“I see . . . Well, your powers of concentration would be greatly improved if you stopped muddying them with that.” She pointed to the bottle.
“Perhaps. But . . .” His voice trailed off. He could not bring himself to explain—even to Aunt Dorothy—that the amber fluid helped dull his pain, if only temporarily.
She rose and put a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back into his own chair. “I should like to help, my dear, but I have an idea this is a matter of the heart—and one you must resolve for yourself.”
He covered her hand with one of his own. “I shall survive. You must not fret about me. I always come about—eventually.”
She squeezed his shoulder and kissed his brow. “Right, dear. Boney did not keep you down, so some slip of a girl is unlikely to do so. Come, Sir Lancelot,” she called to the dog, which jumped down from the chair she had vacated.
Ridiculous name for a dog, Thorne thought. Only later did his aunt’s parting words sink in. What did she know of “some slip of a girl?”
Annabelle welcomed the return to Timberly, the primary seat of the Earl of Wyndham. Timberly had once been a glorious medieval castle complete with moat and crenelated wall and towers. The moat had long since been drained and the wall quarried for building stones for tenant cottages. However, the main house was still a marvelous structure that never failed to fascinate. The surrounding countryside afforded scenic riding trails.
She spent long hours in the saddle. Her rides served two purposes. She not only tried to sort out her feelings about Thorne, she also tried to resolve difficulties in the writing she was doing—difficulties that arose when images of the Earl of Rolsbury intruded too heavily for her to continue. After yet another hard ride one morning, she returned to the house, changed out of her habit into a muslin day dress, and made her appearance in the breakfast room. Harriet was alone there.
“The others have already finished?” Annabelle asked.
“Yes. Marcus had some business to attend to and Aunt Gertrude has gone into the village.”
Neither said anything as Annabelle made her selection from the sideboard and poured herself a cup of coffee from a china pot on the table. Harriet set her own cup back on its saucer.
“Are you ready yet to talk about whatever it is that is bothering you?”
Annabelle smiled ruefully. “I thought I had covered myself so well, too.”
“Not well enough to fool those who love you. What is it, Annabelle? Can I help?”
“Probably not. I have fairly done it, this time.”
“Are we discussing Emma Bennet again?” Harriet asked.
“And Thorne Wainwright.”
“What happened? Did you tell him ... ?”
“No. And that is the whole problem. How can I tell him at this point?” It was a cry of pure anguish.
“Oh, my dear girl.” Harriet rose and took the chair next to Annabelle. She put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulder. “You care for him so very much, do you?”
Annabelle sucked in a deep breath, stifling a sob. “Yes. Yes, I do. And it is so ... so ... impossible!”
“Are you quite sure of that?”
Annabelle nodded. “Perhaps if I had told him immediately. . . but it did not seem important then. And now . . . it is far too late.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Harriet sounded encouraging. “What if you wrote him a note explaining it all to him—”
“No! I cannot write it. I have behaved the coward enough. This is something I must tell him face-to-face.”
“You should have the opportunity to do so at the harvest festival in a few weeks. Rolsbury accepted our invitation, you know.”
A few days later, however, Harriet came into the drawing room waving a note. Annabelle caught a glimpse of the Rolsbury crest.
“Rolsbury is not coming to our harvest celebration,” Harriet announced.
A lead ingot settled in Annabelle’s innards. “Does he say why?”
“No, not really.”
“What about Luke?”
Harriet glanced at the note. “This says nothing of Luke, so I assume he, at least, will join us. Rolsbury writes that estate business requires his presence in Lincolnshire. This is addressed to Marcus and he ends by saying he looks forward to working with Marcus on parliamentary matters at a later date.”
“May I see it?”
Harriet handed her the note. She read it slowly. Then she reread it. Finally, she handed it back. “The tone is very formal.”
“Yes. I noticed that, too. He does ask that Marcus convey ‘regards to your family.’ ”
Annabelle could not hide her hurt at his not mentioning her or sending her a note of his intent to forego the hospitality at Timberly. She had looked forward to the prospect of seeing him, even knowing that telling him of Emma Bennet would be extremely difficult.
Now he was not coming. And he had offered the flimsiest of excuses. But why?
Timberly’s harvest celebration continued as planned, including a house party, a three-day market fair, and a grand ball. It was an annual affair that dated back to the Middle Ages. Annabelle had always loved this most important of holidays, for it brought the entire Jeffries family together. The Earl of Wyndham’s younger brother and sister customarily returned to Timberly then, along with their ever-growing families.
This gathering always made Annabelle feel that she really belonged—that she was very much a treasured member of the clan. For a young girl devoid of family, this acceptance had been an important turning point in her life. Now, she had a distinct feeling that she was on the threshold of another such turning point, but she knew she could not pass through that portal quite yet.
Luke arrived and his cheerful enthusiasm did much to lift Annabelle’s spirits. He conveyed his brother’s regrets again, and expressed his own happiness at being at Timberly.
