Chapter Twenty

Emilia slid her eyes to the window, quite distracted by the rain, considering there was little other noise in the drawing room that she cared to hear.

Even Mrs. Baddeley, usually full of enough lively chatter to fill any silence, was uncharacteristically quiet this afternoon. Five sneezes in quick succession were the most she had offered to the conversation in the last ten minutes as Mary droned on... and on.

Emilia was rather tempted to say something herself, but had little wish to draw attention her way, what with Mary sitting on the sofa directly across from her place on the window seat.

Emilia had taken the spot immediately, needing the light for her work. Gold-upon-yellow, even one so pale as this, was a challenge even with spectacles on. But Mary wanted her dratted dresses embroidered and, really, it was the sort of work she found more relaxing than not... in other company, at least.

Not that the other girls were a bother. They were quite pleasant. They had started by going about the room and introducing themselves more properly than could be done last night. They now all knew where the others hailed from and what hobbies they particularly enjoyed. Miss Poole, from Lincolnshire, enjoyed reading, poetry especially, and often composed her own, but was not prepared to share any at the moment, though Mrs. Baddeley did beg her for a recitation. Lady Adele and her mother lived with relations in Devon and she explained, with the help of Miss Poole, that she enjoyed spending time in the garden and that rain made her déprimée. Miss Marbury, from Kent, enjoyed music and did start to enthusiastically expound upon that when Mary Hartley interrupted her.

"Really, Cecilia. Not everyone wants to hear about some symphony they've never even heard."

It was then Mary began to list her many interests. Emilia had heard more about opera than she had wished to just this morning, but she'd have gladly listened to another hour on the topic rather than suffer through Mary's exhaustive recalling of her accomplishments. Not that Mary had any that she herself could see...

"I'm always certain I'm just dreadful at everything," she was saying, "but everyone always has such remarks that I must concede that I have some talent." Here, she recited what everyone said about everything she did so spectacularly well — from her mastery of languages to her horseback riding to her flower arranging to dancing and singing and playing the harp. Really, it would be better if she were simply a braggart without the pretense at humility.

"...and of course, there is embroidery," Mary was saying, hopefully finished with the list. Then she drew breath, as if to continue...

"Yes, embroidery!" Mrs. Baddeley exclaimed from her chaise by the fire, thankfully. "You've all been working so diligently. I must see what you've accomplished! I confess, I've made very little progress with my own — monogrammed handkerchiefs for my dear nephew — but my eyes are not what they should be today." She put a hand to her temple.

"Are you unwell, Mrs. Baddeley?" Miss Marbury asked, moving from her place next to Mary to sit nearer to the older woman. "You haven't been your lively self today."

"Darling girl." Mrs. Baddeley patted her knee. "I'm sure it's nothing tea will not correct. I should have rung for it a half-hour ago, silly me. I shall—"

"Oh, please don't get up. Allow me." Cecilia rushed to the door.

"Yes, Cecilia's always eager for tea... and cakes." Mary giggled.

"I think her very helpful," Emilia couldn't help saying. "And I'm sure Mrs. Baddeley would say the same." Really, having witnessed the friendship between the two more closely now, Emilia was quite certain it should not exist.

"Do you now, Miss Crewe?" Mary tilted her head, looking rather like a viper prepared to strike. "I'm sure you would know all about being helpful. Isn't that what you do, after all?"

She held Mary's gaze. If the girl meant to expose her now...

"Oh, that's right!" Mrs. Baddeley said, rallying her spirits. "We've not yet asked about you, Miss Crewe."

"Er... I'm from Yorkshire, outside Pickering, much like Miss Hartley."

"And how do you occupy yourself? Helping, as Miss Hartley says? Do you mean at the church or—"

"Oh, she is always doing something around Crewe House, aren't you?" Mary asked with a smug smile. "Why, I wouldn't be surprised to find her washing dishes!"

"Well, isn't that kind of you, Miss Crewe?" Mrs. Baddeley was cluelessly delighted. "I myself often make use of myself about the house when it is called for. And it's good practice, is it not, for when a lady must run her own house, to know the workings of all parts?"

Mary reddened. "That is not what I—"

"I'm certain all of you are gifted in the domestic arts." Mrs. Baddeley stood and moved to Lady Adele, inspecting her embroidery circle. "Oh, what a bright picture! Is that a sun? To chase the away the déprimée, perhaps. How lovely!"

