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There were a great many ducks present, there to cavort in the flooded stream, and I passed the hours pleasantly thinking of you.
I was going to work in a joke about how I missed your mallard-dictions, but written down, it doesn’t have quite the same flare. Maledictions. Mallard-dictions. It doesn’t even look right. Some jokes just don’t work in print, which is why I have nonetheless tried to render it here so you can laugh at my cleverness. Or abuse my stupidity.
Whichever brings you more joy.
In any event, I have high hopes for this fellow outside of Trowbridge. It can’t be long now, and then I’ll be back. Perhaps we might talk then.
Yours,
Christian
Judith knew she should not let herself dream.
Yet as she walked down the Mayfair street, she could feel herself wanting to do so. It was as if someone had attached a hot air balloon to her spirits and lifted them a hundred feet in the air despite her better impulses.
After weeks of friendly conversation—weeks of trying not to remembering his kiss, and failing utterly—Christian had sent a note around late last night.
Back in town. Need to see you. Can you come by in the afternoon? I’ll send the carriage.
She’d told the boy there was no reason to send anything. But those words—need to see you—had somehow burrowed under her skin. They’d given her steps an extra spring. They’d felt like a cool breeze in the midst of a sweltering heat. It was all an indication of just how far she’d let her standards fall, that she smiled at the thought of Christian needing to see her the day he returned to London.
Don’t, whispered her rational mind. Don’t believe. This is foolish.
But the sun was shining and the skies were blue, and as foolish as it would be to construct a daydream about a future with Christian, rejecting her current happiness would be rather like throwing away perfectly good bread because children were starving in St. Giles.
Why not enjoy what she had while she could?
God. Bread. She was happy enough that even the thought of perfectly good bread—warm and fragrant, smelling of yeast and slathered with butter, instead of a hard, scarcely chewable lump that vaguely resembled coal in taste and texture—could not destroy her mood.
She smiled as she rapped on the door to Christian’s home. She grinned as she ascended the steps to his office behind the butler. And when he stood for her as the door opened…
She’d forgotten what it was like to smile because someone else was smiling, to feel that they were linked, that his delight was her joy.
She’d missed him. His hair was in messy, dark curls, but he looked…rested, perhaps, was the right word for it. More at peace than she’d seen him.
She couldn’t help but smile, and he apparently could not help but smile back. She might have basked in his smile for hours.
She was in desperate straits and she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Lord Ashford.” She nodded at him.
“Lady Judith.” His eyes rested on her. He’d looked at her precisely like that when he’d seen her on the street after eight years. But he’d not smiled, not like this.
He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. “Do you want anything to eat?”
“Real bread,” she said immediately.
He blinked. “Not scones? Not biscuits?”
She shut her eyes and shook her head. “Real bread. Warm bread. Soft, but with a good, crisp crust. The kind where you can just sink your teeth into it and…and eat it.”
A silence fell on the room, and she opened one eye to see Christian watching her.
“You’re passionate about bread, all of a sudden.”
“Theresa has been making punishment bread.”
“Ah.” He touched on his cravat, loosening it a little as if uncomfortable.
“The least said on the subject,” Judith said primly, “the better. I am not going to give in and let her off her punishment. But I will eat your bread.”
“I would never deny you the opportunity to eat my bread,” he said in a rough voice.
“With butter?” Judith offered innocently. “Because I do love a good hot loaf, particularly when it has been lovingly caressed with a touch of butter, freshly churned.”
He made an inarticulate noise.
“Sometimes,” Judith confided, “I like to spread a layer of butter on my bread and then lick it—”
“Oh my God,” Christian said, clapping a hand to his forehead. “You’re doing it on purpose.”
She laughed. “Talking about how I’d like to lick your butter? Why, yes. I am. I always used to talk of food with you. Do you find it strange that I should do so now?”
“But…” He looked upward. “You were…back then. You were young. Innocent.” He swallowed. “You used to eat strawberries…”
“Do nineteen-year-olds not eat?” She batted her eyes at him innocently.
