Lakeshire Park

by Megan Walker

Weighing my options, I decided conversation with Lady Demsworth would better serve Clara’s endeavors than watching a game of chess. I offered my regrets as Lieutenant Rawles pulled out the chessboard and found a seat opposite Georgiana, whose arms were crossed defiantly. She was clearly put out, and I could not blame her. Clara had Sir Ronald’s attention for the night.

  “. . . Mr. Turnball was so surprised I said yes, he couldn’t speak for an entire minute. You see, I’d already had seven other offers! He did not think he stood a chance,” Mrs. Turnball concluded, and I tried to piece together her words. What sort of conversation had I walked into?

  “Poor man,” Lady Demsworth hid her laugh behind a gloved hand. “His courage proved worthwhile in the end.”

  “What about you, Lady Demsworth?” Beatrice asked eagerly. “Surely you had just as many offers of marriage as my mother. However did you choose? Might I ask you to divulge your story as well?”

  “Oh, it was not at all interesting, dear. Our marriage was arranged by our parents early on. I am afraid my experience with choosing a partner is lacking.” Lady Demsworth tilted her head as though an idea had just occurred to her. She clasped her hands, smiling as she gazed around the room. “Might I ask for your help with something? All of you?”

  “Of course,” Beatrice said seriously, and the rest of us agreed.

  Lady Demsworth continued. “Someone to whom I am very close has asked for my help in choosing a marriage partner. Thus far, my advice has yielded no result, and I blame my inexperience. But perhaps with your opinions, I might find the answers I need.”

  I blinked, looking between the ladies in the room. She could not be referring to Sir Ronald, could she? Did Lady Demsworth know of Clara’s intentions with her son? Or of Georgiana’s? Or was there someone else in the room pursuing a romantic endeavor? Judging from the raised brows and anxious, stolen looks, the women beside me had similar questions.

  “What advice could we possibly give a stranger?” Georgiana asked curiously. “Perhaps if we knew the person to whom you refer—”

  “I am anything but a gossip, Miss Wood.” Lady Demsworth smiled coyly. “I am simply curious as to your thoughts on the meaning of marriage. Of course, it is different when you consider the perspective of a woman as opposed to a man, so you may answer for both. I shall open it up to your discussion as you wish.”

  What a curious topic, and certainly not too broadly debatable. Marriage was something we women thought about every day of our lives. It defined us, our status, and our security. In fact, without it, we were left with little control, if any at all, over our lives. Regardless of what she claimed, Lady Demsworth was not naive of the subject. So why did she care what our opinions were?

  “Well,” Beatrice started, “to a man, marriage is binding, but to a woman, it is freedom.”

  “Very good,” Lady Demsworth nodded. “Women require marriage to enjoy freedom from the burden of livelihood, while men marry to claim her loyalty.”

  She raised her chin, glancing between Georgiana and me, as though judging which one of us would speak first. I knew little on the topic of romantic marriage. I was a product of marriage made out of obligation between my own parents and had witnessed marriage made for status after my father died. What advice could I possibly offer that would be of benefit to some hopeful soul?

  “Love.” Georgiana straightened. “Marriage means love to both a man and a woman. It is a commitment of that love for a lifetime, above all else.”

  Love? If there was one thing I could not rely upon, it was love.

  “I disagree,” I said before I could retract my tongue. Every eye in our circle turned to me.

  “Go on, Miss Moore,” Lady Demsworth encouraged, a renewed interest in her eyes.

  Images of my parents flooded my memory. Love had clouded my Father’s rational thinking that night at the ball so long ago. It had ruined my mother, changing her into an entirely different person. But worst of all, love had resulted in betrayal, pain, and bitterness for Lord Gray.

  Could marriage be enveloped in genuine love? The kind of love that never chipped or faded away with time? My own experience negated the idea, but it was all I had. All I knew. I drew a steady breath, staring at my hands.

