Authors: Heather Cullman
When they were well out of earshot, Nicholas fixed the object of his ire with his implacable gaze, and ground out, “I am, by all accounts, considered a tolerant man. Like all men, however, there are limits to my forbearance. You, Charles, have exceeded those limits with your ungentlemanly conduct.”
“Ungentlemanly conduct?” Charles echoed, visibly taken aback. “Excuse me, my lord. But I don’t know what you mean.”
That the man obviously thought it acceptable to abuse women incensed Nicholas almost to the point of eruption. Shaking from the effort it took to contain his fury, he growled, “Then, listen and know, Mr. Dibbs: I cannot and will not suffer the presence of a man disposed toward striking women. Because you have proved yourself to be such a man, I hereby dismiss you from your duties. You shall return to Hawksbury this instant and pack your bags. I want you gone before I return from church.”
It took several moments for Charles to fully absorb the impact of his words. When he did, his eyes narrowed and he countered, “Begging your pardon, my lord. But I am in your father’s employ, not yours. It is he, not you, who must determine whether or not I am to be sacked.” By his tone, it was clear that he expected a different ruling from the marquess.
Nicholas regarded him coolly for several moments, then gave a brusque nod. “As you wish. We shall take the matter up with my father after church.”
The triumph in the footman’s eyes was unmistakable. Dipping his head in victorious assent, he murmured, “Thank you, my lord. If there is nothing else you require, I would like to be excused.”
“But of course.”
The man sketched a formal bow, then started to saunter off. He’d taken only a few steps when Nicholas stopped him. “Charles?”
The footman paused, but didn’t turn to face him. “My lord?”
“Before you go, I feel it only fair to warn you of my father’s harsh views on striking women.”
This time Charles did turn, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, my lord. But I am certain his views will soften once he hears of Fancy’s insolence. Your father is a reasonable man.”
Nicholas returned his smile in kind, ignoring the barbed insinuation of his last remark. “I am glad you find him so, though I doubt the servant he dismissed last year for a similar offense would agree.”
The footman shrugged. “I am certain that he will rule differently after hearing my defense. If he doesn’t — ” another shrug ” — what will I have lost in trying?” “Perhaps your livelihood.”
Yet another shrug. “I shall find another place easily enough.”
“I said livelihood, not place.” Nicholas’s smile broadened a fraction. “You see, Charles, not only did my father dismiss the servant, he saw him shunned from every respectable house in England. Last I heard the poor bastard was employed at one of the less —
ahem
! — savory taverns near the docks. They say he’s taken to drink to ease the misery of his lot.”
Charles paled a shade at his words, but otherwise showed no outward sign of alarm. It was while viewing his military-perfect stoicism that Nicholas hit upon a fitting punishment for his crime. Resisting his impulse to grin, he added, “I want you to know that while I agree with the man’s dismissal, I do not believe that he deserved to be ruined.”
The footman stared at him, momentarily speechless. Then he cleared his throat and croaked, “Are you saying that my references will remain unsullied if I accept your dismissal here and now?” His hoarse voice held a note of hope.
“I said that the man was undeserving of ruin, not that he should have been allowed to remain in service.” Charles frowned. “What you’re saying makes no sense. A servant banned from service has no livelihood, and thus faces sure ruin.”
“There are other livelihoods, you know.”
“And exactly which one of them would you suggest I pursue? My only experience is in service.”
“I was thinking of one that would keep you away from women and hopefully cure your unfortunate tendency to strike them.”
The other man eyed him suspiciously. “You aren’t suggesting that I be shipped off to Italy or Spain to become a monk, are you?”
Nicholas laughed aloud, amused by the question. “No. Somehow, I can’t quite imagine you a monk.” He shook his head at the ludicrous picture of the rakish footman in rough robes with tonsured hair. “No. I was thinking more along the lines of the military.”
“The … military?” Charles more choked than uttered the words.
