After a brief, bemused glance over her shoulder, Mercy continued her search for wine. Always in control of her own wits, and never having her opinion swayed by another, she couldn’t quite comprehend the notion of agreeing for the sake of courtesy. Honesty might be brutal in some cases, but it was often kinder in the long run. As they now had evidence.
“I do care for him, but I don’t… I’m not in love with him.”
“Aha!” Mercy found a crystal decanter. She lifted the stopper and sniffed. “Not bad.” A further search for drinking vessels turned up empty-handed. “Here,” she said, passing the decanter to her friend. “You’ll have to swig it.”
Molly wrinkled her nose and shook her head at the offered decanter. She folded her arms. “I don’t want to be a wife. Not yet, in any case. I want to start my dressmaking business. I have some capital now to start, and I…I have a lease on a small room in a building near—”
“Molly Robbins!” Mercy was astonished that so much could have been done without her knowledge, and especially without her advice. “I always told you I would lend you the money, if you wanted it, but I thought this was what you wanted.”
“I thought so too. I thought marriage and children were what I should want. But this other need has crept up on me. It is so strong now that I cannot deny it. Not any longer.”
There was something about the gentle way the other girl spoke, even through half-contained sobs, that suggested her mind was made up. As if she knew that when she turned at this crossroads, the path she’d walked before was lost for good. She did not want to search for it. She had her eye on a new horizon now, her mind set on it.
“I intend to be a businesswoman, Lady Mercy. I have the talent to design dresses, and I am a skilled seamstress—”
“Where did you get the capital?” she demanded.
The other girl looked away, evasive suddenly. “I saved all the money I’ve ever earned. You’ve been very generous to me.”
“Did my brother give it to you?” Her anger mounted quickly as she thought of Carver’s laughter when she last saw him in London—his scornful comments about this wedding and his teasing suggestion of a wager.
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me, Molly Robbins. He gave you money to start your business and not marry. Oh, Molly! Don’t you see? Carver insisted you would never marry Rafe Hartley. Now he’s made certain of it, because he cannot stand to be wrong!”
“Well, he wasn’t wrong, was he? I won’t marry. I can’t. Rafe thinks I’ll stay here, in Sydney Dovedale”—her cheeks colored—“and have a baby every year. If I do that, I can forget all about my dreams.”
The words she spouted were painfully similar to Carver’s remarks. Obviously he’d put these ideas into her head for his own motives, although what they could be puzzled his sister. He’d never liked Rafe Hartley, but he would never be so cruel.
He could, however, be thoughtless. Knowing Carver, he might even assume he’d done a good deed. With no experience in helping others and having never shown the slightest inclination to begin, Carver now used his power, but not at all in the way he should. Of course, the fool would not confer with her first, even though Molly was her friend. Oh no, he just had to step blithely in and make this enormous, arrogant blunder. Mercy’s irritation with her brother almost overflowed, but when she considered how upset Rafe was about to be, her heart ached for him, and sadness tempered her mood.
“Rafe would never force you to do something that makes you unhappy. Have you told him your dream?” She knew the young man had his faults, but surely if he was aware of his sweetheart’s plans, he would support her.
Molly’s mind, however, was set against sharing her dreams with the man she was supposed to marry. Apparently she thought he would never understand her ambition, and she wouldn’t give him the chance to try. “I always thought we would live in London once we married, but now he declares he must be a farmer and never leave Sydney Dovedale again. That fine education was wasted on him. I wish I’d had that opportunity, but no—I had to go into service.” This last was said with a shot of bitterness that surprised Mercy. Molly had never looked down on Rafe before this. Neither had she suggested she was unhappy as a lady’s maid or that she longed for permanent escape from that little country village where she grew up.
Mercy was greatly vexed to witness her tidy plan falling apart. It seemed that by trying to help Rafe find happiness, she had actually made him a less appealing prospect to her friend. “There is nothing wrong with a man who chooses to work the land, Molly.”
“He refuses to take another penny from his father. And I know how he earned his coin while he was in London. The coin he’s using to rent the farm. The coin he’s invested in shares at the bank. Coin of which he’s so proud.” She raised her fist, fingers crumpled around the borrowed handkerchief. “His knuckles, Lady Mercy. That’s how. Bare-knuckle fights. Boxing.” Her expression was one of disgust. “Gentlemen wagered on the fights, and that’s how he made his money—beating six bells out of other men and getting it beat out of himself too on occasion, I daresay. What sort of a dignified life is that?” Molly shuddered, handkerchief pressed to her damp cheek. “He must have parted from his proper mind to refuse his father’s help, and resorted to brawling for money. He could have been killed! Just like you always said, my lady, he’s got too much misplaced pride. He never thinks anything through, but changes his mind in an instant. He thinks he’s ready to settle now, but how can he know that? How can I? He takes nothing seriously. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if his brain’s been knocked loose in his skull. Not that it will matter much, since his grand university education will all go to waste anyhow.”
“Molly! What has come over you to speak of him with such a sharp, unfeeling tone in your voice?”
“If you like him so much, you marry him!” Having shouted this at the top of her lungs, Molly promptly burst into more tears. It was not like her to be so hysterical, but then this was developing into a very odd day indeed.