The girl sighed. "Oui. J'avais trop de jaune et je voulais l'utiliser."

"Oh... Well..."

"She had too much yellow thread," Miss Poole helpfully supplied. "She wanted to use it up."

"And you've used it well. It's delightfully... sunny. And what are you favoring us with, Miss Poole?" Mrs. Baddeley skipped over to her, then drew back with confused look. "Oh... er... Is that a..."

"Oh, I'm not certain yet." Miss Poole held up her embroidery circle, and what looked like a green lump in the center, for all to see. "I suppose it's either a mossy rock or a hill. It all depends on whether I have any interest in finishing the bottom." She shrugged. "I'm not sure I do, really."

"Well, it is... a very nice shade of green," Mrs. Baddeley finished kindly before moving on to Mary. "Why, Miss Hartley! What a clever little garden you've fashioned! Such color, such craft!"

"Do you think so?" Mary preened. "I thought it would surely be too difficult when I started, but I barely touched needle to thread and it simply happened. Do you think it a passable attempt?"

"More than passable, my dear," Mrs. Baddeley enthused. "What precious little tulips!"

Emilia hid her laugh with a cough. Difficult? Tulips were the easiest flower to embroider. Most often, one need only make one shape for the blooms. Even with a more complicated design, it took only three petals of stitches. Daisies were more challenging and Emilia had been doing them since she was sitting at her mother's feet.

"And what of you, Miss Crewe?" Mrs. Baddeley was approaching Emilia now and she suddenly felt a bit shy about her work. All the other girls were here with their delicate little embroidery hoops and she... Well, her work was of a more practical sort. She might as well have been down here darning socks, in comparison to them.

She slid the dress off her lap and tried to push it slightly behind her. "I regret to say, I've done very little. I should not wish to show—"

"Oh, nonsense!" Mrs. Baddeley cooed, still bearing down on her. "I hear you are quite the artist!"

"But that's only with paint. I'm certain this is not—"

"Why, it's remarkable!" Mrs. Baddeley exclaimed, pulling at the dress Emilia had been embroidering. "Why are you hiding such a delightful... mastery of needlework? Such intricate little stitches! Girls, you must take note!"

Suddenly Miss Poole and Lady Adele were crowding around her as well.

"Quelles douces petites roses!" the latter exclaimed.

While the former clarified. "Sweet little roses, indeed! They must be very difficult."

Emilia couldn't help but smile. They were quite nice. "Well, it takes practice, but I'm sure anyone can—"

"Not me," Miss Poole supplied. "I'd never have the patience for such a thing!"

Miss Marbury, upon re-entering the room, also seemed impressed. "Aren't those darling! And that dress... Why, Mary! It looks very like one of yours."

Mary glared at Emilia as she tossed her embroidery hoop to her side, saying through her teeth, "Yes. Because it is. What do you mean by taking my clothes down here to—"

"Well, it was to be a surprise, Mary!" Emilia lifted her chin, having little choice but to brazen it out. She put on a wide smile. "We are fast friends, are we not? I do hope it hasn't been spoiled too much."

Mrs. Baddeley put a hand to her heart. "What a lovely thing to do for your friend. You Yorkshire girls. So thoughtful!"

"Oh, yes! So very thoughtful!" Mary stood, sighing in feigned rapture. "Dear Prudence!"

Emilia braced herself as Mary glided toward her, leaning down to put her cheek against hers.

"I see what you are trying to do."

"Embroidery?" Emilia hissed back.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? I hope you don't think it's an accomplishment. You're simply doing your job."

"Isn't it funny how those look the same?" she whispered, breaking the false embrace. Why shouldn't she be proud of what she could do? Why shouldn't she enjoy being told she did it well? She had a good mind to show Mrs. Baddeley some of the other, more impressive, fruits of her job.

Still, she was glad when tea was brought in to distract everyone, including Mary, who made quite the fuss over what Miss Marbury put on her plate. "Two lemon cakes, Cecilia? Really?"

"I'd thought, since they are so very small—"

"But they are still cakes, are they not? And you are not so very small, now are you?" Mary tittered, glancing around the room as if expecting someone to join her laughter.

