A Perfect Weakness

by Jennifer A. Davids

  “I’m not angry,” he said before pulling a little of the humor from his voice. “But I would like to know what happened.”

  Arthur’s shoulders dropped. “Mr. Milford was done with us for the day, like usual. So I thought I would see if you had any more books for me and return the ones I finished. I almost didn’t come in because I saw you and Miss Abbott through the window. But then you left, and I thought I was in the clear.” He pointed at the shelves next to the door. “She was just over there, where I wouldn’t have seen her, trying to reach for a book. I didn’t think, my lord, truly I didn’t. I ... I reached up and got it for her.”

  “Being helpful isn’t a crime.”

  “No, sir, but I’ve heard Mrs. Lynch isn’t pleased about me coming to the library. One of the maids told me.”

  “Don’t worry about Mrs. Lynch. I trust you, and that’s what matters.” He softened his voice. “Go on.”

  As he picked up the thread of his story, he turned red. “She looked at me, and I looked at her, and for a minute we didn’t say anything. Then I saw what book she had—that Latin book you gave me—and I introduced myself and told her it was very useful. She didn’t believe me until I started in on my Latin verbs, then she spoke them too. But then we heard you coming, and she shoved me out the door. I went to the window.” His face fell. “I didn’t realize she was who she was until I saw Mrs. Baines. What will she think of me when she finds out who I am?”

  “You might be surprised,” John said. “She left here with some books, but she didn’t get a chance to write down which ones she was taking. Do you have the time to help me figure out which ones they were?”

  Between the two of them, they soon formed a list. John went to his study and wrote a quick note to Miss Abbott. He folded it and the list together and handed the packet to Arthur.

  “Shall I give this to Percy to take to Hartsbury, my lord?” he asked. Percy was the hall boy who, among other things, ran messages for the Hall.

  John shook his head. “I would prefer you take this to Hartsbury since you know how important the contents are. And be sure to tell them I told you to put this into Miss Abbott’s own hands.”

  Arthur’s eyes widened. “But she’ll know who I am. What I am.”

  “Better to find out what kind of woman she is sooner rather than later.” Maggie flashed through his mind. “Trust me.”

  Arthur paused then waved the note. “You’re right, my lord. Thank you.” He strode to the side door and out of the library toward the stables.

  John watched him go before turning back to the oak table to reshelve the books. One thing was clear: the lad was a goner. He reminded John of another young man he knew a long time ago. Himself. He’d been the exact same way the first time he’d seen Maggie Harding.

  What had he done to her? She’d been a good woman. She understood his need to work with the poor in an effort to absolve himself, and God knows she tried tirelessly to get him to stop drinking. But when all was said and done, they wanted different things. The war had made paupers out of her and her younger sister, Beth. She longed to re-enter society. But he didn’t see himself worthy of that. And they fought. And he drank. And in the end, Beth had paid for it.

  The night of one of their fights, Beth had slipped away for some fresh air and, not being familiar with that part of the city ...

  Bile rose in his throat. Both he and Maggie had tried to convince her to keep the child. But she couldn’t bear the thought. She’d tried to get rid of it, and when that hadn’t worked, Maggie brought her to him. But he’d been drinking. He should have sent for Robert. Why hadn’t he?

  Because he’d been a fool.

  Was he even a bigger fool for coming here? He raised his fist to his mouth. Somehow the faint scent of lavender and roses lingered on his hand. If he didn’t get Penelope Howard away from him, and soon, he would be.

  CHAPTER 20

  Lord Turner did not attend church Sunday morning. Mr. Gregory had skillfully expounded on the topic of redemption, and Penelope turned the message over in her mind as she and Thomas rode home. Would it have eased his soul? But then it was something of a relief, him not being there. Their encounter at the ball was still fresh in her thoughts. If only she could erase it from her memory.

  Thomas cleared his throat. She roused herself. Had he said something? “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I asked if you knew why Miss Bromley wasn’t at church this morning.”

