“What?”
“Cecilia walked off looking woebegone.” He drained his glass. “I don’t know why she holds a candle for you.”
“She doesn’t.”
His brother laughed, fueling uncertainty.
“She doesn’t! I’ve never given her any reason to suppose I care for her.”
“I’ve never understood what it is about you that makes ladies willing to cast propriety to the wind and engage in behavior that would cause most parents to shudder.”
Ned bit his tongue. He couldn’t blame his brother for expressing such sentiments; he didn’t understand it himself. Although perhaps it helped that he didn’t have John’s propensity for bitterness, a bitterness past months had only seemed to exacerbate. But still … “You’re wrong about Cecilia.”
“Am I?”
“I’m just a neighbor, and barely know her. I have always been more Caro’s friend than hers.”
“Not that you’ll get much chance of being her friend now she’s heading north with her scientist husband.”
“She’s moving north?”
“I believe that’s what Londonberry said. Apparently Carstairs has some small kind of estate up that way. Not that I imagine they’ll spend long there, as he seems to care only for rocks and fossil-type things. And Caroline now, of course.”
“Of course.” A sense of loneliness washed through him. He could count on two fingers the people he considered as friends, and now one was as good as lost to him. Not that he begrudged Caro’s marriage—Gideon Carstairs was her choice, and as heir to the Marquess of Londonberry could offer so much more than Ned ever could—but he would miss their interactions, and the trust and tease fostered by a close friendship of many years standing.
John turned to face a picture of the three Aynsley daughters, painted as they posed in white, affecting some Grecian scene. Words sprouted to remembrance.
“Utterly boring!” Caro had described the time. “My arms were aching from holding the urn, and Verity was constantly demanding to be freed to ride her horse, which of course annoyed Mama so much that she and Verity had the most severe set-to, which of course put an end to any more painting that day.”
He frowned. Had Caro mentioned Cecilia at all, or had she been overlooked, the forgotten middle child, as seemed to be her way? Situated between two headstrong sisters he supposed it was not to be wondered at that Cecy was so meek and mild. Save for today. He turned from the painted image staring accusingly at him, to pretend interest in the next picture.
“I never would have imagined someone like Caroline Hatherleigh ending up with someone like him.”
Nor had Ned. He pressed his lips together.
“I suppose it helps he’s Londonberry’s brother. Shame you’re only the brother of a viscount, not a marquess.”
“One must endeavor to make the best of one’s family situation.”
“Seems we get little choice,” John muttered.
Again, he held his peace. Well he understood his brother’s justifiable resentment, Ned’s actions last year seeming to have driven a deeper wedge between them. Keeping his tongue between his teeth was surely just another part of the price he must pay for his indiscretions. Perhaps God might consider such restraint and deign to look on Ned with a drop of favor. Heaven knew he needed it.
“Families are funny things,” John continued, gesturing to the walls lined with older pictures of the Hatherleigh and Aynsley connections. “It’s hard to believe the Aynsleys could have produced such a strange little duck as poor Cecilia. But I guess every family has to have one simpleton.”
He eyed Ned in a way that left no guessing as to which of John’s family members he believed fit this category.
Ned ignored the personal insult and concentrated on the slur made about Caro’s sister. “Cecilia is not a simpleton.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” John shrugged carelessly. “Regardless, she is not exactly forthcoming, except when it comes to making her concern so very plain.”
“She holds no interest for me,” Ned reiterated.
“Not even with the fifty thousand? Surely such a dowry would sweeten the awkward gaucherie.”
“You shouldn’t say such things,” he said in a low voice.
His brother stared at him hard then turned as a footman entered the room.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, is there anything I can get for you?”
“Another two glasses of champagne,” John said.
“Oh, but I don’t—” Ned began.
“But I do,” John continued in an undervoice. “Although I’d probably need two bottles to come anywhere near redeeming the evening.”
“Very good, sir.” The footman gestured to the door. “If you’d care to come this way.”
