"So Abersham is completely exonerated," Haverford told Cherry that night.
The Seven Seas man had brought a report from Wakefield and Wakefield, as well as letters from Bella for Cherry and Sally, and the letter from Abersham that Sally had read a dozen times in the evening, and undoubtedly now slept with. Yes. Abersham again. Young Toad was reconciled with his father, who had sent Haverford a note demanding an apology for believing his son to be a degenerate. Hah! As if Wellbridge had not been the first to have doubts!
"Harburn," Cherry corrected. "Bella says he was offered his old title but respectfully—respectfully, mind you—declined. He told his father that he wishes to take up his seat in the house, do his duty as a baron and stand on his own in business."
Haverford nodded approvingly. "That speaks well of the boy, does it not?"
"You must be relieved, Anthony." Cherry turned her back and he began to unbutton the myriad of tiny fasteners. This precious time together at the end of the day was too important to share with maids.
"My brother is convinced the whole tarradiddle of lies was started by that swine Crowhurst and stirred by the lad's cousins and various lovers. Or would-be lovers, in recent years, because he has been living like a monk, Wakefield says. They took his youthful starts and built an entire myth on it."
He pressed a kiss on the curve where his wife's neck met her shoulder, still beautiful after all these years. "I know what you are thinking, my love," he said. "I was responsible for most of those early peccadillos."
She dropped the gown and stepped out of it, then offered him her back again for the laces of her corset. "You and Nick share that responsibility, to be fair," she mused. "And I dare say he would have been a little wild even without your encouragement. But Bella writes that he has grown into a man we can all be proud of, and that our Sally is the only woman in his life and in his heart."
"And he in hers, as we can see from how she ignored us all tonight in favour of his letter. Poor Maddox. He took it well, though, carrying Penchley off to play billiards so she could enjoy her dreams without interruption."
"He knows he never had a chance with her, Anthony. Nor did Mr Penchley, though he didn't seem to realise it until tonight."
Haverford raised his eyebrows. "So that's what that sour face was about. As if she would ever consider the likes of Penchley, even if Abersham was out of the running. No, surely my secretary would not be that foolish."
Cherry bent to pick up her gown and the scattered petticoats, putting them over the back of a chair with the corset for the maid to deal with in the morning. Haverford followed her with his eyes as, dressed only in a light chemise, she stepped behind the screen that shielded the wash stand. She was much improved in health since starting the mix of roots and herbs prepared for her by the island's healer. His most unruly part twitched hopefully, but he ignored it. Last time he'd allowed her to know how much he missed physical intimacy, she had assured him she was well enough. Then she could not conceal from him how it hurt. He would rather go the rest of his life without intimate congress than hurt her again.
He smiled, thinking of his godson. Celibacy was not so hard when only one woman in the world would do, and she was not available.
"So Crowhurst was at the bottom of it all?" Cherry asked. "A pity he escaped."
"Indeed."
Cherry came out from behind the screen dressed in a diaphanous piece of nonsense that he'd brought her long ago in Paris, before she was sick, and every thought in his head scattered, so he had to struggle to listen to her words. His voice seemed to come from a long way away as he struggled to keep still. Let her make the first move. Dear God, he prayed, please let her make a move. Now.
"Are you not going to kiss me, Anthony," Cherry complained. "And more? I am feeling well, and it is such a long time since we..."
Nearly thirty years married to a rake, and she was still shy in words, he thought, as he tenderly lifted her and carried her to the bed. But not in actions, and they wasted no more of the night talking about their daughter and her beloved.
***
"David doesn't comment on the letters I sent from the Mediterranean," Sally told her family at breakfast. "I wonder if they were delayed?" She picked up the letter from her lap, and checked it again. "He sent this at the end of April, and my first letter would have gone from Gibraltar a full fortnight earlier."
"We have been plagued with postal delays and losses," Mama complained. "The Duchess of Wellbridge says in her letter that she writes frequently. Since the mail goes by the same overland route as we did, letters should have started catching up with us shortly after we arrived at the islands."
Sally stopped stroking her letter and looked up, her brow creased. "You are quite right! We have been here months, and David says he writes weekly.
'I can only hope your letters to me have been caught up somewhere, perhaps chasing around Europe as mine to you did when they followed Etcetera. I have written at least weekly and will continue to do so. Surely some of them will arrive, but know, my love, that I think of you always.'"
She let the page fall to her knee, looking off into the distance with a contented smile.
Maddox frowned. "How long since you left England. Ten months? That would be—at least twenty-five letters already here, and perhaps another fifteen on their way."
"That's odd," Papa said. "Perhaps they might all have gone astray as we travelled, but I would have expected most of them to catch us up once we were established here." He shook his head. "I assumed Wellbridge was refusing to talk to me, but Bella would have known to use the diplomatic mail. You, at least, Cherry, should have had letters."
"We have them now," Cherry soothed, "and can hope for more soon. Maddox, my dear, we shall miss you. Must you leave straight after breakfast?"
Sally accepted the change of subject, though she picked up Papa's reservations about David's claim to have written so often. He had been proven wrong! Why did he still believe the worst?
She went to change her shoes and put on a bonnet, and then met Maddox, along with all the people Papa thought necessary for her safety and status, by the door.
They walked to the harbour, with no chance for a private talk. Just as well, since Sally was still feeling sensitive about Maddox's doubts and the way he'd raised them at the breakfast table. But when they reached the wharf, he said, "Step to one side with me for a moment, will you, cousin?"
Warily, she followed him, but he remained silent, biting his lips, his forehead creased.
"What are you trying not to say, Maddox?" Sally's voice sharpened, though she'd had every intention of being kind to her cousin today, as he took his leave. "Not, I hope, another warning about my betrothed?"
Maddox gave her a wry smile. "I did myself no good, did I? Please believe I spoke only out of concern for you, Sally. You know him far better than I, though. I wish you every happiness; I really do. Forgive me?"
She let go of her irritation and took his offered hand. "Friends? I am very fond of you, Maddox. But I do know my own heart, you know. However kindly meant your warnings, I wish you would keep them to yourself."
The last word came out with more volume than she attended, and her entourage, who were standing back to give her and Maddox privacy, started forward.
She waved them away, as Maddox dropped his voice to say, "I'm saying nothing more about your betrothed, Sally. I wanted to talk to you on another topic. The missing letters."
Sally stiffened. "The mails are not certain."
"Have you had any letters in the diplomatic pouch?" Maddox asked. "What about by the normal method, delivered by any captain coming this way?"
"Just a couple from Merry's mother and sister, which he brought when he came." Sally frowned. "It is odd, is it not?"
"Who collects and sorts the mail?" Maddox asked.
Sally's eyes widened. "You think someone has been interfering with the mail? Surely not Mr Penchley! He is so devoted to Papa—and his career. One of the other secretaries, perhaps?"
Maddox grimaced. "Penchley is devoted to his career, yes. But he is obsessed with you, Sally."
"No." Sally shook her head. "Mr Penchley? He thinks I would... But I have done nothing to encourage him, Maddox, and to do such a dreadful thing... I cannot believe it."
Maddox's smile was ironic. "Neither can your father. But someone is doing it. For so few personal letters to arrive, and those only the ones that were delivered—you need to be careful, Sally. Promise me you will never go anywhere with Penchley, or allow yourself to be alone with him.