Page 4 of West End Earl
John opened the door to the vicarage, his familiar face creased with lines of stress and the grief one feels when they know loss is imminent. He sagged against the wood frame. “Oh, thank God, Phee. He’s been asking for you for days.”
Although the relief soaking John’s voice was a welcome balm of familiarity, the name felt like a slap. “Don’t call me that.” A furtive look over her shoulder showed the surrounding area free of lurkers.
After eleven years, Ophelia knew the first rule in assuming someone else’s identity was to be them in every possible way. The endeavor required complete commitment—all or nothing. Think like them, dress like them, talk like them. If she tried to keep the real her alive in any way, this would fail. She mustbeAdam. Most days she felt more like her brother than herself.
Ophelia, the adolescent girl she used to be and the woman she would become, lived in a tiny iron box in the recesses of her mind, under piles of chains and locks. Phee allowed herself to think of the future only under very specific circumstances. And standing on the doorstep of the vicarage with her gravestone only a few yards away was neither the time nor the place.
“I am Adam. Do not forget it when we are in public.”
“Public? You’re practically in the door already.” John rolled his eyes but stepped aside for her to enter.
When she shouldered past him, Phee threw a brotherly elbow to his gut. “Practically in the door is not actually in the door. Let’s get inside before someone hears you.”
“Is that her?” came a warbled question from the next room.
“Yes, Father,” John called. “We will be there in a moment.” He turned to Phee, all traces of teasing gone. “You need to prepare yourself. He isn’t well. Every morning I expect him to simply not wake. He’s weak and only a fraction of the man he used to be. Physically, at least. Mentally, he’s still sharp, thank God.”
Emaciation and illness were not much of a shock after years of living in London’s poorer neighborhoods. Here in the villages of Northumberland, neighbors relied on one another to help when needed. While people were people, no matter where she roamed, Phee noticed in the city that after a certain point the poor—and often the sick or those who would never recover from the war—became invisible to the stronger masses, who frequently weren’t even willing to make eye contact. Like ghosts, the stick figures of the poor drifted among the living, waiting to cross over.
To think of Vicar Arcott in such a way felt wrong on every level, but she nodded and braced herself. John’s father, while not the largest man in the room, always made up for his lack of physical stature with a booming voice and an all-encompassing smile. Once he opened his mouth or caught you in his intelligent gaze, he no longer seemed like an average man.
Wisdom was his first language, and kindness his second. Although he’d been present for only five years of her childhood, he’d been a father figure to her, reinforcing in her young mind that good people still existed. That not every adult male manipulated others with his position or used words as weapons.
In the vicar’s room, open curtains welcomed what meager light the day’s sun offered, while an oil lamp next to the narrow bed filled in the remaining shadows. Vicar Arcott’s pallor seemed gray, and the blue eyes that always held kindness and unconditional love for her now had a watery, blurred quality to them, as if on the edge of tears.
A sickroom often had a certain scent—the sweet syrup of medicine combined with a body fighting disease or the ravages of time. Being a kind man, the best she’d ever known, he should smell like butterscotch candies and sandalwood shaving soap. Not like this.
She sat on the chair beside the bed, and John perched on a stool at his father’s feet. Her hand found Vicar Arcott’s on the faded quilt, and with a movement that looked to take more effort than it should, he rested his other hand on top, like they’d done a thousand times before. The last time she’d seen him, his fingers hadn’t been this bony. But then, it had been a year. No, nearly two.
“You’re too thin, sweetheart. Don’t they have food in London?” Arcott’s reedy voice would never carry from the pulpit to the vestibule these days.
“I don’t need much.” Encroaching tears strangled the forced cheer.
The effort of speaking made Arcott close his eyes, although he kept his face turned toward her. “That uncle of yours is still providing for you? There’s a rumor around the village that Milton had several large investments fail. He’s fired most of his staff in the name of economizing.”
As usual, the mention of her uncle made a ball of unease bunch in her gut. “We all know he has never been generous.” Or loving, or warm, or kind to small animals—let alone young children left under his care. That he’d become the guardian of her and her brother spoke more to their lack of living relatives than to a preference on her parents’ part. At least, she hoped so, since no one in their right mind would give Uncle Milton children on purpose. Economizing might mean Milton lived without dipping into her modest fortune—or it could mean he’d run through not only his money but her parents’ as well. And until her birthday, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
The vicar’s chuckle and John’s snort told their own story. There was no love lost between Milton and anyone who’d made his acquaintance outside the realm of his business holdings.
“I get by. I’ve taken a position as a land steward. The job isn’t like anything I expected. I handle a lot of personal errands and a few bits of correspondence.” The hardest part of the job revolved around making sure no one caught her staring at her employer. It was impossible not to stare. If he’d been merely gorgeous, admiring him would have been an unemotional, detached experience. Like appreciating a beautiful painting or a finely built horse.
But given his humor and sharp mind, her objectivity disappeared. Some days the furtive glances at her employer and the response Cal triggered in her body were what kept her from forgetting she wasn’t actually her brother.
“A steward? Where is the land?” John asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
“A hundred acres of forest a few hours from here, actually. Cal claims I got the job because I am familiar with the area and know the mentality of the people.” In reality, her time was usually spent canvassing the areas beyond the safety of Mayfair, using her network of street urchins to gather information on investors for Cal’s extensive financial holdings. The man was thorough with his research and determined to keep his businesses honest. If an investor’s name came with a bad report, Cal cut all ties and didn’t look back.
“Cal, is it?” John’s question held an edge. Phee straightened in her seat but kept her hand with the vicar’s, avoiding putting pressure on his gnarled knuckle joints.
“Yes, Calvin, Earl of Carlyle. He’s become a friend. A godsend in many ways.”
“How did you manage to get tangled up with an earl?” John scoffed.
“I was working at a secondhand clothing stall, and a dissatisfied customer was making a fuss. It drew a crowd, so the owner of the stall felt like he had to make an example of me. Sacked me on the spot, even though it wasn’t my fault. Cal and his friend Lord Amesbury witnessed it all.” Phee smiled at the memory of the two handsome aristocrats insisting the stall owner pay her wages before they took her to a coffeehouse.
“They took me out for a cup of coffee, and Cal sort of adopted me like some stray kitten they’d rescued from a sack by the river. Lord Amesbury says Cal did much the same with him.” Only, Amesbury had been floundering in society and well on his way to ruining himself when Cal swooped in.
“Oh, so fancy, with your aristocrat friends,” John teased, but his tone made her feel defensive.