Happily, no one did. Miss Poole and Lady Adele had moved to a sofa in the corner, whispering in rapid French while Mrs. Baddeley seemed to be preoccupied by the fire, dabbing at her nose with one of her unfinished handkerchiefs, quite absent from the conversation.

Even after Miss Marbury pushed her plate away, Mary tutted as she stirred her tea, "I see you've put the cream in first, so it's too late for that to be stopped, which I suspect was your object all along. What would your mother say?"

Emilia was fuming as Mary strolled toward the other girls, but she forced herself to smile as she approached Miss Marbury, taking a seat beside her. "I like to put the cream in first, too. I might be wrong, but it tastes different the other way."

"No, she's right. I was sneaking it in. I'd hoped she wouldn't notice."

"And what affair is it of hers if you have cream in your tea?"

"It's really my mother's affair. Mary is just her enforcer. She wants me to be more like Mary."

Ah, yes. Miss Marbury had said as much this morning. And Emilia tried, she truly did, to hold her tongue... but how could she? "And is that what you wish? To be more like... Mary Hartley?"

Miss Marbury didn't seem to note the scorn in Emilia's voice, sighing, "Well, she is so very... delicately formed. I feel like a lumbering beast in comparison. And it is very kind of her to take the trouble to guide me."

"I'm sure it's no trouble at all for her," Emilia muttered. There was nothing Mary seemed to enjoy more than thinking herself above someone else, she was certain of it. "You'd be better guided by what is in your wardrobe than on your plate," she said before she could stop herself.

"Pardon me?" The girl was staring at her, confused.

It was far too late to take it back. "I mean no offense, but... I am certain you'd not think yourself a lumbering beast, as you say, if your gowns weren't so very... limiting in space?"

"Oh, that! That's my own fault." Miss Marbury smiled in a pained sort of way... and no wonder. Every movement must hurt, in her prison of muslin and lace. "You see, Mother decided — and I agree, of course — that I should take more pains to be comfortable in my gowns if they matched a more... pleasing silhouette."

"Well, I am all for a pleasing silhouette, but not every silhouette must look the same. Some girls are statuesque and lean and some plump and quite small in stature. But both can be pleasing." She should know. She'd dressed one of each... and quite successfully, she thought. "Gowns should fit the form, not the other way 'round." It seemed quite a simple truth to her.

Yet Miss Marbury looked quite perplexed at the idea, tilting her head. "Still, it would be so nice to be a bit more..." She sighed and stared at Mary, attempting to converse in French and, if the confused look on Lady Adele's face was anything to go by, failing. So much for her mastery of languages. "...well, a bit more like... You see, when in company of someone like..."

"You could keep far better company than Mary Hartley," Emilia couldn't help but say.

Whatever Miss Marbury had to say to that, Emilia was not to know as the door opened.

Sir Anthony strode in then. "And is this where you've all been hiding?" he asked jovially, despite sporting an eye that was blackened and half-closed.

"Why, Tony!" Mrs. Baddeley stopped her sniffling at his presence, chiding. "You knew very well we'd be here."

"Yes, yes. And I kept myself away as long as I could."

"And doing what? What have you done to yourself, you silly boy?"

"Simply a little mishap at billiards, Aunt Dotty. Nothing to worry about."

"But it must hurt!"

"Not at all. You should see the other fellow... Well, the other fellow was a billiard cue that was relatively unharmed, but I shall not let him spoil my day." He rubbed his hands together, looking about the room before his eyes landed on Emilia. "Miss Crewe! There you are!"

"Sir Anthony. Here... I am," she finished, not quite prepared for his enthusiasm.

"I believe we had a conversation we'd meant to continue this afternoon," he said, staring at her expectantly. "And I've yet to show you the house."

"Oh, yes, of course." Blast it all! She had promised him such a thing at breakfast. Really, she'd only done so to spite Miss Prudence, and she hadn't really thought he would come to collect. She supposed there was no getting out of it now. She stood, sighing. "I would be happy to—"

"Sir?"

Tony turned to Mr. Higgins, hovering in the doorway. "Yes?"

"I'm afraid we have an unexpected visitor," the butler said.

"In this weather?"

"Apparently so," the man sighed.

Tony turned back to the room. "I'm afraid a host's duty is never done. If you will excuse me, ladies..." He bowed and tossed Emilia an apologetic look before he quit the room.

