Page 6 of West End Earl
A deep gouge in the countertop made her pause as she organized their meal on a tray. When she’d made this cut, she’d cried, fearful the vicar would be mad at her for not paying attention when she sliced her sandwich. Phee ran a finger over the wood and smiled at the memory now. That day years ago, Vicar Arcott had wiped her tears, made sure she hadn’t nicked herself when the knife slipped, then told her she’d simply made her mark on the house. That every time he saw the scarred wood, he would think of her.
After this trip, she might never come home again. Home. The idea made her throat tight. Knowing the story behind scuffed counters and the location of the forks might be an odd definition of home, but if she were asked for a reference, this tidy vicarage would be it.
“What will you do when he goes?” It was a struggle to get the question past the looming grief.
“I’ve accepted a teaching position here in the village. Since I’m not stuck with you forever,” he teased, “I’ll court Daisy properly.”
That made her smile. As long as John would be happy in this corner of England with the baker’s daughter, then something in the world was as it should be.
***
A few hours later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the days of travel packed into the mail coach caught up with her.
“If you yawn any bigger, your head will fall off. Go to bed,” John said. The vicar had been dozing for a half hour, and they’d dimmed the lamps so as not to disturb his sleep.
Nodding, Phee shuffled outside to the privy to take care of business, then returned inside to John’s room. As she crawled between the sheets, the moon peeked in through the small paned window. It hung like a lantern in the sky, giving plenty of light to see the familiar bedroom where she, John, and Adam had passed countless winter days.
As a child, she’d daydreamed of a different life, one in which her parents survived to see her grown. Now an adult, she’d accepted the loss of them. Memories faded over time, lost their crisp edges. She couldn’t even remember what her mother smelled like, or her father’s laugh.
Adam was the ghost she clung to.
But there was no denying life would have been better if her parents had lived. It wouldn’t matter that Milton was a despicable human being. At thirteen, she wouldn’t have learned she could be sold and traded like livestock—a commodity and not a child. All it had taken was a business associate of Milton’s wanting to take her off his hands.
Life would be so different.Shewould be so different. Adam might still be alive.
With only the moon for company, it was easy to become maudlin. Phee closed her eyes and rolled over, breathing in the traces of the fresh herb sachet Arcott used in his linen cupboard.
The vicar had stopped including lavender in the sachets when, at the age of ten, she’d launched a persuasive argument on the properties of other herbs and declared her unshakable opinion that lavender smelled of cat piss. He’d used only thyme and rosemary after that.
Some things didn’t change. Yet nothing remained the same.
Chapter Three
You look like hell, Puppy. Are you sure about this?” Cal yelled over his shoulder as he removed his coat and unwound his cravat, because he already knew the answer. Just like he had a propensity for taking a dare, Adam didn’t back down from a fencing challenge. Of course, that assumed Cal offered a challenge, which was debatable these days. Adam had been a quick study. Given those dark circles under Adam’s eyes, Cal might actually stand a chance today. The lad had been traveling for days and looked like he might need a day or two to recover from bouncing about on a mail coach.
“I could beat you if I were half-dead and blind drunk,” Adam said, grabbing his favorite fencing foil and inspecting the blade in the light by the window.
“An appropriate boast, since you appear half-dead.” Removing a foil from its storage cupboard in the corner, Cal zigzagged the tip of the sword through the air. It might be unsportsmanlike to challenge the lad when he clearly needed a few more hours of sleep, but sportsmanlike conduct rarely came into play with close friendships.
“I’m fine. I can sleep and be back in top form. You can’t sleep and get any younger. Now take your position,” Adam said.
Cal grinned. “Oh, it’s like that, is it? Big words for someone whose bollocks probably only dropped last year. Prepare to be trounced, whippersnapper.”
They took their places, face-to-face in the long gallery. Adam rolled his eyes as he shook his sleeve off his cuff, then adjusted his stance. “My bollocks are perfectly adequate, thank you.”
Cal dropped his sword arm and stared in horror. “Puppy, under no circumstances does a gentleman ever refer to his bits as merely adequate. Perhaps you should work on other skills. Not every man can be blessed below the belt, so learn to make up for it in alternate ways or you’ll end up a lonely, sexless old man.”
“Like you?” Adam quipped.
Cal glared and tried not to laugh. “I don’t even have a decade on you.”
“A lot can happen in a decade.”
“En garde, smart-arse.”
It had been a while since he’d had a lover, but that was perfectly normal. These things ebbed and flowed. He’d been too busy to spend his energies in that direction, and he was tremendously picky.
Metal clanged against metal as they fell into the familiar parry and thrust movements, traveling up and down the long gallery. Whenever Cal thought to slip his blade through a gap in Adam’s guard, his friend caught the motion at the last moment and corrected.
