His jaw went taut. “I care nothing for dinner parties and society, nor have I any intention of changing her. I love her as she is—because of who she is. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Pish,” Amelia said, waving away his proclamations. “Love grows through marriage. It does not spring up like lust and infatuation does. I also know about your uncle’s bribery—the financial gift he plans to bestow upon your marriage, which gift can only give you further motivation to take advantage where you can.” She narrowed her eyes and dug to the very depth of her cruelty. “I would think you would know better than anyone the difficulty of an uneven match.”
Heat rushed up her neck as her words rang in her ears. Had she truly flung his parents’ scandal in his face? And not because she believed their sins made him a sinner but because she knew it would hurt him.
His neck reddened. His fingers clutching the brim of his hat were nearly white. “You will not give me your blessing, then.”
“No, I will not, though I expect that you will no doubt move forward without it.”
He stared at her, she stared back, but her heart was thumping. She reviewed everything that had been said. I am right about this. But it might not matter. Julia was of age. Mr. Mayfield was of the type who was used to getting his way, and he held all the power.
“I will not go against your wishes, Mrs. Hollingsworth. I decided from the moment I heard of your concerns about your daughter working in my household that I would do nothing to interfere with the relationship between mother and daughter.”
He stood and seemed to catch sight of Richard’s portrait for the first time. He stared at it for several seconds; she kept her eyes on him. He looked back at her, nodded, and headed toward the doorway, but he had only taken a few steps before he turned back to face her.
“Since you and I shall likely not cross paths again, I feel I must say that your holding so much against my uncle when he sacrificed his own happiness for the good of the rest of us is equally unfair. He has spent his life caring for us and doing what he could to restore our family name. I have done my best to prove that his sacrifice was not in vain, and I wish very much that you could see it. But, then, bitterness can become a comfort for some.” He was unable to hide his disappointment. “Forgive me for speaking so plainly and wasting your time. I will set about replacing Julia as you have wanted from the start. I can only hope she can find as much happiness in her life as she could have had with me and my daughters. Good day.”
Amelia stayed seated as he stalked from the room and let himself out. She expected him to slam the door, but he closed it softly. His parting words reverberated throughout the room. She pushed away the unwelcome and unreasonable regret rising up inside her. Mr. Mayfield didn’t mean it when he’d said he would not go against her wishes. He would get what he wanted because he wanted it.
Amelia stood to leave, overcome with the need to do something, spare herself from replaying this moment in her mind. She remembered Mr. Mayfield looking at Richard’s portrait and found her eyes drawn to him again.
How different things would have been if he had not left her alone. She’d never been as good without him as they had been together. What would he think of what Amelia had just done? She had wanted Julia to make a match and have a family—she’d never understood why Julia would want anything different—yet she had just sent that opportunity away. Because of her own pride? Because of her own fear? Her anger and hurt gave way to sorrow and regret, tears stinging her eyes before they fell.
What is wrong with me?
Richard would not have done what she just did. Not in a hundred lifetimes.
Julia
Leah hit the ball with the croquet mallet, and it went through the hoop—finally.
“Well done,” Julia said as though this was Leah’s first attempt, not her seventh.
“Is it my turn yet?” Marjorie asked.
“Almost.” Julia positioned her mallet, but then hit the ball from the side so she did not overtake Marjorie, who was in the lead. “Gracious,” she said, shaking her head and leaning on the mallet. “I was sure I had that lined up right.”
Marjorie’s eyes lit up with excitement as she hurried to take her own shot. The tip of her tongue showed between her lips as she focused. She pulled back her mallet, and then hit the ball as hard as she could. The ball went through both hoops and hit the post at the end.
“I did it!” She dropped her mallet and jumped up and down.
Julia should correct such unladylike behavior, but, then, these girls would only be little for a short time longer. They had plenty of time to learn the appropriate way of celebrating victory. Or, rather, not celebrating. But that lesson was for another day, not when one was eight years old and mastering the fine art of yard croquet.
Julia applauded. “Well done, Marjorie.”
Leah threw down her mallet and stalked away from the circle yard.
Julia hurried after her. She might choose not to teach appropriate celebration behavior, but children were never too young to be taught sportsmanship. It took some doing to convince Leah to finish her game, but neither girl noticed that Julia’s ball seemed to disappear into the rose bushes, leaving all the focus on Leah as she hit the ball over and over and over again. Eventually it made its terribly inefficient way through the last two hoops. Fortunately, Marjorie cheered for her sister. Leah beamed with pride.
Mr. Mayfield was gone today, though Julia did not know where, of course. They had developed a habit of being in the dog yard at the same time every morning this last week. She attended to the new puppies and to Bumbleberry, who was a fabulous adoptive mother, while Mr. Mayfield worked on weaning the older litter of pups onto the beefy gruel Cook made every night. They would talk—about the girls, about the dogs, about the weather, about livestock prices and crop expectations. Everything he said was interesting, and he listened to everything she said even if it wasn’t.