Mercy turned away and took a swig from the decanter. She needed it now. Oh, Lord, she needed it. Some women just didn’t know a good thing when they had it.
“I’m sorry!” Molly moaned into her borrowed handkerchief. “I don’t know why I’m being so horrid to everyone. I feel positively wretched and hate myself. I wouldn’t blame you all if you never spoke to me again.”
What could she say? A bosom friendship of a dozen years could not be undone over a few cross words. Before she might be tempted to drink more, or accuse the other young woman of being ungrateful, she set the stopper back in the decanter. After she’d given it a good polish with the altar cloth.
“Molly, you simply must tell Rafe about your desire to open a business. You should have shared all this with him long before now. The two of you can—”
“It is too late. I cannot discuss it with him. I don’t want to.” She snapped her lips shut in a very stubborn line.
“You are not being fair to Rafe.”
Molly drew herself up like a flower unfurling, gaining strength. “You always say men are thickheaded and know nothing. A man, you said to me once, is less use and more expense in the long run than a sturdy, well-made piece of furniture.”
Mercy laughed uneasily. “Yes, but—”
“You said ’tis better for them if they don’t know what goes on in our thoughts most of the time.”
“True, but I did not mean—”
“You said we should know our own minds, be well-informed and capable of making our own decisions. Women are more logical than men, you said.”
There was nothing she could do when confronted with her own words. She itched to pick up the wine decanter again, but somehow she restrained herself. “It is true that Rafe often lives for the moment, but that has always been the case. It is nothing new—”
“I’m fond of him, but we’re not in love. We never were. There’s long been something in the way.” Molly shrugged, a quick, irritable motion of her slender shou
lders. “A shadow of some sort between us. It’s almost as if he doesn’t see me at all when he looks at me. I used to imagine”—she exhaled a wobbly laugh—“that he had another woman on his mind.”
“Oh?” Mercy fumbled along the shelf and began rearranging the prayer books in order of most wear and tear.
“But everyone expected us to marry for these past few years,” Molly was saying. “It just seemed easier to float with the tide than swim against it. I daresay it was the same for him as it was for me.”
There was a long silence. Finally, with the last, most dog-eared book placed in line, Mercy felt she’d done her best for the parson’s shelves, and now the dank stone walls of the vestry closed in again, made her nauseated. She needed the warmth of the sun. “So,” she exclaimed, “what are we going to do about this? We can’t leave him standing at the altar interminably.”
Molly blinked away a last tear. “I…I hoped you might take the news to Rafe.”
“Me?” Under her layers of clothing, Mercy’s skin rippled with another wave of goose bumps. “Surely his father, or his uncle—”
“No! I can’t face them to tell them.”
“Then, I’ll tell them, and they can—”
“Please.” Molly grabbed her sleeve. “Please tell him yourself. It will be better coming from you.”
“Not from you?”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t.”
The girl looked so pitiful in her shattered bridal garland, her nose all red and her eyes puffy, it was hard to refuse her anything. But even so… “Rafe Hartley despises every bone in my body. Why on earth would it be any better coming from me?”
“That’s just it. Don’t you see? It would break his heart if he heard it from someone he loved. Hearing it from you, he’ll just be furious.”
Mercy could only stare, her lips falling open.
“I daresay he’ll throw a few things—perhaps even directly at you—but you’re such a strong person, my lady. You’re so brisk and sensible, he can’t possibly make a dent, no matter how he curses and insults you. You’re very quick at ducking.”
She began to think she would never get her lips back together again. They seemed stuck in their current startled O. So this was why they’d all waited for her arrival with such eager anticipation. They wanted Mercy to be their messenger, because no one else dared face him. She was the sacrificial lamb. Not one of those anxious people waiting outside knew of her past entanglement with the groom. They knew only that he hated her, and therefore she was, in a sense, disposable.
Rafe Hartley was about to kill her—would probably shoot her with the same gun he used to hunt rabbits and pheasant. She sincerely doubted even her own speedy skill at “ducking” would allow her to evade a bullet.
Chapter 4
He paced in the churchyard, hat in his hands. When Molly was half an hour late, he’d thought she must be ill or some tragedy had happened to keep her from getting to the church. But as time wore on and he saw his stepmother’s face and then his aunt’s peering fearfully at him around the corner of the chapel tower, he knew this was not the case.
Finally, here came Mercy Fancy-Breeches Danforthe, picking her way daintily over tussocks of grass. Trust this damned woman to be in the thick of it.
It was some time now since he’d seen her this close, but there was no avoiding each other today. Rafe readied himself, gathering the memories of all those things she’d done to him, all the pain she’d caused. It was because of this woman that Molly went off to London and developed a fancy for finer things. Molly’s experience of life in Town had been very different from his, of course. The side of London she saw was clean and shiny as a newly minted penny.
“Well, say what you’ve come to say,” he exclaimed as Mercy drew near. “Give it to me straight. I can take my punches.”
