A Heart's Rebellion

by Ruth Axtell

  We hope to see him soon.

  I miss you awfully and hope you are well and keeping busy.

  Jessamine’s breath caught at the sight of Mr. Marfleet’s name in the next sentence.

  I have seen neither hide nor hair of Mr. Marfleet since you left. I don’t know what could have happened to him. I certainly am out and about, but he seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. I have not seen his sister so I can only deduce that they must have left town. Many families have already left with June more than half over. The season will soon be at an end.

  My biggest news is that amidst all his concerns, Rees has invited Captain Forrester to visit us in Alston Green when we leave London and Rees is back among us.

  So, I am looking forward to that day of having all my favorite people in the world united at Alston Green.

  Jessamine’s gaze skimmed Megan’s closing and then rose, taking in the gently rolling hills of the meadow, where she’d come to read her letter in solitude.

  Had Mr. Marfleet left London?

  After several minutes of pondering his whereabouts and what he was doing and thinking, Jessamine realized she had been more concerned about his fate than Rees’s.

  Her heart began to thud in her ears at the significance of this. Of course she was concerned about Rees and his well-being. She thanked God he was safe and would soon be reunited with his wife.

  But it was not the concern of a woman in love.

  “Dear Lord,” she whispered through the chirping of birds flitting among the trees and hedgerows behind her, “have You healed my heart?”

  It had happened so gradually she had not been aware of it.

  Had her love for Rees been so quickly replaced by concern for another individual?

  She turned away from the pleasant scenery, her heart heavy.

  If so, she had no claim on that individual’s affection. He had clearly put her behind him.

  When she returned home, the woman who came to clean and help with the housework every day looked up from dusting a table in the entry hall. “There’s a letter for you there just came by the afternoon post.”

  Jessamine halted in front of the basket where the post was placed. “Thank you, Mrs. Miller.”

  She picked up the letter, curious to see who had written her. She didn’t expect any correspondence from Megan since she had just received her letter that morning. Perhaps Lady Bess, though Jessamine owed her a letter.

  She saw at once that the letter had been originally sent to Lady Bess’s address in London. That address had been crossed out by Lady Bess and the Alston Green one written below it.

  She did not recognize the original handwriting or the crest imprinted in the sealing wax when she turned it over. Her curiosity growing, she broke open the seal with her fingernail and unfolded the single sheet.

  Dear Miss Barry,

  Forgive me for writing to you in this way. We only met a few times, but I feel I should let you know that my brother Lancelot and I have been called away from London to be at our elder brother Harold’s side. He is gravely ill with whooping cough, contracted during a visit to a house party in Hampshire.

  We are very concerned for him and have not left his side. Lancelot prays for him continuously and would covet your prayers, I have no doubt.

  Since I am uncertain whether my brother had time to inform you of our leaving town so suddenly, I did not want you to take it amiss if you had not seen him again.

  He has scarcely had time for anything since he spends his time at our brother’s bedside.

  Please keep us in your prayers.

  Jessamine closed her letter with her scrawled signature, Delawney Marfleet.

  “Not bad news, I hope.”

  Jessamine jumped at Mrs. Miller’s voice at her side. “Yes—no—I don’t know. I mean, someone—a relative of an acquaintance is ill.”

  “That’s too bad.” The older lady shook her head and moved on down the hall with her dust rag.

  Jessamine refolded the letter and went up the stairs toward her room, determined to get down on her knees at once to pray. Poor Mr. Marfleet, how worried he must be for his brother.

  The whooping cough killed many infants and was not so usual with adults, but she had known of some who had contracted it—and some who had not survived it.

  Why had Miss Marfleet seen fit to write her? Did she suspect something between her brother and Jessamine? If she believed her brother had not been in contact with her, did it mean Miss Marfleet had an inkling of the scandalous incident in Jessamine’s life?

  Had she written her because Mr. Marfleet still had feelings for her? Or only because the situation with Sir Harold was so dire they desired her prayers?

  With more questions in her head than answers and little confidence in the power of her prayers, Jessamine entered her room and knelt by her bed, determined to do all in her power to respond to Miss Marfleet’s plea.

  Lancelot looked up at the slight movement from his brother. The days had blurred one into another so that he’d lost count of how many had passed since he and Delawney had arrived from London.

  All he knew was that his brother had not recovered, despite Lancelot’s prayers and the efforts of the best physicians from London.

  He stared at Harold’s still face. His valet kept his cheeks smoothly shaved. The lack of beard only accentuated their pallor and gauntness.

  Harold’s lips began to move.

  Lancelot leaned forward, touching his brother’s hand to let him know he was there. “What is it?” he asked softly.

  “I must . . . give up . . . the reins, old man,” he managed with effort, the words barely distinguishable.

  “Nonsense,” Lancelot said with more assurance than he felt. “You’ll rally yet.”

  A breath issued from his brother’s chapped lips, a ghost of a laugh. “You’ll have to . . . step into . . . my shoes. I’m sorry . . . know you don’t want to . . .”

  Lancelot’s throat constricted. He squeezed his brother’s hand. “I could never step into your shoes! You’re Father’s heir.”

