A Foolish Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  Mercy shut her eyes for a moment, but they insisted upon seeking the letter out as soon as they opened. It was the first physical evidence she had seen of Solomon’s existence in two years.

  She had known he was home, but there was something very different about seeing his familiar script.

  It had been six days since she had heard the news of his return—conveyed in an offhand remark by a visiting neighbor of the Lanaways—and the knowledge had hung over her head and heart like a persistent thunder cloud ever since, periodically raining down the last words he had said to her two years ago.

  May you find the man deserving of your fleeting affections.

  She swallowed down the regret for the thousandth time. It was useless to dwell on the past—to revisit her own weakness.

  “Pardon, Uncle,” said Edith, “but is Deborah aware of these plans? Are they of long standing?”

  Bless Edith for asking the questions burning a hole through Mercy. It was unfathomable to Mercy that Deborah would have kept it from her if she knew that her father was arranging for her to marry Solomon Kennett.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He waved an impatient hand. “That is to say, she is not yet aware that Kennett will be arriving tomorrow to finalize the engagement. Haven’t told her just yet, for I know Deborah well enough to suspect that she would wriggle out of it if given enough time. But I shall of course tell her now.” He folded the letter and smiled at it. “What a surprise it shall be! Something to celebrate.”

  He stood, looking down at Mercy and setting a firm hand on her sandy hair. “We certainly wouldn’t be here without you, my dear,” he said. “No doubt she would be begging me to give audience to whatever ineligible man she has most recently taken a fancy to.” He winked and strode toward the door.

  Mercy’s thoughts whirled. It had been an interesting summer at Westwood Hall—to say the least. When Uncle Richard had first extended the invitation, Mercy hadn’t hesitated to accept. She loved the Lanaways, and she adored the serene, rolling landscape of south Worcester, so different from the rugged roads and views she was used to in the North. And a chance to spend weeks on end with all three of her nearest cousins? It was an opportunity she hadn’t been able to turn down.

  But it had quickly become apparent that her uncle viewed her as some sort of ally in his quest to quell Deborah’s volatility, while Deborah assumed that Mercy’s loyalties lay with her. The ongoing battle of wills between Deborah and Uncle Richard had been frustrating for her to navigate.

  But Mercy owed it to Deborah to say something, even when she felt as though her own world was crashing down around her—another dramatic thought of which Viola would no doubt approve.

  “Uncle?” She kept her tone as light as she could manage.

  He turned back toward her. “Mm?”

  “I think perhaps you underestimate Deborah. She is capable of constancy.”

  Uncle Richard snorted. “I shall believe that when I see it. She has the worst combination of traits: stubbornness and instability. Given enough rope, she would hang herself!”

  Mercy didn’t dare say more. It was not her place to betray Deborah’s relationship with Mr. Coburn, and she heartily wished Deborah would have broken the news to her father of it weeks ago—or rather never have lied to him about it in the first place. The secrecy of it, though—the fact that it had been done in wilful disobedience—might well undo whatever constancy she had proved over her three month connection with Mr. Coburn.

  And it was likely too late now. There was little hope that Mr. Lanaway would exchange Solomon Kennett for the third son of a country squire.

  “This marriage to Kennett will be just the thing to settle her down.” Her uncle hit the letter against the palm of his hand. His lips pulled down at the corners. “I have no doubt that she will mislike it at first, but she will come to see the wisdom of it in time.” He stared down at the letter blankly for a moment before seeming to realize that he had fallen into a daze, then smiled at his three nieces and left the room.

  Chapter Four

  Mercy stared blankly at the door for a moment. She knew that if she gave herself more time to consider the implications of what had just occurred, she would likely succumb to emotion, and she had done that too many times in the past year to believe it would do any good.

  She felt Viola’s hand rest on her shoulder. “Are you well, Mercy?”

  Mercy cleared her throat and rose from the floor, putting on a smile. “Yes, thank you. But I am famished. Shall we go in to breakfast? I think I smell Cook’s brioche.”

  She ignored the look that passed between Edith and Viola. She had no desire for Viola to comfort her with poetic couplets, nor did she wish to listen to Edith providing solace in the only way she knew how: by reassuring Mercy that she was better off not being married anyway.

  Mercy made her way out of the morning room, not waiting for her cousins to join her. She clasped her hands in front of her, willing them to stop shaking.

  Two years had clearly not been sufficient to quench the connection she felt to Solomon Kennett. And heaven knew she had tried. But not even someone as kind and eligible as Lord Nichols had been able to displace Solomon in her heart.

  She had been so naive when she had broken things off, so certain that a new and bright future would take shape as quickly as had the one with Solomon.

  It had not.

  And however determined she was to move forward in spite of her mistake, Solomon always seemed to be there, as if he were in her very bones.

  All of her ideas and intentions had come to naught and left her with a flickering but maddeningly persistent flame—an impossible love that she had become resigned to carrying, almost like a scar.

  Viola and Edith entered the breakfast room, Viola with her book in hand, and Edith shooting a watchful glance at Mercy.

  Mercy smiled at them as she took a piece from the warm loaf of brioche. “After breakfast, I should like to take a walk on a path I noted down the lane if either of you would like to join me?”