  “Many marriages find misery when built on the notion that love will be enough to see them through. More often than not, we marry because we have to. Whether for wealth, status, security, or simply adding on to an estate. When the banns are read and the contract is made, we bring our skills and our best efforts to the task. Love is never guaranteed.”

  Silence filled the air, and I feared I’d said too much. I should have kept my thoughts to myself, or at least shortened the explanation. I pursed my lips in regret.

  “Enlightening.” Lady Demsworth seemed satisfied, as though my words were the answer she’d hoped to hear. But why? Surely my opinion was the most unromantic, unpopular, and unoptimistic of all.

  “What do you say, Mr. Wood?” Lady Demsworth said. “I know you are eavesdropping as it has been minutes since you turned a page.”

  I jumped when a chair creaked behind me. Turning slowing, I saw Peter had reclaimed his earlier seat, an open book in his hand. When had he returned? I fought the urge to hide my face in my hands for having been so bold and open with my thoughts. And about marriage. How mortifying!

  With an amused smile, he slipped a bookmark into the pages and closed the cover. “I would have a hard time not overhearing with your party so perfectly positioned beside me.”

  “Well?” Lady Demsworth pressed.

  “He will say that marriage is all money and business,” Georgiana said knowingly. But that could not be true. Peter, as I knew him, was deeply romantic. Surely he thought love the most important factor in marriage. Yet another subject we disagreed on.

  “It can be, and most often is, Georgiana.” He narrowed his eyes at her in brotherly annoyance. “But in my interpretation, you are each right,” he said. He straightened in his chair, a seriousness in his countenance. “Marriage means companionship. A merging of lives and loyalty. Yes, it is binding, and yes, sometimes it is more beneficial to one party than to the other in terms of monetary or social value. But it is more about what two people can be together than who they are individually.”

  “And what of love?” Lady Demsworth asked him, glancing to me. I turned forward in my seat, staring at my hands in my lap.

  Peter exhaled. “Love is a topic all its own. But I agree with Miss Moore. It is not guaranteed. Only the luckiest among us will have it. And once it is found, it should be most aggressively fought for.”

  I felt his stare upon my back, but I was unwilling to meet his eyes. If Peter meant to imply that he would not easily relent his scheming to secure Sir Ronald for Georgiana, he did not intimidate me in the least. Though I did not believe that love took precedence over practicality, loyalty most certainly did, and Clara’s happiness was my top priority.

  “At any rate, I am sure our sex thinks of little else, lest we all become spinsters or governesses,” Beatrice interjected with a giggle.

  I took no amusement from the thought. The possibility was too real and too clear on my horizon to jest. Why on earth had we chosen a topic about marriage and love in the middle of a house party?

  “Thank you all for your thoughts,” Lady Demsworth said. “I think I know just what to say to him.”

  Him? So Lady Demsworth’s friend was a man? I turned, finding Sir Ronald and Clara still at their settee at the front of the room. They had abandoned the book entirely, moved even closer together, and were in deep conversation. Clara smiled, giggling about something, which brought an even bigger smile to Sir Ronald’s lips. Anyone with eyes could see the two of them were already a pair. The only advice Lady Demsworth’s son needed was a push forward. Unless Lady Demsworth disagreed with his choice. Perhaps I would speak to her, try to encourage the union by offering my opini
on on that matter.

  “. . . worshipped her. They only knew each other a week before he proposed,” Georgiana said. I’d been half-listening enough to know she spoke of her parents. “It was the grandest engagement. He invited everyone he knew to a dinner party the next day.”

  “How romantic!” Beatrice beamed. “I love these sorts of stories.”

  Georgiana stared at me with unexpected ice in her eyes, and I was taken aback by the cold feeling between us. Had I missed something? “My mother would never remarry. She has only ever loved my father.”

  Peter coughed audibly, and Georgiana cast him an equally sharp stare.

  Beatrice sat lost in thought, as though contemplating her own engagement, what it would be like, and how she would react.

  “Do tell us your parents’ story, Miss Moore.” Georgiana cleared her throat. “Theirs is the only one we have not yet heard. I am sure it is most intriguing.”

