Eleanor: A Regency Retelling 0f Peter Pan (Regency Romance)

by Martha Keyes

  But the other part of her relief was, she had to acknowledge, for the knowledge that she would not have to say goodbye to Mr. Debenham quite yet. The prospect of a future without his presence made her throat feel tight.

  He met her gaze without wavering, a soft light gleaming in his as he watched her.

  She sighed. “I would be dishonest if I didn't admit to feeling relief at the prospect of remaining here a little longer. Just until John has had a couple of days to rest. It is so kind of you to offer it.”

  He smiled wryly. “What makes you sure that my offer isn't an entirely selfish desire for time with you?”

  She felt warmth creep into her neck and cheeks. Did he mean with her or with both her and John? Surely the latter. She couldn't allow herself to hope he meant the former.

  * * *

  John passed a difficult night, tossing and turning, complaining of the pain in his arm despite the laudanum Eleanor made sure to give him periodically. After two hours of attempted—and unsuccessful—sleep, Eleanor moved to the makeshift bed which still sat on the floor of the room.

  John awoke ornery, and though Eleanor understood that it was due to his injury, her lack of sleep made her particularly short on patience. When a knock sounded on the door mid-morning to reveal Mr. Debenham, she knew she looked as frazzled as she felt.

  Upon seeing her, his expression morphed from kind to concerned.

  “I don't want gruel!” John shouted from behind Eleanor. “I want real food. Can’t you see I'm fair gutfounded, Nell?”

  Eleanor bit her lip to stifle her smile—both at John’s use of a cant expression and at Mr. Debenham’s surprise on hearing it. “I believe he learned a number of phrases from Mr. Adley yesterday, and he has been demonstrating them all morning.”

  Mr. Debenham attempted a grimace, but he chuckled, glancing at John and then back to Eleanor. “Go take a break,” he said. “I shall stay with him awhile.”

  Eleanor battled for a moment, but in the end, she accepted the offer. She needed some time to gather her thoughts and get a better hold on her temper.

  She headed straight for the stairs once Mr. Debenham had exchanged places with her and from there to the front door. The day had dawned cool but sunny, and the outdoors seemed the best place to find some serenity. She walked around the house to the rear where the gardens sat—or at least would have if they had been maintained.

  The boxwood hedges were uneven and overgrown, and the flower beds within them a mixture of plants which were dead and others which had overrun the beds. Weeds poked up from the dirt path. The long, narrow pool of water was covered in a blanket of green moss, the water beneath showing through in murky patches.

  Eleanor found a stone bench which had barely enough room for one seat due to the crowding of the shrubbery surrounding it.

  She had no idea what to make of her current position. She regretted coming to Holywell House, but whether it was because she truly wished they had never come or that she wished they never need leave, she didn’t know.

  She didn’t know whether to look on Mr. Debenham as the preserver of John’s life or the cause of his injury. He was fun-loving—perhaps to a fault. He had neglected his estate and his tenants for months, and for what reason? The tales he told of Neverland at times seemed to Eleanor to reveal just how much time he spent living in an imaginary world—somewhat like John did.

  And yet, despite it all, she was swiftly falling in love with the man.

  Chapter 11

  Lawrence closed the door behind him, taking in a deep breath as the door shut. He had managed to persuade John to eat the gruel, but it had not been without difficulty.

  It had taken all of his imagination to concoct a scenario in which a pirate would need to eat gruel. Had Miss Renwick been dealing with John being out of sorts since he had left the night before? Only a saint could deal with such taciturnity all day, every day.

  He didn’t mistake Miss Renwick for a saint, per se. But he found himself looking for excuses to seek her out and to help her. The races at Newmarket which would begin the next day—something Lawrence had been looking forward to since his arrival at Holywell House—seemed not only trivial but a waste of time he could be spending with the Renwicks.

