by Amy Sandas
“No,” Belinda agreed, “but I think each of our sisters is fulfilled by their marriages in their own way.”
“You cannot convince me that marriage to Lord Ashdown has been a good fit for Judith.” Eliza challenged.
Belinda slid her gaze to the side. “I believe Judith and Ashdown have an understanding that allows them to seek their own happiness.”
Tightness formed in Eliza’s chest, filling it with a familiar feeling of regret and loss. She felt compelled to make a final effort in gaining Belinda’s understanding. Eliza leaned forward, pressing her hands to her chest to contain the emotion within.
“Regardless of what everyone thinks, I did not leave Michael on a whim.” She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. “If I had married him, I would have lost all that makes me who I am. My writing would have been delegated to a hobby, my creativity smothered under pomp and protocol.” Her voice rose with the passion behind her words. “I cannot write only to tuck it all away somewhere in a secret room. In marrying the marquess, I would have become nothing more than his wife. Eliza would have ceased to exist.”
“Or you may have found hidden strengths and may have become a more accomplished woman for being the wife to a worthy man.”
Eliza stiffened. More than once over the last weeks she had wondered something similar. What if she had given up too soon? What if there had been a way to make it work? Hadn’t Michael inspired her a hundred different ways as the distant and arrogant lord and the mysterious gentleman thief? And hadn’t she felt infinitely more capable and more empowered when he had been a part of her life?
There was, however, one fatal flaw to that dream.
“There is one great difference between your circumstance and mine, Belinda.” Eliza said with a heavy finality. “George obviously supports your art. He even poses for you. The marquess has made it quite clear that nothing can be allowed to interfere with the duties and responsibilities of the Marchioness of Rutherford.”
Belinda nodded and reached out to cover Eliza’s fisted hands with hers. “Then I am sorry, Eliza. There was opportunity for a great love between you and Rutherford.”
Eliza looked at her sister in tense bewilderment. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Belinda’s smile held a touch of sadness. “I may not be painting other subjects, but that does not mean I do not study them. I have seen how you and the marquess eye each other as if you could peer into each other’s minds and wished to crawl into each other’s skin.”
Eliza tried to ignore the way her entire being tingled in acknowledgment of her sister’s observation. “What a morbid image.”
Her sister blinked in surprise. “Is it? I thought it a sensual image myself.” She shrugged and stood to smooth out her skirts. “Now, I suppose I had better get you back home or Mother and Father may think you have run off again.”
“I doubt it. They barely acknowledge my existence,” Eliza grumbled as she followed Belinda from the room.
“They are angry and feel betrayed. Your actions have had far-reaching repercussions, Lizzie. They will not easily be overcome.”
“All I want is to be happy,” Eliza argued.
“And are you happy?” Belinda asked.
Eliza hesitated.
No. She had not been happy since the afternoon she had left Rutherford’s house.
She missed him. Terribly.
Somewhere along the way she had fallen in love with him. And she loved him still.
Forced between marrying the marquess or honoring herself, Eliza had made the only choice she could.
And her heart had broken in two with resentment filling the space between as she struggled to accept that she couldn’t simply have both.
Chapter Thirty
The days of summer had only started to turn toward autumn, but a gust from the Grampian Mountains was bracing enough to sweep the warmth from a man’s coat and his thoughts from his head. Rutherford squared his shoulders and turned his face into the wind, smelling the earth and the rock and the hearty flowering shrubs. He hadn’t been so far north since he was a child. The Scottish estate had been hewn from the countryside by a long-ago ancestor and not much had changed with the manor or grounds since.
Rutherford had been in residence nearly a month now and felt no great urge to leave.
No one bothered him this far north. He didn’t have any unexpected guests, the locals all seeming to give less than a fig for the brooding lord in their midst. And he did brood. An awful lot. But even that seemed appropriate in a place like this.
He knew he could not remain tucked away in these foothills forever, but there was nothing pressing to draw him back to London. He did not feel like he missed a thing, especially since Simmons managed to procure copies of The Times so Rutherford could keep up with the goings on of London, albeit a couple of weeks late.
Unfortunately, the distance did not succeed in keeping thoughts of Eliza at bay. She seemed to be always there, waiting at the periphery for his vigilance to relax so she could claim his thoughts and ignite his memories.
Today, as he had walked up a path into the lower part of the mountains, the color of her eyes reflected on every moss-covered stone, the sound of her sighs seemed trapped within the wind gusting through a craggy mountain cleft. When he passed the trout stream he pictured her there with a basket full of fish at her side, laughter on her lips.
Damn. It was blasted ridiculous. No matter how far he went, he could not escape the chit.
Giving up on his walk, he returned to the house, craving a brandy to warm him. Or a few to dull the clarity of his memories.
He did not bother to scrape the mud from his boots before he entered the house. He crossed the modest hall to the library that doubled as his study and shrugged out of his woolen coat. Tossing it over the back of a chair, he went to the liquor service and poured himself a brandy. He swirled the snifter in the muted light of the room, and added another dram to the glass with a rueful grimace.
