His mother drew a deep breath, her own smile holding a degree of forced cheer. “And have you plans for where you will stay? Your uncle may not be willing for you to work with him, but your aunt would doubtless like to see you.”
But whether that same aunt wished for his presence longer than a short visit he doubted. He kept that thought between his teeth, and forced himself to focus on the tasks that still remained before his departure, aware now that tomorrow’s leave-taking of the Aynsleys would be harder than he’d first realized.
So much to do. So much to make right. So many amends still to make.
Clearly it would behoove him to leave before he needed to atone for more.
CHAPTER EİGHT
FRIEND. THAT WORD, smudged by the last night’s tears, lay accusing her in her diary. How could she truly be his friend if all she could do was think upon herself? Shouldn’t she be happy for him? Shouldn’t she be glad that he wished to help the needy? But all she could do last night was think about herself. How she hoped that she had hidden her regard. How she longed to know that her manner and words had proved sufficient to disguise anything warmer in her heart.
Friend. She supposed it was true. Their recent interactions had shown that beyond a taste for scones, they also shared a wry sense of humor, and more importantly, faith, something that led to deeper conversations than was usual with young gentlemen. She should be thankful that he at least considered her a friend—that he considered her at all.
She dipped the pen into the ink and carefully continued today’s inscribing of events.
I am chagrined to learn that I am not nearly as thankful as I had thought myself. How can I so easily forget the many blessings I enjoy? Yet sometimes it is hard to remember to be thankful when it seems all hope of any future is gone—
“Excuse me, miss.”
She quickly slid her diary behind the pile of books on her table then glanced up at the partially opened door. “Yes?”
“Your mother requests your attendance in the drawing room.”
“Thank you. I shall join her directly.”
She waited until the footman moved away. Had he seen her writing in the diary? Would he tell her mother? Not that this diary contained any secrets of which she was terribly ashamed—although should it ever be read by another person she would scarcely rejoice in knowing her innermost thoughts were being revealed to the world. She could well live without that particular mortification!
After scribbling the rest of the entry, she hurried downstairs to the drawing room where Mama awaited, holding a letter.
“Ah, here you are at last.” Her mother eyed her blue gown not uncritically, then nodded slightly, as if satisfied. “Well, I must say that color looks well on you.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Hmm. Where was I? Oh”—she waved the page—“it’s your grandmother.”
“She is well?”
“In indifferent health. Apparently, she is planning a visit to Bath and thought she might break her journey here. And she plans to arrive next week!”
“Does she intend to stay long?”
“I cannot say. But we must ensure she receives all proper attentions.”
“Of course, Mother.”
Because it would never do for the richest of their relatives to feel her presence was a burden.
A sound came from outside. Cecy glanced out, recognized the Rovingham carriage. Ned had said he would come today, but he was coming with his parents? Her throat, her chest constricted. Proof then that he had no wish to speak to her privately.
Moments later she was pinning on a smile, taking care to look neither away nor too long at him as he entered the room behind his parents. She would give no one reason to suspect her breaking heart. After an exchange of greetings, Lady Rovingham said, “It is with sad news we come today. Dear Edward tells us he must return to London, and was desirous to make his farewells today.”
Cecy stilled as Lady Rovingham’s gentle gaze turned to her. She willed her expression not to waver, prayed for strength for this ordeal. She had hoped—so foolishly hoped!—that he might wish to speak with her alone, but apparently he did not, and would prefer the protective buffer of his family instead.
“And what takes you back to London?” Father asked.
“It is time to pursue the career I have trained for.”
“We wish you well then.”
“Indeed, we do,” Mother said, far more warmly than her last comments about him had suggested. Cecy bit her lip. Was she in fact relieved he would be absent?
The lull in conversation stretched into awkward silence. Conscious she had as yet made no response, desperately hoping her face would not give her away, Cecy finally managed to say, “I’m sure your time in London will be beneficial.”
“Thank you.” His eyes turned to her, but today they held no spark of mutual understanding. Instead they seemed to hold something akin to pity.
Oh no! Had he suspected her warmer feelings? How she wished she could hide, wished he would leave, wished she knew what he felt. She prayed the heat to quickly leave her cheeks, for the embarrassment to drain away. If only she possessed the calm repose of Serena Winthrop—Serena Bevington, now. But she would not let him or anyone else know how much she wanted to crumple into tears. She would not let Ned suspect he would be leaving with her heart. She must let him think—
“Stephen Heathcote,” she blurted.
Ned blinked. “Yes?”
“Stephen Heathcote will no doubt call later.” She licked dry lips. Oh, what was she doing? “Will … will you be making your farewells to him also?”
He hesitated. “I am not certain.”
“Well, I am sure he would appreciate such news. It … it is always of interest to know who is entering or leaving the district. Do you not agree, Mother?”
Her mother eyed her oddly, but agreed. Lady Rovingham eyed her with something more knowing, as if she understood Cecy’s sudden reason in promoting the interests of Stephen Heathcote, which compelled Cecy to rush on in a desperate attempt to reassure everyone she held no interest in the man seated before her.
“Stephen is such a good friend to us, and so very solicitous.”