  He had tried to convince himself that it was John’s naive and energetic personality which drew him to them. But he could only hide his feeling under that mask for so long—not when he found so much joy and fulfillment in Miss Renwick’s company even when John was engaged in his childish antics.

  Where had Miss Renwick gone since she had left him with John? Perhaps she was taking a well-deserved nap in John’s room. Or perhaps she had chosen to sleep in the Neverland room bed.

  A half-smile appeared on his face as he thought of John forcing them to stay fixed on the bed as he exulted in their capture and pointed the cane at them. Every time he was in the same room with Miss Renwick, he had the odd sensation as if there were some sort of magnet between them. The closer they were, the stronger it felt, and they had never been closer than when they had tumbled onto that bed.

  He took in another deep breath and pushed open the door to the drawing room. Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower sat at the table, partaking of a late breakfast. They had already consumed the bottles of brandy Lawrence had bought from Mr. Jeffers at the inn and so had gone into town to the pub after dinner. They had not even invited Lawrence to join them, and it had bothered him slightly when he discovered where they had gone. He felt distant from them since the Renwicks arrival, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Has Miss Renwick been down this morning?” he asked.

  Mr. Adley and Mr. Bower exchanged significant glances. “Good morning to you, too, Deb,” said Adley.

  Lawrence shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry. John was injured last night in the storm, and my mind is all over the place.”

  Mr. Adley raised his brows as he lowered his head to his food. “Could have fooled me. I’ve thought your mind was in one very particular place for the last few days.”

  “What does that mean?” Lawrence said, his brows snapping together.

  Mr. Adley was silent, but Mr. Bower chimed in. “Miss Renwick,” he said without looking up from his food. “He thinks you’ve formed a tendre for her. So do I, come to think of it. Plain as a pikestaff.”

  Lawrence swallowed. “Nonsense,” he said, walking over to the side board as a form of distraction. He had no intention of speaking to Adley and Bower about his regard for Miss Renwick. He didn’t need them to remind him that to marry would be a surrender to his parents’ expectations.

  He looked at the letter tray. One sealed letter sat on it, and Lawrence recognized the script of his father. In the events of the day before, he had forgotten that he had a letter from his parents.

  He sat looking at it and became aware of a ticking noise. He picked up the letter and walked to the long-case clock. The hands moved, keeping time for the first time since he had arrived. He stared at it for a moment.

  “Apparently Miss Renwick wound it last night,” Mr. Adley said in a disinterested voice.

  Lawrence’s gaze rested on the clock a moment longer before he opened the sealed letter with the knife on the nearby tray.

  His eyes moved swiftly along the neatly-written lines of the page-long missive, and he felt his pulse begin to throb in his neck, the overpowering anger which he hadn’t felt since last being in his father’s presence beginning to consume him. It was the unquestioning assumption that Lawrence would comply with the demands his father made—demands he hadn’t even taken the time to veil as requests.

  So much for letting Lawrence take over the management of Holywell House. It was the unabashed encouragement for him to marry a responsible woman of good stock as soon as he could. But most of all, it was how his father conveyed their intention to come visit and see how Lawrence was faring which sent him over the edge.

  He refused to listen to his parents criticize him in person at the estate that they had f
orced onto him. He heard the ticking of the clock, and it seemed to synchronize with his pulse. Suddenly Miss Renwick’s winding of the clock seemed a gross encroachment—yet another person trying to force order upon him.

  He stalked out of the room and out the front door, his long strides cutting through the weed-filled courtyard. He couldn’t respond to his father’s letter, telling them not to come. If he knew them at all, they were already on their way from Coventry. He must either confront them in person or avoid them—leave to Adley or Bower’s house, perhaps.

  He came up short. His aimless walk had brought him into the gardens, and Miss Renwick was kneeling on the ground some ten feet away, her hands reaching into one of the overgrown flower beds.

  She looked up at him with a smile, wiping her forehead with the back of her forearm. She froze on seeing Lawrence’s face.

