Page 41 of Weave me a Rope
Spen certainly hoped so, because he still felt like one enormous bruise, quite apart from the sharp pain of his arm and ribs. But filling his lungs helped his general malaise. For the rest, it was just a matter of time.
The footman who served him was a little more forthcoming about what had happened after Spen was knocked unconscious. He confirmed Chatter had rescued Spen, intervening when itbecame clear the earl was not going to stop just because Spen was unconscious.
“Lord Deerhaven was right peeved with Lord Yarverton,” he confided. “Said he’d gone too far. Lord Yarverton stormed off. Lord Deerhaven went this afternoon when he knew you hadn’t taken an infection, my lord.”
“Did they beat Lady Daphne?” Spen asked and was relieved to hear the lady was unharmed, but locked in a suite of rooms just a little farther along the passage. “What is the name of this place?” he asked the footman. “Where are we?” But the guard on duty growled and the footman had paled and stopped talking.
The nights were the worst, when he lay awake thinking about Cordelia and wishing he was with her in between sessions of worrying about what his father had planned.
His father came to tell him. It was more than two weeks after the beating. By this time, he was able to move with some ease again, and to resume his exercise routine, but Mickey the guard entered his rooms in some haste and told him to put himself back to bed. The marquess was here, and they had told him Spen was still ailing.
Spen only had time to strip to his shirt and get back into bed.
“You are healing, I hope,” the marquess said, in what sounded more like a command than a question.
“I daresay I will in time, my lord,” Spen replied. “My arm is broken and several of my ribs, but nothing vital was damaged, I imagine, for I am not dead.”
The marquess’s face worked with anger, but whether at Spen or Yarverton, Spen couldn’t tell. Both, probably. “You brought it on yourself with your own stubbornness,” the marquess declared.
“Before you ask,” Spen told him, “I will not agree to the marriage with Lady Daphne.”
The marquess glared. “If you are well enough to argue, you are well enough to be wed,” he replied. He turned on his heel and left the room.
That night, Spen fell to sleep easily, but when he woke in the early hours of the morning, it was as if the scales had fallen off his eyes. He had been waiting to be rescued. Even back in Deercroft, he had only begun to weave the rope and to attack the bars because Cordelia and John had suggested it. Since then, he had done not one active thing to help himself, apart from exercising to keep himself fit. And much good it had done him.
He had waited for his birthday as if the mere fact of reaching his majority would set him free. His father was not going to stop ordering his life merely because he turned twenty-one. His father probably didn’t know Spen’s birthday had been and gone, and certainly wouldn’t allow Spen’s age to make a difference. Saying “no” wasn’t enough. He had to get free through his own devices.
By morning, he had come to terms with the fact he had, despite his age, been playing the part of a child, acting as if his only options were to obey or to defy. He’d been letting other people make decisions and then reacting to them.
Cordelia did not do that. Cordelia reached after what she wanted, even if it meant putting herself in danger. He lost himself briefly in memories of the day when what she wanted was his lovemaking, but if he was ever to enjoy it again, he would need to make it happen.
He wasn’t worthy of her. He had not tried to argue his case with his father but had simply opposed him. He had not even made much of an effort to woo his guards to his cause. They were hired men, and unlikely to have any personal loyalty to the marquess, so it was worth a try.
He couldn’t offer to double their wages. Spen had no money that had not come from his father, and that his father could nottake. Would they turn their coats on a promise? One day, and it couldn’t be more than a few years away, Spen would be one of the wealthiest men in England. He couldn’t wait, however long that might be, to take control of his life.
He should make a list. Several lists, in fact. He had always found writing things down helped him to organize his thoughts.
What arguments could he use to convince his father? What had he noticed he could use in an escape? What might convince his guards to help with said escape? What jobs was he qualified to do to support himself and—if Mr. Milton would allow it—Cordelia from the time he escaped until the time he inherited the Deerhaven title and estates?
But before he could write a list, he realized, he had a problem. His broken right arm meant any lists he created would have to be held in his mind.Although… He narrowed his eyes and studied Mickey, the guard currently on duty. “Mickey?” he asked, “can you read and write?”
It turned out that Mickey was not literate. “Jim is,” Mickey offered. “And Marsh, of course.”
“When you go off duty, will you let them know I need someone to write for me?” Spen asked, wondering which of his guards were Jim and Marsh, and why Marsh was an ‘of course’.
The question was answered when Big Nose arrived to relieve Mickey, and Mickey said, “Jim, his lordship here wants someone to write stuff for him.”
So Big Nose was Jim. He regarded Spen thoughtfully. “We’ll ’ave to ask Marsh,” he said. Ah. Chatter must be Marsh. A surname, Spen guessed. “Please do,” he said. “I have some lists to write.”
Marsh arrived partway through the morning. “You want something written?” he asked.
“I do,” Spen agreed. “I need to figure out a strategy to persuade my father to drop this marriage idea. I thought if Iwrote down a few ideas—or at least got you to write them down for me—it might help. Also, even if he stops driving me towards Lady Daphne, he will not consent to the lady I have chosen, so I need a second list. In fact, you and the other guards—the footmen, too—could help with that list. Jobs I am qualified to do or could learn to do to support myself, and a wife and family, until I inherit.”
Marsh’s eyebrows twitched as if he was suppressing the urge to raise them. “I will do it. When do you wish to start?”
It proved to be the longest conversation Spen had had with Marsh, who began by simply writing what he was told but was soon making comments and offering suggestions. Jim was drawn into the discussion, and when the usual footman arrived with tea for Spen, he was sent back for more cups and ended up sitting down with the three of them to offer his opinion.
It was Marsh who pointed out the obvious fact that there was no point in telling the marquess about how Spen’s life would be affected by the wrong choice of bride.