  “I’m not certain.” They were driving along the road her cottage was on. She should look in. In all likelihood, her morning sickness had taken a turn. “Why don’t you let me off at the end of her lane? I’ll check on her and walk home. The day is very fine.”

  “All right, but if she’s ill, convince her to come to Fairview where you and Hannah can care for her.”

  “That is very kind of you. But I’m sure she will want to remain on her own.”

  He gave her a reproving snort and snapped the reins. “Make sure you convince her.”

  Her heart weighted her down as she walked up the short lane to Clara’s cottage. His feelings hadn’t changed, even after Clara had muted her own the last time she had dinner with them. What if he had to be told? If he did, he, of all people, should understand.

  As she suspected, Clara’s morning sickness was to blame.

  “I ran out of tea,” she said as Penelope settled her in a chair in front of the fireplace. “I meant to ask you for more, but I forgot.”

  “I’ll bring some later today. Is there anything else you need at the moment? I would stay, but I must get back for luncheon. You know Thomas. He doesn’t like to wait.”

  Clara swallowed. “Yes, I know. But if you could wait one moment longer, I have news.”

  Penelope sat in the chair opposite her. “The father?”

  “He’s coming to discuss everything.”

  Every muscle in her body cried out in relief. Praise God. “I am so glad. When? I can arrange to be here if you know the day and time.”

  “It will be when his duties permit.” She clenched her hands. “But I must meet with him alone.”

  Alone? Surely she had not heard right. “What do you mean? You cannot meet with him alone. It isn’t proper.”

  The girl lifted her chin. “How? We’ve been alone together before.”

  “Precisely. And you were fortunate no one discovered your dalliance. How can you be willing to risk your reputation once again?”

  “What does it matter if we are to be married?”

  “Has he given you any promise of that?”

  “No, but why else would he come here?”

  Penelope rose and swiped a hand across her forehead. “You cannot be so naïve, Clara. Did it ever occur to you that he might refuse to marry you?”

  Stony silence followed. It was almost a full minute before Clara replied. “Did it ever occur to you to not step into that carriage?”

  Penelope faltered. What was there to say to that? She gathered her Bible and reticule and let herself out.

  Clara’s words followed her home, biting at her heels with every step. She had often asked herself that question. But what did the answer matter now? Things were as they were and nothing could change them. In the end, she was still a child of God. Yet, even after such a reasonable argument, the words still stung and weighed her down.

  “You’ve been quiet,” Thomas remarked as they sat in the study after luncheon. He flipped shut his volume on sheep husbandry. “You’re sure Miss Bromley’s illness is nothing serious.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. She’ll have no problem teaching tomorrow.” She stared down at the book she’d been reading. Or pretending to read. She needed to convince Clara to let her be there when the father called. The first step was to try to heal the breach between them. Tomorrow she would be busy with seeking out someone to help at the Fletchers, and the next day, Miss Abbott would be accompanying her on her visits. Perhaps she could send a note with the tea.

  Fanny stood in the do
orway. “I’m sorry, Mister Thomas, Miss Penelope. This just came from the Hall.”

  She handed Thomas a note. Penelope returned to her reverie. The father was coming when his duties permitted. And he was from Bristol. So he could not be coming for a day at least—

  Paper appeared before her eyes. Thomas stood over her, with the note. “Apparently, this is for you.”

  The depth of his voice startled her. Was the missive from Clara? Had she written too openly of her condition? She unfolded the note with shaky hands. They relaxed the next instant. It was from Mrs. Lynch wanting to know about any details she could give regarding the Harvest Dinner before she and Thomas went on holiday. But why should that bother him? Surely Lord Turner had told him already.

  “A holiday?” he asked evenly.

  Evidently not.

  “Well, yes. What’s wrong with that?”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I told Lord Turner of your artistic pursuits, and knowing how hard you have been working, he offered to send us to Ireland for a fortnight.” His whole form tensed, so she quickly continued, “I remembered how you always wanted to paint there. I had hoped you’d be pleased.”

