Page 52 of Better Love Next Time
The crack in his chest surpassed the pain and roar of purpose that had seized him on the main yard when he had fought death. He was at fault here. Anthony had merely played against the cards Julian had foolishly thrown.
“Where is your ring?” he asked softly.
“Iburiedit.” She turned and walked from the grave.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Six Months Later, March 1759
Notfelle Estate, England
Kitty liftedher chalk from the sketchbook as the front door opened and boot heels snapped over the hall floor. Her drawing of the winter landscape unfolding from the drawing room window surpassed dismal. Skeleton trees and shabby bushes with a cast-off wheel lying in a patch of overgrown grass.
The determined tread drew nearer. Kitty shut the book, and a letter flipped at her nose.
“Another express post, my Lady Justice,” Georgiana said.
If Georgiana meant the sobriquet in support, it might not sting. But her friend had softened a mere fortnight after Julian’s exile. That is, 178 days ago.
Kitty slipped the letter from Georgiana’s gloved fingers and set it on her book.
“Are you going to read it?”
“I always do.” Unlike the letters she had written Julian, fearing he’d never read any, because he was dead.
“He asked that I ensure you read it.”
Shrugging from her caped greatcoat, Georgiana tossed it to a chair. Her friend wore the loveliest ensembles, even if they were men’s ensembles. A sapphire wool frock coat that set off her eyes and a blush pink waistcoat, perfect for her ivory skin and the smattering of freckles across her nose. Her wigs were impeccable.
Was it easier to be a boy? Undeniably, yes. But Kitty worried for the day when Georgiana would have to venture from the shelter of Farendon, her father, and her horses. The world was hard on females who stayed within their sphere. Those who did not…
“Well, my lady, tempus fugit,” Georgiana said.
Kitty opened the letter while Georgiana slid onto the corner of the mahogany-and-ormolu writing desk—one her father had been eyeing to sell.
Hell, March 31, 1759
Day 192
Dearest Kitty,
Did you know that land has a smell, that one can smell it as the ship nears port after being in open sea for long periods? The first time I noticed this we were beating into a headwind, with fairly uncomfortable seas, making life below difficult. Coming on deck for watch, I caught the scent of a beach.
You see, open sea does not smell like a beach but like salt and wind, a hint of truffle. A beach, however, mixes the scent of the ocean with seaweed and sand—imagine wet rocks and brine, a little ale and cheese. One day, I will take you to the beach. We will sail out to open sea, you as my first mate, with our sailsluffing generously and dolphins as our guide, and when we return to port, you will know.
On a less inspiring note, I have conquered Plato’s Republic. Justice, it seems, resides in the human soul, a sort of inward grace and longing to do one’s duty according to their nature. To think, Plato himself approves of me defying my father and doing what I do well. Huzzah, two-thousand-year-old chap.
Mr. Redgrave, with the disposition of a troll (I am offending trolls), grudgingly admitted I excel at physics. My French is rot, but Kitty, I can die a happy man for I have learned everything I yearned to know about the Peloponnesian War.
I will be waiting for you at the Fairy at three.
Yours in Justice,
Julian
Kitty lingered over Julian’s bold, upright script with the sporadic smudges from his left hand. His father had tried to eradicate that trait from Julian, calling his left-handedness a mark of perversion and savagery. He had ordered his tutors to whip his son’s left hand if he used it. Julian had simply refused to write.
If she ever met the earl, it would be most difficult to be civil.
