A Foolish Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  When her uncle left the following morning to go out shooting with two of his acquaintances, it was only after a few choice words to Deborah about what was expected of her upon Solomon’s arrival that evening—and plenty of threats if she didn’t comply.

  The night’s sleep seemed to have refreshed Deborah somewhat, though, for she met her father’s words without any outbursts.

  At this, Mr. Lanaway’s eyes had narrowed briefly. But he seemed inclined to take his victory rather than pressing the issue, and he left without slamming the door, a gesture for which Mercy was very grateful, as her head felt as though it were gripped in a vice.

  “Deborah,” Mercy said, facing her squarely once the door had shut. “I know you too well to believe you have resigned yourself to your father’s plans. What is this sudden docility?”

  Deborah only raised her eyebrows innocently and continued spreading preserves on her roll. “I haven’t any idea what you mean.”

  Edith was watching Deborah with narrowed eyes, as well, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Come, Deb. Out with it.”

  Deborah only shrugged. “My father will not listen to reason, so I shall have to appeal to Mr. Kennett himself.”

  Mercy put her palms together and set her fingers against her mouth, taking a moment to contain herself before she spoke. “Your father will be livid.”

  Deborah shifted in her seat. “Yes, I am sure you are right, but that is neither here nor there, for he is always livid, no matter what I do. Mr. Kennett, however, is a reasonable gentleman, isn’t he, Mercy?”

  Mercy’s cheeks burned at being applied to as the expert witness of Solomon’s character.

  “Surely Mr. Kennett won’t force me to marry him when he learns that my heart is eternally and irrevocably given to Frederick? And my father cannot possibly force me to marry a man who has withdrawn his suit, can he?”

  Mercy closed her eyes and shook her head. “No,” she said flatly. “You cannot make Solomon bear the blame for you, Deb. It is wrong.”

  Deborah bristled. “Of course you would take his part in all of this! Surely you don’t wish for me to marry him?”

  Mercy managed a light shrug at painful variance with the rapid beating of her heart. “It isn’t my affair.” Whether or not Deborah wished to marry Solomon, he wished to marry her.

  Edith let out a laugh. “Listen to yourselves, ladies. This is what comes of such preoccupation with romance and marriage. And what’s more, marriage is only the beginning of one’s troubles.”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” Deborah said waspishly, “and neither do you. I want none of your cynical words on love and marriage, Edith. Perhaps some day you shall feel even a shred of what Frederick and I feel for one another, and then you shall live to regret all your skepticism.”

  “‘For love is heaven, and heaven is love,’” Viola said softly.

  Deborah and Edith exchanged speaking glances. Unlike Mercy, they weren’t accustomed to Viola’s poetic interjections.

  Viola looked up. “Sir Walter Scott,” she said, as though it should be obvious to anyone.

  “And pray, why should we pay any heed at all to what Sir Walter has to say about love?” Edith asked, taking a hearty bite of bread and looking at Viola expectantly as she chewed.

  Viola blinked her wide blue eyes twice. “He knows something of the subject, I imagine.”

  Receiving nothing but expectant glances, she continued. “When he fell in love, it was with a woman above his rank. She jilted him for a man with a greater inheritance.”

  Mercy’s chewing slowed for a moment, and she applied herself to the all-consuming task of stirring her tea.

  “I fail to see where his authority on the subject comes in,” Edith said, amused. “What is the lesson we are to take from Sir Walter’s life? That he had a pitiable lack of address which left him abandoned by the woman he loved? Or rather that money is heaven, and heaven is money?”

  Mercy‘s stomach clenched, and she dropped an extra lump of sugar in her tea.

  “Neither,” said Viola in her genuine and passionate voice. “I wasn’t finished telling the story. For Sir Walter did later marry for love—a second chance with another woman, perhaps better suited to him than the first. He quite clearly knows both love and loss.”

