Journeys

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  If only she had sought him out! But she had not.

  For the first time in his life, he knew the pain of a broken heart.

  He decided to give Dorothea some time before trying to pursue her again. Perhaps Helen could convince her to give him another chance. No matter what Dorothea said, he was determined to make amends. Perhaps God’s will was for them to be apart—but if so, he prayed that their separation would prove to be God’s will for only a short while.

  Stratford felt one certainty in his heart. He wasn’t about to give up his love for Dorothea without a fight. And he knew the best strategy for regaining her confidence.

  After the weekend was through, he wrote her a missive:

  My dearest Dorothea,

  I pray that this message finds you well and in a humor to grant me a favor I do not deserve. That favor is your forgiveness. I regret anything I said or did that caused you the least bit of heartache, trouble, embarrassment, or offense. How can I make amends to you, my dearest? I can think of nothing too unreasonable, too difficult, or too impossible for me to try if it would help you love me again.

  Please respond as soon as you can. After I receive your answer, I will ride like the wind to be by your side if only for the briefest of moments. If only I can hear your sweet voice that no music can duplicate, see your face that the word “beautiful” is insufficient to describe, touch your hands to which no velvet can compare in softness. Then, and only then, can I claim any amount of happiness once again.

  Please send me a favorable reply. I await your letter eagerly.

  Yours,

  Stratford

  He folded the paper and heated a pot of crimson sealing wax over a candle’s flame. With care he dripped the hot resin on the fold to close the letter, then stamped it with the seal of his family coat of arms. He blew a kiss onto the wax, schoolboyish action though it was. Perhaps now that she had had a few days to reconsider their conversation, she would give him a favorable response.

  He waited a day. And another day.

  Nothing.

  At least she hadn’t returned his letter back to him with a message never to try to contact her again. But that fact comforted him little.

  He tried sending a letter to her each day. Perhaps if he persisted in sending his messengers to the estate, someone would notice and he would be invited to visit, if not by Dorothea, perhaps by Luke. Then he could hope that they could bump into one another. Perhaps if she saw him again, the situation might take a turn for the better.

  Hope persisting in his heart, Stratford sent Dorothea a letter each day, five days in a row.

  Still no response.

  His foul mood evidenced itself at breakfast on Friday.

  “So your lady friend still has not sent you an answer?” Gilbert guessed.

  Stratford cut into the slice of bacon on the china plate painted with pink flowers, a feminine pattern selected by his mother when his parents were first betrothed. “No. I have no idea why. I wish she would write something, anything. Even if she were to tell me she never wanted to see me again, I would think she would grant me the courtesy of a response.”

  “Perhaps she thinks if she ignores you, you will give up your quest for her.”

  “She knows me better than that.”

  Gilbert set down a glass he had just drained of juice. “Fine. Sulk all you like, but she cannot see you in your misery, so what good does a sour humor do for anyone? I suggest you ride into the village and take lunch in the tavern. Maybe seeing some other people will cheer you.”

  Stratford considered the idea. “I must admit, the thought does sound like a good idea. Will you not join me?”

  “Not this time. I have some correspondence I must complete before I can consider any sort of outing. You have been keeping me so busy with your excellent opportunities for fishing that I fear I have fallen quite behind.”

  “I am so glad I have been able to provide you with the entertainment you prefer, my friend. Do remember me in your correspondence to our mutual acquaintances, will you not?”

  “Indeed.”

  That afternoon Stratford decided to take his friend’s advice, and so he rode into the village. Perhaps the acquisition of a stylish new garment would lift his spirits. As he hitched his horse to a vacant post near the hub of the commercial center, he spotted the only man he didn’t want to see. Clayton Forsythe. Just seeing the man left Stratford with a queasy feeling. If only he had told Dorothea the cheat’s real identity first rather than just revealing that he himself, not the imposter, had paid her bills. But Dorothea had abandoned their conversation—and him—before anything else could be revealed. As far as Dorothea knew, Forsythe was still Baron Hans von Lunenburg. And Stratford knew that Clayton Forsythe wanted to keep it that way.

  “Brunswick!” the man called before Stratford could pretend he hadn’t seen him. Lunenburg crossed the dirt path that served as the main thoroughfare to speak to him. “It is good to see you again, old man. Was that not an excellent gathering at the Wickfords’ the other night?”

  “Excellent.” He petted his horse on the nose, not wanting to ask the question that formed on his lips. He found to his distress that he couldn’t stop himself. “How is your portrait coming along?”

  “Excellent. You may not know much, old man, but you do know art. She is painting a most exquisite portrait of my personage. The definitive image of my lifetime, I will venture.”

  “Good.” His voice managed to express a deceptive amount of vigor.

  “I would almost say I owe you a debt. In fact, perhaps I do. I have asked permission to court Dorothea, and Luke has been gracious enough to grant that permission.”

  Stratford froze. “Indeed.” He felt his lips barely move. “And the lady has accepted?”

  Lunenburg guffawed with skilled overconfidence. “Considering that everyone witnessed your harsh exchange at the party, how can you even bring her acceptance into question?”

