Year After Year (Hathaway/Wallflower Next Generation)
Title: Year After Year
Characters: Tali Rohan, Griffin Rohan, Amelia Rohan, Cam Rohan, Poppy Rutledge, Harry Rutledge, Thomas Swift, Rose Swift, Peter Swift, Matthew Swift, Daisy Swift, Jake Valentine, Russell Bowman, Rafe Bowman, Jeremy Hunt, Elizabeth Rutledge, Sebastian St. Vincent
Rating: pg
Word Count: 4,430
Summary: You put your arms around me and I'm home...
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Note: Random cuts from my 2011 NaNo, Next Generation fic for Lisa Kleypas's Wallflower & Hathaway series. Not all will be posted, but if you have any certain character you would like to see, let me know and I will see what I have (or perhaps write something new in this universe). This is all set about 20 years after the Hathaway series. For your convenience, cast of characters listed here.
The Rohan suite was in absolute turmoil.
Tali couldn’t find the other half of her favorite slippers, the only slippers that would be acceptable for her first ‘grown-up’ dinner party. And her older brother Griffin (ever the prankster) had hid them on her, and was watching from just outside her door as she fretted to and fro all over her room, looking under the bed, through every drawer, and even turning her pinbox inside out. The truth was, he had hidden it. He so loved to tease her. “Oh, blast!” she cried out, using her older cousin Elizabeth’s favorite curse, as she looked all around the room at the strewn-about frocks, hats and stockings. She stomped on the ground with her dainty little foot, hoping that would help.
“Oh, I’ve caught you, my son,” Amelia chuckled as she entered the room from the other side, fastening on her earbobs. “I suspect you might know where Tali’s pink slipper is?” Tali ran to her mother for support, glaring at her brother all the way. Griffin laughed and headed over to the tall bureau, where Tali could not reach the top without standing on a stack of several books on a chair.
“Here you are, baby,” Griffin said, still holding the shoe out of her reach.
“Griffin!” Tali whined, who either loved or hated being the baby, depending on her advantage at that very moment.
“Griffin,” their mother intoned, in her most serious mothering intonation, though her smile was still bright for her two youngest.
“Children,” Cam entered the room, resting his arms around Amelia’s trim waist. He grinned at Griffin and Tali, who stopped their squabbles always under their father’s more lenient, gentle discipline. “We are going to be rather late to the Hunt’s dinner party if we don’t all hurry. Tali, sit so your mother can help you plait your hair, and Griffin, you come with me. I’m going to have to teach you how to knot your own tie if if it’s always going to be coming undone.” Tali giggled at that, and disappeared back into the wardrobe, this time looking for her pink ribbons to match her pink slippers.
Amelia turned in Cam’s arms to give him a full kiss on the mouth. Griffin groaned at his parents display of affection, which he was rather used to, and stalked off into the room he was sharing with Alex. Cam smiled down at his monisha when they were alone. “Another war settled, hummingbird?”
She lovingly caressed his face, smooth after a fresh shave. “Always, my love.”
*
Poppy watched Harry in the candlelight as she lingered in the heavy brass bath tub that was always kept in their private suite. He had gotten home from a rigorous fencing practice two hours ago, and spent an hour in bed with her, and now he was already bathed, shaved and dressed. He squinted down at the document he was drafting, chewing on the corner of his mouth. She had seen him work this way for so long, and the sight of it, his dedication to everything in his life, was so dear to her. And this was especially important, she knew that. But she did not understand why it had to be done tonight, of all nights.
She leaned over the side of the tub, resting her chin on the backs of her hands. “It’s not the last night in the world, you know.”
He looked up, his eyes warm on her skin. “Poppy, something is going to change tonight, I can feel it. This needs to be done.”
Poppy cast her eyes downward. “This isn’t any easier for me, you know.”
Harry smiled, but the smile did not reach his emerald green eyes. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s exactly true.”
Poppy stared back at him, unflinching. “I have been a parent for the exact same amount of time as you have. I carried her with me for nine months, inside of me. I knew her first breath, and every breath since. She is me, and I am her, and I never knew that such a love could exist. And I never could have known it without you. How can you say such a thing?”
Harry laid down his quill, shame in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Poppy. I know I don’t have the monopoly on love for Elizabeth, for our girls. I haven’t been the best father, God knows...”
She smiled gently at him. “I wouldn’t have had anyone else.”
He laughed. “God help you. Where did you get such poor judgment?”
She held out a hand, and he finally got up from his desk, helping her out of the tub. Even after all this time, their three wonderful girls, he still glanced down at her naked body with want, and Poppy reveled in it. He handed her the clean, dry robe hanging off the hook in the corner of the wall, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then pulling her into him. He needed a cuddle. Harry could always center himself with Poppy in his arms, breathing in the scent of her, and his heartbeat resting next to hers.
“Better, love?” she asked softly.
“Always,” he answered, running his fingers through her damp hair. With a sigh, he let her go. “Go on, sweetheart. I’ll send Lottie up to help you dress. I have to check on something, but I’ll be back soon.”
He went back to his desk and pulled his coat on, and took up the document he’d been preparing, folding it into an envelope and placing it in his inside pocket.
Poppy raised a delicate eyebrow. “Tonight? Are you sure, Harry?”
