Amber looked up at her, struck by what she’d said even as doubt and fear lingered in her mind.
Suzanne continued. “No one can expect approval from every other person in the world—even the young woman you were in London did not expect such a thing—but I believe all of us can expect those few who matter to us to see past our limitations.
“My sister has had a twist in her back all her life which leaves her walking with an awkwardness that appears painful, though she assures us it is not. She married a good man who saw past her physicality, and they have three children, one of whom is of simple mind and yet loved as wholly as his brother and sister. I would have hoped your family would be the first to accept you regardless of this circumstance, but even if they should not, I do not believe everyone would be so dismissive. In fact, I am certain they would not. Mr. Richards, for example, has been courteous and kind from the start. I believe he has an interest in knowing you better and that his request to borrow a book is an excuse to be close to you.”
“He is curious,” Amber said dismissively.
“And what if it is more than that? What if he is the very kind of man who has seen your goodness already and would therefore accept the whole of you?”
“How could I possibly know that he would accept me?” Amber asked, a plea in her voice. “And how could I survive it if he did not? If so a kind man as Mr. Richards cannot accept me, what hope would I have for others to do what he could not?”
Suzanne frowned but Amber continued before Suzanne could pose another argument. “While I am humbled by your family’s difficulties and even envious of such acceptance, I could not expect to be included in your class and have never seen such acceptance reflected in the people of my station—simple-minded children are given to others to raise. I dare not think how a girl child born with a twisted back would be received. How can I know who within my society might accept me and who would not? Without knowing I would be safe, I could never take such a risk.”
Suzanne frowned and turned away. “For that I have no answer,” she said softly, regretfully. “I only believe that there are people in every society who would prefer the heart you have grown, to the beauty you left behind to find it.”
Chapter 38
It was fortunate for Thomas’s peace of mind that the weather had warmed enough to keep him working in the fields every spare hour until Tuesday morning and his planned visit to Step Cottage. He rode out to his property only long enough to plan the day with his bailiff before returning to Peakview and updating his ledger. Though he had attempted to distract himself from thoughts of the mistress of Step Cottage, he had been unable to cast them from his mind completely, no matter how many fence posts he set and ditches he cleared.
The day was cold so once he was in the saddle he turned up his collar and pulled his hat down low. He kicked Farthing into a run, which fairly froze his face but would make the trip to the cottage faster. When he slowed down to turn onto the road that led to the cottage directly, he adjusted his scarf and had the thought enter his mind that he was being drawn here for a reason. He shivered for a reason other than temperature.
He believed in God’s hand directing the lives of people, and Thomas had felt such promptings and positioning in his life before. He could not discount the possibility of it happening again. True, Miss Sterlington had flaws, but he found himself doubting that those flaws were as prominent as they once were. The traits that seemed more important to him now were her graciousness regarding his helping Mrs. Miller return to the cottage, her humility in caring for herself, and her willingness to let him peruse the library and organize the records. To say nothing of the invigoration he felt that was exactly as it had been in London. She was different now. She was changed, and those changes increased his interest more than ever. It was frightening, and yet he was here all the same. Curious. Eager. Drawn.
Mrs. Miller let him in, and he removed his coat and hat while surveying the area in hopes of catching a glimpse of Miss Sterlington. In a cottage this size, she could certainly not be far but it seemed as though she was once again in hiding.
In the parlor there was quite an array of trunks, but Mrs. Miller led him to the library where a set of candles had been lit, presumably to offset the gray skies outside the single window. The fire warmed the room quite comfortably. “I shall bring in a tea tray straight away.”
“I told your mistress in my letter that I am not in need of such attention,” Thomas said, just as he had the time before.
“It is the wish of my mistress that you should be most comfortable, and the tray is already prepared.” The woman bowed out of the room and disappeared. She had been gone only moments before Thomas heard the creak of the floorboards and knew that Miss Sterlington had returned to her place on stairs, just as she had for his prior visit to the library.
How easy it would be to move quickly to the bottom of those stairs and see her there before she could escape. It was a deliciously tempting thought that brought a grin to his face, and yet he did not do it. Instead he turned his attention to the library and perused the bookshelves while awaiting the maid to return with tea. He had come for the book of Donne’s poetry, but realized that some of the books had been moved, rearranged. Had Miss Sterlington organized the books?
He had not been exaggerating when he’d said in his letter that the library at the cottage held an impressive collection of literature in English, French, and Latin. The book of poetry he was looking for was not where he’d found it before, and so he took his time perusing the shelves and becoming familiar with the entire collection. It did not take long to find the slim volume he recognized between two other books. He had only just removed it when the maid returned and placed the tea service on the small table beside the settee.
“Thank you, Mrs. Miller,” he said as she added cream and one spoonful of sugar to his tea. She’d obviously remembered how he liked his tea from his last visit. There was only one cup on the tray but he pretended not to notice. “Will your mistress be joining me?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Mrs. Miller said as she set the pot back on the tray. “She is not one for company.”