  “Beg pardon . . . no longer . . .” After a moment, he continued. “You’ll make a fine . . . baronet. Marry that dark-haired chit . . . carry on the family name.”

  Lancelot pictured Miss Barry—Jessamine, as she was to him. His heart constricted with a longing to be with her right then, her sympathetic eyes on him, her hand clasping his.

  He drew in a shuddering breath. She didn’t want him. If he’d ever had a chance with her, he’d destroyed it that night of her rescue with his arrogant, judgmental attitude. He’d condemned her as surely as the Jews the woman caught in adultery. Why had he turned away from her when she’d most needed a friend?

  He pulled his attention back to his brother, who appeared to have fallen asleep again.

  But a moment later, his lips moved once more. “Funny . . . I’ll be . . . seeing your Lord before you . . .”

  The words stopped all thoughts about Jessamine. If he was talking eternity, Harold must be serious indeed.

  Before Lancelot could think how to reply, his brother said, “Pray for me . . . that it be so . . .”

  Lancelot swallowed. “I will . . . I do. I shall pray for you now.” Keeping his eyes on his brother’s face, he began, “Dear Lord, be with my brother, Harold. Let him feel Your presence. Grant him Your grace. Fill him with Your Spirit.”

  Feeling compelled by something deep within him, Lancelot leaned closer. “Harold, if you can, pray after me, ‘Lord Jesus.’”

  “Lord . . . Jesus.” The words were hardly audible.

  “Forgive my sins.”

  Lancelot waited, his breath held until his brother said, “Forgive . . . my sins.”

  “Wash me with Your precious blood.”

  “Wash me . . .” was all Harold managed, but Lancelot squeezed his hand.

  “Our Lord can hear you even if you can’t speak the words aloud.” He continued. “I receive You as my Lord and Savior.”

  “
I receive . . . You . . .”

  “I believe You died for me.”

  “I believe . . .”

  “And rose again.”

  “And rose . . .”

  “So I may have eternal life.”

  “So I may have . . . life.” The last word was said on an expulsion of breath. He lay still after that, and Lancelot did not press him to say more but continued praying softly.

  He sensed peace in Harold and thanked God for imparting His Spirit to him.

  Tears filled Lancelot’s eyes and spilled quietly down his cheeks as he sat there, his hand covering Harold’s, his lips murmuring snatches of Scripture.

  When he could tell by his brother’s breathing that he had fallen asleep again, Lancelot slipped from the chair onto his knees and bowed his head upon his arms on the bed and let the tears come more fully.

  I don’t know why he must die. He had so much life to live. He could have lived it a changed man. Why, dear Lord, must You require his life? Perhaps he is wrong and so am I. Will You raise him up? Will You please heal his body? Please, dear Lord . . .

  All he heard were the lines of Scripture when Martha answered Jesus about her brother Lazarus. “I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection.”

  Lancelot tried to gain hope from the story of Lazarus’s resurrection from the dead, but instead all he could hear was Martha’s reply.

  He continued praying until his mother came in to relieve him. Two nurses were ever present, hovering in the shadows of the room.

  The house was quiet, the servants seeming to walk more silently than usual.

  That evening, Harold breathed his last. His parents, his wife, Lancelot, Delawney, and his faithful valet surrounded his bedside. One moment they heard his labored breathing, the next there was stillness.

  Lancelot spent the following days walking the vast parkland, remembering childhood moments with Harold. Sometimes Delawney accompanied him, but they spoke little, their thoughts never far from their brother.

  Neither wanted to speak of the future. Neither dared contemplate it.

  “Do you ever think of Miss Barry?” she asked him one afternoon as they stood leaning against a wooden stile, contemplating the sheep grazing on the deep green field of grass beyond it.

  After a quick glance at his sister, he fixed his gaze on the sheep and let out a breath. “I try not to.”

  “I presume that means you are unsuccessful.”

  He didn’t bother to reply, his mind conjuring up Miss Barry. She was always there, hovering at the edge of his thoughts, no matter how much he tried to fill his mind with edifying Scriptures, devotional works, prayers for his brother and now his bereaving parents.

  “Have you written her at all since leaving London?”

  His sister’s question was so blunt, he let out a laugh.

  She continued her steady regard of him, no trace of humor in her eyes. “Well, have you?”

  He shook his head. “I have no permission to write to her, and even if I did, what would be the point?”

  “The point, brother dear, would be to see if there is any foundation to the attraction you clearly felt for her. Now that some time has passed since you left London, the least you can do is to see how she goes on.”

  Lancelot had told no one about that night in London.

  “She is no longer in London.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?” Delawney narrowed her eyes. “Since when have you known?”

  “Since I left.” He turned away from her. “It’s a long story—one I am not free to divulge. Suffice it to say, she returned home to her family right before I came here.”

  “I wrote to her awhile back,” she said. At his look of surprise, she continued in a calm tone. “I wanted to inform her that you—and I—were called from London suddenly on account of Harold. I addressed my letter to Lady Beasinger’s residence, supposing that she was still to be found there. I merely wanted to let Miss Barry know why she had not seen you anymore in town—if in fact she had noticed your absence.”

