“Fournier. You’ll make it to that part of town. It’s not far.” Jonesy went back to tugging and strapping the second horse in place.
“You know that part of town?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have no opinions on my selection of bride? She’s Blackamoor.”
The boy was silent for a long time. Only hooves could be heard. Then he said, “You wantin’ Jonesy’s opinion again. Happiness is important. All folks but you look down on Jonesy. If you happy, that what matters.”
It mattered a great deal to a lot of people. Arthur wasn’t naive to that.
The boy brushed down the first horse with a stiff brown brush. “Jonesy would be happy being a footman with one of those shiny coats, but folks won’t hire me ’cause Jonesy don’t look right to them. That don’t make my heart happy, Mr. Bex. Makes me sad.”
The look in the boy’s eyes—dull, covering pain—Arthur knew it. The ache haunted him, reminding him of everyone turning against him—the taunts, the fisticuffs, the busted lips—all for doing what was right. Yes, Arthur knew that look, and no matter how hard he tried, the pain always returned.
“Jonesy, you work hard. No one is more loyal than you. If I ever live in one of those fancy houses that need a footman or groom, I’ll hire you. You do so well by me.”
The boy handed him the reins. “Get Mrs. Bex’s yes afore you go promisin’. She might not like Jonesy’s looks.”
“I have a feeling about her.” He tossed the boy a good tip, several farthings. “I think she values honesty and loyalty more than looks.” He hadn’t known Miss Croome long, but there was something about her, the way she puzzled things out, that made him believe she was like him, knowing character outweighed all. Hopefully, that nature of hers wouldn’t judge him too harshly if the truth came out. Perhaps, they could build enough of a life together that the past wouldn’t haunt him so much anymore.
“You look like you still deciding, Mr. Bex…the route you want to go. Go the straightest route. That what Jonesy’d do. The Great Northern Route is best.”
The straightest route would be to tell Miss Croome the truth about his past, but what if she became so upset that she told others? If the countess had known, she surely would have told reporters. Then everything he’d worked for would be taken away again. He’d kept the secret of his uncle for more than twenty years No. He couldn’t risk it now. Arthur would take the secret to his grave. “The straightest route might not make the best path. Sometimes it is more trouble than it’s worth, Jonesy.”
Striking a match, the boy lit the lanterns on each the side of the phaeton, then handed Arthur the flint. “Use this to keep them lit as you travel through the night.” He wiped perspiration from his brow. “Jonesy trust Mr. Bex to do what is right. You a good fellow.”
Arthur wanted to believe he was good, but the whispers of the past made him believe he wasn’t. He’d been careful at hiding and would let nothing take away the life he’d built. Arthur Bex had become a man people respected, and Arthur would use his talents to fight for abolition. That would forgive his family’s sins.
He climbed on board his phaeton. “Thanks, Jonesy. I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Good luck, Mr. Bex.”
He did need luck. Starting out with secrets wasn’t the best. Yet, having just met Miss Croome, he could assume that she had secrets, too. Didn’t most women have secrets? Yes, that was a good lie to tell himself.
Arthur waved to Jonesy as he turned the phaeton up Gracechurch Street. The crisp air cooled his brow. It was at least four days travel to get to Gretna Green. That time alone, just the two of them, would cement the foundation of their relationship. Then he’d know if he could go through with marriage, and if it was possible to trust Miss Croome with the darkest secrets of his past.
Chapter Six
The Longest Five Minutes
At twenty to midnight, Ester stood against the wall in the drawing room. The musicians’ tune sounded louder than the last. She tried smiling as Theodosia and Ewan twirled past, but the weight of what would happen and what might happen made Ester fret.
What if Bex was in an accident?
What if he was lost in this part of town?
What if he were set upon by footpads?
What if he changed his mind? That was her greatest fear—that somehow he had decided Ester wasn’t worth the trouble of eloping after midnight. Had he decided that a full night of sleep was better than risking the mad dash to Gretna Green with a stranger?
Travel late at night could be dangerous, and they’d be on the run.
Ester looked down at her shiny satin gloves, spotless, without a wrinkle. They had been made for her. Was Bex made for her, too?
Frederica and Charles Jordan spun near. Her friend had rescued Ester from dancing with the rakish man again. Grabbing below Ester’s waist and eyeing her décolletage had been two times too many.
Except for his manners and average height, she had to admit that Charles Jordan was nice to look at. A smooth complexion of warm bronze skin, with a muscular frame—probably from helping his father with gas lighting installations. But he had been too busy looking at every other girl at the party as he danced with Ester. He hadn’t even pretended to be interested, not the way Bex had in their one meeting at the White Horse Cellar. No. Charles Jordan would never be for Ester.
