Page 55 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
“You gave us both.”
“A pittance.” He brushed tears from her cheeks. “You bought chicks and ducklings from George Drummond’s mother. You planted herbs and vegetables.”
“You tilled that field for me.” Her tears stopped.
“A small service.” He traced the arch of one elegant cheek. “You saw that another tenant was going to shoot a stubborn donkey, and you bargained with him and gave him five hens to save Fred. That wise creature has loved you ever since.”As I do.“Through it all, you nursed your mother, who was gone to her own imaginings. And Charmaine? Well, even to her, you were her inspiration to take up acting. Meanwhile, you taught the tenants’ children English history.”
“Which they questioned because of my heritage.”
He smiled and hugged her close. “Facts they spout to each other…”
“Yes, while fighting the Battle of Bosworth on the village common.”
“With sticks and stones. Yelling at each other like ghouls.” He grinned.
She curled her lips in a brief smile, but grief made her tremble and she pulled away. She ran down the way he’d brought her into the house to the servants’ stairs and down through the servants’ hall and the kitchen.
At the door, he caught her by her wrist. But she shook her head at him and pushed open the door to the alley.
His hired coach was still there. He’d paid the man to remain, planning to take her home himself. Congratulating himself on his foresight did not fill the ache in his heart that he could not comfort her in this sad hour.
Tate was faster than the driver to offer her a hand up into the coach. He lifted her chin. “Return to me. I will honor and comfort you in all good times and bad. I love you, Vivienne de Massé.”
*
She scrambled upinto the coach, his words fire to her soul. The driver lashed the reins, and off they went into the sunny afternoon filled with the chaotic chorus of the city. Fleeing terror and war, death and despair, those in the streets looked like rabid animals. Viv remembered the emotion.
But today, she felt not their anguish.
She sat like a statue.
Tate loved her, and she was too obsessed with the machinations of Charmaine to respond. Tate loved her, and she had left him. Tate loved her, and she had not told him of her own desire.
She let her tears dribble down her cheeks. He had always been her friend. For years, he had been in her life for all the little things that had created her respect for him. He had laughed and dined with them in Neufchateau, teaching her a smattering of German and how to shoot a pistol. He had ridden with the family to Paris and helped them pack to flee Robespierre. He had escorted them to his estate in Norfolk. Given them one of his cottages. Some money. Hope.
He had been her ally, her comfort in good times and bad. Sending a physician to look at his mother. Plowing that field to grow the garden vegetables she so desperately needed to supplement their diet. Ordering another cottage cleared as the schoolroom. Building chairs and desks. Chuckling at the children who attended her village classes. Even taking part like a wild man in their reenactments of Bosworth.
She burst into a teary laugh at the memory of his wielding a sword of wood, pretending to be King Richard, dying to keep his throne. He was more her hero, her King Arthur, saving her family from ruin.
She pounded on the roof of the cab. She winced and did it again.
“Return!” she yelled to the man. “Return!”
Chapter Eleven
Viv banged onTate’s kitchen door. She’d wake the dead if she had to.
A young girl swung wide the door. “Mademoiselle?”
“Oui, je suis désolé, ma petite.”I do regret I am so slow to learn.
Then Viv shoved her pelisse, her hat, and her reticule into the girl’s hands, picked up her skirts, and ran up the stairs. At the second floor, she burst through the door and stood a moment, trying to remember which way she should turn.
On a whim, she went right and took the hall like the wind. She thanked heaven for snug slippers.
At Tate’s door, she paused a moment to collect her thoughts. Then, without knocking, she turned the handle and marched through. He was not in his sitting room.
She strode for his bedroom.
