“Peter did not even look at his folder,” Elliott explained. “He said that he had no interest, not in my campaign, as he called it, or in marrying again. He loved his wife, Amelia, and was good to her. That he is beginning to see a light in his life again, that he can look at Julia the way he does, and that she can return that affection and love his children is a beautiful thing—not a manipulation or conquest. He is a good man, the best of them. His interest in your daughter is not lascivious or selfish. I understand that I hurt you all those years ago, and I am sorry for that to the depths of my soul. Perhaps if I could explain to you the circumstances—”
“I know the circumstances.” She hated being placated. Hated being spoken down to, and every nerve in her body was on fire. “You inherited a title, and the daughter of a parliamentary clerk was no longer a fitting wife for you.” There. She’d said the words she’d never said before. She had not been enough for him, not when his status had changed and he could have his pick of the season. Amelia had not been enough. Julia would not be enough either.
He narrowed his eyes. “That is what you believe?”
“It was quite obvious, Lord Howardford.” She could not look at him. “Never mind the promise you gave me of a future or the liberties you took with my person.”
“Liberties?” he said, his eyebrows shooting up. “We kissed behind some shrubbery a handful of times. And as I remember, you were more than willing to take those liberties yourself.”
Heat infused her cheeks. “How dare you—”
“I am finished with this conversation.” He knocked three times on the carriage ceiling. “You have become a hard and bitter woman, Amelia, and it breaks my heart to see it. Julia is a grown woman. She can make her own decisions, and I hope that she can see the connection between herself and Peter with greater clarity than you apparently can.” The carriage rumbled to a stop, and Amelia had to move her knees to the side to allow Elliott to exit. Her heart was thumping in her chest from the words he had thrown at her like arrows.
He stepped out of the carriage, but leaned his head back inside. She had no choice but to look at him, even though that was the last thing she wanted to do.
“I suggest you find a life of your own rather than trying to manage your daughter’s. Good day and safe travels.” He slammed the door, then hit the side of the carriage, spurring the driver to continue while he stood on the side of the road somewhere between Elsing and Dereham.
Amelia stared at the cushion across from her and locked herself up tight to keep from letting his words penetrate. He was wrong. He could never, ever, understand what his rejection had cost her or how determined she was to protect her daughter from the same. No one could.
Julia
Julia heard the sound of a carriage coming up behind her as she walked home from church and stepped from the road to the spongy shoulder. Last year’s vegetation was matted beneath the new spring grass. While autumn would always be her favorite time of year, spring was driving a convincing campaign this year. Springtime in London, while lovely, was nothing compared to spring in the country. She was tempted to take off her shoes and run through the meadow to her left, but the sheep in said meadow kept such a frolic to fantasy. The grass was so very green for a reason, after all.
Instead of passing her by, the carriage slowed, and she looked over her shoulder to see it was Mr. Mayfield’s. He had offered her a ride to services that morning, but she had graciously turned it down. Something had changed between them following the dinner party. They conversed more easily, and he spent more time with her and the girls in the nursery or when they were outside. Julia liked it—very much. Too much? Her mother’s warnings still rang in her ears.
The carriage stopped, and the door swung open, revealing Mr. Mayfield. He smiled. She smiled back. “Would you like a ride back to the house, Miss Julia?”
She looked past him and tilted her head. “Where are the girls?”
“Mrs. Oswell invited them to luncheon this afternoon. I’m to return for them at four o’clock.”
Julia lifted her eyebrows. “She invited the girls but not you?”
His eyebrows came together. “Odd, that, but then she and I have had some discord of late. I have known her a long time but have yet to fully understand why she does things the way she does. But, well, would you like a ride?”
“Thank you, but no. The day is lovely.” Besides, it was inappropriate for her to ride with him alone in his carriage. Even if she wanted to. Which she did. Very much.
“Oh, well, yes, it is.”
She hated the disappointment in his voice and yet liked it at the same time—he had wanted her to ride with him. It was not simply good manners. “Would you, instead, like to walk?”
When he paused, she nearly took back the invitation, but then he stepped out of the carriage and put his hat on. “Thank you. I shall if you are sure you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, Mr. Mayfield. A day like this is made for everyone to enjoy, I believe.”
He closed the carriage door and walked over to explain to Stephen the change in plans. Stephen nodded, lifted one eyebrow at Julia, and then spurred the horses forward. The rumbling of the wheels lessened until the sounds of spring took center stage once again.
“It was a lovely service,” Mr. Mayfield said, his hands in his coat pockets.
Julia pushed away her concern at Stephen’s look. Of course the staff had noticed the change between Mr. Mayfield and herself. She should remember Colleen’s words and try to prevent being alone in Mr. Mayfield’s company. But she didn’t. And she wouldn’t.
“Mr. Oswell is easy to listen to. The vicar in my mother’s parish is very young and lacks conviction, I suppose. One gets the sense that this is his occupation rather than his calling.”
“And yet, it is his occupation, is it not?”
