by Syrie James
“Miss Atherton?”
Charles caught her eye and nodded slightly. She knows me too well.
“Does she love you?”
“I do not know. It is possible that . . . she might have done . . . at one time. I am not certain if she does still.”
“I take it she is not to marry Lord Oakley, then?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to marry her?”
“Yes!” The admission came out more forcefully than he’d intended.
“Well, Charles. I like Miss Atherton. When she first arrived, I thought her rather too ambitious. But now I see the ways in which education can enhance a woman’s life and worth. She is certainly clever. That play she wrote was marvelous. And I think she saved your father’s life! She is perfectly worthy of you. I adore Sophie, of course. She is my flesh and blood, and I do not wish her to be hurt any more than you do. But she is young. She will recover.” Her eyes glowed knowingly. “And something tells me she will not take the news quite as hard as you think.”
Charles looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean simply this: If you love Miss Atherton, then follow your heart, Charles. Marry her.”
Relief flooded Charles’s every vein. “It means a great deal to have your blessing. As for Father . . .”
“Do not worry about your father,” she insisted. “I can manage him.”
“I only hope it is not too late. Miss Atherton and I did not part on the best of terms.”
“Then you must try to make things right.” His mother’s eyes were warm with nostalgia, as if she were thinking about the man she had once loved and would never see again. “But first, my boy, you must tell Sophie.”
“Tell me what?”
Charles and his mother stopped in their tracks as Sophie herself appeared around the corner of a hedgerow, with Dr. Hancock beside her.
“Er . . . good morning.” Charles felt his cheeks go red. How much had they overheard? “Hancock, I had no idea you were here. It is so early.”
“Yes, well,” Hancock replied quickly. “I came to see Lady Sophie. We have been out . . . walking.”
Was it Charles’s imagination, or were both of their faces a rather bright shade of pink? “It is a fine morning for it.”
“Yes, it is.” Hancock looked uncomfortable.
Sophie turned to Charles. “Did I hear correctly? Do you have something to tell me?”
Charles wasn’t sure how to reply. He didn’t want to have it out with her here and now, in front of Dr. Hancock. “I . . . was speaking with Mother about a matter I need to discuss with you. But I think . . .”
“We wanted to speak to you as well,” Sophie interjected. She and Hancock exchanged a glance. “Since we are all here together . . . do you mind if we go first?”
“If you insist.”
“Shall I leave?” Charles’s mother offered magnanimously.
“No, Aunt Charlotte. This affects you as well.” Lifting her gray eyes to Charles’s, Sophie announced: “Charles, I hope you will forgive me, and that what I am about to say will not cause you undue distress. But I cannot marry you.”
Charles was dumbfounded. “Oh?” he finally managed.
“I always believed that you and I would wed,” Sophie said. “I know how long you have been anticipating our union, and Aunt Charlotte, I know how much it meant to you to see us married. But lately, I have felt . . .” She glanced gently but pointedly at Charles. “I have felt that it was not meant to be. And then . . .” Sophie’s gaze found Hancock’s.
Hancock looked at her as if she had hung the moon, and Sophie returned the look in kind. Charles saw more genuine affection in that exchange than he had ever before witnessed in Sophie’s eyes. She had certainly never looked at him that way.
“We have fallen in love,” Dr. Hancock announced, taking Sophie’s hand in his. “I just asked Sophie to be my wife, and she has accepted. We are both truly sorry for any pain that this might cause you, my lord.”
“Truly sorry,” Sophie repeated.
Charles was so astonished, he could barely speak. His mother, he noticed, didn’t look the least bit surprised. In fact, she was hiding a little smile. At last Charles said, “When did all this happen?”
“It began, I think, when I sprained my ankle.”
“My feelings are rather earlier in origin,” Hancock admitted, “but I knew there was an understanding between Sophie and yourself, my lord, so I didn’t dare to think I had a chance with her.”
“It came about rather quickly the past few weeks,” Sophie added. “I once mentioned that the ball might be a good time to propose. Do you remember, Charles?”
“I do,” Charles replied quietly.
“Well, I soon realized your heart was not in it. Not long after that, everything changed. And . . .” To Hancock, coloring: “I thought it might be you who would propose at the ball.”
“I intended to, my darling,” Hancock told her. “At the stroke of midnight—that was my plan. But then I was called away to attend to Lady Longford.”
A rush of diverse emotions engulfed Charles, chief among which was an intense relief that he had been spared from hurting Sophie, and at the same time, that was he was free. Free!
He felt like leaping up into the air and dancing a jig. Except he had no idea how to dance a jig. Such a display would surely be inappropriate in any case. He sensed that Sophie did not expect him to feel let down by her admission. Indeed, from what he’d gleaned, she seemed to have suspected that his affections lay elsewhere—which meant she knew him better than he had known himself. Yet even so, he saw a sense of guilt reflected in both of their eyes.
“Well,” Charles said, manufacturing a smile which he hoped reflected anguish and understanding, “I will not stand in the way of your happiness.” Charles took Sophie’s hand and kissed it. “I wish you all the best, cousin.”