He'd need not apologize for her sake. She was quite relieved to further delay entertaining his suit.

But Mrs. Marbury seemed even more relieved, gripping her hand. "I confess, I am glad you did not go with him," she said, glaring at the door even as it closed.

"With Sir Anthony?" She was reluctant to entertain his courtship of Miss Crewe, mostly because she was not Miss Crewe, but she had no objections to Sir Anthony outside of that. "He seems a perfectly pleasant man," she mused.

"Does he?" Miss Marbury shook her head. "Yes, I suppose he seems that way."

"Such a dutiful host," Mrs. Baddeley was saying. "You must forgive my dear nephew. He's far too amiable for his own good."

Miss Marbury squeezed her hand again, frowning quite hard. "Mrs. Baddeley is too kind. She believes the best of everyone, and especially her nephew." She met Emilia's eyes quite seriously. "As you advised me, allow me to do the same. You could keep far better company."

*****************

Byrne had thought this day would go far better than it had. Perhaps he had been spoiled by his successes thus far, but he'd yet to have a day like this — one step behind and unable to get his bearings, faced with opposition at every turn, haunted by memories no matter how he pushed them away and, as if the rest wasn't bad enough, tired and wet all over. There wasn't a part of him that didn't squelch.

He'd be much less miserable about the whole thing if the meeting with the surveyor had gone as planned. But it seemed that nothing was going his way today.

It had started well enough, with some pleasantries, such as Byrne hoping that Mr. Yarrow's travel and accommodations in Grantchester had been to his liking.

"Aye, very much," the man had said, "but let's not get caught up in civilities. It's far too wet for that today."

Byrne couldn't help but agree.

"And while we're talking of it, it's far too wet here. The ground is not nearly solid enough. It would be a foolish place to lay track."

"Yes, I'd anticipated that. But that is only as it is. I am willing to put down the coin necessary to build up the land, the materials and labor. The only thing I require from Murray is an agreement to extend the line and perhaps the loan of some foremen and managers to oversee things. This is a new scheme and I'm not too proud to admit that my expertise is limited."

"Then why, I might ask, are you venturing into such a thing?"

"It's the way forward, is it not? And what else is this land good for?"

"That may be so, but that doesn't mean it's good land for a rail line either." Yarrow pointed off. "I did inspect the ground a few miles east, however. Flatter and firmer than what we have here. If you could secure some land in that direction, the prospect is much more favorable."

"Yes, I am well aware," Byrne said through his teeth. It was why he was here in the first place. Even without its easier terrain, it was closer to Hardwick. Hell, if he could, he'd run tracks straight through the house itself. "I am in the process of negotiating with some owners there. Things look promising." Or at least they'd better, and soon. "But in the off chance I'm unable to secure the properties needed, with work, this land does offer a clear path. And if I were to lay out the expense—"

"Tisn't only about cost. After the mess with Trevithick, and the sluggishness of Parliament in approving proposals, Mr. Murray is cautious that his ventures have a higher guarantee of success before he lends his efforts and his name. Reputation matters." Mr. Yarrow regarded him closely. "You've quite a good one, new as you are. I wonder why you'd chance it on a risky venture such as this."

Really, it was also a matter of reputation. Just not his own. "I believe in progress. To my mind, the way forward is not paved with a guarantee of success." Though his reasons leaned more toward the former, the latter was also true. He was not afraid of risks. Though not an inventor himself, nor an engineer, he knew greatness when he saw it and would put capital behind it, often investing where the more cautious would not.

Perhaps it was easier for him, new as he was. He had property. But it wasn't some legacy to be protected at all costs. He could lose it all tomorrow. Building it back up again would give him something to do, at least.

He reached into his jacket, pulling out a roll of papers, several deep. "I have had several more plans drawn, with more variations on—"

"Oh, I've looked over your plans. I've never received so much correspondence, at my home and office. And I'll take a look at these as well, but there's no going forward until we know what we are working with. Now, if you can secure those lands east, I can tell you truly that you'll have a deal. I know Murray well enough for that. But with this..." He lifted a booted foot, then put it down again with a loud squelch. "I've heard you've got a silver tongue on you. But I doubt even that would convince a man like Murray to sink his best engines into a marsh."

