She whirled around the dance floor, for once never without a partner, her slight smile fixed in an expression she hoped looked friendly enough and not haughty, all the while wishing herself a hundred miles away. What torture it was to be sought by someone she had no interest in, to be forced to converse with those she suspected only saw her for her dowry rather than as a person, to be forced to pretend she did not care for the one she was ever unable to forget.
How she wished she might find something in Mr. Bromsgrove appealing. She supposed he was kind, and he certainly was proper, with no whiff of a scandal about him—he would never have acquired a bullet wound whilst escorting a married lady about town! She should find such things pleasing. She should …
But he did not understand her attempts at levity, his interests tended to those of profits from manufactories rather than people, and he seemed to have but a Sunday interest in God, as questions about his reading of Scripture had revealed his disinclination for such endeavors. He was, in short, not a man she wished to devote her life to.
Not the man she wished to devote her life to.
Later that evening, when they had finally returned to the house and Mother had asked her opinion of the house’s eldest son, Cecy had finally thrown off the shackles of politeness and told her mother the truth.
“I cannot marry him.”
“But Mariah is one of my dearest friends!”
Cecy said nothing.
“He comes from a good family, and has an estate waiting for him to bring home a wife.”
“His house may be waiting for a wife but she shall not be me.”
She had sighed. “Because he is not Edward Amherst?”
Cecy ducked her head. “I am sorry that you would prefer me to forget him, but I cannot.”
“But he does not care for you.”
“I know.”
“But this is madness! What do you intend to do, wear the willow for him while he marries someone else? Can you not see how pathetic this will make you appear in the eyes of everyone?”
Cecy winced, but said in a soft voice, “I know how it will look. I know I disappoint you. I wish I did not feel this way but I do.”
Mother cast a look of long-suffering at the ceiling. “I suspect nothing that I say will make a difference.”
“That is likely true.” Cecy gave a twisted smile.
“Well, I wash my hands of you. I suppose I shall have to beg poor Mariah’s pardon and make excuses to leave soon. There is no point putting up with such a farce.”
“No,” she agreed.
The sooner they left this place and were done with pretense the better.
THE NEXT DAY saw a coolness from Lady Bromsgrove, as it became apparent Mother had spoken to her and fashioned an excuse to leave. Precisely what that excuse was remained unclear, and the polite nothings during the remaining visit made her very glad their stay soon concluded.
In the carriage heading back to Aynsley, Mother’s displeasure was finally vented.
“I cannot understand this. You know you must marry, yet it seems you turn your nose up at any eligible gentleman simply because he is not the ineligible one you have so foolishly fallen for!”
Cecy had looked down. “Is he really so very ineligible?”
Her mother snorted, in a manner sure to bring censure upon the heads of any of her daughters who did such a thing, and continued her diatribe against Ned Amherst.
Cecy could say nothing; so many of the allegations were true. Yet still her stubborn heart demanded that hope not be abandoned. She was glad to return to Aynsley and meet her father, whose return with his youngest child from Saltings had coincided with Verity’s latest misadventure, though one hardly romantic or truly adventurous: a cold.
Mother’s glad reunion with Papa soon turned to sighs as she contemplated her daughters. “What have I done to deserve such ungrateful children?”
“But Mama”—Verity gave a loud sniff into her handkerchief—“I did not get a cold on purpose.”
“Such things come because you are careless, my girl. From what your dear father says, you were forever running around in the sea air without so much as a shawl to protect you! Everyone knows fresh air is unhealthy.”
Cecy exchanged glances with Verity and bit her tongue.
“And there is no need for you to look so smug, Cecilia. Your behavior, in dragging me all the way to Warwickshire and then back, forgoing opportunity to spend time with a perfectly eligible young man, is quite unconscionable.”
“I am sorry, Mama. Truly.”
“If you were truly sorry you would have made more of an effort, my dear.”
Cecy cast a look at her father, who held a frown. “But I would not want to see my daughter marry where she cannot love.”
“Well, of course not,” Mama said, in a placated tone.
Again Cecy had to hide her smile at her mother’s vagaries.
Verity’s sniffles soon saw her driven from the room, chased by Mother’s admonitions that she should have a warm compress for her chest and a mustard bath for her feet.
Father leaned forward on the sofa he shared with her mother. “But Cecilia, I don’t understand. I thought you were pleased to visit.”
“I was.” Until she’d known the situation at Franklin Park had been resolved.
“But you find you cannot like Charles Bromsgrove, is that it?”
“He is perfectly amiable, but … but he is not for me.”
“Then who—?”
“Oh, my dearest, have you forgotten? She still holds a candle for Edward Amherst.”
Her cheeks heated, but her father’s eyes held none of the impatience of her mother. “Is this true, Cecilia?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I suppose I am not wholly unsurprised. But I own I cannot like it. You understand his dealings last year cultivated something of a reputation that we would not like to see besmirch our name.”
But how long must he pay for his misdeeds? “I … I understood them to have been exaggerated beyond what truly occurred.”
“And how can you know this?”