She thanked him. Marriage to a physician would not be regarded by some as the most exalted match for Sophie. But her mother’s new husband was, after all, only a baron. And Hancock was a gentleman and highly educated. His profession was rising in people’s estimation every day.
It seemed clear, at least, that his mother didn’t disapprove. Holding out her hands to the happy couple, the marchioness said with a smile, “This is wonderful news, my dears. I have suspected something of this nature was brewing and I am more pleased than I can say.”
“Thank you, Aunt Charlotte!” Sophie and his mother embraced.
“You will take good care of her, Dr. Hancock,” his mother commanded.
“I will, my lady. You have my promise.” Hancock’s face was lit by a grin.
Extending his hand to the physician, Charles said, “Welcome to the family, Hancock.”
The train rattled down the tracks.
The throb of the wheels hummed through Madeleine’s body as she gazed out the window of the first-class car, only vaguely aware of the passing countryside.
She had no wish to leave England now. She had hoped to stay another month at least, to soak up every moment of this precious time with Alexandra and Thomas and their newborn son. To continue her long, meaningful tête-à-têtes with her sister, walk in the Polperran House gardens with Julia and Lillie, and read aloud together under the shade of a great tree.
The notion that she might not see any of them again for years—that little Tommy was going to grow up without knowing her—brought a fresh rush of tears to Madeleine’s eyes.
Despite herself, her mind darted to the other person she was going to miss.
She had given her heart and soul and body to Lord Saunders, even knowing it could never go anywhere. Could it really have been only yesterday afternoon that he had held her in his arms and made passionate love to her? The harsh reckoning that had followed only served to twist the knife in a wound that was still painfully fresh and deep.
Madeleine suddenly recalled something her father had once told her when she was a girl. “There are probably a dozen men in the
world with whom you could be happy,” he had said, winking an eye. “It’s your job to find one of them and marry him.”
She had found one of them. But she couldn’t have him.
Madeleine choked back a little sob. Maybe, someday, she’d meet another man whom she could love and envision herself marrying. How long did it take for a broken heart to heal? She had no idea, but guessed it would take years.
Wiping her eyes, Madeleine grimly returned her attention to the window. A storybook village swept by. Houses with thatched roofs. A church with a pointy spire. A long stretch of green meadow. She had come to this country with such high hopes, and hated the idea of running away. But she couldn’t stay in Cornwall. She needed to put distance between herself and Lord Saunders. She couldn’t stay anywhere in England, for that matter. Her mother’s plans for her had made it imperative to leave.
The exercise was foolish and absurd. Alexandra’s title had already opened the desired doors for their family in New York. But one titled daughter wasn’t enough for Josephine Atherton. No. She wanted to achieve what no one else had done. She was bound and determined to fling three titled daughters in Mrs. Astor’s face, to become the envy of every member of the New York elite. It was a quest from which, Madeleine knew, there would be no escape. Not so long as she remained in England.
Alexandra and Thomas had been entirely on board with Madeleine’s plan and had conspired together. Madeleine had packed her trunks and Thomas had sent her off to the train station early that morning, long before her mother was up. Father might not be happy about her coming home unmarried, but hopefully he would understand. Madeleine would live quietly. She’d give time to charitable institutions. She’d read to the sick. And she would write.
She would have all the time in the world to write.
Madeleine clutched her tapestry bag to her chest, mollified by the weight of the manuscript cosseted inside. During the crossing to New York, she could begin revising her book. One day, she’d send it out to publishers with a hope and a prayer. And then she’d start writing another. Meanwhile, her timing was perfect. A ship was sailing from Liverpool harbor that very evening.
Madeleine was going to be on it.
“What do you mean, she is not here?”
Charles stared at Thomas and Alexandra, who were seated in the breakfast room, finishing their coffee.
Thomas rose and moved around the table to stand before him. In a lowered voice, he said, “Madeleine left early this morning. Lexie’s mother does not know yet. She is still abed.”
“Where has she gone?”
“Home,” Alexandra replied softly, joining them, “to New York.”
“Oh no.” Charles felt all the air leave his lungs. “Why?” Was it because he had hurt her so badly? If so, how would he ever forgive himself?
Alexandra’s face was a mask of reserve, tempered by obvious concern for her sister. “Maddie turned down Lord Oakley yesterday.”
“I know,” Charles admitted impatiently.
“You know?” Alexandra’s blue eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”
“She told me, yesterday. When she—” Charles stopped himself. What had happened between them was private, something Miss Atherton had clearly not shared with her sister. He was not about to divulge it. “When she came to see me, briefly,” he finished. “But why has her refusing Oakley’s offer prompted her to suddenly leave the country?”
“Because Mother has become impossible. Or should I say, even more impossible than usual. She is bound and determined that Maddie will marry a title, if she has to cart my sister around the country to meet every unattached nobleman under eighty years of age.”
Charles uttered a curse.
“Why are you here, Saunders?” Thomas asked.
“She knows you are to marry Sophie,” Alexandra added. “It is kinder to just let her go.”
“I cannot let her go.” The words burst from Charles’s mouth, imbued with all the pent-up passion that had been fomenting within him. “And I am not marrying Sophie. She is engaged to Dr. Hancock.”