He nodded. “It will be fine. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
She smiled. She believed him. She believed in him. “Good. We won’t want to be late to the Hunts.”
He narrowed his eyes at her in mock anger, and deftly closed the door behind him, setting out on his night’s purpose.
*
“Not so fast, baby.”
Rose turned swiftly at the accusing voice, and saw both of her older brothers standing behind her in identical poses, arms crossed across their chests, and feet planted squarely forward. Thomas, the elder, had spoken. He pointed to the empty brandy glass she held in her left hand, and the full decanter in her right. “Just what do you think you’re doing with that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, just a spot or two won’t hurt me. I’m the same age Peter was when he had his first spirits.” And with that, she splashed a healthy spot (or two) into the glass but her brother was too quick for her. Thomas deftly took the glass away, handing it back to Peter, out of her reach. Peter quickly tossed back the liquid in one swallow and smiled brightly at their baby sister.
“Oh, and why would you want to grow up like me?” He smiled lightly.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Thomas added. “Peter was a young man, and you are-”
“A hellion?” Rose offered with an impish smile, and both of her tall brothers exchanged a look that plainly agreed with her.
“A lovely young lady, and you will see how much easier life will be for you if you behave like one,” Thomas smiled kindly, but Rose fought the urge to roll her eyes. She loved her brother and she knew he loved her, but his insufferable stuffiness made her want to reach out and strangle him at times. Instead, she settled for running her finger around the rim of the decanter and licking it off in defiance. It burned like a bastard but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince.
“I see we’ll have to set the liquor out of your reach, the way we did when you were a baby,” Peter chuckled.
“That doesn’t require a great deal of reach, brother,” but Thomas smiled, the exasperated smile of an oldest sibling who was far too old before his time. And Rose smiled back. He was a wonderful big brother, even if he was an enormous dunderhead at times.
“What are you doing in here?” All three turned at the unusually harsh tone to their father’s voice. Matthew Swift was not a large man, but he’d always managed to be an imposing figure to his children, especially his willful sons, especially his oldest. He eyed the brandy decanter, still open on the sideboard and his gaze darkened at the boys. “I hope that’s not what I think it is.”
“It’s nothing, Father,” Thomas said easily. He was a grown man now, and did not intimidate as easily as he had as a child.
“We’re meant to be off to the Hunts soon,” Matthew grimaced. “Your mother, your aunt...we should not be late.”
“We’re ready, Father,” Peter added. He had the same dark, rough and tumble looks as his Bowman cousins, and his father always looked at him so curiously. Sometimes Peter could not tell if he was his favorite or if he hated him. Sometimes it felt like both.
“Matthew? Matthew, where are you? I need you for a moment...” Their mother’s light, airy voice called from upstairs and their father was away at once. The two brothers glanced at each other over Rose’s head. She was barely five feet tall, and although she insisted she still might grow a little ways yet, nobody believed her. She furrowed her brow up at them, hating being left out of their silent conversation, as youngest siblings always do.
“Why is Father like this tonight?” She asked outright, not bothering to lower her voice, since they seemed intent on ignoring her anyways.
Thomas looked down at her harshly, and then sighed. “Do you not know who is going to be at the Hunts this evening?”
“The Earl of Riverton and the Viscount of Ramsay and-” Rose stopped herself, catching on. “Oh. All of the Hathaways.” She knew that her father did not like Mr. Rohan, who was married to the eldest Hathaway sister. She had her suspicions as to why that was so, but nobody would ever tell her anything. Because she was the baby. The young lady. Rose set her mouth in a tight line and just blurted out. “Does Father not like gypsies?”
“No, of course that’s not it, it’s-” But Thomas stopped himself as realization dawned in Rose’s sharp, cinnamon-colored eyes. His quick baby sister, the slyest out of any of them. She had always known, he should have guessed as much. Peter looked at her, a mixture of pride and regret in his eyes.
Hearing their parents’ soft, muffled conversation as they made their way down the stairs, the subject was dropped at once, and the three grown Swift children went out into the hallway to collect hats, coats and cloaks to head out into the dark night.
*
As Harry made his way down the dark passage to Valentine’s quarters, he could hear the swift, sharp swish-swish of a foil. Harry grinned. Valentine had taken up fencing some years before, and he was one of his favorite opponents now. He even managed to best him once in a while.
Once in a great while.
Valentine was practicing facing away from him, sweat running down his bare, well-muscled back, and as silent as Harry attempted to be (he perfectly understood the artist’s concentration that went into fencing practice), Valentine turned with a startled jab in his direction and Harry leaned back, out of the reach of the foil. It was blunted on the end, but it would still cut him. And he had just shaved, after all. “Easy, man,” Harry said, taking the opportunity to slide out of his reach and stand up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Of course not, sir,” Valentine was breathing a little hard, but still spoke clearly. He was also a seasoned sportsman. “What can I do for you this evening?” He held his foil down against his leg, though he looked as if he were still poised to strike. As he always looked.
It was one of the qualities that had made Harry decide to hire him all those so many years ago, and the same quality that proved to still be the most useful, even after all of this time. It was a strange relationship, theirs. Valentine had always held himself at too far of a respectful distance for Harry to ever really consider him a friend, yet there were few people in the world that he trusted more. Poppy and the girls had one part of him, the biggest and the best part. The man he was proud to be, the father who would move heaven and earth for his daughters and the husband who loved his wife on a level that approached worship. Valentine had the...necessary part. The darkness and the monster that was the driving force of his empire.
