by Ella Edon
Her mother sighed. "Well, dear, I'm afraid that neither woman, nor man, ever tells the whole truth in matters of love. Surely you are not pretending to be shocked by this."
"No, Mother. I am not shocked by it. But I am very tired of the games men play. I want – " She paused for a moment, thinking. "I want an honest man. I am tired of men who only tell me what they think I want to hear. I would far prefer brutal honesty to pretty little words that mean nothing and fade away faster than snowflakes."
She thought her mother might snap back, strong as she was; instead, Mrs. Robbins only sat quietly at the table. "You have grown so cold, Merope," she said, her voice very soft. "I worry for you. Serenity is a fine thing in a woman, but a cold and uncaring heart is very different. I especially began to see it after the earl married Grace Miller last year."
"The servant girl."
"Yes, the servant girl, who is now Lady Worthington, and even before that – " She looked closely at Merope. "Even before that, there was the matter of your friend Sally Henson and her suitor. What was his name?"
Merope raised her head and for a moment was not going to answer, but she soon relented. "Daniel Bird."
"Yes. The steady young man from one of the farms out towards the Viscount of Albany’s estate. You made him think you cared for him, when he learned of your game, he took an apprenticeship on a farm some fifty miles away and has never been back since."
Merope felt her annoyance rising, but there was a small sense of triumph to go along with it. "There is no proof that I 'stole him away.' He seemed to like me, and I considered him for a time. That was all. We had no understanding between us at all. Sally Henson and I remain friends, and from what she has said, he intended to leave for his apprenticeship anyway. You may ask her about it when next you see her, if you wish."
Her mother's eyes narrowed, however. "You knew how devoted Sally was to him. I can only tell you to be careful with such things, Merope. They can burst into flames in an instant and burn you before you know it."
Merope kept her silence, and then after a moment sat down again at the table and folded her hands.
For just an instant, her mother covered Merope's hand with her own. "I know that for you, still being young, love and marriage are simply games to play. You have never been in love. No man has broken your heart, though I believe you have broken a few yourself. Do not think it cannot happen to you. It can happen to the strongest of us."
Merope realized that her mother was looking at the small portrait of her late husband, Ezra Robbins. That little painting was Merope's only real memory of her father, for he had died when she was very young. She was well aware of how hard her mother worked, and how she had no one to look out for her save her daughter. Merope had made certain that she herself had the strength to get both of them through whatever troubles they might face, what with trying to run their own property in a world run by men.
She smiled and patted her mother's hand in return. "I understand. There are many ways to lose someone. I am sure it is just as painful, no matter how it happens."
Abruptly, Mrs. Robbins withdrew her hand and stood up. "Now, then," she said briskly, with a deep breath. "I have no wish to argue with you. I will just say that there are always new guests at any event, even at a picnic in Birdwell. New friends, new cousins. Will you agree to accept Lord Worthington's invitation?"
"I suppose I have little choice." Merope remained at the table, frowning. "If I agree to go, will you at least consider sending me to London?"
Her mother hesitated. "If you go to the picnic," she finally said, "I will make every effort to get you to London sometime next year."
She raised her hand to halt her daughter's protests that that would not be soon enough. "And to help make up for having to wait, I will get you a new dress and bonnet to wear to the earl's picnic."
Knowing she would get no better arrangement today, Merope nodded briefly and stood up. "I will go to the picnic and wear my new dress. But I hope to find a man there who will simply tell me the truth, whether he actually loves me or not!"
"All right then, Merry. Tomorrow we will go over to Fabrics, Feathers & Fineries and have you fitted with something new."
Mrs. Robbins shook her head. "I can arrange to have a set of clothes made with no trouble. But I fear that finding an entirely honest man is not something that is in my power to give you."
It took James several more days to get out of London – days spent at the townhomes of scattered friends, and once or twice, sleeping in the straw at the rear of some small back-alley stable. But he did, finally, escape the city and make his way home to Albany. At the sight of the large, but modest home, he thought that the sight of Heaven itself would never move him so much.
The fresh air and grass and trees seemed to make him whole again. Some six weeks after waking up in the squalor of the inn for the last time, James sat down to breakfast with his father and his mother—the Viscount and Viscountess of Albany. His appetite had returned with a vengeance and James had asked for generous portions of boiled eggs and fried sausages to be added to his plate.
"So," his father, Matthew Brookford, Lord Albany, began, as he watched James eat. "It is well that all the wheat and oats and rye we grow did not fail this year. I think all of the profit at our little mill has gone to your breakfasts!"
