by Ruth Axtell
She searched his eyes and finally nodded. “I see. You relieve me.” She moistened her lips, her look earnest. “You must pray for her. She will need it.”
A shaft of guilt pierced his heart. He had prayed for her but with anger and bitterness in his heart, blaming her for her predicament. “I shall.”
“I prayed for her before she left. She is very hurt and confused right now. Only the Lord can heal her heart so that she may enjoy the love of a worthy man, the way any woman aspires to.”
Their gazes locked a second longer before he gave a curt nod.
He wished he could excuse himself then. What he wished most of all was to get on a horse and ride all the way to Miss Barry’s village and see for himself that she was well. But he pretended patience, allowing Captain Forrester an adequate visit with Miss Phillips. After another quarter of an hour, the captain finally stood, bending over Miss Phillips’s hand. Her face fairly glowed at his attentiveness, and once again Lancelot felt a stab of jealousy and longing.
When they left the Phillips’s residence, Lancelot excused himself from Captain Forrester and walked home. The captain seemed to understand his desire to be alone. His only words at parting were, “She’ll be all right, you’ll see.”
Lancelot swallowed and gave a curt nod.
He ignored the sights and sounds around him until he finally turned down his street. He climbed the steps wearily, feeling the fatigue of the night before. He too had risen early and slept poorly.
The footman opened the door for him. He nodded in thanks and removed his hat.
“Mr. Marfleet, sir, you’ve received this message. It was delivered not a half hour ago.”
He turned in the act of removing his gloves and took the note.
“It’s from Kendicott Park.”
Wondering what his parents wished to communicate to him, he stepped into the nearest room and broke open the crested seal. The letter was in his father’s handwriting.
Dear Son,
Come home at once. Your brother is gravely ill. Notify your sister and bring her. Do not delay. Pray.
The last word was underlined, which struck a note of fear into Lancelot’s chest. His father was not given to hyperbole or to invoking divine intervention.
Lancelot began to pray immediately. What could have befallen Harold? When had he gone home?
He left the small room and made his way up the stairs, calling down to a footman as he went, “Prepare the traveling chaise for me. I must go to Kendicott Park. Send Alfred to me,” he said, naming the footman who acted as valet for him when he was home. “Where is Miss Delawney?”
The young man jumped to attention. “Yes, sir. Immediately, sir. Miss Delawney is in her room, I believe.”
He took the rest of the stairs two at a time and headed there, his mind in a whirl.
All thoughts of Miss Barry’s dilemma fled for the moment as his thoughts and prayers focused on his older brother.
What catastrophe had at last befallen Harold? For so long he’d prayed for him, counseled him, cajoled him, reproved him. Lancelot quailed with dread. The last thing he wished was for God’s judgment to befall his errant brother.
20
Jessamine had been home a fortnight, and the despondency that had descended on her the morning after her debacle with Mr. St. Leger refused to lift.
She had arrived home after a whirl of packing and explaining to poor, confused Lady Bess her sudden departure for home. But Jessamine felt as if hounds were on her heels. She refused to admit it, but deep down she was fleeing from seeing Mr. Marfleet again. He would feel duty bound to inquire after her, but she couldn’t bear to have his censorious, pitying gaze on her once again.
He would make a good vicar, the way he beheld a sinner with that sad gaze—just like her father. A good swat of a switch would be preferable to that quiet, compassionate look, she’d often thought as a child.
She’d finally managed to convince Lady Bess that she was not out of her mind. “I must return home. I feel so terribly homesick,” she said, ending on a half-smothered sob. The sob had been real enough, but not for the reason she claimed—though a part of her longed for her parents’ embrace and the quietness of the parsonage.
But it had convinced Lady Bess. The older lady had patted her hands. “There, there, dearie, I understand. But must you leave today?”
“Yes—yes—I must. Mrs. Phillips has lent me her traveling coach, and I do not want to impose on her kindness.”
“Very well. Let me help you pack.”
“Betsy will help me, ma’am. You mustn’t trouble yourself.”
“Well, I shall order a nice luncheon basket packed for you then.”
The last thing Jessamine wanted was food, but she realized in that second how empty her stomach felt. It would be better to nibble something in the privacy of her coach than stop at a coaching inn. “You are too kind, Lady Bess.”
“Nonsense. I’ve enjoyed having you, my dear.” The lady’s eyes filled with tears. “I shall miss you.”
The two hugged, and Jessamine felt remorse for leaving her so suddenly. First Megan and now her. “I shall miss you awfully, as well.” She couldn’t promise to visit her soon, because she never wanted to return to London. She would write to Megan and ask if she would visit Lady Bess occasionally.
“There, there,” the old lady said, withdrawing gently. “You mustn’t cry. It’s been my pleasure to have you.”
In less than an hour, Jessamine had packed and was ready to leave London. She leaned out the coach window to wave to Lady Bess and Betsy, who stood at the door, and gave a last look at the neighborhood she and Megan had come to know so well.
Hours later, when the coach finally pulled up at the door of the parsonage in the dark, the sight of her childhood home brought tears to her eyes.
