by Elisa Braden
Augusta, whose regal self-assurance and dark-russet hair Hannah had long envied, glanced over Viola’s head at Lady Rutherford. “Charlotte, didn’t you say your cousin, Mr. Farrington, plans to visit Chatwick Hall soon?” Chatwick Hall’s lands neighbored those of Grimsgate Castle.
“He arrived this morning,” Charlotte confirmed before turning to Hannah with a warm smile. “Andrew will inherit my uncle’s baronetcy one day, so he shan’t remain forever untitled, I’m afraid. But he is the dearest man, Hannah. I suspect you will find him charming when you meet him tomorrow.” Briefly, the flame-haired marchioness glanced between Viola and Hannah before arching a wry brow. “I am certain he will find you enchanting.”
Hannah blinked. She didn’t understand the reference, but that was nothing new. How to reply? Responses flitted through her mind. The odd silence lengthened, and she knew she must say something. “It—I will be—I should be happy to meet him.”
Dash it all, that had not sounded normal. She must try harder. Thus far, she’d done nothing but fail in what Eugenia called the Normalcy Project. Surely her dissatisfaction would ease once she improved her technique.
It was not as though Eugenia had failed her. Quite the contrary.
Over the past four days, three gentlemen had been served to Hannah upon a tufted pillow. All three were safe, untitled gentlemen who were well settled, unmarried, and not overly handsome. To arrange such a selection, Eugenia had solicited help from the ladies presently assembled in the drawing room: The dowager Lady Wallingham and Julia, the current Lady Wallingham; Lady Berne and her five daughters, Annabelle, Jane, Maureen, Eugenia, and Kate; Sarah Lacey and Lord Colin’s sister, Victoria, Viscountess Atherbourne; and, of course, Charlotte and Viola and Augusta. Most were titled ladies with vast connections. Some knew the details about Hannah’s past, while others knew only generalities. All were kind and wanted only to help Hannah find happiness.
Hannah should have been happy. She had some of the most powerful women in England working on her behalf—women who had not merely navigated the marriage mart but mastered it.
Unquestionably, she was fortunate.
Undoubtedly, she could choose any of the gentlemen Eugenia had selected and be married before autumn.
Unexpectedly, she did not feel frightened by the prospect. She felt bored. It was the strangest, most confounding thing.
The first of Eugenia’s blancmange men, Mr. Winstead, was a half-inch taller and a half-shade whiter than Hannah. His wispy hair might be considered light brown or dark blond, she supposed. To her, it looked like ash. He spoke in hushed tones as though God were listening, and he dared not offend the Almighty’s ears with anything louder than a murmur. During their conversations, she’d gathered frugality was his favorite virtue.
“Spices such as mace and cinnamon are best reserved for Christmastide,” he’d remarked as they’d stood exchanging pleasantries during the garden luncheon. “If it cannot be grown near one’s kitchen door, I daresay, the expense may empty the rest of one’s larder in a trice.”
His smile was pleasant enough, his eyes brown and kind. Eugenia had assured her he owned a prosperous Yorkshire estate near Blackmore Hall, where Jane lived. Additionally, while he was not himself a Quaker, he employed many believers and had grown sympathetic to their philosophies. In short, the man would sooner bury himself in cinnamon than raise a hand to anyone.
Safe, prosperous, kind—Mr. Winstead should have been perfect.
Then, she’d met Mr. Brown, a physician from Nottinghamshire. Taller than Mr. Winstead by three inches, Mr. Brown suited his name. His hair, his eyes, his coat, and his trousers were all the same shade of brown—approximately the color of dry clay. She did not know what he sounded like, for he hadn’t spoken aloud. Rather, he’d gaped at her with round-eyed wonder and, as Annabelle had noted, promptly stumbled backward and toppled an urn.
Hannah had been bewildered by his behavior. Not frightened. Not startled. Simply puzzled.
Eugenia had suggested he’d been overset by her beauty. Hannah had scoffed. Viola was far more beautiful. Augusta and Charlotte were more striking, with their rich, red hair. Witty, vivacious Kate Huxley was more charming. Clearly, the man was a bit touched.