Byrne could hardly deny that was what Murray would be doing. On his walk back to the village, he could feel the water finally seeping into his boots. He'd be getting an earful from Fletcher, for sure.

He'd only bought the land as a start on his encroachment onto the lands nearest Hardwick. He didn't know it would be this damned hard to secure the rest. But there were forces working against him... such as Doctor Allendale.

He'd not done any research on the man, which was his own failing, really. Gunn's mention of him had been the first inkling he'd had of the doctor — and his supposed alliance with the younger Mr. Browning. On the way to the tavern, he had passed a closed shop with a sign, swinging in the wind, advertising remedies for ailments of the throat, the stomach and the eyes.

Several pairs of spectacles were scattered among the untidy display that made up his window, along with a diagram of a stomach and several piles of pamphlets, all claiming some sort of expertise on various subjects — one on "childbirth and all attendant woes," which seemed to be focused on the evils of reducing diets for expectant mothers and why they must be avoided, another on the benefits of eating greenery for all, another that seemed to be some diatribe against leeching, and yet another that seemed to posit that all water must be boiled before it was consumed... A very unrealistic thing to Byrne's mind. What was this supposed "doctor" even about? Making life harder for everyone?

It certainly seemed that way to Byrne, staring at the older man now. He looked so unassuming, adjusting his spectacles and smoothing one of the few hairs remaining on his head, as he stared at Byrne, waiting for him to answer.

Byrne made him wait, catching Connolly's eye at the bar and giving a nod, at which his coachman set down his drink and exited with a look of relief.

The good doctor had already said his piece. Byrne wondered what right he had to it since he was not a land-owner. From what Byrne had seen, he rented a shop with some meager rooms above it. Yet most of the men — and one woman — at the long table seemed to defer to him. It was making more and more sense that this man was obviously a tool of the earl and his sons, or at least one of them. Gunn had only said the younger was seen in his company. But that didn't mean he was not manipulating things for the sake of that whole family.

"Let me see if I've heard you correctly," Byrne began. "You wish to accept my offers, but only upon the condition there will be no railway. And you expect this to be acceptable?" He noted with some satisfaction that at least half of the gathered owners looked nervous.

"I've made figures," the doctor said, not fazed at all. "There are fine grounds and buildings, only in need of some repair. More than half the owners would rather stay as tenants than leave and—"

"After I've paid them handsomely for their property."

"And you'd be paid back in rents. As a landlord, you'd take in more of a profit than this... rail nonsense could guarantee."

"But you see, it's not nonsense to me," Byrne said slowly, carefully. "It is the only reason I aimed to secure this land in the first place. And now I am expected to not only buy the properties in question, but put coin into repairing them, and the roads as well, and find renters for the empty properties and—"

"You've already bought up a good amount. With those homes and lands in repair, you could find many tenants," Doctor Allendale went on, still acting as if this wasn't the most unreasonable counter-offer ever conceived. "I'd wager those under the earl himself would give up their leases. Tis no secret he is an inattentive landlord, at best. If this village, these people are to thrive, care must be given. You could do much good for this town. Breathe new life into—"

"It is not my affair how the earl treats his tenants, nor my duty to rectify his neglect. I am a man of business, Doctor, not charity."

"It is not only the doctor who objects to this rail of yours," the woman said. Mrs. Plemmons, he believed, the owner of this very inn and some odd village buildings. Hers were not even affected properties, yet here she was, putting her oar in as well. Since she owned the tavern they sat in, he had little choice in her interference. "Not all of us want our town slashed in half by that monstrosity."

"The village would remain unaffected and the lands in question would benefit. New structures would be built around the rails. New businesses would crop up in service of it. New people would come for the work provided by it — and that's only in the building of it," Byrne said, prepared for all their arguments. "You all say this town is in need of life. This is what will revive it."

"Sicken it, more like," she said. "Black smoke in the air, noise all the day. It would be unlivable. How are we to breathe?"

"You see, Mr. Byrne, that is the material point," Allendale said. "The quality of the air is most important in the health of the lungs. It is natural that we are all concerned."

"Not me," one younger gentleman said. "I'd take the money and find someplace else to fill my lungs. I fancy Brighton."

"No one asked you, Ned," an older man said hotly. "And I'd be ashamed to sell my family's land on a whim such as this if I were you."

