Chapter Twenty-nine
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” (Shakespeare)
So why do it?
“Have you seen my peridot stickpin?”
“It’s packed, my lord. Second portmanteau. Compartment six.”
“Good.” Jack scratched his chin. “Well, that’s it then.” But just in case, he checked beneath the bed, perused the drawers, inspected the wardrobe and faffed with the ink pot. All shipshape, tidy and ready to leave.
Absolutely no reason to hum and haw, dilly-dally or defer any longer.
He meandered to the window.
“One could remain in Cornwall for a few more days should one wish, my lord.”
“No, no. Mustn’t outstay our welcome.”
Oliver tutted, muttered, and strode from the bedchamber.
A soft breeze filtered through the half-open window, bearing fresh brine, damp grass and a lightness too difficult to explain.
The sky had lost its deep azure and now resembled…well, Tamsyn’s eyes. A pale blue that beckoned one to dive deep and discover all its treasure. He blinked, the luminosity almost painful.
London seemed grey and far away and…foreign.
Petrok stomped across the lawn, tail feathers unfolding in exotic iridescence, and Jack idly wondered where he might obtain a mate for the lonesome male.
But of course, he was leaving so couldn’t anyhow… And no one had actually asked him to stay.
Moreover, yesterday and this morning, Tamsyn had acted so matter of fact.
She’d helped him pack, talked of the Ladies League painting auction, and nattered on about how excited he must be at the prospect of returning to the hustle and bustle of London.
And she had the right of it, without doubt.
Perchance this odd feeling would lift when he crossed London’s outer limits, mayhap this peculiar tightness to his chest, which had plainly worsened overnight, would ease as he breathed air tinged with eau de Thames and poudre de coal dust.
Jack ambled over to check the bottom drawer of the wardrobe as surely one day he’d catch meticulous Miggens unawares with an overlooked handkerchief. But all it held was the scent of beeswax polish.
Over the course of yesternight’s restless sleep, twisted thoughts had assailed him – that if Tamsyn was with child, she’d have no choice but to be bound to him…
Yet what if he broke her heart?
At his mother’s graveside with all of thirteen years, he’d vowed never to cause a woman such misery as his father had done.
And Jack, as current marquess, was a Winterbourne through and through – only had to glance in the mirror to realise that.
Strong, brave Tamsyn deserved more than a rogue.
But… He pinched his forehead, a headache looming. Father would have searched out pastures new after a day…or perhaps breakfast. Seduced Mrs Tripconey, the married Lady Cooch, maids, scullery servants, and possibly Mrs Pencally.
No one other than Tamsyn had filled Jack’s fretting thoughts since their collision on Goonhilly Downs.
But… There was the matter of their differences. He adored crowds and amusement, the theatre and dancing. Tamsyn adored this land, riding carefree and sharing the peaceful night with her winged creatures. She loved Cornwall with all its legends, moors and shifting sands.
How would she enjoy the crush of a London ballroom?
Would she be able to breathe?
Puttering to the window again, he noticed his coach had been readied, Sobers the coachman tapping crop against boot, the horses restless.
Well, no more to be done. Time for the rogue to depart. He had to cease all this introspection and brooding or he’d be scribbling poems soon.
“Jack?”
He twisted, almost ran, nearly fell to his knees and begged her to allow him to stay.
Which contravened at least ten of his rules. If not all of them.
Wearing a frock the colour of yesterday’s porridge, she looked stunning, standing in the doorway, biting her lip.
Hell. He must be strong.
“Tamsyn, lovey. Have you a bottle of brandy I can take with me? Eight days in the coach with Miggens and I’ll go straight to Bedlam once in London.”
A smile broke over her beautiful features but he sternly told himself not to waver.
He would never be constant; no Winterbourne ever had.
“There are two bottles of Napoleon’s finest under the seat.”
“Good. Thank you, erm…” He wandered over, grasped her hand, turned it over, traced the faint lines with his finger. Had to say something. “I will visit, Tamsyn. I…care for you, deeply. It’s just… I must report back to Whitehall…and meet with my man of affairs regarding the estate’s yields. My shipping interests require attention…and I have to arrange for the carriage to be re-sprung and then I have Lord Rainham’s autumn ball which I promised to attend.”
Her lips still smiled but her blue eyes became grave.
Lud, he was wittering again and he swallowed, could read in her face that she didn’t believe any of it, didn’t believe he’d ever be back.
Yet no words of censure spilled from her, and it should have been easy to turn and walk away.
Nothing had ever been more difficult.
Tamsyn had known this day would come for some while and maintained a curve to her lips even as Jack rambled on.
This handsome rogue belonged in a city not the Cornish countryside where the winter kept you inside for days on end, where you had to order a carriage to visit the tailors, where the silent barren moors would drive a sociable marquess insane.
She would survive Jack, as she had done everything else, but Penrose Manor would never be quite the same. His laughter, his smile, his sheer enthusiasm for life and people had aided her spirit, and she would miss him dreadfully.
Not too long ago, she’d thought him a fribble, a useless dandy with no concern but for waistcoats. How foolish; how very prejudiced.
But she would take solace from his words and seek the joy in life. ’Twas not always easy; she knew that truth well enough. Pain, fear and regret could cloud many a sun-filled day, but one had to try.
He’d given new meaning to her cursed scar, portrayed it as part of a beautiful whole, and now she would always think of him, of their wonderful night, of her exquisite Feathered Thorn, darting wild and free with its paper wings.
La Chauve-Souris had been turned to dust.
