by Ella Edon
"I suppose I did not think that the quiet routine of the country could ever compete with excitement of the city for you."
"It is not a matter of competition, Miss Robbins. The two are merely different. Neither one is better than the other. It is a matter of determining which one suits a person best."
"Rather like finding a marriage partner," she said, deciding to be blunt. There was nothing to lose now by holding anything back. "No one person is better than another. It is a matter of, as you said, finding the one who suits you best."
"That is exactly right." He paused and gave her a small smile. "I am glad you understand."
"I am not sure that I do, but I am trying to."
He nodded and resumed his slow walk about the room. "You are a respectable young woman of good family, Miss Robbins. I cannot expect you to understand the – temptations – to be found in the city. How easily a man, or sometimes even a woman, can fall into temptation's trap. And how difficult it can be to escape that trap."
Merope watched him carefully. "I am the daughter of innkeepers. My mother protects me well and makes certain that our place is entirely reputable. But life passes through our inn in ways that it does not in a private home. I do know something of what you are talking about. The drink. The gambling. The women who have fallen so far that they may never recover themselves.
She smiled a little. "We once had two men trying to keep stolen money in a room, which they obtained by stealing from their employers. My mother, Mr. Hawkins, and Mr. Vane all ran them out of town and made certain they would never come back.”
Mr. Brookford looked closely at her, "I am sure you have seen much in your life, Miss Robbins. More than most young women might. I would call upon your experience and ask for your understanding of how, when I first met you at Worthington in spring, I was quite certain I would not be staying - I fully intended to return to London as a city barrister and yet . . . now that I have been here for a time, I find myself pulled in two directions. I could be a city barrister any time I chose, or I could stay out here and become both a solicitor and a gentleman farmer on my family's own home. Each has its good points and it is now more difficult to choose."
Though he was several steps away, he looked deeply into her eyes as he spoke. "Please, Miss Robbins," he said softly. " Can you truly not understand why I might wish to remain?"
The pain in her heart was overriding her ability to keep a cool head and see things dispassionately. "I understand that the woman you may truly want is a guest in your home and will dance with you tonight at the ball," she said. "And that she will not care where you live, no matter what she says. You could live here at Albany House or in the most elegant house in London or in a grass hut in the wilds of Asia for all she would care."
Merope drew a short swift breath and fought to keep her voice steady. "I opened my heart to your friendship because I thought you were as determined as I was to leave the country life and go to the city. It is for you to change your mind if you wish – but our pact requires that I be informed if you do. Why did you not tell me that you have had a change of heart?"
Mr. Brookford stepped closer to her, and for the first time, she began to see something like anguish on his face. "Would it make a difference to you if I had told you? Would it matter to you? I admire your great calm, your serenity in the face of almost any event – but at times, you seem so very cold. I sometimes wonder if anything matters to you at all."
Shocked, she could only stand and stare at him. . . . if anything matters to you at all. His words echoed in her head and she could not put together any sort of response.
But he was not finished yet. "Does anything truly interest you? Even the bookseller's shop seemed to be nothing but boredom to you. That place can open entire new worlds to you. It could allow you to see and experience other places and other times and take you far from Birdwell without ever walking a single step. Yet you do not seem to care about that, or about anything else."
His words were tearing through all her defenses. They had been constructed since she was very young and carefully maintained ever since; but now, his criticism cut her like a whiplash, and she could not avoid the pain.
"I will tell you, Mr. Brookford, why I avoid Mr. Nestor's book shop," she told him, in a fierce whisper. "And then I will walk to the house and get my things and find my way back to Birdwell."
Chapter Twenty-One
Mr. Brookford stood in silence on the dusty wooden floor of the millhouse, just watching her, but Merope knew he was trembling even from a few feet away. She could feel both his confusion, and his despair.
She turned away from him. "It is true that I avoid the bookshop in town, Mr. Brookford. You see – some years ago, I fell deeply in love with books. With the beauty of words. I loved the stories I found in Mr. Nestor's shop and had quite a collection. My mother did not mind, for once I'd read them, we would keep them in the rooms of the inn for our patrons to read.
"I enjoyed the stories. They did, indeed, transport me to other times and places, as you said. But one day, I read another story. This one did not merely transport me. It moved me. It affected me deeply. It made me feel tragedy and loss as though it were happening to me right at that moment, and not to imaginary people on a page.”
“The characters of this story seemed so real to me, as no others ever had before. I could see myself in them. Their hope, their longing. What happened to them, by the story’s end devastated me, so much so that I have never been able to read another book without fearing that it would happen again.” Just thinking about it caused her throat to tighten.
"Tell me," said Mr. Brookford, very gently, and took her by the arm. "What story was it that affected you so?"
She knew she should withdraw her arm but did not. Instead, she tried to laugh, choking back the tears at the same time. "It was – it was Romeo and Juliet.”
