When one young man took off his hat, Betsy started. That blond hair looked familiar. The man riffled his hair, gestured and stuck the hat back onto his head. Edward? Could Edward possibly be here now? Obviously the man was with friends or colleagues and very focused on their discussion.
Betsy’s throat tightened. She had to know. The more she watched him, the more she was convinced that the man was indeed Edward. Oh my. The dictates of society kept her from hailing him when she rode by on the chestnut gelding. She slowed enough to get a better look, but the animal was less than cooperative. She also must not lose sight of her father ahead of her. Oh, bother!
Nonetheless, as she rode by, Edward stopped dead, seemingly forgetting his companions as he watched her handle the large, rambunctious animal.
For a moment, Betsy wondered if he judged her, knowing, as did she, it was not the thing for a lady to ride anything but a docile horse in the park where the ton took leisurely turns about the walkways or drove about in carriages to see and be seen. As good a horsewoman as she was, with all the people about, she held the rambunctious animal to a walk with some difficulty.
The afternoon was overcast, but warm enough to require only a light cape. She wore a Devonshire brown habit with gold braid trim and a hat set at a rakish angle. Betsy knew herself to be awkward on foot, but also was woman enough to recognize she was all that was grace and elegance on the back of the horse that she forced to a quick-paced walk.
She glanced over at the man she thought to be Edward, hoping he’d see her at her best. She recalled his passion as he told her about his call to India. She recalled, too, his handsome features, caring smile and captivating blue eyes. She heard his deep voice speaking with such fervor. Her pulse quickened at the thought of speaking with him again.
She shook her head. Was she daft? Why would he even remember his conversation with a young, insignificant woman when he had such a grand call on his life and was about to sail away to the grandest adventure and challenge ever? Mayhap she mistook someone who looked like Edward for him. Riding with her father beside her, she did not have the courage to turn back. Still, she was about to suggest that very thing to her father when they came upon an open carriage and her father stopped to speak to the occupants, who turned out to be her mother and a couple of her friends.
Betsy tried to hold her horse still, but he continued to fidget and tug at the bit. She circled him about and glanced back. The man she thought was Edward seemed to be heading her direction. For a moment, she held her breath.
His companions seemed less than eager to follow. He stopped.
Betsy willed him to continue, wished for the freedom and the courage to go to him without finding herself beyond the pale of strict London societal dictates. Oh, Lord, why taunt me with him?
She could not help staring at him. Was the blond, well-proportioned man the one who made her heart beat faster? When he glanced toward her, she saw him more clearly. Surely it was indeed Edward, wasn’t it? Silently they exchanged a smile.
He started toward her at the very moment Betsy’s father called to her. All she could do was send the man a nod of acknowledgment and follow her father and her mother’s carriage out of the park and out of his life.
* * *
Edward watched Betsy ride out of his life, and his heart sank within him. She was a superb rider. He would have loved riding alongside her. It was not to be. Again circumstances parted them. He sighed. It was just as well. He had no time for courtship or marriage or anything else. And she was so young. It would be years before he could court her anyway, even if it were possible.
He chided himself for so easily losing focus on his dream, his calling, his mission. His friends joined him. “She’s quite the thing.”
“Who is she?”
Their interest somehow tainted the encounter, and Edward quickly directed their attention back to their discussion about matters of faith and politics. Later that evening, he savored the chance encounter, wondering if indeed it was chance at all. Still and all, he had little time to spend daydreaming about what would never be.
Every waking moment, he prepared for the voyage into the unknown. Reverend Jeremiah assisted him in so many ways, making the transition much easier by advising him about what to pack, how much and what to take and making the proper connections for travel. The next month, he shipped out to India. He left his sister in the capable hands of his parents and tried to forget Betsy altogether. It didn’t work.
Chapter 2
1810
Edward’s work in India taxed him mentally, physically and spiritually. Had it been years since he arrived? It felt like months, and it felt like an eternity. He was bone weary and glad to return home after a long trip into the interior. He groaned when his man handed him several pieces of mail. “For you.”
For the moment, Edward let them sit on the side table. He was exhausted and not sure whether he was more elated with the slight success he and his fellow missionary had with sharing the gospel of Christ or disheartened by the darkness practiced by so many. He did know he was dirty and sweaty and was more than ready for the bath drawn for him.
Later, as he pulled on one of the jackets he’d brought with him from England, he realized he’d lost weight, but gained strength. Though leaner, his body was more used to physical exercise than the son of a beloved vicar or the ministerial student in London. Regular horseback riding and walking had never shaped him like the rigors of being in the field.
Edward riffled a hand through his blond hair. In the reflection of the silver teapot, he could see his hair had returned to its normal light color from the gray-brown from weeks of dust stirred up by miles and miles of travel on dirt-packed roads. Leaning back in his cushioned and well-used chair, Edward closed his eyes, just for a moment, as he awaited the meal, the odors of which already teased his taste buds.
