Rescuing Lord Inglewood: A Regency Romance

by Sally Britton

  “This is wonderful news,” Grace pronounced, her voice soft in wonder. “Can the war be truly over?”

  “We only wait for the official word from Paris,” Esther said. “I imagine it will arrive very soon, if it has not been published in London already.” She could not stop smiling, though she tried to temper it. Isaac would come home at last, and take up residence very near Inglewood Keep. She wanted to burst from happiness.

  She took in the expressions of her friends, wishing to read their reactions for herself. Jacob’s look was more reserved than she thought he could be, prospective vicar or not, and his attention was not on the letter in Grace’s hands, but on Hope.

  Hope? Esther studied that woman’s oblivious look of delight as she held a cup in her hands, having presumed to serve herself from the tray.

  “This is absolutely glorious, Esther. I cannot remember a time when I did not know of the war; there has been talk of it every day. What a great relief this will be to the entire country.” Hope sipped from her cup, her eyes sparkling over its rim.

  “Indeed.” Grace handed the letter back to Esther, her countenance serene, before she darted a quick look at Jacob. From Jacob she looked to her twin, then down at her lap.

  It all passed quickly before Esther, but it was enough to make her concerned. How had she never noticed this strange problem before that moment? Granted, she was rarely in company with the twin sisters and Jacob at the same time, but— It was none of her business. They were not exactly her friends, but Silas’s and Isaac’s. Except of late they had all come to see her, as though they enjoyed her company.

  Bother. Having seen Jacob gaze at Hope in such a way, and Grace intercept the look with her disappointed frown, made it easy enough to jump to conclusions.

  Esther came to her feet again and poured tea for the two guests who had politely waited on her, then served them all sandwiches and biscuits. Hope, oblivious to what Esther plainly saw, kept the conversation going.

  Their visit lasted longer than half an hour, as the subject of their discussion passed eventually from the end of the war to Esther’s art surrounding them. They had all stood to study a watercolor of the front of the Keep.

  It was such an odd building, with a history Silas had given to her when she was still a girl enamored with the towers.

  There were two castle-like towers on either side of the main part of the house. The south tower was the first built upon the land, centuries previous. The main part of the house had been added in the days of Silas’s grandfather, whose wife apparently objected to the uneven look of the building. So he had stonemasons and an architect build a tower on the north side of the house in order to match the original, then Christened the entire conglomerate Inglewood Keep.

  “Silas will be charmed by this,” Grace said, head tipped to one side as she studied the painting. “He is dreadfully proud of this estate.”

  “Always has been,” Jacob agreed, stepping closer to Grace. “It is no wonder he installed you here, Esther, instead of at another of his properties. He has that more modern house near Cambridge.”

  “It shows a great deal of trust, I think,” Grace agreed. “To be left here, to make changes and learn your way as a countess.”

  Hope, who had moved down the wall to peer at a watercolor depicting a fountain in the garden, hummed her assent. “I agree, but it also likely had to do with all of us being so near to keep Esther company.”

  Esther started to speak, ready to express her thanks for their attentive visits, when she saw a worried glance pass from Grace to Jacob.

  “I am certain he would have given her the Keep even if we were not present,” Jacob said quickly, as though he wished to cover Hope’s words with his own.

  Hope stiffened and looked around at them, her expression almost guilty. “Of course. There really isn’t a better place for Esther.”

  The room hushed as Esther tried to understand her friends’ strange reactions to what ought to have been a meaningless phrase. She went over what Hope had said in her mind and her chest grew tight. Her husband had issued a command. She could feel it.

  “Did Silas ask all of you to keep me company while he was away?” she asked, skipping from one gaze to the next in rapid succession. “Are you here because he asked you to come?”

  “Oh, Esther, we would have come anyway,” Grace answered quickly, reaching out to put her hand on Esther’s arm. “You are our friend.”

  “But he did ask you.” She did not shrug off Grace’s hand. She had no wish to hurt the woman’s feelings, though her own grew brittle. “Marvelous.”

  Grace’s hand fell away and she looked to Jacob with a pleading expression.

  “He did ask that we look in on you, make certain you were well. Because he cares about you, Esther. You are his wife.”

  “And you are all his friends. Yes, I understand.” She understood too well. Grace’s kindness doubtless would have brought her to visit, and perhaps Hope too. But she and Jacob had almost nothing in common except for Isaac and Silas. All three of Esther’s visitors had been prompted by Silas to pay their respects, to check on her well-being. She felt like a child with a nursemaid left to mind her.

  Esther’s emotions began shifting dreadfully fast. “Thank you for coming to see me today. It was a relief to share my news.” She forced a smile, ignoring the heat growing in her cheeks.

  The others shifted, murmuring polite phrases she barely heard. A long moment of silence passed after, then Jacob offered to escort the Everlys home. They took their leave, their farewells slightly stilted.

  Somewhat numb, Esther gathered up a sketchbook and charcoal sticks, then fled the house for the gardens. The fresh air and sunlight, shining somewhat weakly through the clouds, brought her back to herself. She sat on a bench, heedless once more of her bonnet, and started sketching a bird she spied in the trees. She had barely begun, however, when the bird flew away. Her hand hovered over the paper for several long moments before she dropped it.

