by Sandra Byrd
“The arable land. That which I could have farmed to provide income for Winton’s upkeep.”
His firm gaze held. “Yes. He was not working it anyway and I could put it to good use and he, for some reason, needed the funds. Then he came again just shortly before he died and a few days after that visit Collingsworth came.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Davidson told my mother,” he said.
Ugh. His mother. But why had Collingsworth come on his own? He must have thought Papa had left something at Winton, something he wanted, and would secret away if he could.
“I should have told you about the acreage,” Thomas continued. “I’m sorry. I didn’t because, well, your father hadn’t told you. I thought it was a confidence and I wanted to keep the confidence and honor him in that way. I sensed your father was keeping secrets of some kind; it was an awkward meeting at the end. With all that has been said since . . . I hope you understand that I had good intentions. I knew you’d learn when the paperwork for the trust was completed.”
I nodded. That was plausible.
A crowd of people filtered onto the portico now; it must be near midnight when supper would be served. Our hostess was calling everyone inside.
Thomas looked at me intently. “There is something you should know, and I’d like you to hear it from me. I have purchased Winton Park.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I sharply inhaled. “Already? It’s only been signed over to the Cause nigh on two months.”
He nodded. “My land agent knew I was interested and he let them know. I paid ten percent more than the asking price as soon as it became available, to honor your mother’s wishes as well as my mother’s wishes.”
My stomach clenched. Well, what had I expected when I turned the property over? That it would not be sold? The sale had done what my mother had wanted it to do: fund the Cause. It just seemed that he’d lain waiting for it, ready to pounce at the first moment.
I turned toward Thomas. Perhaps . . . perhaps he’d had me in mind all along. I spoke softly. “Why had it been so important to you to buy Winton? Because it was the neighboring property . . . ?” I left the sentence hopefully open-ended.
He nodded. “Yes, of course. My mother has long wanted it.”
His mother. Again! He’d not had me in mind, but her. Of course she wanted it. She coveted anything that had belonged to Mamma, and now she had it. She could walk right in now and take down Mamma’s portrait and reclaim the matching carriage clock and everything else. My face must have shown my anger because he stopped talking and put his arm around me, which I shrugged off.
“Gillian. Is something wrong? Do you wish I had not been the one to buy it? I thought . . .”
I did not know what to think. All the men I thought so highly of had thoroughly confused me. I was glad he had it, I supposed. But not his mother! I spoke without thinking. “I’m uncertain of what I feel, Lord Lockwood. Perhaps, with your mother desiring Winton, you might have lightly exaggerated the expenses, such that they were, required for modernization and repair in order to sway my opinion.”
He stood up, recoiled by my use of his formal title, and, I supposed, my accusation, and moved away from me. Lady Mary came to greet us. “Come now, Miss Young, Lord Lockwood. It’s time for supper.” She looked at us, happily, and said, “You might still be seated together.” Then she must have noticed the looks on our faces. “Or not.” She scurried away.
“I apologize for whatever I said or did that upset you and however I may have comported myself that could bring about a charge of misdeed or mistruth,” Thomas said. “I did not know you preferred that I not purchase the house.” He sounded hurt. How could he have known? I nodded. It was better, after all, that it had gone to someone who loved it. It was just, well . . .
His mother. I suppose, tucked deeply in my hurt heart, I’d hoped he was going to say he’d purchased it for me, not her. What a childish desire, Gillian! He certainly seemed to be telling the truth about the repair expenses; Papa had said the house was crumbling, too. His manner grew distant.
Still coiled in disappointment, confusion, and loss, I said, “I do not think I shall remain for supper.” Yes, indeed, Cinderella would flee just ahead of midnight.
He looked angry and hurt. “Perhaps that’s just as well. I have made a commitment to speak with Lord Shaftesbury this evening. But could I please have my driver take you home? I’m concerned for your safety.”
I nodded. “I would very much appreciate that.” Part of me wished he would try to cajole me into a further conversation, but on the whole, I grudgingly admired that he let me to my own emotions and did not try to direct me against my will.
He escorted me to the front and called for his carriage; he did not lean forward to kiss me good night. If he had, I would have gladly accepted and it may have broken the tension between us. I, foolishly, did not offer an olive branch, either, upon which a dove of peace might have landed.
“Good evening, Miss Young.” His voice broke just a little. My heart did, too.
The carriage, driven by the army veteran Thomas had rescued from outside the gentlemen’s club, chucked the horses and we departed. By the time I was home I was filled with regrets. My bitterness was the spoiled fruit of pride.
I regretted not feeling cheered that someone kind had purchased my family home, and telling him so.
I regretted the implication that he had overstated the repair costs, and yet, I was still not sure he’d proved true.
I regretted not staying for supper, the time that might have allowed the unexpected wound to heal and the matter happily resolve.
I regretted causing that heart-pierce in a man who had let his guard down with me.
I hadn’t even brought home the sweets I’d promised to the girls.
I went into my room, took off the Cinderella gown, and slipped into a dressing gown before climbing under the sheets. I opened the hidden cupboard behind my bed and pulled out all of the papers.
