Hearts Entwined (Victorian Love Book 3)

by M. A. Nichols

  Though not one to ascribe to the supernatural beliefs running rampant through the country, Oliver couldn’t help but wonder if she were a specter. Or had his addled mind brought the memory of her to life?

  But no.

  Miss Sophie was here.

  Chapter 6

  Fidgeting was a sign of ill-breeding. Sophie’s governess had always been emphatic on that score, but some moments simply required it. Standing in a quiet corner of the parlor, Sophie smoothed her skirts and shifted from foot to foot as she watched the parlor doorway. She did not know how her heart tapped such a rapid beat while her chest tightened, squeezing that fragile organ.

  She ought to have spent more time on her toilette. There was no need to veer towards the ostentatious coiffures fashion dictated, but something more than her plain coil mightn’t have been amiss. A curl or a flower. Anything to enliven the unbearably plain style that generally suited her. Sophie cast a glance at Miss Caswell’s hair and marveled at the complexity of the style. The twists and intricacies of the braids were quite impressive, but there was an ease to it that belied the effort put into styling it just so.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Sophie let it out in a flagellating sigh. There was no good to be had in attempting to catch the eye of a gentleman whose eye was well and truly caught by another. And there was some semblance of peace to be found in embracing that knowledge. The opportunity for her and him had passed, and now, they could meet as friends. Nothing more.

  Movement from the doorway caught her attention, but it was yet another pair her parents’ age, and Sophie’s shoulders fell. They rose again when a younger set appeared at their heels, and Sophie spied a young lady with a plump shape that echoed the older lady’s figure. There, on the young lady’s arm, was Mr. Oliver Kingsley.

  Sophie’s breath caught in her lungs, holding her still as she watched him lead the young lady—whom she supposed was his sister—into the parlor. Time had brought a maturity to his features that suited him, but otherwise, Mr. Kingsley remained unaltered from the last time she’d seen him. He shared his sister’s and mother’s hair, which looked merely brown at first glance, but when the candlelight caught it just right, a hint of reddish highlight stood out among the dark tresses. And he had his father’s broad shoulders and English pale complexion that defied coloring from the sun.

  Mr. Kingsley strode forward, and Sophie fought to keep her hands steady as he approached. But he stopped at Miss Caswell’s side, and the lady took his arm as they shared a few whispered words and a laugh. Sophie wrung her hands, and she tucked them behind her where they could fidget in peace.

  And then Mr. Kingsley’s gaze lifted to survey the room. His eyes settled on her, and Sophie smiled. She couldn’t help herself. The joy of seeing him in the flesh once more was too great to hide. But his gaze slid over her without recognition.

  Sophie’s chest squeezed tighter, threatening to crush her heart. It was so silly. Why couldn’t she be a rational, reasonable person for once? They’d passed an evening together five years ago, and there was no reason the gentleman should recall it. Mr. Kingsley was engaging and admirable. Doubtless, he didn’t want for company. That evening meant nothing to him.

  Then his eyes darted back to her, widening as his lips pulled into a slanted smile.

  Mr. Kingsley moved as though to join her, but the butler appeared in the doorway and announced dinner, dispersing the waiting crowd as each gentleman searched for the lady whom Mrs. Nelson had requested he escort. Sophie sighed, but she had long ago learned to hide her disappointment behind a calm, collected mask of affability. Young Mr. Peter Dosett claimed her, leading her into the dining room as Sophie ignored the sight of Miss Caswell on Mr. Kingsley’s arm. Or attempted to ignore.

  “It seems so strange that our paths would cross in the country,” said Mr. Dosett as he assisted Sophie to her seat.

  “Does it?”

  Mr. Dosett took his seat and sent her a wry smile. “From what your brother was telling me, it sounds as though your family spends most of your time in London, and it is rare for me to abandon Town. When our social circles overlap as they do, it is odd that we should meet in an unfamiliar and out of the way place.”