  They both agreed to the plan, and silence fell among them for a time.

  Viola brought her book down. “Surely Deborah wouldn’t marry him!” There was a pause. “Would she?”

  Mercy clenched her jaw but kept her smile intact as she shrugged. “Why shouldn’t she?”

  Viola’s shoulders lifted, then dropped. “Because you love him!”

  “I have no claim upon Solomon Kennett. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be right of me to exert such a claim when he wishes to marry Deborah. To use a phrase you can appreciate: ‘What is past is prologue.’”

  Certainly it was but prologue for Solomon. He had clearly not had much difficulty moving past it. And that was only fair, she had to admit. Mercy had made the decision to end things after all, and she should be the one to experience the worst consequences of that.

  “Why did you end things, Mercy?” Viola asked with hesitation.

  Mercy’s hands slowed as she spread marmalade on her brioche. Why had she ended things? Was that not the question she had asked herself every day for months on end? It was the question she had tried to answer in countless letters to Solomon—all crumpled and burned but one. She had hung on to that surviving letter in case she ever got up the nerve to send it. But so much time had passed—for all she had known, Solomon might have married.

  And now he was home.

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  Deborah glided into the room, elegant as ever—and always the last to come down in the morning. There was much to admire about Deborah: from the dark features that lent her a romantic air (which Viola was quick to admire and envy); to her confident, unapologetic manner (which her father was quick to lament); to the charm she seemed able to call upon at will (to which any number of men had fallen victim).

  And then, of course, there was her significant dowry.

  When Deborah wanted something, she made certain that nothing stood in her way. It made sense that Solomon would wish to marry her.<
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  Had he always had an eye on Deborah? The thought made Mercy’s stomach churn. It was certainly possible, for he had not even met her until after he had paid his addresses to Mercy. Perhaps there was a small part of him that had been relieved when Mercy called off their engagement, simply for the doors it opened to him.

  Eager to turn her thoughts away from such avenues, she smiled at Deborah.

  “You are a sly one, aren’t you, Deb?” Edith looked at her with narrowed eyes.

  Deborah took her seat and reached for the tea. “What have I done now?”

  “Any number of things, I’m sure, but I refer to your upcoming engagement.”

  Mercy listened with a thudding heart.

  Deborah’s brows knit together. “Why am I accused of being sly? You know as well as anyone in this room that Frederick and I cannot become engaged—not yet.”

  Edith placed her palms together and her elbows on the table. “I meant your other upcoming engagement.”

  Deborah looked from Edith to Viola to Mercy.

  “Your father paid me a visit this morning.” Mercy silently prayed she could keep her composure.

  Deborah let out an annoyed gush of air. “Acquiring news from his favorite informant?”

  “More like conveying news that should have come from you.” Edith’s words were sugary sweet.

  “Edith.” Mercy shot her a warning glance, and Edith pursed her lips. “He had a letter from Solomon Kennett about formalizing your engagement.”

  Mercy didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed by Deborah’s look of shock. “He had mentioned a match with Mr. Kennett,” she said, “but I hadn’t any idea that it was a real possibility!” She leaned forward on the table, looking at Mercy with something far too close to pity. “Mercy, I should have said something when he mentioned it, but I hadn’t any notion that—”

  Mercy put up a hand to silence Deborah. “You don’t need my permission to marry, Deb.” Her heart knocked against her chest. “Are you going to marry him? Your father seemed quite certain.”

  Deobrah stood, walking over to the window and fiddling with one of the tasseled ropes that held the heavy curtains back while Mercy waited in the excruciating silence.

  “I don’t know.” Deborah looked to Mercy. “What I mean is, no. Of course not.”

  Mercy stared at her for a moment, her relief morphing into dismay.

  “But Deborah,” Mercy said, “Solomon is to arrive tomorrow—and your engagement to be formalized.”

  Deborah’s hands stilled. “What?”

  Mercy had hoped that Uncle Richard had gone immediately to speak with Deborah after their conversation, but that was obviously not the case. “If you have no intention of marrying him, you must tell your father immediately.”

  Deborah stared at her blankly, then shook her head. “He will refuse to listen to me, just as he always does.”

  Mercy pushed her chair away from the table and rose to her feet, feeling a sudden urgency. Solomon was making his way to Westwood Hall under the assumption that he was to become engaged again.

  “Then what, Deb?” She met only avoidant eyes and silence. “The longer you wait, the worse it will be—and I’m afraid it is already bound to be quite unpleasant. Your father has no notion that you have been carrying on in secret with Mr. Coburn, and he is certain that you will comply with his plan.”

  Deborah dropped the tassel she held. “What do you suggest I do? If Father knew of the deep affection Frederick and I have for each other, he would tear us apart!”

  “‘A pair of star-crossed lovers,’” Viola said in a sympathetic murmur.

  Deborah’s eyes shot to her, as if she were noticing Viola for the first time. “Precisely.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Viola,” Edith said in exasperation. “Let us not encourage the dramatics.”

  Viola primmed her lips together and retreated behind her book, sipping her tea.