“I had hoped you gave a little more thought to what we spoke about,” Harry said, without preamble. Valentine knew exactly what he was talking about, there was no need for bullshit.
“Sir, I am flattered that you would think of me, but I can’t possibly be the man for the job.” It was the first request Valentine had ever denied him. And it was no small thing - one did not just up and move to New York City without some serious thought, but Harry was sure that he did not fully understand Valentine’s reluctance. There was something he was not saying.
They had never had a conversation of a personal nature, and Harry preferred it that way. As far as he knew, Valentine never left the Rutledge and he never had any inkling of a mistress, a distant relative to visit...absolutely nothing that suggested the man was a flesh and blood human, rather than a machine. Only this interest in fencing for the past decade or so, and before that...Harry wondered if he just punched brick walls for amusement.
“Well, who else could it be?” Harry was beginning to get frustrated, an emotion that he had not been familiar with for some time. He never had the opportunity to be annoyed by anything because Poppy would soothe all of his worries away, or Valentine would see to any trouble, and have it taken care of immediately. “No one else would know how to run things properly, and anyone else would have-” But he stopped himself before he could go any further. He was a blunt, honest bastard but he was not cruel.
“Anyone else would have somebody to miss them,” Valentine finished for him, no trace of emotion in his voice, but for a second, something in his eyes flickered and Harry shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to feel pity for Valentine, but it was a little bit difficult to not feel guilt when his own life had been so fulfilling, with his wonderful, beautiful wife and Valentine had always helped to make things easy for him.
“You’re the only one I trust,” Harry said after a moment, and with a bit more tact.
Valentine toyed with his foil, bending it against his ankle, testing the tension. “Sir, can I have a night to think about it?”
“Of course, it’s not a light decision, I’m sure,” Harry answered. “If it’s the salary that’s in question, I most certainly can-”
“It’s not that,” Valentine shook his head. “I will let you know tomorrow. I will, sir. Enjoy the party at the Hunts, this evening.”
Harry nodded. He would get no further. What the hell do you want, man?
Valentine nodded back. He tossed his foil in his hand, keeping it low, in a gesture that he was anxious to get back to his practice and Harry turned to leave him to it.
He’d found answers many times in the hours of practiced motion, wearing on his muscles and joints, clearing his mind. He hoped it would do the same for Jake Valentine.
*
Russell Bowman found that he was a rather poor drunk.
He had never given into excess before, before Emmaline Hathaway had refused him and his future looked like a bleak emptiness, rather than the bright happy place he had always imagined since falling under her spell when he was thirteen years old. But now, nothing seemed worth trouble of being a good man. Not his position in his father’s company, not maintaining any semblance of a reputation and it seemed perfectly appropriate to waste his time away in the seedier gaming halls of West London. His brothers, cousins and friends preferred Jenner’s - anyone with a modicum of taste, or even anyone who mildly enjoyed a good time, did. The Duke of Kingston had always given the Bowman boys a bit of preferential treatment, extended credit and usually quite a few free drinks (after all, we’re practically family, aren’t we, the Duke had said many times, which always made Russell feel proud), but Russell could not bring himself to face Rye Rohan, Emmaline’s cousin, who adored her like an over-protective pit bull.
Jeremy Hunt had been his companion many nights, and his brother Nicky as well, as the two could seldom be parted. Russell had always looked up to Jeremy with admiration when he was younger, though he hated being called ‘Rusty’, which Jeremy always insisted on, probably to annoy him. Definitely to annoy him. But he had always been the toast of any social gathering, and Russell was surprised that he did not prefer to attend a few balls, dance with a few pretty girls and at least drink some of the better liquor and sit on the cleaner chairs at Jenner’s, but Russell was not going to complain for having company. Besides, somehow Jeremy seemed to know his way around all of the less savory watering holes like the back of his hand, quickly weaving his way through the rookeries and he knew how to avoid pickpockets and vagrants, Russell found out on one particularly memorable occasion.
Or it would have been memorable, if Russell hadn’t been soused like a country vicar.
Earlier that evening, his father had barged into his bedroom, where he was still sleeping after returning home from the night before in the bright hours of morning, when the sun was quite warm. He dragged the drapes apart and opened the window, letting in the rowdy noises of the London streets, heedless of his middle son’s protest. “This has got to stop,” Rafe Bowman said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Now.”
He had never had to do this with Russell. Robert, the eldest, was headstrong and stubborn, like the rest of the Bowmans, and his youngest, Rory, was kind-hearted and a bit softer, and Rafe sometimes worried that he might be taken advantage of in the business world, but Russell, in between in temperament as well as age, had always had just the right amount of give.
“You’re twenty-two years old, and you have your entire life ahead of you,” Rafe said, when Russell had blinked his eyes open and finally focused in the light. “You can’t bury yourself in the grave yet. She was not for you, we don’t always get what we want, boy.”
“How would you have felt if someone had said that to you about Mother,” Russell said. Rafe thought he might have seen tears in his eyes, but it was difficult to tell, because they were so red and bloodshot, evidence of another night spent in an alcoholic haze.