First, the letter from Mamma regarding Winton. I did as you’d asked, Mamma. I hope you are pleased. Thomas is a good man. I do not know what you thought of his mother, but I pray she will treat your home with care.
I set aside the letters between her and Papa for a moment.
The photograph of the young woman. I felt almost guilty having left her at home. Her glance looked to me now not to be happy, but pleading. The smile of a woman who has been told to smile. I saw, now, that the smile did not extend to her eyes. As I locked eyes with her, I knew I must still try to find her, help her, somehow.
But how?
I fingered the punched train stub. Thomas said that Papa had visited Winton just before his death, and then, just after, Inspector Collingsworth had come. I’d come to believe that at least one Collingsworth was mixed up in something evil and wrong. Had Papa been a partner in crime as well as in crime fighting? I did not believe so, otherwise, why would Collingsworth have come on his own?
The inspector was looking for something. Something that would prove him guilty, and that he wished to do away with. But I had searched Winton.
So had he. Had he found it and spirited it away before I arrived?
No. Because then there would have been no reason to have had me followed, or had my house searched.
Was Francis involved, too? Perhaps. I hoped not. But perhaps.
I looked at the love letters between my parents. Surely they’d known, by saving them, they would fall to me someday. These letters, in truth, were what I had come looking for this late night. I spent an hour reading their voices, their humor, their hopes and dreams and declarations of love.
Then I turned the lamp off and lay there in owl-like alertness, filled with yearning and the pain of an epiphany that could, perhaps, no longer be responded to.
Thomas. Are you who I think you are?
My girls are right. I am in love.
• • •
The girls had noticed that I was less enthusias
tic in the days that followed, but I told them I was tired, and I was. I had an unquiet mind. I needed to write to Thomas and then to Francis, Sergeant Collingsworth. I felt overwhelmed and waited a few days to begin to make sure I wasn’t speaking hastily, writing something I might later regret.
I could have chosen a life with Francis; he was a kind and good man, attractive. It was perfectly acceptable and most probably what was expected of me. I smiled a little, wryly, just as, perhaps, my mother had been expected to marry Thomas’s father. But I was not in love with Francis, and I doubted that he was in love with me. Being in love would probably not even have crossed his mind. It wasn’t necessarily a requirement in his world, either, to marry for love. Duty, suitability, companionship, yes. Love, if one was lucky, came later, after marriage.
It had come sooner for me, before marriage, which was most unlucky indeed.
I looked out the window. It looked like the bakery cart was, once more, rolling down my street. They often did, once or twice a day, to sell their wares at the Embankment. But this cart had gone down the street perhaps five or six times that I had noticed.
“Ruby?” I called her downstairs.
“Yes, miss?” She bounded down and stood before me.
“Have you noticed anything odd as you’ve looked out the window?”
“I’m not skiving off, miss, I’m working hard.”
I smiled. “Yes. But on your breaks, when you look out the window?”
She nodded. “A bakery cart, back and forth, back and forth. And sometimes a rat catcher, which is odd, miss, because they do not normally work in the daylight, do they? And these are new men now, not the usuals.”
I shook my head. “No, rat catchers do not work during the day. Thank you.” Were they spies?
She returned to the sewing, and I wrote a note to Francis, asking if he could call on me the next week during calling hours; I would tell him in person. First I needed to get a little ahead on the sewing; I’d been asked to assist with last-minute costumes for A Sailor and His Lass because one of the other seamstresses had become ill. We were sewing the forest fairies costumes for Cinderella as well. We could get them all done, but only if nothing went wrong. Without Lady Tolfee’s continuing patronage I could not say no to the new theater work.
I sealed the note to Francis with my mother’s ring and then set it for the postman.
Next, I wrote a note to Thomas. I was certain by then of what I wanted to say.
Dearest Thomas,
I would like to beg your forgiveness for my quick tongue and unpardonably bad manners at Tolfee House. I believe that the shock of learning that my home, which I had long cherished the idea of seeing come to life under happier circumstances, had already been sold put me off balance. I especially regret the implication that you had been duplicitous in the expenses for Winton Park.
No, I regret it all.
The continuing strain and tension over my father’s situation caused me to act in an uncaring manner. Please call on me at your convenience, or write if you prefer. If you do not, I will understand that matters have concluded between us due to my rash actions and words, and wish you the very best henceforth.
I meant every word when I said you were all I’d hoped for.
I remain Yours Truly,
Gillian
I’d thought of addressing him as Lumpy just to tease and bring back the playfulness, but did not presume.
I sealed it with red wax and my signet ring before addressing it to be delivered to Darington, as he’d said he was leaving London. I prayed he would receive it within a day and respond warmly.
No, I prayed he would return to me with all speed.
• • •
The first day possible, Sergeant Collingsworth came calling at teatime.
I’d asked Mrs. W to let him in. I did not look forward to speaking with him.
I went downstairs and as I greeted him, Mrs. W disappeared into her room and closed the door, leaving us to our privacy.
He stood in the hallway. “Gillian, it is a delight to see you.” He’d taken his hat off; some of his color had returned, and I thought what a handsome man he was, especially in his uniform. He carried an official leather pouch with him. I glanced at it. He looked nervous.