“And yet she goes to such pains to be welcoming,” he pointed out.
“Yes, sir,” she said with a slight incline of her head. She met his eyes with an expression he did not fully understand, though he had the strangest sense that she wished she could tell him more. He kept his own expression open and inviting, but Mrs. Miller turned to move out of the room and left him to his own company. His eyes moved in the direction of the place where he believed Miss Sterlington sat upon the stairs and he wondered if she felt the least bit tempted to accept his invitation.
He sat in the leather chair that creaked slightly beneath his weight and when he moved to set down Donne’s book of poetry, he noticed a book on the end table. He knew Shakespeare’s Richard II well from his days at Oxford where he had first pursued the study of playwrights and literature before turning his full attention to agriculture.
He opened the pages to the bookmark, a slip of rose-colored fabric embroidered with flowers. He set the book, page-side down, upon his leg then rubbed the fabric between his fingers, sipped his tea, and contemplated the woman on the stairs.
Chapter 39
Amber leaned her head against the wall and listened to every footfall as Mr. Richards crossed to the bookshelves and back, every page he turned, and every chink of the cup and saucer as he enjoyed the tea and lemon cake she’d baked that morning. Suzanne had brought four lemons from town the day before, and Amber was quite pleased with the resulting confection. She hoped Mr. Richards would also be pleased, and was glad that there hadn’t been time to cancel his visit, as she’d told Suzanne she would like to do. After learning of Constance and considering more deeply her own circumstance, Amber felt more lost than ever. Mr. Richards’s visit seemed a silly thing to allow—what did she hope to gain from it? And yet when Suzanne had insisted they could not cancel, Amber had not argued much. She did
want him to come, she simply feared she shouldn’t. That he was here, however, was quite lovely. The house felt different with him in it, and she allowed herself to push away the heartache of the last few days. She closed her eyes and instead of wallowing in her self-pity, she imagined she had accepted his invitation to join him for tea.
She fantasized that she wore her blue-striped day dress and sat on the settee while he sat beside her in the chair with the table between them. He would cross one foot over his knee and hold his saucer in one hand while they talked of the weather and the coming spring. How she wished she knew his face so that she could add it to her daydream. She did not let that take her out of the fantasy, however. In light of these past days, she was content to be lost in this ideal, just for a moment.
Perhaps he would share a humorous story regarding his last hunting trip, and she would tell him of . . . of what? Of how to perfectly flavor a chicken stew? Or how long to let the coals cool before putting a pan of bread upon them?
She opened her eyes and allowed the daydream to slip away. Reality was a heavy thing. She listened to the creak of the very chair she had imagined him sitting in as part of her daydream and smiled sadly. He was so very close to her, and yet in ways that truly mattered, he could not be further away.
Eventually, Amber heard the turning of pages and suspected he was looking through the book he’d come to borrow. Then a rumbling sound came from the library. It took her a moment to realize it was his voice, quiet as though not wanting to be overheard. Amber held her breath to better hear what he was saying, then rose carefully and came down a few more steps until she could decipher his words. She realized quickly that he was not simply talking to himself, rather he was reading.
Before the discovery of the trunk contents had distracted her, she had finished the first act of Richard II and left the book out so as begin act two upon her return to the material. It seemed he was reading where she had left off. He had beautiful oration, and his words left her feeling both chilled and warmed in the same moment. She leaned her head against the wall that separated them and closed her eyes, allowing his voice to move through her.
“With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world . . .”
Amber wished she had left out something other than one of Shakespeare’s histories, and yet it seemed beautiful in his low-toned timbre. She felt sure he would stop when he reached the end of Gaunt’s monologue, but he did not. Instead, his voice changed in intonation enough to define a new voice—Edmund, she thought—and he continued with an impassioned speech. Amber soon found herself lost in the patterns and lyrics of his voice as the story of Richard II came to life within the cottage.
When he stopped reading some time later, she blinked her eyes open and straightened on the step. How long had she listened to him? And only two steps from the main floor! She heard the cover of the book close softly and came to her feet. He stood as well but then seemed to cross the room away from her direction, toward the window and the desk.
She should run up the stairs and secure her hiding place before he found her, and yet instead she tiptoed down the two remaining steps and peered around the stairwell, allowing herself only a few moments to take in the back of his charcoal coat pulled tight across broad shoulders. Her heart rate increased as she took note of the way his coat tapered at the waist and the dark brown sheen of his hair. In the candlelight from the mantel, it looked like chocolate not yet set.
She both saw and heard him open the desk drawer and remove a piece of parchment. He pulled back his coat and sat in the wooden chair before the desk—the very same position she would take when writing a letter. He reached for the quill from the stock, and she became fairly giddy with expectation of what he might be writing.
