Chapter Thirty-two
Am I what I am?
“Mrs Mildern? Have you foreseen much in your scrying mirror recently?”
A wrinkled face peered up from eating porridge, one gold tooth glinting in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window.
Although gloved and hatted for the journey, Tamsyn had thought to briefly pop her head around the door and ask…just in case.
With spoon aloft, Mrs Mildern’s brow scrunched. “Concerning anyone in particular, dearie?”
“Noooo.”
Both Father and Lowdy awaited her in the carriage bound for London, the roof loaded with trunks, leek and tetty pie, hevva cake, ginger fairings, and all necessary supplies for a trip up-country and yet the dithers had set in. Would Jack welcome her? Was it prudent, her idea? Prudent to pursue a rogue?
“Anything about London, perhaps? The weather for instance?” she enquired, twisting fingers in the brocade of her pelisse. Really, the old lady could tell you which fish the men would bring home one day but then act coy as a kipper the next.
“Well, dearie, let me have a quick look. Albert? Be a love.”
The Penrose butler placed his buttered toast down with a sigh and brought forth the sinister mirror from its velvet pouch on the sideboard.
Tamsyn bit her lip. She loved Jack and would be fervent in confessing it. Indeed, her arrival in London could hardly be construed as anything less, but a little encouragement for her boldness would be appreciated.
Being sensible, Lowdy had written down her declaration to Mr Miggens and recited it late last night in her bedchamber. Tamsyn had snivelled throughout, having had no idea Lowdy held herself in such low regard – not fit to be a gentlewoman and yet lacking the necessary skills to be anything else.
They’d hugged and vowed to be strong.
Later, Tamsyn had sat in bed with her own quill poised upon blank paper and yet the called-for words had refused to come, buried beneath doubts and convictions alike.
Mrs Mildern squinted into the black obsidian.
Sighed.
Moaned.
Brought a hand to her chest.
Lowered her eyelids.
“Is it… Is it bad?”
Faded green eyes, the colour of drying seaweed, snapped open. “Can’t see anything, dearie. Sorry.”
“Oh.” Tamsyn wafted a hand, shoulders drooping. “Never mind then, Mrs Mildern. I’ll see you in some weeks. Take care.”
“Right you are, Miss Penrose. God speed.”
And Tamsyn left none the wiser, her bright-blue skirts fluttering through the kitchen door.
“Why didn’t you tell her?” asked Albert, dipping toast to egg.
His gran’s lips curved widely. “Well, my young lad,” she said, despite himself having some two score years, “sometimes love must find its own path and there ain’t nothing you can say to steer its course…and they never listen to me anyway.”
“Will she find love?” Albert stared into the black mirror, but could see naught, the gift solely bestowed upon females of the Mildern family. “Miss Penrose deserves the best.”
Wise eyes reflected in the scrying glass alongside his.
And Gran smiled.
∞∞∞
“My lord, why don’t you…go out?”
Jack glared fiercely at the image of his housekeeper in the mirror.
Mrs Shepherd merely grinned.
Certainly, he had been staring into the hall looking glass for a goodly time, endeavouring to find Father’s likeness in his own face. Without doubt, the hair and nose were similar, but those black eyes refused to glower and his mouth declined to curve into a snarl when commanded.
“Mrs S, do you suppose me akin to my father?”
The dear woman had been a Winterbourne maid – heaven help her – before housekeeper and had patched his knees as a nipper, fed him supper as an adult and he distinctly remembered a mop to his arse as a youth when he’d rolled in at four in the morning and dirtied the top step.
“Only the nose, my lord.”
“Not the hair?”
“No. The previous marquess used some concoction that smelled of pig fat.”
“I believe it was pig fat, Mrs S.” He glanced back. “But what about character wise?”
“Grief, no.” She inspected him from boots to curls. “Are you well, my lord? You appear…confused.”
Well, yes, he was. Bewattled and grumpy and… Lud, he missed Tamsyn.
“How would you feel, Mrs S, if there were to be a mistress of the Winterbourne abode?”
He expected a frown or pursed lips.
“About time, my lord,” she said with a wink, running a finger across the hatstand and tutting at the dust. “Stop faffing with those saucy types and settle down.”
Jack scrutinised his face for horrified eyes, blanched cheeks or dismissive lips as he’d always considered settling down not for him, dull even.
