P.S. I Love You

by Jo Noelle

  Cora tried just to be part of the audience. She found herself taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly. It helped. She kept up a mental dialogue as each person performed. She commented on their dresses and hair. She thought about how she’d met them. She even distracted herself by thinking about the history of the music they played. Her nerves still felt tangled but farther below the surface now. During the performance just before hers, she concentrated on gaining pleasure from the musician.

  When the applause faded away, Cora straightened her shoulders and walked carefully to the harp. She’d positioned the chair earlier, so it was one less thing to worry about. She settled on the seat, then pulled the soundbox toward her right shoulder—the balance shifted until it was nearly weightless. It seemed like an old friend slanting toward her for an embrace. The harp had always calmed her, assured her. It was a constant when she felt her life was falling apart during her father’s decline. She pulled up a fleeting thought to examine it—playing the harp had become something different for her because of that experience. It became part of life and love and family. It felt that way whenever playing for Simon, too.

  Her heart burned. Performing was no longer a critical judgment of herself. It was a gift she could give to each audience. Her knees braced lightly against the soundbox. Her right wrist leaned against the soundboard, and she raised her left elbow, positioning her fingers for the first notes.

  Cora closed her eyes. She imagined Simon sitting beside her. He might use a stick as they had with the piano, this time pressing it to the harp’s soundboard near her right arm. She imagined his chest against her back and the warmth of his leg running the length of hers. She could almost feel his slow, deep breaths calming her and smell the familiar scent of his soap. Tonight, she would imagine that she played a tribute to her father with Simon as the only audience.

  She had considered playing classical pieces but eventually settled on a Metallica song that was as old as she was. It had been one of her dad’s favorites, and the song she had played for him when he took his final breath.

  The lyrics rang through her mind with the notes, and her heart felt constricted and ready to burst at the same time. Her father had lived with passion—truly nothing else mattered. Now and again, she tapped on the soundboard with her shoe or with her ring for emphasis during the refrain of the haunting melody—not typical for this time period, but this was more a song for her father than it was for this audience. The final notes repeated like rain softly falling, tinkling from the highest strings. Poignant. Ethereal.

  As they faded, her awareness of her audience returned. Cora noted that both May and Lady Cottrell had tears in their eyes as did Aunt Nellie. She nodded toward them, acknowledging the shared experience. She returned the harp to its upright position. James, May’s brother, clapped enthusiastically—probably a Metallica fan.

  The music clung to her. She felt healed and whole. Simon, though he probably couldn’t hear all the notes, looked on with love as his ardent applause joined with the others. She curtsied to the audience. Her gaze caught Simon’s sisters and Lady Adkins before taking her seat. Varying expressions of disbelief and anger crossed their faces.

  Next, Lucy and her mother played a duet, then Simon’s mother followed as the last performer of the evening. She stood near the piano, her bearing confident and regal, as her accompanist began walking up the center aisle where she’d been sitting at the back of the room—the very back, by the door.

  Cora recognized the look on the young woman’s face—terror. The girl stopped walking midway up the room and began shaking her head. She wasn’t going to make it. She put her hand to her stomach and then to her mouth and ran from the room.

  Cora hoped she would reach a private spot before completely losing her dinner. She would find her later to talk.

  Conversations murmured around the room, and Cora knew it was best if the show went on. With barely a thought, she stood and walked to the piano. She seated herself and settled the pages of the arrangement to her liking, then looked at the dowager duchess for a cue to begin.

  Simon’s mother paused and stared at Cora, uncertainty marring her usual arrogance. Cora answered with one silent swift nod, then hit the beginning notes of the introduction. The woman’s voice was strong and moving as she sang “Da Tempeste.” It was meant to be sung with power and was. Her trilling high notes would have made Handel proud—pitch perfect.

  When it ended, the audience thanked their hostess with zealous applause. Cora was surprised when Simon’s mother waved the crowd to acknowledge Cora as well. She hoped there had been a sort of truce brokered between them.