She realized, suddenly, that a quick look over his shoulder would reveal her. She picked up her skirts and made her way as quietly as possible to the second floor. Certainly he wouldn’t hear the creaking steps, would he? She remained out of sight at the top of the stairs and therefore heard him stride from the room.
“Mrs. Miller?” he called.
Suzanne hurried to meet him in the foyer as he retrieved his outer coat, hat, and scarf.
“Did you find the book you wished to borrow, Mr. Richards?” Suzanne asked him.
How Amber wished she could watch him again without being seen. She wanted to memorize the shape of the mouth that had read so beautifully and see into the eyes that must reflect great feeling. She knew the basics of his carriage now and sensed his manner to be gentle. She ached to know more of him, ached to speak with him, and learn of him. Such foolish longings were ridiculous, of course. The fact remained that she could not gain closeness without him being equally close to her and that was not a possibility.
“I did and would like you to extend my thanks to your mistress for allowing me to borrow it.”
“She would extend her welcome to you, of course,” Suzanne said.
Amber heard the creak of the door open and footsteps as Mr. Richards took his leave. She moved toward her bedchamber so as to watch him ride away but then remembered the letter he had written and changed her direction.
As soon as the front door closed behind him, she ran down the stairs and fairly flew into the library. Her eyes located the cream paper on the desk without her feet ever having to stop. With the paper in her hands, she sat down on the chair still warm from his occupancy and unfolded the letter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Suzanne come to stand in the doorway.
Mrs. Chandler,
I express my most sincere thanks for the loan of your book and would very much like to repay your kindness by inviting you to tea this coming Friday. I know you do not care to venture out, and I would therefore bring all the requirements if your housekeeper could but have hot water available. I can promise absolute discretion in regards to our appointment. Such a visit would also allow me to return the book I have borrowed.
It is my greatest wish that you will allow me this opportunity, and unless I am informed otherwise, I shall believe my invitation is as agreeable to you as it is to myself. I shall plan to arrive at one o’clock.
Most kindly yours,
Thomas Richards
Amber lowered the letter and the shock she felt must have shown on her expression.
“Amber?” Suzanne asked, coming into the room. “What is it?”
Amber blinked. “He wants to return and bring tea on Friday.”
Suzanne pulled her eyebrows together. “Bring tea?”
Amber looked back at the letter. “He says that due to my not wanting to venture out, he would bring tea here for both of us to enjoy at the cottage. All he needs from us is hot water, which is reasonable. I suppose it would be impossible to transport hot water such a distance.”
“Oh,” Suzanne said, her eyebrows rising this time as a smile played across her lips. “He is to call on you.”
Amber leaned back in the chair and lowered the letter to her lap as reality descended like a stone. “He cannot call on me,” she said, turning to look toward the copy of Richard II now returned to the end table where she had left it, the scrap of fabric she had used as a bookmark draped from the new place within its pages. Her spirits, so lifted a moment ago, sank into the too familiar state of regret. “I shall have to send you with word that I am unable to accommodate his request.”
Suzanne crossed the room and sat on the settee. “Would you read the letter for me?”
Amber read the letter aloud, then looked to Suzanne, whose expression was far too pleased. “He is most sincere in his attentions and seems mind
ful of your desire for privacy,” Suzanne said.
“He cannot call,” Amber said again, hating the truth but unable to ignore it. She had been too welcoming from the start and given rise to his curiosity. To welcome him to the library but not meet him in person, to have been presented to the town as reclusive and yet attentive to his every comfort during his visits—it was no wonder he was interested in better understanding her person. What a fool she was to have let this go so far. “I cannot receive him.”
“Are you most certain of that?” Suzanne asked, reminding Amber of the discussion they had had on this very topic just last night.
“I am repulsive, Suzanne,” she said, quietly and filled with regret. “I cannot hide it from him, and I cannot bear his reaction. I know it is hard for you to understand, but my society is not like yours. He would reject me. I know it.”
“You are not repulsive,” Suzanne said. “And you found that paint in those trunks belonging to Constance Sterlington, did you not?”
“I have already told you my feelings about using face paints.”
Suzanne crossed to the candelabra near the fireplace. She blew out the flames, taking the room into shadowy darkness thanks to the skies dulled with gray clouds. She crossed to the other candleholder near the door and blew out that flame as well, inviting even more darkness.
“He thinks you an eccentric widow. Let him come and enjoy tea in a darkened room. We could tell him that the light is painful to your eyes or some such thing. With the shadow and some carefully painted brows in place of your own, you shall appear unobjectionable and his curiosity will be appeased, as will yours.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” Amber said, breathless at the very idea. Yet it was the true reason for her breathlessness that concerned her more than the suggestion. As Suzanne laid out the potential plan, Amber felt such a stir of excitement and possibility that she could not deny her desire to do exactly what Suzanne suggested. To sit across from him and sip tea and eat biscuits as she once had done with any number of gentlemen? To see those eyes and hear that voice directed toward her?
A Heart Revealed Page 24