“The military,” he confirmed. “It so happens that I have a powerful friend in the army who owes me a rather large favor. What I propose to do is to call that favor due by asking him to grant you a commission. I shall, of course, inform him of your boorish conduct and charge him with the duty of mending your ways.”
As he expected, the footman was thrilled beyond ecstasy by his proposal. “My lord! Why, this is more than I — “
Nicholas cut him off with an abrupt hand motion. “I must warn you that your rank will not be high, an ensign at best. I shall also require you to sign a contract promising to stay in the military for not less than five years. After that time you may either remain in the army or sell the commission for your own profit. It matters not to me what you do. If, however, you leave before the end of the fifth year, the rights to the commission shall revert to me, and you must go about life as best you can.”
“Oh! My lord, this is just too wonderful — “
Again, he cut him off. “Do we have a bargain?” “Yes … yes! And thank you, my lord. Thank you! I shall be forever in your debt.”
“Fine. Then, go pack your bags. I shall have the papers drawn up immediately so that you may leave for London this evening.” He didn’t have to give the command twice. “Young fool,” he muttered, watching the footman disappear among the tombstones. “I’d bet my title that he won’t be smiling after a week under Ellum’s command.”
“Pardon, my lord?” This was from Terence.
Nicholas slanted him a wry look. “Captain Ralph Ellum’s men refer to him as the Ball Crusher. He also happens to hold women in the highest esteem. Need I elaborate?”
Terence chuckled and shook his head. “Bravo, my lord!”
“Then, Charles shall be punished?” Sophie exclaimed. Nicholas shot her an irritated look. Her question clearly indicated that she thought him as lacking in judgment — as in everything else. Provoked at her for holding such an opinion and at himself for caring, he snapped, “Of course he shall. What did you expect me to do? Reward him?”
Her cheeks flushed the soft crimson of his mother’s prized amaryllis, and as always, she promptly looked away from his face. “No … well, yes. I mean, I thought that you’d rewarded him. I mean, not deliberately, but . . She shook her head as if trying to jar her foot from her mouth. “What I’m trying to say …”
“I believe Miss Barton is trying to inform you that Charles has always dreamed of owning a commission, and that she thought you had inadvertently rewarded him by granting him one,” Terence cut in. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I shared her belief. I realize now that I should have known better and humbly apologize for my thoughts. Sophie, on the other hand, has been at the manor but a short time and is thus unaware of your superior — “
Nicholas silenced him with a wave. “No apology necessary. I quite understand.” Kneeling beside the weeping Fancy, who sat using the hem of her skirt as a handkerchief, he added, “It seems that we now lack a second footman, Terence. What say you to the position?”
“Me? Second footman?” the young man gasped. Nicholas nodded. “By your willingness to champion Fancy, you have shown yourself worthy of the advancement. I can assure you that my father will agree when
he hears of your gallantry. Therefore, you have only to say yes to attain the position.”
“Y-yes, my lord! And thank you. I would be honored.”
“Good. Then, you shall begin your duties by informing my father that I have been detained and shall be along shortly.”
“Very good, my lord.” Looking ready to burst with excitement, Terence sketched a quick bow and dashed off.
That matter settled, Nicholas focused his attention on the sobbing chambermaid. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he murmured, “Are you hurt, Fancy? Do you need a surgeon?”
Her face still buried in her hem, she shook her head. Nicholas leaned a fraction nearer, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Servants, he’d learned, were loath to acknowledge their injuries and ailments, especially to their employers. And with good reason. Sacking a servant for an infirmity was a common, if inhumane practice, one which both he and his parents disdained. Yet, despite their reputation for charity, some servants still remained fearful. Thus, it often fell to the Somervilles to divine their employees ills and see to their treatment.
Aware that this might be one of those instances, he gently countered, “I’m sure you’re as fit as you say. Still, I would rest much easier if you would allow me to examine your face.” When she sniffled and lowered her hem enough to eye him warily, he smiled and added, “In truth, you will be granting me an immense favor by letting me do so.”
