Promises and Primroses

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Old memories and unforgotten heartbreak filled her to the brim as though she were eighteen years old again. Elliott had broken her heart into a hundred pieces with his letter of farewell, but as gossip had abounded about the family, she had come to see herself as lucky to have avoided saddling herself to such a reputation. Nobility did not equate with morality, and no family exemplified that more than the Mayfields.

  Amelia laid the letter on the counter and slumped into a kitchen chair. For years, she had wondered what might happen should her path cross Elliott’s again, but in time her life grew bigger than her memories and she had let it go. Or so she thought. Now, confronted with the family and the memories, she felt frozen and . . . sad.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered, the slightest tremor in her voice. She imagined Julia in a Mayfield house. Teaching Mayfield children. Eating Mayfield food. She closed her eyes and took a breath. There has to be a way to fix this!

  Her feelings were rising toward panic to think of her daughter in one of their households. But perhaps this Peter Mayfield was not connected to Elliott—Lord Howardsford—at all. She would find out, to be sure, and if it wasn’t those Mayfields, then . . . well, she didn’t know. And if it was those Mayfields? Gracious.

  Elliott

  Elliott was halfway through breakfast when the butler at Howardhouse brought in a note on a silver tray. Brookshire—Brookie, for short—was nearing eighty years old and had been the household’s butler for the last forty years. The hand holding the tray shook slightly, but Elliott had no plans to replace him.

  “Thank you, Brookie,” Elliott said, wiping his hands on the napkin in his lap and lifting the card from the tray. The script was unfamiliar, though feminine, and he frowned in suspicion. Despite being sixty years old, Elliott was considered an eligible bachelor now that he was making his home in England, and too many women had made it plain to him that they would be happy to become his countess. Elliott had responded to the feminine attention by avoiding social situations and church—the two prime places of attack—but now and then, someone would invite him to an event in hopes of catching his eye themselves or introducing him to their sister, neighbor, cousin, friend, daughter. Lady Aberline had sat him next to her eighteen-year-old granddaughter at a dinner party last Christmas. The girl had flirted with him all evening. Humiliating.

  Accommodating another person into his lifestyle seemed exhausting at his age. The idea of marrying someone young—­impossible.

  Elliott snapped the wax seal and unfolded the paper, already planning the polite refusal of the invitation. When Mr. and Mrs. Clemington had invited him to their annual garden party in April, he’d lied about a trip to London, then felt guilty enough that he’d actually gone to London.

  Elliott wearied of having to come up with another matter of business in a town far away just to make certain he was unavailable for whatever this event might be.

  Dear Lord Howardsford,

  I would very much like to meet with you this afternoon to discuss the employment of my daughter, Julia Hollingsworth, as a governess for your nephew Peter Mayfield. I am staying at the Inn of the Cross and Bellows and shall present myself at your estate at two o’clock so that we might discuss this matter of business.

  Mrs. Amelia Hollingsworth

  Amelia?

  He shook his head. Not his Amelia, certainly. Not that she was his, nor had she ever been. She’d married that banker—her banker, as Elliott often thought of the man who’d taken his place. It is not her, he told himself, feeling ridiculous for even thinking of Amelia Edwards. It was not as though there were only one Amelia in all of England.

  Elliott set the card aside and cut into the ham steak on his plate while further contemplating the odd letter. Peter had been in the process of hiring a new governess when he’d left their interview for Norwich a few weeks ago. The former governess, some relation to Peter’s late wife, had gotten married or something like that. So Peter must have hired this Hollingsworth woman’s daughter. Why on earth was that any business of Elliott’s?

  He should simply send a return message explaining his ignorance of the matter and encouraging this meddling woman to leave him out of whatever concerns she had. Yet he hated the idea of her bothering Peter, who had so much responsibility already. And he was curious about why this woman had come to him. He took another bite of ham and decided to allow her visit, though it might be awkward. He’d be pleasant and well-mannered and hear her out and try to deflect her concerns. He hoped it wasn’t his family’s reputation that had soured her against Peter. The boy did not deserve such prejudice, and Elliott was prepared to tell this woman as much should that be her motivation.

  Do I know anyone with the last name Hollingsworth?

  There was enough ring of familiarity to make him think he may have known a man by that name before leaving for India, but he couldn’t be sure. And why would this woman come without her husband? Surely her husband knew of her visit, didn’t he? Or perhaps Mr. Hollingsworth had told his wife not to be a busybody, and she was coming here without his blessing. Or she could be a widow and therefore had no one else to represent her concerns. His chewing slowed, and he looked at the letter as another idea barreled into his thoughts.

  Could this be some kind of ploy to secure an interview with him? The type of situation with Lady Aberline’s niece was one sort of irritation, but not the only way in which female wiles had caused him discomfort. A few months after his return to Howardhouse, a woman and her daughter had knocked on his door, claiming their carriage had thrown a wheel and asking if they could come in from the rain. Uncomfortable with their effusive thanks, Elliott had taken a groom with him and put the wheel—suspiciously removed, not thrown—back on the carriage. He did not offer the woman or her daughter tea, preferring being remembered as a boar if that meant they would not attempt such a trick again.

