“I shall do better,” he said finally. In truth, his hour with the girls had become less and less a priority over the last year as the dogs demanded more of his time. Lydia had never made a complaint against it.
“Thank you, sir.” She curtsied and turned to leave, pulling up the hood of her coat.
Peter opened his mouth—but why? To call her back? To thank her for telling him? To ask her advice on how he should handle this?
She disappeared through the door before he decided what to say, let alone if he should say anything. He stared at the place she had been, then returned to saddling his horse.
He tried to pin down the memory of the last time he had spent more than fifteen minutes with his girls at the end of the day and was disappointed to realize it had been the night before he’d turned out Miss Lawrence, when they had talked about catching frogs. They had never caught those anticipated frogs, had not had a Papa Picnic for some time. When he listed his priorities in his mind, he always put his girls first, but apparently that did not translate to where he spent his time. He needed to do better by his daughters, both with his time and with talking about Sybil now that they were old enough to need such things.
But he would still write to Mr. Hastings. The events of this morning had convinced him that, for the good of all of them, Julia could not stay in his household. No matter how much any of them wished that she could.
Elliott
Elliott took off his hat and knocked on the door, glancing around the modest neighborhood. It was surreal that this was Amelia’s house, where she’d raised her children, tended her garden, lived her whole life. Had she ever thought of him through those years? Even a little bit?
It was wrong for him to hope for such a thing. She had moved forward with her life, and he wanted to be supportive of that. But . . . had she thought of him? Had she ever wondered, the way he had? Especially since seeing her again last week? What if her father had agreed to their marriage? What if she’d come to India with him? What if they’d had children together, shared experiences and adventures, and he’d come home from the field to her bright-blue eyes and welcome arms?
The sound of approaching footsteps from inside prompted him to straighten as the door was opened by a woman in a gray dress, dirty apron, and mobcap.
“Yes?” she said flatly.
“Lord Howardsford to see Mrs. Amelia Hollingsworth.”
The woman’s expression changed in an instant. “Oh. Yes, of course.” Elliott was familiar with the transformation that took place when someone realized he was a nobleman. “Do come in, my lord.” She curtsied before moving quickly down the hallway.
She did not take his hat or his coat but showed him into a nicely appointed parlor. There was a pianoforte in front of the window—did Amelia play? Elliott couldn’t remember—and a settee with two matching chairs set before a fireplace. A decorative rug stretched almost wall to wall, and an array of paintings filled the vertical spaces. Everything was neat as a pin, dusted, perfectly arranged, and comfortable.
A portrait, painted in profile, above the fireplace caught his eye, and he walked toward it. Richard Hollingsworth—it had to be him—wore a dark suit befitting his occupation as a banker. Elliott had done his research this last week and learned that Mr. Hollingsworth had passed away fifteen years ago. Elliott refused to ask himself if he were glad to know the man had died. It was a question he could not answer with both charity and honesty.
Julia favored Amelia so much that Elliott feared he had made her uncomfortable with his attention yesterday. She had her mother’s eyes—bright and clear. Dare he say, entrancing? Yet he could see in the portrait those aspects she had inherited from her father.
Her father. Elliott turned away from the portrait of the man who had made vows to Amelia, fathered her children, and lived the life Elliott had briefly believed would be his own.
Footfalls caused him to turn toward the doorway, hat still in hand. Amelia stopped just inside the room, wearing a simple green-and-white-striped dress with a square neckline that framed a locket she wore about her neck. Had it been a gift from her husband? Did she cherish it as a token of the life they had shared? Perhaps the man’s miniature was inside. Amelia’s hair was pulled up in a loose twist, and her expression was wary.
Even so, he felt a thrill in his veins to see her again. He spoke before she could. “You look lovely, Amelia.”
There was a flicker of something in her eyes—softness? Regret? But then she schooled her expression with a formal air. “Please address me as Mrs. Hollingsworth.” She did not step farther into the room. “What can I do for you, Lord Howardsford?”
“My apologies for both the casual address and my coming unannounced,” Elliott said, inclining his head. “I had planned to write a letter, but then Feltwell was not so far out of my way. I hope I have not taken too much liberty.” He hadn’t considered her comfort and realized with a stab of embarrassment that he would never had made an unannounced or uninvited call on a noblewoman. He was above her in station, but that did not mean he had any right to treat her with less respect. “If you would prefer, I can come back another time. I should have let you know I was coming.”
She seemed to consider his words, then looked at the hat in his hand and let out a breath. “Forgive our lack of manners. Beth is not always clear on the way things are to be done. The focus of her work is keeping the house, not managing callers.” She finally crossed the room toward him, pausing only a moment in front of him before she took his hat and then indicated for him to remove his coat. Once he handed it over, she turned away and left the room.
He wanted to ask if it had been hard for her to step below the level of her birth. Was Beth her only servant? Was it Beth who kept things pristine, or did Amelia dust and polish and garden herself? Who managed the lovely border of yellow flowers that lined the walkway to her front door? The day was gray and brisk, but those little yellow flowers had almost glowed with their own sunshine. Of course, he said none of these thoughts aloud.