“That has nothing to do with-”
“It’s everything,” Russell was not raising his voice Rafe suspected he would not be able to, even if he had tried but it still carried enough weight to get Rafe to stop talking. “Mother is everything to you. Emmaline is...was...everything to me. She was everything. There’s nothing now.”
Rafe crossed his arms in front of his chest, surveying his son who still had not moved from the bed, and the room reeked of sleep and body odor. He wondered if he had ever given his own father this amount of trouble. And then Rafe stopped wondering - he probably had been worse. “I understand, son.”
At this, Russell looked somewhat skeptical, and Rafe rolled his eyes. If Russell thought he had been an unsupportive father, he had no clue as to what it had been like to grow up as the oldest son of Thomas Bowman. “I do, I understand,” Rafe said again, more firmly so that he would allow for it to really sink in. “It doesn’t change anything. This has to stop. Your mother won’t stand for it. And if what you’re saying is really true, that Emmaline Hathaway is everything to you, and without her, life isn’t worth living...You do yourself no favors by showing her and the rest of the damn city that you’re nothing but a wastrel son of an American with nothing but dirty Yankee dollars behind your name.”
At this, something seemed to click in Russell and while he was finally pushing himself up from the mattress and moving around, Rafe sent for a pot of hot coffee and a plate of fried eggs from the kitchens. It was a cure that he had always found worked well after a night of hard drinking and little sleep. And after Russell had something substantial in his stomach and a good long soak in a steaming bath, he was starting to feel halfway human again.
And so there he was, in the Hunts’ brandy parlor, doing his best not to imbibe a whole bottle. Tonight, of all nights to rejoin nice society, this night of this damn monstrosity of a party that Jeremy had planned, Russell thought just to torture him. Probably just to torture him. Russell looked to one side of him, where Jeremy was swirling brandy around the bottom of a glass and lifting it in salute to him. He smiled slyly what the hell was up to?
On the other side of him, his father sat, tall and broad-shouldered in his seat, glaring at Russell, like a black angel on one shoulder to the glittering demon on the other.
Russell sighed. It was going to be a hell of a long night.
*
The Rutledge girls sailed across the hotel lobby in their assorted finery, Anna and Caroline in snowy white dimity frocks, just happy to be included for once, and Elizabeth tucked her own cream-colored Brussels lace more securely around her shoulders. Silly things, womens’ clothing. A garment like that held no purpose, other than the ornamental. And she had enough of that as it was.
Harry and Poppy were last, arm in arm, and kept a watchful eye on their three daughters as they headed outside to the family carriage, waiting to take them to the home of Simon Hunt. They were a perfectly matched pair, walking along apace with each other as a couple can only after two decades together.
And Jake Valentine watched them from the hidden alcove at the top of the grand staircase, as he always did.
Watching silently, and never making his presence known.
*
Elizabeth looked up at the enormous mansion that was the Hunts’ family home in the most fashionable area of Mayfair. She had never been inside before, but Mrs. Hunt was widely known for her excellent taste and hospitality, and Elizabeth had always been curious about the fashionable lady who was always the talk of the town. She was part of a very tight circle of friends, powerful women; the Duchess of Kingston, the Countess of Westcliff, her sister Mrs. Matthew Swift and their sister-in-law Mrs. Rafe Bowman, the wealthy Americans. When Elizabeth was younger, she remembered that her mother had been especially fond of Mrs. Swift, but they hadn’t seen each other often for years, and Elizabeth had never quite known why that was.
As usual, her family had formed a rather tribal looking caravan to journey to the Hunts at the same time. Strength in numbers and all. Which meant they were rather late for the appointed time Mrs. Hunt had extended in her invitation (she had followed up Mr. Jeremy Hunt’s unusual approach with a more formal calling card). As usual, Elizabeth’s Auntie Beatrix had to settle down one or five of the pets she always had with her, and Uncle Cam had to wrangle his three rambunctious sons away from pranking their baby sister and poor Mirela was growing ever more worried that she would wear, say, or do the wrong thing at a social event, so she required a great deal of time and her mother’s help when getting dressed and ready. Elizabeth knew that Emmaline had gone back and forth, changing her mind at least twenty times about whether or not to attend this night, and finally decided that she could not would not avoid Russell Bowman or the rest of his admittedly large family for the rest of her life, and bolstered with her mother’s courage and support, joined Elizabeth and the rest of their family.
As for the Rutledges, Elizabeth gave a sideways look to her happily chatting mother and sisters and their scowling father. No trip was too small so as not to be made an epic journey for the Rutledges.
The extended Hathaway family convened in a circle once all of the carriages had rolled to a stop, the youngest girls squealing excitedly and the older boys pulling at their starchy formal wear. “Well,” Uncle Cam began, pulling Auntie Amelia close. “As the Roma say...”
“Rohan! Get in the goddamn house before the children freeze their fingers off!”
The Duke of Kingston had leaned outside the front door, past a flabbergasted butler and shouted out into the street. Elizabeth fought an urge to burst out into peals of laughter. These things did not happen. It was all to absurd.
Tucking her arms through Emmaline’s on one side and Mirela’s on the other, Elizabeth followed her loud, unusual, spectacle of a family into one of the grandest homes she had ever seen.
