“I suppose the true question of legality is whether those who gathered ever had such a purpose, and whether that can be proved truly in a court of law.”
“Be proved truly or truly proved?” The hard stare sent ice to his heart.
“Both, sir.”
“Well said!” Lord Fearnley clapped Ned on the shoulder amid a chorus of approval. “You sounded much like your father, then. An honorable man, indeed.”
Mr. Whittaker eyed Ned with an expression that was hard to read, infusing doubt as to whether he believed Ned’s words stemmed from honor. Those words might prove more hindrance than help when it came time for barrister positions to be awarded, yet he could not regret them. He’d spoken naught but the truth. He would simply have to trust God to open that door at a time that suited His purposes.
He glanced across at Lord Winthrop, who even now was murmuring excuses to leave. “I must beg your forgiveness, but family matters call me home.”
There was a chorus of disapprobation but the deep voice carried on. “Thank you for a very enjoyable meal. If you would be so good as to pass on my regrets to Lady Fearnley.”
“Of course.”
He gave a short bow, and exited the room.
Sensing his chance at apology was slipping away Ned pushed to his feet. “Excuse me,” he muttered, unable to manufacture a more gracious excuse, and hurried after him. Just in time to catch Lord Winthrop in the entry hall as he was putting on his coat.
“Excuse me, my lord.”
“Yes?” The cold eyes held little encouragement.
“I would beg your indulgence for a few minutes of your time.”
“Well?”
Ned glanced over his shoulder at the footmen waiting impassively. “Perhaps not here.”
“Then make an appointment.” He turned. “I really must go.” Whatever he was returning to had furrowed his brow.
“Thank you. I’m sorry to have held you up.”
“My wife’s sister. She’s unwell. I must go—”
“I will pray for her.”
Lord Winthrop looked up in surprise. “Thank you.”
And without further ado, he hurried down the steps to a waiting carriage.
The evening concluded, leaving Ned with mingled emotions, ruing his missed chance, praying for this poor woman, whilst hoping the viscountess might remember his concern and somehow see his plans set free.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“CECILIA, I HAVE received another invitation.”
Oh dear. The invitations Mother received and spoke of in that way were always of the same ilk. Invitations to house parties and people with eligible sons whom she had no desire to meet, let alone be forced to endure inane conversation with for days on end.
“This one is being hosted by Lady Henrietta Aldershot. She has specifically requested your attendance, and I truly feel it would be impolite to refuse.”
Cecy nodded, hiding her misgivings. It did not matter how many invitations she received, she was never going to change her mind about the man who refused to leave her heart.
But … perhaps it would not be such a bad thing. Verity was heading back to school at the end of the week, and being away meant opportunity to forget Ned, to be away from those places that she now associated with him, like Mrs. Cherry’s. Oh, if only she could forget him …
“Cecilia, I do hope you shall try to make an effort. Young gentlemen need encouragement, not the cold shoulder, so I do hope you will attempt to show them you are not so very missish. One is not expected to enter into all of their pursuits and interests, of course; a young lady is certainly not expected to consider a young gentleman as a friend. How could she? Not when young gentlemen are so superior to young ladies in intellect, and practical sense.”
“Mother—”
“No, Cecilia, let me finish. Ladies certainly have the advantage when it comes to one’s finer feelings, as indeed they must for their roles as helpmeet and mother, so I do not decry our roles. But I was never in any doubt as to who held the advantage of intelligence so far as my own marriage was concerned.”
Cecy held her tongue. But whether her father was intelligent enough to see his wife held so many of the strings that made him do her bidding, she rather wondered at.
“Mother,” Verity’s voice came from the door. “Are you seriously expecting us to believe young men are supposed to be our superior simply because of their luck in being born male?”
“Well, not superior, but superior in intelligence, yes.”
Verity snorted, eyes flashing as she drew near. “I refuse to believe such things. I have yet to meet a young man—indeed, any man—who knows as much about geography and mathematics as I do.”
“Verity! It is extremely arrogant to speak so, and disrespectful. Why your father—”
“Does not even know where New Holland is.”
Her mother lifted a thin shoulder. “Why should anyone?”
“The only man I’ve met with a grain of intelligence is Gideon.”
“Yes, well, that’s because he recognized Caroline’s sterling qualities.”
“No, it’s because he knows a surprising amount about the natural world. But as for the other young men around here—”
“You are too young to have met many.”
“I know John, and he’s always surly and thinking more highly of himself than he ought.”
“Not the only one around here guilty of such a crime,” Mother said with a glint in her eye.
Verity ignored her. “As for Stephen Heathcote, I tried to explain to him about the Volga but he insisted on telling me I was wrong and that it was in Belgium.” Verity turned to face Cecy. “And then there’s Ned.”
“What about him?”
“If he had a particle of common sense, he would recognize what he could have instead of throwing it away.”
“Verity?” Mother said, looking between them with a frown. “Precisely to what do you refer?”