Amelia returned a minute later without his things, and he imagined his hat resting on a hook next to her bonnet. Amelia crossed to one of the chairs and sat down, waving him toward the settee.
Elliott complied, then glanced up at the portrait again. “Is that your husband?”
She did not look up and instead adjusted the folds of her dress. “Yes.”
When she finally met his eye, he wanted to ask, “Did you love him?” But of course she had. Maybe what he really wanted to know was if she’d loved Elliott. Perhaps the feelings he thought they’d shared had not been love at all and would have wilted and died if he’d stayed. He cleared his throat as a reminder to himself to stay on topic. He was too old a man to give any credit to “If only . . .” when there was absolutely no way to know what the potential outcome would have been.
All he had were facts: He’d left. She’d married her banker. And she’d made it quite clear to him that she had no feelings for Elliott now. Which was good. Right. Fair. He had no feelings for her either—why would he? He wasn’t the same man he’d been back then any more than she was the same woman. Why was he even letting his thoughts ramble over such ridiculous territory?
“I spoke to Peter, uh, my nephew.”
She sighed in relief, and her shoulders relaxed. “Oh, wonderful.” She wriggled forward in her chair, and her face lost some of its tension. “How did he respond?”
“Favorably, I suppose,” Elliott said, though it made him sad to report it. “He has no wish to cause any damage to Julia’s reputation. He offered to turn Julia out as soon as he could find a replacement.”
Amelia blinked. “Turn her out?”
“Well, yes. Is that not what you wanted?”
Amelia was quiet a moment, then nodded, though slowly. “I suppose it was, but . . .”
“You did not want her working in a Mayfield household,” Elliott reminde
d her, taking advantage of this first sign of her insecurity. “That is what you’d told me.”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin in a fresh display of confidence. “That is what I wanted. It will be better for all of us in the long run. Turning her out simply sounds . . . drastic. Perhaps Mr. Mayfield could say he had only hired her temporarily.”
“That would be untrue.”
Amelia nodded, her neck slightly pink. “How much truth will she be told?”
“I suppose that shall be up to you. Peter will replace her, but he does not want to do anything that might interfere with your relationship with your daughter. Whether or not she knows the decision was your choice, not Peter’s, will be up to you. I find it generous on his part that he so quickly agreed to bend to your interference.”
She looked up at him, a flash of anger in her eyes. She’d apparently seen through his thin attempts at hiding his disappointment. He continued before she could add words to the withering look she directed toward him.
“It is a shame, though.” Elliott settled back against his chair. “Your daughter is very well suited for the position, and I imagine being turned out will be very difficult for her. She gets on very well with Peter’s daughters.”
“She is excellent with children.” Amelia’s tone held regret. “I don’t know why she is so determined to use that gift toward other people’s children instead of her own.”
Why hadn’t Julia followed the prescribed course? Elliott wondered. She was pretty, loved children, had been raised by good parents—as far as Elliott could tell. So why hadn’t she married some local boy and made her mother happy? He doubted Amelia knew the answer. Perhaps Julia did not know either.
“She is also very good with Peter’s dogs,” Elliott added. “She has been helping Peter with a new litter of puppies. Apparently the dam responds to Julia better than she does to Peter.”
Amelia sighed and shook her head. “Dogs,” she said under her breath, then added, louder, “Your nephew has dogs?” There was an odd edge to her tone, as though raising dogs proved some additional flaw in Peter’s character. A sort of “I should have known,” which made very little sense.
“He trains foxhounds, mostly, but has recently taken to breeding as well,” Elliott said, surprised that Amelia did not know this. “He became very passionate about raising dogs after his wife passed. I believe it keeps his mind occupied and his hands busy. He also manages nearly two hundred acres and stays up-to-date on the Howardsford estate, which will someday be his. He’s an ambitious man, Mrs. Hollingsworth, and determined to make more of what he has than the three generations before him ever did.”
Amelia did not seem to be listening. “Julia should not be caring for dogs. She is a governess.”
“Apparently she volunteered to help with the litter and seems to enjoy the work. She’s a very capable young woman. It’s a shame that she cannot stay on with a position so well suited to her interests and abilities.”
“Well, she cannot,” Amelia said strongly, sitting up straighter. She reminded him of a cat, the way they would puff up to look bigger to an opponent.
“Yes, so you’ve said.” He watched her closely, trying to make sense of what was defense and what was true concern, and which was the stronger motivation of the two. “I asked Peter not to make a final decision just yet. I had hoped that perhaps I could help you reconsider.”
Amelia shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. “I did not come to you on a whim, Lord Howardsford.”
“She will be turned out from a position that suits her,” Elliott summarized, hearing the edge in his voice and not caring if she heard it too. “Because of your prejudice. Does that sit easy upon your shoulders?”
Her eyes widened. “My prejudice? As her mother, it is my job to protect her.”