  He had another woman trip right in front of him when he was in town a few weeks ago, requiring that he catch her. She invited him to dinner as a way to thank him; he flatly refused. He was rich. He was single. That was all some women needed to behave poorly. What if this Mrs. Amelia Hollingsworth were one more woman on the list who cared not a fig for him but only for his money and status?

  By the time Elliott finished his breakfast, he had decided not to wait until two o’clock for Mrs. Hollingsworth to darken his doorstep. It was not as though he had anything of importance to do today, so he could give this matter his full attention. The sooner he informed this woman that he had no authority over Peter’s household and she had no reason to object to her daughter’s position there, the sooner he could push all worry from his mind.

  The Inn of the Cross and Bellows was located a few miles south of Howardhouse, on the outskirts of East Ashlam. A proper English gentleman would take his horse or a carriage, but Elliott enjoyed physical exercise, and his knee ached less on days he went walking. He could walk to the village and intercept Mrs. Hollingsworth before she came to him. It was more proper for him to meet her where she was staying than for her to come to his home anyway.

  An eligible man who did not want to be caught by some conniving woman had to look out for himself.

  Amelia

  Amelia left the inn at ten o’clock. She was nervous about her afternoon visit to Howardhouse and had not been to East Ashlam in some time. Life did not require her to travel north very often, which kept her away from the area of the country where most of the various Mayfield estates were located. But she was here now, so she took the opportunity to reacquaint herself with the area while hoping the self-guided tour of the village would distract her from her nerves.

  There was not much to see, however. The ribbon in the front street shop was no different than the ribbon she could buy in her own village, and she had no need for a tailor, solicitor, butcher, miller, or blacksmith—which made up the remaining places of commerce. The parish church was simple and modern, with clean l
ines and large windows. After touring the church, and sitting for a spell in hopes that she could meditate some of her growing anxiety away, she left through the side yard, which put her in the churchyard where the rows of headstones made her heart ache. So much loss.

  She followed the narrow gravel path, reading headstones and allowing herself the melancholy of remembering the many people she’d loved and lost. Her parents had both passed, and Richard had been gone almost as long as they had been husband and wife. She missed his steadiness, his security, his arms around her in the dark. When they had been married, she’d become part of a set, a whole. When their children came, it had connected them even further. And then he was gone. Knowing her children needed her more than ever had made the pain bearable, and after a time, parenting alone became ordinary. Only once since Richard’s death had Amelia entertained another man’s attention.

  Vincent Arrington had been a yeoman farmer and a client and friend of Richard’s. He’d done well for himself, and when his wife passed some five years ago, he became a widower. For more than a year, they had attended socials together, and he had walked her home from church more than once. And then he’d had an accident on his farm and a portion of his leg had been amputated. His son took over the farm, and Vincent saw himself as a broken man. Amelia had visited, brought him bread, and told him rather boldly that his injury had no bearing—she had gotten used to the idea that they would marry—but he closed himself off to her, and he eventually moved to Manchester to live with his spinster sister.

  After the initial sorrow, Amelia made peace that it was not meant to be, but when the days got lonely and the nights got long, she wished that what might have been could have been. Other men had paid her some attention since then, but none had struck a chord.

  Richard had provided well for her, and she did not worry for her future—aside from Julia. If that girl would stay closer to home and give Amelia grandbabies to fawn over, Amelia would want for nothing. For Julia to work for a Mayfield—Elliott’s heir, no less—well, that broke any remaining consideration to let Julia find her own way.

  Reminded of her purpose, Amelia exited the churchyard and returned to the street. As she passed shop fronts, she glanced at her reflection in the wavy glass. Stood straighter. Lifted her chin. Shoulders back.

  I am certain you feel the same as I, she said in her mind, practicing how she would broach this highly awkward conversation. The idea of my daughter working for your nephew is unacceptable to me, and you owe me your help in putting an end to the situation. Could she really say that out loud to him?

  She would have to, if it came to that.

  It was nearly noon when she returned to the inn, which would give her plenty of time to change into the rose-colored gown she’d brought. Richard had always told her she looked exceptional in that color. Though she was not the beauty of her youth, there was no reason not to present herself as well as pos­sible, especially in the halls of the home she had once thought she would call her own. The thought sent a shiver through her, and long-buried questions popped their heads over the surface of her contentment.

  Why had Elliott cut off their courtship so suddenly? Had she done something to chase him away? Or had inheriting his title improved his prospects so much that she was no longer a consideration? Had it been a game all along?

  She had let him kiss her more than once—with far more ardor than a young woman should allow. At the time, she’d been certain she would become his wife, and she wanted to leave no question as to her level of interest in assuming that role. When he’d left, she’d felt like a fool who had been played by a master. And now she was going to meet with him face-to-face after more than thirty years. Was she rash in having made this plan? It was too late to entertain regrets. She had already sent the note requesting they meet to discuss this business between them.

