Read Online Vivian Roycroft by Mischief on Albemarle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mischief on Albemarle
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her willingness to wait, waning though it had been.
"Me? Dare you ask that question? Fitz, what on earth are YOU doing?"
"I've no idea what you're talking about. I'm doing nothing differently than I've done all our lives. You, on the other hand—"
"Ooooh!" She whirled, white wainscoting and hand-painted rose cascades flying past, and stalked to the window. Slivers of rain streaked the panes, dripped to the sill, as if Albemarle cried for their dying friendship. "That is just like you. It's never your fault, always mine, and if anyone's supposed to change—"
"You have changed, Beryl." The skin around his eyes tightened, as if his face had been drawn back by the ears. "You've changed and I no longer know you."
A shiver of wind, a spatter of drops against the glass, and a clattering of hoofs on the pavement outside. The iron monger's old cart horse slid in a spreading puddle, scrabbled for footing, caught his balance, and clop-clopped on, the cart he hauled pausing with him then rattling on. Give the drover credit for not swinging the whip nor trying to haul the poor beast up by the bit. Anguish flooded her and extinguished her tantrum, anguish for the horse, the drover, the rainy city street. For them. For what might have been and now couldn't be.
"You haven't changed, Fitz, not a hair. But because I have, I no longer know you, either."
There, that sideways, cocky grin, his eyebrows slanting to the same angle as his flopping forelock, and the anguish inside Beryl twisted to something bitter as he laughed.
"Don't start, Fitz. Please."
He scoffed, throwing out his hands. "What do you have against my laughter? It's like you've taken a vow against chuckling, a mandate against mirth, a covenant against conviviality. I start laughing, and you—"
"Don't start ." The window and its sad little vignettes were safer than facing him down, even if the street below was now empty, damp, slick, and lonely. The puddle the old horse had slid through shivered with fresh droplets, stilled, shivered anew. The crying city might arouse companionable tears from her, she felt them fighting in her throat and heart for release, but Fitz, it seemed, could bring forth nothing more than rage. Their friendship, and all her longing dreams, were well and truly over. "I cannot see you any more."
Silence. "I beg your pardon?"
The pounding of her heart seemed unnaturally loud, louder than the old horse's diminishing hoofbeats, heard but no longer seen, and no more steady. This disaster had to end. "My time is no longer my own. I must marry soon, and therefore I should no longer be seen so often in the company of an unengaged man. Any unengaged man."
"It's him, isn't it?"
Fitz's voice cracked like a whip. She'd never heard him use such a tone before, not in all the years they'd known each other. She turned, astonished.
His smile was gone, and the hard edges of his usually good-natured face could have cracked rocks. "Cumberland. You've set your cap for him, haven't you?"
That voice. That tone of vindictive rage, as if she'd personally betrayed him. If she didn't know better—
It almost sounded as if—
He stormed to his feet. "Well, if you have, m'girl, then you deserve whatever happens to you. You deserve it, d'you hear?" He stalked from the room. The footman hurried past the doorway, but the front door crashed open well before the poor man could reach it. Heartbeats later, the wearer of a claret tailcoat, innocent of hat or cape, stomped through the shivering puddle, splattering it about the pavement, and then Fitz vanished up the opposite sidewalk.
"Miss Beryl?" Benson stood in the doorway. That hint of a scowl had vanished. But a vertical fold nestled between his salt-and-pepper eyebrows and his warm eyes were anxious. "Is there anything I can get for you?" He leaned a half-step backward into the entryway, made a beckoning gesture, and a footman ducked past, crouched and poked the fire.
For Benson, she managed a smile. "Thank you, no. It
"Me? Dare you ask that question? Fitz, what on earth are YOU doing?"
"I've no idea what you're talking about. I'm doing nothing differently than I've done all our lives. You, on the other hand—"
"Ooooh!" She whirled, white wainscoting and hand-painted rose cascades flying past, and stalked to the window. Slivers of rain streaked the panes, dripped to the sill, as if Albemarle cried for their dying friendship. "That is just like you. It's never your fault, always mine, and if anyone's supposed to change—"
"You have changed, Beryl." The skin around his eyes tightened, as if his face had been drawn back by the ears. "You've changed and I no longer know you."
A shiver of wind, a spatter of drops against the glass, and a clattering of hoofs on the pavement outside. The iron monger's old cart horse slid in a spreading puddle, scrabbled for footing, caught his balance, and clop-clopped on, the cart he hauled pausing with him then rattling on. Give the drover credit for not swinging the whip nor trying to haul the poor beast up by the bit. Anguish flooded her and extinguished her tantrum, anguish for the horse, the drover, the rainy city street. For them. For what might have been and now couldn't be.
"You haven't changed, Fitz, not a hair. But because I have, I no longer know you, either."
There, that sideways, cocky grin, his eyebrows slanting to the same angle as his flopping forelock, and the anguish inside Beryl twisted to something bitter as he laughed.
"Don't start, Fitz. Please."
He scoffed, throwing out his hands. "What do you have against my laughter? It's like you've taken a vow against chuckling, a mandate against mirth, a covenant against conviviality. I start laughing, and you—"
"Don't start ." The window and its sad little vignettes were safer than facing him down, even if the street below was now empty, damp, slick, and lonely. The puddle the old horse had slid through shivered with fresh droplets, stilled, shivered anew. The crying city might arouse companionable tears from her, she felt them fighting in her throat and heart for release, but Fitz, it seemed, could bring forth nothing more than rage. Their friendship, and all her longing dreams, were well and truly over. "I cannot see you any more."
Silence. "I beg your pardon?"
The pounding of her heart seemed unnaturally loud, louder than the old horse's diminishing hoofbeats, heard but no longer seen, and no more steady. This disaster had to end. "My time is no longer my own. I must marry soon, and therefore I should no longer be seen so often in the company of an unengaged man. Any unengaged man."
"It's him, isn't it?"
Fitz's voice cracked like a whip. She'd never heard him use such a tone before, not in all the years they'd known each other. She turned, astonished.
His smile was gone, and the hard edges of his usually good-natured face could have cracked rocks. "Cumberland. You've set your cap for him, haven't you?"
That voice. That tone of vindictive rage, as if she'd personally betrayed him. If she didn't know better—
It almost sounded as if—
He stormed to his feet. "Well, if you have, m'girl, then you deserve whatever happens to you. You deserve it, d'you hear?" He stalked from the room. The footman hurried past the doorway, but the front door crashed open well before the poor man could reach it. Heartbeats later, the wearer of a claret tailcoat, innocent of hat or cape, stomped through the shivering puddle, splattering it about the pavement, and then Fitz vanished up the opposite sidewalk.
"Miss Beryl?" Benson stood in the doorway. That hint of a scowl had vanished. But a vertical fold nestled between his salt-and-pepper eyebrows and his warm eyes were anxious. "Is there anything I can get for you?" He leaned a half-step backward into the entryway, made a beckoning gesture, and a footman ducked past, crouched and poked the fire.
For Benson, she managed a smile. "Thank you, no. It
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