by Joyce Alec
As if she was thinking this very same thing, she turned her attention back to him and away from the roses once more.
“Tell me, Lord Bridgewater. What is something that you dream of?”
He looked at her very closely. He did not think that she was mocking him in any way, nor did he think that she was being unnecessarily wistful. In fact, her gaze was steady, and he felt welcomed by it.
“Something that I dream of…”
They continued to walk among the fragrant blooms, the sunlight making them even more brilliantly vibrant than they usually were beneath a clouded sky. His hands were clasped behind his back, hers in front of herself. They were a lovely image, the two of them together, and the importance of the moment was not lost on him.
He stopped walking, and looked out over the garden, her face in his periphery. He wondered how best to answer her question. She would know all of his hopes and dreams eventually, he realized, and the thought excited him. But how much would perhaps frighten her? How much was appropriate to share with her now?
“I dream of a grand library one day, one full of books that I have accumulated from many places and over many years. I dream of…” he stopped himself, and a quiet laugh escaped him.
“What is it?” she asked, taking a step toward him.
“You will think me very strange,” he said. He wondered what had compelled him to share something so small in the grand scheme of life, and yet also…
“I believe there is very little that would cause me to think that you were strange, my lord."
He appreciated her encouraging words. “All right. Well, one day, I hope to write a book.”
“A book?” she said, and the excitement and delight in her voice was obvious. “Why, that is an admirable dream.”
“You truly think so?” he said, relieved that she had responded in such a way.
“I do,” she said, her face settling into a thoughtful expression.
“And what about you, Lady Agnes?” he asked as they fell into step beside each other once more. “What is a dream that you have?”
She was looking at her feet, yet she seemed pleased.
“I dream of a family,” she began simply. “I dream of being a good, humble wife to you and of children enough to fill the estate. I believe in a good, simple life, and I look forward to that reality greatly.”
She turned to look into his eyes expectantly, and he felt a very heavy weight in his chest, as if he had swallowed a stone.
She wished for him to respond to what she had said, and despite the knowledge, he was unable to come to a conclusion of what to say in reply.
“I…” he began, feeling his hands clenched together begin to perspire.
“There you two are!”
They looked up to see Beatrice winding her way through the roses toward them.
“I was beginning to think that you had left the estate!” she giggled, and she crossed the distance and laced her arm through Lady Agnes’s.
She beamed at her brother. “Mother was calling for you. Dinner is to be ready soon, and you know how she is if it gets cold.”
And before either of them had another chance to speak, Beatrice had pulled Lady Agnes up along the path and back toward the manor.
He lingered for another moment, her voice playing in his mind like a familiar and deeply echoing song. It moved his heart that her dream was so pure. She longed to be a good wife and mother. These were admirable things, especially since he had said his dream was to have a library and to write a book.
How ridiculous could he have been? He had every opportunity to impress her, to woo her, and he had not. Certainly his dreams were decent, but they were not what she had so willingly shared.
And yet, he realized, her dream was sobering for him as well. He had never taken the idea of marriage lightly, but having it thrust upon him so openly, and from the woman he would marry no less, made it that much more real and that much more frightening. He had always thought that marriage would come to him later in life, that it was always in the future, never in the present. It was here, and it was real, and it was something that he had to face sooner or later. He was not sure that he was ready, and that thought scared him more than anything.
Scolding himself and his stupidity, he followed his sister and Lady Agnes, who had taken to looking over her shoulder at him, but he kept his distance, for the fear in his heart was gripping him like a weighted stone, uncomfortable and ever present.
3
Lady Agnes and her family had been at the manor for a week. They had been very nice days, full of laughter floating down the halls, delicious meals prepared by their family cook, and even a trip into town one afternoon for some ribbons for the ball they were to hold at the end of their stay to announce the wedding.
John, however, had not participated in any of it. An unadulterated fear had taken hold of him, so much so that he could not find the strength to face Lady Agnes. She had been nothing but amiable toward him, and he on the other hand could not bring himself to be the same toward her. He had resolved that she would be much happier away from him and his bizarre behavior for the time being until he could figure out how he was going to speak with her once more.
One afternoon he was holed up in the library, hoping against all hope that everyone would just leave him alone. He could not process his thoughts if he was constantly being interrupted. He had to discern where this fear was coming from and put it to rest. He could not face Lady Agnes again until he had.
Images of her face continued to taunt him, and he felt both elated and ashamed. He spent many hours thinking of what little he knew of her and how much he liked what he did know. The longer he sat and wallowed in his own frustrations, the more he felt as if he was doing Lady Agnes a great disservice.
His mother had become very cross with him and had made her feelings about his behavior known after dinner the previous night.
“This young lady has traveled all of this way for you, John, and you are all but ignoring her.”
“I’m not ignoring her, Mother,” he had muttered under his breath, realizing how very false those words were.
“Then what would you say to your actions? Suddenly solitude has become your fancy?”
