“Dear God, forgive me.”
Ink spilled to splat on her page, the stain soon joined by drops of tears.
She was a fool. A fool. She had put her trust and hopes in a man who had no care for them. Who had no care for her. He did not want her. He did not care for her save as a friend. Oh, she had been such a fool!
Eventually, after more prayers and silent tears, she began to write.
Dear Lord, help me to forget him. Forgive me, for I realize now that I have idolized him. I should have trusted You, and not my feelings, such feelings that seem as fickle as his attentions have proved to be.
Help me to forget him. It is apparent that he holds no thought of me, and I am conscious that I must remove him from my heart if another is to live there. I need Your help to forget him.
She paused. How many times had she prayed such a thing? Oh, would this ceaseless yearning for him never heal? How long must she hold on to a dream that would never come true?
“Lord, how do I forget him? What do I do?”
The words seemed to reverberate around the room, to echo in her soul. How long would she hold on to the impossible?
The evening’s conversation came to mind again, the discussion about idols, the nature of men’s fickle passions, the frailty of humans to allow such things to hold sway. How right Lord Abbotsbury’s words had proved. Ned’s attentions were fickle, kissing her cheek one minute like she was his to adore, then ignoring her the rest of the evening.
She swallowed, glancing at the ink scrawled across her page. Did she really want to let Ned go? Could she truly permit her mother’s wishes to sway her own? Did she truly want Ned more than she wanted God’s direction? Her breath caught. What if Ned wasn’t God’s best for her life?
The thought was shocking. How could he not be the right man for her to marry? They were united by faith, by social standing, by mutual connections, by the cords of familiarity. How could that be wrong?
But …
Her eyes wandered to the Bible, largely unread of late, as her thoughts and dreams—and journal—received far more attention. Had she truly allowed Ned to take greater focus in her life than God?
The answer was simple.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, a terrible rawness filling her chest. How awful to realize herself so vain, so self-interested, so quick to forget greater concerns, concerned as she was for personal happiness. How could she think herself better than the other guests in this house, who appeared focused chiefly on their pleasure and personal satisfaction. She was not dissimilar, it was what she had done, thinking of Ned chiefly in relation to her own happiness. What if he would be better off married to someone else?
The pain enlarged in her heart, a gnawing, roaring pain. Such a thought seemed wild in its ramifications. But she had been selfish in her considerations.
“God forgive me.”
She closed her eyes as the heaviness swelled within. This felt more than just a simple prayer of contrition when she might hold resentment in her heart over a slight from her mother or sister. This felt like something of immense import, a burden that had been carried for far too long.
“God forgive me. I have made him an idol in my heart, and looked to him, and not to You, for my happiness. Lord, I am so sorry.”
A wave of revulsion at herself washed through her, and she huddled her head in her hands. Tears gathered at the back of her eyes, swelling, welling into moisture on her cheeks. Oh, what a miserable wretch was she.
How long had she been so self-righteous that she judged the Stephen Heathcotes of this world for doing the exact same thing that she had done? How wrong was she to judge others when she was equally susceptible to focusing on her own wants?
“God, forgive me. Please help me release him from my heart.”
But would she do it? Would she truly let him go and trust that God’s plans were better than what she imagined for herself? Was this not the more loving way, to release Ned to find the woman God intended him to marry? The one who would be better than herself?
Chagrin flooded her anew. How mortifying to think herself so perfect, when obviously God knew she wasn’t right for Ned. He must think so, otherwise He would have made a way for them to be together by now. Chasing hard on the heels of this revelation was the next: if she wasn’t right for Ned, then was she right for anyone? A sob caught in her throat. What if no appropriate man cared enough to seek to pay his addresses, and God’s intention was for her to die unmarried, alone? Could she trust God enough if that was his intention for her?
And how was she supposed to know what was His will for her life? He was hardly likely to write it in the sky. Could she really trust the promises others so firmly believed in, that God desired good things for His children, for those who loved and served Him? Could she trust such promises even if it meant she might not ever have a future with Ned?
The pain and emotion swelling within doubled and redoubled. She had to let Ned go. She had to let him go.
Her throat was raw, her nose aching from holding back emotion. She had to sacrifice him for God’s sake, for her faith’s sake, which meant not holding on to him anymore. She would need to release him and trust God, even if that meant he married someone else.
Oh, but how could she bear to see him and his bride live at Franklin Park?
“Dear God, please help me.”
Tears seeped from beneath her closed eyelids as she fought to keep herself from making a loud wail. The walls were not thin, but her mother might not yet have retired and may wish to visit her again to discuss the guests and the evening.
She dragged in a long shuddery breath. “Lord God,” she whispered, “forgive me for not trusting You. I believe, but I feel so weak. Please help me to forget him, and trust You for my future. I want Your plans, more than what Mother wants, more than what society expects. I do not want to be led by such things anymore. I trust You, truly I do, but please help my unbelief.”
She glanced at the page, then, as if inspired by something more powerful than she could restrain, quickly wrote, I am done with Ned Amherst. He is my past. My future is God’s to command.