  Esther leaned back against the bench and tilted her head back, trying to drink in what warmth she could from the weak sunlight.

  Hope, Grace, and Jacob meant well. They were kind and they had all grown up near one another. But the physical proximity had never transformed into a friendship. Perhaps it might have, if Esther and Isaac’s mother hadn’t remarried before Esther came out in Society. She would have been a peer to the Everlys, at the least.

  They were not her friends. They were Silas’s. Even the affection that had sprung up between herself and the Everlys was due to Silas sending her to their home during her exile from London. An exile she had never truly returned from, as she had only spent enough time in London to secure clothing befitting an earl’s wife.

  Was that why Silas wrote to her, day after day? To assuage his guilt on that account? He knew quite well how limited the society was in their part of Suffolk.

  There truly was no other explanation for his actions. He was ashamed of her. He did not trust her as his wife, to uphold his reputation, to reflect well upon him. Leaving her behind at the very edge of the country, her back to the sea, had limited her movements and ability to impact his status for good or ill.

  Her stomach twisted and rolled unpleasantly. Though she hated the idea, her mind clung to it. The reasoning made too much sense. Silas had married her, as honor and duty demanded, and to do his friend a favor. If Silas hadn’t wed her, Isaac would be stuck with a spinster sister. She cringed as everything fell more neatly into place. He went to London as much to get away from her as to fulfill his obligations. He set his friends as nursery maids to check in on her. He gave her paints and a house to distract her. All while making certain she was far from gossiping tongues and Society’s judgmental stares.

  Tears leaked from her closed eyes and down her cheeks, cooling them as they burned with shame.

  Esther drew her feet onto the bench and brought her knees up to wrap her arms around them, holding herself tightly.

  A drop of rain struck her on
the arm, and then another on the back of her neck. She opened her eyes to the sky above, seeing the hazy clouds had grown into deep gray thunderheads. She did not move, though drop after drop fell upon her. The cold rain felt marvelous against her skin.

  Isaac would return home soon. She clung to that thought tightly, calling forth the excitement that had filled her when she first read the news. She almost smiled.

  If only she hadn’t been a fool at that picnic. She would have been able to go to the Fox home and make it ready for him. But now, a servant to her husband’s will, she could only remain exactly where she was until Silas returned.

  The rain fell faster, drenching her hair and dress. Finally, she gathered up her damp sketchbook and walked back inside, heedless of her dripping skirts. She would dress for bed, though it was early, and have a tray sent to her room.

  After all, what did it matter what she did, or how she did it, when she was all alone?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The letters from Silas continued. Though it would serve him right to receive no replies, Esther’s knowledge of household gossip prevented her from ignoring him. But while she refused to write long epistles full of all her doings, she did send more of her work. After her realization about Silas’s motives for installing her at Inglewood Keep, Esther sent a piece that would mean nothing to him, but expressed her feelings quite succinctly.

  It was a charcoal rendering of her childhood home, heavy with shadows and an overcast sky. She put one word beneath it. Home. Let him make of that what he wished.

  The news from the Continent remained positive, full of accounts about the Parisian people rejoicing in the streets.

  At least England had not faced any battle upon its shores. She could not imagine what it had been like to be at the very center of the wars and death as an ordinary citizen. Thinking of what Isaac had been through made her shudder.

  Why had he not yet written? The papers were publishing letters from common soldiers day after day. Mail had no difficulty getting from the battlefront to London. Surely Isaac had something to say to her, even if only to express his opinion of her marriage.

  Esther paced the garden, her thoughts on her brother, a faint sense of uneasiness building. The casualty lists gave her no reason to suspect he had fallen. She had checked every one herself, and she always sighed with relief and a sense of guilt when she did not see his name among so many others.

  “I see you have your bonnet this time, my lady.” A cheerful voice interrupted her thoughts.

  Thankfully, Esther faced away from the unwanted guest, so he did not see the way she scrunched up her nose at hearing his voice.

  “Lord Neil.” She tried to form an expression of genteel welcome before she turned, not smiling too wide, remaining somewhat aloof. How Silas kept such an expression upon his face almost continually she would never know.

  “Lady Inglewood.” He bowed before stepping through the ivy-covered arch into her sanctuary. “Might I interest you in a walk? Perhaps here, in the gardens?”

  Though the gardens were close to the house, they were terribly secluded with their tall shrubberies. Esther had no wish to be hidden away with this particular man. “Why not a stroll down to the beach?” she asked, coming to his side. “It is low tide presently, is it not? We can search for shells.”

  He visibly brightened and her insides squirmed. The man had become more and more obnoxious with his visits. She had tried to puzzle out what he meant to gain from them and could only think he wished to irritate Silas somehow. No one was ever interested in her for herself.

  They walked down the path in the gardens leading directly to the beach, each step bringing the crash of the waves and call of the gulls closer. Although the reason for her being placed at Inglewood rankled, Esther could not deny her love for the seaside.