  “I would hardly call Essex out of the way, but I grasp your meaning,” said Sophie, glancing at the dishes arrayed around her. With an overabundance of options, scents, and flavors, it was all one expected from a fine dinner party. The Nelsons’ cook had done her master and mistress justice, for it was enticing to both the eye and the palette, each dish begging to be admired before consumed to the last morsel.

  “Any place an hour out of Town is out of the way,” said Mr. Dosett, helping to fill Sophie’s plate before his own. “Nothing happens in the country. And if it does, there is hardly anyone around to enjoy it. Society is so terribly lacking.”

  Glancing this way and that, Mr. Dosett affected the look that all notorious gossips learn at an early age. It feigned a begrudging demeanor, as though the information was being pulled from them, to mask the eager delight they found in exposing every lurid detail.

  “Just before I left, I heard the most titillating detail about Mrs. Bertram Deville,” he said.

  As much as Sophie wished to dispel Mr. Dosett’s eagerness to divulge his story, there was nothing to be done about the matter. To tell him she knew nothing of Mrs. Deville would only encourage him to elaborate on the entire history of the Deville family. If Sophie admitted she had no interest in the subject, Mr. Dosett would only attempt to convince her of the merit of gossip by expounding on all the tidbits he’d gathered.

  Humans weren’t empathetic creatures. Though they may think themselves sympathetic or understanding, people rarely acknowledged that differences in opinion exist. People may give allowances for minor discrepancies, but it was inconceivable that others believed differently. Surely it was only due to a lack of education, and if the other only saw the entire picture—as they, themselves, did—the other would believe the same.

  ‘Twas better to remain silent rather than invite long lectures focused on convincing her of the merit of an uninteresting subject.

  And so Mr. Dosett expounded on the little bits of hearsay and “they say” about Mrs. Deville. No matter that Sophie had no context for the gossip he was bestowing, Mr. Dosett’s words flowed freely as she picked at her dinner and cast glances at Mr. Kingsley.

  He and Miss Caswell were sitting on the other side of the table, affording Sophie a prime view of the pair as they ate and talked and leaving her focused on every detail of their expressions and movements. Regardless of how forcefully she told herself to ignore him, her eyes were drawn back again and again. There was a vast difference between engaged and almost engaged…

  It had been five years since their prior acquaintance, and that acquaintance wasn’t long enough to give Sophie insight into the subtleties of his character and the little movements that might betray him. And if Sophie were honest with herself, Mr. Kingsley looked quite pleased with his situation, which lightened her heart even as it sank. Certainly, she didn’t begrudge his happiness—even if Sophie wished she’d inspired it.

  But that was when Sophie reminded herself of her resolution to meet him as friends and nothing more.

  *

  Oliver had believed a mind was capable of only one thought at a time, giving each its due before moving on to the next, but tonight challenged that assumption. He was aware not only of his conversation with Miss Caswell but also of the young lady who sat down the table from him, casting furtive glances in his direction whenever her dining companions were not looking.

  Certainly, his conversation was not quite as poignant or well thought out as it might otherwise have been, but Oliver was pleased he was able to feign his full attention while his thoughts raced with the implications.

  Miss Sophie was here. Or Miss Banfield, as she ought to be called now. She’d haunted his thoughts for so many years, and now she was here in the flesh. If he were a superstitious man, Oliver might think
it an ill portent for her to reappear during this integral time in his courtship with Miss Caswell. But that was silliness, and Oliver would not allow himself to be swept up in it.

  Even if his eyes kept turning to her of their own accord.

  *

  Contrary to the popular adage, appearance was not everything. Even a pristine one could be ruined with the wrong whispers in the wrong ears, but Victoria knew enough of the world to know that it had power. People rarely delved past the surface, and if presented properly, a well-maintained facade could convey a wealth of information.

  Victoria wrapped herself in calm; it was an old and familiar friend. Her heart may be constricting, her stomach roiling, and her body thrumming with a desire to flee Essex, but no one looking at her would sense such unease—even if her feigned peace was pushed to the breaking point.