  I became acutely aware of Peter shifting in his seat behind me. Knowing he was listening made the story even harder to tell. My parents did not have a love story like the Turnballs or even the Demsworths that, though arranged, at least resulted in happiness.

  “Oh, no, it is not exciting,” I said, sitting straighter and rubbing my hands on my skirts. A pit settled into my stomach, just like it did every time Lord Gray brought up my father. “They met one night at a ball, just like many before them and many since.”

  “I do love a good ball,” Beatrice added dreamily.

  “Go on. There must be more,” Georgiana pressed. Her voice was too eager. It was as though somehow Georgiana saw my discomfort, knew the words on my tongue were not easily shared, and yet she willed me to speak. Willed me to admit that my parents’ marriage did not happen out of love or even arrangement. She couldn’t know of something that had happened so long ago and so far away from here. Still, I would not give her the satisfaction of embarrassing me. I could not hide from the truth. One way or another, it would find its way out.

  “They shared an accidentally public kiss,” I said, staring straight into her eyes. I would not tell her that they’d only just met. That Father barely knew her. That both their hearts were hurting that night, both searching for solace in a friend.

  “How scandalous,” Georgiana breathed, looking about the room. “How humiliating.”

  “Georgiana,” Peter said low, almost warningly.

  It was then that I realized that Lady Demsworth and Mrs. Turnball were watching me with interest. What would they think of my admission? No matter what Lord Gray’s position was in society, Clara and I would never be able to escape the truth of our parents’ scandal. At least this way, I could control how the story was told.

  “Perhaps for them it was. But they married, and I have much to thank them for, so I find no humiliation in the admission,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “Of course not.” Lady Demsworth’s eyes were kind, her voice soft. “It seems to me that whatever scandal resulted was well worth a few months of gossip. You and your sister are a delight.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Turnball said with just as much kindness.

  Georgiana’s sharp gaze grew contemplative as she searched the faces in our circle. “Truly? Is there no consequence for scandal?”

  Beatrice fluffed out her skirts. “I find their story to be quite romantic. Two people in love who couldn’t help themselves. In the end, what is a few months of gossip compared to a lifetime of happiness?”

  Happiness. How I wished that kiss had given my parents some semblance of it.

  Georgiana chewed on her lips, quiet and uncommonly reserved. The fire crackled in the hearth, warming me from afar. I couldn’t remember the last time talking of my parents had resulted in such a feeling of fullness, of strength. They once had to make impossible choices. If only they were here to guide me now.

  Conversation continued as our circle opened to include the remainder of our company. More stories were told of worse scandals than my parents’, including embarrassing proposals and courtship stories famously repeated in gossip circles. Lady Demsworth caught my eye, and I wondered how we’d come to have such a strange, casual conversation tonight. Who was her mysterious friend? Was he in this very room?

  That night as I lay in bed listening to Clara’s even breathing, I thought of Father’s old stories from my childhood. He’d tuck Clara and me in our beds and tell us his version of when he first met our mother.

  Couples twirled and laughed amongst the crowd that night. He’d asked twenty ladies to dance, but every card was full. Then a brown-haired woman with rosy lips and loose curls wearing a stunning periwinkle dress walked through the open doors. She’d looked like she was searching for someone, but to no avail. He’d walked right up to her, having not even been introduced.

  Might I have the next set with you? he’d asked, praying she would not question their lack of acquaintance. She agreed and took his arm, and he’d never felt so perfectly alive. After their first dance, and another, followed by a drink in a cozy corner in the room, Father was smitten. They stole away to an upper balcony where they’d thought themselves quite alone, and he’d kissed her there against the railing.

  But they hadn’t looked down, and a large party cooling off from the heat of the ballroom bore witness to the scandal. Father was trapped, and Mother was ruined entirely. They’d had no choice but to marry quickly and quietly.

  Father’s estate was situated far from London in a little town in the country, and Mother had to choose to find her happiness there.