  The guests and performers made their way to the refreshments and gathered in small groups for conversation.

  Cora retrieved a glass of punch and heard Simon’s younger sister. “She saved the evening. It could have been an embarrassing end to the musicale otherwise.”

  Simon’s mother replied, “She played the song passably well.”

  The nerve! Cora butted in though she knew she shouldn’t. Looking directly into the dowager’s eyes, she said, “I’ve heard it said that Americans have no culture or refinement. Of course, that person was grotesquely misinformed.” Before she turned to leave, she added, “You’re welcome. And that was better than passable.”

  As Cora turned away, her limbs shook with a little adrenaline left over from the tongue-lashing she’d just dealt. It was mixed with satisfaction as well. Lady Cottrell engaged Cora immediately in conversation, and Simon’s family moved away.

  For the two days following the musicale, Cora visited the school as often as she could for as long as she could. Simon accompanied her on the ride there and spent a few minutes before he went on estate business that would last until evening.

  As she prepared to leave the school the second day, she noticed children signing about someone new. She didn’t recognize the sign and thought it must be a name. She had a suspicion, but questioned the students, signing “Who?” followed by the sign she’d seen—the letter C raised near their cheeks, followed by their pointer finger spiraling downward.

  The shy, black-haired girl pointed to Cora.

  “And who is this?” Cora signed “muscles”.

  The girls signed, “Duke.”

  She didn’t recognize the other sign, either, but it looked enough like swooning that she got the gist. The girls had made up nicknames for her and Simon and decided they were in love. Apparently, it was obvious to even children.

  The next day was the final event of the hunting party—the hunt ball. Cora wore a midnight blue ball gown. The brocade border along the bottom half of the silk skirt weighted the fabric enough so that when she walked or turned, the whole dress shimmered like ripples on water in the moonlight. She’d instructed the maid to pull her hair into masses of curls that began on the crown of her head and continued down the back, pinned with roses nestled in between. At the nape of her neck, the curls knotted in an elaborate bun, and a few loose tendrils of curls cascaded down her back to her waist.

  Fashion was a plus in favor of this century. She dressed like a princess often. Even better—Simon looked the part of a prince. He never wore bright colors, preferring not to stand out, but how could he not at six feet tall with broad shoulders, a gorgeous face, and a smoldering smile. Cora felt heat flush through her. Oh, his smile. Really, there was no way he could hide.

  And he was hers. Or at least, she was mostly sure he was. She was proud of the man he was. In her heart, she knew nothing was lacking. Of every choice available to him, a powerful man in his time and country, he chose her. Her stomach sparkled in anticipation of seeing him and feeling his hand at her waist.

  The depth of their relationship stunned her and made her question it. How could she marry a man she’d only met seven weeks ago? She thought of Simon—how could she not?

  In twenty-first-century dating, schedules often conflicted, and she might go out with a man only three or four times in a month. At that same rate, it was as if she
’d been dating Simon for nearly a year. In her own time, she would interact with the man in contrived situations—movies, dinners, ball games. She wouldn’t see his life, his work, and his family as she had Simon’s. She also knew Simon by the people he loved the most and the work he chose.

  She saw him at the door and joined the queue of guests to greet their host and hostess. When her turn came, and she and Aunt Nellie stepped forward, Simon’s mother leaned down to straighten her hem as if it had been caught in her shoe. Cora heard the woman behind her gasp. Simon’s expression was thunderous. His mother seemed to take an inordinate amount of time making the adjustment. A few feet away, Lady Atkins was laughing at the situation. Embarrassment warmed Cora’s cheeks as she stepped past the dowager.

  Simon bowed. “I hope I am not too late to ask you for the first set, Miss Rey.”

  Cora smiled and agreed.

  At that moment, his mother hissed in Simon’s direction, “Lady Atkins mentioned that she would dance the first set with you.”