James paused for a moment, before once again lifting another big spoonful of boiled egg to his mouth – but then saw his father smiling. "It's all right, my son. We are both glad to see you well. You used to eat the same way as a boy."
"Don't worry about that, James," said his mother, Mary Brookford, Lady Albany, pretending to be flustered by his father's words. "It has been lonely here with just the two of us. We only end up giving leftover food to the Bird family's hog farm down the road, and we would surely rather give it to you!"
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," James said. "I should hate to think I was the cause of my parents' bankruptcy simply due to overeating at breakfast."
His mother laughed and then picked up a red-sealed letter from the small silver tray beside her on the table. "This arrived earlier today. It has your name, so I think you should open it."
James glanced at it while slicing up the hot sausages. "An invitation?" He lifted the large chunk of sausage to his mouth with the fork, chewing and then swallowing before going on. "You should open it, Mother. I don't care much for socializing. There is plenty to do here, so that I can earn all this food I am devouring. All those acres of corn to plant, not to mention supervising the grinding at the mill – "
"It's from Worthington. It is addressed especially to you."
James sighed, finishing up the bite of sausage, and then cleaned his fingers on a linen napkin before breaking the seal on the note and unfolding it.
"A picnic," he murmured, as his mother poured him some more tea and place the little bowl of freshly ground sugar beside it. "At Midsummer."
"A picnic!" said Lady Albany. "How lovely. James, it would be the perfect event for your reintroduction to all the folk of Birdwell."
He frowned a little, reaching for the hot cup of tea. "I suppose. But I will admit, I have grown accustomed to quiet days and peaceful nights, with only a few other people around. I am not certain that I would enjoy such a gathering."
"It's only a picnic," said his father. "Held out in the open on an enormous estate. How crowded could it possibly be?"
"It does not matter so much where it is held. There will still be many there that I do not know."
"Or that you do know, but have not seen in a very long time." Lady Albany poured herself a little more tea. "And who will undoubtedly have many questions for you."
"I am sure they will. I know they are curious. But I have no desire to inform a group of strangers and distant friends about things that are entirely personal to me."
His parents just looked at him in silence. James knew very well that they had seen him fall into debauchery and dissipation some two years ago, and also knew, that they
had been quite distraught when he had left for London in such a state. His mother, especially, was very relieved and happy simply to have him back. She would probably have let him do almost anything he pleased as long as he did not begin to slide inside a bottle once again.
"I do not see that you are obligated to tell them anything, beyond that which the most basic courtesy requires," his mother said. "You might simply say that you decided to live in London for a time, following your commencement at Cambridge. Many young gentlemen would do the same."
"I know that. And I had considered it. But most of them will know that that is not the whole story and I don't think their curiosity will ever go away. I don't want to be the subject of gossip all over the county."
"James, my dear," his mother said, "I am afraid it is far too late for that. You might as well go and face it, because it will never go away until you do."
He set down the teacup and folded his hands beneath the table, feeling his temper rise. She was right, of course, but that did not improve his mood any. “I should have known.”
"They are just curious, and they do want to know that you are well now. Many of them have known you all your life. You were missed and they will be glad to see you again."
James tapped his finger on the table. "All of them?"
"Of course, all – " Lady Albany paused when her husband touched her arm and turned to look at him.
"I think I see the trouble now," said Lord Albany. "She is gone. You will not see her at Worthington, or anywhere else in England."
James looked closely at him, not sure he understood. "You are sure? Angela will not be attending this picnic?"
"She will not," his mother said. "As your father told you, she is no longer in England."
"How is that possible?"
"It is possible," she went on, "because the former Miss Angela Stone moved to France with her husband."
"With her husband."
"Yes." His mother nodded.
"France?"
"And they will not be coming back," his mother assured him.
"I see." James closed his eyes, not knowing if the news made him feel better or worse.
Lord Albany spoke up. "Even if Miss Stone did return – and I'm sorry, I don't know what her married name is, and I care even less – that part of your life is over with, James. Isn't it?"
He nodded, just slightly at first and then with more conviction. "Yes. It is over. Done."
"Then you must stop letting it steer your life. You must decide to either live for yourself or die for her – a woman who cared so little for you that she married a wealthier man at the very first chance. Which do you want?"
"I think – I want – "
His father leaned forward. "Choose! I should have demanded that you do so before you left for London. I didn't then, but I am demanding it now. Which do you want?"
James had never seen his father so angry and determined over anything. Even his mother was very still, just looking up at him.
"I – no, I do not want to die for her."
"Good." His father sat back in his chair.
"But neither do I know how to live for myself," James went on. "Not any longer."
"Oh, James – I don't understand," said his mother, and he could hear the pain and confusion in her voice. "You are a good and intelligent gentleman. You can have any sort of life you choose. What are you talking about?"
