Miss Brown was Archie’s mother’s companion, a young lady with a scholarly bent. Effie wondered when Simon had been in a position to receive a book from Miss Brown but concluded that Simon, not caught up in self-inflicted melodrama as Effie was, had no doubt been diligent about calling on Archie’s mother when the family was in Town.
Chastened, he slumped against the squabs and looked out the window. Archie and Simon conversed a bit about the book in question, for Miss Brown had also recommended it to Archie’s wife. Eventually, as silence fell inside the coach, the rumbling of wheels and snorting of horses the only sounds, Effie patted his pocket where Julianna’s letter was smoldering and allowed himself to indulge in the sentiment he usually reserved for late at night, under cover of darkness.
Longing.
He closed his eyes and imagined a chartreuse sky. A woman with eyes a few shades darker.
“Ahem.”
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Archie’s throat-clearing pulled him back to the corporeal reality of the journey. The landscape had changed. They were surrounded by farmland, the cobblestones of Town having given way to a rutted dirt road.
“Oh,” Effie said, “is it time for the rules?”
“It is,” Archie said, “but I wonder if we ought to scrap them, or amend them.”
“Why would we do that?”
“Well, I’m not sure there’s any point in trying to prohibit you from writing poems and Simon from talking about Parliament.”
“You’re just saying that because you’ve brought a gun.” Effie wagged a finger at Archie. “That was ill-done of you. You can’t be waving a gun around Brighton.”
“I haven’t brought my fowling piece,” Archie protested.
“He hasn’t brought his fowling piece,” Simon said to Effie. “But you will note he hasn’t said he hasn’t brought a gun generally.”
“I did note that,” Effie said as Archie made vaguely indignant noises.
“Do you recall that we’re staying in Hove?” Simon asked.
Effie did not recall. “What’s Hove?”
“A fishing village a few miles west of town. We’re staying in a house owned by a friend. It’s empty this year.” Simon smirked. “But unlike last year with you at the helm, I have established that it is provisioned and staffed.”
“Yes, yes.” Effie waved a hand dismissively. “We had a fine time last year in the end.” He narrowed his eyes at Archie. “Some of us more so than others.”
“My point,” Simon said, talking over Archie’s grumbling, “is that the house is rather isolated. It’s on the edge of town and has access to a secluded beach.”
“Oh, so Archiehasbrought his guns.”
“I have not!” Archie protested, throwing up his hands. “I haven’t hunted since last Earls Trip.”
Effie chuckled. That was the influence of Archie’s new wife. The Countess of Harcourt, née Clementine Morgan, loved animals so much she refused to eat them. “When was the last time you had a pork chop, or a leg of lamb?”
“It has been a very long time,” Archie said, “and I am looking forward to consuming both this fortnight.” He paused. “I think.”
“As for the rules,” Simon said, “we ought to have the ceremonial recitation of them even if we’re being rather more relaxed about infractions these days.”
“Yes,” Effie agreed. “It’s tradition.”
And wasn’t having traditions with people you adored one of the sweetest parts of life?
“All right.” Archie passed out tumblers and sloshed a few fingers of port into each.
Effie marveled at how he never spilled a drop when he did this, despite the lumbering of the coach. That was Archie: graceful, agile, athletic.
Archie cleared his throat theatrically. “Gentlemen. Welcome to Earls Trip 1822. Allow me to remind you of the rules. Number one: every time Marsden says the word ‘Parliament,’ he must down a dram of whisky. Number two: Featherfinch is strictly prohibited from writing poems, unless they are naughty ones. And should you be harboring any concerns that I fancy myself above the law, we come round to number three: Harcourt is not permitted to shoot anything.” He rolled his eyes. “Which there is no danger of, because he hasn’t brought a gun.”
Effie and Simon jeered good-naturedly.