He knew she was right, and yet, he could not bring himself to answer to any of her accusations. Not without agreeing with her, and then admitting defeat, stripping himself of all of his dignity. There was a soft knock at the door as he slid yet another finished tome up on the shelf where it belonged.
“Come in,” he called, stepping down from the ladder.
Robert, John’s younger brother, stepped inside, closely followed by Beatrice.
“Hello, John,” Robert began. His auburn hair swept over his broad forehead, dusting his eyebrows, throwing his steady, narrow green eyes into shadow.
John straightened his collar before he moved to the next shelf, looking for the book he wanted to read next. “What can I do for you?” He asked, stepping back up on the ladder after he moved it securely into place.
“We are going to town again,” Beatrice continued for her brother. She glared at John. “Lady Agnes is coming with us. We were hoping that you might come along as well.”
“No,” John answered, almost as a habit, not even looking over his shoulder. “I have far too much to do here.”
“Oh, come off it,” Robert said rather sourly, all pretense of sympathy vanishing like mist on a sunny morning. “This ridiculous behavior has got to stop, John, and you know it.”
John felt his cheeks flush, so he hesitated before looking down over his shoulder at the pair of them. “What if I simply have no interest in going to town today? It is simply too cool to spend the day in the carriage.”
“First it is too hot, then it is too cold?” Beatrice asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. “John, we are worried about you. This is...this is so unlike you.” She took a hesitant step toward him. “Please, dear brother. What can we do to help you get over whatever all this is?”
John tapped the spine of the book he was looking at, even though his eyes were not focused on anything in particular. He did not respond. His sister was speaking the very words that he had been scolding himself with before they had walked in.
“A wonderful young lady is staying here, in case you had forgotten,” Robert added, the disdain plain in his voice. “She is planning to marry some buffoon who can’t seem to string two words together in her presence.”
John swallowed hard and pulled a random text from the shelf, opening it up to the middle and pretending he was looking for something. He knew there was nothing in there he needed. He simply wished to bury himself from his brother and sister’s view.
“What is the matter?” Robert asked, a little more gently. He wondered if Beatrice had flattened him with one of her terse looks. “Are you completely uninterested in the poor girl? Are you thinking of calling the wedding off, you detest her so much?”
The book in his hand slapped shut with a snap, and dust was thrust up into the air before him, causing his eyes to water.
His siblings did not say a word as he climbed down the ladder slowly, laid the book down to rest on the little table with the oil lamp beside him, and looked up at them.
“What would make you think that I detest her?”
Robert’s face hardened. “She thinks that, John!”
John blinked. “What?”
Beatrice looked pleadingly at her oldest brother. “He is not making that up. Lady Agnes thinks that you simply are not interested and are too polite to say so.”
“Or too much of a coward,” Robert added, the acid in his voice returning.
John held up his hand to quiet the two of them. His heart felt as if it was both in his throat and at his feet at the same time. All of the anticipation and excitement he had been feeling about the coming wedding came plummeting to the ground around him. How was it that he was so dull? How could he have expected her to think anything else? Of course she would not simply think he was shy or childish. No, a grown woman would read the signs much more plainly.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
Robert pursed his lips, and looked at Beatrice.
Beatrice shared an anxious glance with Robert, and then looked at John. “She told me.”
“What?” he asked.
She held up her hands, hoping to steady her brother’s anger that must have been evident on his face. “She sort of told me in passing.”
“What exactly did she say?” John pressed, feeling the tightness in his chest growing more intense.
Beatrice sighed. “She didn’t exactly say it...”
John frowned and took a step toward her, opening his mouth to retort.
“She and I were sitting in the sunroom the other day, and she asked where you were. When I told her as nicely as I could that you had been feeling under the weather for the last few days,” she shot him a dark look, “You are quite welcome, by the way. Anyways, she just sort of looked at me with sad eyes and shook her head. She said, ‘That’s quite all right. I know that he has been avoiding me. Frankly I found him quite amiable when I first arrived. Perhaps my first impression was not suitable.’ And I went on to tell her how wonderful she was and how much of a prat that you are, John.”
John felt the sting of her words and forced himself not to recoil.
“Now, if you have any hope of maintaining a marriage that has not even begun, then you must undo what damage has been done,” she continued. Her face fell, and her eyes sunk to the floor. “She is quite a lovely young lady, brother. You are doing her a great disservice by treating her this way.”
John straightened his shoulders. “No, sister, you are quite right. I...” he sighed. “I apologize. I just...”
Robert and Beatrice studied him, waiting for him to continue.
“I cannot explain it, but something about her has me so...mesmerized. She is unlike any other woman that I have ever met. There is such joy in her and such gentleness.”
"And this is the reason that you avoid her?" Robert's anger returned, and he glared at his brother. "That is preposterous. How could any man keep that from a woman?"
