by Ruth Axtell
“You are not a young lady to flirt. Did London society go so quickly to your head, my dear?” her father asked gently.
She shook her head, still looking down.
“Carl . . .” her mother began in a remonstrative tone.
“No, it’s all right, Mama. Papa has a right to ask me, as do you.” She spoke slowly, her gaze meeting theirs. “I flirted with Mr. St. Leger because . . .” Her voice threatened to break once more. “I wanted to know that I was attractive to a gentleman. I was so hurt . . . and angry at Rees.”
Amidst her mother’s protest, she bowed her head once more into her damp handkerchief. “I wanted to prove I could be like Céline—Rees’s wife—the kind of woman that men give up everything for.”
“And what did you discover?” her father asked gently.
She studied the pattern on her gown, unable to meet her father’s gaze. Her thoughts went to Mr. Marfleet, a worthy man whose regard she had spurned in an effort to prove something so foolish. “That I have no wish to be the kind of woman I thought Céline was. She has had her own burdens to bear.” Jessamine inhaled deeply. “I have no wish to be anyone but who the Lord fashioned me to be.”
“Then I would say your time in London has been of value,” her father said.
She stared into the fire, glad for the peace and quiet that reigned in their sitting room. The old Jessamine would never have wished to be anyone but herself. Or, was the person she’d become in London the real Jessamine? Selfish, vindictive, caring only about her hurt and pride?
Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
Her parents allowed her to cry silently, her mother approaching and hugging her, as she murmured endearments.
When she felt spent, her father said, “Let us pray for you, Jessamine, and then perhaps you should go up to your room and get some sleep. Things always appear better in the morning.”
He approached her chair and laid a hand on her shoulder. He gave her a soft smile, but there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. She knew he had forgiven her, and her load felt lightened. But her own sadness and disappointment in herself was not alleviated.
He took a hand in his and her mother took her other one. They bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Her father’s prayer was one of comfort. It was as if he knew exactly what she needed and was confident the Lord would provide it for her.
He asked the Lord to heal her wound and wash away her shame and guilt and show her that her sins and disgrace were taken away by the shame Jesus bore on the cross.
Then his prayer turned to Mr. Marfleet and Captain Forrester. Her father asked for a blessing upon them for all they’d done for her. He ended with, “Whatever sentiments compelled Mr. Marfleet not to rest until he had found my daughter, I pray, Lord, that You will restore them to him if they have been shaken by my daughter’s disgrace. Prove him and what is in his heart so that he may be able to forgive Jessamine’s conduct, her errors—as well as the perfidy of the man who took advantage of her naiveté and innocence.”
With a final squeeze of her hand, her father ended his prayer and then opened his eyes and smiled down at her. “Don’t forget, God’s grace is sufficient for you.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Now, off to bed with you.”
She obeyed him, hugging and kissing her parents good night. She felt much lighter in her spirit as she walked up the stairs to her old room, but the sadness remained.
Her disappointment in herself was a burden she would have to carry. Time would ease it, but in the meantime, she must live with the person she had proved herself to be.
Lancelot and his sister arrived at Kendicott Park several hours after departing London. They had hardly spoken on the journey, each one preoccupied by their own thoughts.
The sky had already deepened to an inky hue although the western horizon still showed a band of lighter blue where the sun had recently set.
Tired and dusty, Lancelot turned to help Delawney descend the carriage. Together, they hurried up the wide, shallow steps of their ancestral home.
The door was opened immediately by a footman, who greeted them, then held the door open wide for them.
“How is Harold?”
A shadow crossed the young footman’s face. “I do not know, sir. He is in his room. I believe his wife and your mother are at his side. Your father wanted to know as soon as you arrived. He is in his study at the moment.”
“Thank you.” Lancelot divested himself of his hat and greatcoat then hurried up the wide, curving staircase, Delawney at his heels. After a knock on the study door, he entered at his father’s bidding.
“Lancelot, Delawney, thank God!”
“Hello, Father. How is he?” Lancelot asked at once.
Their father briefly kissed Delawney on the cheek before gripping Lancelot’s arm and replying, “Not good.”
“What is it?” Delawney spoke up. She had not even bothered to remove her hat and pelisse. “Your note told us nothing. How did he fall ill?”
“He was visiting the Langdons at Rossmore—in Kent, you know—and contracted what he thought was a catarrh. He came home to recuperate. In a matter of days it had turned into the whooping cough. We’ve called in the best physicians, but he has only gotten worse. That’s when I wrote you.” His father shook his head. “It looks grave . . . grave indeed.”
“May we see him?” Lancelot asked.
“Yes, pray don’t delay. Your mother is with him now.”
Lancelot hesitated. “How are she and Rosamunde holding up?”
“Rosamunde only arrived the day before yesterday. She is shocked at his appearance. Your mother has hardly left your brother’s side.”
Without another word, he and Delawney left the library and made their way down one wing of the house to his brother’s room. With a soft knock, he opened the door and held it open for Delawney to precede him.