“The life that I planned is no longer possible.” He had wanted to settle down with Angela. Perhaps, breed race horses, like Simon Clarke.
"But surely, you still wish to marry," said his mother. "There are any number of fine young women right here, who would be honored to – "
"No. I certainly do not wish to marry any time soon. Perhaps never."
His parents fell silent. "All right," said Lord Albany. "You will have to make some sort of decision before long. You don't want to live in the city, yet you say you do not want the country, either. There is not much in between."
James closed his eyes. "I do not mean to sound so entirely selfish. I am well aware that Albany has no other heir besides myself. I do not want you to have to find some long-lost cousin to inherit our home and our land . . . someone who may not care for it as we do. I truly do not want that."
"I know you do not," said his father.
"That is why I will, indeed, agree to at least try to find a suitable wife." James could hear his mother's sigh of relief. "And if either of you can tell me where I might find a woman or some lesser lord’s daughter who will be nothing but honest with me – I will be happy to go and meet her."
There was a shocked silence. "I am sorry, Mother, Father – but I mean what I say. I have no trust left for females and their games."
"I suppose not," Lord Albany finally said. "But you are asking for a guarantee that no one could ever give you."
"That is very true," his mother said, nodding. I can only tell you something that I myself learned long ago: It is not so much a matter of trusting others. It is a matter of trusting yourself."
James just gave her a sideways glance. "I am not marrying myself. Finding a woman who will be entirely honest with me, at all times, is what I do not know how to do."
"There is no need to make this so difficult." His father was beginning to lose patience. "The first one did not work out. So try again! Find another. You will find nothing if you cease to search."
"I suppose so." James looked away from them, glancing towards the bright windows. "Even though I rather enjoy the countryside myself, I recall what happened the last time when I thought I had found the ideal wife out here. I sometimes think – I sometimes think I should return to the city where there are far more eligible women."
"But you just spent two years in the best parts of London," his father complained. "What sort of women did you find there, in all that length of time? Any honest ones, as you say you want?"
He had no answer for that.
"Just so," his father said. "Then perhaps your easiest course is to make a slow start. Simply go to Worthington in ten days and attend the picnic. It is but a small social occasion among friends and family. I am sure you will find no difficulty there."
"I think that is a splendid idea," said Lady Albany. "You have been going there all your life and your aunt and your cousin are quite fond of you. Perhaps remembering them, and the fine times you had there in your youth, would help return you to the proper path."
"Besides, my son," his father said, "in the two years that you have been gone, who knows what you will find among new neighbors who may have arrived during that time? And think how interesting it could be to see which young ladies might have grown up considerably."
"That's right," said his mother, in a firm voice. "The Dowager Countess – your own Aunt Maria – knows that you have returned, and wants very much to see you. The very least that you can do is to visit your aunt."
"There's no denying that they are your family, after all." His father's voice was quite firm as well. "Your cousin Thomas is now married, and you have never met his wife."
He sighed, knowing that both of them were right, and there was really no way to avoid this. "I suppose you are right. Perhaps I could go, even if I did not stay for long."
Lord Albany frowned and started to speak, but his mother only brightened. "There, now. That's the spirit! I'm sure they simply want to see you again and introduce you to the new Lady Worthington. You can stay for as long – or as little – of a time as you like."
His father seemed about to speak again, but then thought better of it and simply reached for his own cup of tea.
"All right, then," said James, surrendering for the moment. "Midsummer Day it is. I hope I can recall how to get to Worthington."
"Just allow Vireo to take you. I'm sure he remembers," said Lord Albany. "He's galloped with many a hunt over the earl's grounds."
"I'm sure he does remember, Father," said James, with a tight smile. I'm beginning to wish that he did not.
Chapter
Three
On a pretty Midsummer afternoon, after riding for about an hour and a half, James Brookford guided his tall bay hunter, Vireo, off the road and through the gateposts of Worthington Estate. The horse continued at a brisk trot up the winding lane that crossed back and forth on the side of the hill, under the green and shady trees, until they reached the top and stopped before the steps of the great house.
"Good day, sir. They are all at the picnic," said the servant, who had hurried across the portico as soon as he'd heard Vireo's hoofbeats. "Just follow the lane that way, down the other side of the hill, and you will see them."
James nodded and sent the horse trotting along the lane once more. This place was far larger than Albany, and older. The Worthington family had been raising fine cattle here for many generations and had a number of its fields walled off with dry stone to keep the animals in – and to let hunter horses like Vireo get in the practice they would need for chasing the fox late in the autumn.