  “What is wrong?” she said, struggling to stand quickly, wiping her ungloved hands on her dirt-splotched dress. “Is it John?”

  Lawrence shook his head, looking at her and then to the pile of weeds she stood beside. “I thought you were going to rest,” he said in a colorless voice.

  She followed his gaze to the pile of weeds. “I came outside for some fresh air, to try to escape my fretting over John, and somehow I found that I needed to busy my hands.”

  He didn’t move. She was winding the clocks, weeding the flower beds—trying to fix everything she saw wrong with him and how he was living.

  Her cheeks began to take on a pink hue, deepening to crimson. “I am so sorry,” she said, looking at the flower bed she had been working in. “I wasn’t even thinking. I should have asked you before doing such a thing.”

  “Yes,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Perhaps you should have asked before winding the clock, as well.”

  Her eyes widened, and she swallowed, a conscience-stricken look on her face. “I apologize. I was agonizing as I waited for you to return last night, worrying that something had gone terribly wrong with John, or perhaps even with you….” She trailed off, looking away. “It doesn’t matter. It was wrong of me, and I am sorry.”

  Lawrence’s jaw shifted from side to side. He wanted to be angry with her, but she had taken the wind out of his sails. The winding of the clock, her weeding in the garden—they had both been done as a result of the concern she had felt, the difficulties she was laboring through. She couldn’t help herself; her responsible nature seemed to instinctively lead her to create order out of chaos when she was under stress. She was precisely the type of woman his parents would wish him to marry.

  “John wishes to see you,” he said.

  She glanced at him quickly, looked down at the weeds beside her, and picked the pile up into her arms, walking past him with a mortified expression on her face, avoiding his eyes.

  He stood still after she had left, his jaw beginning to ache from the exertion of clenching it as he had been. He should have offered to carry the pile of dead plants for her. He should not have made her feel bad. He didn’t seem to be able to do anything right.

  * * *

  The following day, Lawrence barely saw Miss Renwick. Lawrence tried not to pay mind to the disappointment he felt upon entering the drawing room, only to see his friends. She seemed to have breakfasted early and then returned to care for John. No doubt she was avoiding Lawrence. Perhaps it was for the best. Lawrence had a sneaking suspicion that, should he spend any more time with Miss Renwick than he had, he would likely waver in his determination to disregard his feelings for her.

  As angry as he had been in the gardens, he had known an impulse to go over to her and apologize, to make plain his feelings. But his thoughts turned to his father’s letter, and his ire flared up again. Would he throw away all the work to establish his independence from his parents after such a short acquaintance with a woman?

  The expected letter from the Renwick’s coachman arrived just after breakfast. Lawrence had half a mind to send Mrs. O’Keefe to deliver it, but he ignored the impulse, wishing to know what Miss Renwick’s plan was and how John was faring.

  He scaled the stairs slowly, steeling himself against the impending interaction, and knocked softly on the bedroom door. He could hear John’s voice inside, much less petulant than the day before. That was a good sign for his recovery.

  The door opened, and Miss Renwick blinked twice on seeing Lawrence, her mouth opening slightly but wordlessly. He looked past her toward John, trying to ignore the way he could see the hurt in Miss Renwick’s eyes.

  He greeted John who raised his splinted arm joyfully in salutation.

  “Lawrie!” he cried. “Where have you been?”

  Lawrence forced a smile. Trust John to bring to the forefront the subject he was hoping to avoid. “I've been remiss, haven't I? I've been a bit taken up with various things—I apologize.” He looked to Miss Renwick, noting the way the morning light which poured through the window behind framed her with a sort of halo. “I've come to give you this.” He handed her the letter. “I believe it is from your coachman.”

  Miss Renwick took it from him and broke the seal, anxiously reading the contents. Lawrence waited, biting the inside of his lip.

  She folded it back up, not meeting Lawrence’s eyes. “The carriage wheel is repaired. He informs us that he will await us at the inn in town unless he hears from me instructing him to come here directly.”