“What?” Alexandra cried.
“Since when?” Thomas said.
“They told me only an hour ago. As I was on the verge of telling her that I could not marry her, because I am in love with someone else.” Charles took a breath, turned to Alexandra. “I am in love with your sister. I cannot marry anyone but her.”
“Is that so?” Alexandra replied, with a slow smile building.
“Well,” Thomas commented with a smile of his own, “it appears, my friend, that you are destined to follow in my footsteps.”
“Why? Because I have fallen in love with an Atherton?” Charles heaved a desperate sigh.
“No.” Thomas darted a tender look at his wife. “Because only last year, I dashed across England to go after an Atherton—the woman I loved. Now it is your turn.”
“Maddie took the boat train,” Alexandra told him. “I guess you’d better get yourself to Liverpool, Charles. The Britannia leaves on the evening tide.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
There was no time to lose. Charles rode straight to Bolton, stabled his horse at the inn, and managed to get on the afternoon train.
Having only planned to ride as far as Polperran House, Charles didn’t have his billfold with him. Thomas had tucked a wad of bills into his hand, far more than was required for train fare, and wished him luck.
As he sank down onto his seat in the train car, Charles’s heart pounded with anxiety.
Why, oh why, hadn’t he come to terms with his feelings for Miss Atherton sooner, when he’d held her in his arms the day before? Why had he not told her then and there that he loved her, and couldn’t and wouldn’t marry Sophie? His reckoning had taken a day too long. And now it might be too late.
He had done the mental calculations during his frantic horseback ride. He would have to change trains three times: at Exeter, Bristol, and Birmingham. If everything went like clockwork, he would reach Liverpool with an hour to spare before the Britannia set sail. That was enough time to reach the docks, get on board, and hopefully find Miss Atherton before the ship sailed.
If everything went like clockwork.
As the hours ticked by with excruciating slowness, Charles envisioned everything that could go wrong. The train might break down. He might miss a connection, resulting in a lengthy delay. He might not reach Liverpool before the ship left. Even if the ship was still in port when he arrived, there might not be time to board. If he was able to board, how would he find Miss Atherton in a sea of passengers?
Even if he did manage to find her, it might still be too late. He could pour out his heart to her, beg her forgiveness for what he’d said . . . and she still might say no.
Which was something he couldn’t bring himself to contemplate.
As Charles feared, the train at Birmingham was delayed due to work being done on the tracks. He thought he might explode with impatience until, at last, the locomotive took off on the final leg of the trip.
Upon reaching Liverpool, Charles dashed out of the station to find the streets as dirty and busy as London’s, teeming with horses, carriages, omnibuses, and pedestrians. He glanced at his pocket watch. The Britannia was due to set sail in forty minutes. Could he make it on board and find Miss Atherton in time?
He was going to do his damnedest to try.
The train station was five blocks away from the port. Charles hired a hack and promised the driver a hefty tip if he could make it to the berth where the Britannia was docked in under four minutes.
The driver wove in and out of traffic like a bat out of hell, pulling up at the designated spot in the time allotted. Charles thrust money at him and leapt from the cab. The huge transatlantic steamer lay at the wharf before him, surrounded by bustle and confusion. Crowds of passengers gazed down from the rails of the ship, waving and calling out good-byes to the throngs who waited below to see them off.
Empty wagons and carts were driving away, having finished the
ir business. Still more wagons and carriages drew up, depositing passengers. Those traveling second or third class, some with a great many children, struggled with their luggage, while the more elegant first-class passengers ordered crewmen to unload their boxes and trunks, which were then hauled from the dockside to the deck and swung below with the rattling of machinery and chains.
The gangplank, he saw with relief, was still in place. Charles was about to make his way there when a realization struck him. Although Alexandra said her sister intended to sail on this ship today, Charles had no way of knowing if she had actually made it here and been able to buy a ticket. The only way to be certain was to check at the ticket office.
Charles spotted the sign for the White Star Line. He made a beeline for it, dashing past a lineup outside the telegraph office and pushing his way through the people hurrying to and fro. To his annoyance, when he reached the ticket office, the sole agent was busy with another customer. Charles’s heart pounded in his chest. Would the man never finish? He considered giving up the quest, when the passenger finally moved off with hurried footsteps.
“How may I help you?” the agent asked calmly as Charles rushed up to the counter.
“Can you please verify for me that a particular passenger is on board? Her name is Madeleine Atherton.”
“Are you sailing today?” A broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced man with a thick mustache and side whiskers, the agent stood with a proud air, his uniform as neat as a pin.
“No, I am just seeing her off.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can only give out passenger information to a ticket holder of the same class or higher.”
“A ticket holder?” Charles repeated in frustration. “Look, my good man, I am Charles Grayson, the Earl of Saunders. Miss Atherton is a friend. It is very important that I speak to her before the ship leaves this port.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” the agent said, “but the ship departs in less than thirty minutes. May I point out that, in a crowd of this size, unless you have prearranged a meeting place, it seems unlikely that you will find her before the bell rings.”