  Mercy brought her teacup to her mouth, taking multiple swallows of the burning liquid in an effort to cover her face, hoping that perhaps her cousins would remain ignorant of just how much she disliked Sir Walter’s story.

  “Well,” Edith said, “I suppose only Sir Walter knows if his escapades with love and marriage were worth the trouble. I, for one, have no intention of finding out for myself.”

  “Not everyone has that luxury, Edith.” Mercy set her teacup to its saucer and hoped that her cheeks were regaining their normal color. “In fact, almost no one has that luxury.”

  “No,” Edith conceded. “You are right. I am certainly fortunate that I can expect a comfortable life without needing to marry.”

  Viola’s lips pulled into a prim line. “Even among those who are wealthy enough to make marriage a choice rather than an obligation, most choose to marry anyway. Love is that powerful.”

  Seeing Edith ready to do battle, Mercy interjected. “The point is that Deborah must not leave to Solomon the terribly awkward assignment of explaining everything to Uncle.”

  “She is right,” Edith said. “It reeks of cowardice, I’m afraid, and cowardice doesn’t suit you, my dear.”

  “I am not a coward!” Deborah replied hotly. “And don’t look so severely at me, Mercy. I am still deciding how to go about it all, but I shall certainly not leave your precious Mr. Kennett to bear Father’s wrath alone.”

  And with that, Mercy had to be content, for Deborah excused herself from the room.

  Aunt Harriet was feeling very ill indeed—no doubt a result of being caught in the crosshairs of the battle between her husband and daughter—so it was left to Edith, Viola, and Mercy to decide how to spend their day.

  Much as Mercy tried to keep her mind on the conversation between her cousins—two girls with more diverging views would be difficult to find—Mercy found her thoughts moving stubbornly to the impending arrival of Solomon.

  How was she to act toward him? Would he be much altered from his time in Jamaica?

  Whatever the case, this was no time for apologies or an attempt at reconciliation. The letter she had written and kept would never see the light of day. He had moved long past their history together, and Mercy would have to let his behavior be the guide.

  After a long walk around the estate grounds, the three of them returned to the drawing room for the afternoon, where Deborah joined them shortly afterward, wearing a pleased expression. Mercy hoped sincerely that it meant she had a plan in place.

  For her own part, Mercy had determined two things: first, that it would be in the best interest of both Solomon and herself to spend as little time as civility allowed in each other’s company; and second, that she would do whatever she could to soften the blow to him and Uncle Richard when Deborah made clear her intention not to proceed with the match.

  The door opened, and all four women looked to the butler, who entered and addressed himself to Deborah. “A Mr. Solomon Kennett here, miss. I understand he was expected by Mr. Lanaway, but not for two or three hours yet.”

  Mercy’s muscles went rigid. Here? He was here?

  It was too soon. She needed more time—time to prepare her head and heart.

  “Good heavens,” Deborah said. “I suppose we must receive him here.” It was a question, not a command, and the butler hovered hesitantly in the doorway.

  “No.” The word slipped through Mercy’s lips before she could stop it. All faces turned toward her. “That is, I imagine he is travel weary and wishing to change his clothes, don’t you think?”

  Deborah looked relieved. “Yes. I imagine so.” She turned back toward the butler. “Gates, inform Mr. Kennett that Father is still out shooting,
and show him to the room prepared for him.”

  The butler bowed himself out.

  “What will you do?” Mercy couldn’t help but ask.

  Deborah stood, sliding her hands down her skirts to smooth them. She was already in command of herself. “I shall speak with him once he has changed.”

  It was an early start to an evening bound to be awkward and unpleasant.

  Chapter Five

  Solomon Kennett stopped at the base of the staircase, watching the woman coming down—his future wife.

  “Miss Lanaway.” He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed.

  She dipped her head as she reached the bottom. “Mr. Kennett. Welcome back to England. I am very sorry that you have arrived before my father has returned from today’s shooting expedition.”

  He shook his head. “It is no matter, I assure you. I didn’t anticipate the roads to be in such good condition.” He chuckled. “I suppose I am accustomed to the ones in Jamaica.”