She bit her lip. Dare she tell them what he had confided to her? “I … I was told this by Mr. Amherst himself.”
“He told you? When did he tell you? How dare he soil your ears with such things? You cannot be so naïve as to think he would tell you anything that might show himself to disadvantage.”
Father placed a hand on Mother’s arm, quieting her, his eyes never leaving Cecy’s face. “What did he say?”
“He … he said that he had tried to be someone he was not and had fallen in with a wrong crowd, people who gambled and engaged in activities most ungentlemanly.” She swallowed. “He took offense when I said … when I said …” Her cheeks grew hot at the memory of the word she’d said.
“When you said what?” her father pressed.
“When I said people called him a Lothario.”
Her mother’s jaw sagged. “Tell me you did not speak so to a gentleman!”
She could not lie, so she said nothing.
“Well, in all justice, it is what people said about him,” her father said before his frown grew more pronounced. “Not that I ever want to hear my daughter speak in that manner.”
“I’m sorry.”
He leaned back, gazing out the French window. “I wonder if things have been exaggerated. There was talk among the clubs that the business with that man—Baxter, wasn’t it?—was but a hum.”
Baxter?
Her father’s gaze returned. “Regardless of his past, he does seem more settled now, and by all accounts from Rovingham he seems to have settled into London life well.”
Again Cecy held her tongue. An expression of gladness just now would certainly not meet with approval.
“Rovingham says he is working extremely hard.”
“Yes, well, allowances must be made for a father’s natural affection,” Mother interposed.
“Be that as it may, I think it only just to not
e Amherst does appear a changed man.”
She knew why he had changed, but suspected her parents would not appreciate the truth. They had never been ones for discussions about the importance of God and relationship with Him. Finally, conscious they looked to be awaiting some response from her, she dared, “I … I believe he found his experiences important for propelling him towards faith.”
“Let me not hear any more of that nonsense.”
“I … I do not think it nonsense, Father. I have found great comfort from the Bible, too.” She swallowed. “Lady Rovingham has encouraged me to read Scripture, and I believe that it is true.”
“That the world was created from nothing? That a man rose from the dead? Such things are but fairy stories.”
Cecy prayed for courage, and she continued softly, “I cannot help but wonder how else the world was to be formed. I do not pretend to have expertise in these matters, but we know that Caro’s husband does. Perhaps when we next see them we could ask him for his thoughts, seeing as he also believes, yet is a scientist, and such a learned man.”
“A delusional man,” her father grumbled.
“He cannot be considered so very delusional if he was asked to speak at the Royal Geological Society, can he?” Cecy leaned back, praying her comments might bring a grain of reason to his thoughts.
She would need to continue to pray for her parents. Pray for Verity. Pray for Mr. Amherst. And pray for her future.
Another long day of writing reports for his uncle had been leavened by the news that the next planned demonstration in Manchester had once again been postponed. That news was enough to ignite hope that such things might continue to be put off, until his secret report could be finalized. He was making progress, his nights still spent scouring for details about the challenges workers faced. At times he wondered if he was followed, but soon dismissed such thoughts as fancies. Other times he wondered what his father would say if he knew what lengths Ned was going to in order to reveal the injustice farther north.
Growing up as the son of an earl who had ascended to the title at a relatively young age, Ned had never had much reason to consider the challenges of those less privileged in life, those who did not own an easy competence and a respectable lodging, and for whom work was a necessary means to provide. His friends had always tended to be those of a similar leaning, apart from those unfortunate enough as to have been forced into the sphere of the war, who, upon their return—those who had returned—had generally adopted one of two extremes: complete dissipation at the freedom from the shackles imposed by the military, or the opposite, complete disdain for those who lived a ramshackle life.
Time in London had given him new appreciation for the views of the latter. He now saw, even more clearly than before, just how his former eagerness to live a pleasure-filled life of dissipated ease would have been viewed by those who had risked life and limb to secure England’s freedom. His experience with Aideen and her brothers only reinforced the stark difference between the haves and have-nots. He had no illusions that his work now held any such terrors, although at times he wondered if a visit to London’s less salubrious quarters might see him lose his purse of coin, but at least now he could own something like self-respect. His work, both for his uncle and for the disenfranchised, might have been sneered at by some of his former chums, but as they had so obligingly left the country after that appalling incident with Baxter, he paid them little mind.
Baxter. His skin crawled. How could he have forgotten that poor man? He spent a moment praying for God’s forgiveness. When his guilt felt slightly eased, he allowed his thoughts to continue to wander.
His world had shrunk to the gentlemen who worked with his uncle, and to his uncle’s family, and to his times at church and rest on Sundays. His contact with others was small, the few invitations that came his way made him rather feel like those small moles that lived so long underground and just occasionally poked a head out to see more of the world.
