Jealousy rushed hot through his veins. How dare Thornton speak her name? He strove for his most sarcastic tone. “Oh. Am I to wish you happy?”
“Not with Miss Ellison.”
“So why concern yourself in her affairs?”
“Because she is a good, pure-hearted girl who has suffered from your family’s carelessness much too often.” He shook his head. “I will not allow my friend to hurt her.”
“I will not hurt her!”
“Because you will not have her. You must see that.”
“But—”
“Stamford, if you claim faith, you must trust God with this.” He turned and walked away.
Trust God?
How could God help him with these feelings? How could God save him from the fate society dictated? A heavy, helpless despair flooded him, blacker than the autumn sky.
Nicholas trailed Thornton through the darkness, crunching over gravel to the lighted Hall, its windows filled with the eager faces of his mother, the Viscountess, and Miss DeLancey.
Duty. Rank. Responsibility.
He gritted out a smile.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
OCTOBER DRIFTED INTO November. Nights were longer, the darkness colder. Lavinia continued her visits, her church duties, her responsibilities, thankful her health had improved enough to do so. Her painting and music had improved also—would that Clara DeLancey could hear her sing now—but she derived little joy from such activities. A crimson leaf or well-sung aria might lift her spirits momentarily, but then flatness would resume.
Melancholy was her friend, singing her to sleep each night, murmuring on the outer edges of her soul each day. Hope had flitted away, leaving this strange sense of numbness. She, who had always thought herself clever, had been duped by a few soft words and her own imagination. The earl was right: she was a fool, a rabbit-like fool who had nearly succumbed to the hunter’s charm. Which could only prove a fatal mistake.
She swallowed the rawness in her throat and rubbed her pup’s head as he snored on her lap. The drawing room’s curtains were closed against the early onset of wintry winds, and a fire snapped warmth through the chill. She tried to read Miss Burney’s novel while her aunt stitched and Papa worked in his study.
“Lavinia?”
She looked up. Concern lined her aunt’s dark eyes.
“Are you feeling unwell?”
Lavinia forced a smile. “I’m a little tired, is all.”
“I’m not surprised, spending hours at the Thatchers today.”
“I was happy to help. Mr. Thatcher needs as much assistance as possible these days.”
“Be that as it may, you must be careful of your health. Perhaps we should reemploy Lily. She would prevent unnecessary endeavor.”
“Lily is very happy back at the Hall.”
“So Mrs. Florrick said last week. But it’s more than that.” Her aunt frowned. “Do you miss the earl?”
She blinked. “Aunt Patience!”
“What? Did you expect me not to notice you had developed a tendre for that man? You realize you will never suit the countess.”
Lavinia nodded stiffly. “I am well aware of that, ma’am.”
Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “You do not need to rely upon a man, Livvie. I have managed a perfectly satisfactory life, without requiring marriage.”
Because she depended on Lavinia’s father. Lavinia swallowed the words.
“I am content,” her aunt said forcefully. “You can be, too.”
“But I am not you. This, this”—she waved a hand—“I don’t know if I can be satisfied with this anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have tried, but I no longer feel content. I love St. Hampton Heath, but sometimes I wish I could see more of the world. I don’t want to molder away here forever.”
Aunt Patience’s eyes flashed. “Is that what you think I’ve done? Wasted my life here?”
“No!” She moved to kneel at her aunt’s seat. “I am immensely thankful for you, and the sacrifices you made after Mama—” Her eyes pricked; she blinked hard. “I don’t know what Papa and I would have done if you hadn’t come.” She swiped away an errant tear.
“There, there, child. Let’s have none of that.” She patted Lavinia’s head. “It’s been no sacrifice. You have filled my life with meaning these past years.”
Lavinia swallowed. “But I will have no niece to care for or family who needs my help. What am I to do with the rest of my life? Other people get married, have children, but I cannot see that happening—unless I’m so fortunate that Mr. Raymond makes me an offer.”
