by Bess McBride
Hickstrom, sipping her tea, lowered her cup.
“Lord Carswell, your offer does you credit. Quite clearly, you care for Miss Bell, or at the very least, are a vigorous champion. But you cannot escort Miss Bell to her home. Might we leave it at that?”
“No, madam! We may not! I shall know the reason why!”
Hickstrom sighed. “Is there any more toast?” she asked Mary.
“Not here. It’s in the breakfast room, where breakfast is getting cold.”
“Oh! I am famished...again.”
“Hickstrom, just tell him and get it over with,” Mary said.
“Yes, of course, I see now that I must.” She looked at the fuming Lord Carswell. “Miss Bell is from the future. She is from the twenty-first century. Only I can send her back through time.”
Lord Carswell’s blue eyes widened, and he stared first at Hickstrom, then at Clara. Clara put a self-conscious hand to her mouth to cover the lower half of her face. She gave Lord Carswell an apologetic look.
St. John rose suddenly and crossed over to the sideboard. He poured out a glass of a dark liquid and handed it to Lord Carswell.
Lord Carswell drank automatically, then looked to St. John, who had resumed his seat.
“Is this possible?”
“Indeed,” St. John said. “But only through Miss Hickstrom. I am not aware that time travel occurs in the absence of magical fairy godmothers.”
“How long have you known?” Lord Carswell asked him.
St. John looked at Mary, who gave an imperceptible shake of her head.
“Not long,” he said.
Clara saw St. John direct a pointed look at Hickstrom.
“How many people know of this...phenomenon?” Lord Carswell asked St. John.
“The people in this room, and Lord Rowe.”
Clara looked at Hickstrom, who seemed prepared to play along. The Halwells knew, but the fairy godmother said nothing about that.
“Lord Rowe? He knows? That Miss Bell is from...the future?” Lord Carswell turned to look at Clara as if she were a creature he didn’t understand.
She didn’t blame him. She supposed his offer of marriage was off the table.
“He does,” St. John responded.
“Let me see if I can understand what has happened,” Lord Carswell said, rising to pour himself another glass of whisky. With his back to them, he spoke. “Miss Hickstrom, through some magical property, brought Miss Bell back in time to marry Lord Rowe. Should that marriage not take place, Lord Rowe is to wed Miss Whitehead...but not by choice?”
Lord Carswell turned and looked at the faces in the room.
“That seems an accurate recap,” St. John said.
Hickstrom sat on the sofa, looking innocent.
“Miss Bell, I must ask you. Miss Hickstrom indicated she had no intention of forcing you into marriage, that she would return you to your home in two weeks. Why then did you agree to marry Lord Rowe?”
“Yes, Miss Bell, do please enlighten us on that score,” Hickstrom said, quirking a wry eyebrow.
“You do not know?” Lord Carswell asked her. “I thought you had magical powers?”
“I do know. I simply want Miss Bell to say.”
“Roger doesn’t want to marry Penelope,” Clara said. “I thought if I married him, then he wouldn’t have to. But truthfully, he doesn’t want to marry me either. He doesn’t want to marry anyone.”
Mary cleared her throat. “I’m not sure that’s exactly true.”
Clara squeezed Mary’s hand. “It is, believe me.”
“Mmmm,” Mary said.
“Lady St. John, I am afraid I witnessed Lord Rowe humiliate Miss Bell by withdrawing his proposal,” Lord Carswell said.
“Now, exactly why did that happen?” Mary asked Clara.
“Roger misunderstood something that Lord Carswell said, something about my crying about being forced into marriage. He thought I was crying this morning. Or maybe he just changed his mind. Men do, you know.”
“Only a cad would withdraw his offer of marriage,” Lord Carswell said.
St. John crossed his legs restlessly. “Lord Rowe is not a cad. I am certain he was goaded beyond what he could endure. You have been made aware of what he has had to endure, Lord Carswell.”
Clara gasped at the implication.