Cecy shook her head slightly at Verity, which caused her to sigh deeply. “Nothing, Mother.”
“That was not nothing. Come, I demand to be told what it was you referred to.”
With an apologetic look at Cecy, Verity said, “I suppose I mean that he was foolish to abandon so many of the good things he could have enjoyed around here.”
Cecy’s throat tightened, conscious that while her sister did not look at her, Mother most certainly did.
“He could have lived at Franklin Park,” Verity continued, “but nothing would do save that he went to London and acted in a way that was certainly not what one would expect for a supposedly intelligent man. And he continues, thinking he can help the poor, thinking he can hide the gyp—” she broke off, casting Cecy a wide-eyed glance.
Cecy frowned, but Mother’s attention had wandered, as it was wont to do when Verity spoke, and she was now examining her tambour, a pleat high in her brow.
“I cannot understand why I have run out of this color—” Her muttering ceased, and she looked at her youngest daughter, eyes narrowing slightly. “I beg your pardon? I was not attending.”
Verity threw Cecy a wry look before concluding. “It was nothing, Mother. I was simply trying to express that I think it unfair to automatically assume men are more intelligent than females, especially when men are so often given advantages that permit them to display their intellect, advantages so often denied ladies. Why, if I could study at university—”
“Oh, my dear! Do not say such things!”
Verity made a noise halfway between a snort and a sigh of resignation, closing her eyes briefly as her hands clenched.
“Mother,” Cecy interposed, seeking distraction, “I believe you will find the new thread in the drawing room. Remember, we bought some not so very long ago.”
“Now I recall.” Mother nodded, admonishing Verity for standing there like a petulant statue and requesting that she summon the housekeeper to look in the drawing room and retrieve said spool of thread.
Verity hastened
off, no doubt as eager to be gone as Mother was to see the back of her.
Mother exhaled heavily. “I simply do not know what to do with her. I thought Haverstock’s would have managed to gain some influence over her by now, but it seems every time she returns she has grown more strong-minded and outspoken.” She shuddered. “Can you imagine if the world turned topsy-turvy and she could study at university?”
Cecy could, and thought it would prove no bad thing. She smiled, and said in a way she hoped would appease, “I would think she would hold her own very well. She is certainly more intelligent than many people give her credit for.”
“Yes, but gentlemen certainly do not admire such qualities in young ladies. They prefer ladies to be pliant, to be pleasing to the eye, to admire them. I certainly cannot see Verity doing that, can you?”
No.
Mother shook her head. “And she has no sense as to how to dress, or make herself appear to advantage, no matter how many times I speak to her about those things. Why she always insists on racing about in riding habits I shall never know.”
Cecy did. Verity had often decried the round gowns of Mother’s choosing as being completely impractical for the life of someone who wished to ride whenever she so chose.
“I don’t know why Mama complains. Riding habits are so much more practical! One can stride about and get places quickly.”
Cecy had voiced Mother’s fear. “But are you not afraid it gives you rather a mannish stride?”
“Better that than mincing about like Caro does,” Verity had retorted.
“Caro doesn’t mince,” Cecy had thought it only prudent to say. “She merely does what Mother considers proper.”
“I wonder if she will always,” Verity had said, thoughtfulness on her face.
Perhaps Verity was something of a seer, for it was not so many months later that the prim and proper eldest sister had behaved in a manner far removed from propriety—a manner that had, at least, secured the affection and wedding ring of her husband.
Was a gross breech of propriety what Cecy would need to do to secure the affection of the man she had long admired? She sighed.
The sound called Mother’s attention to her. “Yes, I know it must be a burden for you, and doubtless you must have some concerns that your younger sister’s thoughtless words and actions may impair your chances at contracting an eligible match. But you need not fear. As I was saying before, I am sure that if you continue to show yourself pliable and agreeable to young men, we shall soon be seeing you contract a very eligible union. You need but be patient, and remember to show young men you find their society pleasing and their attentions welcomed. That cannot be so very hard to do, can it?”
Cecy forced up her lips.
Mother’s brows rose, as if she awaited a reply.
“Of course not, Mother,” she finally said, to her mother’s satisfied smile.
A break for luncheon found him at the offices of Carlew. Lord Winthrop’s place of business held the busy sheen of success one did not normally associate with a member of the aristocracy, but Ned could not judge. The man clearly knew how to financially thrive.
He was led past a large room containing a long table surrounded by chairs, each position neatly marked by a sheaf of papers, into a smaller room, where Lord Winthrop looked up from his desk as he entered. They exchanged bowed greetings, and Ned was gestured to a seat.
“Forgive me, but I have a meeting set to start shortly.”
“Of course. I shan’t take long.”
The other man waited, brows raised, his expression holding the lightest trace of impatience.
He swallowed. This did not look promising. Did he still hold him in abhorrence? “I … wanted to apologize to you personally for the matters of last year.”
Lord Winthrop’s brow furrowed. “What matters?”
Had he forgotten? “Concerning your sister.”
