Details like race were important. Ester shook her head as Frederica cupped the fragile flower in her palm.
“Ester, Theodosia Fitzwilliam-Cecil and her husband found each other again through the newspaper advertisement. Surely, I can be so lucky.”
“Fitzwilliam?” A big man spun, and doing so, sent another fellow and his mug crashing into them. The foul beer stained Frederica’s velvet pelisse.
Ester palmed the lilac to keep it dry, then she dug into her reticule and pulled out a handkerchief. “Dabbing at this won’t help. We need to sponge it before sets in the nape. We need water.”
Frederica’s eyes became glassy with tears. “We can’t ask, and my footman is outside. To go get him and then water, it will be too late for our meeting.”
The tall man, whose face held a long frown, had joined them. “Perhaps you need an errand boy or errand man?”
Their friend’s brother-in-law, Lord Hartwell, was the guilty man who’d started the commotion. He held out his hand, a trim leather glove, half covered in the billowing sleeve of his finely-woven greatcoat. “Come with me, Miss Burghley. I’ll see that this stain is removed. It’s my fault, but rarely do you hear the name Fitzwilliam in such lovely tones.”
Her friend smiled up at him in the flirty way she did with nice looking men and took his arm.
Laughter cascaded to their left.
A round of shouts rolled over the top of everything, but a lone, muffled sound made it quiet.
Then she heard the word “Freedom” loud and clear.
Ester’s skin tingled. That voice sounded familiar. She tapped her temple. Papa was right. She did carry Bex in her brainbox.
But the voice boomed out again, “Humanity and freedom for all.”
The saving call became muffled like a door opening then closing upon a parish sermon. She whipped her head back and forth, searching, her heart beating hard. She looked but saw no one that could bear the weight of that voice, the voice she knew in her dreams.
A man stumbled out of what looked like a cellar door, and the masculine voice returned, the tones of a mythic god.
“There is one path. It is to the liberty of the soul.”
That voice. It sounded like Arthur Bex.
Was he here? If the great Arthur Bex, the best actor in all of London, was in the coaching inn, then this horrible day would be better, much better.
When she saw Frederica smiling as a server mopped at her stain while Lord Hartwell observed and mentioned something about visiting his father in town—Ester knew her friend was in good hands. She’d look for Frederica’s lilac-carrying suitor later, after she stole a moment to listen to Bex.
But she’d have to go down into the cellar for that.
It was dangerous to go alone, but if Arthur Bex was down there, it would be worth the risk. If troubles came, she’d hit them with her sketch pad and then run. Yes, that sounded like a plan. A fool’s plan, but she’d be a fool for Bex.
She clutched the cellar door and started toward the voice. How Ester made it down without flying was beyond her, but she did it. Gripping the handrail, she searched. The room was lit with awful-smelling tallow candles. The stink of burning calf fat would stay in her spencer, but she didn’t care. She saw Bex standing on a chair.
Bex, the love of her heart, was giving a speech.
Ester was in heaven.
Candlelight from the chandelier above made him appear to have a halo. Dark chestnut-brown hair graced his head. He possessed lightly sun-kissed skin and dreamy cobalt-blue eyes. The man was beautiful, even more so than that one time he had joined her at Theodosia’s table. Ester hadn’t been able to speak to him then. She had been too afraid of sounding weak and foolish, but now, being a few hours away from doom, she felt bold, almost brazen.
The man waved his arms, flexing the tan weave of his frockcoat, which hung upon a slightly askew cream cravat. The gold buttons on his chocolate waistcoat jangled as he stepped forward. “The human race is meant to be free, free to love,” Bex said. “That freedom should not be denied by chains, by an origin of birth a continent away. The cry of freedom is in the hearts, the very marrow of every man. Who can shut up these bones?”
Not Ester.
She’d listen to his voice forever.
“Who among us can strangle the yearnings of any man? Race nor creed nor even allegiance to the king will not deny the desire to be free. If you believe as I do, join me at month’s end to rally at the Serpentine. There, we will unite and be of one mind. Abolition should succeed and be the law in every colony.”
Bex said the words in direct address, as if he were on stage. Ester sighed with bliss. She yearned to call out and encourage him to continue above the few boos and grunts of dissenters in the crowd.
