Peter pulled his eyebrows together. “That is no solution.” Unless, perhaps, it was. If Miss Julia did not sleep at his house, could the arrangement satisfy her mother? He shook his head. She would still be working in a Mayfield household. She would still be young and pretty and . . . disarming. No, she needed to leave his household and take a position in someplace like York. Or better yet, Edinburgh or Dublin. Far, far away. But why had Lydia offered a guest room in the first place? What did she mean by “whenever it is deemed appropriate”?
“It will make sense in time,” Lydia said and accepted Stephen’s help into the carriage. Before the door closed, she leaned through the opening. “I truly hope you will invite her mother to dinner before you go to all the trouble of finding a replacement. If there is even the slightest chance that it might assure her mother of Julia’s safety, do you not think it would be worth the effort?”
Peter let out a breath but said nothing. Having Mrs. Hollingsworth to dinner would only address one increasingly small aspect of the situation.
“I think it about time you entertained again, and I would love to meet this Mrs. Hollingsworth.” Lydia’s eyes seemed to sparkle with anticipation. “You could make a dinner party of it.”
Amelia
Elliott.
Julia.
Bread for Mrs. Poughtan.
A roast for Sunday—Louisa’s family will be coming for supper.
And potatoes.
Amelia did not bake on Sundays, which meant she would need to set aside two loaves from Saturday. One for dinner with Louisa’s family and another to send home with her.
Elliott.
Julia.
Elliott.
Julia.
“What can I git for ya’, Mrs. Hollingsworth?”
She looked at the butcher. “A one-pound roast and half a rasher of bacon, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Elliott.
Julia.
Elliott.
Julia.
Elliott.
Amelia had not heard from Elliott since his visit last week. Oh, what he must have thought of her home, which could fit a dozen times into his. He was likely embarrassed for her, and that possibility made her defensive.
She had always lived comfortably, but her lifestyle was so different from Elliott’s, and from the one she had portrayed when they were courting. Her father had been a clerk in parliament, and a poor gambler. Sending her to London had been in hopes of her making a match that could save him from his creditors. And, in the end, it had. After she’d left London, heartbroken and humiliated, she’d stayed with her aunt in Feltwell, where she was reacquainted with Richard Hollingsworth, the son of a banker who was the son of a goldsmith who was the son of a goldsmith.
That was thirty-six years ago, she reminded herself. She took pride in the life she had lived since Elliott Mayfield had disappeared from it, and had nothing to feel ashamed of. But it was unsettling to her at how badly they had parted last week. She knew she’d come off as punitive and callous. He’d done as she’d asked him to, and his nephew had agreed to remove Julia from his employ like she’d wanted.
Why didn’t she feel better about getting exactly what she wanted?
“Here you be, ma’am.”
Amelia took the two parcels and thanked Mr. Boyce. He would add the amount to her account, and Mr. Kendrick, Richard’s solicitor, would pay the debt at the end of the month. She put the meats in her satchel and headed for the dry goods store. She needed thyme for the potatoes—hers had been dug up by a neighbor’s dog—sugar, cream, and a packet of salt. The door chimed merrily when she entered, and she acknowledged Mr. Bates, who was helping Mrs. Preston. Amelia found her items, added a peppermint stick for each of Louisa’s children, and waited her turn.
The topic of Elliott was exhausted for the moment—she hoped—and so her mind turned to her other equally distressing worry: Julia. The idea of her daughter living under a Mayfield roof still caused Amelia to clench her teeth, and yet she knew she shouldered some of the blame for Julia practically running when she had the chance.
Amelia knew she was overbearing and so eager to help that she often bowled people over, especially people who, like Julia, did not always assert themselves. She had tried to curtail such behavior, but being a widow at the age of thirty-eight and having to manage her own life since then had increased these undesirable qualities rather than softened them. And it was driving Julia away. Or, rather, it already had.
If it were any other household, I would accept this as Julia’s choice, she told herself in hopes of appeasing her increasingly guilty conscience. After all, she’d supported Julia when she accepted a position in London, and that position had been successful, other than being so far away that Amelia had rarely seen her.
What Amelia would not do to have Julia accept a London position now! Why, she would order Julia new dresses with matching bonnets and pack her trunk herself if it meant getting her away from Peter Mayfield. She was convinced he would be Julia’s ruin in one way or another, just as Elliott had . . . no. She shook her head. Elliott had not ruined her. She’d lived a good life. She had no regrets. Just frustration and the desire to protect her daughter.
Elliott had left her with barely a word all those years ago. Didn’t she deserve to live the rest of her life without interference from him or his family? It seemed the least he could do would be to disappear from her world, like he had before, and take his entire family with him. That was all she wanted—no Mayfields. Oh, but she sounded ridiculous even in her own head.
“ . . . she’s decided to rent out her house in Brighton. The return trip was too difficult, and she wants to stay closer to her family year-round now, though I am sure she will miss the mild winters she enjoyed there.”
Amelia listened to the end of the conversation rather than mire herself in her own ugly thoughts.