<<<333
Characters: Tali Rohan, Griffin Rohan, Amelia Rohan, Cam Rohan, Poppy Rutledge, Harry Rutledge, Thomas Swift, Rose Swift, Peter Swift, Matthew Swift, Daisy Swift, Jake Valentine, Russell Bowman, Rafe Bowman, Jeremy Hunt, Elizabeth Rutledge, Sebastian St. Vincent
Rating: pg
Word Count: 4,430
Summary: You put your arms around me and I'm home...
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Note: Random cuts from my 2011 NaNo, Next Generation fic for Lisa Kleypas's Wallflower & Hathaway series. Not all will be posted, but if you have any certain character you would like to see, let me know and I will see what I have (or perhaps write something new in this universe). This is all set about 20 years after the Hathaway series. For your convenience, cast of characters listed here.
The Rohan suite was in absolute turmoil.
Tali couldn’t find the other half of her favorite slippers, the only slippers that would be acceptable for her first ‘grown-up’ dinner party. And her older brother Griffin (ever the prankster) had hid them on her, and was watching from just outside her door as she fretted to and fro all over her room, looking under the bed, through every drawer, and even turning her pinbox inside out. The truth was, he had hidden it. He so loved to tease her. “Oh, blast!” she cried out, using her older cousin Elizabeth’s favorite curse, as she looked all around the room at the strewn-about frocks, hats and stockings. She stomped on the ground with her dainty little foot, hoping that would help.
“Oh, I’ve caught you, my son,” Amelia chuckled as she entered the room from the other side, fastening on her earbobs. “I suspect you might know where Tali’s pink slipper is?” Tali ran to her mother for support, glaring at her brother all the way. Griffin laughed and headed over to the tall bureau, where Tali could not reach the top without standing on a stack of several books on a chair.
“Here you are, baby,” Griffin said, still holding the shoe out of her reach.
“Griffin!” Tali whined, who either loved or hated being the baby, depending on her advantage at that very moment.
“Griffin,” their mother intoned, in her most serious mothering intonation, though her smile was still bright for her two youngest.
“Children,” Cam entered the room, resting his arms around Amelia’s trim waist. He grinned at Griffin and Tali, who stopped their squabbles always under their father’s more lenient, gentle discipline. “We are going to be rather late to the Hunt’s dinner party if we don’t all hurry. Tali, sit so your mother can help you plait your hair, and Griffin, you come with me. I’m going to have to teach you how to knot your own tie if if it’s always going to be coming undone.” Tali giggled at that, and disappeared back into the wardrobe, this time looking for her pink ribbons to match her pink slippers.
Amelia turned in Cam’s arms to give him a full kiss on the mouth. Griffin groaned at his parents display of affection, which he was rather used to, and stalked off into the room he was sharing with Alex. Cam smiled down at his monisha when they were alone. “Another war settled, hummingbird?”
She lovingly caressed his face, smooth after a fresh shave. “Always, my love.”
*
Poppy watched Harry in the candlelight as she lingered in the heavy brass bath tub that was always kept in their private suite. He had gotten home from a rigorous fencing practice two hours ago, and spent an hour in bed with her, and now he was already bathed, shaved and dressed. He squinted down at the document he was drafting, chewing on the corner of his mouth. She had seen him work this way for so long, and the sight of it, his dedication to everything in his life, was so dear to her. And this was especially important, she knew that. But she did not understand why it had to be done tonight, of all nights.
She leaned over the side of the tub, resting her chin on the backs of her hands. “It’s not the last night in the world, you know.”
He looked up, his eyes warm on her skin. “Poppy, something is going to change tonight, I can feel it. This needs to be done.”
Poppy cast her eyes downward. “This isn’t any easier for me, you know.”
Harry smiled, but the smile did not reach his emerald green eyes. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s exactly true.”
Poppy stared back at him, unflinching. “I have been a parent for the exact same amount of time as you have. I carried her with me for nine months, inside of me. I knew her first breath, and every breath since. She is me, and I am her, and I never knew that such a love could exist. And I never could have known it without you. How can you say such a thing?”
Harry laid down his quill, shame in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Poppy. I know I don’t have the monopoly on love for Elizabeth, for our girls. I haven’t been the best father, God knows...”
She smiled gently at him. “I wouldn’t have had anyone else.”
He laughed. “God help you. Where did you get such poor judgment?”
She held out a hand, and he finally got up from his desk, helping her out of the tub. Even after all this time, their three wonderful girls, he still glanced down at her naked body with want, and Poppy reveled in it. He handed her the clean, dry robe hanging off the hook in the corner of the wall, and wrapped it around her shoulders, then pulling her into him. He needed a cuddle. Harry could always center himself with Poppy in his arms, breathing in the scent of her, and his heartbeat resting next to hers.
“Better, love?” she asked softly.
“Always,” he answered, running his fingers through her damp hair. With a sigh, he let her go. “Go on, sweetheart. I’ll send Lottie up to help you dress. I have to check on something, but I’ll be back soon.”
He went back to his desk and pulled his coat on, and took up the document he’d been preparing, folding it into an envelope and placing it in his inside pocket.
Poppy raised a delicate eyebrow. “Tonight? Are you sure, Harry?”
