Page 73 of West End Earl
Crossing her arms across her middle, she stared out at restless waves. All that remained of Ophelia was a headstone in a graveyard in Northumberland. She’d become someone new. Again.
Like it or not, she would be Fiona now, and she must move forward. That meant some things had to stay in the past.
No countess of mine will have scandal attached to her.
Opening her fist, Phee let the paper flutter in her palm, hovering and falling until it caught the wind and took off. Like a tiny kite, the paper rode an air current, lifting and floating with a freedom she envied. Finally, the letter to a woman who no longer existed floated over the cliff edge and disappeared into the waves below.
Unless Cal showed up on their doorstep to make those proclamations to her face, there was nothing to be done. A letter was lovely, but at the end of the day, they were words he hadn’t meant to send. Empty words.
Just like names were words, and a death notice didn’t make Adam more dead. Phee took in a deep breath of salt air and straightened her shoulders. Maybe today she would get that death notice written after all.
Adam needed to die. Only then could Phee truly live.
***
Dear Emma,October 12, 1820
Another week of silence from my baby sister, and I have no choice but to assume you have yet to forgive me for what happened. Is this some kind of sisterhood you two have formed? If so, I’m glad Phee has you in her corner.
Please don’t feel caught between us. If given the chance to do everything over, I’d definitely make different choices.
I’d treat Phee like a partner. I’d spend more time planning a future with her than dealing with our father.
I’d have told you that Roxbury demanded payment to leave you alone. I would do many things differently.
Thank you for being a better friend to Phee than I was.
Tell the baby—whom I’ve decided to call Mortimer Hildegard unless you write back and tell me otherwise—Uncle Cal loves him. He loves you too, brat.
Sincerely,
Cal
Dear Emma,October 20, 1820
How is little Mortimer Hildegard? Is he/she kicking yet? I remember our mother’s joy when she felt you stirring in her womb. Her eyes would light, and she loved to hold my hand to her belly to see if I could sense you moving. I couldn’t until the last month. Then your constant tossing and turning would make her entire stomach roll and shift, and it gave my young brain nightmares. So, thanks for that.
I wanted to let you know that I’ve come to a decision. Father didn’t overstate his circumstances. I’ve looked over the books, checked every avenue, and ran through financial scenarios until I’m falling asleep at my desk and dreaming of dancing columns of numbers. Unless he sells everything unentailed and lives with strict discipline (ha!) at the family seat for the next few years, paying the debt to the baron will be impossible. There’s one clear path that will save the estate and serve the tenants. I have to marry Violet Cuthbert.
It will be a Christmas wedding.
Cal
The pen hovered over the page for so long, ink dripped from the tip and fell to the paper with a splat. He wanted to ask how Phee was. If they were comfortable, if the villagers were friendly. And then he wanted to ask about Phee again. If she was happy. If she laughed, or if she moped about like he did.
When he’d visited a couple of days before, Miss Cuthbert hadn’t been any happier with the news than he was. Especially since he’d arrived in her drawing room looking like a grieving wreck. After he explained that the one he loved had married another, Miss Cuthbert patted his hand and suggested they make the best of it. The baron had been thrilled that the Earl of Carlyle had come to call—and all that implied—so he’d been happy to make himself scarce from the Egyptian-themed drawing room. The sarcophagus looked on disapprovingly when Cal and Miss Cuthbert spoke honestly about the situation.
Despite the Season and the house party, she didn’t have a beau who’d caught her eye. They agreed that perhaps a friendly marriage would do, since high passion clearly wasn’t working out for either of them. When they’d first met, Miss Cuthbert had told him she would do her duty, and that was what it came down to.
They were pawns to their fathers. And in the baron’s defense, it was a brilliant marriage for his daughter. It wasn’t egotistical to say so. If Cal were a better son, he’d be content with a beautiful blond wife.
But he missed Phee. He didn’t want blond curves. He wanted red curls on the pillow, finely made bones, her contagious laugh, and easy friendship.
The sand he threw on the ink scattered across his desk, but it was hard to care. Standing to stare out the window, Cal shoved his hands in his pockets. The trees along the street were vibrant with color, but he’d become so gray inside, their hues seemed garish. Soon the weather would turn cold and wet, with a biting wind that cut through even the sturdiest clothes. In his current condition, Cal would blend right in.
The glass reflected a sight that made his lip curl. Blond hair hung lank around a face half covered with stubble. Kingston had despaired and threatened to quit, but Cal had consoled him with a promise that he wouldn’t go out in society again like this. Which gave Cal the perfect reason to decline every invitation—he’d promised his valet.
In fact, Cal had rarely left the library in the last two weeks. The staff tiptoed around as if afraid of spooking their master, who’d clearly gone feral, and a disturbing smell permeated the room that he was afraid might behim.