“Well, I think that sounds like a very nice thing,” Mr. Bates said as he put the last of Mrs. Preston’s packages in the woman’s satchel. “I shall put the word out if anyone mentions they are looking for a position. You might also want to talk to the vicar. He’s helped find folks a variety of positions in the past.”
Position?
“Excellent suggestion,” Mrs. Preston said. “Thank you for your help.”
Mrs. Preston turned, seeing Amelia for the first time. “Oh, good morning, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”
The women had worked together through the church on a few different projects, most recently making quilts for a foundling home in Manchester.
“Good morning,” Amelia replied with a slight nod. She wanted to ask what they had been talking about, but it felt too direct. Instead, the two women discussed an upcoming social both were helping organize; Amelia would be baking a hundred tarts while Mrs. Preston was supplying the decorations. “Seeing as it is spring, I thought primroses in matching pots would be perfect. You know they symbolize youth and gentleness.”
“Indeed,” Amelia said. “I think that is just the thing. All yellow, do you think?”
“Perhaps some separate pots of violets to coordinate.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Amelia said. “I could place a primrose bloom on a few of the tarts to coordinate the display. They are edible, you know.”
“Are they, really?” Mrs. Preston said. “How wonderful. My mother used to take primrose tea for her headaches.”
They spoke a few more minutes about primrose tea, and oil, and wine. When Mrs. Preston’s adolescent daughter came in to ask if her mother was finished yet, they said their farewells.
Amelia waited until the bell signaled that Mrs. Preston had left the store before she asked Mr. Bates about the position he and Mrs. Preston had been speaking about. The twinkling of a possibility was hovering in her mind.
“A lady’s companion for her husband’s mother—Mrs. Berkinshi
re. The lady has summered in Brandon and wintered in Brighton for years, but apparently she’s outgrown it. The woman must be seventy years old at least.” He added Amelia’s items to her account, which would also be paid by the solicitor by the end of the month.
A lady’s companion, Amelia repeated in her mind. Such a position was similar to a governess. Julia could have her independence but be closer to home. They could meet for tea once or twice a week, and church on Sunday. Perhaps Julia would have Sunday evenings off so they could enjoy dinner together—with Louisa and her family, too.
With practice, Amelia could do better than she’d done. She could be a better mother and fix this relationship that was causing her so much insecurity. Best of all, Julia would be out from under the questionable influence of Peter Mayfield, which meant Amelia could forget all about Elliott . . . again. If Julia were not entangled with Elliott’s nephew, Amelia could be rid of him for good. If there was a slight regret at that idea, she quickly quashed it. Falling under Elliott’s spell again was out of the question. Absolutely.
Amelia added her purchases to her satchel and returned to the street, looking up and down for Mrs. Preston’s blue hat. She saw the young Miss Preston standing outside the milliner’s shop, talking with some other girls her age. Amelia moved in that direction, arriving just as Mrs. Preston emerged from the store, a hat box in her hand.
“Mrs. Preston,” Amelia said, slightly out of breath. “I am sorry for not addressing this earlier, but wonder if I might ask after the position I overheard you talking about with Mr. Bates. Would you have time for tea at Oliver’s, by chance?”
Peter
Peter woke with a start, breathing deeply as he blinked at the ceiling and oriented himself to where he was. In his bed, in his house.
Today is Wednesday, April twenty-seventh. I will do command training with the greyhounds today, then attend the books and—
The details of his dream came back to him, and he pulled a pillow over his face. Was this how his father had unraveled? First, he felt attraction for the young maid. Then he began to dream about her? Had dreams led to fantasy, and fantasy to flirting, and flirting to—
Peter threw the pillow aside and got out of bed. He needed to distract himself. He pulled open the drapes and frowned. The night sky was only beginning to fade into daylight, and rain streaked the windows. He would not be able to train in the yard this early.
“Then I shall work on the books first,” he said out loud and set about readying himself for the day. Breakfast would not be set out yet, but once in his office, he rang for tea. Ten minutes later, he was enjoying the warmth of hot tea and warm scones as he set about factoring the crop expectations for the season that was well underway.
The world outside the window came to life as he worked, the room lightening as the minutes ticked forward into the day. Around seven o’clock—some two hours after he’d woken—he stood, stretched, and poured himself another cup of tea, though the pot was cold. Still, the tea alerted his senses.
He turned to the window, looking over the acres of field and pasture that transitioned into tenant farms. He’d inherited this estate through his grandfather, the fourth Viscount Howardsford. The estate had been a bequest for the first son of the second son. That Peter was heir presumptive to his uncle’s title had nothing to do with this estate, but being the recipient of both inheritances sometimes made Peter feel undeserving. He was all but illegitimate; his mother had been nearly to term with him when she married his father.
A man born of such scandal should not have so much reward. When Miss Sybil Bordin had caught his eye and returned his attention, he had been astounded. The question as to why he should have been so blessed continued to chase him until five years after their marriage, when he was holding her hand as it slowly grew colder. Sybil’s death had felt like an atonement, as though he and God were even. He’d lost the love of his life as penance for the sins of his parents and the undeserved blessings he’d been given.