“I cannot stay long; I’m sorry,” he said. “I am to return to duty in a short while. I wanted to come by quickly, though, and not let any more time elapse after having received your note. I can return in a day or two. Perhaps we might take tea at a shop? Or we could visit the park?”
As I was about to show him from the foyer into the parlor, I noticed a man was standing on my steps. “Has someone come with you?” I asked.
He smiled. “Oh, yes. Jones. We work closely now, good chap. Senior sergeant helping me learn the next step. He’s waiting whilst we have a chat.”
I looked out the window, and as I did, Sergeant Jones turned to look at me. He did, and tipped his hat, and grinned.
I stumbled. Jones laughed mockingly, silent to our ears, through the closed door. Francis could not see his face.
“Gillian, are you quite all right?”
I could barely stand, but I did. “Yes, yes, I, well, I shall get our tea. Please, give me five minutes.”
I stumbled down the stairs to the kitchens, gasping as I did. Louisa was not in attendance, for which I was glad.
Disgust and terror overcame me. Sergeant Jones had been the carriage driver who had kidnapped me and taken me, threateningly, to the docks! He’d come today to taunt me. I knew it. Did Francis know?
I steadied myself; the flesh on my upper arms trembled and grew cold; I could not stop them shaking.
Things had not died away, as Thomas had said they might. As I’d hoped they would. They had suddenly become even worse.
I breathed calmly for two or three minutes, then went to find Louisa. I instructed her to make the tea and bring it upstairs. After a minute or two more, I returned to Francis. He had moved to the parlor. I did not look out the window, at my front porch.
“Are you quite well?” Francis asked. “I’m sorry . . . I cannot stay but for a moment more, so I’ll miss tea.” His ear tips were now red and he would not meet my gaze. Why not?
“Yes,” I said. “I wish this didn’t have to be rushed but, well, I think it’s best to be straightforward. I have been thinking and praying and I’ve come to the conclusion that it would be best all round if you and I remained as friends.”
I’d said it. He fidgeted.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said. “Perhaps a few more weeks of consideration might change your mind.”
I shook my head. “No, Francis. You are a dear, dear man. I respect you and know there is a woman perfectly suited to you. But I am not her.”
His face flashed with an emotion I could not completely discern. Anger? Fear? Embarrassment? All three?
“So it’s to be the viscount, then?” He glanced deep in my house, past me. Why?
“I hadn’t said that,” I replied.
“But you will see him again?” Francis insisted. I had no compulsion to answer him, but I did anyway, out of respect for the many years of our companionship. Plus, if he was involved in the troubles with my father, I thought my association with Thomas, no matter how tenuous, might provide me some protection.
“Yes,” I answered firmly. “Yes, I will. Soon.”
He nodded. “I see I won’t need to come back to take you to the park, then.”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “But I hope that our paths will cross again.”
“Oh, they will. You can be certain of that.”
A noise clattered behind me; my back was to the staircase. I turned and saw young feet scamper up the stairway. Ruby, and perhaps Charlotte, had been eavesdropping.
Francis had seen them, too. “I hope it goes well for all of you.” He put his helmet back on his head.
Had that been a threat? It felt like one.
“Good day, Miss Young. I can let myself out.”
Normally, I may have protested, but I had no desire to see Sergeant Jones again, and so I let Francis go.
Within a minute of his pulling the door closed behind him, Mrs. W opened the door to her room and joined me in the hall.
“Don’t worry, miss. We’ll take you to the park,” Charlotte said. “You needn’t wait for him to come and take you.”
“We don’t like his father anyway,” Ruby agreed. “And that copper he came with today. I’ve seen him before somewhere. Maybe from the window. I can’t recall.”
I looked at her sharply. “He’s been here recently?”
“I don’t remember when, miss. But I’ve seen him from the window.
Ah, yes. My young spy.
“Back to work with you, then,” I said, shooing them to their duties. I sent Mrs. W to fetch Bidwell. Then I sent Bidwell to fetch the locksmith once again. This time, I had a most expensive lock installed that would be very difficult indeed to breach. I gave one key to Mrs. W and kept one for myself. Both would be needed to unlock the door.
• • •
Each day I eagerly awaited the post, but no letter came from Thomas. It certainly had been long enough for a letter to reach him in Hampshire and then return to me. He had, perhaps, decided that, as things were awkward and cool between us, and he’d secured Winton for his mother, it was best to move on. Perhaps it had been a lovely interlude and nothing more. The thought saddened me.
One afternoon Mrs. W opened the door and began a conversation. I looked at the clock on the cabinet in the salon—yes, it was calling hours! I stood on the dressing dais in front of the mirror and adjusted my hair and dress. The girls did not look up at me, but they also had not asked me any questions since the ball. There had been no mention of being in love. I suspect my face and mannerisms, and the fact that Thomas had not called again, had conveyed my disappointment.
I walked downstairs to find, not Thomas, but Mrs. Finley, my mother’s friend from the Cause.
“Mrs. Finley!” I went forward and greeted her warmly. “Please, come into the sitting room. I’m delighted to see you.”