He joined Annabelle on her morning rides. One day they had paused to rest at a scenic spot. They dismounted and sat on a huge flat boulder. The groom who satisfied Society’s dictates of propriety watched over the horses as they cropped grass nearby.
“I see why you love this place so,” he told her. “It has vistas rivaling those at Rolsbury.”
“Yes. I suppose it does.” She recalled the abbey there as seen from the cliff and the man who had shared that special view with her. “Th-Thorne is well, I assume?”
“Oh, yes. Working very hard, though. Wouldn’t even take a break to go fishing in Scotland with me—and he loves to fish. Taught me himself.”
“I did not know that about him.” She said this casually, making conversation, but in truth she hoarded every scrap of information about Thorne that Luke gave out.
“Come to think of it,” Luke went on, “he’s been out of sorts.”
“Do you know why?”
“No, I don’t. I went off yachting—mostly in the Channel—and when I came back, he was like a bear with a sore paw. Almost like he was after Waterloo.”
“But he has come around, has he not?” she asked.
“Some. He is involved in so many projects, though, it quite makes a sane person’s head spin.”
“What sorts of projects?”
“Well, let me see.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “There’s an irrigation project—if it works on Rolsbury, he will expand it to other properties. Then there’s the one involving breeding sheep for better wool. He is building two schools that I know of.”
“Schools?”
“Yes. Day schools. One in the village for villagers’ and farmers’ children. And another over near Holston-Weir—that’s where the Rolsbury Knitting Mills are located.”
“I see.” Once again she realized how very wrong she had once been about the Earl of Rolsbury. “Schools for workers’ children? That is not likely to go over well in certain circles.”
“No. It doesn’t. I believe Thorne has had some strong letters. Lord Teasdale called personally—very irate, he was—to complain about it. He told Thorne that he and other mill
owners see such things as schools and improved housing and medical care for workers to be merely a foolish waste of money.”
“How does Thorne react to such criticism?”
Luke shrugged. “He just says it is the right thing to do.”
“Hmm.” She sat quietly for a time, thinking of the attitudes of other landowners and mill owners. “Luke, I have long meant to ask you about something . . .”
He looked at her, swishing his riding crop back and forth against the toes of his boots. “Ask away.”
“Thorne told me once there was—an ‘unpleasant history,’ I think he said—between him and Lord Beelson.”
“He told you that?” Luke was clearly surprised.
She nodded. “And I wondered about it—but I would not intrude on his—or your—privacy. . . .”
Luke scratched his head. “He told me something similar, but I have no idea what it is. Must be something that happened when I first went away to school.”
“Oh. Well . . . I was merely curious.”
As they prepared to return to the stables, Luke added, “Thorne is not usually one to carry a grudge, though.”
Annabelle found this heartening. Maybe after she told him the truth of Emma Bennet, he would at least continue to be courteous.
Annabelle threw herself into her writing during the waning months of the year. She had long since received Mr. Murray’s enthusiastic approval of her project. It was by far her most ambitious undertaking to date.
Her heroine, Portia, was a talented artist from a prominent family. Portia’s pencil drawings were as important and as expressive as the paintings later made from them. Because Society not only frowned on women bringing attention to themselves, but also had a general tendency to denigrate the works of women, the artist hid her identity. She was further motivated to work in a cloak of anonymity to protect her family from public censure that might carry over to them. The hero was Nathan, a proud man whom the artist admired. However, one of her drawings, intended as a working sketch for a painting and which seemed to depict him in an unfavorable light, was inadvertently published in a newspaper and misunderstood by both Society and the gentleman himself.
“How is the new book coming along?” Harriet asked of Annabelle one day in late autumn.
The two of them had met for tea, both having been preoccupied elsewhere the whole day. Harriet announced that she had spent most of her time in the nursery and now welcomed adult company. Annabelle’s ink-stained fingers bore testimony to how she had spent the day. Aunt Gertrude had returned to London right after the harvest festival. Marcus had gone hunting with some local men.
Annabelle had brought the first chapters with her to the drawing room, hoping to get Harriet’s reaction. “See for yourself.” She handed the pages over and sat quietly sipping her tea and nibbling biscuits as Harriet read.
“Good heavens! You are writing about yourself,” Harriet said at last.
“Well, yes . . . and no. This is not merely Portia and Nathan’s story. I am trying to convey also an overview of Society—blemishes as well as beauty. The heroine draws portraits of all sorts of people, you see. I have tried to make her work the focus of the story.”
Harriet smiled and reached for her tea cup. “And only incidentally prove women capable of such creative work, is that it?”
“That is one of the underlying ideas, but I want the portraits of different types of people to come through.”
“So far, it does—and without the strident tone of Innocence Betrayed.”
“I do hope so,” Annabelle replied. “Actually, I hope this story is peopled with believable human beings. I want to present them sympathetically—even those who are basically silly and shallow have reasons for behaving as they do.”
“I think you are doing that very well. This is far finer than any of your earlier work, Annabelle.”
Annabelle basked in her mentor’s praise for a few minutes.
Harriet spoke again. “There is this parallel between your heroine and yourself, though.”