Life had moved on. Peter managed the land his parents had neglected with an efficiency that made it profitable again. He built up his pack, watched his daughters grow, found joy where he could, and thought himself content.
His dream came back to him—a dream that was not about Sybil but about his daughters’ governess. She had been walking down the staircase of his house in a champagne-colored dress, smiling at him with a bouquet of pale-yellow flowers in her hand and his daughters following behind her, laurel crowns on both their heads. Remembering made him groan.
Even without her mother’s interference, having Julia here was exactly what he’d feared when he’d first met her in that broom closet. She pricked his senses, reminded him of his loneliness, and made him want more than what he had decided he deserved.
He’d began to turn away from the window when he saw movement to the west side of the property. He stepped closer to the glass to better see through the rain and recognized the blue-caped figure walking down the drive. As if his own thoughts had conjured her up like a spirit, he saw Miss Julia turn down the path that ran the length of the stream. He continued watching, seeing the blue through the trees from time to time until she faded completely from view.
He did not move from the window, remembering Uncle Elliott telling him to not be so hasty in dismissing her. And then came thoughts of the marriage campaign that had spurred Peter to tell Uncle Elliott that he believed in marriage, only not for him.
Why not?
Peter didn’t recognize the voice he heard in his head. But instead of arguing, he gave himself permission to wonder. Lydia had refused to attend the girls in the interim between turning Miss Julia out and hiring a new governess. The very idea of sending Julia away made his stomach twist. Uncle Elliott had said he did not agree with Julia’s mother. Julia did not deserve to be let go.
You are afraid, the voice in his head said.
Yes, Peter was afraid—afraid he would never find a governess equal to Julia, afraid she would be hurt, but mostly afraid of the feelings he was not prepared to acknowledge. Peter sat in his chair and faced the window. He steepled his fingers and stared at the gray sky and the misty clouds that flowed over the treetops like wraiths.
A flash of blue caught his attention, and he leaned forward to watch Miss Julia emerge from the path. She had taken down her hood even though it was still raining. He could not see her features, but her hair was a cascade of gold that fell over her shoulders and down her back. He could imagine her smiling—not as she did at him, both polite and wary—but the way she smiled at the girls. A rewarding smile. A smile of pleasure.
She went to the dog yard and disappeared from his line of sight.
Why was he so resistant to his feelings toward her?
She is not a household maid.
You are not your father.
Your intentions are honorable.
He shook his head. Intentions? He was not ready to accept that he had any intentions at all. He forced himself to turn away from the window. He put his elbows upon the desktop and dropped his forehead into his hands.
Lydia thought him foolish to turn out Miss Julia. Uncle Elliott agreed. Both understood his abhorrence for scandal, and why. His dream had been more soothing than it had been sensual. Julia was pretty, she was kind, she loved his daughters—and his dogs—and brought light into his home. He wanted to know her better, he wanted . . .
Well, he wasn’t ready to pinpoint exactly what he wanted. But he did not want to let her go.
What if she could stay?
What if her mother removed her objection? What if he didn’t let his fear be the ruling factor in this decision? What if he trusted Lydia and Uncle Elliott—and even himself?
Before he could talk himself out of it, he cut a piece of paper and wrote a note to Lydia that was quick and to the point.
Dear Mrs. Oswell,
I have considered your suggestion
of inviting Mrs. Hollingsworth to dinner. Should I act on that idea, and in the end feel that dismissing Miss Julia is still the best course, would you agree to assist me with my daughters’ care until I can find a permanent replacement? I must know this before I move forward.
Sincerely,
Mr. P Mayfield
He signed it quickly and rang for Jacob. By the time the footman had arrived, the message was sealed and addressed. Once Jacob left, Peter forced himself back to work on the ledgers. An hour later, Jacob tapped on the door and brought him the reply.
Dear Mr. Mayfield,
I officially agree to your terms. I will await the date and time of the dinner party with great anticipation.
Your friend,
Mrs. L Oswell
He rang for Mrs. Allen while his anxiety and hope swirled and twisted and danced inside him. This was madness, and yet it felt like freedom, too. If Miss Julia could stay . . .
“You rang for me, Mr. Mayfield?”
“Yes,” Peter said, looking up at the housekeeper. “I would like to have a dinner party next week—Tuesday, I think.”
Mrs. Allen’s eyebrows lifted. “A dinner party, sir?”
Peter nodded. “I shall manage the invitations and leave the specifics of the meal in your capable hands.”
She blinked at him, and he sensed she was mentally repeating what he’d said to make sure she’d heard him properly. With Sybil ill the last year of her life, it had been five years since anything even close to a dinner party had taken place in his home.
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Allen finally said. “For how many guests, sir?”
Peter counted in his mind—Mrs. Hollingsworth, Lydia and her vicar, Uncle Elliott, and Julia. At his table. In his circle. He wished he could ask her how she felt about the idea. Would she be comfortable? Would she welcome the invitation?
Promises and Primroses Page 14