“I’m sure he is,” Lord Rovingham murmured, cutting a sideways look at his son.
Ned had dropped his gaze, a sight that further slumped her spirits. Still, her pride waved a weary flag not of surrender, and she forced her smile to remain affixed. Oh, when would this pain be over? When would this farce end?
“I am glad you have friends,” Lady Rovingham murmured, eyes soft with compassion.
But she didn’t! She had no one save Verity, to whom she had never been especially close, and even she would return to school. Ned’s departure meant there was none who understood her, no one to whom she could relate. Her throat grew tight, her smile felt as though it would splinter.
There was an exchange of glances with his parents before Ned stood. He was leaving. He was leaving! He bowed to her father and mother. “Well, goodbye, Lord and Lady Aynsley.”
Her parents exchanged farewells with him and the earl and countess.
Ned finally turned to her. “Goodbye, Miss Hatherleigh.”
“Goodbye,” she whispered, meeting his eyes for one brave moment before lowering her gaze to his neckcloth.
And with a concluding bow, he was gone.
London
Carriages clattered across cobblestones, the cries of young children hawking their wares filled his ears, the heaviness in the air matched that within his spirits. He had known his return to London would not be easy, but had assumed the news of eight months might be enough to wipe his misdemeanors from people’s minds. Not all, apparently.
Ned hurried across the damp street, the address something that had shocked him two years ago, back when he cared for naught but for the cut of his coat and the style of his neckcloth. To know he had a relation whose offices were here? His lips twisted at his disdainful younger self, at the pride he had wor
n so well. Returning, he was conscious his application to his uncle would demand what remnants of pride he wore to be stripped away even more.
He reached the door, glad to see the door knocker attached, which meant the occupant was at home. He tapped it thrice, then waited.
A servant opened the door. “Why, Mr. Amherst! Never tell me it is you?”
“I won’t if you wish me not to,” he said, stifling a grin, somewhat unsuccessfully.
“Lord Barrington told me we might expect to see you, but I did not think to until the morning.”
“Jessop? Who is it?”
“Mr. Amherst, sir.”
Moments later, Ned was being ushered into the drawing room, one that looked out onto the street, working to assume a calmness he did not feel.
“Uncle Lionel,” he said, stretching out a hand which was grasped.
“Edward.” There was no smile or words of welcome. “I received Miranda’s letter. I gather you did mine.”
He inclined his head. “As you can see.”
His uncle sighed. “I have no wish to revisit events of the past, but I would like to make it very clear that I wish there to be no further relapses.”
“There will not be.”
“Your episode brought great shame upon this family, and my practice. I cannot afford to have you make a mistake.”
“I will do all in my power and by God’s grace to ensure that does not happen.”
His uncle harrumphed and gestured to a seat which Ned gladly took. “You at least look better than the last time I saw you.”
Ned pushed out a smile. “I would hope so, seeing as I’m not lying in a hospital room.”
“Yes, well.” He shook his head, and as if he had forgotten his recent words not to revisit the past, began a slow inquisition of the events of last November. “I still don’t understand what brought you to utter foolishness.”
Neither could Ned, in all honesty, but he sensed such an answer might not meet with approval, and he needed his uncle to consider him favorably in order to extend that favor to his request. “I was young and heedless, and thought of myself more highly than I ought.”
“And then to be seen escorting Hale’s wife!” He peered over the top of his pince-nez. “You know Hale now holds position in the Colonial offices?”
“I know.” He had met—and apologized to—him during one of the more excruciating episodes of his life.
“I would not wish him to hold your past misdemeanors against us. He possesses some powerful connections.”
“From what I’ve seen and heard he seems to be a man who understands the importance of forgiveness.”
“Hmph.” The eyes watched him carefully. “So, you will have nothing further to do with them?”
“I will not.”
“Have any other ladies caught your eye?”
A face flashed before him. He suppressed it. “No.”
“I am relieved. I do not like to think any nephew of mine has secured a rakish reputation.”
Ned fought the wish to defend himself. He could understand why others thought his behavior rakish, and it would do no good to say he had now realized his regard for Julia Hale had proved more a fair illusion. She was someone in whom he recognized loss, someone to whom he had wanted to bring some joy, someone who had roused his protective instincts, little else.
No, such a reputation was but a small cross to bear compared to the truly terrible thing he had done, or rather, not done. But of that his lips remained sealed, as per the pact that had seen his former friends leave for distant shores. God, forgive me.
“Ahem.”
He refocused on his uncle, who still eyed him gravely. “Forgive me.”
“And now you wish to resume your career. May I ask why?”
“You have every right to know.” So, he told him of some of his experiences, of the recent injustice he had seen.
“That is all well and good, but I simply do not understand what you want to do or what you hope to achieve. It is not as if the laws will change, or your actions will have any great impact. You’ll be regarded as the veriest minnow in a sea of great fish.”
Ned nodded, as if in agreement, even as he held his tongue. He was only too aware of his lowly position, but still, God could use his time, use his deeds. Doing something to help had to be better than nothing, didn’t it? And if he didn’t use what limited skills he possessed, then surely he would be as guilty of wasting his talent as that man whom Jesus warned against in the Gospels.