  The moment the ladies left the gentlemen to their after-dinner antics, Victoria distanced herself from the others in the party. Though Hettie, Phyllis, and Lily expected her to join them, Victoria needed a moment or two alone before she faced the rest of the evening.

  Mr. Dixon never ventured into scandalous behavior or drew attention to himself, but she’d felt his eyes on her the entire dinner. It was a miracle she’d been able to converse with Mr. Kingsley while her attention was split, but her beau gave no sign of having noticed she was not wholly occupied with him.

  Victoria held her breath, turning her gaze to the paintings decorating the drawing room walls. Cloaking herself in polite interest, she appeared to be examining the art, though the pieces were too uninspiring to warrant more than a passing glance. She would far prefer a moment out in the gardens; a bit of evening air was just what she needed. But that thought reminded her of her venture into the gardens before dinner, which did little to restore her equilibrium.

  How was this to be borne?

  It simply must. There was no other option. For good or ill, Mr. Dixon was to be privy to the final stages of her courtship with Mr. Kingsley. To see her engage herself to another. There was nothing to be done about it.

  Gentlemen’s voices came from the hall, and Victoria straightened, taking in a sweeping breath as the masculine group joined the ladies. Keeping her face to the wall, she hoped she might go unnoticed. That thought had her jaw clenching, her shoulders tightening as she chided herself for such a cowardly impulse; Miss Victoria Caswell would not be cowed by an uncomfortable situation.

  Clasping her hands before her, Victoria turned to greet them, knowing precisely who was coming to meet her.

  “Mr. Dixon,” she said with a nod that was far calmer and more composed than she felt. Such ridiculous, flighty behavior was not becoming and would not serve her or her future husband well. This house party was unlikely to be the last time she would see Mr. Dixon, and she needed to acclimate to his presence.

  “Miss Caswell.” Simple words, but they were colored with humor, as though the rogue knew the battle waging in her heart.

  “And how do you find Essex?” she asked, her eyes flicking over to Mr. Kingsley, who had been captured in conversation by Mr. Flemming and the Dosett patriarch.

  “This is not my first visit, and it is always pleasant,” he replied, tucking his hands behind him. He did not smile, but his eyes were alight with mirth as he met her gaze and followed her insipid question with, “And you?”

  “I have yet to see much of it, but the weather has been quite fine so far.” The weather? Though that inane topic dotted many a conversation, it was best reserved for those who had not the intelligence to say something meaningful. Better to say nothing than to dredge up that silly subject.

  The grin hiding beneath the surface broke through, and though the devilish Mr. Dixon had the good sense not to laugh outright, there was no mistaking the humor he found at her expense.

  “Quite fine,” he replied in a wry tone.

  “Really, Mr. Dixon,” she muttered.

  The fellow raised his brows with feigned innocence. With a coy flutter of his eyelashes, he asked, “What, Miss Caswell?”

  With a silent curse at her weakness, Victoria stifled a laugh. “Why do you insist on being ridiculous?”

  “I cannot resist an opportunity to make you laugh.” The light in his eyes warmed, shifting from that humorous glint to something deeper as he held her gaze. Elijah did not say another word. He didn’t need to. Victoria felt his meaning sweep through her and settle into her heart.

  Her chin trembled, but Victoria shook free of the heartache, refusing to give it place inside her. With a furtive glance around, she stepped closer to him. “I’ve told you I cannot return your feelings.”

  But her words did nothing to change the admiration in his gaze. “You’ve told me the reasons you should not return my feelings. That is not the same.”

  Victoria opened her mouth to respond but found no rebuttal. She stood, fixed in his gaze, unable to move or reply for several long, silent moments before she turned away and strode across the drawing room to Mr. Oliver Kingsley’s side, slipping her arm around his and clinging to it like a buoy during a storm.

  Chapter 7

  Except for his mother or sister, Oliver had never held a lady’s arm in such a fashion until Miss Caswell, but it had become a comfortable, casual thing. Though the lady had taken him by surprise when she appeared at his side just then, her touch was a comfort. It grounded him, reminding him of the way things were. And what they ought to be.