“Julia? What—? Oh.” His expression cleared. “You’re that man. Forgive me, Amherst, you look different.”
“Perhaps because I am not in a sickbed.”
“No, no. There is something different about your demeanor.”
“I am different,” Ned said slowly. “I have been challenged about my past behavior and am doing all in my power to do differently. Which is why I am here asking for your forgiveness for the manner in which I behaved with your sister.”
He frowned. “You have spoken to Julia’s husband about this?”
“Last April.”
“And what did he say?”
“He was all that was gracious, and was prepared to pardon me for both his sake and his wife’s.”
“Then why are you here speaking with me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You do not need my forgiveness. You had it long ago. Perhaps you do not remember when you were so sick and I came to visit you, but you sought it and I gave it then.” He shook his head. “I really don’t know why people make such a fuss about this, especially as you only escorted her on a few outings.” He cocked an eyebrow as if awaiting an answer.
Ned gave it. “That is true.”
“Then why let your guilt dictate your life? I am not your judge. In fact, your only judge is God, and if you repent and are truly sorry, which I gather from your appearance here that you are, then why continue to seek absolution from others? If indeed you still feel guilt then perhaps it is time to ask God why.”
The words struck anvil-like against his heart.
“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly,” Lord Winthrop continued, “but I gathered from your comment the other night that you are a praying man.”
“Yes.”
“Then pray and ask God for His wisdom, and perhaps help to accept His mercy.” His grave face creased into a smile. “I know myself to be frail, but something I have learned in recent years is the importance of recognizing that mercy triumphs over judgment. So, don’t permit the condemnation of the evil one to take the place of seeing God’s compassion for you. Understand God’s plans are for good, not to be a weighty burden. Remember that He is with us, in both good times and challenges, empowering us for His work.”
It would be unmanly to permit the moisture collecting at the back of his eyes to fall. He settled for lowering his head, clearing his throat, and muttering a thank-you.
“Don’t thank me.” He pushed to his feet. “Now, I’m afraid you must excuse me.”
“Your meeting, of course.” He bowed. “Still, I appreciate your time. And your words of encouragement.”
Lord Winthrop chuckled. “Not my words, but God’s.”
Ned inclined his head.
Lord Winthrop collected papers from his desk. “Oh, before you go, thank you.”
“For what?”
“Your prayers seem most powerful and effective. My sister-in-law has made a good recovery, and her babe is still yet unborn, and for that my wife is relieved, and I am also.”
Ned nodded. “Thank God.”
“I do.” The blue-gray eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you should do more of that, too.”
Ned dipped his head and soon made his escape, the words tumbling through his head, his heart, his mind. Had he truly misunderstood what God was saying? Was he not supposed to live his days in penance, trying to atone for the wrongs of the past? Had he in effect joined with the crowd of stone-throwers and imagined his crime to be worse than it was?
“Hackney?”
He shook his head at the cab driver’s call. He needed time to think this through, time provided by walking. Lord Winthrop’s words applied as much for the situation with Julia Hale as they did the one with Baxter. With his father. With John. He had sought forgiveness from all those he could; wasn’t it time he lived in God’s grace himself?
For the first time in a long time he allowed himself to think on those weeks late last year, pushing past the haze of guilt to see the facts. The foolish young man desperate to cast off restraint, gambling away his inheritance in a series of increasingly outrageous b
ets. Dropping one thousand pounds on which raindrop slid first to the bottom of a window had not been enough. His quest—and that of his friends—to relieve boredom soon demanded more, until one November day someone had said, when they were all well and truly drunk at Watier’s, “I wonder how long a man can survive underwater?”
“One minute,” Ned had said.
“Five minutes.”
“One hour!”
Ned had struggled past the whiskey-induced lethargy to protest. “A man can’t survive that long. That is nonsense.”
“How do you know? There’s only one way to find out.”
“How?”
“We find a willing man and see if he can last an hour underwater.”
“You can’t do that,” Ned had said. “He’ll drown.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But if someone is willing to take the chance, suitably recompensed of course, then who are we to stop him?”
“You’ll never find someone so foolish,” Ned had scoffed.
“Don’t be so sure. There are many desperate people out there.”
Ned felt a trickle of fear as he realized his friends were in earnest. “Not desperate enough to die though, surely.”
“You willing to make that bet?”
Ned ignored the determined glint in his friend’s eye. Then, when they began discussing various men they knew—impoverished relatives of peers possibly willing to accept such a bet—he ignored the pang of conscience he felt, demanding that he stay, and instead offered only a final weak objection and then left.
Had he protested too much, thereby firming his friends into resolution? Or had he not protested enough, and not swayed reason into their alcohol-fogged brains?
Regardless, it was too late now. He had departed as matters descended into wicked purpose, meeting Caro by chance—or God’s design?—and had not realized until weeks later they had found a poor fool and carried out their plan. Of course Baxter drowned. Of course they had been found out. And, because he’d been overheard speaking with them at Watier’s, of course society blamed Ned, too.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 18
