On 5 April 1799 we rode into Seringapatam and by nightfall took the village of—
Valkirk glared at the partial sentence he’d written. It was so inert he punished it by fiercely and with prejudice scratching it out as though he were murdering a pirate.
He pushed it aside with a gusty sigh.
He used to know how to write, did he not? Perhaps he did not quite make prose sing, but surely he was capable of crafting a narrative with verve. He’d written a book before, and it seemed the whole world had read it; it suddenly felt as though he’d done that almost accidentally. His life had occurred in distinct chapters—birth, school, marriage, son, war, general, duke. He remembered all of them clearly. How difficult could it be? What was the overarching message of his life?
At the moment it felt like: never promise anything to a publisher.
Poor, poor long-suffering Mr. Alcock, of Alcock & Sons Publishers, who sent him polite letters inquiring about his progress that were clearly seething and frantic between the lines. He was counting on this book to contribute to the ensuing year’s profits.
James yanked the sheet back for a moment to draw an “O” in a grid of noughts-and-crosses he’d been playing against himself in the margins of it. Then paused to slowly draw again a small subtle curve that his pen seemed to suddenly take great, delicious pleasure in making. It was a bit like what the back-and-forth swing of a pendulum might describe, if a quill had been attached.
A stack of correspondence sent over by his Man of Affairs throbbed accusingly in his peripheral vision—letters from people all over the country, requests for donations or recommendations or endorsements or introduction, friendly letters from old acquaintances. His Man of Affairs sorted through all of it first, so he knew the ones remaining deserved his attention.
In it, right on top, most accusingly of all, was a letter from his son. Last year, the duke had given Arthur, among other wedding gifts, a farm in Sussex, with the stipulation he ask for the duke’s blessing before he ever thought of selling it. Because it was where the duke had been raised. His father had lost it to debt, and James had repurchased it the moment he was able. It seemed critical, somehow, to keep it in the family. An emblem of his triumph over the terrible loss of it. Evidence of his vow to himself and to his family and to generations to come: never again would they lose or suffer.
The farm was stocked with Leicester Longwool sheep; it could make a tidy profit, if properly worked. He’d thought work of some sort might help shape Arthur’s character into something a little . . . craggier. He both liked and loved his son, but as heir to the wealthy first Duke of Valkirk, Arthur would never have to work a day in his life, and in truth, never had. And this, oddly, was why the duke had very little in common with him.
He suspected Arthur wanted to sell the farm.
James didn’t want to.
He stopped drawing curves when he noticed it was two minutes until three o’clock.
In about one minute, one of his new favorite moments of the day would occur.
At one minute until three, she always paused for a second or two in the doorway. He didn’t know why, but he suspected Miss Wylde was gathering nerve to enter. This oddly and quite unaccountably moved him. The light always slanted across the room at that time, and gave her rose gold hair a bit of a halo. If he looked up just at that moment, it was like catching a glimpse of a shy forest creature.
She was not a shy person.
Her confidence was a unique hybrid between earned, innate, and cocksure, not a blend unfamiliar to any military officer who had ever dealt with an infantryman. Brazening her way through things she didn’t know had clearly long been a habit, but each day, a little more of a certain native grace and steely self-possession shone through, probably because he would neither let her get away with anything nor make her feel like a fool, which she patently—sometimes unnervingly—was not.
And her approach to the desk was always diverting to witness. She carried herself as if she were strolling out onto a stage, and she was as made of curves as a violin. The neckline of the green muslin dress she wore straddled a line between demure and daring, which described the necklines of all of the dresses he’d seen her wear so far. Each one exposed a pearly expanse of skin from her throat to her bosom and a tiny but intriguing shadow between her breasts. All of this was no doubt by design, and while it somewhat amused him, he could not truthfully say it went unappreciated.
“Buonasera, Your Grace.”
“Buonasera, Miss Wylde.”
She learned with gratifying speed, and was now in possession of a decent-sized vocabulary of nouns in various categories (buildings, occupations, clothing, food, animals, moods), verbs, and adjectives.
The sentences she brought with her each day were a disarming revelation into the workings of her mind. The denizens of The Grand Palace on the Thames featured frequently. As did two people inexplicably called “Primrose” and “Phillip,” because, as she’d explained, “I liked the names.”
“Let’s have a look at your sentences, shall we?” he said, and pulled the foolscap she placed on the desk over to read it.
“‘Gordon diverte a mangiare grandi ratti,’” he read. “‘Gordon has fun eating large rats.’”
Gordon was the cat who lived at The Grand Palace on the Thames.
“I’m only surmising,” she said. “I haven’t actually seen him do it.”
“Well, it’s not something you’d want to sit about and watch, is it?” he said absently. “Your verb tense is a bit off here. Do you know what bit is missing?”
She studied it. “Oh! the ‘si’ part. Has fun.” She leaned forward and with her quill corrected it.
“‘Dot salì le scale e lasciò cadere il tè,’” he read. “‘Dot walked up the stairs and dropped the tea.’
“Has this happened, or is this rank hearsay?” he asked her.
“I heard that it happened, but we all know not to believe all the gossip we hear, Your Grace.”
“‘Mr. Malloy guida una carrozza ed è triste. Mr. Malloy drives a carriage and is sad.’
“I can’t think why driving a carriage would make Mr. Malloy sad,” he said.
“It’s a hack,” she explained. “I couldn’t pay him the full fare when I arrived at The Grand Palace on the Thames, and now the guilt is excruciating. I truly hope one day to find him and pay him.”
He looked up at her swiftly. She appeared entirely serious.
“‘Primrose indossava un ampio vestito verde e mangiava pasticceria, torta, pane, uva, e carne. Primrose wore a large green dress and ate pastry, cake, bread, grapes, and meat.’ Primrose certainly has a healthy appetite,” he said.
“I think it’s because she might be”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“with child. But lest you feel too scandalized, Your Grace, read the next sentence.”
He did.
“Primrose and Phillip si sono sposati. Primrose and Phillip were married.”
“I see. Felicitations to them. A thrilling conclusion to the story that began with yesterday’s ‘Primrose wore a pink dress’ and ‘Phillip is a baker.’ The last must be why Primrose has plenty to eat.”