Before she could argue with the written word, she carefully blotted her page, put away her ink and journal, and locked her lap desk. A moment later she placed Lord Abbotsbury’s candle on the bedside table, drew the covers up, and leaned across to blow out the taper.
And tears and prayers and regrets filled the room until they finally chased her to sleep.
Any attempt to explain to Cecy the next morning was foiled by her not coming downstairs due to a headache. He exchanged glances with Simon but held his tongue, managing to do so even when Miss Fairley began to decry the events of yesterday.
“It is little wonder poor Miss Hatherleigh has a headache. After all, the rooms were so stuffy! And when one is forced to endure exceedingly close conditions on such a damp day—”
Their hostess walked in, saying in a tone that left no doubt as to how much she had heard her ungrateful guest say, “I rather wonder why all of the young ladies did not succumb if these conditions were past enduring.”
“It is something to be thankful for, I suppose,” Miss Fairley said, seemingly oblivious to her hostess’s indignation. “I have often found myself most susceptible to headaches in similar conditions. Oh well. At least it means I can ride today.”
“You intend to ride?” Lord Robert interposed.
“Why certainly, if there is a suitable mount. I am not so missish as some, and would dearly love the chance to explore what I’m sure must be lovely grounds.”
Robert flushed, then stuttered of his surprise and pleasure, causing Ned and Simon to exchange another glance. Miss Fairley’s affections appeared quite fickle, and if she transferred her attention to another eligible young gentleman, then Ned would be freed to pursue the young lady he most wanted to please. The one—his heart sank—who had not yet come downstairs.
“Mr. Amherst?”
He hoped she would soon be well.
He’d barely slept last night thinking about her, reliving her shy smiles, reliving that kissed cheek. Regretting …
“Amherst! Do you plan on joining us for a ride today?” Robert asked, with an edge to his voice that suggested it wasn’t the first time that question had been posed.
“I believe so.”
“Excellent. Well, you may wish to change into riding attire.”
“Of course.”
He wondered—he hoped—to meet her on the staircase, but the only lady he saw was her mother, and apart from a brief exchange of nods, they had nothing to say. Not that he suspected that lady would wish to speak to him at all, not when she seemed to view Simon as her next son-in-law.
A quarter hour later he had returned downstairs, once again disappointed to learn the object of his thoughts remained closeted in her bedchamber. But he could not pace the house waiting for her descent, so he joined the others in moving to the stables.
Robert’s grooms held horses at the ready, instructions about his guests’ varying riding abilities had apparently been forwarded early, as the guests were mounted most suitably. Apart from Ned, whose hack appeared more than a trifle short in the back, and whose stamina he doubted. But he would not disparage his host’s selection, merely saying to the groom “he’ll do” and mounting appropriately.
He was forced to wait some minutes as Miss Fairley took her time to mount, chattering all the time about the splendor of the stables, and how splendid were the horses, and how splendidly she envisaged this day’s riding.
“It would be splendid if we could go soon,” Ned muttered, and Simon smothered laughter.
“Did you say something, sir?” she asked.
“Nothing of consequence,” he said, to her narrowed look and turn of shoulder.
Finally, the company rode out, and he could savor the tang of autumn leaves and the cool nip of air. He drew in a deep breath, allowing the concerns and worries of past days and past months to fall away. He had spent too long indoors, and today’s escape was necessary in many ways. It was too long since he had been in nature, since he had allowed the balm of beauty to minister to his soul. It was too long since he had stopped enough to allow God to speak to him.
The hack’s glossy back moved smoothly, permitting his thoughts to focus upward. So he prayed for Cecy’s healing, prayed for an opportunity to explain, prayed that God would work out their future.
Their future.
He straightened, suddenly realizing just what he wanted his future to look like.
For Cecy was all that he could want. She was a believer, sweet and kind, and should be his. He knew he did not deserve her, and it had taken envy to admit it, and she could certainly do better than him—Simon would make her the perfect husband, after all—but Ned could not let her marry another without first letting her know his feelings.
That she was lovely. That she had long lived in his heart. That she was more than a mere friend, but someone who shared his dreams.
He’d heard snippets of her conversation at the dinner table. He’d sat there, straining to hear, buoyed by her words about the events at St. Peter’s Field. She had heart, she had compassion—it was enough to make him wonder if that published letter in the newspaper had indeed been written by her …
Thin sunlight dappled through the canopy of trees, shadowed patches chasing clear. Perhaps his life would always be as such, shadows chasing sunshine, but if she could look past the shadows of his life, he knew there would be more sunnier times.
“Heavenly Father, please heal her. Continue to fill her with grace and understanding, to see potential and not past pain.”
His spoken words seemed to urge his horse forward, and they had soon outstripped the others, leaving him in a clearing with many tracks spreading from it like a spider web. So many choices in his life, so many choices even now, not just which way to nudge his horse, but how to conduct the interview with Cecy when she finally gave him leave. What would he say? How could he be gentlemanly and not wish his friend away?
He had to tread carefully, so she knew his affections were securely fastened on—
“Oh, Mr. Amherst,” came a high-pitched voice. “We had wondered where you were.”