“Yes, but it should not feel that way. A good clergyman makes you forget that he would starve to death if you did not pay your tithes.”
Mr. Mayfield laughed, and she decided she liked that sound very much.
When they reached a fork in the road, she stepped to the left, toward the road that provided a direct route back to the house. Mr. Mayfield, however, paused.
“There is a path, just there.” He pointed to the right. “It is nearly half a mile longer, at least, but the path wanders around a lovely meadow.” He met Julia’s eyes and then shifted nervously from one foot to another. “But, well, it would likely be better to take—”
She hurried to speak before he talked them both out of the idea. “I have nowhere I need to be that would prevent the additional distance, Mr. Mayfield.” And nowhere she would rather be right now than here, with him.
Oh, dear.
He grinned and rocked back on his heels. “Well, then—that is excellent.”
They took the right-hand path, discussing the church services, the Oswells, and the dogs. It surprised her that, though she loved his dogs and loved talking about them with him, she found herself wanting to discuss other things. More personal things. This was the first time they had been alone together, after all, and . . .
Oh, dear, indeed.
“I suppose it is no surprise that you know this path,” she said to change the topic. “You grew up here, did you not?”
“I did.” His hands were still in his pockets, and he looked between the path before him and the view around them. “Until I was thirteen, at which time I went to Harrow.”
“Did you then go on to university?”
“Yes, Cambridge. I studied for two years before coming back here. I’m afraid my interest in literature and philosophy was limited. I missed the land and the skies and the opportunities of the country.”
“When you returned, you took over the management of the estate?”
Mr. Mayfield shrugged slightly. “I have essentially been managing this estate since I was ten ye
ars old, I suppose.”
“Ten!” Julia looked at him to make sure he wasn’t funning her. His expression was serious, though the smile on his face showed that he enjoyed surprising her.
Mr. Mayfield kicked at a rock. “My father died when I was eight. Uncle Elliott came home the following year and set things back into order as my father had been lax in his attention to most things. The estate had fallen into a great deal of disrepair and was no longer supporting itself, much less turning any kind of profit. Uncle Elliott hired a new steward—Mr. Johnstone, who is still with me—but explained to both of us that I, as the inheritor of all the holdings, needed to be involved in the management. I’m not sure how either of them took that seriously in hindsight, but it was rather brilliant because it made me feel proud of my position and eager to prove myself to them. I did very little, of course, and relied heavily on Mr. Johnstone’s advice, but I learned a great deal by being involved in the necessary decisions.
“When I went to school, I corresponded with Mr. Johnstone and my uncle as best I could, and then caught up during the holidays and the summer term. It taught me the value of responsibility, and I have tried to live worthy of it—and their trust—ever since.” He smiled at her rather shyly.
“I find that very impressive, Mr. Mayfield. I am sorry to hear of your father’s passing when you were so young.”
“Something you can relate to.”
“Yes,” Julia said, feeling that familiar wave of sadness. Her father’s death had changed everything for her. “And then you lost your mother as well?” Though Julia had told Mother she did not care about whatever scandals were in Mr. Mayfield’s family line, she was curious. She had considered asking Mrs. Allen, or perhaps Mrs. Oswell, but worried it would seem like gossip to them.
“My mother was . . .” He paused, took a breath, and kicked at the ground in front of him. “She was a broken woman all of my life, more so after my father died.” He glanced at her. “Surely you know the story, or rather, the scandal of it.”
“I have heard some hint, but nothing specific.”
He was thoughtful for several seconds, then told her the story of his parents. By the end, Julia better understood her mother’s concerns yet felt even more determined that the sins of his parents had no bearing on him as a man.
“She did not leave the house after my father died, not knowing how to exist in her place without my father to draw her through a crowd, so to speak. I was sad when she passed, of course, but I was also relieved for her own sake that she did not have to suffer any longer.”
“She was ill, then?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I mean, yes, she was at the very end—pneumonia—but she’d suffered most of her life in one way or another. I don’t believe she was ever truly happy.”
“That is the very worst kind of suffering.”
“Yes.”
“But then you had a happy marriage with Mrs. Mayfield.” She knew Mrs. Mayfield’s name was Sybil, but it seemed presumptuous to refer to her so casually.
He startled and looked at her quickly.
She faced forward. “I am sorry. I should not have said that—any of this, really.”
“No, no, it is fine.” He reached up and removed his hat, letting the breeze take his hair. He swung his hat in his hand beside his leg. “I am just out of practice talking about her.”
Julia smiled at him, but did not ask any questions, willing to take the conversation at his pace.
“I met Sybil when she came to Elsing to stay with her aunt for a few months. She had recently rejected an engagement and run to Elsing in order to hide—her words, not mine.” He went on to explain that they’d had a good marriage, a happy one that Peter had never imagined he could have, and enjoyed their daughters. “Sybil never quite recovered after Leah’s birth. She could not seem to get her strength back, had no appetite, and, toward the end, was asleep more than she was awake. I finally learned that after Leah was born, she . . .” He did not continue.