John continued muttering as he strode from the room, leaving Ned—as was his wont—to follow, before a slight sound drew his attention to the dim recesses of the chamber. He strained to see past the shadows cast by the statuary. “Hello?”
No answer. Then the faintest rustle drew his attention to the far doors. He caught the merest glimpse as a pale green gown swished away, suggesting that their careless comments had not been unheeded, and had, in fact, been overheard by the very subject of their conversation.
Oh no. Dear God, help her forgive me. His groan echoed through the chamber as regret, hungry regret, gnawed his heart.
Again.
CHAPTER TWO
“AH, MISS CECILIA, ’tis a kind lass you are, coming to visit an old woman as you have.”
“It is no trouble at all, Mrs. Cherry,” Cecy said, pressing a kiss to the weathered cheek.
“’Tis good of you to say so.” The white-haired lady sighed, clasping Cecy’s shoulder in a half hug scented with sweetness and the faintest trace of violets.
Memories flared, the affection recalling days from long ago, when it seemed as if her former nurse had been her only friend.
Cecy handed over a small, hastily wrapped parcel. “Many happy returns of the day.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Cecilia.” Her sad eyes brightened as she removed the tissue paper. “Oh! Did you remember violet soap was my favorite?”
She inclined her head, thankful one bar of the expensive soap had remained in the drawer where she stored the various trinkets and gifts she used for moments such as this.
“Now, I suppose you’ll be wanting tea?”
“Only if it’s no bother—”
“’Tis no bother at all,” Mrs. Cherry assured, talking over her, as usual, before waddling off to the kitchen, her discourse about the lovely pastries Cook had baked and the kindness of her former charge in visiting today continuing regardless of Cecy’s response—or lack thereof.
As her old nurse continued her one-sided conversation, Cecy eyed the great boxes piled high in the hallway, the tiny thatched cottage overflowing with the mementos of past years. Today’s visit had not stemmed from kindness, precisely. But now she was here, the obligation of why she had come faded in the surge of compassion. How heart-wrenching it must be to be forced to endure one’s birthday whilst mourning the recent loss of a loved one. She should have visited sooner, but the weeks of preparation for Caro’s wedding had chased such notions from her mind. No, the credit for today’s visit stemmed from Mama’s kindness, not Cecy’s.
Mama had requested Cecy to call upon her former nurse. “I would call, of course, but there remains so much to do after yesterday’s activities with our guests and such, and as it is, I have something of a headache.”
A headache no doubt induced by the amount of sherry Mama had imbibed last night.
“And poor Verity needs her mother’s attention after all, what with her poor leg and all.”
Cecy rather wondered if Verity might prefer their mother to overlook such attentions. “I’m sure Verity appreciates your concern, and would understand, as you have a headache, that any attention need not take up too much time.”
“Yes, that is very true,” Mama said, eyeing Cecy with a th
oughtful frown. “I do hope you will remember to change your pelisse. I would not have Mrs. Cherry think we were backward in paying her attentions, especially on her birthday. And do remember to instruct Cook to pack a basket of leftovers. I’m sure there will be something there to gladden her day.”
“Of course, Mama,” she had murmured, before finally escaping.
Cecy had been glad to come, glad for the distraction from the humiliation of last night’s ball. She had thought it bad enough to need to escape the ballroom to regain her composure after Ned had announced he only danced with her at Caro’s request; it was one hundred times more humiliating to have heard mere minutes later just how much of a nonentity she truly was to him. Oh, why had John spoken of her so badly? Why did he have to say anything about her being enamored of Ned? How could John—of all people!—have seen what she had striven to hide for so many years? But worse than this, far, far worse, was to hear Ned’s dismissal of her, to know she ranked so lowly in his world. The only thing worse would have been if he had seen her in the gallery; oh, thank God he hadn’t! Crushed, she had departed for her bedchamber, ready to plead a headache should she be questioned as to why she was hiding in her bedchamber rather than celebrating with her sister. By the time Mama arrived, her headache had not been feigned at all.