Her aunt smiled thinly. “He does care for God and for the church, I suppose.”
“He may care for God, but I fear I cannot care for him.”
Lavinia shuddered. Would she ever care for someone? Would anyone truly care for her? Sophia’s girlish chatter and confidences almost filled her with dread these days. How could she assume an interest in something that constantly reinforced her own singleness?
She stared at the window, trying to picture her mythical husband. Definitely not someone like Mr. Raymond. Apart from possessing little in the way of wit, he wouldn’t be able to carry her to safety on a mild day in June, let alone through a storm …
She blinked and turned back to meet her aunt’s thoughtful gaze.
Aunt Patience sighed. “I suppose it had to come to this one day. You are your mother’s daughter, after all.” She rose and exited the room, leaving Lavinia to stare.
Several minutes later she reappeared, along with Papa.
“My dear girl,” he said, holding her hands, “is it true what Patience says? That you desire to leave?”
“Oh, no, Papa! I don’t wish to leave you or my aunt. I’m just …” She shrugged.
“Sad? Lonely?” he said gently. “I have suspected something of that nature.”
Her eyes filled. “I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I cannot seem to shake it.”
“Have you asked God?”
She nodded. “He reminds me His plans are good.”
“That they are.” His eyes, so wise and clear, grew tender. “I will miss you.”
“Miss me?”
He smiled. “Patience wants to take you on a little journey.”
“Where to?”
Her aunt slid a look at Papa before returning her attention to Lavinia, her expression resigned. “To my sister’s.”
“But … you no longer have a sister!”
“I do. In London.”
“What?” Lavinia sank onto a lounge, her mind spinning faster than a weaver’s loom. “Why have you never told me?”
“My mother said some terrible things when Grace died. My younger sister, too. I was not—”
“Wait! I have a grandmother, too?”
Her aunt nodded, refusing to meet her gaze. “In Salisbury.”
“But why do I not know them?” Lavinia glanced at her father. “Papa?”
“Grace knew what her family would do when she married me.” His eyes held regret. “I loved her too much to say no.”
“You saved her from a life of manipulation is what you did, David. Here she was loved for who she was, not just what she was.”
What else didn’t she know? Lavinia forced herself to speak through the fog. “What do you mean by ‘what she was’?”
Aunt Patience turned to her. “My parents were hard people with strong ideas on what was right and proper. When Grace met your father, my parents’ ideals were challenged to the core. She was of age, but her refusal to bend to their will meant they cut her off entirely.” She shook her head. “Constance and I were too young and weak-minded to do anything until we were informed of Grace’s death and that you were here and needed me.”
“Mama was banished? But why?” She turned to Papa. “Why would they object to you?”
“Because I was not rich enough or titled enough to suit.” He offered a plaintive smile. “I had a nice living, and this property, but
that did not satisfy them.”
“I cannot believe this! Do you mean to say you eloped, Papa? Did you go to Gretna Green?”
He smiled. “Nothing as romantical as that. My father was the minister here and married us. We lived here with them until they died just after you were born.”
She stared at them, rubbing her forehead. “I do not understand. I really have family I’ve never met?”
“My poor girl, I am so sorry.” Her father’s eyes sheened. “Our only intention was to protect you. We hoped to avoid scandal and gossip by hinting your mother’s family had died.”
“But Aunt Patience—”
“Was traveling on the Continent at the time.” Aunt Patience seemed to have aged ten years. “And when I learned of Grace’s death, I came as quickly as I could, regardless of my mother’s displeasure. After that, I too was struck from the family. I am sorry if you feel misled, but at the time, it did not seem necessary to tell you otherwise.”
“But why tell me now?”
“Because I’m persuaded Constance will be amenable to a visit from her long-lost niece.” Her aunt smiled. “You would like to go to London, would you not?”
Hope stirred her heart. “To visit the museums? And library? And see concerts?”
“And perhaps some of London’s other attractions?” Her aunt’s eyebrows rose.