  “You had no right to do this without my knowledge,” he said, his thudding heartbeat belying his stiff tone.

  “I am sorry if you are offended, but I thought you would want to know that she replied to me, apologizing that it would have been sooner, but that my letter had had to be forwarded on to her father’s parish before she received it.”

  He swallowed, in fear and anticipation. “What else did she say?”

  “Merely that she was sorry to hear about Harold’s illness and promised to pray for his recovery—as I had asked her to. She thanked me for news of you but confessed that she had not missed seeing you in London for the simple fact that she had left London about the same time.”

  His gaze drifted back to the bucolic meadow scene, his thoughts nowhere near as peaceful. How was she? He had received a short note from her father shortly after arriving at Kendicott Park, thanking him for his assistance to his daughter, so Lancelot knew Miss Barry had confessed all to her parents. But how had they greeted the shocking news?

  Overlapping all his questions about Miss Barry’s welfare was a longing to see her, a longing that superseded all his days of blotting her from his thoughts.

  “She said little about her present life, only that she was well and her parents were well, that is all. She did ask me to give you her best wishes and to let you know she would not forget to pray for your brother. Her exact words, as I recall, were, ‘Tell him I shall be constant in prayer.’”

  His shoulders slumped, relieved that she was well. But his thoughts continued dissecting the scant information. Miss Barry had sent him greetings and said she was well. That was something. But was it? Wouldn’t any polite person do the same? It told him little of her real state.

  He had to know. Had she gotten over St. Leger and that horrific ordeal?

  He jabbed a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. He could not go to visit her.

  “Why don’t you write to her?”

  His sister’s words startled him. He hardly remembered she still stood there. “I—no.” A note would not suffice. He needed to see her in person—and see if there was any hope for them.

  He had discovered in the days since leaving London that his feelings had not changed.

  The anger and disgust he had felt on the night he’d rescued her had faded, leaving only a still unfulfilled longing for her presence.

  He remembered the times she’d seemed to return his feelings—at least feelings of regard. The afternoon at Kew, the time they had waltzed together, and a few others like that.

  Would a handful of occasions when he’d felt her warmth suffice to build something more lasting?

  22

  Jessamine’s face felt warm by the time she returned home from a walk to a heath where she had spotted clumps of harebell in bloom on her last walk.

  She carried a bouquet of the lavender-colored flowers in one hand when she turned onto the narrow lane lined with elms that led to the vicarage. A carriage stood before the front door.

  She quickened her step, wondering who had come to visit. There were always visitors stopping by in the afternoon, but she didn’t recognize this fine-looking coach.

  As she drew closer, she noticed a liveried servant by the horses’ heads. Except for the local squire, there were no great families in the vicinity. This was a traveling coach, its sides dusty from the roads.

  Her heart began to thump as she realized the footman’s livery resembled that of the Marfleets’ footmen. But it couldn’t be the same.

  Her fingers trembled as she struggled to untie the ribbons of her bonnet. She would need to go up to her room and change her old muslin gown before entering the parlor.

  She stopped in front of the hallway mirror to remove her bonnet and arrange the curls framing her face.

  “Jessamine, is that you?” her father asked through the parlor doorway, which stood open, voices audible through it.

  Her heart sank. She woul
dn’t have time to go to her room and freshen up. “Yes, I’ve just come in.” She smoothed down the last wayward wisps of hair, patted her shiny cheeks and forehead with her handkerchief, and straightened her ruffled collar. Squaring her shoulders, she headed to the parlor, then paused at the entrance to see who the visitors were.

  Mr. Marfleet rose from his chair as soon as she appeared.

  Her hand at her throat, her heart tripping, she could only stare at him.

  Her father’s face was wreathed in smiles. “Look who’s come to visit you. Come in and have a seat. We’ve done our best to entertain your friend while you were out.”

  Gathering her wits about her, she took a few steps into the room and tried to smile.

  Mr. Marfleet came to meet her, his hand held out. “Hello, Miss Barry. I hope I am not intruding on you.”

  She shook her head, allowing her hand to be engulfed in his, all the while feeling as if she were in a dream. “Not at all.” Reason began to return. “Your brother, how is he?”

  She bit her lip at the shadow that crossed his features. “He is no longer with us.”

  She drew in another breath. “I am so sorry,” she said, pressing his hand.

  “Thank you. We—none of us—have accustomed ourselves to his absence.”

  He relinquished her hand, and she clutched it with her other, embarrassed that she had held his so long.

  “Please, be seated.” She moved forward, her gaze darting from her mother to her father, wondering how long they had been alone with him.

  Her mother smiled in reassurance. “You must be parched after your long walk. Come, let me pour you some tea. Mr. Marfleet has been with us nearly an hour and no sign of you.” She chuckled, lifting the cozy off the teapot and touching its sides to see if it was still warm.

  “You’ve been here an hour?” she asked Mr. Marfleet after taking the cup her mother served her.

  “Yes, an hour that has passed all too quickly with my tales of life in a country parsonage and Mr. Marfleet’s missionary journeys in India,” her father replied for him. “I can assure you we have only scratched the surface of the latter topic, of which I hope to hear much more.”