Christiana might have gasped if not for the sudden dryness in her throat.
No, no, no.
Her husband spoke again, and this time she heard him clearly.
Brand turned the page over, but there were no additional words on the other side. He pursed his lips and glanced up into the tree once more. Who was up there? If it was the woman who had authored this page, her prose and elegant hand indicated that she had been well educated. But what well-educated woman—or was it a girl?—would hide away in a tree on his family’s property?
A woman who did not wish to be discovered, judging by her continued silence.
“You must not keep me in suspense,” said Brand in a conversational tone, slowly stepping to the side in an attempt to get a glimpse of her face. “What did the man in your story say?”
As expected, no answer came. Not to be deterred, Brand tried again, hoping to apply to her vanity. “In only a few short paragraphs, you have captured my interest.” She needn’t know that he was referring to her and not her story. “Come now, I must know.”
Still no answer.
“Perhaps you have not figured out what he should say. Is that it?” Brand speculated. “In that case, I can probably be of assistance. The woman wearing peach is obviously his aunt. Her poodle of nine years only just passed away, and her kind and thoughtful nephew, whom she adored like her own son, whisked her away from the miserable scene and led her on a walk about the grounds. When she couldn’t contain her grief any longer, she threw her arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder. It’s a tender moment, and his only response can be, ‘There now, Auntie. Everything will come about all right. You’ll see.’”
A scoff sounded from the leaves, making them quiver a bit. Brand smiled a little. This exchange was proving to be as interesting as it was unexpected.
“Am I to take it that he has no aunt then? Hmm… Perhaps it is an unscrupulous woman, luring the husband to the scene with a note containing concerns of a serious threat on her life. When he arrives to rescue her from some nefarious snake, she throws herself upon his person with the hope of seducing him. He is momentarily stunned, of course, but will soon say, ‘What the devil are you doing?’ and cast her away.”
“You are wrong,” came a lovely, melodious—and familiar—voice that sounded like it belonged to a young woman. “He does not say or do anything of the kind. He is a despicable man who has made an assignation with a woman who is not his wife.”
Apparently Brand had touched upon a nerve that could not be quieted. Good. He tried to place where he’d heard that voice before, but his mind drew a blank.
He took another step to the side, trying to get a better look. “Pray tell, what does he say?”
“Perhaps you should tell me, sir.”
Her words, spoken with censure, gave Brand pause. It almost sounded as though she were accusing him of being the despicable man in her story. Had the woman gone mad? She had climbed a tree to compose an outlandish tale.
Brand continued to move slowly about the tree, attempting to catch a glimpse of her hair, eyes, lips—anything to give him a clue as to her identity. Where had he heard that voice before?
“How should I know what a despicable man would say?” he asked.
She did not hesitate to answer. “Why are you here now, my lord, at your hunting lodge at this precise time?”
The directness of her question made him uncomfortable. She didn’t sound the least bit addled. Rather, she spoke with conviction, as though she already knew why he had come—or, at least why she thought he had come. He took another step to the side, annoyed by the dense foliage above him. How had she managed to climb up there?
“I am meeting a friend,” he said by way of explanation.
“Are you quite certain she is merely a friend?”
So she knew he was meeting a woman. Did she also know Catherine would be here any moment? She must. It was the only explanation. But how had she come by such information, and why did she care?
He frowned. Could the woman possibly be Miss Gifford? No. Surely he would recognize her voice, wouldn’t he? Brand thought back to the previous evening, trying to remember the quality and timbre of her voice. Had it been a higher pitch or richer, like the woman’s above.
Try as he might, he couldn’t recall anything about the sound of Miss Gifford’s voice.
Of all the people it could be, she was the most likely, wasn’t she? They were neighbors, after all, and the hunting lodge sat close to her family’s property. In addition, if she was of a jealous nature, it would also explain her censure.
Oddly enough, a spark of hope flared within Brand. Up until this point, Miss Gifford had only ever been the woman he would be expected to marry. Several years his junior, she had been in the nursery when he’d departed for school. Occasionally his family would dine with hers during one of his breaks, but she had always been exceptionally quiet. When she’d at last emerged into local society the previous summer, Brand had felt pressure from his parents to begin his courtship of her, but it hadn’t taken him long to realize why so many referred to matrimony as a noose about one’s neck.
While Miss Gifford could never be described as pretty, she was graceful and fashionable enough that he might have been able to overlook the ghastly shade of her hair, the freckles, her slightly pinched nose, and eyes that were a bit too far apart to be pleasing, if not for her apathy. The few times he had been in her company, she had never laughed, never spoken passionately on any subject, and had never shown even a hint of emotion.
While he loathed admitting it, even to himself, her illness had come as a blessing. Brand had needed time to get over his friend’s unexpected departure and accept the fact that he must either disappoint his parents, both of whom he respected, or one day marry a lifeless woman who could never ignite any sort of passion within him.
He’d hoped that after she regained her health and they came to know each other better, his feelings would change. But at the conclusion of yesterday’s dance, when conversing with her had been the equivalent of forcing a bit into a stubborn horse’s mouth, Brand had been sorely tempted to walk away from the arrangement.