  Mercy kept her eyes on Deborah. “The only way forward is to speak with your father, Deb. Give him a chance by explaining everything to him—calmly. Nothing will set him against a match between you and Mr. Coburn more surely than theatrics, for he sees that as the mark of immature love that is sure to fade.”

  “My love for Frederick shall never fade,” Deborah said.

  Such an emotional response hardly augured well for the conversation Mercy was advocating. She doubted whether Deborah was even capable of sitting down with her father and speaking calmly. There was too much history between them.

  How this was all to be settled was very unclear. Both Deborah and her father were at fault, and neither of them prepared to take responsibility. When Deborah had first spoken of Mr. Coburn to her father, he had dismissed the man and Deborah’s feelings for him so forcefully that Deborah had seen no option but to carry on in secret.

  And with Solomon Kennett now on the scene and his grand fortune within reach…well, Mr. Coburn’s chances were grim indeed.

  “Might you not try to convince Father that Frederick and I are meant for one another?” Deborah pleaded. She rushed over, taking Mercy’s hands in hers. “He listens to you, Mercy. Indeed, we all know that he would trade me for you in a heartbeat.”

  “Deborah!” Mercy said, pulling her hands away. “That is not at all true! If he does listen to me, it is only because I listen to him. But I don’t see how I could persuade him to accept Mr. Coburn as a husband for you when you yourself assured him that everything was at an end between you two months ago.” She felt a flash of annoyance as she thought back on it all. “You may perhaps remember me attempting to steer you away from such a course at the time. In any case, he seems confident that you are prepared to accept Solomon as your husband.”

  The words left Mercy’s mouth feeling dry. How had it come to this—speaking about Deborah, of all people, marrying Solomon? Mercy had steeled herself to a future without love—and she had tried so hard to accept that Solomon would marry someone else. Every decision came with consequences, and those were the consequences of her decision.

  She had certainly not anticipated, though, that the someone else Solomon would choose to marry would be her own cousin. The prospect filled her with dread. Only the most unkind twist of fate would force her into proximity with the man she loved, where she could neither have him nor escape him.

  And he was to arrive tomorrow.

  A momentary vision of her riding the Mail Coach to her parents in Kent flashed before her—anything to escape a situation bound to be painful.

  Such behavior would certainly make her a better candidate for one of the heroines in Viola’s novels. But this was not a novel, and she and Viola had three weeks before they were to join Mercy’s parents.

  She would have to face Solomon.

  Deborah let out a grand sigh. “I will talk with my father,” she said, though she wrung her hands and looked anything but confident. It was unfortunate. If Uncle Richard sensed any uncertainty in Deborah—or any childish defiance—he would nip her hopes in the bud immediately. The most delicate balance between confidence, rationality, and apology was needed to bring such a meeting off successfully—if it could even be done.

  Mercy put a bracing hand on Deborah’s shoulder. “Speak to him with calm confidence in your attachment, and apologize for how you have handled things.”

  Deborah’s fingers still fiddled. “Very well.” She straightened her shoulders and left the room, looking as though she were heading to the gallows.

  Not only did Mercy doubt her cousin’s ability to maintain a composed demeanor, she greatly feared her uncle’s reaction. It was entirely within his power to force Deborah into a marriage with Solomon by refusing to provide her with her dowry if she disobeyed him—he had threatened as much in the past when Deborah had exhibited willfulness.

  Any hope Mercy had felt for Deborah’s meeting with her father was dashed to bits when she heard the unmistakable sounds of her uncle’s raised voice emanating from the library, followed swiftly by the door opening and Debo
rah stomping out in a tearful rage.

  She came upon Mercy and pointed a finger back toward the library. “He is a tyrant,” she said loudly enough for her voice to carry back to her father.

  Before Mercy could respond, Deborah brushed past her and up the stairs.

  Uncle Richard’s head appeared in the doorway, his brow deeply furrowed and his face still draining of its angry red hue. When he spotted Mercy, he shook his head rapidly. “The little minx! She shan’t make a fool of me by sabotaging this match.” He slammed the door behind him, leaving Mercy motionless at the bottom of the staircase.

  Not even the efforts of Mercy’s Aunt Harriet could dispel the tension that gripped the party at dinner that evening. By the end of the meal, Aunt Harriet was beginning to appear pulled and weary—something that often foretold one of her more severe bouts of illness.

  Mercy’s own attempts to steer the conversation away from fraught avenues met with limited success—non-committal hmphs from Uncle Richard and baleful glares from Deborah in response.

  Mercy finally gave up. She hadn’t the energy for it, so dinner passed with only the clanking of silverware and a comment here and there from Edith or Viola, met with the barest of responses.

  Uncle Richard lingered over his port for quite some time, providing an opportunity for Aunt Harriet to speak with her daughter.

  But the damage had already been done. Neither of the two parties was willing to listen to reason, and when Uncle Richard joined them in the drawing room, it was with a very direct glance at him that Deborah said, “I shall never abandon Frederick.”

  “You most certainly shall,” her father replied, not mincing matters.

  Mercy herself flitted between resigned determination and an embarrassing tendency toward tears that only the greatest effort and ingenuity could hide from her relatives.