But that was before he’d met Tamsyn.
Passionate, valiant and wild Tamsyn.
His eyes twinkled, cheekbones flushed and lips smiled.
∞∞∞
After handing hat and gloves to the butler, Jack sauntered the corridors of Brooks’s in search of company.
The billiards room held a few laughing fellows but he merely nodded a greeting and moved on, instead pausing to peruse the betting book: Lord P and Sir F had wagered on the fastest ducks across the Serpentine, but Mr L had won hands down by swimming the backstroke quicker than any of the wildlife.
Nothing here had changed.
Jack scrutinised the gentlemen idling in the principal salon, considering where to seek counsel, if indeed that’s what he sought.
An acquaintance in a wing-backed chair by the window glanced up from his newspaper and beckoned forth. Perfect.
“How’s married life, old friend?” Jack enquired, lowering himself into the chair opposite.
“She called me insane last night,” was the dry retort.
“Hmm. And in what context? I mean, if said postcoital, I’d say that’s a compliment.”
The moody lips twitched. Trembled. Then curved.
“Winterbourne, only you can make me smile when all else is falling asunder.”
“Come now, Byron old chap, you mustn’t let all those women, massive debts or a wife get you down in the dumps.” He accepted the proffered brandy from a butler and toasted rhyme and verse. “Your poems are all the crack and those cubs of today all wander Covent Garden sporting your tousled hair.”
“Where have you been lately?” asked Byron. “Didn’t see you at the Wiltshire’s last week.”
“Cornwall.”
A perfectly dishevelled eyebrow raised.
“Got mistaken for you five times, and I’m afraid in St Austell I signed three books and posed for a quick sketch.”
“And no doubt left a cartload of women who think they spent a passionate night with a famous poet.”
“Pfff, certainly not, George. I’ve no need of your reputation to live off. In fact, would you believe that tale of the Saxony princess in the balloon even reached Cornwall.”
“That wasn’t even true,” scoffed the poet. “And I simply don’t believe that not one woman took your fancy. I find a pastoral setting causes me to feel quite…inspired.”
Jack choked on Brooks’s finest brandy – not on a par with Napoleon’s – and pondered awhile.
Byron being Byron understood the brooding and didn’t interrupt.
“Do you believe us rogues can change, old friend?”
The poet gazed to the ornate chandelier as though seeking inspiration. “‘We know what we are, but know not what we may be.’”
“Gads, no wonder you’re in demand, that’s rather good.”
“Shakespeare.”
Jack twiddled his thumbs. “Oh. Never mind, old chap. Can’t win them all.”
“Don’t I know it.” The poet’s brow creased. “But in answer, I do believe one can change if so inclined. Or perhaps you are not the rogue you thought you were?”
Jack also peered at the chandelier in winsome silence but no poetry emanated, only the reminder of Tam’s sparkling eyes in the lantern light when they’d sat amongst her beloved moths. “What does love feel like, George? You should know, being a poet and all.”
Byron’s eyes twinkled…
“When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past–
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove–
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.”
“Not bad. Is it new?”
Byron returned one of those repressed temperamental looks that made the ladies swoon…and some of the fellows. “No. It’s nine years old. You’ve not read any of my works properly, have you, Winterbourne?”
To cut a sham or tell the truth? Maybe a fudge.
“Au contraire. I’ve perused your texts diligently, my good fellow. Furthermore, I consider the Corsair to be closely modelled upon yours truly.”
“But the Corsair is, and I quote myself, ‘a man of few words’.”
“Well,” said Jack, shifting, “one tries one’s best.”
Byron shook his curls. “Irrepressible you are, Winterbourne, and I envy your nature. You are forever in good humour and the very best of men. Unlike myself, I believe you would make a devoted and adoring husband.”
“I never said–”
“You don’t need to. You have the look about you of one in love. Befogged and yearning all at once.” He winked, emptied his glass and stood. “And you failed to notice Mrs Topley walking past the window in little more than her chemise a moment past.”
George hastened for the door, baggy pantaloons unable to hide his limping gait, whilst Jack welcomed the broad feeling of satisfaction that rooted within.
Love.
He was in love with Miss Tamsyn Penrose.
Ardent.
Pure.
And now that he could love, an emotion he thought this rogue incapable of, then in what other ways was he wrong about himself?