How awful that he thought so little of her, that he could not even be bothered to defend her to his brother. The tears that had simply threatened before had found plentiful release in her bedchamber as she scribbled in her diary, splotching the pages and making the ink run. She would never forgive him, never!
Except … this morning’s Bible reading had challenged her to forgive, the words of Jesus from the Gospels striking deep in her heart. She would never regard Ned Amherst as her enemy, though his words last night had not precisely accorded with friendship, but if God wanted her to forgive her enemies then how much less could she hold resentment against Ned?
“Lord, forgive me. Help me forgive.”
Not long after she had finally expressed forgiveness in her heart, the old feelings had surged again, coupled with the old justifications. Perhaps he didn’t really mean it. Perhaps there was some reason to hope. Perhaps there was still some way she could make him really notice her, to finally think of her at last. Though what she’d say when she next saw him she had no idea.
Mrs. Cherry returned to the room carrying a tray of tea things, offering milk and sugar, before recalling aloud, “I suppose you still only take milk, is that not so?”
Before Cecy could offer affirmation, she was being passed a cup of fragrant tea, and was being forced to stifle, once again, the feeling of being overlooked and disregarded.
“And Lady Aynsley was so very kind in sending treats,” Mrs. Cherry said, passing a plate of baked goodies over for Cecy’s selection. Cecy declined, knowing the older lady would appreciate the delicacies far more, her opportunity for cakes and biscuits scarce at best.
There followed a brief reminiscence about the previous day, which led Cecy to weave vague pleasantries around the truth, like when Mrs. Cherry wondered aloud why young Miss Verity did not seem quite herself.
“But I suppose it cannot be entirely wondered at, your younger sister has never been one for formalities, as I recall.”
“Very true,” Cecy agreed.
“Miss Caroline—oh! I should say Lady Carstairs now, I suppose—did look extremely happy, which isn’t to be wondered at either, seeing as she married the man she loves.”
Cecy’s smile grew strained as the envy pounced again. How lucky Caro was! Oh, if only she could—
Enough! She shoved the selfish thoughts to one side, forced her attention back to her hostess. “I am glad you had the opportunity to attend the service yesterday.”
“’Twas kind of your mother to invite me, and to ensure young Simpson drove me. It did me good to get away from here.” Her former nurse sighed, her mien downcast as she glanced about the room. “I am sure I shall never be able to bring order to this cottage. I know Lord Aynsley thought I would enjoy something more modern, but it always takes such a long time to get things settled. Fanny is a good girl, and I suppose I can’t complain, because she does try her best, but I’m afraid she has the sense of a peahen, and I wouldn’t know if I might find my linens in the larder.”
“Perhaps Father could send some of the footmen down to assist—”
“Oh, no, no.” Mrs. Cherry looked horrified at the thought. “I could never presume!”
“It would be no presumption at all. In fact—”
“Miss Cecilia, I know you mean well, but I’m afraid I do not want any of those young men in my house. Why, the idea!”
Cecy suppressed a smile. Mrs. Cherry’s ideas about propriety would surely rival Mother’s.
“Yes, but you would appreciate some help. And after all your years of service—”
This appeared to be invitation for Mrs. Cherry to begin a long reminiscence about her days caring for Cecy and her sisters—“you used to call me Cherry”—before lapsing into memories of caring for the children of other members of the nobility. For many moments Cecy had to practice patience until the name Rovingham was mentioned. “I beg your pardon? Did you care for Lord Rovingham’s sons?”
“Why, yes, of course I did! I’m surprised you cannot recall. Although by the time your mother employed me you were only a wee thing of one or two.” She sighed. “Poor Edward was but six when he was sent away to school and my services were dispensed of, which is when I came to you. Such a wee thing, too. So sweet and good natured.” She shook her head. “Such a shame.”
Cecy blinked, her smile at the praise fading. What was such a shame? “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, nothing, just a silly woman’s memories.” But her sigh seemed to draw up from her toes.
