“I agree. I … I have found the poor people’s situation profoundly moving.”
He glanced at the table, offered a small smile. “It seems as if most people here prefer the artificial, things of distraction designed to dull our cares.”
“But surely such cares should not be dulled? How can anything ever be improved unless one first sees all is not as it should be?”
“I’m dining with a philosopher, I see.”
Heat filled her cheeks. “Not at all. I am simply a Christian, someone who cares, wishing I could do more.”
“Do more?” His smile warmed his eyes. “Have you been one of those ladies marching, flag in hand?”
A chuckle escaped. “I almost wish I could. My sister thinks I ought to join one of the Ladies Reform Societies, but I would hardly know where to begin.”
“Hmm. Well, I’m afraid I cannot help you, nor can I see your mother countenancing such a thing. The man you want is Mr. Amherst.”
Her heart jolted. How true that was. Or it had been. She shook her head, wishing she could shake free from the coil of emotion thoughts of him always wound about her heart. She must forget him. Please, God.
“Miss Hatherleigh?”
Lord Abbotsbury’s question of concern was echoed by Lord Robert across the table. “Is something not to your liking?”
Many things were not, but only one thing could be said. “We were simply speaking on the terrible events in St. Peter’s Field.”
“Where? Oh, you mean in Manchester? Yes, a very bad business—”
“But not one for conversation with ladies present,” said their hostess, in a tone that would brook no opposition. “Now, Miss Hatherleigh, I wonder—might we prevail upon you to play tonight? I am sure we would all like to hear your performance.”
Cecy sighed, and was about to meekly agree, when Lord Abbotsbury said, “Madam, would it be too much to request that we forgo the musical entertainments tonight? I wonder, if instead, we might enjoy another activity. Perhaps a reading of one of Shakespeare’s plays.”
“Or another game, like we enjoyed this afternoon,” said Miss Fairley with enthusiasm. “I am sure there could be no dissension should such a game be offered.”
“No, indeed,” said Lord Robert, to whom this seemed to be addressed, his countenance brightening as it always did whenever one of the young ladies glanced his way.
So, when they moved to the drawing room, the older ladies were soon engaged in several games of whist, while the younger members surrounded several tables to play Spillikins.
Cecy’s internal agitation affected her concentration and the careful steady hand movements necessary for success in such a game. She soon spilled her straws to the table, after which Lord Abbotsbury quickly lost also, releasing them to engage in conversation near the fire.
He, at least, was a sensible man, his admiration plain, so that listening to him, answering his occasional questions, was no very great trial. The trial lay in watching those still playing, Ned’s nimble fingers snatching the spilled straws with ease, as Miss Fairley encouraged from alongside.
She glanced away, met the assessment in Lord Abbotsbury’s eyes, found a smile.
“You have known Ned for some time.”
“Y-yes.”
“I wonder …” He trailed off, and before he could continue, there came a shout from the room.
“Oh, Mr. Amherst has won!” cried Miss Fairley, looking up at him as if his feat was worthy of a Waterloo hero.
Cecy ducked her head before Ned could see how such actions affected her, and began to speak quickly to the marquess. “I wonder, from your remark before, which Shakespearean production you would have recommended for performance.”
“Oh, not performance,” he said. “A mere reading.” He leaned closer. “I find some chaperones can be a little disapproving when playacting is involved.”
“Play reading is so very different, after all,” agreed Cecy drily.
He gave a crack of laughter, which instantly drew all eyes to them, and caused her cheeks to heat. He leaned closer, smiling at her. “I do like how you say the most surprising things.”
His words brought back the memory of something similar Ned had once said, forcing her into the need to blink rapidly.
“This fire is rather warm, is it not?”
She swallowed emotion, managed to murmur her agreement.
“Miss Hatherleigh.” She glanced up quickly. “Would you care to accompany me on a walk to the long gallery? It seems a number of others look a little bored. We need only to assure your mother that our walk shall be quite unexceptionable, and I feel it would do us all some good to get away from the stifling atmosphere.”
“Y-yes.” It would do her good to be able to move away from the sight of Ned flirting with young ladies.
Lord Abbotsbury’s voluble suggestion to the rest of the party met with approbation, and she soon accompanied him and the others to the long gallery, a place, so he assured her, long used by the younger members of the family for relaxation during inclement weather.
“I have only ever stayed here as a visitor—Lady Aldershot is my godmother, you see—but I do recall several occasions when inclement weather led to rather interesting sights.”
“Really?”
“Really. Once, I was so privileged to witness the sight of a sheep that had somehow been smuggled up here.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. Robert’s older sisters have always had rather more spunk than I fear he owns.”
This led to Cecy sharing about Verity’s ride up the back stairs at Aynsley, which drew a sound of amusement from the marquess. “Oh, I do think I would like her.”
“She is high spirited, that is true.”
Is that what young men admired? Young ladies of high spirits and careless of proprieties? Is that why Mr. Amherst seemed to prefer the company of Miss Fairley? She peeked at him now, head bowed, listening as the blonde clutching his arm chattered and giggled on.