  Miss Lanaway smiled politely, and he cleared his throat.

  He was boring her already. “I confess that I had hoped for a chance to speak with you privately.”

  “Oh,” she said, surprise evident in her voice.

  Solomon paused, adjusting his cravat slightly with one hand. If Miss Lanaway was unaware of the arrangement, things were likely to become awkward very quickly. “Your father has told you of the purpose of my visit, has he not?”

  She nodded, but her smile faltered a bit. “Yes, of course.” She looked around at the empty corridor. “We seem to be quite private right here.”

  Solomon pursed his lips. She didn’t wish to be alone with him. This was hardly a promising beginning.

  “I only wished to make certain that you were a willing party to this arrangement. If you have some hesitation…”

  She shook her head quickly. “Oh no! Not in the least. I am quite sure, of course.”

  He inclined his head, unsure what to make of her behavior. “I am pleased and honored that you find my suit agreeable, Miss Lanaway,” Solomon said, wishing his heart was in the words. “I think that we will deal quite tolerably together.”

  Miss Lanaway smiled and nodded, and Solomon tapped his hand against his leg.

  What was he to do now? This was all so strange. The last time he had proposed marriage, it had been followed by a long embrace that had haunted him with its sweet intensity ever since. He could still remember the way Mercy’s hair had smelled and the softness of her cheek in his hand.

  He forced his mind back to the present and extended his hand in an invitation for Miss Lanaway’s, dismissing the memories and pain-filled anger that surfaced along with them. Still.

  Miss Lanaway put her hand in his and curtsied.

  He felt her hand tremble slightly, an uncharacteristic show of nerves from a woman he had found to be confident on both occasions they had met—almost to a fault.

  He had come to know Miss Lanaway as the cousin of the woman he was to marry. How strange to look at her now with the knowledge that she would be his wife.

  She excused herself on the pretense of needing to dress for dinner—still hours away—and his lips drew into a tight line as she made her way up the stairs. He felt uneasy.

  Solomon had taken a few days to consider the possibility of a match with Miss Lanaway before responding to her father. That the match held more than just business appeal was the primary reason he had come to agree to it. Deborah was familiar enough to Solomon—mostly through information communicated to him by Mercy—that he was unlikely to meet with any large surprises if they married. She was attractive and confident—a trait Solomon had come to prize greatly as he had envisioned the type of woman he would like to marry. He’d had enough experience with fickle women to give him confidence at least in that requirement.

  A meeting with Mercy was inevitable given how close she was to the Lanaways, but he hoped that, in the meantime, he and Deborah could come to an understanding that allowed for interaction less stiff and unnatural than what they had just experienced.

  Mercy slipped out of the morning room, excusing herself from Viola’s and Edith’s company on the pretense of finding the extra spool of green embroidery thread she remembered packing.

  With quick steps and her head down, she walked toward the staircase.

  By now, Deborah would be holding her private interview with Solomon. It was the perfect opportunity for Mercy to slip up to her bedchamber unnoticed. She wasn’t ready to face him yet.

  Truthfully, she didn’t know when she would be. She was anxious to see him, and yet she dreaded it. Would he look at her with indifference? Contempt? Resentment?

  She’d had ample time to consider what she would say to him if ever given the chance. On more occasions than she cared to admit, she had envisioned it: apologizing for her weakness; asking forgiveness for not believing him; pleading for another chance to prove to him how she had changed.

  And yet, what were words? After the choice she had made and the pain she had caused, they would be meaningless, empty sounds.

  And two years too late.

  Besides, such a conversation would be entirely inappropriate, given the purpose of his visit.

  She exhaled her thoughts and looked up to scale the staircase, freezing in place.

  Hand suspended in mid-air and looking every bit as shocked as Mercy felt, was Solomon, exactly as she had remembered him—the dark stubble that shadowed the lower half of his face by late afternoon, the tousled brown hair that brought ocean waves to mind, and the slight scar that cut through one of his eyebrows, interrupting the direction of the hair.