  “I’m sure you misunderstood something, Mother. I haven’t talked with your friend about the ball this evening. Perhaps she was speaking of someone else.” Then Simon readdressed Cora. “It is my honor. Thank you.” He bowed deeply this time, then lifted her fingers for a kiss.

  When the room was comfortably crowded, and the orchestra was playing prelude music, Simon stepped in front of Cora and extended his hand. He led her around the perimeter of the dance area and stopped nearest the orchestra, waiting for the dance floor to fill before nodding to the conductor.

  Wetheridge and Lady Atkins also paired. The couple kept up a constant conversation with Wetheridge frequently looking at Simon and Cora. Cora wondered what could be so compelling but realized that both of them had shown rather pointed interest in her and Simon.

  Before the end of the song, Simon said, “I must apologize. My mother’s rude behavior toward you was inexcusable.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. She should, but she won’t. And anyway, I’m not going to wilt over it.”

  When the song was finished, Simon walked her back to the side to stand with the Cottrell family. Before the midnight supper, they danced again and then he walked her into the dinner.

  Simon leaned close and asked, “If I should request another dance, would you accept?”

  Cora’s fork was poised halfway to her mouth. She wondered if this was Victorian code for, “If I asked you to marry me, would you accept?” She’d considered that very question heavily for the past few weeks. “Yes. I would like nothing more.”

  Simon pulled his napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table. “Would you care to take a walk in the garden while we wait for the orchestra to begin?”

  Obviously their plates were still full, and they’d hardly eaten. Cora giggled to see how seize-the-moment he was being. It made her giddy to tell him yes again. “I’ll meet you by the roses in a few minutes.” They left the table and went different directions—Simon to the garden, and Cora to the stairs.

  She wanted to go to her bedroom to pick up the little pouch Aunt Nellie had given her. She was certain this would be a wonderful time to have uninterrupted privacy courtesy of the faerie dust.

  After retrieving it, she walked back down the hallway. Lady Atkins stepped in front of her. “Her Grace asked me to find you. It seems she wishes to have a private conversation with you.”

  Cora was sure that was the very last thing she would consider doing right now. She gritted her teeth and began to move around the woman without a reply.

  “I believe she wants to deliver an apology.”

  With a pang, Cora knew that if she were to marry Simon, she would want to get along with his family. She hesitated, measuring how important that might be. Her stomach twisted. She could spare a few minutes to start her future off on a better footing. She followed Lady Atkins to an exterior door that led to the orangery.

  A nearly full moon and the glass roof lit the building enough to see the path and plants lining it clearly though shadows were thick beyond them. The moist, loamy air seemed an unlikely place for a reconciliation, but the dowager must want to protect her pride and not be seen giving an apology. Cora followed a few steps behind down the center path and sat on a rock bench that Lady Atkins motioned to.

  “I’ll give you privacy.”

  As Lady Atkins walked away, a quilt fell over Cora, and arms locked tightly around her, pinning her arms to her side. Though she’d trained for years, imagining a similar situation, she was unprepared for the fear that iced her veins and muscles. She screamed and kicked. The weight of the person held her to the bench when she tried to slip forward. More arms secured the quilt around her feet, and then she felt a rope being twist around the blanket.

  Cora jerked and tried to wiggle away. Self-defense training had stressed that you should do everything possible to keep from being taken to a second location. When she was pulled to stand, she buckled her knees and fell to the ground where she began to roll. A strong kick hit her stomach.

  “Don’t damage my wife.”

  Cora recognized Wetheridge’s voice. His wife?

  Cora heard Lady Atkins’ voice. “I told you to drug her first.”

  Wetheridge answered, “With what? It’s not like I plan to poison people and carry it around with me should an opportunity arise.”

  “Good thing I do. You’ll want this when you stop for the night. Unless you plan to keep her in your carriage all the way to Scotland.”

  Shocked, Cora realized that Simon’s mother had been arranging Cora’s abduction, not her own daughter’s elopement.