Her companion stopped before a bust of Lord Aldershot, designed to look like a Grecian god. “I do not think it looks much like our host, do you? But then I often find such things are idealized, which I suppose cannot be wondered at, for who would want to appear less attractive than we might truly appear?” He gave a rueful grin. “Some of us, of course, wish very much that we might appear to greater advantage than what our true appearance avails.”
She placed a hand on his arm, “Oh, you should not speak so.”
He placed a hand on top of hers. But again, there was no tingle, not like the fire that had leapt between the skin of Mr. Amherst and herself this afternoon.
A cleared throat saw her look up, meet Ned’s frown, and draw back her hand. Heat crossed her chest. How dare he object, when the lady he was with was doing much the same? And how foolish was she to even care about his opinion? Was she not supposed to be forgetting him? He didn’t want her; he had made that plain by his lack of conversation with her. Perhaps she should grasp the marquess’s arm again.
“I wonder,” Lord Abbotsbury said, “if we sometimes make other people like these idols. I am sure there are some, like our Regent, perhaps, who think it only proper that others regard him with the esteem and unquestioned fealty that would be best placed instead upon God.”
She nodded.
“Have you ever observed, Miss Hatherleigh, the many people who follow another simply because one says one ought to follow this man’s fashions, or wear this style of coat, or be induced to wear this style of hair—however unflattering it might be—simply because it is considered en vogue?”
“I have,” she murmured, thinking of the braided coronet hairstyle she had been encouraged to adopt during her season, even though her curls refused to behave and left her looking rather more clown-like than beauteous.
“Why do you think it might be so?”
“I suppose it is because we are destined to crave approval.”
“Yes. But another’s approval is so very transient, do yo
u not find?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“I find it very strange. So often what is approved one day is not approved the next. The lack of consistency makes me wonder about the wisdom of seeking such approval in the first place.”
“I think you are very right.”
“Would that we could hold to these principles beyond philosophical discussions, and remember them in our dressing rooms.”
“Or in the ballroom.”
He laughed, but then quickly sobered. “I think the case of Mr. Brummell particularly sad. Once society’s leader of fashion and good taste, now an outcast. It shows the fickle nature of men, does it not?” He sighed. “We too often put our trust in people and treat them like gods, when really we would be better served seeking such approval from the One whose principles never change, and is ever infallible.”
Cecy murmured agreement. “You have given me much food for thought.”
He smiled. “I hope it is not unpalatable.”
“I shall have to tell you on the morrow.”
He pulled out his pocket-watch. “It is rather late, is it not? Please allow me to escort you to the stairs.”
Their progression to the staircase soon saw other ladies escorted likewise, saying their good-nights. Lord Abbotsbury moved to hand her the candle but was almost shouldered aside by Ned who picked up another taper and held it out to her.
Cecy glanced between them, the two men, friends, whose attentions varied so much, one constant, one fickle. She swallowed, as the words from before floated to mind. Was this a test to see if she had idolized one man above another?
She thanked them both and, after a quick glance at Ned, accepted the candle from his friend. Then turned away, before either man could see the tears in her eyes, and hurried up the stairs.
Rejection washed over him. He watched the figure hurry up the stairs then glanced away, chest tight. It seemed she hastened from him.
Simon turned to him with a smile. “I do like your pretty neighbor.”
“You have made your attention quite plain.”
“Do you think so?” He gave Ned a considered look. “I do not think I am the only one who has made such sentiments plain today.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Fairley. You barely left her side.”
“She barely left mine,” he grumbled.
“It matters to the same thing. If you do not wish to secure her affections then perhaps you would be better off paying your attentions to the one whom you truly care for.”
Ned stiffened, but said nothing.
“I asked you before if you care for Miss Hatherleigh. Would you still give me the same answer?”
“She does not care for me.”
Simon snorted. “I recall you being ever so much more intelligent at Cambridge.”
Hope thudded. Did Simon mean … ?
“I believe I have made my intentions quite plain, both to the lady and her mother, but truly, Ned, if I had known you had an interest in that quarter I would never—”
“It is no matter.”
“It would appear from your stiff manner that it is. I am sorry.”
Again, he held his tongue.
“So, I ask you again. Do you care for her?”
“Of course I do.” He gazed into his friend’s honest eyes. “But I can’t, I won’t …” destroy her chance at a better marriage. For of course a marquess would be preferable than the suit of the scandal-stained second son of an earl. Hadn’t Lady Aynsley made a push to secure Caro’s marriage to a brother of a marquess? One step better would be to see one of her daughters actually wed a marquess. He shook his head.
“I hate to think I might be coming between you.”
“You are not.” Guilt wadded in his chest.
“You are sure?”
He dredged up a smile. “Really, it does not matter what we think, does it? Miss Hatherleigh must make her choice.”
“Yes.” Simon’s frown cleared as he peered up. “Then all is good between us?”
“Absolutely,” he lied.
“Are you two finished sharing deep secrets?” said Mr. Bettingsley. “Robert is suggesting tomorrow seems to be more amenable to riding, and perhaps we might like to get out of doors.”