  “It’s harvest time, Penelope,” he said. “I would have thought you would know what a busy time that is, not only for me but for the whole estate. And with him reinstating the Harvest Dinner, it will be busier still.”

  She gaped at him. “But Lord Turner is getting a bailiff from one of the other properties to see to your duties. Thomas, think. Two weeks of nothing but painting and sketching. Your old talent might return.” She snapped her mouth shut. She’d said too much. He lowered his head and backed away. “Oh Thomas, I’m so sorry.”

  “So I am nothing more than a dishonest, talentless estate agent.” Despite her pleas to remain, he left the room.

  The headache that had kept John home from church finally subsided as he strolled around the Hall’s garden after lunch. Should he stay at the Hall? It might be better for everyone concerned if he lived in London. He was sending Miss Howard away for what? A two-week reprieve? She would return, and they would be thrown together in some way, shape, or form. And somehow history would repeat itself.

  He wandered toward a fountain. Water trickled and danced from an urn held by a weatherworn cherub.

  Atop a pedestal.

  Pedestals can be dangerous things.

  Miss Howard’s words were truer than she realized. He’d fallen from his own, from Maggie’s, and worse, he’d fallen from God’s. Because what else was salvation but that? The Lord had raised him up and seated him with Christ, just as the Bible said. And what had he done? Jumped off. Willingly. Permanently. There was no hope of climbing back up. How could he when he was still falling? He grasped a wrought iron gate for support. He was falling into a pit with no bottom and no hope.

  When he finally looked up, he realized he was holding onto the gate which, according to Parker, led to William’s favorite part of the garden. No. He pushed himself away. He couldn’t walk there. It would only add to the weight that now bore down on him and increase the speed of his eternal fall.

  As he rounded a tall hedge, Thomas strode toward him, eyes narrowed. He hadn’t seen him since their encounter at the Ball. Considering his current mood, the man was not the most welcome of sights.

  “Hall business will have to wait for another time.” He strode past him, but Thomas did an about-face and matched his quick pace.

  “I’m not here on Hall business,” he said.

  The venom in his voice caused John to come to a halt. “Then what do you want?”

  Thomas stopped as well and folded his arms across his chest. “I understand a trip to Ireland is in my future.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “My sister told me.”

  Miss Howard told him? After being so adamant that he tell him? “And what if it was?”

  Thomas let loose a bark of humorless laughter. “My little sister. Always looking out for me.”

  “Which is more than she can say for you.” The memory of him standing by, blithely eating a plate of food while Mrs. Baines picked Miss Howard apart flew across his mind, and his hands curled into fists.

  “And why should you care so much, Lord Turner?” Thomas sneered. “Don’t think I missed how you stared at her at the ball and how readily you went after her. What I can’t fathom is, why send her away when you so obviously have feelings for her?”

  John refused to take the bait. “And I can’t fathom why you treat her so poorly. You act as if she’s your servant instead of your sister.”

  “Thank you for your generous offer.” He spat out the words. “But considering the upcoming Harvest Dinner and our regular duties, a trip is out of the question.”

  Thomas strode back the way he came.

  Two days later, Arthur stepped through the doors to John’s study. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  John leaned back in his chair and sighed. Arthur had come just in time. The estate books he’d been going over had come perilously close to being chucked out the nearest window. He really had no business taking on the monotonous task without Thomas. But he’d been left with little choice. He arched his back, rubbed his neck, and then started shifting the mess before him. “Yes, Arthur. Please sit down.”

  Some papers slipped off, and Arthur picked them up. “Is Mr. Howard here, my lord? You usually go over these with him.”

  John took the papers and set them aside. Where was the letter Dr. Royston sent? “No. Mr. Howard is busy today, so he sent these for me to look over.” He tensed as anger reignited in his chest. He tamped it down. He had good news for Arthur. No sense in letting Thomas spoil it.