“St. John,” Mary chided.
“I meant only that he has been forced into marriage—he, a lifelong bachelor. As has Miss Bell. I meant nothing more than that.”
“Endure. Stuff and nonsense,” Hickstrom said. She rose. “If there is nothing else that requires my attention, I must see to my other charges.” She inclined her head rather regally for such a short-statured woman and sailed out of the room in that particular glide of hers.
Everyone stared after the closed door as if expecting the fairy godmother to return. Her departure had been somewhat abrupt. Clara forced herself to look at Lord Carswell, he too staring at the closed door. He caught her eye and spoke.
“Miss Bell, I do not know what to say,” he murmured. “I think all in this room have had more time to comprehend what has happened than I.”
“I understand,” Clara said gently. “You don’t actually have to say anything.”
“But I do. I offered myself to you as a husband, and I intend to honor that offer...if you remain. I would not wish a sham marriage, however. I have I already had one of those. I offer you my heart...and my love.”
Chapter Eighteen
Roger paced back and forth across his small study in the gatehouse, hands clasped behind his back, though he would much rather clutch at his chest, where a pain stabbed at him. He thought the action much too melodramatic though. He drew in deep breaths as he stormed about, hoping to calm his anger, his humiliation, his sorrow.
Women were not to be trusted. He had always known that. They were not to be trusted to stay. They left. His mother had left, though to death, yet his young boy’s heart cared not why she had gone. Simply that she did not return.
Mary had begged to leave...and she had been allowed to return home. Most fortunately for St. John, she had already fallen in love and chose to return. Rachel too had pleaded with Miss Hickstrom to release her...and she had returned to her time. That she had returned to Halwell was due to the strength of her love.
But without love, why would a woman remain...in a time and place not her own, a stranger in a strange land. He paused to look out the window at the gate, his memories filled with a pair of hazel eyes and wheat-colored curls.
Clara had wept at the thought of marrying him. He was so dull that a woman had wept at the notion of becoming his wife.
He clasped his hands again and resumed his pacing, speaking aloud as he was wont to do in the solitary confines of the gatehouse.
“Why did you suggest this scheme of marriage, Clara, if it made you so distraught? Why?”
He swallowed against the painful knot in his throat.
“I am such a foolish man. I believed that I could make you love me, or at the very least regard me with some affection. I hoped beyond hope that you would change your mind and stay. You are right! I am a foolish man with a foolish heart. I will never know why you offered to wed me if the notion made you weep, but I truly wish that you had not. And now? I have humiliated you as you humiliated me...and I do not feel the better for it. I am so very sorry, Clara. Please, please accept my apologies.”
Roger had paused to stare at the gate again, remembering the image of Clara with her hands on the iron bars—such a little thing, fragile yet strong, docile yet spirited. He knew that he could love her well, but she would never know. In his dull estate agent’s heart raged a fire that could not be extinguished, would not be extinguished. Yet it must.
He wondered vaguely if Miss Hickstrom was still determined to marry him to Miss Penelope Whitehead. He could not stomach such a notion and sought to put it from him, but he failed. He would never proffer an offer of marriage to Miss Whitehead. Never! But he knew that Miss Hic
kstrom had her ways to force him.
Roger sighed heavily. “To wed that young woman when you could have been my wife, Clara? It is too much to bear. I cannot countenance the notion. I simply cannot.”
“Well, you must, my dear, if you are not prepared to fight for Clara.”
At the sound of the familiar voice, Roger whirled around. Miss Hickstrom stood in the middle of his small study, eyeing him with a severe look.
“How did you enter?” he asked, his voice unnaturally high.
“Through the door,” she said practically, pointing to the closed door.
Roger shook his head. He did not believe that for one moment.
“What do you mean...fight for Clara? I think you may not be aware of Clara’s feelings in the matter. She wept!” Roger could not keep the bitterness from his voice. “She herself offered to marry me, and then she wept!”