He turned her to face him, raising her chin with the fingers of one hand so that she had to look at him, and then drew her into his arms. She found herself with her eyes closed against the rough wool of his coat, held in his strong and protective embrace.
"Dear Merope," he said, and she could tell he was smiling. "What no one told you was that that story makes everyone weep—it’s not a romance. It’s a tragedy. Everyone who has ever read it, or ever seen it performed on a stage. That is why it brought you to tears, it is only human of you."
“No, you misunderstand me,” she said coldly. “It taught me that love is a tragic thing, it only leads to the worst kind of loss! Think of my mother, how hard her life has been because she loved and lost my father. I decided then that I would only be ruled by my head, for a heart can only be a dangerous thing.”
She started to look up, but he continued to hold her close and stroked the top of her hair with a feather-light touch. "I promise you," he said, "that will we find you happier love stories the next time I am in Birdwell. We will go back to Mr. Nestor's shop, and I will help you find another book. We will find a way to restore your heart, I promise."
"You have worked alongside your mother for all of your life," he said, "and been without a father nearly as long. I am sorry for that. It must have been hard for you."
It was her turn to raise her chin and grow cold. "I learned very young to do things for myself. I knew that some of the townsfolk felt pity for me, the little girl who had no father. I learned to pretend I did not care. That nothing upset me. And before too long, I truly did not care – at least, never as far as anyone ever knew."
Mr. Brookford cocked his head slightly, and she could see that something else had occurred to him. "Your mother was still young enough to remarry," he said quietly. "Many women do, on losing their husbands. It is both understandable and practical. Did – did your mother never wish to marry again? She has some of her daughter's beauty and, of course, is a woman of property. Surely, there would have been a respectable man out there happy to wed her."
Merope glanced at him and almost smiled. "You are quite astute, Mr. B
rookford. My mother did come close to marrying again, when I was about nine years old."
He nodded, waiting for her to go on.
"But – she found that she was content with running her inn, and raising her daughter, and keeping the memory of my father whom she had truly loved. She simply did not want to marry again, and so she did not."
"Of course, she was free to choose such a life if that is what she wished."
"So she was. But about a year later, we learned that the man who had proposed turned out to be a drinker and a gambler and was well on the way to ruining himself. What if she had married him?" Merope went on, pacing again. "We would have lost everything, for then the inn would have belonged to him - and not to my mother. We would have no way of making a good living, as we do now. So, I feel that it was very well that she did not even consider marriage again, after that."
James was silent for a time. "You seem very sure that it was the right decision . . . quite certain that this man would not have been a good husband."
Merope shook her head. "Of course, we are. It is well known that he turned to drink and dice. The last thing my mother ever should have done was marry him."
"Do you know for a fact that he was already doing those things when he courted your mother?"
She shrugged. "There seemed to be no signs. Perhaps he was just good at hiding it. Some men are."
"Or perhaps he only turned to such things out of despair at being turned down by a woman he loved."
Merope stopped, staring at him as though she'd never seen him before. "I suppose I never considered that," she said slowly, and it was true.
Merope found herself smiling after their conversation. She looked up at Mr. Brookford, who pulled her back against him, with his face so close to hers that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek.
"Dear Merope," he whispered again, so softly that she barely heard it, but she forgot about anything he had said, for his lips were nearly touching hers.
"Why, Miss Robbins! Mr. Brookford! I am so glad I was able to find you. I thought you had got lost on your way back to the house!” Sally exclaimed, abruptly ruining their special moment.
Merope stiffened and backed away from Mr. Brookford, quite flustered by Sally's very sudden and loud arrival. For an instant, Mr. Brookford held her arm tightly, helping to steady her, before he eased his grip and took a step back as well.
"Miss Henson," he said, his voice sounding a little ragged. “We were simply discussing some things, but we are just about ready to leave."
"Far be it from me to interrupt such a delightful conversation," said Sally, sounding as though she were trying to keep from laughing. "I can only hope that some gentleman will someday engage me in such pleasantries!"
As Merope struggled to regain her composure, she waited tensely for coolness and calm to return to her hot face and shaking hands, she glanced at Sally's face. Her friend's expression was a strange one; it seemed to be an odd combination of blazing anger and smirking triumph.
As she smoothed her hair and dress, and drew a deep breath, Merope decided that Sally must be feeling both anger at seeing Mr. Brookford about to kiss someone else, and triumph at having stopped it right at the last second. Merope decided that the best way to handle it was to behave as though absolutely nothing had happened at all.
"Thank you," she said to Sally, who still stood in the open doorway of the millhouse. "As you can see, no one is lost. We were just leaving to return to the house."
"Oh, good, good! Let us go right away," said Sally, addressing only Mr. Brookford. "I am sure that Miss Robbins has much to do as well."
