“Have you quite finished, Miss Ellison?” He flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve and glanced at her. His look was cool, bored even.
She blinked away angry tears. “You are not a man of your word!”
His eyes flickered then he bowed. “Thank you for reminding me of my sins.”
She gasped, whirled around, and stamped across the gravel, almost tripping over the still barking Mickey in her haste to flee.
Useless, flippant, arrogant, stupid man!
She hurried down the drive, desperate to run, except her skirts would only cause her to stumble, and there was only so much humiliation she could endure today.
Uncaring, selfish, horse-mad man! She was glad to remind him of his sins!
She exited the iron gates and crossed the road, down to where the cherry trees marked the drive. Condescending, insufferable man.
His words rippled across her mind, and her pace slowed.
He might be condescending, but … she was supposed to remind people of God’s love, not their sins.
Her steps grew slower still. How would someone like the earl ever know about God’s love if all they heard was badgering and nagging?
She stilled. Was the earl correct in identifying her pride as being more piqued than Eliza herself had been? Her shoulders slumped, and she crossed the parsonage threshold dragging her feet.
Nicholas stared at the flames flickering in the drawing room fireplace. He sunk in his seat, one hand grasping a brandy glass, as the episode of three days ago continued to trek across his mind.
The look of shock on her face. The almost childish temper she displayed. The tears.
Tears that signaled her disappointment in him—that was the rub. He could stand almost anything but her disappointment. And this only a day after he had finally felt hopeful of eventually gaining a smile from the elusive Miss Ellison.
For elusive she remained.
She wasn’t home when he had called at the parsonage. He’d been forced to endure her father’s platitudes and Miss West’s hard stare—which made him wonder just how much her niece had shared—and kept his apology in his pocket. He hadn’t encountered her traipsing down the hill to the village, hat in hand, basket in the other, although one time he could’ve sworn he’d heard that wretched dog of hers. He even thought he’d glimpsed her golden head down near the tall oak at the curl in the road, but it must have only been leaves caught in the hedge.
His brow lowered. He hadn’t seen her at all today in church. He supposed she was out with her blessed poor children. He shook his head. Why did she care so much? She certainly didn’t care about him.
He sipped his brandy as the wood crackled and hissed. He hoped she wasn’t sick. Her constant ministering to the poor would make her susceptible to all kinds of diseases, although she never seemed unwell: quite the opposite, in fact. Almost in rude health—certainly nothing of the fainting miss about her.
Miss Lavinia Ellison: she of the outlandish name and outspoken ways and glorious singing voice. He frowned. Was that voice merely a figment of his imagination, too?
“M’lord? Can I get you anything?”
“Thank you, Giles, but I am quite satisfied.”
Another lie.
He barely noticed his butler’s faint good-night and exit as the heavy discontent pressed in again. Everything was too hard. Nothing satisfied. Even Mr. Ellison’s sermons only tugged at his heart momentarily, lifting his spirits with promises that proved empty. Inside, he felt much the same. Hard. Cold. Disappointed. Purposeless. Guilty. Lost.
He swirled the amber liquid then swallowed the remainder. Pulled a face.
Nothing was working out.
He would fire Johnson if only he had a replacement, but he didn’t want to stay to hire a new man. He scrubbed a hand over his face. What difference would a few weeks or months make, anyway? The harvest would be taken in, as it had for hundreds of years. People would continue living, dying, giving birth, just as they had before he had entered the neighborhood.
He would not be missed.
Perhaps it was time he left. He nodded. Retreat sometimes proved to be the better part of valor. Blast these rustics. Blast this place.
He had almost started to … care.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LONG DAYS MELDED into long weeks of sunshine. The barley was brought in, a surprisingly good harvest, ensuring the stock would eat well this winter. The new crop was planted. The sun shone, rain fell, grass grew, the apple trees rounded, the lettuces plumped.
Everything was just as it had always been, only slightly … different.
