Page 51 of My Fair Lord

“From whom?”

Ned played another not-quite-chord, fingers rigid, bitterness rising and ebbing. He had walked away, though, into a life of uncertainty and freedom. The boy who had wept through the night back then no longer cried now.

“It’s how things are. A man has power or not through the accident of his birth. In the earl apparent’s defence, I had been caught up a tree with an apple in my hand. In other circumstances, I might have been imprisoned as a thief, so I bit my tongue, mopped my blood, and endured the further reprimand my father gave me when he discovered what had happened.”

“Ned, I’m sorry,” Florence whispered. “What did your mother say?”

Ned’s heart cracked. The eruption sent waves of grief bounding through every vein and artery. Many people knew the tale, but he had little to do with them. Soon England, with all its memories, would be left behind. He’d warned Florence not to ask about his past, but now, sitting beside her in solitude, he found the words coming easily.

“My mother had died by then. I mentioned it when we first met, if you recall. Her life had been hard and miserable, so I expect she was relieved to be leaving it. My father lived until I was twenty. At that point, I was thrown out of my home with barely a penny to my name, only the clothes on my back and a few personal possessions. That I am not in the poor house or dead is due entirely to my own wherewithal.”

He closed the piano lid softly.

“I don’t ask for much in life. A home I can call my own that is more than two rooms. Warm clothes in winter and good food. I was forced to make my way in the world, and I thank Providence every day that I have the brains and the cunning, not to mention a good deal of doggedness, to put myself to good use.”

“So what would you do with your time if you were rich?” Florence asked. “I don’t mean merely rich enough so you could rent an office and take on these sort of commissions as you chose. What if you were really wealthy? If you had, say, nine thousand dollars a year?”

“An interesting figure,” Ned said, wondering if that was what Florence had, or would have when she married. It was a tempting sum.

“I suppose so. A nice round figure, at any rate. What would you do?”

He walked to the window seat and sat down. The sun was going down over the trees in the distance. The landscape was flat and dull. He had an overpowering urge to be back in the place he had once called home where vertical cliffs and rolling moors met.

“I’d buy a house by the sea. I would look for men such as myself who have ambition and drive who are starting out in businesses and I’d offer them capital in return for investment.”

“That’s what you do with your money,” Florence said, joining him on the seat. “What would you do with your days?”

“I don’t know,” Ned replied. “I can’t really conceive of being a man of leisure. Perhaps create photography. Maybe I would learn to paint. Perhaps I would spend it watching the sea change as the seasons turned, with a wife at my side for company.”

“The wife you would employ a servant for, so she could have leisure too,” Florence said, with a slight question in her voice and a glint in her eye.

“Of course. We could both learn to paint,” he assured her.

“Oh I’m dreadful,” Florence answered with a light laugh. “No number of lessons could improve my misshapen daubs.”

He looked at her, slightly confused. “When I say we…”

“Oh! Yes! No. Of course. I see what you mean. You weren’t referring to the two of us when you said ‘we’ were you. You meant yourself and your future wife. Whoever she will be. How silly of me.”

The tips of her ears had started to turn pink. Was that what he had meant or had he been thinking of Florence in some way, even unconsciously?

“I suppose so,” he said. Of course she would never be his wife. She was destined for great things whether or not she married an aristocrat. If it wasn’t a viscount, it would be a railroad magnate or one of the great families of American high society. Ned’s stomach twinged again. It was happening with such frequency he wondered if he had eaten something that disagreed with him.

She was still looking flustered. “Excuse me. I think I should go and check on Dottie and make sure she has packed everything. It was nice talking to you. I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast. Such an early start!”

He stood and held out a hand to help her rise.

“Very gentlemanly,” she murmured, her hand still in his.

He grinned and raised it to his lips, resisting the urge to linger. “You see, you will make a gentleman of me after all.”

* * *

The following day, after having bade farewell to Alfie, Ned was back in Liverpool. With theRMS City of Brugesdue to set sail at four, he had an hour to idle around while Florence and her sister completed some last-minute shopping. Ned had nothing to buy so ambled along the waterfront and ran straight into Marius Van Hoon.

“Blake! I didn’t expect to see you back in our city so soon. Rumour had it you had gone to Oxford, of all places, in connection with a divorce case. Yet here you are again.”

Rumours started by Meggie Gallagher, the barmaid at the Admiral Nelson, at Ned’s request. He concealed a smile.