Vauxhall

Vauxhill

Timothy Farnborough wrinkled his nose as the boatman stirred the foul waters of the Thames with his oars. It had been over a year since he'd travelled this way to Vauxhall and he wondered at the ladies declaring it to be a most delicious way to travel to the famous pleasure gardens. He'd attached himself to the party for one purpose only, to gain entry to the ridotto without drawing notice to himself. His letters of pardon were tucked into the pocket of his coat, but he would prefer to remain unremarked. There were like to be many present who remembered his brother's traitorous participation in the uprising and his own involvement in rescuing Jonathan from the consequences of his folly. Jonathan was safe in Holland with the Prince, but Timothy had his own reason for returning home. She would be here tonight. Eleanor. His little Nell.

He glanced at the disembarking couples in their masquerade costumes of silks and satins, the broad brimmed hats garnished with feathers, reminiscent of another era. His own garb was plain, a suit of brown brocade, the full skirts and breaches only lightly ornamented with gold buttons and braid. Warm enough for the eve of Lady Day, spring coming early in time for the New Year.

Already the gardens were crowded and he nodded a farewell to his companions before wending his way through the mass of humanity. He would likely find Nell and her family in the supper boxes reserved for those who could afford them. Cutting through a grove of trees and shrubs, he avoided the importunities of a Cyprian or two and a noisy group of young men.

The lanterns turned night into day, the sky seeming darker beyond the brilliance of the oil lamps clustered everywhere. People in the boxes chattered noisily with those passing by, leaning over the low fronts of the dining alcoves.

Despite the surging throng, he spotted Nell almost immediately. Dressed for a harlequinade, she was Pierrette, low cut bodice and full skirts embellished with green knots of ribbon scattered randomly over the white dress. Her painted face was turned up to her companion, a tall slender man in tight pantaloons broidered with diamonds of all colours and a red jacket. He wore a mask and one gloved hand held hers to his lips.

Timothy halted, only feet away from the couple. Nell's laughter sliced through him, feeding the emptiness of the past months, waiting for word, wondering if he would, could, return. He watched as she flirted with her companion, powdered curls tumbling over smooth shoulders, seeming uncaring that her husband had been gone for well-nigh twelve months. Was he forgotten so quickly?

Suddenly, she pulled away, a twirl of her skirts bringing her to face him. An apology formed on her scarlet lips but no sound but a gasp emerged, the bright happiness of her expression extinguished. Or perhaps it had never been there, for her laughter sounded false and brittle. Blue eyes widened in astonishment and she froze in a graceful attitude that should have brought applause from the audience had she been a performer.

"Timothy?"

He bowed, stiffly. "Madame wife"

Her lashes fluttered in concert with her slender fingers. Her hands appeared to reach and then withdraw, clutching at her breast, drawing his attention to the soft mounds above the lace trim of her bodice. By God, it had been a long twelvemonth for a man away from the comfort of his own bed.

Nell pulled herself together. Her husband? Here? What possessed him to come? It was not safe. All the world and his master were here. He would not go unnoticed with his commanding height, his unpainted face and neat wig with velvet bagged queue no disguise. She glanced around but no-one in this noisy crush of people were taking notice. Bowing deeply, she extended her gloved hands. "My lord."

He took her fingers in his firm grip as expected but looked down at them with a cold chill in the grey eyes. "How many have addressed these hands during my exile, Nell."

She found it hard to swallow. "None at all my lord. You surely do not regard a light flirtation at a ridotto as breaking my marriage vows."

"Being refused admittance to your father's house suggests my return is unwelcome."

"My lord, I did not know." Her father would not want to be seen to harbor a fugitive. He had told her to forget her husband. T'was hard to do, for all they had only been wed a matter of months before his desertion.

His eyes narrowed, his straight brows pale gold against his unfashionably brown features. "Is this true?"

"I would never deny you. Even it were to cost me my life."

"You would go to Tyburn for me, little Nell?"

Her heart turned over at his use of the affectionate term. She was giving away too much, however and she stiffened her spine. "Of course, but I would prefer it were not necessary." Hard enough to lose a heart, without losing a head also.

"It is not. I have letters from the King giving assurances that there is no warrant for my arrest."

She searched his grave face, seeing the marks of the year-long separation in deep lines from nose to mouth, in the crease between his brows. "So you are returned for good?"

"Indeed. Am I welcome?"

Sucking in a breath to calm her wildly beating heart, she saw his eyes drawn to the movement of her bosom. A flame licked across the cool grey iris, darkening it to pewter, the light from the lanterns reflected in them as he drew her closer. Her glove was drawn from her hand, showing the glitter of her wedding ring. Mesmerised, she watched him bring her hand to his mouth, his breath cool against her fevered skin. "M-most welcome, my lord."

He caught her close. "It is time to go home."

She clung to him. "Yes, my lord."

The End