Lavinia pulled at the cow parsley polluting her flowerbeds. The slim stems with dainty white flowers looked innocent enough, but they had a nasty way of dropping seeds and infesting the plot. She swiped the moisture on her brow and resumed her reflections.
Johnson continued with his smirks and high-handedness. Perry continued with his flattery and flirtations. Sophia continued confiding about her latest beaus. Aunt Patience continued on the evils of the aristocracy. Her father continued preaching love and forgiveness. And Lavinia continued to ignore the hurt in her heart and the disappointment in her soul.
“Miss Ellison?”
She squinted up at the distraction: Mr. Simon Raymond, the curate up from Bristol to assist her father, who had still not completely recovered from his nasty cough. “Yes?”
“I, er, hesitate to question a lady’s good judgment, but I cannot help but wonder whether your aunt and dear father would, er, approve of your industrious actions in the garden.”
“Mr. Raymond,” she smiled sweetly, “your scruples are commendable, your reluctance to share them most admirable.”
He stared at her blankly.
She swallowed a sigh, rose, and dusted off her hands. “Mr. Raymond, do you remain because you wish to assist me?” She gestured at the flowerbed. “Weeds do not remove themselves.”
“I, er—” He flushed. “Sadly, I must confess to a lack of appropriate attire for such a venture.”
“That is sad. Well, let me not keep you from your sermon preparation.”
“I, er, thank you, Miss Ellison. Pray do not allow yourself to become too sunburned.”
“Thank you, Mr. Raymond, for your concern. I will endeavor to be sunburned just the right amount.”
His brows knit in confusion as he reiterated his farewell and made his exit.
She shook her head and resumed digging. No wonder Aunt Patience called him a wet goose. He might be bookish, possess obsequious manners, and love the church, but his wit was sadly lacking, which provided plenty of fuel for her aunt’s sense of humor—and her own.
But despite his awkward attempts at gallantry, it was rather nice to be told she was pretty, and her voice was lovely, rather than be the object of sneers, enigmatic smiles, and allusions, and being made to feel she was in the wrong all the time. Sometimes in the wrong, she would happily own, but all the time? Never.
She frowned. Her failure to convince the earl of his responsibilities continued to stalk her, striking most poignantly at that time between wake and sleep, when fancy danced and imagination was at its most alluring. What could she have said to convince him? What should she have left unsaid? Every time she saw or spoke to Eliza, or Mrs. Foster, or the Thatchers, she felt sick, shivery with the shame of failure. She almost wanted to avoid them, preferring this silent garden to the self-reproach she experienced with others and the underlying fear that if only she’d left well enough alone the earl may have—by God’s grace—done the right thing.
She dug savagely at the roots. Perhaps selfishness lived at his core, and he was unable to care beyond his immediate needs and wants—what then?
But—a little voice whispered—look what he did about Mrs. Foster’s tea. And to his credit, he had spoken to Eliza regarding his nonappearance. When Eliza had mentioned that during Sunday school, surprise had rendered Lavinia speechless for almost a full minute. Eliza had said he’d been most gracious, promising s
omething would be done about removing them to a new cottage as soon as possible.
The heaviness descended again. That indeed was the problem. He had done nothing but offer empty words, because the cottages remained unfixed. He contained nothing of substance, nothing anyone could pin their hopes on. He believed nothing, stood for nothing, and—despite a tickling fancy that he was most definitely not a wet goose—he must remain nothing to her.
Which he most definitely would!
A VISIT FROM Sophia two days later provided diversion from the visiting and household chores that constituted Lavinia’s daily routines. A proposed dinner at the Miltons to celebrate Sophia’s birthday had grown into quite an affair, with the addition of several of Perry Milton’s university chums. Sophia was most excited, having been to Cheltenham with her mother to acquire fresh silks for new gowns.
She showed Lavinia her pretty lace gloves and dancing slippers made of Denmark satin. “For Mama insists we have dancing!”
“You will enjoy that.”
“Oh, yes, but so must you!”
Lavinia pressed her lips together. Dancing rated only slightly higher than embroidery on the scale of enjoyment.