His uncle continued his solemn perusal before finally nodding. “Ah, well. Family is family, I suppose. And it would not do to offend that sister of mine.”
Ned exhaled, glad to see the twinkle in his uncle’s eye.
“You may return, but I promise you, I will have no patience if you find yourself in trouble again.”
“Thank you, Uncle. I will not disgrace you.”
His uncle mumbled under his breath, before pushing to his feet. “Have you had something to eat?”
“Not as yet. I needed to secure my accommodation for this evening.”
“Whatever for? Don’t you know you are staying here with me?”
“I hadn’t dared presume.”
“Presume? Family is family, my boy. Now, come and say hello to my Susannah, and Jane and Frederick, too.”
And Ned breathed a prayer of thanksgiving as his uncle’s welcoming hospitality drew heated moisture to his eyes.
CHAPTER NİNE
JULY SUNSHINE SHIMMERED across the tops of the trees. Cecy propped her chin in her hands as she gazed out the open window, thoughts tracking over the past weeks. Grandmama had visited, then left. Cecilia could not pretend much sorrow at her leave-taking. Or any, really. Grandmama had always preferred Caroline and Verity. Perhaps that was because they spoke up and said their piece, whereas she too often was caught fumbling for an answer, a delay which always led to sighs and a moving on of conversation. At times the words sprang to mind, but politeness—or was it fear?—held them back. What must it be like to be as bold as Verity, fearless as she spoke her mind? Cecy could only wish for the courage to do the same. Grandmama’s criticisms had been relentless, censuring her clothes, her hair, her meekness.
But Cecy could not be bold. Part of her heart, the part infusing courage, had fled to London, and would forever be gone. The air was stale, the birds off-key, and pretending to smile, to own contentment, had never felt so hard.
A visit last week to Lady Rovingham had proved excruciating. Mother had asked how Ned was getting on, and Lady Rovingham’s replies, couched in the language of the vague, had provided little to reassure. It seemed he was working with his uncle, was enjoying his work, and enjoying what social life he could find.
She had smiled as if glad his enjoyment precluded her, and smiled harder when, at her farewell, Lady Rovingham had whispered, “Please keep him in your prayers.”
“Of course,” she had somehow managed to say. “I pray for all my neighbors.”
Lady Rovingham had looked at her closely, but she said nothing more. Upon her return to Aynsley Manor, Cecy had run to her diary and poured out her thoughts about this latest flick on the raw. She sensed Lady Rovingham wished her no ill, but rather meant to be kindly, hence her invitation for them to return for dinner sometime soon.
Cecy’s days were filled with numbness, the joy drained from the sky. Her daily Scripture reading buoyed her spirits, but only for a few moments. She struggled to recall the verses as the interminable daily drear weighed down. It was a chore to visit Mrs. Cherry, to maintain polite nothings with her mother and younger sister. She spent her days wandering Aynsley’s grounds, practicing pianoforte, even dabbling in her sketchbook, but she had embarked on a drifting endless waiting game, with no conclusion in sight.
Verity’s enforced time home from school provided some measure of relief. Her leg had healed, which was something to be thankful for. But her younger sister, whose days had for too long been hindered by injury, now seemed to think
her days too short and thus best spent in hoydenish activity. She would often be gone for hours on her horse, gone to the spinney to climb trees—which more than once had seen her return home with a torn gown. Verity always had to be doing, doing, doing, much to Mama’s despair. Cecy had been forced to play the peacemaker so frequently that she’d reached the point of encouraging Verity to spend time with Sophy Heathcote, as much to get her away from inadvertently causing Mama’s histrionics, as to the less noble reason of providing excuse to spend time with Mama and thus avoid the now too-frequent visits of Stephen.
She grimaced, and dipped her pen, continuing today’s inscription.
Stephen Heathcote visited with his mother this morning. It was pleasant enough at first, but I find I have little to say to him. We share few common interests, and our conversation sputtered in starts and stops. I cannot help but wonder if he is like so many of those gentlemen I met in London whose interest might live in their attempts to dance and converse, but never in their eyes. S is pleasant, but I always feel awkward as I try to avoid encouraging hopes for a union I suspect his mother wishes for more than my mother does. The answer is, and must forever be, no. I could not align myself with a man with whom I share no common values, let alone interests. How I wish dear N could have viewed me in such a way.
She sighed, sanded off the ink, and gently closed the leather-bound book. She should write a letter to Caro, off somewhere in France with her husband, but she didn’t feel like it. She could write a letter to Serena, soon to be a mother, but she didn’t want to. It seemed unfair that she should be the one forced to write messages of goodwill when she lacked good in her own life.
“I’m feeling sorry for myself.”
“Yes, you are.”
Cecy jumped, spun in her chair as her younger sister strode into the room. “Verity!”
“If you don’t want people to overhear when you talk to yourself, you best close the door.” She moved to Cecy’s bed and plopped upon it, the long train of the riding habit spilling onto the floor. “So, what has you in such a fix that you feel sorry for yourself?”
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 9