  Perhaps today she would paint a picture of a man and woman walking along the beach and send it to her husband. Let him try to figure out that message.

  “Why are you smiling, my lady?” Lord Neil asked, his eyes trained on her.

  “Merely considering the subject for my next project. I have been sending small pieces of artwork to my husband.” She saw no reason to hide that from him and felt it best to remind him of her married state from time to time.

  “Ah, and how is the overly responsible earl? Still in London? I confess, I thought with news of the surrender he would have returned for a holiday.”

  “I am afraid the end of the war does not mean the end of Parliament’s session,” she said as breezily as possible. “Lord Inglewood is a most dedicated representative.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Neil made the word sound like a question, and a disapproving one at that. The man obviously wished to provoke her, and his next words proved such still further. “It is a pity he is not a dedicated husband as well. I suppose a man can only give his full attention to one thing at a time.”

  “Yes, it is a great relief to know men such as he run our government. They let nothing dissuade them from their country’s needs.” She smiled daintily and released his arm as soon as her feet touched the sand. “Oh, look. Is that a crab?”

  Esther held her bonnet to her head when a gust of wind blew over the waves, then hurried to where the water lapped at the land. She deftly kept the conversation away from personal topics, all the while wondering what Silas would think of her ability to deflect unwanted discussion of personal matters.

  I would not have shamed him in London. I know how to keep sensitive matters to myself. The thought bolstered her, but not for long. If she ever remained at the Keep, Silas would never know how well she might fulfill her role as his wife, how she might offer help to his political career.

  Perhaps she would send him a self-portrait, assuming a haughty pose.

  “I found you a shell, my lady.” Lord Neil came running toward her, offering up a clam shell with his bare hand.

  “Thank you.” She held out her hand, waiting for him to drop it there, and did not remove her glove. The man thought himself subtle, but she had tired of his charade days ago. “That will suffice for my purposes today. Shall we go back?” She did not wait for an answer. A quarter of an hour in Lord Neil’s presence was always more than enough.

  Chapter Fifteen

  April 19, 1814 - London

  With the end of the war, Silas’s fortnight in London began to look more like a month. He had written Esther the day before to apologize, explaining why he must be delayed as many decisions had to be made in regard to bringing the troops home.

  Sitting at his desk, his London study lit by candle and lamp, he stared down at the latest drawing arrived from Suffolk. At first, receiving Esther’s artwork had amused him, but he had begun to suspect she was doing more than sending him random sketches and paintings. There was something more to them, and the single words or lines she scrawled along the edge of the paper offered the barest hint to what she intended him to know.

  This was another watercolor, in a more simplistic style than he had seen from her thus far. It was a view from inside the house, at the front door, looking outward. Rain appeared to be falling, blurring the outside landscape into nothing more than a wash of color.

  Beneath the somewhat melancholy image were the words, “Waiting for Company.”

  Was Esther lonely? Had his friends not gone to her as he wished? Jacob had sent him a letter not long ago, announcing they had been found out, but he did not say the visits had ceased.

  Whose company did Esther wish for?

  Silas had a letter to her started next to the drawing, but he could not bring himself to tell her of any political doings. Would she care? Yet his life consisted of little else. He had been to the club that morning where many a man still toasted the end of the war as if they had contributed personally to that outcome.

  He put his elbows on the desk and dropped his face into his hands, exhausted. He had turned away another invitation to a ball. The social events had always been somewhat irritating, but necessary, for him to attend or
else risk offending members of his party by offending their wives. As a married man, he had more leeway with invitations, and he had no desire to attend parties without Esther by his side.

  Perhaps it had been a mistake to leave her behind. Though he had his reasons, of course, he had begun to doubt them. What would it have hurt to ease her into Society from their London townhouse? Could he really better prepare her over the course of the summer?

  Though used to being alone, now that it was not strictly necessary, he caught himself often wondering what Esther would say and do in certain situations. What sort of wife would she be to him? Attentive, coming to see why he was yet awake after two in the morning? Or would she be a silent support, sending the servants with tea to fortify his late evenings? He had no doubt she would be kind. One had only look into her beautiful brown eyes to see her compassionate nature. Sometimes, he supposed with a smirk, he might glimpse her stubbornness, too.

  A hasty knock on the door interrupted his musings. It didn’t sound like the butler, or like Arnold.

  “Enter,” he said.

  A messenger came striding in ahead of the butler. The boy, no more than sixteen, if that, executed a hasty bow. “My lord, from the Home Office.”

  Silas stood and held out his hand. “Thank you.” He broke the seal open and unfolded the letter, seeing it was from one of the general’s secretaries. As Silas read, his blood went cold.

  …April 10, 1814, Wellington engaged in battle outside Toulouse. Soult unaware of surrender. I regret to inform you that the early casualty lists have included one Sir Isaac Fox, Captain…

  Silas wiped a hand across his eyes, as though clearing them might change the words on the paper. He read them again, slowly lowering himself to his seat.

  Isaac, dead? In a battle that never should have occurred. Ten days previous. What was wrong with the world? Why had it taken the news so long to reach him? And how did General Soult fail to learn of the Paris surrender? It was senseless.