  He found the letter and held it as he spoke. “You’ve been tearing through the medical books in the library.”

  “Yes, your lordship. I hope I haven’t taken any you might want.”

  “No. But it’s clear that you have a genuine interest in it. How would you feel if I were to sponsor your medical education?”

  Arthur sat up straight and grasped the arms of the chair. “Really, my lord?”

  “Yes. But I warn you, it’s not easy. You will have to work very hard.”

  He set his jaw. “I will. I’m no stranger to hard work.”

  “Good.” John took the chair opposite him and handed him the letter. Arthur’s fingers flew to open it. John knew what it said. Dr. Royston had made all the necessary arrangements, and Arthur would start at the beginning of next week. He would room with the doctor and assist him when he was not studying.

  Arthur’s shoulders dropped. Not the reaction John expected.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” he said as he folded the letter. “I just thought you and I would be taking this on.”

  He’d anticipated this reaction. “Dr. Royston is the better choice than I am. Besides, depending on the route you want to take, tutoring will be necessary to bring you up to speed in certain subjects.”

  Arthur shifted in his seat, repositioning his legs. “Why can’t I work under your lordship?”

  John waved at his desk. “The estate takes up a great deal of my time.”

  He rose and began to straighten it. He closed ledgers with quick snaps and set them in a stack.

  Arthur didn’t move. “But tutoring me here would make more sense. Dr. Royston doesn’t have a library like this.”

  John forced his voice past the ball of guilt that clogged his throat. “The library will be at your disposal. If you need anything, you can come take whatever you like, whenever you like.”

  “Why—”

  The sounds of yelling and horse’s hooves drifted in through the front windows, interrupting their conversation.

  They strode to the front portion of the library. A small pony cart tore up the drive with Miss Abbott at the reins, her face a chalk-white mask of fear. Arthur knocked over a chair in his haste to get out the door, and John followed close behind. Why was she driving Fairview’s cart? It
slid as it came to a halt, the horse nearly sitting down.

  “What’s wrong?” John bellowed as Arthur grabbed the horse’s bridle.

  “Miss ... Miss Howard.” Miss Abbott all but fell into Arthur’s arms as he helped her down.

  No! John flew to the back of the cart. But the sight that met his eyes was not what he expected.

  It was worse.

  Miss Howard held a little girl across her lap, blood staining her plain cotton dress as the bone from the child’s broken shin protruded through the skin. The girl was wailing, and Miss Howard stroked her hair as she tried to soothe her. Despite the chaos, she was the picture of calm. “We were visiting her father’s farm when she fell. You must help her.”

  The wood bit into his fingers as John gripped the side of the cart. Help? How could he help when all he could see were ghosts of wounded men before his eyes? And Beth Harding among them. And the blood. Acrid, metallic—he screwed his eyes shut and then opened them. The memories disappeared, and the little girl’s wails turned to whimpers as Miss Howard hushed her.

  “Arthur!”

  The young man dropped Miss Abbott’s hand and joined him. “Sir?”

  “Your first patient,” he said.

  “What?” Miss Howard stared at him.

  Arthur was no less surprised. “But sir—”

  John grabbed him by the shirt and pushed him toward the cart. “Don’t leave her in pain. Do it.”

  Their eyes met for a brief instant. He should be ashamed of himself. Arthur had no experience with this. He’d only read about it. John had done it countless times. For less than a second, he considered it. No. He couldn’t.

  With a jerk, Arthur pulled himself from John’s grasp and climbed into the cart. A detached calmness came over him. Good. He wasn’t panicked. Miss Abbott watched, frozen to her spot.

  “Arth—Mr. Wilcox?”

  Arthur knelt beside the whimpering child. “Izzy, go round to the stables.”

  As Miss Abbott picked up her skirts and ran off, Parker darted down the steps toward them. John instructed him to fetch some strips of cloth and two lengths of straight wood. The butler sent Joseph off to fetch them.