“I am aware of what has happened and much more. I have just left the castle, where all is in a muck. Clara may very well end up married to Lord Carswell if you do not take action.”
Roger sagged at her words and braced a hand against the windowsill to steady himself.
“I feared as much.” He looked over his shoulder. “I would rather she returned to her home.”
“That is not for you to decide. I have told her that if she wishes to marry Lord Carswell, who is a baron, then she is free to do so.”
Roger’s arm supported him no longer, and he turned and leaned against the wall.
“She is to marry Lord Carswell? But I thought she did not wish to marry, that she wanted to return to the twenty-first century.”
“I did not say that she is to marry the gentleman, but that she is free to do so. He has made her an offer.”
“I could never offer her such a fine home as he must have.”
“Clara does not need a home. She has one. She needs love.”
Roger crossed his arms over his chest. “She does not desire that I love her.”
“Yet more stuff and nonsense! How can my project have gone so awry? You two are causing me a great deal of inconvenience!”
“I beg your pardon?” Roger asked, looking up, though the effort of lifting his head seemed too much.
“The girl is well on her way to falling in love with you! To further the metaphor, you must catch her before someone else does!”
Roger stared at the fairy godmother. “Surely you jest! Me?”
“I have no time for jesting. And do not think I did not recognize your scheme to marry to appease me and then send Clara home. I saw it for what it was but allowed you two to bamboozle each other, not me.”
Roger hung his head. “I had hoped you did not realize the plan. It pains me to say that it was not my plan.”
“Well, it should have been!”
He looked up. “What do you mean? Bamboozle each other?”
Miss Hickstrom stamped her foot, a tiny gesture given her short stature, but daunting nonetheless. Roger had not seen her lose her equanimity before.
“Can you not see that Clara concocted the scheme out of love? To save you from marriage to Miss Whitehead? She was in no way required to do so. Yet she did...willingly.”
“Because she is a kind and generous person,” Roger said with a resigned nod. “She believed that once she returned, the marriage would no longer be valid...as she would not have been born yet.”
“And you would have died long ago. How do you think a young lady should live knowing that her husband died hundreds of years before? Do you believe she could possibly ever return to life as she knew it?”
Roger stared at the fairy godmother. “I had not thought of that.”
“No,” Miss Hickstrom said, quirking an eyebrow. “There is much you have not thought about. I brought you a woman to love, but I cannot force you to love her properly. That is up to you.”
“I humiliated her.” His shoulders slumped again.
“Love forgives humiliation. All that is required is an apology.”
“I will offer her an apology, but I do not believe that will change her mind. Do you know? Is she set to wed Lord Carswell, or does she simply want to return home?”
“I do know what is in her heart. But apparently you do not,” Miss Hickstrom stated, turning and walking toward the door.
“Miss Hickstrom! What can you mean? What are her wishes? What are her plans?”
But Roger spoke to a door that never opened and a room void of anyone but him. He looked up at the ceiling.
“Miss Hickstrom! Come back! I cannot know your meaning! Tell me what Clara wants!”
His voice echoed on the walls, but the fairy godmother did not return.
Roger resumed pacing, but the act seemed pointless. He grabbed his top hat and strode from the gatehouse toward the castle. Upon reaching the castle, he inquired of Will about Miss Bell.
St. John stepped into the hall from his study. “No need to ask after Miss Bell,” he said. “She is with Mary and the baby. Come into my study, Roger.”
Roger moved on leaden legs toward the study, his energy spent, St. John’s disapproving expression weighing heavily on him. He entered the study and stood with his hat in his hand. St. John leaned against his desk and crossed his legs and arms.
“Lord Carswell called you a cad. I was forced to defend you. Yet I cannot say that I disagree.”
“What have I done, St. John? You are right. I am a cad. It is not enough that I have no experience with women. I knew that to withdraw from an engagement was improper.”
“Improper would be much too temperate a description. It was callous and beyond the pale.”