“Do you not think all writers put something of themselves into their characters? Maybe show their made-up heroes and heroines as the kind of people they would like to be?”
“Hmm. Probably. But this may cause yet more speculation about who Emma Bennet is.”
“Well—” Annabelle drew a deep breath. “I think this book will signify Emma Bennet’s come-out.”
Harriet’s eyebrows rose. “You will publish under your own name?”
“I plan to. I am truly tired of the subterfuge.”
“Well, at least you are not likely to be accused of sedition.”
Harriet’s voice was laced with irony and Annabelle laughed sympathetically, for she knew Harriet referred to her own essays written under the pseudonym of “Gadfly.” Certain reactionary members of the government had attempted to arrest the Gadfly for sedition.
“No, I will not,” Annabelle said. “But my work may not prove any more acceptable in some quarters than Gadfly’s did.”
“We shall see. This is going to be quite good.” Harriet handed the sheets back to Annabelle.
Portia and Nathan continued to occupy Annabelle’s waking moments right through the Christmas and the seasonal festivities. Thorne Wainwright occupied her un-waking moments—against her will and in spite of her efforts to banish him. She would awake suddenly, still feeling his arms about her, his lips pressed to hers.
“This is ridiculous!” she muttered on more than one occasion. “You would hate me if you knew the truth. So—please—leave me alone.”
She drove herself beyond the point of exhaustion every day. She spent long hours at her desk. She rode every day. And she played with the children every day so long as the nursery was full of visitors. “Auntie Belle” was a favorite playmate of the little ones.
When the Christmas and New Year celebrations were ended, Annabelle returned to London with Aunt Gertrude, who had come to Timberly for the holidays. The book was finished and Annabelle wanted to be there when Mr. Murray dealt with it. He had already seen and approved the first chapters, so she did not worry that he would not like it. Still—this was her baby. She wanted to be there. She admitted privately to caring more about this book than any of her previous work.
Accompanied by her maid and driven by Aunt Gertrude’s coachman, Annabelle visited Mr. Murray in his own offices. Located in an area that was probably downright dangerous after darkness fell, Murray’s working quarters consisted of a large room where several clerks sat copying. A low partition separated visitors from these scribes. Murray’s office was in the rear. As soon as she was announced, he came running out.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, ushering her and Molly into his office and quickly closing the door. “Surely you know I cannot quell the speculation of my employees.”
She took the comfortable seat he offered her across from his large mahogany desk and motioned Molly to a chair next to the wall. “We can talk about that later, sir. I want to discuss some minor details about the book.”
“This is your best effort so far,” he said, extracting her manuscript from a pile on his desk.
“I think so, too.” She made no pretense of false modesty.
“This will be your break-out book.”
“My what?”
“This one will break you out of the mold—the niche—into which your previous work has fallen. This one will be well received by the critics. Even Lord Rolsbury will be praising it in The London Review. Just you wait and see.” Murray’s enthusiasm was contagious.
She winced inwardly at his mention of Thorne’s name, but she smiled and said, “I hope the reading public will like it, too.”
“They will.”
They proceeded to cover the matters of text, over which Annabelle fretted. Murray pointed to some minor changes he wanted. Finally, they were finished and Murray returned to his initial concern.
“I am happy to see you, Miss Richardson, but really, I do wonder about the wi
sdom of your coming here. You should have sent me a message.”
“It matters not. You see, I wish this one to be published under my own name.”
“Are you quite sure of that?” There was dawning wonder in his voice, then Annabelle could see the businessman’s calculation going on behind his affable smile.
“Yes,” she said. “I have discussed this at length with Lord and Lady Wyndham. They agree that the protection of anonymity is no longer necessary. I shall be of age in only a few weeks, you see.”
He seemed hesitant. “Hmm. You must know the name Emma Bennet would alone account for some of our initial sales. Takes time for a new name to catch on.”
“I had not really thought about that,” she said. “I am simply tired of hiding behind a pseudonym.”
“We could put both names on the book.” He seemed to weigh her response to this idea.
“Both?”
“Yes. Say, ‘Miss Emma Bennet, also known as Miss Annabelle Richardson’ or perhaps ‘Miss Annabelle Richardson, who is Miss Emma Bennet’ or ‘—who formerly wrote as—’ or whatever phrasing you wish.”
“I think I should like my own name first. Yes. I want to be frank and open about the authorship of this work.”
“This comes as very good news to me, Miss Richardson.” He rubbed his hands together. “It will sell a good many books—especially with your standing in Society.”
“Perhaps ...” She was doubtful.
“No ‘perhaps’ about it! It will mean increased sales.”
“But that is not why I am doing this.”
“I understand, Miss Richardson. You are the sort who would write whether you sold or no.”
She laughed self-consciously. “You know me too well, I think.”
“I know a good many writers, miss.”
She felt the interested gazes of his staff as she and Molly left the office.
“Well, the die is cast,” she muttered as she and Molly climbed into the waiting carriage.
“I beg your pardon, miss?”
“Never mind. ’Tis not important.”
Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 14