  Of course! How could he have expected not a soul to be privy to Dorothea’s hurried flight from him? Could he have thought that no one would have observed the way he chased her, begging her to reconsider? And naturally, such a small parish would relish spreading such intriguing gossip.

  Stratford tried to control his breathing from becoming ragged with rage. Sending up a silent prayer for the discipline not to give in to his anger, he reached into his satchel for a cube of sugar and fed it to the horse. He watched the animal consume the treat so he wouldn’t have to look Lunenburg in the eye.

  “Your silence only confirms how right I am,” Lunenburg said. “Lady Dorothea Witherspoon is no longer your concern.”

  Fuming, Stratford decided not to retort, lest he regret his words. The horse finished his treat, and Stratford tipped his hat. “I have many errands to run here in the village, and the merchants will be closing their doors in an hour. I must be on my way. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon.” A triumphant smile curved Lunenburg’s lips.

  Stratford knitted his brow as a dark mood overtook him. Unwanted images of Dorothea holding court with Clayton Forsythe sickened him.

  A sore loser, are you not?

  Stratford put his nagging conscience aside. Perhaps he deserved such self-recrimination. Perhaps his confession had only heightened her opinion of Lunenburg. And that was the danger. Even if he deserved Dorothea’s spurning, he knew one thing: Dorothea did not deserve to be taken into the web of a confidence man—an insect who wrapped innocent victims in a silken thread of sweet lies and cunning deceit. Stratford imagined that if Dorothea continued her ill-advised dalliance, she would discover the man would strip her of all she held dear—her pride, what remained of her fortune, her very future. No. He couldn’t allow it.

  Even if she doesn’t want me, surely she must be saved from Clayton.

  Surely a plan would come to mind without delay. He could only hope.

  ❧

  Helen walked out the west portico, looking for her cousin. “Oh, Dorothea, Luke jus
t told me! How fortunate you are that Baron von Lunenburg has finally asked to court you!” Helen nearly jumped up and down in her glee.

  Sitting in a rocker so she could take advantage of the sun even though the ball of fire played hide-and-seek amid clouds, Dorothea looked up from her book. After her devotional and Bible reading, she had selected a silly story in hopes of taking her mind off of her argument with Stratford and her nagging questions as to why he hadn’t bothered to try to contact her since the night of the party—the night that took her to the heights of a mountaintop, then sent her crashing down to the rocks at its bottom. Dorothea was only too happy to immerse herself in the sorrows of a heroine who had just lost her only true love to a kidnapping by a gang of pirates. But Helen, well-intentioned though she was, had only brought Dorothea back to a cheerless reality.

  “Yes. He did ask.” Her voice reflected as much dread as an ill-prepared student would display when presented with a surprise test.

  Helen sat in the rocker beside Dorothea’s and placed her hand on her arm. “What is the matter, Dorothea?”

  How could she tell Helen? “I–I have not made up my mind whether or not I want to be courted by Hans. Or anyone else.”

  “Surely you jest. Any other woman in the parish would be thrilled for the chance. How many times have I told you that Baron von Lunenburg is a wealthy and popular man?”

  She ran her fingertips over the edge of the pages of her novel. “He must not be too popular, since I seem to be the only woman he visits.”

  “On the contrary, the fact that he visits here every day is only serving to make you—and us—more popular. Everyone wins.”

  Everyone but me.

  Hans was charming enough, but how could Dorothea tell Helen that she just didn’t love him? Not like she loved Stratford. Even though they had argued, they had been apart no more than an hour before Dorothea saw that her feelings of adoration for Stratford remained. She thought of him constantly whether she wanted to or not.

  She sensed Hans must have somehow discovered that she and Stratford had quarreled. Why else would he be so persistent in his pursuit of her? Then again, everyone in the parish gossiped about his love of competition. Dorothea wondered whether Hans really was interested in her or if beating out Stratford added excitement to the game. Whatever his motivation, as Helen pointed out, he was relentless about taking every opportunity to visit her. Dorothea was human enough to find the attention of a popular and attractive man flattering, but she couldn’t love Hans.

  Whenever Hans visited, Dorothea was polite but cool. How could she have any regard for a man who would let her think he did her a great favor when in fact someone else did? Why did Stratford pay her bills rather than letting Hans call in a favor with the judge? Did he feel sorry for her? Even worse, was he trying to buy her attentions? But if he was, then why did he wait to tell her about the arrangement after she had already confessed her love?

  Heavenly Father, please let the answers to all of my questions soon become evident.

  Dorothea wanted to counter Helen’s assumption that she should encourage Hans. Yet she had little ammunition to contradict her cousin’s opinion. Since the evening she and Stratford had argued, he hadn’t tried to contact her. Despite her harsh words, she longed to hear from him. Even if he would stop by just to see Luke, she could contrive to see him. But she never saw him, and no missive or message of any sort arrived. If only she had taken longer to complete his portrait. Her only current commissions were of Hans and of a neighbor’s daughter.

  Did her outburst extinguish Stratford’s love for her? She sighed. If their love was so weak, it could never withstand long years of marriage. Perhaps the dispute was God’s way of protecting her from future heartbreak. If only her heart didn’t have to break now!