“But that is not what you’re doing,” Elliott said, her reaction only proving his growing hypothesis. “You are orchestrating a circumstance that will hurt her, personally if not professionally, since she will have to explain to any future employer why she stayed such a short time in this position. Heaven forbid Julia finds herself in some household you approve of with an employer who does not respect her as Peter does.”
Amelia’s already pink neck colored deeper red, but he could not tell if she was angry with his comments or embarrassed by her own—he could live with her feeling some of both. After several seconds ticked by on the mantel clock, she looked up, her expression composed.
“I know you do not agree with me, Elliott, but I cannot allow my daughter to remain in a situation that I feel is unsafe. She is young, and for all her belief that she knows the world, she does not. I will not see her hurt.”
Hurt? And then, in an instant of clarity, Elliott understood. Her prejudice was not about the Mayfield family scandals or even Elliott’s poor treatment of their relationship all those years ago. “This has nothing to do with reputations, does it, Amelia? You’re worried about her having her heart broken. You think she will fall in love with Peter.”
She stiffened. “That is not what I said!”
A triumphant sort of irritation rose in Elliott’s chest. “It is exactly what you said. You think she will fall in love with Peter the same way—” He stopped himself, but it was too late. The words he didn’t say sounded in the room as loudly as if he’d yelled them: The same way you fell in love with me.
He sat very still. He felt as though his mind was slogging through a muddy riverbank as he tried to piece together the bits of conversation.
Amelia closed her eyes as though to hide from this exchange, then looked at her hands in her lap. Everything went silent for the space of three breaths on Elliott’s part.
“I do not want my daughter under your nephew’s roof,” she said, pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. “A young governess in a widower’s household is inappropriate.”
Elliott could no longer see the girl Amelia had been through the closed expression of the woman in front of him. Had life made her hard? Was he responsible for some part of that? He wanted to pull apart the past one year at a time to see when she had changed from a happy, carefree girl to this calculating woman who would go to such lengths at the expense of her daughter. Perhaps the draw he had felt to Amelia since seeing her last week in Ashlam was nothing more than nostalgia. Perhaps he did not want to know the woman she had become, willing to hurt her daughter for her own vengeance, which she tried to promote as peace of mind.
“I am so sorry I hurt you, Amelia. I was in an impossible situation and—”
“You did not hurt me,” she bit back. “And you will call me Mrs. Hollingsworth.”
Elliott took a deep breath to keep from asking her to drop this mask and let them talk as adults. “Perhaps if I could explain the circumstances that led up to my leaving all those years ago.”
She laughed. Hard and dismissive. “I do not need you to explain anything to me. All of that is in the past. My focus now is the present and my daughter’s best interest. I would do this very same thing if she were in a different household with the same reputation as yours.”
“But you would not have gone to the titleholder and asked for their help to orchestrate it.”
“If I knew them and felt they owed me the consideration, I most certainly would have.”
Elliott stood as Beth came into the room with a tea tray. He stepped aside while she set the tray down, but he did not return to his chair. If he stayed, he and Amelia would continue to argue. She was too hard against him to hear what he had to say, and he could not endure her bitterness much longer without losing his temper. The maid glanced at him uncertainly, then left the room. Amelia did not pour the tea but only looked up at him from where she sat.
He held her gaze for a moment, trying again to see the girl she’d been. “Let us consider the favor I owe you paid in full, then, Mrs. Hollingsworth. I did as you asked me to, and Pe
ter will turn Julia out for your sake. I hope that your decision in this will not damage your relationship with your daughter, though I do not see how it could not—assuming you tell her the truth of your involvement. Good day.”
Peter
Peter stood at the window of his study, looking over the grounds of his small but sufficient estate, drawing his eyes from the horizon to the area surrounding the house. To his right was the dog yard. To his left were the carriage house and stables. Directly below him was an area of grass encircled by a pathway rimmed by rose bushes and then taller evergreens. Sybil had named it “the circle yard,” and their daughters played there whenever the weather was fine enough for them to escape the house.
Today, Miss Julia had brought Bumbleberry and the puppies to the circle yard. Not quite two weeks old, the puppies were still blind and clumsy, but the girls held them in their laps, nuzzling and kissing them, while Bumbleberry rested in the grass and soaked up the sun. He watched Julia show Marjorie how to lift a puppy, both hands underneath and keeping the pup close to her chest.
It had been a week since she’d told him about Marjorie stashing Sybil’s things away and suggested he be more attentive to children’s hour. He’d hardly spoken to her since, but he’d retrieved Sybil’s things from the top of the bookshelves and had only missed one children’s hour on a day when he’d had to go to town and had not returned until the girls’ bedtime.
Last Saturday, they’d commenced their first Papa Picnic in months and taken a lunch to the old millpond, where he had tied up the girls’ skirts so that they could all walk in the mud of the pond and catch a bucketful of polliwogs, which was now in the shed waiting for the slimy little slugs to turn into frogs. The girls had enjoyed themselves immensely, and for a few hours, Peter forgot everything except them.
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