“Ahem. My lord.” Simmons appeared in the doorway.
Rutherford had decided to keep a minimal staff on hand. The solitude suited him, and the since the house was modest in size, he got by with only a few servants. Simmons filled the role of butler and driver. Without the need to put on all the extra trappings required in town, Rutherford rarely had cause to make use of him in the role of valet. The marquess shaved his own face in the mornings and polished his own boots in the evening. The extra tasks helped to keep him busy and distracted.
He saw now that Simmons held a brown wrapped parcel in his hands. He arched his brow. Not many people knew he was here. He couldn’t imagine who would have cause to send him anything.
“A package arrived for you today, my lord,” Simmons advised. The man had a knack for stating the obvious in a way that was perfectly dignified.
“Set it on the desk there. I will look at it later.”
“As you wish.” Simmons brought the package forward in both hands. It was not so large to require it, but Simmons did everything with the same amount of attention to detail, care and reverence. It was part of his effectiveness and what had made him so invaluable to Rutherford over the years. There was not another man alive who Rutherford trusted more to handle his personal affairs. “I have ordered a light meal for you, my lord. Shall I serve you in the dining room or would you prefer to take your meal here?”
Rutherford waved him off as he lifted the brandy to take a drink. Then he replied, “Do not bother. I am not hungry.”
Simmons gave a respectful bow of his head. “Nevertheless, the meal is being prepared and will be served. I shall bring it to you here then.” With another tip of his head, Simmons exited the room.
Rutherford scowled at the servant’s presumptiveness, but he did not deign to offer a reprimand to the man’s back. Then the brown parcel on the desk caught his eye. With an unexpected flash of curiosity, he crossed the room to take a look.
It was from his grandmother.
Though h
e was not in the mood for the sharp nature of her correspondence, he realized that putting the issue off would not save him from whatever she felt she needed to impart to him. Best to get the thing over with. He set his brandy on the desk and unwrapped the brown paper. As the content was revealed, he stiffened, turning the object over slowly in his hands.
It was a book. Freshly pressed and bound in plum-colored leather.
Tingles of painful awareness shot through him as he saw the golden letters embossed on its cover. He ran the pad of his thumb over the scrolled title and then extended his forefinger to trace the letters of the author’s name.
ELIZABETH TERRIBURY
Despite the inexplicable points of pain lancing through him, there was pleasure as well, and a slow smile spread his lips. She had done it. When he imagined the immeasurable joy she must be feeling, he felt an ache deep in his gut. It was a longing to be at her side, to watch her revel in her accomplishment, to remind her how much she deserved the success.
His hands tightened on the book. How useless his sentiments were so far away and so long past due. How pointless when the focus of his feelings preferred to have nothing to do with him. Sudden tension welled within him and he set the book down to counter a violent urge to throw it against the wall.
Then he noticed the folded paper still resting on the desk. At first, he thought it might be a message from Eliza, and the tension condensed to a sharp point within his chest, but then he recognized his grandmother’s script.
He broke the seal and began to read.
My Dearest Michael,
Perhaps I have not expressed this enough in the past, but surely you know how proud I am of the man you have become. Even when you were a child, your manner and deportment were above reproach, your attention to the responsibilities of your station never flailing despite the many distractions that so often lure young men from the path of decency. It has been a pleasure to watch you grow into a man who lives by the code of honor and duty that have flowed through our bloodlines from a time before even the Conqueror came to our shores. As your grandmother and one who had a hand in seeing you reach your full potential, I could not be more pleased with having you as a grandson, knowing you will lead our family with all of the grace and dignity such a role demands.
But, my boy, it is long past time for you to withdraw your head from the hole you have buried it in and bring your arse back to London!
Do not think I do not know why you have taken yourself off to the wilds of the north. Your father used to do the same thing when he was a young man. At least he had the sense to marry the love of his life when your mother came along.
And where has your good sense gone?
I suppose you believe you are doing the honorable thing. I imagine your pride has dictated that you concede your loss. Your duty to the family name has likely influenced you to do your best to avoid any further scandal. Perhaps I can understand that since it has been my own pride to instill such virtues in you.
But if ever there was a time to resist the conformity of your position, it is now. If ever there was a cause worthy enough to justify a rebellious turn, it is love!
My dear Michael, you cannot convince me that what has developed between you and Elizabeth is not worthy of this. I will never forgive you if you do not find some way to rectify this situation for your own sake. And for hers.
I find myself growing emotional and so I will end this letter now. But I trust you will heed my advice. It comes from a long life of experience and from a place of utmost love and a wish to see you happy.
Your loving Grandmother
P.S. And do not think I am not aware of Elizabeth’s aspirations and ambitions in the world of publishing. Read her book. You may find it enlightening. And inspiring.
P.P.S. If the Countess of Blackbourne can successfully manage a career while maintaining her position in society, then by God, the Marchioness of Rutherford can certainly do so. And better.