“Livvie,” Sophy’s brow puckered. “You have seemed a trifle out of sorts of late.”
“Have I?”
“I mean no offense, but are you quite well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Hmmm. Perhaps it is the effect of all those visits to the poor.”
“Sophy, I—”
“Regardless, dancing will be just the thing!” She smiled suggestively. “Mr. Raymond can come, too. And your aunt, of course.”
“You know Papa does not really approve of such things.”
“Then we must ask him.”
And Sophy—for once, decisive—almost dragged her to Papa’s study, where her smiles and cajoling won his permission for Lavinia to partake in the dancing.
That night at the dinner table, Lavinia was surprised even by Aunt Patience’s ready acquiescence.
“It will do you good. You cannot stay moping around inside here.”
“Moping?” Her father’s brows knit. “Why would Lavinia be moping?”
“I have not been moping, Papa.”
Her aunt raised a skeptical brow. “You have not been yourself for weeks. It will do you good to be out among new faces and get some color into those cheeks.”
ONE WEEK LATER, wearing her one (freshly made over) gown appropriate for dancing, her aunt’s loaned pearl necklace, and dancing slippers, she waved farewell to Papa as Mr. Raymond helped Aunt Patience and Lavinia into his gig and drove them to Sophia’s.
“I must confess to being quite taken aback at your beauty tonight, Miss Ellison.”
Lavinia smiled at the backhanded compliment. “You are too kind, sir.”
“Not at all. To be able to travel with two such lovely ladies is a pleasure indeed.”
As Mr. Raymond’s compliments continued she was almost inclined to believe he actually meant what he said. But for all of that, something about him just did not sit right.
When they arrived, Lady Milton eyed Lavinia’s gown doubtfully, her countenance hardening even more as she offered a stiff nod in the receiving line. “Patience. Mr. Raymond. Lavinia.”
“Cornelia.”
“Er, good evening, Lady Milton. You must allow me to extend my gratitude at the inclusion of someone so humble as myself to such a, er, wonderful event as this evening.” Mr. Raymond bowed over the hand of his hostess.
“Thank you, Mr. Raymond. You are most welcome.”
Lavinia smiled at both her hosts. “How is Sophia? She must be so excited and no doubt prettier than any picture!”
The harsh gaze softened fractionally. “She looks well enough.”
“Well enough?” Sir Anthony’s booming laugh echoed around the room. “She’s the prettiest girl here.” He winked at Lavinia. “Even including yourself, my dear.”
“I am very glad to hear it, for then all is as it should be.”
As they moved toward the drawing room, Mr. Raymond murmured, “Perhaps he does not see very well. I am convinced there could be no prettier young lady here tonight than you, Miss Ellison.”
She resisted the urge to wipe her ear. “Do you not think it appropriate for a father to praise his daughter? Or do you think me so poor-spirited that I cannot bear to hear another praised? It is well known that Sophia Milton is the most beautiful girl in these parts.”
“Miss Ellison”—he bowed—“I would never disagree with you.”
She stared at him. That was his problem. He never did disagree, so she never knew what his real intentions or thoughts were on any topic.
Her aunt chuckled. “Well may Sir Anthony praise his daughter’s fine looks—she has little else to offer.”
“Aunt!”
“There’s no need to look scandalized, my dear. Everyone knows it, except her parents, of course.”
Lavinia glanced across the drawing room to where Sophia stood under the costly chandelier Lady Milton had recently installed. It cast a golden glow over her daughter who smiled and flirted with several young men. Truly, Sophy was the belle of the ball.
Mr. Raymond murmured something about procuring refreshments and disappeared, leaving them watching the clusters of conversations and gaiety from the room’s perimeter.
An unaccustomed loneliness trickled across her sanguine mood. She bit her lip. Is that what men wanted? Someone who merely smiled and looked decorative? Who kept house, and bore children, and never thought an independent thought in her life?
Sophia’s tinkling laugh carried across the general hubbub of the room as she gazed up at a handsome young man.
