by RITA GERLACH
“The answer is still no.I will stay in England where I belong. Buy land here and give me a fine house, and I shall say yes.”
Hayward bit down on his lip as she glided away. Once, she turned and looked back at him, lifted her chin, and went on. The sting of her rejection and her demands coursed through him, and he clenched his fists at his sides. How could she have turned him down? Did insanity run in the females of her family?
He turned in the opposite direction, toward the corner that led into the grand hallway. The light from the windows brightened as he neared the corner. Strange—a mild scent of lavender and rosewater wafted in the air. As he turned, a silhouette of a woman’s face, her broad hat, and a cascade of loose ebony curls brushed the wall in shadow.
He stopped short. With a gasp, Eliza arose from a chair.
As soon as she sprang to her feet, heat rushed over her face as if she had come close to a fire. She drew in her breath and wished she could fade into the wall away from his startled gaze and piercing eyes, a step or two farther into the shadows.
The light fell over his shoulders. His brows furrowed, and he stared down at her as if she were a serving wench. Her gown did not match his rich attire. He was dressed in the finest linen, with fine leather boots, and a black crepe ribbon tied his hair back into a ponytail. Perhaps Fiona had been right, she should not get her hopes too high.
He did not look the part of a man bent on living in the colonial wilds. When she tried to imagine him pushing a plow, pitching hay, or milking a cow, a cynical smile spread over her face.
The silence grew louder than speech, and she gave him a slight curtsy and addressed him. “I have come to speak with your mother, sir. You had advised me to do so. Remember?”
He shifted on his feet. “She is engaged.”
“I do not mind waiting.” She lowered herself back into the chair.
“You are dressed . . . well, not as I last saw you. Your hair . . .”
“I do know the attire of a lady, sir, even though I have no claim to a title or come from a family of aristocrats.”
“Aristocrats? Hardly.” Hayward paused and cleared his throat. “The servant should not have kept you sitting in the hallway. My mother will not meet with you. We have guests, which you probably realized, as I was speaking to one close enough for you to hear our conversation.”
Eliza bit her lip and withdrew her gaze when she saw him catch the action with his eyes, eyes that softened and admired. She stood. “I shall go then, and call on her tomorrow.”
“Your reason for seeing her?”
“When you and I met out on the moor, after you chased away those ruffians, you said that if I needed employment, to come to Havendale, that your mother would find something for me. I am hoping she will.”
“I learned my father gave you notice. It is only expected that a new vicar should arrive to replace your father. I grew concerned and spoke to her about your situation.”
Hope revived within Eliza. “You did?”
“Your father was our family pastor. I did not wish to see you on the streets begging—figuratively, of course—for I doubt you would find a husband in this dire situation. You should not have rejected Langbourne. Men do not easily forget or forgive rejection.”
“My opinion of Mr. Langbourne has not changed. I know I should not speak to you of such personal issues, but I will not marry one whom I do not love. I shall come to Havendale and work for your family. There is no shame in that.”
He paused and stepped closer. “I am afraid there is nothing here for you, and my father hasn’t the money to spend. Haven’t you any family to go to? An aunt or uncle perhaps? There is your brother. Surely he would help his sister.”
Eliza’s hopes were dashed instantly, but she refused to let him see her disappointment. God had some way, other than hers, in mind. “No. My brother, I have only just learned, is dead.” She lowered her head.
“I am sorry.” He paused, then said, “I wish you good fortune, Miss Bloome.”
He turned on his heel to leave.
“Please, Hayward. Do not leave. I will go with you to America.”
Astonished, he turned to face her. “What did you say?”
“I will go with you . . . to America. I am not afraid to do it. I can work hard, and I am in perfect health. I have a keen mind, too, and a head for figures. I could help you with the books. And I know how to milk a cow and shoe a horse.”
“You overhead my conversation with Miss Marsden,” he said, affronted.
“I could not help it. There was no place else to go.”
