Page 69 of West End Earl
On the street, Phee pointed toward a carriage, saying something to Nelson. The sun in her hair had been so beautiful he’d failed to notice the shadows under her eyes. The hollows beneath her cheekbones were carved deeper, making her appear sharp and gaunt, but highlighted her ridiculously pouty lips. God, he missed her.
Beside the carriage, Nelson said something that made her smile, and Cal lost his breath.
Nodding a goodbye to Ethan, he fixed a neutral expression on his face and retreated inside. The house would be empty soon, and being alone suddenly seemed like the worst possible punishment.
Chapter Twenty-Three
You grew up here?” Emma’s face pressed against the glass of the carriage window, making her words echo with a tinny quality.
“Near here, yes. The manor house is down that lane and then through the woods, past the pond. According to Nelson, Milton is in London. Or he was as of two weeks ago. So we should be safe to visit Vicar Arcott, then leave Warford before anyone knows we’re here.” The familiar houses of the village appeared, then disappeared in succession outside her window. After the first night on the road, they’d broken off from the caravan of carriages and sent the others on toward their rented house in Olread Cove, while she and Emma had continued to Northumberland. Not only was the whole caravan of luggage not needed in Warford, but there was zero chance of such a spectacle being overlooked in the village. One carriage was far more stealthy, all things considered.
In John’s last letter he’d claimed Vicar Arcott was weak but continued to improve, despite all odds. John also reported his engagement to Daisy, the baker’s daughter.
“They’re not expecting us, but I don’t think we need to stay long,” Phee said.
Finally, the church with its tidy graveyard and snug vicarage came into view.
Vicar Arcott himself answered their knock. In that moment, she was a little girl again, faced with the one adult who always had a hug for her. He opened the door, stood shocked for a heartbeat, then opened his arms, as he always had.
“You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you up and walking again,” Phee said into his chest. He was still frail and likely always would be. Her arms easily wrapped around his torso. But saints be praised, he stood there under his own strength.
“Darling girl, you look tired. I didn’t expect you.” Arcott pulled away enough to examine her face with a concerned frown. Then he looked over her shoulder. “And you brought a friend.”
Phee turned to Emma. “This is Lady Emma Carlyle, now Lady Emma Hardwick.” She glanced at Arcott. “She knows everything, but the staff does not.”
Vicar Arcott eyed them, then the fine traveling carriage. “You’d best come inside,” he said in a low voice.
Phee directed the coachman and groom to where they could water and rest the horses behind the vicarage, then sent them on to the tavern in the village for their supper.
Inside, the cottage remained exactly as she remembered it. Gratitude that she could stand here one more time, when she’d been so sure the visit in May would be her last, made tears pool. For once they were happy ones. Turning to Emma, she said, “This is the closest I have to a home. I learned my sums and my letters at that table.” She pointed to the scarred wood where a plate and glass remained from the vicar’s last meal, with a dark cloth serviette folded neatly beside them.
Emma’s eyes were wide as she took in everything. It was a far cry from the London townhome on Hill Street. The entire house would fit inside Emma’s bedchamber, but Phee couldn’t be prouder to share it with her.
“This is where I came from. And the vicar is the finest man you’ll ever meet.” Phee hugged the older man with one arm around his waist, overwhelmed at seeing him again.
“Are you hungry? Mrs. Courtland left a pie, and I can put the kettle on.” Without waiting for an answer, the vicar shuffled toward the hearth, kettle in hand.
Emma opened her mouth, but Phee cut her off. “Mrs. Courtland makes the best pies. You don’t want to miss the opportunity to taste one. Vicar, let me do that. I’ll make the tea. Take a seat and get to know Emma.”
Once he’d served the pies, bursting with late-summer berries and encased in a flaky crust like only Mrs. Courtland could make, Phee poured tea for everyone and finally joined them at the table.
“Where’s John?” she asked.
“Finishing the lessons at the schoolhouse. He’ll be home late.” Arcott turned to Emma. “He’s marrying soon. A girl he’s been sweet on for an age.”
Emma nodded, but she looked a little lost, as if slightly out of her depth outside a posh drawing room. Phee smiled, then closed her eyes in bliss when the first bite of pie hit her tongue.
Following her lead, Emma took a bite, then made a happy little moan before covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, that wasn’t a ladylike sound. This pie is perfect, though, isn’t it?” Her cheeks blushed a vibrant pink as she took another bite.
“I told you. Mrs. Courtland’s pies can’t be missed.” Phee reached over and covered Arcott’s gnarled fingers with hers. “Vicar, I have a favor to ask. I’m afraid I need your help one last time.”
“Is it time for Adam to finally be at peace, then?”
“Yes.” Her throat tightened around the word. “We won’t publish the death notice quite yet. But it’s time. Emma needed help, so she will be Adam’s widow.”
Arcott’s eyes filled with tears, and his fingers shook when he turned his hand over to squeeze hers. “What shall your new name be, child?”
Phee smiled. She’d thought long and hard about this. “Fiona. Then I can still be Phee. Same last name, I think. A distant cousin, if we can do that.”