  “Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

  The clerk said her name, and she moved toward the desk, wondering what this issue might be. She’d paid for the room upon her arrival last night, meals were included, and she would be leaving first thing tomorrow morning. No one knew she was here, so she could not have received correspondence . . . Wait.

  “Yes?” she asked, hiding both her eagerness and anxiety rather well, she thought. Had Elliott responded to her note from this morning? What had been his reaction when he’d seen that it was from her? It would not surprise her if he did not remember her at all, though that would be humiliating.

  “Lord Howardsford is awaiting you in the parlor.”

  Amelia raised a hand to her hair, which would be frizzy once she removed her bonnet. A flush crept up her neck, intense enough to strangle her. She looked down at her dress, a ­simple blue-and-gray-striped walking dress with a high collar. She looked like an elderly widow in a frumpy frock and untidy hair. As though she’d given up on life, herself, and—

  “Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

  Another voice said her name, and Amelia spun around, too fast and too sharp to give the impression of casualness she would have preferred. But that voice, and that face. They stared at one another across the expanse of twenty feet and thirty years, and all the feelings—good and bad—rushed through Amelia like a northern wind.

  He blinked.

  She blinked. And then she reminded herself that she was mature and centered and there was no reason to let emotion overcome her. They had outgrown one another years ago. But her mouth was dry, and her mind was swirling. He was right there! Standing in front of her. Older, but still handsome and still . . . Elliott. Kind eyes, straight posture, broad shoulders. She had been afraid of what her reaction might be to seeing him and was disappointed to realize how strongly her whole body had responded. Why could Julia have not found a different position? Then Elliott could remain a part of Amelia’s past and the Mayfields could continue to be a faraway family with no connection to her own.

  “It is you,” Elliott said, his eyes wide.

  He didn’t know?

  The shock receded, reminding Amelia of reality and truth and the strength she needed to hold on to. If he hadn’t known the message was from her, then he hadn’t come because he was eager to see her. But then she did not want him to be eager to see her. She closed her eyes for a moment so she could pretend he was not there. She found her center and her strength, let go of the desire to look her best, remembered her reason for being there, and opened her eyes with her defenses back in place.

  “Might we speak in private, please, Lord . . .” She paused because she’d never called him by his title, had struggled to think of him as anyone other than Elliott. Her Elliott. Or so she’d once thought. “Lord Howardsford?”

  She walked past him before he answered. She could not let down her guard. He turned to follow her, and she was aware of every move he made and breath he took. She was tempted to smooth her hair and check her hem as she entered the private parlor located off the foyer of the inn, but it was too late for vanity, which was immature in the first place. She was here to protect her daughter. Nothing more.

  Elliott

  Elliott followed Amelia—his Amelia, or rather her banker’s Amelia—into the inn’s shabby parlor. There was a dark stain on the rug, and the chairs did not match the settee. Amelia did not sit but instead turned to face him when she reached the cold hearth that smelled like wet ashes.

  “I did not expect you to come here,” Amelia said, her expression tight.

  “I did not expect that the woman who sent the note was you.”

  Her cheeks colored. “I thought you would recognize my signature.”

  “If I ever knew your married name, I had forgotten it. My apologies.”

  She was attempting to look stoic—like she’d represented herself in the note—but her neck was red, and he could read her nervousness in the set of her shoulders and the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  He was staring, but he couldn’t help it.
Amelia was standing right in front of him! It was remarkable how much she looked like . . . herself. Her gray hair was pulled away from her face and pinned up to show off her graceful neck. Her skin showed the years that had passed since he’d last been able to study her face, but it looked soft and clear. Her eyes were the same, the shape of her face, the full lips that had sent his heart racing . . .

  He forced himself to stop, and he looked at the faded and dusty curtains to refocus himself. Was she the least bit affected by this meeting? Probably not. She’d lived a full life without him—marriage, children, community. Whatever connection they had once had was likely infantile in comparison to the other connections she’d made since.

  “I presume you came because of the topic I introduced in my note?” she said.

  Was she disappointed? Had she hoped he would have known it was her and come, eager to see her? “Yes, I thought I would save ‘Mrs. Hollingsworth’ the trip.”

  Amelia is standing right in front of me! He felt he needed to repeat it a dozen times before he could believe it. As to determining what he felt about seeing her, well, that would take far more work. He had never anticipated seeing her again, and certainly not under circumstances such as these. Unexpectedly, words from Napoleon—of all people to come into an Englishman’s head—came to mind: “It is sometimes better to abandon one’s self to destiny.” Napoleon’s destiny had sent him to an island where he lived out his miserable days. Elliott’s destiny had sent him to India . . . and then brought him back. And now he was standing before Amelia. And she was beautiful.

  She parted those lovely lips enough to take a deep breath. “Well, that was kind of you, Lord . . . Howardsford.”