If only he could.
After all these years, the town and surrounding villages had learned of the understanding between the two families. The knowing looks and smiles, the subtle and not-as-subtle implications, the expectations—if Brand disengaged now, it would cause a great deal of talk, and Miss Gifford would be made to bear the brunt of it.
He had no desire to sentence her to such a fate any more than he wished to sentence himself to a tedious marriage. He could only hope that somewhere underneath her cool exterior was a woman with interests, passions, and opinions. He simply had to break through that shell and find the real her.
Perhaps now he had.
He glanced up once more, wanting the fiery, accusatory, opinionated woman in the tree to actually be Miss Sophia Gifford.
But how to make her reveal herself and come down?
“Your silence is reassuring,” came the voice from above.
Brand took another step to the side, but she seemed to match his movements with shifts of her own, keeping her upper body out of sight. Could it possibly be Miss Gifford? If so, how could a voice that had been so unremarkable and forgettable last evening now sound intriguing and memorable?
She couldn’t possibly be Miss Gifford.
Brand pressed his lips together, refusing to let the spark of hope die so quickly. He sauntered over to the trunk of the tree and leaned casually against it, glancing up from a new vantage point with no better luck. He folded his arms across his chest, knowing he didn’t have much time. Catherine would be along soon.
“You obviously find my character wanting, but do you also believe my friend is a person of loose morals?” he asked.
“Is she?”
“No,” he said firmly. The woman could believe whatever she wanted about Brand, but he would not let her besmirch Catherine’s good name.
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br /> “Then why would she agree to a private assignation?”
Brand stared up into the tree. Did she really expect him to explain something of a personal nature, something he would only confide to a close and trusted friend? Even if the voice did belong to Miss Gifford, she was still a far cry away from becoming any sort of confidant.
He pushed away from the tree, wondering if he had been too quick to consider her fiery responses as a reason to hope. He had no wish to wed a vindictive creature any more than he wished to marry a placid one.
“Do you always arrive at conclusions without any proof or validation?” he asked.
“No proof?” she said with a scoff. “I clearly overheard a conversation between you and Mrs. Harper in the library last night. I also saw you embracing. What further proof do I need than that?”
Brand thought back on his exchange with Catherine and had to concede that the close friendship they shared could have easily been misinterpreted for something more. But hadn’t the woman also heard the reason for their so-called assignation? Catherine had begged him to meet her here, hoping they could face the past together and, with any luck, finally put it behind them.
Then another thought struck. If the woman above had been in the library with them, she couldn’t possibly be Miss Gifford. As soon as Brand had quit the room, he had spotted her speaking with her mother on the far side of the ballroom. She couldn’t have been in two places at once.
Unless someone else had overheard the conversation and related a portion of it to Miss Gifford.
Gads. Who the devil was up there?
Brand was ready to climb the tree and find out, but the sound of hooves grazing the ground met his ears. He peered through the forest of trees to spy a horse and rider approaching. Catherine.
Blast.
It seemed the woman of mystery would have to remain a mystery for now. He was not about to give her the opportunity to lecture Catherine as well.
“Here comes your lady now, my lord,” came a quiet voice from above. “Have a care, sir, lest you do something you’ll regret.”
Brand barely refrained from insisting that Catherine was not his lady, nor would she ever agree to a tryst. The woman above obviously did not know either of them well or she wouldn’t have leapt to such a ridiculous and sordid conclusion. Perhaps she was a woman gone mad after all.
Catherine approached with a smile and pulled her horse to a stop a few strides away. “Thank you for waiting, Knave. I am unforgivably late, aren’t I?”
Brand pulled his timepiece from his pocket and glanced at it. Half past nine already? Where had the time gone? In truth, he probably would have given up on Catherine if not for the unexpected diversion in the tree.
“You have always been adept at keeping men waiting,” he teased.
She laughed. “Yes. Poor Stephen had to deal with my tardiness quite often, didn’t he?”
Brand nodded, remembering all the times Catherine had kept his friend cooling his heels. The moment Stephen spotted his wife, however, all was forgiven. The two had shared the sort of love Brand would likely never experience.
Arranged marriages were rarely love matches.
“He always said you were worth waiting for,” Brand said.
Her smile became sad, and the rapid blinking of her eyes testified that she had been touched by his words. She looked past him to the hunting lodge. “Was I wise to suggest that we come here, Knave? I thought it would be good for us to face the memory of him together. Heaven knows I have never been able to do it on my own. But now I’m wondering if I will ever be able to face it. How does a person forget and move on?”
Brand approached her horse and stroked its nose. “I don’t think we can forget, Catherine, nor should we. Experiences and memories—both good and bad—are an integral part of who we are. If we try to forget them, we’re trying to forget a part of ourselves, and how is that a good thing? Perhaps the trick to moving forward isn’t forgetting. It’s learning to use those memories as a means of becoming stronger and better versions of ourselves.”
Tears dampened her eyes, and she nodded, pressing her lips together to ward off her emotions. Brand knew that look. He’d seen it many times during those wretched days following Stephen’s death.