He turned away from them and walked to the window, peering out into the gardens. The sky was open; not a cloud was visible. The trees fluttered ever so slightly in the breeze, and the river churned along happily below him.
“I am at a loss for what to say to her, for I have never been trained on how to speak to a woman like that.”
“You speak to her like any other, brother,” Beatrice replied, almost laughing with disbelief. “She is not some sort of bizarre creature that you make her out to be.”
“That is not what I meant,” he said. “Most women I have had the pleasure of knowing are all mystery and flirtation and even some deception. I know how to speak to them, I understand that. But Lady Agnes is so...”
“Genuine?” Robert finished for her.
John turned and looked at his brother, whose arms were crossed now. He shrugged, and John nodded.
“Yes,” John replied, his voice no louder than a whisper.
Robert sighed heavily and let his arms fall to his sides. “All right, I can forgive you for your idiocy, for I believe that you meant no harm.” He shook his head. “You really are taken with her, aren’t you?”
John felt his jaw tighten.
“I cannot explain it,” John repeated. “But you are right, I must be better. I must not allow my feelings to get the better of me.”
Beatrice seemed pleased, and Robert was no longer scowling.
“So, to town then?” John asked.
“You’re coming?” Beatrice asked, her happiness brightening the room.
“I do not have much time to make amends,” John said. “I might as well try now.”
He gathered up his books and returned them to the shelf, and then followed his sister and brother down to the foyer to meet the rest of the party going into town.
He looked around, hoping for a glance of the Lady Agnes, and yet, she was not there.
"Where is the Lady?" Robert asked before John had the chance to.
They heard footsteps on the stairs behind them and turned to see his mother and Lady Kensington descending the stairs. The grave looks on their faces made him uneasy.
"What is it, Mother?" he asked, feeling the color draining from his face.
She came to the landing, and sighed. "I'm sorry, children, but we must postpone our trip to town. Lady Agnes has fallen ill."
"What?" they all exclaimed, taking a step towards the women.
"What ever is the matter?" John asked, feeling more affronted than he perhaps had the right to. The thought made his heart constrict anxiously.
His mother looked up at him. "It is nothing serious, but the poor girl is uncomfortable. A cold, we believe. And it appeared to come out of nowhere. She was feeling faint and chilled, and so we took her to her room and discovered that she was warm with fever."
John felt his heart sink. The chance he had to be able to make amends with her was gone now.
"What can I do?" he asked, approaching Lady Kensington.
Lady Kensington looked down at her hands which were clasped in front of herself. "There is not much to do, frankly. She just needs to rest, and hopefully in a few days, she will be back to normal."
John could hear the coldness in her voice. Had he upset Lady Kensington as well? How could he not, if she was paying any attention at all to how her daughter was feeling? It would make sense if she didn't want him near her with how he had been treating her.
His mother apologized to the others who had wanted to go into town, but John was gazing at the polished stone floor beneath his feet.
It didn't matter how he had acted up to this point; he still had the chance to make things right before her family reconsidered their decision. He may have been acting like a complete nuisance to them all, like a dog with its tail between its legs, but he could fix it.
"Lady Kensington," he said, turning to her
once more, cutting his mother off in mid-sentence. They all looked at him, startled. "My apologies," he added hastily. "I would like to do all I can to ensure that my bride to be is well taken care of. It will be my job very soon, after all."
Lady Kensington studied his face as if looking for a hint of truth in his words. He hoped that it was plain on his face. Her face was blank, her eyes narrowed.
"Thank you, Lord Bridgewater, but you have done all that you can for now. Your concern will mean much to her."
With that, she excused herself from the room.
He watched her walk out of the room, and he felt a pressure on his arm. He looked down to see his mother squeezing just above his elbow.
"I am not sure what you are thinking, dear son, but you will do best to tread carefully from now on."
"Mother, I -"
She shook her head. "I do not know what you have been thinking for this last week..."
Robert made a noise of disgust from across the room, and John shot him a nasty look.
His mother glared at the two of them and then looked up into John's face once more. "If you are going to try and get to know Lady Agnes, then I suggest you do so in a way that will be received well."
"How do I do that?" he asked. He could not tell if she was furious with him, or simply pitied him. He also was uncertain which he would prefer she was.
"You must be patient and find a chance to speak with her. Explain to her what has been on your mind." She looked at him straight in the eye. "You must be genuine, my son. Let her know that you are there for her."
"Mother, you are acting as if she is far more ill than she is," Robert added, crossing his arms.
She sighed. "I must go inform your father that we are not going today. Perhaps we can enjoy some tea out on the terrace before the heat of the day leaves us. It is quite cooler than I had expected."
He looked at Beatrice and Robert with a meaningful look. Both turned and looked away. Everyone else dispersed, and before he had the chance to return to the study for another afternoon of mindless reading, Jane approached him.
"If you wish to do something for the lass, then bring her something warm to drink. Think of it as a peace offering of sorts."