“Out of doors sounds necessary,” Ned agreed. The sooner he could get out and allow fresh air to clear his head the better. But he would not do so until he’d first seized a chance to talk properly to Cecilia. Simon’s words had given rise to hopes that barely dared to breathe. Did she care for him? Did he have a chance? Was it fair to her to even want a chance? Regardless, he wished for her good opinion, and sensed that any conversation must be proved by further action.
He drew in a breath. He would need to show her just how highly he regarded her, and that he was not a rakish cad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SHE WAS THE world’s biggest fool. One final glance at the gentlemen assembled below had convinced her of his indifference, Miss Fairley’s curious glance stiffening her spine until she finally reached the privacy of her room.
Mother’s immediate entrance had only compounded her woe, her joy at Cecy’s acceptance of Lord Abbotsbury’s attentions resulting in more approval than she ever recalled seeing from her mother before. Again, she’d kept her spine straight, had not permitted a teardrop to fall, as she listened to Mother list his attributes.
“I’ll grant you that he is not as handsome as some other young men, but neither is he so unattractive one would never wish to see him at the dinner table. And remember, you could be a marchioness! Your sister, foolish creature, thought herself worth nothing higher than the brother of one—she will never be one, unless, of course, poor Lord Londonberry should sicken and fail.”
“Mother!”
“Of course, I do not hope for such a tragic event. I am simply pointing out that your sister’s road to attaining an impressive title is far more complicated than it needed to be. Especially when you are here, with a young gentleman practically begging to pay you his addresses, and you need only snap your fingers and the coronet could be yours.”
Cecy swallowed, managed to keep her countenance devoid of anything that would encourage her mother to deem this likely.
“I am pleased to see you finally letting go of that ridiculous juvenile fascination for Ned Amherst. I did not like to say so before, but I’m afraid he has never been worthy of your affections, my dear.”
Cecy smiled stiffly. It felt as though Mother had said such things many times before.
Mother patted her arm. “You must do your best to put those feelings in the past, my dear. It is time to look to your future.”
Another stiff smile, then her mother caressed her cheek. “You look a little tired. Now, get some sleep. I believe Lady Aldershot said tomorrow might finally allow for some riding. That would be nice, would it not? A quiet ride among the woods could be just the thing. And if Lord Abbotsbury is inclined to ride with you, then I shan’t mind forgoing the attentions of a groom.”
Cecy swallowed the shock—Mama, willing to bend propriety’s rules? She managed a weak smile and murmured that yes, she was weary.
“Of course you are. Well, good night, my dearest.” Her mother pressed a kiss to her brow.
The tightness in her chest knotted even more. Had her mother ever treated her with such tenderness before?
Her maid hurried in, helping to divest Cecy of her clothes, before the emotion begging release made Cecy send her quickly away.
She was a fool.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. She had hoped, she had prayed, he might prove his intentions and it certainly seemed he had. Just not the way she had wanted.
He did not want her. He did not care for her save as a friend. She must forget him.
The ache grew in her heart. How could she have thought his press of lips to her cheek anything more than the silly game it was? How could her heart have sung at his nearness, her insides clench at his delicious scent? Her thoughts, her v
ery senses betrayed her.
Oh, what a fool she was to have let her hopes obscure reality! How pathetic she was to follow her emotions rather than ground herself in what God said. She could only hope the others had not realized the depths of her useless, unwanted affection, which would surely make her a laughingstock.
She glanced at the candle. Why had Ned rushed to offer her a taper? Did he perhaps care? But—
No! He did not want her. His offering of the candle was merely that of a friend. She must forget him.
No. She was done with reading motives through the lens of hopeless adoration. It was time to see things clearly, to look at her future, as Mother said, and make choices that would benefit reality rather than the dreams trapped in her head.
The dreams trapped in her diary.
Cecy glanced at the thick journal, awaiting today’s inscriptions. Was today the day she would finally put paid to those scribblings of past years? She swallowed, smeared the dampness from her cheeks. It seemed so.
A moment later, she sat at the dressing table, pulled her journal towards her and opened it. Dipped her quill for ink, and sat, head bowed.
“God, forgive me.”
Again, the tears welled, released, her breathing growing tight. She could not afford to wake anyone and risk them coming in to find her such a mess.
The words spoken by Lord Abbotsbury rose to mind. Was this all-consuming passion for someone who did not give her another thought proof she had made him to be something of an idol? Was he taking the place of God in her life, where she cared more for him and his good opinion than for her Savior? How could she expect God to heal this pain if she did not confess this as idolatry?
How long had she idolized Ned? How long had she prayed and cried and begged God to answer the dearest wish of her heart? How long had she read verses that suggested that God desired to bless her by granting these desires of her heart? What if He refused to answer them because such desires were not from Him?
A giant ball of emotion lay heavy on her heart, preventing air. What if she had wasted all this time thinking on the wrong man for her life? How much longer would she waste? How many more prayers would remain ever unanswered because they were not God’s best for her?
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 23