He looked away, his mouth twisting. “It is my fault for assuming no one would overhear. I should have taken her to another room. Did I hear you correctly that . . .”
She met his eyes with a lift of her chin. “What you offered Miss Marsden is indeed beyond what she deserves from the way she treated you, solely because your land is in the Colonies.” She saw his jaw tighten but went on. “It is the chance to build a legacy. To find freedom. She is too blind and too spoiled to see the good in your offer.”
“You mustn’t speak of your betters in such a manner. You are a bold creature.”
“I admit I am.”
For a long moment, he gazed into her face, and she waited for him to speak. “No,” he finally said.
Amazed he would deny her, she looked him straight in the eyes with a challenge. “Why? I have all that you seek. In this instance, I daresay I am far superior than Miss Marsden.”
His eyes glinted with superiority. “I cannot wed a vicar’s daughter.”
“At least, as a vicar’s daughter, I have been raised to be a good woman, not spoiled like your lady who just threw you over. If she loved you, she would go anywhere with you.”
He laughed. “And you are saying you do.”
“Well . . . I suppose I am.”
He gave her a short bow. “I am flattered. But there is the matter that I do not love you, Eliza. For all your beauty, some would say it is amazing that I do not.”
Stung into silence, Eliza swallowed the lump that formed in her throat. She did not think him cruel, only honest. But what monstrous pride had he! Why on earth would she even consider such a man? At the least, Langbourne wanted her. But not this man. He treated her as if she were a child. She dug in her heels, resolute not to lose his attention. She raised her eyes slowly and forced a sweet smile.
“Do not think me so dull as not to know it, sir. At the same time, I can see you really do regard me with some affection. Can you deny it?”
“Affection or attraction, madam?”
“Either, and the chance of you being in love with me had not crossed my mind. How could you love me? You do not know me well enough, nor have you spent sufficient time with me to know my mind. Most likely, you do not love Miss Marsden. If you were in love with her, you would give up your American dream and give her what she wants.”
“This is awkward indeed.” He touched her throat and caressed it. The shock it gave caused her to tremble. “You are certainly beautiful and chaste, Eliza, and I have no doubt you are as strong as you say, but you are meanly born.”
She slapped his hand aside. “Oh, how dare you speak to me of lowering yourself? If anything, it is I that has been humbled by offering my hand to you . . . my life. Here a highborn woman has turned you down, and I willingly break all the rules by saying I would be your wife, help you build your estate, bear your children, be willing to leave my homeland for a wilderness, and you call me meanly born? Oh, sir, your enormous pride is an affront, no doubt, to everyone who encounters you.”
Insulted, the muscles on his face jerked. He grabbed her by the arms and pressed her against him. His mouth went near hers, but did not touch.
“The answer . . . is . . . no.” His breath caressed her lips and she whimpered. He released her and stormed away.
Eliza stood alone in the dusky hallway battling tears. She shut her eyes and allowed the droplets to fall down her cheeks, standing alone in a hou
se she now hated.
5
Weary of packing her father’s clothes in a wicker hamper, Eliza folded the last garment Matthias Bloome had owned and gently placed it on top of the others. She ran her hand over the stark white linen shirt, then closed the lid and secured it.
She pushed the basket against the wall next to the door. Every plate, spoon, and saucer. Every book, and every bit of furniture. Every candle and candlestick. All the linens. All the carpets. Everything, except Eliza’s clothes, Bible, brush and comb, and her mother’s locket, would be given to others.
The room chilled from the keen wind that blew outside. She drew a wrap over her shoulders, determined not to shed any more tears, but to finish her tasks without grief interrupting her. The tears came anyway, and Eliza wiped them aside. She stood, took herself to the window, and leaned against its broad frame. Heavy-hearted, she gazed out at the land beyond the door of the humble vicarage.