He nodded. “It will be fine. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
She smiled. She believed him. She believed in him. “Good. We won’t want to be late to the Hunts.”
He narrowed his eyes at her in mock anger, and deftly closed the door behind him, setting out on his night’s purpose.
*
“Not so fast, baby.”
Rose turned swiftly at the accusing voice, and saw both of her older brothers standing behind her in identical poses, arms crossed across their chests, and feet planted squarely forward. Thomas, the elder, had spoken. He pointed to the empty brandy glass she held in her left hand, and the full decanter in her right. “Just what do you think you’re doing with that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, just a spot or two won’t hurt me. I’m the same age Peter was when he had his first spirits.” And with that, she splashed a healthy spot (or two) into the glass but her brother was too quick for her. Thomas deftly took the glass away, handing it back to Peter, out of her reach. Peter quickly tossed back the liquid in one swallow and smiled brightly at their baby sister.
“Oh, and why would you want to grow up like me?” He smiled lightly.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Thomas added. “Peter was a young man, and you are-”
“A hellion?” Rose offered with an impish smile, and both of her tall brothers exchanged a look that plainly agreed with her.
“A lovely young lady, and you will see how much easier life will be for you if you behave like one,” Thomas smiled kindly, but Rose fought the urge to roll her eyes. She loved her brother and she knew he loved her, but his insufferable stuffiness made her want to reach out and strangle him at times. Instead, she settled for running her finger around the rim of the decanter and licking it off in defiance. It burned like a bastard but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince.
“I see we’ll have to set the liquor out of your reach, the way we did when you were a baby,” Peter chuckled.
“That doesn’t require a great deal of reach, brother,” but Thomas smiled, the exasperated smile of an oldest sibling who was far too old before his time. And Rose smiled back. He was a wonderful big brother, even if he was an enormous dunderhead at times.
“What are you doing in here?” All three turned at the unusually harsh tone to their father’s voice. Matthew Swift was not a large man, but he’d always managed to be an imposing figure to his children, especially his willful sons, especially his oldest. He eyed the brandy decanter, still open on the sideboard and his gaze darkened at the boys. “I hope that’s not what I think it is.”
“It’s nothing, Father,” Thomas said easily. He was a grown man now, and did not intimidate as easily as he had as a child.
“We’re meant to be off to the Hunts soon,” Matthew grimaced. “Your mother, your aunt...we should not be late.”
“We’re ready, Father,” Peter added. He had the same dark, rough and tumble looks as his Bowman cousins, and his father always looked at him so curiously. Sometimes Peter could not tell if he was his favorite or if he hated him. Sometimes it felt like both.
“Matthew? Matthew, where are you? I need you for a moment...” Their mother’s light, airy voice called from upstairs and their father was away at once. The two brothers glanced at each other over Rose’s head. She was barely five feet tall, and although she insisted she still might grow a little ways yet, nobody believed her. She furrowed her brow up at them, hating being left out of their silent conversation, as youngest siblings always do.
“Why is Father like this tonight?” She asked outright, not bothering to lower her voice, since they seemed intent on ignoring her anyways.
Thomas looked down at her harshly, and then sighed. “Do you not know who is going to be at the Hunts this evening?”
“The Earl of Riverton and the Viscount of Ramsay and-” Rose stopped herself, catching on. “Oh. All of the Hathaways.” She knew that her father did not like Mr. Rohan, who was married to the eldest Hathaway sister. She had her suspicions as to why that was so, but nobody would ever tell her anything. Because she was the baby. The young lady. Rose set her mouth in a tight line and just blurted out. “Does Father not like gypsies?”
“No, of course that’s not it, it’s-” But Thomas stopped himself as realization dawned in Rose’s sharp, cinnamon-colored eyes. His quick baby sister, the slyest out of any of them. She had always known, he should have guessed as much. Peter looked at her, a mixture of pride and regret in his eyes.
Hearing their parents’ soft, muffled conversation as they made their way down the stairs, the subject was dropped at once, and the three grown Swift children went out into the hallway to collect hats, coats and cloaks to head out into the dark night.
*
As Harry made his way down the dark passage to Valentine’s quarters, he could hear the swift, sharp swish-swish of a foil. Harry grinned. Valentine had taken up fencing some years before, and he was one of his favorite opponents now. He even managed to best him once in a while.
Once in a great while.
Valentine was practicing facing away from him, sweat running down his bare, well-muscled back, and as silent as Harry attempted to be (he perfectly understood the artist’s concentration that went into fencing practice), Valentine turned with a startled jab in his direction and Harry leaned back, out of the reach of the foil. It was blunted on the end, but it would still cut him. And he had just shaved, after all. “Easy, man,” Harry said, taking the opportunity to slide out of his reach and stand up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Of course not, sir,” Valentine was breathing a little hard, but still spoke clearly. He was also a seasoned sportsman. “What can I do for you this evening?” He held his foil down against his leg, though he looked as if he were still poised to strike. As he always looked.
It was one of the qualities that had made Harry decide to hire him all those so many years ago, and the same quality that proved to still be the most useful, even after all of this time. It was a strange relationship, theirs. Valentine had always held himself at too far of a respectful distance for Harry to ever really consider him a friend, yet there were few people in the world that he trusted more. Poppy and the girls had one part of him, the biggest and the best part. The man he was proud to be, the father who would move heaven and earth for his daughters and the husband who loved his wife on a level that approached worship. Valentine had the...necessary part. The darkness and the monster that was the driving force of his empire.