Her tear-drenched eyes widened. “Huh? How”
“By saving me from your mob of admirers, that’s how.”
Her eyes were so wide now, they looked ready to pop from her head. “What mob of admirers?” Another sniffle.
“Why, the ones who shall no doubt rise up and tear me limb for limb should I allow your beauty to be marred through neglect.”
She gaped at him dumbfounded for several beats, then giggled and dropped her hem. “Git on, now, my lord. You’re teasin‘ me.”
His smile broadened as he cupped her chin in his palm and tipped her tear-streaked face into the sunlight. “Me? Never! I speak only the truth. You have only to notice the way men watch you to see that it is so.” Pleased by her grinning response, he quickly examined her face. Aside from a bruise blossoming on her left cheek, she appeared unharmed.
Relieved, he smiled and released her. “There seems to be no serious damage, though your left cheek is turning a rather interesting shade of purple.”
Fancy sniffled and gingerly prodded the area.
“Never fear, Miss Jenkins,” he said, handing her his handkerchief. “The bruise shall be healed in plenty of time for you to dazzle your admirers at the Midsummer’s feast.”
Rather than look pleased, as he’d expected, she burst into tears again. Utterly bewildered, he glanced at Sophie for help. She was staring at him in a most peculiar manner. It took but a second for him to realize that she stared at his face, and another for him to become thoroughly discomfited by her scrutiny. What had prompted her sudden fascination, he didn’t know, but he had an uneasy feeling that he wouldn’t like the reason were he to discover it.
More self-conscious than he’d ever been in his life, he ducked his head, instinctively hiding his disfigurement. Praying that he sounded calmer than he felt, he said the first thing he thought of. “I’m sorry, Fancy. I only meant to cheer you.”
The chambermaid shook her head. “You ain’t to blame, my lord. I am. I bragged to everyone —
sniffle
! — how Charlie loved me and how he was gonna announce our engagement at the feast.” She paused to blow her nose, loudly. Wiping it as if trying to rub it off her face, she exclaimed, “And it were true! He said he loved me and wanna’d to git engaged. When people hear that he was only jollyin‘ me to git under my skirt — ” She broke off, weeping in earnest.
“There, there, now, Fancy. Everything will be fine, you shall see.” He awkwardly patted her arm. “The only thing anyone will think is that Charles is a bastard, and that they are glad he’s gone. The gladdest of all shall be your mob of admirers. I shan’t be a whit surprised if they clamor at the door day and night, pleading for the privilege to court you.” Damnation! He hated it when women cried. It always made him feel slightly guilty, as if he should have been able to do something to prevent their distress.
To his dismay, she wept harder. “No man ain’t nivver gonna want me … well, exceptin‘ for a quick game of hide the quimstick. Charlie’s right. I ain’t nothin‘ — “
Nicholas seized her shoulders and silenced her with a shake. “Don’t say such things.” Hearing her pain, so raw and familiar, clawed his own festering wounds, making him suffer for her with a keenness that almost brought him to tears. Suddenly desperate to ease her torment, and his, he tightened his grasp on her heaving shoulders and gave her another shake. “Look at me, girl.”
When she continued to hang her head, sobbing and wailing as if her life were over, he shook her again, this time with a force that made her drop his handkerchief. “I told you to look at me, damn it! I want to be sure that you listen to what I’m about to say.”
The instant she obeyed, he regretted his command. Looking in her eyes was like gazing in the mirror, their depths reflecting the same shattered doubt and bruised self-esteem that haunted his own. The sight wrenched his gut.
Oblivious now to everything but their mutual pain, he stabbed his gaze into hers and growled, “I know how it feels to be publicly spurned, Fancy. Believe me, I know. I’m intimately acquainted with what you’re suffering. It’s devastating, that’s the only word for the feeling; devastating in that it cuts to the core of your being and eats at your soul. You feel inadequate, and undesirable, and helpless.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper, “Worst of all, you doubt yourself and wonder if you are truly as unworthy of love as the other person says.”