  Some brute picked Cora up and flung her over his shoulder, walking fast. Wetheridge wasn’t large enough to do that. Who else was helping? Cora didn’t give up. She continued to yell. She flexed and straightened her stomach like doing sit-ups and tried to roll from the man’s shoulder until hands pressed her head and held it down, pushing her face into the man’s back. She could barely cock her jaw to the side to breathe through her mouth.

  Would there be anyone close enough to see them leave or hear her screaming? The orangery was near … Cora scanned the property in her mind. It was near nothing. It sat just off the far end of the house near the main road with an orchard separating it from the formal gardens. The barn was even farther. No one would suspect a thing until tomorrow—except for Simon. He was waiting for her. She would just disappear until it was too late.

  A measure of fear was allayed by the knowledge that since Wetheridge thought she would be his wife, he wouldn’t allow her to be harmed. There was also relief in knowing that she wasn’t a prisoner to this time or to a marriage she didn’t want. If Wetheridge thought she’d go quietly, he would be surprised by the humiliation she was planning to hand him.

  Chapter 23

  Simon

  Simon entered the house when the music signaled the end of the supper and the resumption of dancing. Where was Cora? He’d been waiting beside the wishing pond for a quarter of an hour. Worry tried to nudge into his thoughts, but he pushed it out with memories of watching her fight. She could take care of herself. And what was there at a ball to bring out her fight? He chastised himself for being ridiculous.

  He scanned the room for her blue dress, but it was nowhere to be seen. May and Saalfeld stood with Lord and Lady Cottrell. Lucy and Everett only had eyes for each other. Had Cora changed her mind and gone back to her room to avoid him and the proposal she surely knew was coming? Simon left the ballroom and took the stairs to the family wing and continued down the hall to the rose bedroom.

  There was no light shining beneath the door, but that didn’t mean the room was empty. He twisted the knob and pushed on the door. It was unlocked. “Cora, are you in there?”

  He didn’t hear a sound in return, but that might only mean he couldn’t hear it.

  He looked both ways and pushed the door open to step inside, closing it firmly behind him. The room was dark. Only a little moonlight shone through the open curtains. She
wasn’t there. Her traveling trunk sat on the floor. He opened the lid and saw that it was still full. She hadn’t left for good. Simon felt like a thief going through her things.

  The door opened suddenly, and shadows danced along the walls and floor from the candlelight entering the room.

  Simon’s mother shrieked. “What are you doing in here?”

  “And you?” Simon countered. His mother stood rigidly still, her eyes shifting as if making up some fib. “Obviously, we are both looking for Cora,” he said. “Why?”

  His mother sagged and sat at the edge of the bed and set the candle aside. “I … ” She swallowed deeply.

  She didn’t make eye contact with Simon, and his nerves heightened. “What aren’t you saying?”

  “She … Lady Atkins, that is, has done a terrible thing.” The dowager’s head shook, and her hands trembled as she lifted them to cover her mouth.

  Simon couldn’t bear the wait. He lifted his mother to her feet. “Mother, tell me what you know. Where is Cora?”

  “Lady Atkins induced Wetheridge to take her to Scotland. They’re going to be married.”

  Simon knew there was much more to this. “They will not!” his voice boomed, and his mother startled. Cora would not have willingly gone with Wetheridge.

  “They can’t be that far ahead of me.” Simon was quickly leaving the room.

  “You can’t leave. We have guests.”

  “The only one I care about right now is no longer here. Get a wrap. You’re coming with me.” Simon pulled on her arm, and they left the room. “Where is Lady Atkins? Does she know which road they were to take?” Would Wetheridge take her to Gretna Green or to Coldstream or some other little border town? The road to Coldstream was a direct shot. Still, he could have taken an east or west road. Gretna Green was farther south, though off to the west, but the total journey would be a little shorter. Considering the roads and possibilities, Simon almost missed hearing his mother’s feeble answer as they reached her door.