But the deciding moment in Mr. Brown’s disfavor had come when Lady Wallingham warned her against using a double surname in the event they married. Gray-Brown was comically close to Mr. Brown’s actual coloring. Once evoked, she hadn’t been able to put the image of toppled urns and silly surnames away.
The last of the blancmange men was also the tallest at four inches short of six feet. A mathematics tutor at Cambridge, Mr. Keeble had amassed a sizable fortune through speculation. He had a shy smile, flushed a bit about the cheekbones whenever she spoke, and hid a lovely pair of blue eyes behind thick spectacles.
She quite liked Mr. Keeble. They’d played chess the evening before last. She’d beaten him soundly. After six matches, out of mercy, she’d pled drowsiness and left him to examine the board.
Now, as she sat amongst the women strategizing on her behalf, she could only sigh. None of this was working. She’d tried to be normal, and sometimes she achieved a semblance of it. The blancmange men were all pleasant in their way, and every one of them had appeared to find her attractive.
That was something, she supposed.
But she’d tried to imagine each of them gazing at her across the breakfast table. She’d thought about tending them when they were weak with fever, kissing them because she felt a compulsion strong enough to shove her out of her chair. She’d pictured holding their babes, seeing Mr. Keeble’s blue eyes or Mr. Winstead’s wispy hair or Mr. Brown’s gray-brownness in a child she’d helped create.
The visions wouldn’t come. Nothing worked. Nothing.
She glanced now at Eugenia, who was unusually quiet, sketching a new hat near the fireplace while the other ladies chatted and laughed. Hannah did not know how to tell her the truth. She barely knew how to tell herself.
“Time to offer dear Hannah our best advice, ladies,” announced Lady Berne, giving Hannah a merry wink. “Let us share our secrets in service of a greater cause.”
“A man offers a woman two of life’s necessities,” Lady Wallingham trumpeted. “Three if he has adequate night vision.”
Lady Berne coughed. “Dorothea, perhaps you should abstain from the advice portion of our meeting.”
The dowager harrumphed. “Rubbish and rot. The girl must know sooner or later, Meredith. Now, listen closely, Miss Gray. Husband management is no minor endeavor to be undertaken by moonstruck lambs. If you are diligent, you will have the first two necessities in short order—offspring and a house of sufficient size to afford you a chamber of your own. The first makes the second all the more essential. As to the third necessity—”
“Dorothea—”
“—I daresay if a man lacks talent or stamina or girth—”
“Oh, dear. Dorothea!”
“—then, pray, do not lie back and accept mediocrity as your lot.” The old woman raised her chin. “Some men have natural advantages.” She sniffed and glanced at Charlotte, whose mouth quirked in a secretive smile. “Their wives are most fortunate.” The dowager’s gaze returned to Hannah. “For others, there is only instruction and repetition.”
“Gracious me,” murmured Sarah.
“Mother,” Julia said, casting a dubious look at her mother-in-law. “Are you suggesting a man should be trained like a hound? Surely I have that the wrong way round.”
Lady Wallingham arched a white brow and sipped her tea. “I fail to see the affront. A trained hound will heel and lie down wherever suits you. An untrained hound will mistake mauling for affection and clean skirts for an invitation to cause havoc.”
Maureen was covering both cheeks. Annabelle was stifling a laugh. Julia blinked. Sarah looked bemused. Lady Berne frowned. Victoria whispered something to her best friend, Jane.
Jane, the plump, bespectacled Duchess of Blackmore, cleared her throat, ope
ned her mouth several times, then said, “She is right.”
Shock filled the room. Lady Wallingham was the first to recover. “Of course I am.”
All eyes focused on Jane, who had long struggled with shyness. She reddened in what Maureen and Eugenia called the Huxley Flush. As all the Huxley daughters had milky skin and brown hair, the red was noticeable. “I—I only mean that husbands cannot always know what pleases us. It is in our interest to offer … insight.”
Lady Wallingham snorted. “I believe instruction is the term you seek.”