“I believe you are right,” she said at last. “But how do I do that?”
He clasped her hand and gave it a squeeze. “When I first spied you last evening, wearing a genuine smile and a vibrant, beautiful gown, I saw a woman changed. You are on your way, my friend. I know it.”
She wiped away an errant tear and nodded. “Thank you, Knave. But what about you? Are you on your way as well? Have you finally come to accept that you are not to blame for his accident?”
Brand released her hand and moved to retrieve his horse, knowing he couldn’t answer that question in the way she wanted him to. Instead, he swung up into his saddle and glanced up at the branches overhead, recalling the mysterious woman spying on them from above.
What accusations have you to fling at us now? he wanted to ask, annoyed that she had been privy to yet another private conversation. For a moment, he thought he saw a dark eye through the leaves, but it was gone in an instant.
He turned his attention back to Catherine, ready to be done with it all. “What do you say we take our leave of this wretched place and ride to the back meadow instead?”
“Yes, please,” came her answer.
He urged his horse onward, and together they rode away, leaving the hunting lodge where it stood and the mysterious woman where she perched. He may not have discovered who she was or what she looked like, but Brand knew one thing. If he ever heard that rich and melodious voice again, he would recognize it instantly.
ALL PRUDENCE HAD to show for her morning’s efforts was a ripped sleeve, a scraped elbow, and the realization that she had been wrong. How she despised being wrong, especially when she had been so certain she would not be wrong. She had always prided herself on being a good judge of character because she noticed things that others did not, but this time her observations had led her astray. Lord Knave and Mrs. Harper had not planned a lover’s tryst. They were merely two disheartened souls attempting to mourn the loss of a beloved husband and friend.
How self-righteous and condemning she must have sounded!
Prudence could only be grateful the man had not discovered her identity or he would probably rethink his plans to marry her sister. No one of sound mind would wish to marry into a family with such obtuse relations.
She walked home slowly, her thoughts scattered and torn. The story that had flowed so effortlessly in the wee hours of the morning, keeping her pencil moving at a furious pace, had come to an abrupt and disappointing halt. She looked down at the residue of graphite on her fingers and rubbed at the darkened patches of skin absentmindedly. The pencil that had been new only yesterday was now half its original size, and it had all been for naught.
Prudence slipped through the back entrance, helped herself to a slice of bread and preserves, summoned her maid, and somehow managed to make it up to her bedchamber undetected by her mother. Ruth clucked disapprovingly over the torn fabric and scraped skin, but she helped Prudence change into a new gown, tended to the wound, and tidied her hair.
“I don’t know what I would do without you, Ruth,” said Prudence, grateful for a maid who could be trusted to keep a level head and her mouth shut. Only a few years older than herself and much too thin, Ruth had saved Prudence from many a scrape.
This time, however, her talents could only go so far. Ruth shook her head at the torn periwinkle sleeve. “I don’t think I can mend this, miss, least not without it lookin’ mended.”
Prudence eyed the shredded fabric with a frown before brightening. “I have always wished that gown had shortened sleeves. Don’t you agree that such an alteration would improve its appearance?”
Ruth snickered, gathering the dress in her frail arms. “Aye, miss. That I do. I’ll see what I can do.”
As soon as
her maid had left the room, Prudence carefully lifted the floorboard near her bed and grabbed the small stack of foolscap she had covered with her scribblings during the night. The pages contained the beginning of the story about the deceitful and unscrupulous man and his sorrowful wife—a story Prudence had no desire to finish any longer. Before she could talk herself out of it, she tossed every last page into the fireplace and watched the edges curl and burn until there was nothing left but ash.
It was a disheartening sight, but only because of the hours she’d wasted writing it. Thanks to the tender exchange between Mrs. Harper and Lord Knave, her mind had been turned to something new and better. She no longer wanted to write about an unfaithful husband. She wanted to write about the kind of love Mrs. Harper had spoken about with such pain and reverence—the kind that was as rare as it was beautiful. Only Prudence’s story would not end in sadness as Mrs. Harper’s had. It would conclude with joy and wonder and endless possibilities—a tale that could inspire even the most unromantic soul to want more from a marriage than a title and wealth.
Prudence snatched her shawl, replaced her bonnet, and escaped the house undetected once more. Clouds had scattered across the sky, threatening to hide the sun now and again, but she ignored them. A new plot had begun to form, and her mind whirled with ideas of scenes, conversations, antics, and thoughts. She loved it when her mind came alive in this way.
She crossed a wide meadow, meandered through a thicket of trees, and emerged onto the lane. She was vaguely aware of the sunlight beaming and hiding, birds flying overhead, and sheep grazing in the distance. Her feet scraped the grass and dirt as she walked and thought, wishing she had brought her pencil and paper with her.
At long last, sounds of an approaching carriage intruded, and Prudence glanced over her shoulder to see a gig begin to slow. As soon as she spied Lord Knave and her sister, she panicked. Would he recognize her from that morning? No, she had taken great pains to remain hidden, and she now wore an apricot afternoon dress instead of the torn periwinkle. But there was a definite possibility that he would recognize her voice.
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