"We'll you're not, are you? I say we sell, find our fortunes elsewhere and leave this rotting place."

Byrne had perhaps not been so cavalier about it when it had come to selling his own family's land, but he could well understand the lure of starting again somewhere new. He saw some people seemed to agree with Ned, murmuring about where they might go.

"My offers," Byrne said, "are more than fair. I have taken into account the value of the land itself and the buildings, and that's as if they were in fairer shape. You would not get such a price anywhere else. It's enough money to go wherever you wish, begin any business you desire."

"We agreed," the older man growled, "that we would stand in solidarity." He eyed Byrne suspiciously. "This rail cannot be built with only half the land bought anyhow. So those of us defecting change nothing."

"Yes," Allendale said. "Hearing us out is the least you can do."

"Yes. And I've done that." Byrne pushed away his still-untouched tankard. "I've purchased enough land to the west that my 'rail nonsense,' as you call it," he said, eyeing the doctor again, "is all but started." They didn't need to know Mr. Yarrow's objections. Thank goodness he'd housed the man in Grantchester instead. "Buying your lands was a courtesy, nothing more. If you hate the idea of a railway so much, then you know what the answer is. My offers — very generous offers, mind you — still stand, unchanged." He stood. "You can discuss it amongst yourselves. I'll be back this way Monday and those who are not enemies of progress can meet me here at three o'clock. Good day to you all." He dropped some coins on the table in front of Mrs. Plemmons. "For the food and drink... and for your troubles."

She looked annoyed, but pocketed the money anyhow. Smart woman.

"Now, wait just a moment." Allendale stood as well.

"I'm afraid I can't," he said, starting out. "This is not the only venture I have at the moment." He did still need to secure a bride, after all. Even courtship and its attendant nonsense was a more tempting prospect after this disaster of a day.

"I say! Mr, Byrne..."

He opened the door into the courtyard, noting the rain had started again in earnest. It was just as well. Not as if he was dry anyhow.

His coach had not yet made it, so he was stuck under the awning with the good doctor.

"I rather resent you implying we are enemies of progress. I have advocated for these people for over a decade. We have started lending libraries. We have charitable organizations. I have personally looked after the health of all inhabitants since I arrived here. We are not a dying village. We are simply in need of patronage, of repair, of—"

"Of charity. From me, apparently," he droned, turning to him. "I think I've made it clear that that is not the business I am in."

"You would benefit as well. You could take the land you have secured and... and make something of it, build better roads, aid these people in ways they sorely need—"

"If these people want better roads, you can tell your friend, young Mr. Browning, to apply to his father."

The doctor stiffened. "Mr. Browning has little to do with this matter, though I will say—"

"Then you can report back to Hadingley yourself."

Allendale stared at him. "The earl? I don't think I've spoken more than a dozen words to him in my life. He prefers to use the physicians in Grantchester. I've treated several of his servants and workers, though. He does not grant them any leniency for illness and, believe me when I say, he is just as neglectful in other matters. This village has known no true patronage in years. A man of your stature and — to be blunt — fortune could change all that."

"There is only one change I care to see in this place," Byrne said. "And I didn't make my fortune by tossing good coin after bad. As I said before, I have land enough to build as it is. If they don't want the noise and nuisance, they can sell. But mark my words, it will be happening." If it wasn't true, he'd make it true. He didn't go through all of this just to fail with the end in sight. He'd sink every damned penny into that marsh if he had to.

"I see. I had hoped you might be different."

"I don't see why." Byrne was grateful when his carriage finally appeared, so this damned mess could be over, for now at least. "I bid you good—"

"I shall tell you why. Oliver said you were known as a good man, a man of business, to be sure, but not without charity. He said you had built housing with reasonable rents for those who might go without, secured work for those rejected, opened schools for those who might not otherwise be allowed to learn, and in parts of London most care nothing to—"

Byrne turned to him, snapping, "And what does Oliver Browning know of me? Or of the ways of business? Yes, it sometimes is useful for a man of means to ensure those around him have such basic needs met so they can work and contribute to industry, to progress," he said, emphasizing the word. "It doesn't mean I'm out to rescue every sinking hole of a village I come across, and especially not when it works directly against my own interests."

The doctor sighed. "The way he'd sung your praises, I suppose I thought you'd be a better man. I see now that I was mistaken. A good day to you, Mr. Byrne," he finished before disappearing back into the inn.