She looked up. “So I hear, Mr. Hartley.” A flare of bright sun lit her wretchedly pretty face, and a sharp spur of anger burned in his gut. The opinionated wench was more beautiful today than he remembered. Stunning. The sight of her sent his mind into a furiously spinning vortex from which it could not rescue itself. His temper traveled rapidly likewise. He supposed she was satisfied now, having ruined his wedding day. Again. Ruined his life, for the second time.
It was five years, five months, one week, and three days since The Danforthe Brat persuaded him, in a wild moment of stupidity, to run off with her to Gretna Green. It shocked Rafe that he knew the exact number of days, for until that moment he hadn’t realized he was counting. Her brother, the Earl of Everscham, would never tolerate the match, of course. Their marriage was declared void within hours, because they were both too young and neither had consent. Good thing too, Rafe could say now with hindsight.
Slowly she untied the ribbons of her bonnet, lingering over her message.
“What are you waiting for?” he grunted impatiently as he shifted from foot to foot.
Mercy slid the bonnet from her hair, and when she tipped her head to one side, another brilliant glimmer of sun caught on her curls. She squinted. “I’m sorry—”
“I’ll bet you are.”
He saw her straighten her shoulders and wrap her bonnet ribbons tightly around her fingers. “I may as well tell you without preamble.”
“I’d be grateful,” he snapped. “My lady.”
She exhaled sharply. “Molly says she can’t marry you. Not today.”
“Does she indeed?”
“She’s confused. Afraid. It’s just nerves.”
Rafe looked away for a moment, curbing the instinct to curse out loud. The temperance wouldn’t last long, he knew. Good manners were never his strong point.
“I’m sure she’ll come to—”
“Why can’t she tell me this herself?” he demanded.
The woman stepped closer, taking shelter under the dappled shade of a yew tree as if that might protect her, not only from the sun’s rays but from his wrath too. “It seems there is much the two of you have not discussed.”
“What business is it of yours?”
Even in the shade of the tree she glowed. Her buttercup-yellow gown held on to the sunlight, as did her hair. “Molly is very upset. Distraught.”
“What the bloody hell do you think I am?”
She nodded, her full lips pressed tight.
Rafe wiped his brow on his jacket sleeve. “Content now, woman?”
Her eyes widened. They were a very light shade of green, inquisitive and watchful. Like cat’s eyes, Rafe thought. He never did like cats much. “Me?” she replied. “Why should I be content? I don’t like to see my friend in tears.”
“She’s not your friend. She’s your servant, and you tell her what to do. You never wanted her to marry me.”
“That’s not true.” She was too steady, too calm. The superior little witch stood before him as if butter wouldn’t melt in her pouty mouth.
Humiliation soared within Rafe. That she, of all people, took it upon herself to play messenger. She probably could barely contain her amusement. In that moment he forgot all about his own doubts and fears regarding this marriage. All he knew was that he’d been made a fool before his family and the entire village. And before this woman who already looked down on him, just because she was the daughter of an earl. Just because one of her ancestors, back in the dark ages, probably murdered and cheated his way into land and a title. That made her imagine she was above him, that her existence was somehow more worthy of life’s breath than that of the men who worked her brother’s land, the women who dressed her every morning, or the man who shoed her horses. Or him.
The flames of a hot, tinderbox temper consumed any last sensible thought he might have had, and all the resentment he held against folk of her class came quickly to the fore. She was the symbol of everything he despised.
Why did she have to be there? Why did she have to come with the message?
“Liar.” He pointed at her with his hat. “Smug, self-satisfied liar! Always spouting your damnable opinions. Think
you know best. I suppose you’ve told her that she doesn’t need me. That she can do better.”
He saw her glance slyly at his rough knuckles with the same sort of morbid curiosity that led a child to peek at slugs under a damp stone. Unable to stand there looking at her a moment longer, he swung away and marched for the lych-gate. He knew she followed. He heard her panting as she hurried after him in the midday heat. When he reached the shadow of the gate arch, he stopped and snapped at her again. “Leave me alone.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Damn you, my lady.”
But she wouldn’t give up, and he might have known that. She was like a fly spinning around his head. Her boots tripped forward over the dewy spring grass, and while his clumsy fingers fumbled with the gate latch, she slipped, almost falling against him under the arch. With a slender, gloved hand on the top bar of the gate, she righted herself. “Rafe Hartley, control your temper! How dare you speak to me as if this is my fault!”
Because who else’s fault could it be? It could not be Molly’s fault—she was an honest, loyal country girl whose head had been turned—he caught his breath and stared down at the creature in the fancy yellow gown—turned by her and the life of idle luxury she led in her grand London house. A life that gave her too much time to play puppeteer with the lives of other folk.
“Slink off back to London now,” he muttered. “Your work here is done.”
“Put your dislike of me aside for two minutes, you great, bumbling seed ox, and listen! You must stay and talk to her. The two of you have much to discuss.”
Rafe glanced over her head toward the church. If he stayed, what would he say? How could he talk Molly out of her fears when he had not been thoroughly capable of doing the same to himself? His courage that morning had come from a mug of ale and the desire not to hurt anyone’s feelings, not to let anyone down.
He never imagined he’d be the one rejected. Again.
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 4
