Page 71 of West End Earl
“Stop staring at your duck fluff, Phee. You have all the time in the world to grow it out now.”
And Emma was right. Wasn’t that the damnedest thing.
***
It had been ten days since he’d heard her voice, and Cal might go mad during the lifetime ahead of him filled with this awful silence. Not that he’d expected Phee to reach out with news, but Emma hadn’t written either. At his desk, Cal pushed aside the contracts for Gaffney’s cider operation, the message he’d received from the captain of theWilhelminathis morning, and the ledgers awaiting his attention. It hadn’t been good news for the investors, and unfortunately, Eastly wouldn’t see a single penny back. That was the nature of investments—some worked out, and some failed. But this failure killed any hope of Eastly paying his way out of the Rosehurst pickle.
Yet none of those burdens weighed as heavily as the absence of Emma and Phee. He pulled out a sheet of paper.
Dear Emma,October 5, 1820
The house seems empty without you here, chattering while sprawled on your favorite chaise in the gold drawing room. Perhaps once you’re settled in your new house, I could send it to you. Think of it as a belated wedding gift. It may make you feel more at home. Although I admit, I hope you’ll return to London after the baby is born.
Have you considered names? Are you feeling better? I hope the travel wasn’t too much for you.
I know you’re mad at me about everything that happened at Lakeview, but I pray you’ll write anyway.
Love,
Cal
He hesitated, then sighed. No one said he’d have to mail every letter he wrote. And damn, he missed talking to Phee. Out came another sheet of paper, and although she’d never read it, he began to write.
Dear Phee,October 5, 1820
You talk in your sleep. Did I ever tell you that? My bed is too quiet without you.
Pouring out his heart was cathartic in a way. Like lancing a wound, although that was a disgusting comparison. But then, his feelings at the moment weren’t exactly pretty either. He didn’t have poetry to offer the one who’d stolen his heart and his sister. So the letter became honest and messy and didn’t make him look good—he sounded pathetic and broken without her. But putting on his mask hadn’t been the point.
He read it over, signed it with a flourish, then promptly crumpled it in his fist and threw it in the rubbish bin by the desk. The stack of ledgers sat as silent witnesses to his foolishness. Beyond the door, Higgins’s voice rumbled an order to another servant. The few steps from the desk to the door were tiny procrastinations, but Cal welcomed any excuse to put off his next task.
“Higgins? Could you send up a pot of coffee? I have a long night ahead of me, I’m afraid.”
The butler dipped his head in a shallow bow. “Yes, milord. I’ll notify Cook.”
“Thank you.” Cal stood awkwardly, not quite leaning in the doorway but not having any reason to linger either.
“Will there be anything else, milord?” Higgins asked.
Cal sighed. “No. I’m putting off dealing with my father.” The admission slipped out, and he couldn’t call it back.
“In that case, I’ll have Cook add cake to the tray.” Higgins turned, but Cal would have sworn he saw a hint of a smile on the old retainer’s face.
At least now he’d get cake. There was always a silver lining. Cal turned toward the massive mahogany desk. The ledgers waited exactly where he’d left them. He was rather hoping they’d grow legs and run off, but no such excuse presented itself.
Time to get to work. Because in that stack of ledgers was the answer to his troubles. He hoped. Even with the loss of theWilhelminainvestment, somewhere in those columns of numbers must be the solution to paying his father’s debt with something besides Cal’s bachelorhood.
He sat, wishing for the hundredth time that he’d chosen a more comfortable desk chair. It would be a long night, or week, or however long it took him to find a way to save the estate.
The baron’s good will was at an end.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dear Phee,October 5, 1820
You talk in your sleep. Did I ever tell you that? My bed is too quiet without you.
It may make me a sentimental fool, but the day you left, I stole your pillow and refuse to let the maids touch it. Feel free to laugh at the mental image of me comforting myself with a musty pillow. If I sniff deep enough, there are still traces of sandalwood, and finding those final bits of you in my bed seems to be the only way I sleep these days.