  Oliver flashed a smile at Miss Caswell, and though she returned it, there was a pinch of panic around her eyes, as though the happiness in her expression was feigned. With a curve of his brow, he sent her a silent question, but she merely held tighter to his arm with a dismissive shake of her head.

  “It is a shame more was not done,” said Miss Caswell, turning her attention back to the discussion.

  Following her lead, Oliver nodded and added, “We’d hoped the ten-hour workday might’ve been addressed, but it came for naught.”

  “Unfortunately, there is little hope as long as Peel is Prime Minister,” replied Mr. Flemming. “He’s been vocal about his opposition to any bill that shortens the workday.”

  “Then the fight is over for now,” said the eldest Mr. Dosett, tucking his hands behind him. “I must say it is for the best. It is not right for the government to meddle in such affairs. What right do we have to shorten the workday of someone willing to do more?”

  “Ten hours is more than a full day,” replied Oliver. “It is more time than their masters are willing to work.”

  “Hear, hear,” added Mr. Dixon as he moved to join their discussion.

  “But I know of masters who work just as long, if not longer hours than their workers,” said Mr. Dosett. “If they are willing to put such effort into their factories and mills, why is it wrong for them to expect their workers to do the same?”

  “The master chooses to work long hours, but the same is not true of their workers,” said Oliver. “It is wrong to give the lower class no option but to work excruciating hours or lose their position altogether. Besides, it is in the masters’ best interest to shorten workdays.”

  Mr. Dosett barked a laugh. “I’ve heard some strange claims in my days, but I cannot fathom how shortening production hours is in their best interest.”

  The gentleman’s words may have sounded like a challenge, but there was a lightness to his tone that conveyed interest. True, it was laden with incredulity; however, Oliver took no offense at the earnest expression of doubt.

  “It may sound illogical at first, but many seemingly illogical propositions prove sensible once implemented,” said Oliver with a smile. “My uncle owns a cotton mill, and I’ve heard him expound at length about the dangers of exhausted workers. Longer hours mean more injuries and deaths.”

  Though his gaze did not leave Mr. Dosett, Oliver felt Miss Caswell’s eyes lighten and sparkle as she gazed at him.

  “Ask any mill or factory owner,” continued Oliver, “and they would tell you the same thing: more accide
nts happen at the end of the workday than at the beginning. Beyond that, the speed and quality of the product produced are reduced. So, I would ask you, what benefit is it to masters to keep twelve-hour workdays when their workers are less efficient and more likely to be injured?”

  Mr. Dosett’s brows rose. “And here I thought you were of an altruistic bent, but you are a capitalist with an eye for long-term investment.”

  “Don’t be fooled, Mr. Dosett,” said Miss Caswell. “Mr. Kingsley’s motivations are pure, but that does not preclude him from seeing it from a practical standpoint.”

  Mr. Flemming clapped a hand on Mr. Dosett’s shoulder. “Come on, admit it. You’ve been beaten.”

  Giving a conciliatory nod of his head, Mr. Dosett bowed towards Oliver. “I’m still not convinced it’s the government’s right to meddle in commerce.”

  “And that is a fact we’ve argued over for too long, Dosett,” said Mr. Flemming with a laugh as he turned his gaze to Oliver. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, lad. We could use more gentlemen with good sense in Parliament.”

  “Are you implying you have any gentlemen of good sense sitting in the House of Commons?” replied Mr. Dosett in a dry tone. “I find that harder to believe than Mr. Kingsley’s claims.”

  Mr. Flemming gave another bark of laughter and the others joined in. But as it died, Mr. Flemming turned his gaze to Oliver. “Have you given any thought to pursuing politics?”

  “I fear I am ill-suited for that life,” replied Oliver.

  “Nonsense,” said Miss Caswell, her elegant brows pulling together. “You have a keen intellect and a passion for the issues rife in our day and age. You would be a boon to the government and the people whom you represent. Think of the good you could do.”

  “Well said, Miss Caswell,” echoed Mr. Flemming. “Logical idealists are a rare breed, and together, you will go far in politics.”