The curtains were drawn, and the room had the stuffy, medicinal smell of a sickroom. His mother looked up from where she sat near the bed. A lamp was turned down, giving her enough light to sew by but keeping the bed in shadow.
A maid carrying a basket of dirty linen looked at them in surprise, dipped her head in acknowledgment, and hurried past them.
“Hello, Mother,” he said softly, bending down and kissing her on the cheek.
She rose and grasped their arms. “Thank God you’ve come.”
Delawney gathered her in an embrace as Lancelot glanced over at his brother’s sleeping form. His face looked pale, his eyes sunken, his golden hair lank, though combed neatly away from his forehead. Dear Lord, touch his body and bring Your healing, Lancelot prayed, shocked at his brother’s appearance.
“He’s resting quietly now, but he is exhausted from the coughing.” She shook her head, her eyes watering. “It comes on him and won’t stop. I don’t know how his body can support it much longer though he is so big and strong.” She brought her handkerchief up to her nose and sniffed. “But they rack his body so it seems his ribs will crack and . . . and that he’ll . . . suffocate.”
Lancelot put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “He’s strong as you say. I’m sure he’ll get better.” He refused to acknowledge the possibility of anything else.
“You should have summoned us sooner,” Delawney whispered at her mother’s other side.
“We didn’t know it would come to this. It happened so quickly from one day to the next.” She shook her head, bringing the handkerchief to the corner of her eye. “How can a man, so healthy and hale one day, be brought so low?” She started to cry quietly.
“There, Mother, you are tired,” Lancelot murmured against her hair. “You probably haven’t slept. Why don’t you go and lie down a little and we shall sit with him awhile?”
Urging her little by little, he led her to the door. “Father said Rosamunde had arrived. How is she?”
Her mother made a moue of distaste. “She has been to see Harold but is lying down now.” She looked away from Lancelot. “They h
ave been . . . estranged for the past few years, as you probably know.”
He nodded sadly. Having been away, he knew little of Harold’s private life, but the fact that they seemed to live primarily apart had not demonstrated a close-knit bond between the two.
Theirs was not the kind of marriage he envisioned for himself. He remembered when his brother had married. Both their parents had been the ones primarily involved in arranging the union of the two illustrious families.
When Lancelot had questioned his brother about his feelings for his bride-to-be, Harold had shrugged and laughed. “Love is not for those in our realm—at least not for the firstborn,” he added with a knowing look. “It’s not to say I cannot enjoy my life after I’m married. All I need concern myself with my future wife is begetting an heir, and then we may go our merry ways. I’ve nothing against Rosamunde. She’s comely enough. That should guarantee fair progeny. Who knows, perhaps we’ll end up falling in love after we’re wed.”
Lancelot gazed at his brother’s still figure now. Had they ever fallen in love?
“Come, Mother,” he urged, focusing on his mother once more, “why don’t you rest for a bit? I’ll sit with Harold.”
He and Delawney finally persuaded her to leave. He closed the door and faced his sister. Did he look as sober as she?
“Let’s pray for him,” she said.
He nodded and drew closer to the bed. His tall, hearty brother looked dwarfed in it. Lancelot had a sudden, gut-wrenching premonition that his brother would not survive. As soon as the thought came to him, he squelched it with the thoroughness he would an impure or faithless thought.
He bowed his head and began, “Heavenly Father, we beseech You for my brother, Harold. Please heal his body, his spirit, his mind.” Lancelot never forgot his brother’s waywardness and knew his spiritual well-being was as critical as his physical. He continued to pray for a few moments, then lifted his head with a final “amen,” which was echoed by his sister.
He reached out and touched her arm. “Why don’t you settle in and let me sit with him a while? When you have rested, you can relieve me.”
She debated a moment, her gaze going to Harold, but finally nodded. “Very well, but call me if . . . if . . .”
He nodded so she didn’t have to finish the thought.
When she had left the room, he sat down in the armchair his mother had vacated. He felt tired but not sleepy. Glad to see a Bible on the table beside him, he took it up and opened to the satin bookmark between its pages.
It was placed in the book of Psalms. His gaze skimmed the thirty-fourth psalm, the psalm of promises. Had his mother been reading it? Neither of his parents were pious, only attending church when they were in residence here as an example to the villagers.
I will bless the LORD at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth. . . .
I sought the LORD, and he heard me, and delivered me from all my fears . . .
This poor man cried, and the LORD heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles . . .
His brother stirred. “Who’s there?” he asked in a raspy whisper.
“’Tis I, Lancelot,” he replied in a soft tone.
A ghost of a smile graced Harold’s bloodless lips. “’Bout time.”
“Don’t try to speak. Just know I’m here, old man, and I shall be praying for your speedy recovery,” Lancelot said in a light tone. Internally, he was shocked at his brother’s ashen complexion and weakened state. He was a shadow of the way he’d seen Harold last—hearty, confident, full of vibrant life.
“Do that.” His brother’s hoarse words made him start.
He leaned forward and squeezed his hand. “I will.” He bowed his head. “Dear God, I pray for Your mercy and grace for my brother. Bring healing to his body.” He continued praying, hardly aware of the words, interweaving Scriptures with his petitions. “Amen,” he ended softly.
