The accent she’d tried to master was off, but perhaps passible for the untrained thespian. His heart sank. She felt she had to do this for him.
Feather turbans of silk were fashionable headdresses. He’d seen more than a few at the countess’s parties, but none were like Ester’s shawl surrounding her face, as if it were a sin to see her thick locks free or swirled in a braided chignon. To complete her guise, she wore a voluminous cotton apron that swallowed whole her delectable form. Maybe that part was best. With one arm not working right, he wasn’t in the best position to defend her.
He glanced at her, straight posture illuminating the outline of a worthy bosom, the flare of hips that could not be denied. Yet, if anyone touched her, he’d die for her.
Ester came near the bed and set the tray in her hands down on the table. “Hot tea with lemon is what he likes. Very particular, very eccentric about his requests.”
This time the masking of her smooth tones sounded better, a cockney variant. The lass wasn’t a bad actress, but she shouldn’t have to do this. “I’m glad, Miss Croome, that you were not injured. I should’ve slowed as you requested. I am very, very sorry.”
Ester poured a cup of the steaming liquid. “They had no honey. I know that is how you like it, Mr. Bex.”
The old man clicked his teeth. “You shoulda listened to this one. Her people know about slow.” The man cackled as if he’d said a joke but there was nothing funny about his prejudice.
Smythe pushed on Arthur’s bad arm by his shoulder. “Just making fun. The maid told us she weren’t a slave, or nothing but in your employ. That you’re one of those abolitionists.”
Everything hurt when the man stretched Arthur’s wrapped arm. “Ouch.” He tried to hold in the grunt, but the pain was too great.
The old man tapped his shoulder again, sending a shock down to the bone. “Shouldn’t be in such a rush. Life doesn’t need this jumpin’ about from here and there.” He pattered back to the foot of the bed. “This time it’s a dislocated shoulder and bang to the skull. The next time it could be worse. And I heard how dangerous those rallies for abolition or the right to vote can be.”
“It’s not that dangerous.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Not that dangerous at all.”
“Remember Peterloo last year. Lots of good people died. You need to be very careful, young man.”
Ester’s eye grew wide. “Yes, rallies are dangerous, aren’t they?”
He had only known Ester for a few days, but that creased brow, the softening of her voice, that was fret and fear, two things he didn’t want her to feel. Rubbing at the scruff of his chin, he tried to capture her gaze. “I wasn’t thinking. I won’t do anything so rash again. We were in a hurry and that exceeded my caution.”
“Where are you heading?” The old man looked at him then toward her and back. “Your maid wouldn’t say.”
“Yes, sir. I said you were debating where to go next.”
Arthur had a feeling she wasn’t acting anymore. Her doubts about going to Gretna had probably tripled with his recklessness, but he wouldn’t expose her to these strangers. She needed to know he supported her as much as he wanted her to support him. He raised his wrapped arm, and it hurt a little less. “I’m having problems recalling. The boy said it might be the ’nesia. The ports of Liverpool are not out of reach.”
The old man eyed him very curiously. “We’re from Liverpool. A little out of your way from here. You could’ve chosen a more direct route than crossing the River Sark.” He grunted and tapped his chin. “You from those parts? You do look a little familiar now.”
Arthur’s heart started to pound. He forgot how well known his uncle had been in Liverpool, and how many people used to say Arthur was the very image of his uncle.
Scratching his bald head and wiggling his thin glasses, Smyth asked, “So, you going to visit relatives back there?”
The man surely wanted answers, perhaps a name or connection he’d know, but Arthur wasn’t giving away anything. He only wanted to be alone with Ester and exchange their thoughts in privacy. “May I have some tea? My throat is dry.”
Smiling with her perfect pouty lips, surely masking her concern, Ester lifted the cup to his mouth. The sweet smell of the calming chamomile tea, the soft lilac smell of her skin, tickled his nose. He could drink them both up.
After a good gulp, he lay back. “Two days will cost me. The delay will hurt my return to London or Liverpool. Miss Croome, could you take dictation in your book?”
The old man clicked his tongue again. “In a hurry again? Perhaps your maid can convince you to stay at least another night resting. You might be able to get some sense in him. That shoulder’s not broken, but it was a bad hit to the head.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll try.” She took her sketchbook from the tray. “That correspondence, Mr. Bex. I should write as you dictate.”
“She writes, too? Well, you said Mr. Bex was eccentric in his choices of help. London actors.” The man shook his head as he went to the door. “I’ll leave you two to write. I’ll tell my son that you’re now awake. Maybe send for the boy when your maid is done. We should watch you and make sure that ’nesia doesn’t get worse.”
After a few more taps of his cane, the door shut. Arthur let out a sigh of relief.
Ester clapped her hands before folding her arms about her sketchbook. “Is this what it feels like to take on a role at the theater?”
“You’ve done quite well with acting since we’ve begun this trip. The temptress in the woods and now a nursemaid.” He sat up with a grunt and took the sketch pad with his good hand and set it down, clearing the one physical block to holding her. “You could’ve just said the truth. You are the one who advocates truth and fidelity.”
Her pacing began again. “Between us, between husband and wife. Acting is merely acting, becoming a persona on the stage. My stage just happens to be small, and it opens when I’m panicked.” She put a hand to her hip. “What sounds more plausible, Bex? A famous actor is eloping with a Blackamoor bride, a famous actor was attacked by a treacherous Blackamoor, or a famous eccentric actor is traveling the countryside with his exotic maid?”