  She could almost have imagined that he was waiting to escort her outside for a walk around the estate, as he had often done before...well, before she had ruined everything.

  But there were two differences too obvious and tangible to permit imagining such an appealing and familiar scenario.

  His skin was tanned, evidence of the time he had spent in the hot, sunny climate of Jamaica, rebuilding the lost fortune that had stood between him and Mercy.

  And his eyes. Gone was the warmth and openness.

  The surprise on his face shifted quickly to a guarded, tight-jawed expression.

  “Miss Marcotte,” he said with a slight bow. “I was not aware that you were here.”

  Miss Marcotte. She was Mercy no more—not to Solomon. She curtsied, feeling her heart thud uncomfortably against her chest. “Yes. I have been staying with my aunt and uncle this summer.” There was a pause. What did one say in such a situation? All of the things she had ever considered saying to him felt ridiculous and entirely out of place. “And you are well? And your family too?” Mercy’s traitorous voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.

  Asking such a question must have seemed the height of hypocrisy—acting as though she cared for their well-being after she had abandoned the Kennetts in the time of their greatest need. She had heard little of the family since they had lost their estate shortly after she had ended things with Solomon.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  She wanted to know more, and yet he seemed disinclined to say anything further. She couldn’t blame him. If she had been in his place, no doubt she would have behaved in the same way.

  “And you?” he asked. “How are you?”

  “Surprised,” she admitted with a smile.

  “By what, precisely?”

  Her smile faltered. “By your presence here.” Of course that was what she had meant. What did he think she had meant? “Solomon.” She clasped her hands tightly before her. “I—”

  His hand came up. “Please don’t, Miss Marcotte.”

  She stilled, heat flooding her cheeks.

  The line of his jaw was hard and his nostrils flared. “Let us leave that all in the past—where it belongs.”

  Mercy blinked and nodded quickly, managing a smile and willing the stinging behind her eyes to dissipate. She couldn’t cry in front of Solomon. She had no right, really.

&nbs
p; “I believe Deborah was looking for you,” she managed to say.

  “Thank you. I have just spoken with her,” Solomon replied.

  And what was the result of their interview? Would Solomon be leaving? Would he stay to speak with Deborah’s father about the dissolution of their agreement?

  “How long shall you stay at Westwood?” Mercy knew no other way to glean a hint of where things stood.

  “I am not entirely sure,” he said. “Once a date has been arranged for the marriage, I suppose I will return to Kellingford, where my family now resides.”

  Mercy’s mouth opened wordlessly, and her heart dropped with a thud into the pit of her stomach. The marriage?

  “I imagine I shall only be here for two or three days at most,” he continued. He glanced over at the windows lining the corridor. “That is, if your uncle ever returns from shooting.” He smiled wryly. “I had forgotten what an avid sportsman he was.”

  Mercy forced herself to smile in return. “He certainly takes shooting and hunting seriously. But I imagine he will be back shortly. I know he planned to be home in time to dress for dinner.”

  She curtsied again, anxious to put distance between them. “I wish you a pleasant stay at Westwood, sir.”

  She moved past him—though not with nearly as much ease as he seemed to have moved past Mercy and everything they once had.

  Chapter Six

  Viola quickly slipped her head and shoulders back into the morning room, afraid that Mr. Kennett might see her. She had not heard the conversation between him and Mercy, but she could see even from halfway down the corridor that it had not had a happy result.

  “Are you spying, Viola?”

  Viola whipped around, finding Edith twisted around in her chair, watching her with incredulous amusement.

  “Not spying,” Viola said defensively. “I merely wanted to go to my bedchamber, but I didn’t wish to disturb the conversation between Mercy and Mr. Kennett.”

  Edith’s brow went up, reflecting all her cynicism with the merest gesture. “Hoping their tête-à-tête would end in him sweeping her into his arms?”