“Sophia’s certainly not in want of admirers.”
Her aunt’s dark blue eyes held shrewdness. “Do you really want admirers, Lavinia?”
She swallowed.
A figure emerged from the crowd, his face wreathed in smiles. “Miss Ellison, you look positively radiant!”
As Perry Milton kissed her gloved hand, Lavinia’s gaze connected with her aunt’s and she laughed. “No, I don’t believe I do.”
St. Hampton Heath still lay snug below the quiet hills. The barley was cut now, the fields fresh sown with new crops. Summer would soon draw to a close and the leaves would start to turn.
Two months had passed. Two months in London, at his clubs, at parties and dinners, where the talk bored, the flirtations wearied, and the pretensions disgusted. Time at Hawkesbury House had not been much better. The House had never felt like home, and his mother’s airs and graces proved an irritant, her flagrant waste of money an abomination.
He’d tried to curb some of her excesses, insisting she did not need another water feature in the rose lawn, but her wide-eyed offense was too much, so he’d made his excuses and scuttled back to town. Brave man that he was—beaten by a woman. In London, he’d met up with Captain Matthew Thornton. The second son of Viscount Astley was a faithful and true friend. His bravery and practical common sense had proved invaluable during the campaigns; his supportive understanding upon the deaths of Nicholas’s father and brother, one of the few buoying factors of recent years. During a particularly dull evening at White’s, he’d even convinced Nicholas that he’d like nothing better than to visit Gloucestershire, a part of England he had never seen.
Nicholas glanced across at his friend: broad shouldered, lightly tanned, bright eyed with perpetual enthusiasm, he carried himself with a confidence that belied his twenty-seven years. Perhaps Thornton’s fresh eyes might even provide some suggestions for how to deal with his problems in St. Hampton Heath. His estate problems. Not any other problem—even if the problematic young woman in question had barely left his thoughts these past weeks.
Fool that he was.
The church bells pealed their summons for services. Nicholas glanced across at his friend, wishing he wasn’t quite so pious that he needed to make attending church the priority for the first day of his return.
But perhaps that piety was what made his actions so very trustworthy. Thornton reminded him of the Ellisons: a concern for others, a solid reliability, and an ability to keep his word.
He frowned. Perhaps in Thornton, Miss Ellison might find a man she could approve.
“I MUST CONFESS I enjoyed that service. The reverend is knowledgeable, yet able to communicate truths so simply. Did you not think so, Stamford?”
“He seems to have improved of late,” Nicholas muttered.
“The music was very fine. I’m sure I’ve not heard better in a country church before.”
Nicholas tapped Midnight, and his horse cantered up the road.
“Yes, I find this a very agreeable part of the country.”
“I find it so, too.” For despite everything, Nicholas was glad to be back. Something akin to ease had settled in his heart the moment he had entered his gates. Ease, mixed with an underlying anticipation.
“And so many charming young girls!”
Nicholas frowned. “Charming young girl” did not fit any of the ladies he was acquainted with here. The squire’s daughter was tolerably pretty but rather witless.
“I had a very pleasant chat with Miss Milton. The other pretty one I did not meet, but she knew you.” Thornton glanced across. “Come now. You saw her sitting in the front row, with hair the color of a guinea, and such a lovely smile. She nodded to you. I had hopes of an introduction, but she disappeared at the end. Who is she?”
He’d ceased thinking about Miss Ellison as a young girl, memories of her insistence at not being a green girl ringing firmly in his ears. “Miss Ellison, the reverend’s daughter.”
“Aha. That accounts for it.”
Nicholas raised an eyebrow.
Thornton laughed. “Major Stamford has never been able to resist a challenge.”
“This is not the Peninsular—”
“Thank God!”
“And I can now.”
They cantered in silence for a few moments, the thudding of hooves reiterating the drumming disappointment in his heart.
“She seems very lovely.” Thornton eyed him keenly.
The Elusive Miss Ellison Page 7