  Lawrence nodded, wishing she would look up at him—it was too easy to forget the exact shade of blue in her eyes. “Well, you must know that my own carriage is at your disposal whenever you have need of it.”

  “Are you going to come visit, Lawrie?” John’s voice piped up from behind.

  Lawrence saw Miss Renwick close her eyes in a gesture of forbearance, and he cleared his throat. “In fact, I have plans to leave shortly for Mr. Adley’s estate.”

  John’s pout made an appearance.

  Lawrence looked at Miss Renwick again. “But you are both welcome here as long as you need somewhere to stay.”

  Miss Renwick looked at him for the first time, a weak smile on her lips. “Thank you,” she said, “but I think we shall leave as soon as we can manage. John is doing much better today, and I believe he can handle the remaining journey to Attleborough.”

  Lawrence swallowed and blinked quickly. “Today?” he said.

  She nodded. “I don't wish to worry my father if I can prevent it, and he expected us to arrive yesterday at the latest.”

  He suppressed a wry smile. She was going out of her way to appease her father; Lawrence was going out of his way to avoid and disappoint his.

  “If you wouldn't mind terribly,” she continued, “we would like to leave within the hour for town.” She clenched her teeth, watching his expression.

  He managed a nod, but he felt a sort of panic building inside him. He had only an hour left before he had to say goodbye to Miss Renwick. He forced himself to think on the way she had angered him yesterday—how she had reminded him of his parents.

  But all he could see in front of him was the face he had come to love, the eyes he ached to make dance and twinkle, the mouth that enchanted him when it turned up in a smile or, just as captivating, tried so hard to suppress one.

  * * *

  The carriage ride to town was surreal. Lawrence had, in an effort to cling on to whatever time was left, offered to accompany them on the ride. John chattered happily, having come to the conclusion that his injury was evidence of his courage—a badge of honor for an aspiring pirate. Anne laid on the floor, just as she had the night the Renwicks had arrived.

  Miss Renwick’s eyes seemed most often to rest on her hands which were clasped firmly in her lap. When her eyes did rove, they never met Lawrence’s gaze.

  He kept up with John’s talking as best as he could, though his mind was very much elsewhere. With the Renwicks leaving and his parents descending upon him at any moment, there was no reason at all to stay at Holywell House.

  The Renwick’s coachman was, as promised, awa
iting them in the courtyard of the inn, though their arrival coincided with Mr. Jeffers yelling at the coachman that his equipage was unwelcome if he had no paying guests. He stopped mid-sentence, though, when he saw Lawrence step out and begin speaking with the coachman, directing his own coachman to help move the Renwicks’ portmanteaux over.

  Before Lawrence knew it or was prepared for it, he found himself kneeling down to embrace John, with Miss Renwick standing behind her brother.

  “When are you coming to visit, Lawrie?” said John.

  Lawrence glanced up at Miss Renwick. Why must he always be so curious about her reaction? She had turned her head away, watching the bustle happening around them.

  “I don’t know.” It was all Lawrence could think to say. He didn’t wish to lie, but he couldn’t bear to see John’s face turn crestfallen if he knew that Lawrence was not going to visit.

  “John,” Miss Renwick said, “we should be going. We have a long day of travel ahead of us.”

  John nodded and called for Anne to follow him up into the carriage.

  Lawrence stood, taking in a breath as he came to face Miss Renwick. What could he possibly say?

  “I know you dislike being thanked,” she said, “but I cannot leave without saying it.”

  The distance which he had felt growing between them since their confrontation in the garden suddenly vanished, and he noticed that her expression had become soft as she looked at him, her gaze direct and clear.

  “Thank you for saving us, Mr. Debenham—more than once. I am sorry that I overstepped my bounds, and I hope we may part friends.”

  He felt the magnetic pull strengthen as he returned her gaze. The din of inn servants calling out to one another, carriage wheels and horse hooves on cobblestone—it all felt distant.