The earl! Her foolish heart kicked. She shoved that stupidity aside and fought to remain composed. “I would love to! But Papa, what about you?”
He shook his head. “My presence will be needed here, especially if you two are away.”
“Oh, but—”
“But nothing, my child. Fulfilling our Christian duty does not mean denying all enjoyment. Even our Lord had to withdraw to restore His weary spirit.” He held her hands. “This year has proved most trying. You deserve some pleasure.” His eyes sparkled. “And I believe London will be the very place.”
A WEEK LATER, after a rush of planning, preparations, and farewells, Lavinia sat with her aunt in the mail coach to London, along with an elderly couple who had already nodded off and a sober-faced man who looked to be in his forties and sat in the far corner, reading a newspaper.
“A post and chaise is far more comfortable”—Aunt Patience winced as they drove over another large bump—“but this is the quickest way.”
Lavinia glanced at the man, who continued to studiously ignore them, and kept her voice low. “But how can you be sure Aunt Constance will even be home? She surely would not have received your letter.”
“My sister has never liked to stir too far from the nest. If she is not home, we will stay in a hotel.”
Lavinia’s brow knitted. Aunt Patience seemed to have assumed a new persona, her ease at travel and insight into potential London treats at odds with the woman who had raised her in country domesticity.
“My dear girl, stop that frown. We have hours ahead of us. You must enjoy the sights and sounds of experiences unfamiliar.”
And so for the next fourteen hours, that’s exactly what she did.
THE COACH ROLLED into the Seven Horses Inn early Thursday morning. Lavinia blinked grit from her eyes, grit that had filled the air since they’d reached the outskirts of London. The air was filled with a heavy sourness that made it difficult to breathe—or perhaps that was the effect of the rather portly gentleman who had entered at Reading and taken more than his share of seat.
But the time had proved interesting: snatching bites to eat at inns as they stopped to change horses and listening to all manner of people—from solicitor (as the newspaper reader proved to be) to the overly chatty widow who had gotten on in Bath. The varying landscape had also helped while away the time—and distract from the cramped conditions. But the most interesting moments had been spent listening to her aunt share girlhood memories of her sisters, disclosed in whispers when the others were asleep. Mama came alive to Lavinia again. She could almost see the confident young beauty who had chosen love over pecuniary security. Lavinia only hoped her newly discovered aunt would hold her in affection as Aunt Patience did.
After their bags were transferred to a hackney, they traveled a few more miles to a much more genteel part of London. Through the gray light of dawn, Lavinia could see that here the houses were very grand, with at least four stories and banks of windows looking onto the wide street surrounding a pretty central park. As it was so early, few people were about, which filled her with trepidation in case they should be refused entry, but Aunt Patience only shushed her fears.
“Grosvenor Square may refuse entry to many, but not to me.”
Her aunt’s claims were soon put to the test as the hackney pulled up outside a large residence. Lavinia remained in the carriage as her aunt trod up the steps. A knock on the door soon produced a butler, whose heavy eyebrows rose as her aunt spoke, before he bowed her inside. A liveried footman appeared, opened the carriage door, and assisted Lavinia indoors.
She glanced around. Hampton Hall had always been the epitome of elegance; this residence made the Hall look humble. Stained glass pooled dim swaths of color on the black-and-white tiled floor; liveried footmen stood at attention, their handsome faces expressionless; the reception room she followed her aunt into held gold-striped settees and a thick cream carpet. The footman opened the curtains, spilling weak daylight across the furnishings. Aunt Patience wandered around the room, a tiny smile on her face as she touched ornaments and studied paintings, her tiredness at her long journey seemingly gone.
“I’ve never seen so much elegance,” Lavinia said in hushed tones.
Her aunt paused her perusal, her smile a little fixed. “My sister may hold different values than Grace and I, but she has never lacked style—or the means to fulfill her taste.”
The nerves that had steadily built all morning clamored to a crescendo. Did she mean—?