He shut his eyes. “There was one time over breakfast when you were enjoying it. You were really enjoying it. I was uncomfortable. You asked me if something was wrong with the seat on my chair. You offered to come over and make me comfortable.”
“I remember.”
“I…just…” He looked over at her. “Were you doing it on purpose then, too?”
“For God’s sake, Christian.” She smiled. “I was nineteen, not stupid. Half my friends were already married. I tried to get you to kiss me for half the summer.”
He made a choking noise.
“And you were so adorable,” she continued, “trying so hard not to say anything. I thought you knew.”
“If you had any notion how much discomfort you caused me…”
“Then I wouldn’t have changed a thing,” Judith said.
His eyes met hers. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to do so.”
He rang a bell. When the servant appeared, he asked for bread and butter and lemonade.
“So,” he said, as they waited for the servant to return. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about food.”
“No?”
“I asked you to talk about what I’ve done these last two weeks.”
Judith looked up at him.
“I went to Bath to find your sister,” he said. “I knew if I asked about I could find word of her.”
She could feel her skin getting cold. “But you wrote me from Sussex. And Warwick. And…”
He nodded solemnly. “And all the other places I didn’t tell you about.”
“And she’s not with you.” Judith swallowed. “Dare I hope that…” But she couldn’t complete her sentence. She was afraid to hope.
He shook his head. “But it’s not as dire as it sounds. I found out where she was not two months ago. I believe that wherever she is, she is safe.”
Her heart began to pound. Not swiftly, nor vehemently, but like a clock ticking just a little more loudly. Her throat felt dry. “Where was she?”
“Just outside Trowbridge. She was staying with the local miller. By all accounts, yes, she was acting as an unpaid servant.”
Judith felt her hand clench into a fist.
“A rector who was traveling through found her, recognized her, and took pity on her. He took her in.”
“Who was it?”
Christian made a face. “There things become murky once again. His last name started with a P. But don’t look at me like that. The Church of England keeps records. There aren’t that many rectors who could answer to that description, and traveling through that area? That limits it quite a bit. I came back to London because we can find her more easily from here. It’s simply a matter of time and proper advertising.?
?
“No.” She wasn’t sure if it was a denial or an agreement.
“Judith.” He leaned forward. “We’ve almost found her. I’ve talked to people who saw her two months ago. She was well; they said she was happy. All we need to do is find this P-something fellow. We can advertise; I didn’t want to do that without your permission. But we can find your sister. I assure you, you mustn’t give up hope now.”
“I haven’t.” Judith looked up at him. She was hoping more than she should. “I can maintain hope,” she said quietly.
“Good. Because I’m not finished. I told you my solicitor had promised to do research on that one pesky question regarding your Mr. Ennis. The research is completed.”
“Oh?”
“The answer is: nothing. They found nothing. Not one precedent that would lead to this behavior on your solicitor’s part. No explanation.”
“That sounds utterly awful. Why are you smiling?”
“Because that is the answer,” Christian said. “I know you feel some degree of loyalty to your Mr. Ennis, but with that research in hand, you can go to him and threaten him with exposure. Agh is not some novel legal theory on his part. It was an admission of guilt.”
Judith exhaled. She hadn’t wanted to believe it. She still didn’t.
“I don’t believe you’ll even have to bring suit against him,” Christian said. “Your problem is solved.”
The problem was solved. Solved, by discovering another person Judith could no longer trust?
Mallards.
But life was what it was. She’d lost Mr. Ennis. But perhaps she’d gained…
Christian was still smiling at her. She looked at him—really looked at him. “Christian. I thought you were away on business.”
“And so I was.”
She turned to him. “I thought you were away on your own business. Something that was important.”
His eyes met hers. Her heart was pounding a rhythm in her chest. “And so,” he said slowly, “I was.”
The door to the office opened and a maid in a brown uniform entered. “Here you are, my lord.” She set a tray on the table.
It was bread. It had been sliced by the kitchen into thick, uniform slices. Warm. Steaming. How she’d had the luck to arrive when a freshly baked loaf was ready, Judith would never know.