  Had they found love, like Father so adamantly insisted they had? Or was their love story one-sided? Lord Gray told an entirely different story of Mother’s intentions that night. And I supposed I would never know for sure.

  Chapter Nine

  I quickly ate my eggs and toast the next morning, hoping to slip from the breakfast room unseen. The ladies planned to gather in the drawing room, but I had no intention of joining them, nor of making myself available for Peter’s afternoon call any earlier than necessary. If I abandoned the party and hid myself well enough, he’d never find me, and I could return just in time for a late afternoon walk. Something quick, easy, and that would hopefully keep me free of further embarrassment. We’d not specified that our afternoons need be planned, and even if Peter searched for me early, how could I be to blame for his poor hide-and-seek skills? It was a foolproof plan.

  Snatching my bonnet and satchel, I slipped through the entryway and out the front door.

  My feet carried me outside beneath the clouds to a mighty oak tree about a half-mile east of the estate. Carefully, I maneuvered around its massive roots that broke free of the earth and surfaced like tentacles.

  At last in the comfort of the tree’s shade, I sat upon the mossy earth with my back at the trunk, facing away from the house. I could not be more hidden unless I scaled the tree to a higher level. If only I could have reached a limb.

  Here was the solitude I craved. When was the last time I’d sat alone with nature as my only companion? I pulled out my sketchbook and pencils, looking around for a subject to draw. I hadn’t the skill to draw anything too complex, but I could manage a flower. I chose the bushy yellow weeds that grew along the earthy floor.

  After a few pages of sketching, and several attempts to draw a likeness of the birds that perched on the tree’s lower branches, my hands grew tired. Securing my book in my satchel, I leaned back against the rough bark. The sun streamed through the leaves, warming my face. I closed my eyes to fully appreciate the moment.

  I’d almost dozed off when a rustling sound pulled me to my senses.

  “What are you doing all the way out here? Not trying to hide away from me, are you?” Peter’s voice spoke in tandem with his footsteps.

  Drat. There would be no thwarting Peter today. The man had a sixth sense for finding me. I opened my eyes and grumbled, smoothing my hair.

 
“Now why would I do that, when I owe you my afternoon?” Sarcasm was heavy in my voice.

  Peter’s eyes were smiling and playful. He held out his hand, which I ignored with a sigh, balancing myself against the tree trunk as I stood.

  “Where are you taking me today?”

  Peter offered me his arm. “It is a surprise. They’ve just been moved to a nearby field. We could walk there, if you like.” He could not contain his smile, shifting his weight like an eager child awaiting permission.

  Curiosity edged its way into my mind. “They?” Who had he invited to join us? Did he intend on humiliating me in front of the entire company this time?

  “Come, you will see. And I think you will find yourself very happy.” Gently, he tucked my arm into his, as though impatient for me to make up my mind.

  Hesitantly, I followed him through the line of trees, back out into the clearing. “You’re taking me along the west side of the estate? Were we not here just two days ago?”

  “We were, but you’ll find a different scene at the top of the hill today.” Peter said mysteriously.

  I narrowed my gaze at him, but that did not deter Peter. Conversation was his strong suit.

  “What is that for?” He gestured to my satchel.

  “It carries my things,” I said flatly in an effort to dissuade him.

  “What sort of things?”

  The man could not take a hint. “A sketchbook. Nothing of importance,” I said, focusing on my steps.

  But of course Peter insisted I show him my drawings, and I had little resolve to deny him. What Peter Wood wanted, Peter Wood always seemed to get. Despite my lack of skill, he praised my efforts, sharing stories about painters he’d met on the streets of Paris. I listened attentively, fascinated by his experience and the lives of the scholars there.

  How I envied him. What a privilege it was to observe such culture, to have tutors and opportunities to master talents. Life could be so different. But I would not complain about my circumstances. Without Lord Gray, things might have been much worse. At least Clara and I had a house and a bed and food. Those were the things I worried after now.