Ned inclined his head to Miss Fairley, who watched him curiously as Robert drew close.
“We are headed this way,” his host said, with a flick of his whip.
“My apologies,” Ned said.
The clouds were gathering overhead as they finally reached a field scattered with the pinks of pennyroyal. Their host began talking about the plans to put in a canal like the one nearby at Andover, and just what that might mean for the future of the estate. “For if we could gain but a fraction of the cargo that Andover does, transporting slate and agricultural produce between Southampton and here, then I cannot but think it will benefit our holdings immensely.”
“Oh, you are so right!” cooed Miss Fairley.
“It is good to think ahead,” agreed Simon, before leading Robert into a discussion about the effects of manufacturing and how industry might alter society forever, if it were not done the right way to benefit all men.
“But surely we do not need to consider such things,” Miss Fairley said. “Such estates shall last intact for hundreds of years to come.”
“That I cannot say,” Simon replied, “but it always behooves us to consider the needs of our fellow man.”
They continued in this vein for some minutes more, releasing Ned to fall back into his daydreams, ones where his apology was accepted, ones that concluded with a kiss not on the cheek …
“… is that not so, Amherst?”
Ned started. “I beg your pardon?”
Simon sighed. “He has been this way all day. Ned, we were speaking about the need to consider all men.” He turned to the others. “You may not be aware but my friend here has spent some time working to secure the future of the more marginalized members of our society. He has discussed with me plans to support the poor through legal aid.”
If Ned had wanted a way to ensure Miss Fairley’s interest in him to fail, he had just found it, judging from the wrinkled nose and noise of distaste. “Truly?”
“I’m afraid so,” Simon continued, the twinkle in his eye suggesting he was enjoying this as much as Ned wasn’t.
“Thank you, friend,” Ned muttered.
“Don’t forget my good turn.”
“I shan’t.”
Their tour continued to the gatehouse, an ornate gray-stoned affair with steep gables reminiscent of the main house.
“What a sweet building! Oh, Lord Robert, you are so very fortunate to live in such pretty countryside,” Miss Fairley said, gazing across the grounds, as if imagining her future.
Their host brightened before murmuring something that led the two of them into low-voiced discussion, and for Simon to exchange another half smile of amusement with Ned.
The clouds overhead massed more thickly, the breeze that had provided cool relief after their ride now scraping chills across his face and neck.
“It is getting icy,” Miss Fairley said, with a shiver.
Robert’s suggestion that they turn for home met with approval, Ned’s horse’s hooves thudding in time with the anticipation beating in his heart. Soon he would see her, soon he would make his apologies and make his sentiments plain. Soon she would listen to him, and perhaps soon she would agree to be his wife—
He exhaled, tamping down the overly exuberant thought. He needed a plan. House parties were effective at permitting copious opportunities for ladies and gentlemen to interact, but the vast numbers of people meant interruptions were more likely. First, he would need to mitigate the potential for disruptions by removing Cecy from the others, and especially from the careful oversight of her mother. Where would be best? The library? The long gallery? A walk on the gravel path?
He glanced at the skies. They did not bode well for that last thought. The library then? Its forty-foot length of shelves might appeal to her. Or would she p
refer the conservatory? Talking amid flowers might provide an extra element of romance.
But when he returned, and hurried from his riding dress into a bath, then evening attire, it was not to see Cecilia in the drawing room, or the library, or the long gallery. Instead, he was informed that, though she had come downstairs for a couple of hours this afternoon, her headache was such that she had begged to be excused for the remainder of the evening.
“Which I granted, naturally,” their hostess said with sympathy. “One doesn’t want one’s guests to feel obliged to do things injurious to one’s health after all.”
“I hope she will be feeling more the thing tomorrow,” Simon commiserated.
Ned offered similar wishes a second later, but the spoils had gone to Simon who received Lady Aynsley’s smiled approval as she said, “You are all consideration, Lord Abbotsbury. Thank you.”
Ned swallowed the response which would make him seem like a spoiled child, and instead offered his prayers for her complete recovery.
But this only received a sniff, as Lady Aynsley said, “Well, I’m sure I do not know how much prayers will do, Mr. Amherst.” Especially your prayers, her look seemed to say.
But he refused to take offense, recalling the times his parents had talked about their neighbors and their decided lack of faith.
He would simply need to add Lord and Lady Aynsley to those he would beseech God to show His favor to tonight.
And pray their daughter might show him her favor on the morrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CECY DREW IN a deep breath and opened the bedchamber door, stepping slowly onto the thickly carpeted landing. A footman straightened, requesting if he could be of service. She refused him and moved towards the stairs.
The headache induced by Thursday evening’s weeping had eased by Friday afternoon, her strength regathered to briefly return downstairs, enough to show she wished to be civil, until the noise and chatter drove her back upstairs. The time spent hiding in her room had proved a wonderful respite from the weariness induced by such close proximity to strangers and their incessant questions and conversation. Spending time alone, talking with God, writing in her journal, and reading the Bible had all helped to calm and soothe her spirits.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 24