He had told her that morning that he had an errand and would not be back until late but would check on the girls when he arrived. It was hard to remember how avoidant he had seemed in the past or how uncomfortable she had been in his presence. As to what it all meant . . . She avoided forcing an answer. It meant she was happy here. It meant he was too. For now, that was enough.
After luncheon was letters and numbers. Then supper. Then reading. Then bedtime. Julia tucked in the girls, explaining that their papa would come kiss them good night when he returned home. She took the supper tray to the kitchen. A plate of chicken and potatoes had been left for her, and she thanked Cook for supper before taking a candle with her to the third level.
Mr. Mayfield had told her she could avail herself of his books in the study anytime she liked, and she’d acted on the offer several times before. She told herself that was why she’d come tonight, to get a book, not in hopes that Mr. Mayfield had returned and she might “accidentally” encounter him.
Focus, she told herself. You came for a book.
That evening, she had told the girls the story of Moses being sent down the Nile in a basket and found herself wondering if there was more to the story. Did historians know which pharaoh it was that Moses’ mother was trying to protect him from? Mr. Mayfield had a collection on Biblical teaching and interpretation, and she hoped to find something that would expand her understanding.
He was not in his study, though the candles had been lit in anticipation of his return. She put down her own candle and ventured into the room that smelled like him. She ran her fingers across the lacquered top of his desk, imagining him sitting behind it, studying the facts and figures that made up the running of his estate. The cover of a periodical discussing the treatment of racing dogs caught her eye, and she reached for it, but paused. He wasn’t finished with it; he’d said so that morning when they had discussed it in general. It wouldn’t be well-mannered of her to read it before he’d had the chance. Her eyes stayed
on the cover as she moved toward the bookshelves, however.
She perused the shelves until she found an interpretive guide to the Old Testament. On her way back to the door, she fantasized about lighting a fire in the grate and putting her feet up on his stool. The thought made her smile, and then her eyes were drawn back to the periodical on the desk.
It was late, and Mr. Mayfield likely wouldn’t be home in time to read it tonight, considering he wasn’t back already. She could return it tomorrow on her way out of the house for her morning walk. He wouldn’t know it was gone, but then he wouldn’t mind if she borrowed it anyway. They could discuss the article tomorrow morning. She reached for the periodical for the second time, and her hand paused again, but not because of second thoughts.
Instead, her eyes settled on something else on the desk. A letter with familiar script and a familiar return—Hastings Staffing Services. She picked it up, and four letters fell out. Letters from Miss Gertrude Robinstone, Miss E. L. Housend, Miss Elizabeth Champion, and Mrs. Samantha Evenbrite.
She hadn’t realized the household needed a new female staff member, but then she turned her attention to the letter that had been wrapped around the others and was now in her hand. The word governess jumped off the page. She paused barely a moment and then read every word of a letter not meant for her, though it was very much about her.
Julia swallowed once she finished, blinked back the tears rising behind her eyes, and read Mr. Hastings’s letter one more time: “. . . I hope that it hasn’t been too uncomfortable keeping Miss Hollingsworth on longer than you would have liked.”
Peter
It was after ten o’clock Monday night when Peter returned from Feltwell. His mood had not been improved by the drizzly return trip, which became so intense at one point that he’d had to duck into an inn and wait out the worst of the storm. It was hard to believe his meeting with Mrs. Hollingsworth could have gone so badly. He remembered seeing the primrose border that led to the front door of her home and how he’d thought it a good omen to see some portion of that primrose meadow reflected there.
Fool.
Now he was left having to determine what he could do about it. He’d told Mrs. Hollingsworth he would replace Julia rather than pursue a courtship without Mrs. Hollingsworth’s blessing, but with every mile, he had regretted such a promise. He had hoped his assurance would help Julia’s mother realize how sincere he was in protecting their relationship, or maybe he was just playing the role of martyr, but the honor had further complicated the situation.
He wanted Julia in his life so badly his chest ached to consider the alternative, but to have her now meant going against her mother, in addition to the already-existing complications. If he broke his promise, he would prove himself the exact kind of man Mrs. Hollingsworth believed him to be. He had put himself in an impossible situation.
The girls did not rouse when he kissed them, and he pulled the covers to their chins, leaving as quietly as he had entered. He could see a light beneath Julia’s door and considered knocking. She would come to the door, perhaps with her hair loose over her shoulders and wearing her nightdress. He could ask her about the girls and what she had done with them today. She might lean against the doorframe. They might laugh together at some silly thing Leah said or wonder where Marjorie came up with the questions she asked.
What would Julia do if he took her face in his hands and kissed her breathless?
He forced his feet down the hallway and away from her door.
Peter did not sleep. Instead he tossed and turned and paced and raged until he determined his course—he would tell Julia everything. About her mother and Elliott. About his early determination to replace her but how that had become impossible for him to consider now. He would confess having promised her mother that he would not move forward without her blessing. It would be betraying her mother, but he could not hold this for a moment longer.