Her parents had no idea she was coming home. The last letter she’d written was a cheerful account of her town activities—just as every letter had been. She had not expressed any of her disillusions about society, since they had sacrificed so much to give her a season in London.
The footman opened the coach door and let down the step. Taking his hand, she stepped down, her legs feeling stiff from sitting so many hours.
“Will you have me knock on the door?” the man asked her in the dark.
She glanced toward the lantern at the door and the evidence of light between the curtains. Her father always left the entrance lit to welcome callers at any time of the day or night. She felt a burst of gratitude for this now, when in the past it had inconvenienced the family many times when someone in trouble had come knocking at the door well into the night.
She straightened her shoulders. “No, thank you.”
With a nod, he turned away and went about getting her trunk. She opened the low wooden gate, leaving it wide for the footman, and proceeded up the flagstones.
What would her parents say? What would she tell them? She’d thought much of this during the tedious journey, and she still was not sure. Megan would not betray her. Lady Bess—she would only express her regret at Jessamine’s sudden departure.
Jessamine pushed open the door. She heard a voice coming from the parlor. Her father reading to her mother. Hopefully any visitors they’d had had already departed for the night.
She left the door open and walked slowly down the carpeted wooden planked floor. There was a louder bustle behind her as the footman jostled the trunk through the doorway, loud enough to alert her parents.
She hastened her steps and entered the parlor.
They were already standing. Her mother gasped, bringing her hands to her breast, and could move no farther.
“My dear, what has happened?” Her father reacted more quickly, increasing his pace until his concerned face looked into hers, his hands grasping her arms.
Her lower lip trembled as she opened her mouth to speak. Then he took her in his arms, hugging her close, not demanding any words. Her mother joined him, putting an arm around Jessamine’s back
and patting it.
“There, there, dear, you are home.”
She regained her wits enough to motion behind her. “The coachman—my trunk—”
Her father pushed himself away from her gently, giving her to her mother’s arms. “I’ll see to him.”
“Come, dear, what is this?” Her mother steered her toward an armchair by the fire. “Why didn’t you write us to let us know you were coming home?”
She lifted a tear-streaked face to her mother. “I didn’t know until yesterday—last night.” She fumbled for a handkerchief in the pocket of her pelisse.
Her father came back into the parlor, closing the door softly behind him. “There, the coach is off to the public house, and you are safely home.” He rubbed his hands, approaching them. “Well, I see you are in one piece, the Lord be praised, so physical harm has not precipitated your return. I don’t think Lady Beasinger would have turned you out of her house.” His gray eyes twinkled down at her. “So, I surmise it is a matter of the heart that has brought you home.”
She clutched the handkerchief to her lips. “I—it is worse . . .”
He lifted a dark brown eyebrow. Her father was still a handsome man at fifty, though his lean cheeks were craggy and there were laugh lines between his nose and mouth and at the corners of his eyes. “Worse? Mary, I think this calls for strong tea.”
Her mother rose from where she had been bending over Jessamine. “Of course. The water is simmering nicely here on the hob,” she said with a smile to Jessamine. “I shall just prepare a fresh pot.”
“It’s not necessary.” Her parents only employed a couple of servants, villagers who went home in the evenings, so they were used to fending for themselves a good part of the time.
“Nonsense,” her father said. “We can all use some refreshment while you compose yourself to tell us what calamity has befallen you. My throat is parched from an hour’s reading.” He picked up the book from the small table by his chair. “Frances Burney’s last novel, The Wanderer. I was going to mail it to you once we finished. I think as a woman you will find it of particular interest.”
As if realizing he was forgetting the matter at hand, he cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let us have our tea and find out what brings you to our doorstep at this hour of the night.”
Her father’s commonplaces had given her time to dry her eyes. She recognized how he put so many parishioners at ease with his chatty, absentminded manner. But she knew he was neither. All the while he would be observing the person who’d come to him in trouble while seeming to be distracted by trivial things.
She blew her nose a final time and straightened in her chair, receiving the cup of hot tea from her mother. “Thank you. I am thirsty,” she admitted.
She set it down on the lace doily on the table at her side to let it cool a bit. When her parents were settled in their chairs, drawn up close to her, she folded her hands on her lap and looked at each in turn, knowing she had to be fully candid with them. She felt their love encompassing her and knew even if what she had to say was tenfold worse than it was, they would still regard her with the warm, sympathetic, concerned look in their eyes.
“I have been very foolish,” she began in a low tone. Her throat tightened.
“We have all been so at one time or another in our lives,” her father said quietly as her mother murmured agreement.
Jessamine moistened her lips. “I allowed myself to be flattered by a . . . young gentleman—someone who appeared to be a gentleman.” At the intake of breath on her mother’s part, she knew she must get through this quickly before they conjectured the worst.
She kneaded her hands as she began to tell them about meeting Mr. St. Leger. She didn’t pause except to draw long breaths, until she came to leaving the ball. She looked at each parent in anguish. Her mother clutched her hands to the shawl around her shoulders, her father looked serene, but his eyes watched her keenly.
Unlike Mr. Marfleet, who dressed in regular clothes, her father wore a narrow white clerical collar. She quickly averted her thoughts from Mr. Marfleet, the way she had all day each time he intruded into them.