Rutherford set the letter on the desk and turned his gaze to the book. His entire body buzzed with frightening anticipation and his stomach twisted with a degree of uncertainty he had never experienced before. It was unsettling. His grandmother’s call to action was rousing, but she could not possibly know Eliza the way he did.
For love, she had said.
He did not need to read Eliza’s book to know he loved her. He had known that long before the day of their wedding. He had done his best to keep away from her, to allow the feeling to dissipate, but it had not worked. And always when he saw her again, the depth of his emotions multiplied. Their joining at Boarhill had eliminated any further wish to alleviate what he felt for her.
He stared at the book. Fear wormed its way into his consciousness as he considered the repercussions of reading it.
Would it convince him she was better off without him?
If he could believe that in his heart, then maybe he would be able to get her out of his head and move on. He knew his grandmother had other intentions in sending the novel to him. But although he had accepted the direction of his own tangled emotions, he could not apply the same to Eliza. Whatever she felt for him, it had not been enough for her to stay with him.
In an almost angry swipe of his hand, he grabbed the book. Lifting his brandy only a bit more gently in the other hand, he took them both across the room to the overstuffed chair near the window. The wind outside rattled the panes but the overcast daylight was enough to read by. He set his brandy on a table at his elbow and then turned the book over a few times in his hands as he built up the courage to open the cover.
Once he did, he continued through the pages without pause. He became immersed in the adventure of a noble thief and a young woman who refused to remain in the seclusion of a nunnery. Simmons came and went with his supper. Rutherford only vaguely recalled eating. The light from outside faded and Simmons returned to light candles while Rutherford loyally followed the hero and heroine through every dangerous escapade and tumultuous turn of events they encountered.
Eliza was there too, on every page. Her humor and her charm. Her intelligence and relentless energy.
As he read, Rutherford detected something else in the story. A deep and subtle thread of loneliness. The emotion was reflected in the very nature of the runaway heroine and in the solitary existence of the highwayman. It filtered through every shadowed moment of confusion and uncertainty the characters endured as they struggled to find their way and light the shadows that threatened their happiness.
When he reached the final page and the words The End, he closed the book and held it in his lap. A confounding sense of joy and sadness blended in his awareness. He sat there for a while like that, listening to the night wind outside, contemplating the new perception that had succeeded in shaking him from the numbed existence he had been hiding in.
Eliza obviously needed to write, to share with others her generous perception of the wonders life has to offer if one is but bold enough to claim their own happiness.
But she also needed him. Perhaps as much as he needed her.
He set the book down on the table beside him and stood. Hope and purpose flowed through him with a rush of focused intention. He strode to the bell pull, his mind starting to whirl with plans. Though it was nearly midnight, Simmons appeared within minutes, as if he had been awaiting his master’s summons.
“Simmons, we have a scheme to strategize.”
With no change to his dignified expression, Simmons nodded in acknowledgement. “Excellent, my lord. I was hoping you would say something like that. These last couple months have been frightfully dull.”
Rutherford arched his brows at his trusted servant’s atypical impudence. When Simmons stared back at him without a blink of deference, Rutherford snorted and replied, “Well, if things go as I hope, I doubt we will ever have a dull day again.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Eliza crossed the darkened garden, grateful to leave the lights and noise of the ballroom behind her.
Sh
e had accepted an invitation from her sister, Regina, to travel with her and Lord Sheffield to Dorset at the end of the London Season. The countryside provided immeasurable avenues of inspiration as Eliza plotted a story about a desperate smuggler who is witnessed in his activities by the tenacious daughter of the local vicar. By day, Eliza went off on lengthy explorations of the surrounding areas, but at night the Sheffields were in Dorset for the express purpose of socializing. They had rented a nearly palatial estate that seemed to Eliza extravagant until she realized just how much entertaining the Sheffields intended to engage in. From the first week of their arrival, the grand house had been filled with a steady stream of guests, and most were expected to stay for a few months or more for Regina’s endless dinners, soirées, musicales and rousing country dances. If Eliza had known what would be entailed in her sister’s invitation to the country, she may have considered her response more carefully.
Still, she had been ready to leave London. The country provided a much richer atmosphere in which to immerse herself for the effective flow of her creative mind. Mr. Whittier was anxious for her next novel and had asked her to have something to him before the worst of winter arrived. The Highwayman and the Runaway was selling at an exceptional rate and had garnered an endless array of commentary in literary journals and the gossip pages alike.
Eliza was not so naïve she didn’t realize her recent scandalous behavior had managed to bring the initial attention, but she hoped the quality of her work had been the cause of the continued fervor. Those first few articles had pained her to read as they sensationalized her decision to abandon the marquess at the altar. They pained her still in thinking about them, but she had known there would be talk and speculation over her actions. She could only be grateful the marquess’s position protected him from the worst of the gossip.
Ducking beneath the fall of willow branches in the corner of the walled garden, Eliza sank onto a stone bench tucked into the deepest shadows. This spot had become her refuge when she needed to escape inquisitive glances and intrusive questions. Regina’s set of friends might be on the liberal side of politics, but everyone loved gossip.