  Eleven

  A fortnight had passed without a word from Stratford. Dorothea waited and watched, but no message arrived. Once she even thought she saw a messenger from the Brunswick estate ride up the drive, missive in hand. But Helen had assured her that no message had been sent to her.

  So when she peered out the window and saw Stratford himself arriving on horseback just as if it were another day of a portrait sitting, she gasped aloud. Seeing the dashing figure, she could hardly contain her feelings.

  If only he could be mine! What a fool I was to send him away!

  Still, she was tempted to run to her room. When she last saw him, he was begging for her to give him a chance, to listen to his side of the story. Perhaps he had changed his mind and decided that he had every right to be angry with her. Maybe the purpose of his visit was to unleash his ire, to tell her what he really thought of her. What if his rage had grown to such an extent that he planned to advise Luke to tell her that he was no longer willing to extend his hospitality to her? Perhaps such actions were the least that she deserved.

  Or what if he planned to apologize? What if he wanted to throw himself at her feet, to beg her forgiveness?

  Or what if she had overreacted and she was the one who owed him an apology?

  Whatever his intention, she had to face him sooner or later.

  Heavenly Father, give me strength, and guide my words and actions.

  She decided to remain in the drawing room, standing erect to show a confidence she didn’t feel.

  When his feet hit the front steps, Dorothea rushed to the door. If the butler answered and Stratford didn’t ask to see her, her opportunity would be lost. Perhaps she was wrong to race the faithful servant to the door. Stratford was sure to know it was unusual for Dorothea to answer his knock. Would he be able to discern her plan?

  So what if he does?

  “Dorothea!” Then, seeming to remember his manners, he tipped his hat.

  “Stratford. Do come in.” She stepped aside and allowed him to enter. As he walked by her, she noticed the familiar scent he wore—a clean fragrance of citrus.

  “Should I tell Luke you are here?”

  “In due time, I suppose.” He searched the foyer, apparently looking for someone to dispense with his coat and hat. She took both without a word and hung them on the rack near the entrance, realizing she needed to search for some type of explanation as to why she herself had answered the door. “I. . .uh. . .the butler is in the back of the house, and I saw no need to ring for him to answer when I just happened to be looking out and spotted you arriving.” There. She had managed to tell the truth.

  “I would rather see you than he any day. Or anyone else in this house, for that matter.”

  “Really?” So he wasn’t still vexed with her after all!

  “Really, if I may be so bold.” Query lit upon his eyes—fear that he had offended her?

  “And if I may be so bold, I do not regret your sentiment.”

  The look in his eyes told her he had missed her as much as she had longed for him.

  “Dorothea.” He took her in his embrace and stroked her cheek.

  “I thought you were angry with me.”

  “And I thought you were angry with me.”

  “I was for a time.” Realizing she couldn’t—or shouldn’t—remain in his arms indefinitely despite her aching desire to do so, she broke free of his embrace, though gently. “But I am angry no longer. After I had time to reflect upon our discourse, I came to the realization that I should not be cross with a man who was willing to make such a grand gesture to me, a stranger he had just met. I still do not understand why you chose to pay off my debts instead of letting Hans call in his favor with his friend the judge.”

  “I–I do not know that I should tell you.”

  “Have I not a right to know?”

  “The reason, I am afraid, is quite indelicate.” He peered into the drawing room. “Might we go somewhere more comfortable—and private?”

  Her curiosity was piqued to the point that she was unable to resist his suggestion. She escorted him into the room and took a seat. He sat across from her, with the tea table positioned between them.

  She didn’t wast
e time urging him to get to the point. “So what you have to say is indelicate?”

  He cleared his throat. “Obviously you are still unaware of the price you would have paid had I let you accept such a large favor from that man.”

  Dorothea felt confused. “What price? Please, tell me what you mean. I must know.”

  “I have struggled for a long time in seeking the best words to convey an indelicate subject. How shall I say this without offending your sensitive ears?” He sighed, and when he did, a look that told her he felt the weight of the world upon himself crossed his countenance.

  “I shall be strong.”

  “Very well. I spoke to him soon after he saw you that first night. He boasted to me that he expected a sort of payment from you that no woman of your substance and character should be expected to render.”

  Dorothea thought for a moment, then realized what Stratford meant. “Oh, no. Surely you do not mean it.” In an effort to remain calm, she leaned her back against the chair and fanned herself. “Could you have mistaken his intent?”

  “I am afraid I did not mistake his intent. I would give anything not to be forced into such an admission, but he shared his intent with me in no uncertain terms. He was quite proud of himself, really. And I knew why. You are the most beautiful woman in the parish.”

  “You are too kind. I can think of many women here who are much more beautiful than I.”

  “Not to my eyes.”

  She set her fan in her lap but continued to clutch it with her fingertips. “So that is why you decided to rescue me? Because you fancy me beautiful?”

  “I admit that did not discourage me. But after we met and conversed, I could see plainly that you had no idea what his plans were for you. I could not allow him to have his way. He is a cad. His manners offend me.”

  “I do not see how you could stop him, although you obviously succeeded. And for that, I owe you an eternal debt of gratitude.”