“Guidance,” Viola interjected. “Yes, I think it’s true. Men do much better when they know what we want. Otherwise, they are left guessing. And that may end any number of ways, some good and some splendorous.”
Warming to the topic, Lady Berne added, “I’ve found parsnips a most effective deterrent for undesirable behavior.”
“And fish,” said Victoria. “Quite persuasive.”
“Encourage him to set aside time for vigorous exercise,” advised Augusta. “Sebastian’s mood goes positively black when he stays too long behind his desk.”
“Yes,” agreed Charlotte. “I, too, find exercise helps immensely. Whatever he prefers—riding or walking or farming. Especially farming.”
Maureen sat forward, her golden-brown eyes dancing as she joined in the spirit of the conversation. “Don’t forget to spoil him every now and then. You might be surprised at what a bite of his favorite cake or a little praise for his skills can do.”
Annabelle, looking warm and wry, patted Maureen’s hand, adding, “Quite right.” She gave Hannah a smile that spoke of storms weathered and battles both lost and won. “Always remember, dear Hannah, whomever you choose to stand by your side stands upon the same ground as you. Whatever you do to undermine that ground likewise undermines you. Whatever you do to strengthen it likewise strengthens you.”
Of all the advice she’d received, much of it useful, some of it amusing, this felt the truest.
Then, Eugenia spoke. “Laugh together,” she said, her expression oddly serious. “Even when you feel silly about it. And tell him the truth, dearest. Trust is the soil. Love is the bloom.”
Hannah drew a shuddering breath. “What if the truth is a burden he has no wish to bear?”
Eugenia did not smile. She did not offer false hope. Instead, she gave Hannah no less than what she’d asked. “Then he is not strong enough to carry it. You need somebody strong.”
Several hours and a great deal of advice later, Hannah wandered through the gardens alone, thinking about chess and blancmange and men who toppled urns. A soft breeze blew through her skirts. It smelled of the sea.
She missed home. At Primvale, everything was known—the gardens, the beaches, fields and pastures. She awakened at seven, had breakfast at eight, went riding at nine. She spent most mornings working with Eugenia on making hats and strategizing ways to improve their millinery shops in Bridport and Weymouth. Luncheon was at two. Her walk was at three. At five, she practiced the pianoforte. At six, she played chess with Phineas. Dinner was at seven. All the gardens were flawlessly maintained, and there was not an inch she hadn’t explored. All servants had been chosen particularly for their kindhearted nature, including Claudette, who was often by her side.
Here, at another castle by the sea, albeit on the opposite end of England, most things were unknown. Anything could happen. Humphrey might bolt after a squirrel. Lady Wallingham might insist on discussing male anatomy again. Mr. Keeble might trounce her in their next match—unlikely but possible. Charlotte’s cousin Mr. Farrington might charm her silly.
So, why was she … bored?
She blew out a sigh and followed stepping stones around another hedge. Inside a small, square courtyard were more urns brimming with ivy and topiaries. One of them looked like a fish.
“I expected you would be playing your music.”
She spun to find Phineas beneath the trellised arch at the courtyard’s entrance. “Is it five already?”
He nodded, wandering closer, hands clasped behind his back in his usual posture. “How is the project going?”
“Eugenia’s selections are superb. I could not have asked for better.”
He went quiet then drifted to a topiary shaped like a swan. “She has worked tirelessly on your behalf,” he murmured, examining the ivy at the swan’s feet. “When Eugenia loves you, she will not cease until she has brought about your happiness.”
“She is an extraordinary friend.”
Again, he fell silent. This was Phineas’s thinking pattern—it meant he was trying to untangle something in his mind. “I take it you haven’t yet settled on a favorite.”
“A favorite?”
“Of the men she invited.”
“Oh, the blancmange gentlemen. Not entirely, no.”
Phineas turned to face her, his brows drawing together. “Blancmange.”
She nodded. “That is what we call them. Because they are mild and … safe.”
His frown deepened. “Blancmange is what nursemaids feed to invalids.”
Just then, she realized what lay beneath her discontentment. She hadn’t recognized it, for she’d only begun to feel it with regularity since seeing …
Oh, heavens.
