Page 60 of Fair Weather Enemies
Adam cut his eyes upward at the man, certain he was joking. Wordsworth gave no indication other than sincerity. Adam chuckled softly. “No, sir. She is not my intended. In fact, she is my sworn enemy.”
Wordsworth squinted at him with apparent disbelief. “I rarely abide sarcasm when it concerns matters of the heart, young man.”
Adam shook his head. “I mean what I say, sir. Miss Hancock has been my adversary since before we met, and a formidable one at that.”
Wordsworth perched gently against the edge of the bed, crossed a leg over the other knee, and leaned forward with folded hands. “I sense a fascinating story. Perhaps you might indulge my curiosity.”
Adam peeked at Jane. Satisfied that the conversation had not so much as stirred her, he decided to oblige. “The story began seventy years ago with two friends, but quickly descended into violence.”
With that introduction, he relayed to Wordsworth the history of the feud. He included his various encounters with Jane, most of which had ended badly for one of them. The poet listened raptly. When Adam finished, Wordsworth rubbed his forehead while studying the floor. Then he peered at Adam.
“I remain puzzled. What you describe is a decades-long war of attrition between your families. A war in which you and Miss Hancock have appeared happy to participate. And yet, here you are traveling in each other’s company seemingly more lovers than adversaries. Why, I have not seen half your tender care from most married couples I know. What, sir, are you not telling me?”
Adam’s head drooped. “Your perception is admirable.”
“An idiot could perceive as much. Do not attempt to evade my question through undeserved flattery.”
With a sigh, Adam told the rest of the story. How their desperate circumstances had thrown them together. How they searched for the gold that would save one and condemn the other. How he would lose her either way. Again, Wordsworth listened intently, nodding and humming acknowledgment as the tale unfolded. When Adam finished the story, the man eyed him for a moment while shaking his head with disapproval.
“It seems, sir, that youarethe idiot of which I spoke.”
“Pardon me?”
“You heard me correctly. The fact that you would agree to such a dastardly contract with a known snake marks you as either insensible or idiotic. Do you disagree?”
“I cannot. I regret my foolishness immensely. Now, I struggle over what to do.” He glanced up at Wordsworth as a hopeful thought occurred. “You are a poet. You understand distressing matters of the heart. What should I do?”
His host began to laugh but stifled it as Jane stirred. When she stopped moving, he leaned toward Adam. “Sir, poets do not understand matters of the heart any better than do non-poets. We just have the alarmingly bad sense to write about the subject.”
“In truth?”
“In truth. And only love would drive a man to seek the counsel of poets.”
Adam blinked. “I am not in love, sir.”
Wordsworth chuckled and shook his head. “Stop deluding yourself, young man. The ache will only grow deeper otherwise.”
Adam perused the floor beneath his feet, considering the accusation. Was it love he felt for Jane? For his lifelong enemy? How could that be possible? Still, he admitted that his feelings for her were novel. No woman had elicited in him anything similar before. As confusion mounted, he looked up again at Wordsworth. The man was watching him with a wry smile. Adam sighed with resignation. “May I ask a question, sir?”
“I anticipated as much.”
“As a poet, what would you write about this scenario? About Jane and me?”
Wordsworth settled back and put a knuckle to his chin. He hummed nearly inaudibly for a moment while staring at the ceiling. “In a word, regret.”
“Regret?”
He returned his gaze to Adam. “Yes, regret. How it is the deepest of sorrows, because opportunities ignored are rarely encountered again. No amount of wishing and hoping can recreate the past.”
The depth of emotion behind the statement piqued Adam’s interest. “You seem to know much of regret, sir.”
Wordsworth nodded slowly as his eyes became unfocused. “Mine was Annette. A French beauty who captured my heart when I toured the continent. Our time together proved brief but produced a daughter, Caroline. When the opposition of her family and the outbreak of hostilities between Britain and France forced me to leave, I vowed to return to Annette and my daughter. However, owing to the length of the war and my callow youth, I left them to fend for themselves for ten years.” He refocused his gaze on Adam. “For that, I am regretful. Those ten years can never be restored.”
“And now?”
He smiled. “It was Mary who awakened me to my responsibility. Before our marriage fifteen years ago, she insisted I speak to Annette. The Peace of Amiens allowed me to do so. I have been in contact with Annette and Caroline ever since, and even arranged Caroline’s dowry when she married earlier this year.”
“Yet you still harbor regret?”