“I had hoped you gave a little more thought to what we spoke about,” Harry said, without preamble. Valentine knew exactly what he was talking about, there was no need for bullshit.
“Sir, I am flattered that you would think of me, but I can’t possibly be the man for the job.” It was the first request Valentine had ever denied him. And it was no small thing - one did not just up and move to New York City without some serious thought, but Harry was sure that he did not fully understand Valentine’s reluctance. There was something he was not saying.
They had never had a conversation of a personal nature, and Harry preferred it that way. As far as he knew, Valentine never left the Rutledge and he never had any inkling of a mistress, a distant relative to visit...absolutely nothing that suggested the man was a flesh and blood human, rather than a machine. Only this interest in fencing for the past decade or so, and before that...Harry wondered if he just punched brick walls for amusement.
“Well, who else could it be?” Harry was beginning to get frustrated, an emotion that he had not been familiar with for some time. He never had the opportunity to be annoyed by anything because Poppy would soothe all of his worries away, or Valentine would see to any trouble, and have it taken care of immediately. “No one else would know how to run things properly, and anyone else would have-” But he stopped himself before he could go any further. He was a blunt, honest bastard but he was not cruel.
“Anyone else would have somebody to miss them,” Valentine finished for him, no trace of emotion in his voice, but for a second, something in his eyes flickered and Harry shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to feel pity for Valentine, but it was a little bit difficult to not feel guilt when his own life had been so fulfilling, with his wonderful, beautiful wife and Valentine had always helped to make things easy for him.
“You’re the only one I trust,” Harry said after a moment, and with a bit more tact.
Valentine toyed with his foil, bending it against his ankle, testing the tension. “Sir, can I have a night to think about it?”
“Of course, it’s not a light decision, I’m sure,” Harry answered. “If it’s the salary that’s in question, I most certainly can-”
“It’s not that,” Valentine shook his head. “I will let you know tomorrow. I will, sir. Enjoy the party at the Hunts, this evening.”
Harry nodded. He would get no further. What the hell do you want, man?
Valentine nodded back. He tossed his foil in his hand, keeping it low, in a gesture that he was anxious to get back to his practice and Harry turned to leave him to it.
He’d found answers many times in the hours of practiced motion, wearing on his muscles and joints, clearing his mind. He hoped it would do the same for Jake Valentine.
*
Russell Bowman found that he was a rather poor drunk.
He had never given into excess before, before Emmaline Hathaway had refused him and his future looked like a bleak emptiness, rather than the bright happy place he had always imagined since falling under her spell when he was thirteen years old. But now, nothing seemed worth trouble of being a good man. Not his position in his father’s company, not maintaining any semblance of a reputation and it seemed perfectly appropriate to waste his time away in the seedier gaming halls of West London. His brothers, cousins and friends preferred Jenner’s - anyone with a modicum of taste, or even anyone who mildly enjoyed a good time, did. The Duke of Kingston had always given the Bowman boys a bit of preferential treatment, extended credit and usually quite a few free drinks (after all, we’re practically family, aren’t we, the Duke had said many times, which always made Russell feel proud), but Russell could not bring himself to face Rye Rohan, Emmaline’s cousin, who adored her like an over-protective pit bull.
Jeremy Hunt had been his companion many nights, and his brother Nicky as well, as the two could seldom be parted. Russell had always looked up to Jeremy with admiration when he was younger, though he hated being called ‘Rusty’, which Jeremy always insisted on, probably to annoy him. Definitely to annoy him. But he had always been the toast of any social gathering, and Russell was surprised that he did not prefer to attend a few balls, dance with a few pretty girls and at least drink some of the better liquor and sit on the cleaner chairs at Jenner’s, but Russell was not going to complain for having company. Besides, somehow Jeremy seemed to know his way around all of the less savory watering holes like the back of his hand, quickly weaving his way through the rookeries and he knew how to avoid pickpockets and vagrants, Russell found out on one particularly memorable occasion.
Or it would have been memorable, if Russell hadn’t been soused like a country vicar.
Earlier that evening, his father had barged into his bedroom, where he was still sleeping after returning home from the night before in the bright hours of morning, when the sun was quite warm. He dragged the drapes apart and opened the window, letting in the rowdy noises of the London streets, heedless of his middle son’s protest. “This has got to stop,” Rafe Bowman said, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Now.”
He had never had to do this with Russell. Robert, the eldest, was headstrong and stubborn, like the rest of the Bowmans, and his youngest, Rory, was kind-hearted and a bit softer, and Rafe sometimes worried that he might be taken advantage of in the business world, but Russell, in between in temperament as well as age, had always had just the right amount of give.
“You’re twenty-two years old, and you have your entire life ahead of you,” Rafe said, when Russell had blinked his eyes open and finally focused in the light. “You can’t bury yourself in the grave yet. She was not for you, we don’t always get what we want, boy.”
“How would you have felt if someone had said that to you about Mother,” Russell said. Rafe thought he might have seen tears in his eyes, but it was difficult to tell, because they were so red and bloodshot, evidence of another night spent in an alcoholic haze.
