I—”
‘Tell—”
BOOM!
They all three jumped as an explosion of fireworks took off not twenty yards from their spot.
“Ripping good show!” Robbie yelled, his face to the sky.
Peter glanced up at the fireworks; it was impossible not to look. Pink, blue, green—starbursts in the heavens, crackling, splintering, raining showers of sparks down on the gardens.
“Peter,” Tillie said, tugging at his sleeve, “tell me. Tell me now.”
Peter opened his mouth to speak, knowing he should be giving her his full attention but somehow unable to keep his eyes off the fireworks. He glanced at her, then back up at the sky, then back at—“Peter!” she nearly yelled.
“It was a cart,” Robbie said suddenly, looking down at her during a lull in the pyrotechnics.
“Fell on him.”
“He was crushed by a cart?”
“A wagon, actually,” Robbie said, correcting himself. “He was—” BOOM!
“Whoa!” Robbie yelled. “Look at that one!” “Peter,” Tillie begged.
“It was stupid,” Peter said, finally forcing his eyes off the sky. “It was stupid and horrible and unforgivable. It should have been broken up for firewood weeks earlier.”
“What happened?” she whispered. And he told her. Not everything, not every last detail; this wasn’t the time or the place. But he sketched it out, enough so that she understood the truth. Harry was a hero, but he hadn’t died a hero’s death; at least not in the way England viewed its heroes.
It shouldn’t have mattered, of course, but he could tell from her face that it did.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice low and shaking. “You lied to me. How could you lie?” “Tillie, I—”
“You lied to me. You told me he died in battle.”
“I never—”
“You let me believe it,” she cried out. “How could you?”
“Tillie,” he said desperately. “I—” BOOM!
They both looked up; they couldn’t help it. “I don’t know why they lied to you,”
Peter said once the explosion had trickled down into spiraling green sparks. “I didn’t know that you didn’t know the truth until Lady Neeley’s dinner party. And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t—“Don’t,” she said haltingly. “Don’t try to explain.”
She had just asked him to explain. “Tillie—”
“Tomorrow,” she choked out. “Talk to me tomorrow. Right now I… right now .
..”
BOOM!
And then, as pink sparks rained from above, she took off, skirts in her hands, running blindly through
the one clear spot in the crowd, right past Prinny, right past the orchestra.
Right out of his life.
“You idiot!” Peter hissed at Robbie.
“Eh?” Robbie was too busy staring up at the sky.
“Forget it,” Peter snapped. He had to find Tillie. He knew she didn’t want to see him, and ordinarily he would have respected her wishes, but damn it all, this was Vauxhall Gardens, and there were thousands of people milling about, some to be entertained and some with more malicious intentions.
It was no place for a lady alone, especially one as obviously distraught as Tillie.
He followed her through the clearing, mumbling an apology as he bumped into one of Prinny’s guards. Tillie’s dress was a pale, pale green, almost ethereal in the gaslight, and once she’d been slowed down by the crowds, she was easy to follow. He couldn’t catch up with her, but at least he could see her.
She moved quickly through the throng, at least more quickly than he was able.
She was small and could squeeze into spaces through which he could only bludgeon his way. The distance between them grew, but Peter could still see her, thanks to the slight incline they were both trying to make their way down.
And then— “Ah, damn,” he sighed. She was heading for the Chinese pagoda.
Why the hell would she do that? He had no idea who else was inside, if anyone. Not to mention the fact that there were probably multiple exits. It’d be fiendishly difficult to keep track of her once
‘Tell—”
BOOM!
They all three jumped as an explosion of fireworks took off not twenty yards from their spot.
“Ripping good show!” Robbie yelled, his face to the sky.
Peter glanced up at the fireworks; it was impossible not to look. Pink, blue, green—starbursts in the heavens, crackling, splintering, raining showers of sparks down on the gardens.
“Peter,” Tillie said, tugging at his sleeve, “tell me. Tell me now.”
Peter opened his mouth to speak, knowing he should be giving her his full attention but somehow unable to keep his eyes off the fireworks. He glanced at her, then back up at the sky, then back at—“Peter!” she nearly yelled.
“It was a cart,” Robbie said suddenly, looking down at her during a lull in the pyrotechnics.
“Fell on him.”
“He was crushed by a cart?”
“A wagon, actually,” Robbie said, correcting himself. “He was—” BOOM!
“Whoa!” Robbie yelled. “Look at that one!” “Peter,” Tillie begged.
“It was stupid,” Peter said, finally forcing his eyes off the sky. “It was stupid and horrible and unforgivable. It should have been broken up for firewood weeks earlier.”
“What happened?” she whispered. And he told her. Not everything, not every last detail; this wasn’t the time or the place. But he sketched it out, enough so that she understood the truth. Harry was a hero, but he hadn’t died a hero’s death; at least not in the way England viewed its heroes.
It shouldn’t have mattered, of course, but he could tell from her face that it did.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice low and shaking. “You lied to me. How could you lie?” “Tillie, I—”
“You lied to me. You told me he died in battle.”
“I never—”
“You let me believe it,” she cried out. “How could you?”
“Tillie,” he said desperately. “I—” BOOM!
They both looked up; they couldn’t help it. “I don’t know why they lied to you,”
Peter said once the explosion had trickled down into spiraling green sparks. “I didn’t know that you didn’t know the truth until Lady Neeley’s dinner party. And I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t—“Don’t,” she said haltingly. “Don’t try to explain.”
She had just asked him to explain. “Tillie—”
“Tomorrow,” she choked out. “Talk to me tomorrow. Right now I… right now .
..”
BOOM!
And then, as pink sparks rained from above, she took off, skirts in her hands, running blindly through
the one clear spot in the crowd, right past Prinny, right past the orchestra.
Right out of his life.
“You idiot!” Peter hissed at Robbie.
“Eh?” Robbie was too busy staring up at the sky.
“Forget it,” Peter snapped. He had to find Tillie. He knew she didn’t want to see him, and ordinarily he would have respected her wishes, but damn it all, this was Vauxhall Gardens, and there were thousands of people milling about, some to be entertained and some with more malicious intentions.
It was no place for a lady alone, especially one as obviously distraught as Tillie.
He followed her through the clearing, mumbling an apology as he bumped into one of Prinny’s guards. Tillie’s dress was a pale, pale green, almost ethereal in the gaslight, and once she’d been slowed down by the crowds, she was easy to follow. He couldn’t catch up with her, but at least he could see her.
She moved quickly through the throng, at least more quickly than he was able.
She was small and could squeeze into spaces through which he could only bludgeon his way. The distance between them grew, but Peter could still see her, thanks to the slight incline they were both trying to make their way down.
And then— “Ah, damn,” he sighed. She was heading for the Chinese pagoda.
Why the hell would she do that? He had no idea who else was inside, if anyone. Not to mention the fact that there were probably multiple exits. It’d be fiendishly difficult to keep track of her once
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