Page 32 of Holding Onto Love

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.

Chapter Eleven

Despite the heaviness of heart he could not seem to shake, Jasper was glad for the excuse to end his self-imposed prohibition against attending balls; after all, he had always enjoyed dancing. It would help pass an evening. Moreover, who could miss the first ball to be held in the wake of Wellington’s success at Vitoria? Spirits were so high—not his, but everyone else’s—it was a wonder London wasn’t airborne.

The Hovingtons’ ballroom was one of the largest in London and probably the most exquisite: marble floor, crystal chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling windows, with silk-damask coverings on the walls to mute the sounds. If her cousin Alice’s debut was this fine, Georgiana’s must have been splendid. Poor Reg would have been out of his depth. It was funny, really, how things worked themselves out.