“That has nothing to do with-”
“It’s everything,” Russell was not raising his voice Rafe suspected he would not be able to, even if he had tried but it still carried enough weight to get Rafe to stop talking. “Mother is everything to you. Emmaline is...was...everything to me. She was everything. There’s nothing now.”
Rafe crossed his arms in front of his chest, surveying his son who still had not moved from the bed, and the room reeked of sleep and body odor. He wondered if he had ever given his own father this amount of trouble. And then Rafe stopped wondering - he probably had been worse. “I understand, son.”
At this, Russell looked somewhat skeptical, and Rafe rolled his eyes. If Russell thought he had been an unsupportive father, he had no clue as to what it had been like to grow up as the oldest son of Thomas Bowman. “I do, I understand,” Rafe said again, more firmly so that he would allow for it to really sink in. “It doesn’t change anything. This has to stop. Your mother won’t stand for it. And if what you’re saying is really true, that Emmaline Hathaway is everything to you, and without her, life isn’t worth living...You do yourself no favors by showing her and the rest of the damn city that you’re nothing but a wastrel son of an American with nothing but dirty Yankee dollars behind your name.”
At this, something seemed to click in Russell and while he was finally pushing himself up from the mattress and moving around, Rafe sent for a pot of hot coffee and a plate of fried eggs from the kitchens. It was a cure that he had always found worked well after a night of hard drinking and little sleep. And after Russell had something substantial in his stomach and a good long soak in a steaming bath, he was starting to feel halfway human again.
And so there he was, in the Hunts’ brandy parlor, doing his best not to imbibe a whole bottle. Tonight, of all nights to rejoin nice society, this night of this damn monstrosity of a party that Jeremy had planned, Russell thought just to torture him. Probably just to torture him. Russell looked to one side of him, where Jeremy was swirling brandy around the bottom of a glass and lifting it in salute to him. He smiled slyly what the hell was up to?
On the other side of him, his father sat, tall and broad-shouldered in his seat, glaring at Russell, like a black angel on one shoulder to the glittering demon on the other.
Russell sighed. It was going to be a hell of a long night.
*
The Rutledge girls sailed across the hotel lobby in their assorted finery, Anna and Caroline in snowy white dimity frocks, just happy to be included for once, and Elizabeth tucked her own cream-colored Brussels lace more securely around her shoulders. Silly things, womens’ clothing. A garment like that held no purpose, other than the ornamental. And she had enough of that as it was.
Harry and Poppy were last, arm in arm, and kept a watchful eye on their three daughters as they headed outside to the family carriage, waiting to take them to the home of Simon Hunt. They were a perfectly matched pair, walking along apace with each other as a couple can only after two decades together.
And Jake Valentine watched them from the hidden alcove at the top of the grand staircase, as he always did.
Watching silently, and never making his presence known.
*
Elizabeth looked up at the enormous mansion that was the Hunts’ family home in the most fashionable area of Mayfair. She had never been inside before, but Mrs. Hunt was widely known for her excellent taste and hospitality, and Elizabeth had always been curious about the fashionable lady who was always the talk of the town. She was part of a very tight circle of friends, powerful women; the Duchess of Kingston, the Countess of Westcliff, her sister Mrs. Matthew Swift and their sister-in-law Mrs. Rafe Bowman, the wealthy Americans. When Elizabeth was younger, she remembered that her mother had been especially fond of Mrs. Swift, but they hadn’t seen each other often for years, and Elizabeth had never quite known why that was.
As usual, her family had formed a rather tribal looking caravan to journey to the Hunts at the same time. Strength in numbers and all. Which meant they were rather late for the appointed time Mrs. Hunt had extended in her invitation (she had followed up Mr. Jeremy Hunt’s unusual approach with a more formal calling card). As usual, Elizabeth’s Auntie Beatrix had to settle down one or five of the pets she always had with her, and Uncle Cam had to wrangle his three rambunctious sons away from pranking their baby sister and poor Mirela was growing ever more worried that she would wear, say, or do the wrong thing at a social event, so she required a great deal of time and her mother’s help when getting dressed and ready. Elizabeth knew that Emmaline had gone back and forth, changing her mind at least twenty times about whether or not to attend this night, and finally decided that she could not would not avoid Russell Bowman or the rest of his admittedly large family for the rest of her life, and bolstered with her mother’s courage and support, joined Elizabeth and the rest of their family.
As for the Rutledges, Elizabeth gave a sideways look to her happily chatting mother and sisters and their scowling father. No trip was too small so as not to be made an epic journey for the Rutledges.
The extended Hathaway family convened in a circle once all of the carriages had rolled to a stop, the youngest girls squealing excitedly and the older boys pulling at their starchy formal wear. “Well,” Uncle Cam began, pulling Auntie Amelia close. “As the Roma say...”
“Rohan! Get in the goddamn house before the children freeze their fingers off!”
The Duke of Kingston had leaned outside the front door, past a flabbergasted butler and shouted out into the street. Elizabeth fought an urge to burst out into peals of laughter. These things did not happen. It was all to absurd.
Tucking her arms through Emmaline’s on one side and Mirela’s on the other, Elizabeth followed her loud, unusual, spectacle of a family into one of the grandest homes she had ever seen.
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