One of these rare invitations was from Simon St. Clair, Lord Abbotsbury, whose invitation to dine yesterday at White’s had proved a welcome respite from his duties. The time with his former university friend, whose succession to a marquestry had followed his athletic cousin’s recent and very unexpected death in a tragic shooting accident, had provided salve to his bruised social standing, and the hope that perhaps not all of his former acquaintances would toss the friendship to one side as though his claims upon them might contaminate. Abbotsbury had even gone so far as to suggest Ned might like to accompany him on a trip to Hampshire in the next few months.
“My godmother, y’know, and so I’m obliged to visit every year or so. But I have never liked her son, and I fear with this latest news he will have even more reason to dislike me, so quite frankly the thought of going there holds little prospect of joy. However, if I were to attend with you …”
“Would she not mind my attendance?”
“Oh no. She has always proved quite the most genial hostess. I’ll write to her, and she’ll likely be so pleased to think a marquess will come she won’t quibble as to who I bring with me.”
She might quibble once she knew who he brought with him. Ned kept that thought locked behind his teeth. He was trying to live less in the past.
“Then I will consider it. Thank you.”
The time had proved brief respite, before the siren call of work resumed once more.
An hour later, he finished writing the last paper, and saw—as usual—he was last to depart. But at least it wasn’t as late as other nights this week. He sanded off the document, carefully folded it and wrote its direction, and placed it in the basket ready for delivery tomorrow.
A yawn, a cough, and he locked up. Another yawn, and he crossed the street to a coffeehouse, where the hubbub and animation gave reminder that life was more than work.
Uncle Lionel had made it plain he should not spend all his time working, that times of refreshing were necessary to boost his spirits and bring some joy. Aunt Susannah had also expressed concern that he was working himself to the bone; something that perhaps held an element of truth, as his clothes were beginning to hang rather scarecrow-like on him.
Even his mother had urged him to ensure he did not forgo all pleasure, urging him in her most recent letter to come home, even if for a brief visit. But still the urge to stay compelled him; after all, his misdeeds meant he didn’t deserve pleasure.
After ordering his meal, he drew forth the letter he’d received this morning, smoothed the crumpled page. The noise surrounding him dulled as he reread his mother’s words, news about the family, and the district. News about their neighbors.
In other news, the Aynsleys have removed north where I believe it is hoped that little Cecilia shall find a match with the Bromsgrove heir. I confess I cannot like it, but such a match would surely be better than one with young Heathcote, who, I fear, has been paying her far too much attention in recent times.
He frowned. How could sweet Cecilia encourage the attentions of a man like him?
I do wish you would come home soon. You know I cannot but worry, and I suspect from the tone of your correspondence that at times you must feel lonesome.
His gaze lifted from the paper and he chewed his lower lip.
She was right; he was lonesome. But his was a righteous cause, one where he was doing good, and surely doing good had to outweigh any personal regret. He could not afford to indulge the fancies of the heart, not while God wanted him to do important deeds. Besides, he had not met anyone for whom he had felt the slightest stirrings of affection.
An image of chestnut curls and blue eyes flashed into his mind. He shoved it away. Even if he did hold her in regard, she lived too far away, with parents sure to scorn him into shame, and he would not, could not, encourage her to hope when he had nothing to give. Besides, she had other suitors deemed far more suitable; she would not miss him.
His lips tightened, and he folded the paper away. Instead, he would remain, proving to his uncle,
to his family, to his God, that he had changed. And if that meant feeling a little lonesome at times, then so be it. God would not have it any other way.
CHAPTER FİFTEEN
AUGUST PROVED ESPECIALLY warm, the weather as well as the news of the protests farther north dispiriting to Cecy’s spirits. Mother’s disappointment with Cecy’s refusal of Charles Bromsgrove’s attentions had abated somewhat, perhaps because she had found a new source of angst in the trials of her younger daughter, who had recovered from her cold, only to scandalize Mama by a ride through the village unescorted. “How could you do this? To have so little care for what is due the family name?”
Verity’s protestations that such actions were not prompted by any desire to scandalize the family but simply a desire to ride without any feeling of being trapped had not appeased Mama in the least. Indeed, Verity and Mama were at each other’s heads for much of the time. Their snapping seemed as much cause as product of the thunderstorms that swept the countryside, leading everyone to look forward to the day when Verity would return to Miss Haverstock’s Seminary in Bath.
For herself, Cecy found the constant effort of trying to be the peacemaker exhausting. She and Father exchanged not a few wearied glances as the two stronger-willed members of the family exchanged barely concealed barbs, such barbs finally leading Father to utter an ultimatum: if people could not speak kindly, then he would prefer meals to be taken in silence, thank you very much. But still the exchanges continued when he was absent, leaving Cecy to count the days until Verity returned to school, and to try to recall the Bible verses she read about love and patience, and to write in her journal about the excellent responses she could have said when provoked that unfortunately didn’t come to mind until many hours later.
With Mama’s attention somewhat helpfully distracted away from Cecy’s refusal of Charles Bromsgrove, a dinner invitation to the Rovinghams to meet some visiting cousins appeared an excellent diversion. However, it proved to be not so very excellent, as it seemed to remind Mother precisely why Cecy had refused to entertain the addresses of the son of her old school friend.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 15
