

Will grinned, and the golden flecks in his hazel eyes lit up. “I know how to bake the best buns in England. I can carve the smallest wooden figures with my knife, and I know how to make my Lulu laugh. ”

That he certainly did.

He had a cheerful personality and a positive outlook on life, despite the harsh cards that life had dealt him. He was always cracking jokes and was full of mischief and nonsense.

“What would you do without me, little Will?” She ruffled his hair.

He pulled away.

“I’m not that little,” he replied with dignity.

Louisa had looked down at him with a smirk.

“Someday,” he told her, “I’m going to marry you, Louisa. I think it would be fabulous. You and me. Don’t you think?”

She’d agreed.

But Louisa hadn’t married him. And now she never would.