Phineas stepped closer, his hand hovering several inches from her elbow. “Perhaps we should sit.”
He took the greatest care with her. He always had.
As one would with an invalid.
Weak and broken and dependent.
Someone who must be surrounded by kindhearted servants and approached with gentle caution. Someone who must be fed the equivalent of half-sweet milk.
Eugenia, by contrast, had insisted she was strong. From the beginning—even when Hannah had resented her bold new sister-in-law’s intrusion into her life—Eugenia hadn’t minced words. She’d taught Hannah to ride. She’d pushed her to use her business mind, to speak openly and accept the touch of a friend without flinching.
Without thinking.
Without fear.
Eugenia, through sheer determination, had made Hannah normal. At least, normal with her.
They laughed together. They told each other the truth. Always.
Trust is the soil. Love is the bloom.
Everyone treats you like wet paper. You are stronger than anyone I know.
In all the years Hannah and Phineas had played chess together, she’d won a single game against her brother. Her satisfaction had lasted approximately thirty seconds—the length of time it had taken to realize he’d let her win. Everything inside her had deflated, turned sour, gone cold. She’d carefully explained to him why handing her a victory was not kindness but an insult. He’d never repeated the error.
But she remembered the feeling well enough to recognize its likeness now.
She did not want to be an invalid.
She did not want to be fed blancmange.
“Phineas,” she breathed. “Take hold of me.”
“Pardon?”
“Grasp my shoulders. Or my elbows. Or my hands. But, please, do it quickly. Not carefully, as you usually do.”
“Hannah—”
“Please, Phineas. I need you to do this for me.”
He came closer, frowning fiercely and obviously confused. But he did as she asked, grasping her shoulders with a light grip.
Fear’s slithery chill crawled between his hands and her shoulders, spurring the familiar impulse to pull away. But instead of giving in, she stood still and looked into her brother’s eyes. Her eyes. Their father’s eyes. Griffin’s eyes.
Phineas held her steady as she fought her battle.
“N-now pull me in tight,” she said. “No hesitation.”
He drew her into his chest and closed his arms around her back.
For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her fingers clawed against her brother’s waist.
“Hannah, please. You’re shaking. Let me release you.”
“No,” she said against his coat. “No.
I am all right.”
He laid a kiss on the top of her head. “God, little one. I cannot bear for you to be afraid.”
“Tighter,” she rasped, her heart knocking. “Please.”
His arms squeezed her gently. At first, she felt the same suffocation she’d grown accustomed to. Her head spun and threatened to detach. But she forced her eyes open and saw Phineas’s emerald cravat pin.
He wore it often, as Eugenia found it pleasing. She breathed deep and recognized the faint aroma of lemon balm. She focused upon the weight of Phineas’s arms across her back, the strength he always—always—tempered for her.
And love flooded all her usual impulses. The fear. The suffocation. The sensation of breaking apart and floating away.
Love for her brother, who had given her everything.
She breathed. And breathed. And let love dilute the remnants of pain.
Then, she held her brother in return, tighter than she’d ever done. “Thank you, Phineas,” she whispered. “This is how it shall be from now on. Do not be cautious with me. You understand, don’t you?”
He kissed the top of her head again. “Are you certain?”
She nodded against him. Held tighter. “I am strong, Phineas.”
“I know you are, little one.”
She felt him sigh. Heard the solid thud of his heart—a stout reassurance.
“You’ve always been strong,” he murmured. “Though I wish down to my very bones you didn’t have to be.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER SIX
“Hounds fetch what is lost and eat what is discarded. Which is where their usefulness ends.”
—Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter of disagreement over the value of a loyal hound.
Jonas had ridden to the middle of bloody nowhere for no bloody thing. It was the second time that day. This particular nowhere had more trees than the last and a pleasant vista of the surrounding farmland, but it was still merely an outcrop of sandstone jutting out of rolling Northumberland hillside. Both nowheres seemed like oddities left behind after a flood had worn away the rest of the land. Both were caves. Both shared the same legends about St. Cuthbert, a hermit monk from Lindisfarne.