His brother silently echoed his word. “What . . . d’you think?”
Lancelot covered one of his brother’s hands, which lay atop the coverlet. “I think you need to rest. Don’t exert yourself. Just know I’m here.”
His brother lapsed into sleep for a time. But not an hour had passed when he began to cough. He hunched over, his hand covering his mouth.
Lancelot grasped him and helped him sit up against the pillows.
His body shook with each cough. Putrid matter spewed out. Lancelot grabbed a handkerchief from a pile at his bedside.
He prayed silently as his brother’s body was battered by the coughing fit.
A serious-faced woman came into the room, whom Lancelot took to be a nurse.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir.” She nudged him aside and held a glass of water to Harold’s lips when there was a moment of respite.
He had only taken a swallow when another fit began.
She set the glass down and held his shoulders. “Hand me another handkerchief, if you please.”
Lancelot obeyed her immediately.
“There is little you can do right now,” she told him over her shoulder. “Your mother tells me you are just returned from London. If you care to freshen up after your journey, I shall be here. You may return when he is quieter.”
“Yes.” He moved away from the bed reluctantly. But he wanted to settle in and change out of his traveling clothes. “I shall return in a little while.”
“Very good, sir.”
Lancelot stood a moment longer, staring at his brother. Sadness engulfed him.
21
Jessamine slipped back into her previous life with hardly a glimmer of disturbance. The weeks slipped by, summer days warm and sunny with an occasional shower to freshen the gardens.
To her parents she strove to appear her old, cheery, obedient self until she felt sure she had convinced them that she was fine again.
Her mother fussed and cosseted her the first few days until Jessamine wanted to shout that she didn’t deserve such consideration. Instead she clenched her teeth and smiled, knowing it was the least she could do as part of her penance.
Even though her father had taught her about grace since she’d sat on his knee as a child—that God’s forgiveness was given her for free because of the cost already born by her Savior on the cross, she could not free herself now of the desire to pay for her sins and shortcomings.
She’d never had a serious reason to doubt the grace of God until now, for she’d never really done anything to be ashamed of. All it took were the gentle admonishments of her mother to learn to share her dolls with other little girls who visited her, or that sad look in her father’s eyes to make her repent of any desire to disobey.
But since the day she’d found out Rees had married another woman after telling Jessamine there was no hope for the two of them, her world had turned upside down, and she’d wished to hurt someone as she’d been hurt. And that someone, she was coming to understand now, was God Himself.
These troubling thoughts loomed foremost in her mind in the stillness of the night when she lay in her old bed, gazing up at the plaster ceiling, sleep nowhere to be had.
They came to her on long walks between the hedgerows that cut through meadows dotted by sheep, as she meandered through orchards filled with short stunted trees and ripening fruit, and breathed in the scent of tilled fields, wooded copses, and deserted heaths.
She walked until she was too exhausted to dwell on vain thoughts of “what if.”
What if she’d sought God’s Word for her pain? What if she’d resolved to forgive Rees for hurting her and trusted God to work that forgiveness out in her heart, so that she would have arrived in London with an attitude of humility and trust in God to lead her to the right person?
Had the right person been Lancelot Marfleet? Had she been too obstinate to see that? She had scorned him because he was a vicar—yet what man had she ever admired more than her father in his calling? Never more so than now.
Her father never brought up her
conduct in London. He treated her with compassion and understanding, as if he knew all too well the frailties of the human heart.
Her mother had been sensitive as well. Only once or twice did she bring up Mr. Marfleet’s name, wanting to know more, but desisted when Jessamine answered in monosyllables.
When by herself, however, she couldn’t help wondering where Mr. Marfleet was and whether he ever thought of her. Megan wrote to her but said only that she hadn’t seen him lately. She reassured her that she had heard no gossip surrounding Jessamine, but she had not attended many balls, so she was not caught up in society’s on-dits.
Her letters were full of references to the captain. He came to dine several times in the week. He accompanied her and Céline to the theater, museums, and on outdoor excursions.
But her most recent letter was filled only of news of the large battle that had been fought on the field of Waterloo just south of Brussels.
Rees sent word as soon as he could to Céline to tell her that he is fine. He was in Brussels, never in any danger, but the city became chaotic as soon as news was received that the French had crossed the border. Napoleon took them all by surprise, even our great commander Wellington. He was at a ball, Lady Richmond’s, on the eve of battle, can you imagine? Rees attended the ball and wrote how composed Wellington remained even as he continued receiving dispatches from the field and ordered the officers to rejoin their regiments and be prepared to march by three (in the morning!).
The battle occurred the next day. It was closely fought and the entire campaign lasted three days, but in the end on the field of Waterloo, our English and the Prussian armies routed the French.
It’s finally over, according to Rees, but the carnage was horrific. He must stay on awhile longer but hopes to return to England as soon as things are more settled in Brussels.
Céline, as you can imagine, is overjoyed that he is safe. She has put on a brave front the past few weeks for my sake, but her thoughts have been across the channel.