While the sun sunk low, she shut her eyes and listened to a long, whistling breath of wind. A nightjar cried out to its mate. A fortnight had passed since her confrontation with Hayward. Twice since then they had encountered each other, she on foot, and he on a horse she thought matched his arrogance. He tipped his hat to her, gave her a greeting, and then went on. Six agonizing days had passed, and this was her last night in this house. She pondered. Perhaps she had misread those strong inner promptings. Hayward may have forgotten all about her by now. He had said no to her, had he not?
Fiona rushed inside the room. A broad smile brightened her face. “I have been sent a letter,” she said excitedly. “It is for a position in London. A wealthy gentleman and his new bride are in need of a housekeeper.” She glanced down at the letter, cleared her throat, and adjusted her spectacles. “And they are in need of a chambermaid. This shall do us both well. What do you say?”
“I accept, if nothing else arises by tomorrow. And even so, Hayward may need more time. If I do not hear from him by then, I shall write and tell him where I have gone.”
Fiona sighed. “Oh, dear girl. You have not given up hope, but your expectations soar too high.”
“I suppose it was foolish of me to go rushing off to Havendale like I did,” Eliza replied. “Reckless and desperate. What made me think he would want me?”
“Do not be so harsh on yourself. First of all, was it not Mr. Hayward who told you to come to the house if you needed work? You should blame him.”
“He did. But he made no guarantee of anything. Perhaps Mrs. Morgan does not like me. . . . And I did not believe Hayward when he said his father hadn’t the means to hire anyone. He is the richest man in the county.”
Fiona straightened her back and put her hands over her broad hips. “Don’t you see? The gentry do not prefer girls like you to work in their houses. You are a threat to both wives and fiancées. Young men find you beautiful despite your station, and your presence would be a temptation to indiscretion. Believe me, I know what I’m saying.”
Fiona folded the letter and stuffed it in her pocket. She then stripped the sheets from the bed and tossed them on the floor. She opened another and shook it out.
“How do you know? Tell me.”
“Oh, it was years ago . . . when I was a young girl. I fell in love with my master’s son.” Fiona spread a fresh sheet over the bed and tucked in a corner. “He was handsome, and enamored with me. We began to meet in secret, but his father found out and sent him off into the army and me packing. I never saw my young man again.”
“How sad. And you never married. Was it because of your love for him?”
With a sigh, Fiona shook her head and tossed a pillow against the bolster. “I never found a man like him . . . ever. Oh, there were a few who asked me to wed them, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it—to marry someone I did not love.”
“Then you understand me, Fiona.”
“Indeed I do, my girl.”
“You understand why I turned Langbourne down. It gives me ease that you do.”
“I never said anything about it, but I did not want to see you unhappy. I held my tongue from your father, but not from the Almighty. But I have been thinking. With your situation the way it is, to leave the house and all, I hate to see you working as a servant. You are too good for that kind of life. Maybe you should reconsider Mr. Langbourne.”
Eliza looked away and huffed. “You said that once before. You know I love Hayward. I cannot see myself with anyone but him.”
“Now, he is a different story, Eliza. Can you not see how prideful he is? He has a fierce streak about him. I doubt he could love anybody, save for himself. You had good intentions when you went to Havendale. But your emotions got the best of you. I cannot imagine what he thought when you said you would go to America with him. Do you not see how forward that was?”
Eliza stared at the clock on the mantelpiece, the one that had not been wound since her papa had passed away, her mind leaping forward to what she hoped the future would be. Yet she worried. No letter. No message of any kind.
“The sky is filling with clouds,” she said. “But I doubt it shall rain. At least not for another day or two.”
Fiona stamped her foot. “Eliza, my girl. Did you hear what I said?”
“I did, Fiona.” She turned to a box filled with books. “Well, I believe that is the last of it. I hate to part with Papa’s books, but I cannot take them with me. They will do the new vicar good. Papa would be pleased for him to have them.”
“Eliza, do not put all your hopes in Mr. Hayward. He would have sent word by now.”