Then, to Merope's surprise – though she told herself that nothing Sally did should surprise her any longer – Sally walked straight over to Mr. Brookford, placed her hand on his arm, and began firmly marching him along with her out the door.
"I remember you said that you were to help ready the house for tonight," said Sally, sounding quite happy at last. "Your mother is in need of another hand to direct all the preparations, as much remains to be done! I did not want you to be late, so I came back for you!"
"Very kind of you," Mr. Brookford murmured. He started to pull away from Sally but she kept a tight hold on him and continued walking with him down the path that led over to the lane and back to the house.
Merope was left to step in behind. She felt rather humiliated at watching Mr. Brookford walk off with Sally. Mr. Brookford had little choice in the matter however, unless he wished to forcefully remove Sally's tight grip from his sleeve.
A warm satisfaction began to set in when Merope thought back to how Mr. Brookford had made such a point of stepping close to comfort her, when she had told him her story, of why she had given up on love. She had never told anyone about that, not even her mother. He had not dismissed her feelings in any way. Indeed, he had tried to soothe her and promised her a better love story . . . and then he had almost, almost . . .
No wonder Sally was so annoyed, having walked in at exactly that moment.
Even as Sally walked embarrassingly close to Mr. Brookford, practically hanging off his arm, Merope could plainly see the girl's now ragged, filthy hems. The delicate fabric had become all but shredded after she had walked on the dirt and gravel of the lanes and the wet grass of the grounds, the rough and dusty wooden boards of the millhouse.
Her dancing slippers were also well and truly ruined. The finely fashioned little shoes were nothing now but misshapen, discolored messes of formerly stiffened fabric.
Sally did not seem to notice her appearance at all. She continued to giggle and laugh while she held onto Mr. Brookford, even though she was shivering in her damp clothing. That was not surprising, since she had not changed into another dress, or put on a pair of boots when she had returned to the house. She had not even picked up a shawl –
Perhaps she never returned to the house at all.
Merope frowned as she walked along. Sally had not been gone for very long. Now that she thought about it, Merope realized it did not seem that enough time had passed for her to go all the way back to the house, take note of how the preparations were beginning and then walk all the way back to the millhouse just in time to catch Mr. Brookford and Merope –
How had she known? Unless –
Unless she had not gone back at all, but simply waited below one of the open windows of the millhouse and listened closely as Mr. Brookford and Merope spoke intimately to one another while thinking they were alone.
And then had come bursting in through the door of the millhouse at just the right moment to interrupt.
Merope sighed. Since yesterday afternoon, Sally had demonstrated profligate spending, outrageous flirtation, shameless lifting of hems, and ruination of expensive gowns and shoes. Now eavesdropping could be added to the list, and the ball had not even begun yet.
Merope was almost afraid to see what would happen then.
Eventually, the little group of three arrived back at the house. Before going inside, Sally stopped at the door and took off her slippers. "Thank you for a lovely tour of the grounds and the mill, Mr. Brookford," she said. "I do so look forward to seeing you at the ball!" With that, she skipped inside and hurried up the stairs before anyone else could see her.
Merope paused inside the entryway and curtsied to Mr. Brookford. She could not quite make herself meet his gaze, but she could not entirely suppress her small smile, either. "I thank you, as well. You do have a beautiful home here, and I am grateful for the chance to visit it."
"Not at all, Miss Robbins. Again, I am grateful that you are here." He bowed, and she curtsied, and as she turned to go, she glanced up at him ever so briefly and saw the way his brown eyes shone. "I will see you later this evening, Miss Robbins."
With a quick nod, she turned and hurried up the stairs. Right at that moment, Merope was not sure whether she dreaded the start of the ball or whether it could not come soon enough.
Merope walked back into the room she shared with Sally and closed the door.
Her friend was behind the dressing screen in the far corner of the room, apparently busily getting out of her damaged muddy gown and shoes.
There was a knock at the door. "Would you get that, Merope?" called Sally. "It should be one of the servants with the washing water I asked for."
Without saying a word, Merope opened the door and the servant brought in the clean cloths and basin of warm water, placing it down on the floor near the dressing screen. "It is right here, Sally," she said, and then when the servant had gone, Merope closed the door and sat down on her own bed.
Right then and there, she decided that she would say nothing to Sally about the eavesdropping, or about any of her other outrageous behavior. It could well prove to be true that Sally was her own worst adversary.
Sally spent a good amount of time behind the screen with the basin of water and the fresh cloths. When she finally emerged, wearing only her long chemise and her corset, she sat down on the edge of her bed to finish drying her now-clean feet and ankles. "I did have such a lovely time this morning," she sighed. "Did you, Merope? Albany House is so beautiful. I even enjoyed seeing the cattle. I am sure you especially enjoyed seeing the mill!"