Her narrative ended, and by this time her handkerchief was damp. “I don’t remember anything else . . . except when I awoke and found myself in a strange place . . . weighed down by someone atop me.”
At another gasp from her mother, she hurried on. “I was fully clothed, but he was trying to kiss me—” She gulped in some air. “I came to my senses enough to try to push him away, but he only laughed and continued teasing me as if . . . as if what he was doing was a normal . . . thing.”
“What happened, dear?” her father asked.
Her eyes met his. He no longer looked serene. His eyebrows had drawn together, forming a line between them, his gaze razor sharp.
“There was a pounding on the door, and the next thing I knew, Mr. Marfleet and Captain Forrester burst into the room. Mr. Marfleet began to fight Mr. St. Leger. Then Captain Forrester came to me and helped me up and asked me if I was hurt.”
Her mother sat back, visibly calmer. Before she could speak, her father said, “Thank the good Lord for these gentlemen. Who, pray, are they?”
Relieved now that the worst was over, she took a sip of tea, debating how to describe the two gentlemen. She would have no trouble telling them about the captain, but she feared what they might think when she described her acquaintance with Mr. Marfleet.
She was finished with love. First had been her unrequited love for Rees Phillips, and then she’d been flattered by the attentions of a handsome but unscrupulous rake. The last thing she wanted was for her parents to get false ideas in their heads about Mr. Marfleet.
“They must be more than a pair of gentlemen you’ve danced a few dances with if they rode out to this inn to rescue you,” her father said.
She swallowed, glancing briefly at her father before looking as quickly away. “They are very worthy gentlemen. Megan made Captain Forrester’s acquaintance only a week or so ago through her new sister-in-law, Céline Phillips, Rees’s wife.”
She paused, then resumed before her parents would think it was painful for her to mention Rees’s name or that of his bride. “Captain Forrester is an old acquaintance of Rees’s from his days in the navy. I don’t recall him—I was too young, but perhaps you might have met him.”
Her gaze went from her mother to her father, and she was thankful that her tone sounded normal, as if she were only inquiring something about an old neighbor of theirs.
Her mother narrowed her eyes behind her spectacles then shook her head. Her father looked thoughtful, rubbing a forefinger over his chin. “As I recall, Rees brought home some sailor friends on occasion for brief visits, but I don’t remember any individuals. It was quite some time ago.”
“Yes. Well, Captain Forrester has come home for good. He is retiring from the navy now that the war is over. He seems a most worthy gentleman.” She hesitated, unsure whether to add the rest, then decided to go ahead. “He seems quite taken with Megan—and she with him.”
“How lovely,” her mother said, bringing her hands together.
Glad to lighten part of her mother’s load from all she’d told her this evening, Jessamine plowed on. “Yes, I am happy for her.”
“And Mr. Marfleet? Does he have an eye on Megan too?” her father asked in that tone of dry wit she recognized so well.
She rubbed the palms of her hands over her skirt. “He is a . . . a vicar,” she answered carefully, “recently returned from a couple of years as a missionary in India.”
“Indeed?”
She risked a look at her father, and to her dismay but not surprise, he looked more interested than he had when she had mentioned Megan and Captain Forrester. “Yes. He . . . he would likely still be there but for the fact that he contracted a fever and almost died. I don’t believe he will return. His family needs him home.” She briefly described his family.
When she finished telling them about Mr. Marfleet, her mother’s
eyes were wide. “Son of a baronet? That is an exalted knight to your rescue.”
“I am more thankful for the perseverance he showed in seeking you. I should like to thank him personally,” her father said.
Jessamine’s heart sank. If her father were to write Mr. Marfleet, he might construe it as an attempt on her part to rekindle their friendship.
“I should say so!” her mother exclaimed. “We must express our gratitude.”
“I’m sure he does not expect any communication from us,” Jessamine began, rubbing her arms in growing agitation.
“If he is the kind of man he appears from your narrative, then I don’t imagine he does expect any thanks. But that is no reason not to convey it.”
“I have no address for him,” she told her father in a low voice.
“Did you have an opportunity to see him before you left London—to thank him?” her mother asked.
She flushed and looked at her handkerchief. “No. He and Captain Forrester were to call today . . . to see how I fared. It was very late when they brought me home—that is, to Mrs. Phillips’s.”
Now came the most difficult part of all.
“When I finally woke up, it was just before dawn. My mind finally felt clear and when . . . when I remembered everything I had done, I couldn’t face anyone, much less these two gentlemen.” She brought the handkerchief up to her mouth. “I was so ashamed.”
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” her mother said. “You did right to come home. You’ll be safe here. I worried so having you in London. Such a wicked city.”
Jessamine looked at her father again, awaiting his verdict.
“Much as I am glad you have come back, I cannot help but think you did so precipitously. It was more as if you were running away than that you were returning home to your family.”
The mantel clock ticked as Jessamine found herself unable to look away from her father’s knowing eyes. “Yes, sir,” she whispered before dropping her gaze. “I just couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in their eyes. They were both such upstanding gentlemen. I had done wrong to . . . to flirt with Mr. St. Leger.”