Julia noted the spots of color on his cheeks. “Mr. Mayfield?”
He shook his head. “She simply did not heal well after Leah’s birth.”
“You mean that she continued bleeding.” When he looked at the ground, Julia nudged him with her shoulder, playfully she hoped. “You forget that I am comfortable with matters of biology. She did not tell anyone? She did not see a physician?”
“I think she kept hoping her health would improve, but instead she grew weaker and weaker until winter set in. She developed a cough she did not have the strength for.”
“What a horrible time that must have been.” Julia put a hand on his arm, but only for a moment before realizing she should not.
He looked at the path ahead of their steps. “It was the greatest tragedy of my life.”
They walked in silence for several seconds, Julia going back and forth between regretting that she’d asked and being grateful that she had. She remembered what her mother had said regarding him not being trustworthy and scoffed in her mind. Perhaps if Mother knew how much he’d loved his wife, she would not see him so unfairly.
“There.”
She looked at him, confused, then followed the direction he was pointing and gasped. A curve in the path had brought them to the meadow he had mentioned.
“You did not tell me it was a field of primroses.” They had always been her favorite flower, and to have a whole meadow of them!
“Oh, well, er, I am not all that familiar with the species of flowers.”
She smiled at him just enough to let him know she hadn’t meant to chide him, then she turned back to the field and let the sight capture her once more. The pale-yellow tufts of primroses were bright against the intense green of the grass. Here and there was a spot of pink or a tall cluster of bluebells, but most of the blooms were the traditional butter yellow. She walked forward, turning her head slowly to see all of it and remembering her home and childhood and how Papa had once said their family was like a primrose—five petals, for five members; simple but hardy.
“Do you mind if I seek out the center?” she asked.
He looked amused. “Not at all.”
She saw a deer path, barely visible, and moved toward it, lifting her skirts as she stepped on the thin path so she would not damage the blooms as she navigated toward the center of the field. After a few steps, she turned back to Mr. Mayfield.
“Would you like to join me? The view from the edges is superb, but the view from the middle will make it seem as though the whole world is filled with flowers.”
“Um, well, yes, I suppose.” He followed her down the path.
When she reached what seemed like the center, she turned to watch Mr. Mayfield manage the rest of the distance, unable to hold back a laugh at the look of concentration on his face. He looked up when he heard her laughing, and smiled before returning to his careful steps.
“Can I show you a trick my brother, sister, and I would do when we were young?”
He closed one eye slightly and gave her a suspicious look. “Does it result in me having petals, grass, or dirt in my mouth? If so, I know that trick.”
Julia laughed so loud that she put a hand to her mouth in surprise. Which made him laugh. She dropped her hand. “It is not that kind of trick.”
He nodded, and so she turned him around so they were back to back. She had to step on a few flowers to manage it, but felt justified that the overall effect would be worthwhile.
“We have to link elbows,” she said, twisting and taking hold of his arms in order to help them get into position.
“I don’t understand what we are doing.”
“You will see. Now, link elbows with me—yes, like that.”
They were back to back now, elbows locked. Julia stepped to the side, forcing Mr. Mayfield to do the same. He caught on quickly, and they began to pivot in a slow circle, turnin
g the field into something magnificent, a view of flowers that never stopped. They made a full circle before Julia broke the silence with an explanation.
“Papa called this a panorama—each of us seeing the same thing on our own time but without missing a single detail.”
“It is remarkable.”
She let the compliment, so sincere and simple, fill her up as they continued to turn, slow and steady. Julia imagined them as the center of the world with everything else moving around them. She closed her eyes in order to focus her senses on the smells of growing things, the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, a river in the distance, and the feel of the sun and the breeze on her face. Mr. Mayfield’s warm back against her own . . . which had not seemed the least bit sensual until she really considered it. Since she had not intended such a sensation, she decided she could not be faulted for enjoying it a bit longer. It was almost as though they were dancing, back to back.
After they’d made another revolution, she opened her eyes, and with all of her senses keen, took in the whole once again. “Have you ever brought Marjorie and Leah here?” she asked.
“I have not.”
“You should.”
After another three rotations, they came to a stop and stood for several seconds until he somehow managed to untangle himself from her elbows with far more ease than she’d gotten them into the position. They both turned to face one another and, though they were no longer spinning, she had the same sense of being the center of something. He stared at her as though he could see her every thought. What if this moment could exist separately from the world they lived in?
After several seconds, he smiled and bent down, straightening a moment later with a single bloom between his fingers. He brushed her hair from her face, and her entire body shivered as he tucked the flower behind her ear, beneath her bonnet. How his touch could be light as a butterfly’s wing and yet burn like coal was a mystery. He lowered his hand and cocked his head to the side, frowning slightly. “It is nearly the same color as your hair. I’m afraid I can hardly see where the petals end and you begin.”
Promises and Primroses Page 19