Byrne had half a mind to call him back, but couldn't think why. Shouldn't he be relieved this nonsense was over?

Yet he didn't feel that way, even on the drive home with a hot brick under his feet, he felt restless and chilled to his bones. A shiver shot through him and he willed it away. He'd not been sick a day in thirteen years, not since that night — that night he did not wish to think about, especially not after a day as miserable as this.

Yet, in his tired, wet and disheartened state, he could not help feeling it all again — the chill of The Thames, the despair as he chased the letters, only rescuing a few before his numb hands could grip no more, until he had no choice but to pull himself from the water before he let it all drag him under...

"Sir?"

He stared at Connolly as he held the carriage door wider.

"Ye've been sitting here so long. Wouldn't ye rather go inside?"

"Yes... Yes, of course," he droned.

"Are you ill, sir? Shall I have Mrs. Stern make her—"

"No!" Byrne prodded himself into motion, scrambling out of the carriage. "I'm not ill." Or he wouldn't be, if only to avoid his housekeepers vile remedies. Mrs. Stern always had to cook them up herself since Mrs. Doyle refused to participate in something so disgusting coming out of her kitchen -- and this from the woman who kept attempting to trick him into eating brussels sprouts. He rather thought she'd like to be part of torturing him personally.

He tried to force some liveliness into his step, thinking that if Higgins noticed him lagging, he might tip Stern off and Byrne would find himself facing her noxious brew.

It was actually Fletcher who opened the door instead, before he'd even thought to open it himself and, though Byrne was loathe to face him with the state of his boots.

Yet he didn't seem too angry, calling out enthusiastically, "Sir! You've finally returned!"

Byrne took off his sodden coat. "Indeed. And please, Fletcher, spare me the lecture about the Hessians. There was no helping it in all this damp."

Though he did frown, glancing down, Fletcher shook his head as he took the coat. "We shall discuss that later. For now, I must tell you—"

"Let's make that much later. I only ask for dry clothes and silence."

"But, sir..."

"Also whiskey. And a bath. Yes. Call for a bath — a very hot one — and I shall meet you upstairs presently." He started for the library... and the whiskey. He needed something to knock the chill out of him before he faced this party again.

"Aye, but Mr. Byrne, I must inform you—"

"Fletcher, I have had a dreadful morning and an even worse afternoon." Byrne turned back. "I merely wish to put this day behind me, so I'd appreciate it greatly if you didn't regale me on whatever the damned dog has done now."

Fletcher looked rather miffed, then smiled slightly. "I take it you've had little success today, then."

Byrne sighed and shook his head. "It would be grand if you didn't sound so pleased about it."

"I'm not pleased about it. I have no opinion either way, as I have said repeatedly. If you wish to waste your time and money on—"

"Someone with no opinion would have much less to say," he grunted, stalking off.

"Wait! Sir!"

He turned back. "I shall see you upstairs," he said firmly before making his way across the front hall to the library at last. "See, not hear, Fletcher! Berate me about the boots all you want in the morning, but not tonight!"

Byrne pulled open the library doors, glad to see Tony alone in the room. He hadn't the patience to contend with the rest of them before he was warm and dry.

"Byrne! Here, I thought you'd been carried away in a flood!" Tony laughed. "You must—"

"I must have a whiskey," Byrne cut in, walking past him to the sideboard, grunting, "or brandy. God, I'd even take rum after this day."

Tony chuckled. "I did warn you."

Byrne rolled his eyes, bracing himself to hear Tony gloat about the rain.

"Indeed you did," another voice said, and Byrne stilled, realizing Tony was not talking to him. It didn't sound like Mr. Walford or Lord Swinton.

"He's an absolute grump before meals, and when it rains, and on Thursdays, and also all the time." Tony laughed again. "Come, Byrne. You can hardly deny it."

He wasn't going to, least of all today. He turned around, finally facing Tony and his new companion, sitting in a wingback chair by the fire, from which he quickly stood, staring hard at Byrne.

Byrne stared back just as hard or, more rightly, glared at the intruder.

Tony seemed oblivious, happily saying, "I hope you can find some merriness in you, if only for our new guest. Allow me to introduce—"

"There's no need," Byrne cut in.

He needed no introduction, not to his own brother.

TBC