Page 91 of Counting on a Countess
“A pleasure garden,” his friend mused. “You never spoke to me about it.”
“Some things are too important to talk about.” He’d hoarded his dream like a dragon guarding its treasure, afraid to even speak of it—lest it be met with indifference or, worse, ridicule. If his friends had jeered at him for being foolish, for throwing his money and energy into a project that had little chance of succeeding, it would have crushed the nascent hope that had been budding within him.
Now that Tamsyn had flatly rejected his plan, it no longer mattered who knew about it. There wasn’t much power in ridiculing something that would never come to pass.
Langdon looked skeptical, but didn’t question Kit. “I’d give it to you, old man, but even my allowance wouldn’t cover that sum.”
“Your would-be generosity is appreciated,” Kit answered, yet there was some relief in knowing that his friend wouldn’t deride or mock him. Neither he nor Langdon had ever followed the rules of proper—or improper—behavior.
Kit watched as one of the fighters unleashed a furious combination of jabs and hooks. The opponent managed to block or avoid some of the blows, but others landed solidly. Kit imagined the pugilist’s body must be hurting like a son of a bitch by now, but the damned fool was too proud to bow out.
“I need to let go of the idea,” Kit went on tiredly. “It’s not going to come to pass and the sooner I accept that, the better.” Investing himself in something that had no possibility of existing was a sure formula for misery. But, damn, he’d thought that once Greenwood had become real, he could devote all his energy and time in something good and unpolluted. Something that gave back to people rather than took from them.
He glanced around the warehouse, crammed full of vicious men shouting for yet more blood to be spilled, and his heart withered. “I can’t stay here anymore.”
Thank God Langdon didn’t try to argue him into remaining. “There’s a tavern around the corner. Might be a bit unsavory, though.”
“So long as they have ale, I’ll be happy with a midden perched atop a bog.”
He and Langdon shouldered their way through the crowd until they emerged from the warehouse. Night in Wapping wasn’t particularly pleasant, but something about the place’s unrepentant shabbiness felt precisely right. In short order, they reached the dockside tavern. It was every bit as unsavory as Langdon had warned, with a few sailors and stevedores gathered around tables as they nursed drinks served in dented tankards. A handful of patrons looked up at Kit’s and Langdon’s entrance. Somebody muttered something aboutunwelcome toffs, but no one sought out a confrontation.
Kit and Langdon found an available settle, and took their seats. Without asking them what they wanted, a weary woman brought over two pints and banged them down on the table before trudging off.
After taking a sip and finding the ale to be reasonably potable, Kit said, “She left in fury. Angry atmefor trying to beguile her into giving me the blunt. Which wasyouridea,” he added sourly.
His friend only smirked. “Shift the blame back onto yourself, you dog. I made a suggestion and it was up to you to decide whether or not to take it up, or what methodology you’d use.” He drank from his tankard. “I imagine I’d be steamed as a pudding if I found out someone was playing me nice but only for the sake of themselves.”
Kit ran his fingers over the table’s scratched surface. “You’ve got a point, goddamn it.” The guilt he’d been trying to hold at bay crept over him, miring him in its heavy fog. For years since her parents’ deaths, Tamsyn had been ignored by her aunt and uncle. They had given her no love. Then Kit came along and made her feel cared for and respected—but it had been for his own benefit, not hers.
No wonder she’d been so sad, so angry. It wasn’t difficult to see why she felt it necessary to flee all the way to the other side of the country.
He’d spent the past few days returning to his old ways. All the entertainments he’d visited—Vauxhall, Astley’s Amphitheatre, the Imperial—had barely moved him. What was the point in going if not to bring her happiness or to see the brightness of her eyes as she made new discoveries? Why do anything if not for her sake?
“I’ve analyzed the field of battle,” he said. “Determined my assets and my liabilities—but I can’t figure out the right course of action.”
“When it comes to the best way to keep a wife happy,” Langdon answered, “I’m no authority. Well,” he added with a grin, “I’m rather capable when it comes to someoneelse’swife.”
“You ass,” Kit said with a shake of his head. Langdon only dallied with married women whose husbands also took lovers, part of his friend’s peculiar ethics. “If you can’t give me counsel, what’s the point of keeping you around?”
“My roguish good looks,” Langdon said sagely.
“Ah, that must be it.” Kit swirled the ale around in his tankard. “Damn if I know what to do.”
Langdon leaned back. “That soldier’s intuition of yours kept you alive for years. What does it tell you now?”
“It tells me...” He closed his eyes and waited. For a word, a sign, a voice. A feeling. It began quietly, almost imperceptibly, but it was there. It was a need, an absence of something very important. That need grew and grew until it filled him—to see Tamsyn again, to make her smile, to give her pleasure. He had never felt more fulfilled than when dedicating himself to his wife, and the aimlessness which had characterized his life after the War had been replaced by a sense of purpose and gratification. Her absence formed a sizable chasm within.
The pleasure garden had been a distraction, but not an answer. He’d clung to that dream believing it would take away dark memories of the War—and while nothing could ever completely erase them, they had dimmed considerably when Tamsyn had come into his world.
Together, they might not undo the damage of the past, but they would create enough light to dim the shadows.
He wasn’t certain what he could say to repair the rift between them. Better men than him were fashioned for stirring pleas begging forgiveness or knew their way around a proper grand gesture. He could only provide himself and hope that what words he could cobble together might begin to heal the wound.
He opened his eyes and got to his feet. “I need to go.”
“You haven’t finished your ale,” Langdon noted.
Kit threw coins down onto the table. “I’ll have more on the road to Cornwall.”