Perhaps Julia would be aghast at his assumption of her feelings and not even want to stay. The possibility terrified him, but every course he chose now presented a risk of one kind or another, and one truth had risen to the top: Julia was the center of fears and prejudices she knew nothing about. Her ability to make any choice was impossible when she did not know what it was she was choosing for or against. How he wished he’d confided in her before now instead of trying to be so blasted honorable!
It was still difficult to sleep, but easy to get out of bed when dawn lightened the room. Mornings had become something he looked forward to now that he and Julia had time together without anyone else looking on. They cared for the dogs together, talked, and got to know one another. Those minutes together when the day was brand-new were when he believed he had truly fallen in love with her.
Julia wasn’t in the yard when he arrived, so he fed the hounds and checked on Sebastian and Viola. He had started running the greys with the other hounds, only they were faster than his horse and would be on either side of Peter from the start. After twenty minutes, they would lag, and once back in their pens, they would sleep most of the day, completely spent.
When he finished his tasks in the yard, he looked into the shed, expecting to find Julia there. Instead, Bumbleberry raised her head from the whelping box and growled. Queenie’s five puppies were tucked in about her, sleeping. Her own puppies had overnighted in the yard alone for the first time last night, using the sheepskin dam for comfort and warmth. Peter backed out of the shed but did not look away immediately, struck by the realization of how well Bumbleberry had taken to raising Queenie’s pups.
A cobwebbed fear he had not pulled from the corner for some time—that no one could love his daughters the way Sybil had—came forward. Maybe that was true, though he would never know because Sybil was not here to show the contrast. But his daughters had been loved since Sybil’s death. Deeply. By Lydia, and now by Julia. The invigoration of the realization quickened his blood and increased his eagerness to talk to Julia as soon as possible. He had to know her heart. Then he—or they—could know how to move forward.
Bumbleberry growled again.
“I am not coming in.” Peter began to close the door, then noticed that the food and water dishes were full and the dog had already been brushed. Julia had come already? Before seven o’clock?
He left the dog yard for the second floor of the house. The girls were still asleep, and there was no answer when he tapped on Julia’s door. Short of asking after her with the other staff, he was unsure where else to look. Then he remembered her morning walks. He followed the path he’d seen her take, but she was not there, either. Some part of him knew he ought to be worried about her, but she hadn’t gone missing, she’d just changed up her usual routine.
Peter’s anxiety grew. He wanted to go inside and double-check each place where she could be, but he did not. Instead, he tied one of the rabbits Henry had hung in the stable to the back of his saddle and ran the foxhounds for an hour, then changed to a fresh horse and ran the greys at a full gallop until they began to lag behind.
It was nearly eleven before Peter returned to the house, changed into his everyday clothes, and settled himself in the study. He paced for a time, trying to find a solution or the appropriate approach, but his mind was choked with anxiety. He looked longingly at the doorway, mapping in his mind how this hallway led to that one, which led to the other that would take him to the nursery. Was it better to wait until the children’s hour? Perhaps he should invite her to join him for dinner—but she’d refused his invitation to breakfast last week. He finally settled himself behind his desk, took a breath, and turned to the tasks waiting for him. He would be patient and keep to as normal a routine as possible.
When he entered the nursery for children’s hour that evening, he tried to catch Julia’s gaze, though she did not meet his eye. She draped the girls’ dirty linens over her arm and then slipped through the door while the girls were wrapped around Peter’s knees and
he could not go after her. During playtime with his girls, he tried to keep his mind off their governess, but it became harder by the minute.
When Julia tapped on the door to signal her return, he quickly kissed his daughters and hurried to intercept her, meeting her at the threshold and blocking her entrance. She stepped to the side as though allowing him to pass. He, instead, stepped forward, forcing her to step back into the hallway.
He closed the door behind him. “Could we talk, Julia?”
“I need to ready the girls for bed, Mr. Mayfield.” She still would not meet his eyes.
“Is something wrong?”
She shook her head but continued to look at the floor.
He put a finger beneath her chin and tipped her face toward his. Her eyes were sad, her demeanor cautious.
“Something is the matter,” he said.
The door behind him suddenly opened. He stepped away from Julia and dropped his hand as the door swung wide and Marjorie shot into the hall.
“Miss Julia! I get to choose the first story tonight.”
Leah ducked under her sister’s arm. “No, me. Miss Julia said I could choose.”
“That was last night. Tonight is my turn.”
Julia took advantage of the interruption and moved around him. “I do believe Marjorie is right, Leah. But we must have our nightgowns on before we read.”
Peter watched Julia enter the nursery and close the door softly. She didn’t meet his eyes.
It was almost an hour later when she let herself out of the nursery, and she startled when he pushed himself away from the wall where he’d been leaning, listening to her put the girls to bed.
Promises and Primroses Page 22