“I’ve brought you a present.” And she handed over a concise volume: Moths of the South-West. “I know you are not an avid reader, but I hope you will peruse the pictures and think of me. Our Marbled Green and Feathered Thorn are in there.”
“Oh, Tam.”
And all of a sudden, she was engulfed in his tight embrace, their lips meeting, desperate and fierce. She drew breath and caressed his cheek, brushed his soft cravat and stroked his elegant puce waistcoat, vowing to memorise his perfect form.
“I have to leave, Tam. I cannot hurt you.”
She shook her head, tears blurring, inhaled his citrus scent, never wanting to breathe out.
How could a man so protective, so chivalrous ever think he could hurt her?
It was unfathomable but no words she could utter would sway his self-opinion, no actions would influence his view. In the end, no one but Jack could realise who he truly was.
“Safe journey, my rogue.” And she wrenched away, leaving the small book in his hands.
“If you are ever in Town, Mr Mason, please call upon me.” And Jack shook his hand firmly.
The chap no longer peered but looked more at ease, although shadows still loomed – perchance they always would.
“Thank you, my lord, but I like Cornwall very much and thought I might stay awhile in Treloor.”
A group had gathered in the hall and Jack gave his farewells, accepting an odd-looking silver charm from Mrs Mildern and exchanging a hearty hug with the professor.
He paused at the threshold, patted his pocket to check for Tamsyn’s book before turning to Mr Mason once more. “A fine idea. I also have come to cherish this place, but I’ve duties in London and…” He didn’t expand; after all, who were the excuses really for?
“Give my regards to Lord Rainham,” Mr Mason requested, “and my apologies for the deception, but sometimes a man must travel far to find himself. Do you not agree, Lord Winterbourne?”
Jack accepted his gloves and hat, shook the butler’s surprised hand, and repeated his fond farewells to Sir Jago and Miss Treherne.
He twisted back. “I am no longer sure of anything, Mr Mason.”
Benjamin shook his head as he slammed the carriage door.
“Although you’re back to being my number one hero, my lord, you’re as knowing as Kate Mullet…and she was hanged for a fool.”
Unsure what he meant by that, Jack tipped his hat and pressed a guinea into the lad’s hand. “Thank you, Benjamin. I’m so glad I rose above the evil henchman on your list. Look after Miss Penrose, won’t you?”
“Course.”
Jack waved to Sir Jago and a pale-faced Miss Treherne as the carriage rattled off down the gravelled manor drive.
From the window, Petrok caught his eye, defending the lawns from the household cat, and as the coach rumbled through the gates, he watched Penrose men sawing up the fallen trees, an occasional lift of hand proclaiming their farewell.
Fields were being harrowed for winter and gates mended. Life continued.
A foreign hush enveloped the interior of the coach. Under normal circumstances, he’d rag Miggens about his boots or dissect the mission’s outcome but instead he dropped chin to fist, lips silent.
As they tumbled through Goonhilly Downs, past wooden thickets and boggy ponds, no charming little horses raised their heads in goodbye, too engrossed in the new rain-fed grass, and Jack felt unaccountably irritated. He’d thought the tautness in his chest would lift, or the roiling mess that was his stomach would settle as they headed inland.
Instead, a headache from hades descended to complete his melancholy and he scowled at the untamed landscape rushing by, avoiding Oliver’s eyes.
Wiping hands on his breeches, he breathed the fresh air deeply, tried to hold it in, to remember. But all it caused was a slight giddiness…and some farmhand had obviously been spreading manure.
“You appear hag-ridden,” observed Oliver at last. “As though persons unknown had bespattered your coquelicot waistcoat with port.”
Deciding attack was the best form of defence, Jack crossed his boots and glared. “You don’t appear too sprightly yourself. What happened to the bud of love with the delightful Miss Treherne?”
“At least I tried,” Oliver grumbled.
“In what way?”
“I laid my heart bare last night.”
“And?”
“She stomped on it. Told me she couldn’t consider a lowly valet. Which was only moderately worse than a suave rogue telling a lady she was less important than a London ball he had to attend.”
“Is that an accepted part of a valet’s duty? To earwig on his master’s affairs?”
A brow raised. That Winterbourne nose sniffed. “You should marry her.”
Gads, what had possessed him to spend so long searching out his siblings? This one was a pain in the arse.
“Why? Just because I made lo– spent a night with her?”
Oliver fixed him with a fierce glare that said all.
“I care for Tam,” Jack growled, “but what if I return to my old ways once in London? I’m a Winterbourne.”
“So am I!” yelled Oliver. “That old bastard’s blood runs just as thick in my veins and yet you seem to believe I’m capable of marriage so why not you?”
Jack sat back, crossed his arms. “I’m sorry about your Miss Treherne. Truly, I am. But there’s a difference between us. Father was not only present for my conception but my youth. Do you know what he gifted me on my sixteenth birthday?”
Oliver shook his head.
“A trollop.”
“He was a dissolute blaggard,” groused Oliver, “and you are nothing like him except in foolishness.” And grimacing, he settled into reading A Valet’s Guide to Cravats.
Jack brought forth his own book.
He traced the gold lettering – Moths of the South-West – and his chest ached all the more.
Flicking it open, he noted a pencil drawing of a moth but it wore a waistcoat and hessian boots complete with tassels, a huge toothy grin on its face.
Underneath an inscription.
To my dearest rogue,
May you always be you.
Tam.
Something smarted at the back of his eyes, his throat clogged, and he could find no joy in life this day.