“I must have missed that. All I heard is that she won’t leave her son, perfectly natural and understandable. I simply won’t ask it of her, but we shall marry.”
At a loss for words, Anthony began to laugh, shaking his head in mild amazement.
They sat for quarter of an hour listening to a gentle rain outside before Fitzwilliam spoke again. “You know I had a similar conversation to this not long ago. My God, was it only weeks ago I swore that I would never marry, that it was something that held no interest for me? What a pompous ass I am.”
Anthony grinned devilishly, and Fitzwilliam cocked one eyebrow in mock hauteur. “May I know the reason for your amusement, sir?”
“I hope I do not offend you; however, I cannot but wish you had a brother I could meet.”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes wrinkled in humor, and he turned to his new friend. “Well, actually, I do have a brother, and we have been wondering why he has no interest in marriage and in producing the requisite heir. I wonder…”
“Is all well, your lordship?” The ancient butler, who had fallen asleep in Anthony’s chair, attempted to rise as his master walked into the bedroom’s dressing room.
“Sit, Bascome, rest. Why don’t you pour us both a drink? I have quite an enjoyable tale to tell you.” Anthony allowed his valet to help him shrug out of his jacket.
“I am very sorry that your lordship’s friend left in such an agitated state.”
“Who? Sir Edmund? Oh, do not concern yourself, old friend. I believe he will return.” He leaned down to take the brandy snifter. “I have a good feeling about him.”
“What of the colonel, sir? They have told me he showed great promise. Perhaps…?”
Anthony laughed as his valet undid his cravat. “Regretfully, no, Bascome, his interests quite literally lie elsewhere, shall we say?”
“More is the pity. He reminded me so much of our late Master Mario.” Anthony nodded and smiled wistfully, lighting up another cigarillo, then sat down to tell his old friend the tale of Amanda and Richard.
On the following morning, Sunday morning, Fitzwilliam felt terribly hung over but remarkably more optimistic, having identified his true enemy. Instead of the dashing Spanish aristocrat he had so feared, he found that the biggest obstacle to his future happiness appeared to be a social-climbing, elderly society matron. The Beast. The mother of Amanda’s late husband, Augustus, was tough as steel and bitter from her loss. Upon further reflection, he decided he might have preferred the Spanish aristocrat.
Chapter 13
It was the last Sunday before advent, and the carillon bells announcing early morning mass rang out high above ancient St. James Chapel. The streets were bustling with Spanish Place street vendors, shouting out their raucous greetings to one and all as they loaded their carts, readying themselves for the journey across to Covent Garden. Former soldiers warmed themselves around sputtering campfires, comparing war stories and wounds, exchanging bawdy remarks with the evening ladies who were finally making their exhausted way home.
Fitzwilliam jogged up the uneven stone steps and opened the church’s massive wooden doors, music from the men’s choir greeting him as he stepped into a musty darkness, taking a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It was a surprisingly large crowd, to his mind, for this early an hour. At the very least, an Anglican service would never interrupt the ton ’s morning-after recuperation time like this.
He had no trouble spotting Amanda and Anthony. After a squeaky walk up the old center aisle, Richard slipped into the pew behind them. As a rather large British officer, he had caused something of a commotion upon entering the church, but he took this all in stride, excusing himself most graciously for the interruption, even exchanging pleasantries with the people around him. Only one or two of the faithful were brave enough to express their anger with him. Most seemed only sleepy, and others were just plain curious. “Pardon, please pardon…” he kept repeating politely in his rumbling baritone whisper, then he set his hat down on the seat beside him.
Anthony turned almost immediately, amused and nodding in welcoming acknowledgement, but Amanda’s reaction was one of stiff-backed bewilderment. On the pew between them sat a sleepy little boy, a beloved cloth toy clutched to his chest. He suckled his thumb as he nodded off to sleep.
Fitzwilliam had composed what he felt was a compelling argument to present to Amanda concerning their joint future. As he would before any battle, he had methodically examined each and every option, attempted to anticipate any unforeseen impediments, and had settled upon a clearly thought-out and logical plan of action. Now that his plan was decided upon, Fitzwilliam was eager to set it in motion. In his experience with battle, delay often meant defeat.
Managing to sit still in his pew for only a few moments, he came forward to kneel on the hard wooden slat. He poked Amanda once in the back, unaware that her face had already passed bright pink and was now approaching crimson. Her hand flew behind to swipe his away. “Amanda,” he gruffly whispered, “I need to speak with you.”
A chorus of “shhhhs” assailed him from every direction.
“Pardon me… My error… Terribly sorry…” Sufficiently chastised, he nodded apologetically to all around him and most drifted back into an inattentive daze, unwilling to further antagonize the intruder. After all, he towered over everyone, even kneeling down.
The choir started on their next hymn, the number in large letters on a board in the front of church. Casting about for a hymnal, Fitzwilliam snatched one from the pew behind him, turning to the indicated selection. It was with great relief that he recognized, “O God Our Help in Ages Past.”
“How very excellent. This hymn is one of the favorites of my youth,” he announced in an ear-deafening aside. Fitzwilliam faced forward and began to sing.
His booming baritone erupted like a bomb in the small chapel, easily drowning out the half-hearted Catholic bleating of the flock. Anthony’s shoulders began to shake. Amanda yelped. The child between them jumped as if bitten.
Up on the altar, Father Riley’s shoulders flinched, and he turned an annoyed glance in Fitzwilliam’s direction, removing his glasses and putting down the outline of the sermon he was reviewing. Many of the faithful in the congregation followed their pastor’s lead and strained to look at this most vocal of visitors.
Fitzwilliam, who had always considered singing at the top of your lungs in church the very best reason for attending, appeared blissfully content with the attention and graciously smiled back at one and all.
It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Harry Penrod was bored, bored with the hushed voices and the dim candles, bored with the slow, reverent singing. He was so bored that he was even unwilling to fight, as he always did, the drift into sleep he was feeling. He sucked contentedly on his thumb and moved his tiny hand forward to play with the fringes of his mama’s shawl. Even horsey was not of any interest to him at the moment.
It was then that the earth shook, and Harry jumped from the shock, his head spinning around to see what disastrous event had occurred. To his great surprise, behind him stood the largest man he had ever seen, wearing a huge tent of a cloak, which when parted, revealed red material containing shiny brass medals and glimpses of golden braid.
It was a soldier!
Harry stared up at the giant for the longest time, speechless. What to do? What to do? Here was one of those moments his mama had warned him about that could divert him from respectful silence for Baby Jesus. On the one hand, he was only a little boy, but on the other, he had promised his mama to remain quiet and out of trouble for the duration of the mass. After all…