Roger, his head lowered, drew in a deep breath. “You are right. I will apologize.”
“If she allows you to speak to her.”
Roger looked up. “Surely she must allow me to apologize.”
“No, I do not believe that Miss Bell must allow such.”
“I have never known you to be as angered with me as you are now, St. John.”
“It is not my anger which should concern you.”
“How can I make amends?”
“It is far too late to offer the lady marriage once again. Would you not agree?”
Roger had no such plan, knowing that Clara had no need to marry him, but the words, spoken so plainly, wounded him.
“It is,” he ground out. “It was she who offered the boon to me and I who threw her gift back in her face.”
“Yes, I think that is correct,” St. John said, unrelenting.
Roger knew that he deserved his friend’s censure. “Do you know her plans? Will she return to her home, or has Lord Carswell ensnared her?”
“You are my lifelong friend, Roger, but I cannot allow you to disparage Lord Carswell, especially as it regards Miss Bell. He has kindly offered her marriage and stood by her when he discovered that she is from the future.”
“He knows?”
“He does now, and he did not turn from her.”
“Then she accepted him?” Roger’s voice failed him, and his final words came out as a whisper.
“Not that I am aware of. Not yet.”
“She told me that she did not wish to marry, that she wished to return to her time.”
“Yet she offered herself to you to save you from marriage to that tedious young girl Penelope.”
“Yes, I know. Miss Hickstrom came to see me not long ago. She shamed me sufficiently.”
“Then we have both shamed you.”
“Indeed,” Roger said. “I welcome the punishment. You do not judge me more harshly than I do myself.”
St. John straightened and crossed over to Roger. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Then see this right.”
Roger shook his head in despair. “I do not know how.”
“Try a bit of honesty.”
Roger looked up into his friend’s dark eyes. “What do you mean?”
St. John shook his head and smiled. “Tell the lady how you feel. Fight for her.”
Roger drew in a sharp breath. “Miss Hickstrom said the very same words. Fight for her.”
St. John quirked an eyebrow. “I do not wish to be seen agreeing with Hickstrom in any way, but perhaps in this one matter.”
“But what if Clara wishes to return home? You say you do not believe that she has accepted Lord Carswell?”
“Then you will lose her forever. It is just that simple, Roger. Declare yourself to her. If she has affection for you at all, if there is any future between you, she will tell you once you open your heart to her.”
Roger passed a hand across his damp forehead. “What if...what if we marry, and I cannot make her happy? What if we marry, and she leaves me?”
St. John patted his shoulder once again. “Your mother did not leave you, Roger. She died. People die. It is a natural event, but do you mean to tell me that you turn your back on any possibility of happiness because you fear the future? Live now! Love now!”
Roger raised his head to stare at his old friend. “I have never heard you speak in such...romantic terms, St. John.”
St. John’s cheeks bronzed, and he dropped his hand and turned away, clearing his throat. “Stuff and nonsense.”
“And you did not wish to be seen agreeing with Miss Hickstrom. She used that very term today with me in the gatehouse.”
“Yes, she used it here as well. I will never warm to the woman, but I do like the phrase. It is quite properly dismissive.”
“Do I have your permission to speak to Clara?”
“Of course,” St. John said. “Shall I ask her to come to the study?”
Roger looked at the four walls and thought about the drawing room. But the earlier scene could not be erased from his mind.
“Perhaps she might care for a stroll in the garden? If she is willing to speak to me at all.”
“Go to the garden. I will ask her to see you there. If she refuses, I will come and tell you.”
“I pray she will not,” Roger said.
He left the room and made his way down the hall toward the door that led to the courtyard and garden beyond. He emerged from the castle and settled his hat upon his head, breathing in a breath of rose-scented air. Crossing the courtyard, he clasped his hands behind his back as he passed under the arch leading to the garden. The sound of gravel under his feet calmed him. He did not stray far on the hopeful chance that Clara would agree to meet with him.