Speculation was cut off as a murmur of voices preceded the opening door.
A lady wearing a pale pink robe and mobcap over dark blond curls walked in, her tired features sharpening as she beheld her sister. “Patience! So it is true. I thought it a dream when Parsons informed me. What are you doing here?”
Lavinia’s breath caught.
“So you did not receive my letter. A pity, but it cannot be helped now. Constance, I want you to meet someone.” She turned and gestured for Lavinia to come forward.
The lady paled, placed a hand over her mouth. “Grace?”
“No, Constance. Don’t be so foolish. This is Lavinia, Grace’s daughter.”
“You look so much like her.” The woman continued to stare, wide-eyed. “It’s like seeing a ghost, to see Grace twenty-five years ago.”
“Yes, well, this little ghost has traveled a long way to see you.” Aunt Patience smothered a yawn. “We’re both tired, and hungry.”
“Oh! Of course.” Aunt Constance rang a bell and quietly issued orders to the maid. She turned, her disconcerting stare rippling nerves through Lavinia’s insides. “Lavinia, I am very pleased to meet you.”
“And I, you, Aunt Constance.” She offered a small curtsey.
“Aunt Constance.” She smiled softly. “I never thought I would hear those words.”
“And I never thought I’d say them.” She smiled.
“Oh, but you’re like Grace.”
A warm glow filled Lavinia’s heart. To have family? To be compared to beautiful Mama?
“Lavinia has just learned some of the family secrets.”
“Some?” Aunt Constance raised delicate brows.
“There will be time for more.”
“How much time, Patience? Or am I to be completely at your leisure?”
“I rather hoped you would be. Lavinia needs to meet some relatives and see something of London.”
“Society is rather thin on the ground at the moment.”
“But never too thin where you’re concerned. Besides, I believe we’ll be rather more interested in seeing sights than seeing society.”
Aunt Constance’
s eyes closed briefly before she looked at Lavinia once more. “You are most welcome to stay, my dear.” Her gaze trickled over her clothes. “But before any sights are seen I must insist on proper attire.”
“Oh, but Aunt Constance—”
“No buts.” A stern look so much like Aunt Patience’s flashed. “No guest of mine will leave these premises in anything of which I would be ashamed.”
Lavinia nodded, swallowing the protest as embarrassment coiled inside. Aunt Patience had warned of her sister’s differing values, but such vanity …
The maid reappeared in the doorway. “Your ladyship, the rooms are ready.”
Your ladyship?
Aunt Patience smiled thinly. “Yes, Lavinia. Your Aunt Constance is married to the Marquess of Exeter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NEXT FEW days passed in a whirl of introductions, to Uncle George and her younger cousins, Henry and Charlotte, as well as to a host of Aunt Constance’s afternoon visitors. In between innumerable dress fittings and outings to places such as Westminster Abbey and the museum, Aunt Patience escorted Lavinia to places such as Forty-Eight Grosvenor Square for an evening amongst artists and poets listening to Sir George Beaumont espouse the value of the Picturesque. Aunt Patience’s lessons on genteel behavior held Lavinia in good stead, and she was as surprised by the level of deference shown her—due, no doubt, to the fact her uncle was a marquess—as she was by the welcome her aunt received.
That night, safely ensconced at home, Aunt Patience commented, “You enjoyed tonight.”
“Oh yes! It was most interesting. Sir Beaumont’s painting collection sounds magnificent.”
“He is friends with Wordsworth, you know. Often lends his farm to him.” A small smile tilted. “I noticed you spent some time talking with Mr. Chetwynd.”
“Oh. Mr. Chetwynd was very kind. I think he could see I felt a little out of my depth.”
“He comes from a good family, too, even if he does hold poetical aspirations.”
Her cheeks warmed. “He was very amiable, but I think his only interest in me was the fact we were the two youngest in attendance.”
“Nonsense. I overheard him tell Lord Danver you were as intelligent as you were pretty, and Lord Danver agreed.”
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