Eliza opened one of the books and let the pages flutter, closed it, and put it back in its place. “You are right. I suppose I must learn that what I want is not what is marked out for me. And Hayward—he is so difficult to read. One moment his eyes were all storm and tempest. The next bewildered. I cannot say what he will do. I cannot explain it.”
That night, Eliza lay in her bed for the last time. Unable to sleep, and feeling anxious, she tucked her arms behind her head and gazed up at the ceiling, at the full, misty beams of moonlight that came through her window.
“Wherever thou shall lead me, I will go,” she whispered. “Whatever you have planned for me, I will accept. Only give me the desires of my heart, Lord, for I long for Hayward. I would make him a good wife. I want a home and children, and I know I could make him happy, that he would grow to love me. But if I have been wrong, and he is not for me, help me accept your will.”
The clock down the hall struck. Once, twice, on to six, then nine times, she counted out the bells, until they ceased at twelve. Midnight had come. A fox barked somewhere out on the downs, and for one night, the wind lay low.
She threw back the covers, brought her bare legs over the edge, and waited. There beside her door sat her bag. In it, she had packed her clothes and the few possessions she owned. She balled the sheet in her fist and moaned. She did not want to go to London. She did not want to be a lady’s maid, serve the idle rich, and endure the congestion of a city.
She stood and paced the floor in her bare feet. Was she being stubborn? Hadn’t she just prayed the Lord’s will be done in her life? Then why did she feel so downcast? With a will, she tried to gather her thoughts together, and listen to that still, small voice that spoke quietly into her soul.
Wistfully, she drew in a breath, long and steady, and then went to the writing table beneath her window. From a drawer she pulled out paper, and lifted the quill from the china inkwell. Settling into the chair, she dipped the quill back into the ink, then held it over the sheet of paper.
“I must choose either poverty and servitude, or a comfortable life.”
She hesitated a moment. Then she lowered the quill and wrote . . .
Dear Mr. Langbourne,
Having received your letter after our last meeting, I am now compelled to reply once more to your proposal . . .
6
When the beat of horses’ hooves and the roll of carriage wheels drew near, Eliza lifted her pen awa
y from the paper, placed it back into the inkwell, and moved to the window. Along the hilltop that overlooked the vicarage, at the crossroads where the moon bathed the night sky deep purple and shone brightest, a gentleman’s carriage rambled toward her as a black silhouette.
As the carriage rumbled closer, she watched a lean figure leap down from a horse and sprint toward the house. A moment later, someone pounded upon the front door. Quick as she could, Eliza pulled on her day dress of brown linen instead of her robe. She took her candle in hand and went out into the hall, where she met Fiona. The woman had hastily donned her robe, and her cap sat awry above a pair of anxious eyes.
Fiona puffed out a breath. “At this hour? Who would be so rude as to wake us in the middle of the night?”
“We won’t know until we open the door.”
“I would not advise that,” Fiona said, following Eliza.
Together they hurried down the stairs to the door. Eliza reached for the latch.
“It may be the new vicar and his family arriving early.”
“Wait,” said Fiona in a low voice. “You cannot be too sure. Ask who it is first. It could be robbers.”
Wise words, Eliza agreed. “Who is there?” she called out. “What is it you want?”
“A messenger, ma’am, from Mr. Hayward Morgan.”
Setting the candle down, Eliza drew back the bolt and peered outside. On the doorstep stood the boy who had taken her horse the day she went to Havendale.
“Sorry to wake you. But he says it’s important, and waits in his carriage to speak to you.”
“Tell Mr. Morgan I shall meet with him.”
“Eliza?” said Fiona.
“Shh. Mr. Hayward has come all this way in the middle of the night, and it would be discourteous of me to send him away.”
With a nod, the boy hurried back to the carriage, where he leaned up and spoke through the window. Eliza snatched her cloak off the hook and swung it over her shoulders. Fiona looked worried. “Do not be anxious for me,” Eliza said. “Wait here by the door.”