“Mrs. Cherry, I’m sorry you are perturbed. If there is something I have done—”
“Oh, no, no, Miss Cecilia. ’Tis not you of which I speak but the young master.”
She swallowed. “Edward?” How daring to speak his name aloud.
“Such a sweet boy. Then all that trouble last year. He has gone quite wild.” She shook her head. “One can only try to train a child in the way he should go, but I suppose in the end all the training in the world won’t do for some people.”
Cecy withheld the protest, offering only a mild, “I understood he has changed.” That was what Lady Rovingham had indicated last month when she had visited Rovingham Hall with Mama. But perhaps a mother could not be considered completely unbiased …
“Yes, that’s what I mean. He has gone quite wild.”
“No, I mean, that he … that is, I understand he is not like that anymore, that he stays close to home now.”
“Perhaps he has. I would not know. He has not come to see me these past years.”
Then how could she presume him wild? “Forgive me, Mrs. Cherry, but do you expect all of your former charges to visit you?” She smiled. “You will have to forgive me, then, for not visiting you until recent times.”
“But you have been away at school, then in London for your come out, and I cannot expect a pretty girl to pay mind to an old woman simply because she once dandled her on her knee.”
Yet she seemed to expect that of poor Edward.
“Especially,” Mrs. Cherry continued, eyes agleam with interest, “when she must be surrounded by suitors and receiving invitations galore. Oh, do tell me about your season.”
Cecy’s smile grew tight. “I enjoyed my time in London.” Occasionally. When she had been permitted to visit the circulating libraries and bookstores. But the times when she had been expected to talk to men had been excruciating. Fortunately—or unfortunately, according to her mother—she had been the recipient neither of an excess of attention nor of the many invitations to balls and routs and picnics and breakfasts with which other debutantes were plied. The gentlemen who paid her any heed had seemed mostly interested in her dowry, and she could not like such men. She wanted someone of heart an
d humor who would share her faith and buoy her spirits, someone with whom she could be a true friend, rather than the distant life companion so often seen in the ton. If only the gentleman her heart had long ago chosen would regard her in that way.
Mrs. Cherry continued her assessment of Cecilia’s season and marital prospects, unhindered by Cecy’s earlier indifferent response.
She stifled her own sigh. Sought a way to divert her companion. Glanced around the room. She was not precisely weak, and offering assistance might prove more effective distraction than departing merely to wallow in regret. “Mrs. Cherry, I wonder, have you given thought as to precisely where you would wish your possessions to go?” She rose and moved to the open chest spilling gowns. “Would you mind terribly much if I helped you?”
“You, miss? Why I could never ask such a thing.”
“It is a good thing I am offering my assistance then.” She smiled.
“But your mother! No, I could never presume—”
“Mrs. Cherry—” Cecy moved closer to kneel beside her seat. “Do you not know how much I appreciated the many times when you seemed my only friend in those early days? You know I never could speak as easily as Caro and Verity, yet I always knew I could rely on you to speak up for me, and your support helped me more than you can know. Please, I would consider it a privilege to render what little assistance I can now. Surely you would not wish to deny me?”
Mrs. Cherry’s furrowed brow relaxed, though worry still shaded her eyes. “But I still cannot think your mother would like it.”
“Very likely she would not,” Cecy agreed. “So, it is probably best we do not tell her.”
“Oh, but miss—”
Cecy ignored her and lifted up a worn, drab gown. “Now, do you really wish to keep this?”
An hour later, the work slow, Mrs. Cherry’s lack of decision at times tedious, Cecy had to remind herself of the benefits of offering her assistance. One trunk had been cleared, prompting Mrs. Cherry to focus on the next, a box of old books.
“Here you are, miss.”
Cecy held out her arms obediently, wondering how long it might take to sort through the cottage. Days? Weeks? Never mind. Surely a day filled with activity of benefit to others was better than staring at the walls or writing long and plaintive secrets in the pages of her journal. Anything had to be better.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 2