It had been a lonely few years, though satisfying in many ways. He knew he had been right to follow William Carey to India and to heed God’s call on his life. The people needed so much, needed God’s love most of all. Love. It was the reason he was willing to give up his dreams of becoming a vicar like his father.
But he had given up more. His dreams often teased with images of a wife and family. How he yearned for a woman to love and to be loved in return. Had he really believed those desires would fade with time? How foolish. “Oh, God,” he whispered, not for the first or the hundredth time, “if this is not to be, please take away this desire.”
Instead, as he relaxed he recalled a young woman with intense brown eyes. He sucked in a breath, surprised the memory was as sharp as though it had happened yesterday. Though he tried, he’d never forgotten her. There were times he was almost sure he felt her prayers. But that was fanciful thinking.
By now, she would have forgotten all about the missionary she had met one night, what was it, four years ago? By now she might well have the bronze of a season and a husband. By now he should have been able to let his image of her go. Miss Betsy Carrington’s image always came to mind whenever he thought of love and marriage. How foolish, and yet... He shook his head at his useless fancies. Time to let all that go.
After a meal that warmed his insides, Edward sorted through the mail. One from the Reverend Avery Jeremiah in London. The minister had been a younger son of a peer who, with an independent portion, entered the church, not because he had to, but because he felt a genuine calling on his life. Edward smiled. The man had become both mentor and friend as well as a solid supporter of his missionary endeavor. Another post came from a supporting church. The last one caught his attention. From Angella? Odd the letter wasn’t marked from his father. A frown touched his lips as he unfolded the parchment and re
ad...
Dear Edward,
It is my grievous duty to inform you of the death of both Mother and Father.
In her neat flowing handwriting, Angella explained the circumstances surrounding the deaths of first their father, then their mother of illness.
As I am alone now with no idea of how to go on, I pray you will see your way clear to return home at least for a time.
I shall write Grandfather to acquaint him with the passing on of his daughter. I will tell him, also, of my need, but I sincerely doubt he will heed my letter any more than he heeded letters Mother wrote since her marriage to Father.
Wherever I go, I will try to leave word here at the vicarage so you can find my direction and come to me directly.
I am sorry to be the one to give you this news, but, as you know, there is no one else.
If you’re wondering about Mrs. Adams, who so faithfully looked after us since we were children in leading strings, she passed on some six months past.
Please come home, Edward.
Ever, your sister,
Angella
The letter fluttered to the floor as Edward buried his head in his hands. “Oh, Lord, no! No!” His dear parents were gone. And his little sister was without home or protector. How could that be? Obviously, she had not had a season. Mayhap no funds for one. Father was a bit too generous with his meager stipend.
He reached to pick up the letter and checked the date. She had sent it months ago. Pulling on his boots, Edward scrambled to his feet. He had to go home. He had to go now! He had to book passage, but how? His finances were marginal at best. It mattered not. Angella needed him. Somehow he would find a way home. Sitting down he wrote her a letter he hoped would arrive before he did.
* * *
Glancing around, Edward decided the ship wasn’t much. The crew bustled about him, ignoring him for the most part as long as he kept out of the way. More than once Edward found himself bumped or accidentally pushed as sailors rushed to trim sails or otherwise make adjustments.
Until he came on board, he had not realized how tired he felt, how often he forgot to eat or care for his own needs. Had not realized the difference until he packed up his clothes—worn and probably far out of fashion—and dressed in clothes that had once snugly fit his figure. His clothes now hung on a frame that had grown lean. He grimaced as he looked down his length. His old acquaintances would probably think of him as quite the quiz these days—if they recognized him at all. Yes. He had become odd far away from England and the pleasure-seeking haunts of London, odd and very much alone.
Edward sucked in a breath. As much as he tried to let the desire go, he wanted a helpmate. He desired a woman who would love him, care for him and be at his side no matter what. He grimaced. Unlikely. What had he to offer the sort of woman he’d want to make his wife? Exactly nothing.
He shuddered thinking about the young women who sailed out to India when they didn’t “take” after a season or two or three in London. These young women, termed “the fishing fleet,” and their parents figured that with the prevalence of the military in the country and few English women to choose from, the young women would be better able to find husbands.
Any Englishman was ripe for the plucking. Those desperate young women were one reason he tried to stay away from the government compounds and invitations to parties, balls and dinners. He almost felt sorry for families who hoped to increase their consequence or finances by trapping some unsuspecting soldier into marriage.
Not all women were of that stamp. Edward’s thoughts drifted back to the brown eyes that so captivated him—Miss Betsy Carrington’s eyes. No matter what, he was unable to get his chance encounter out of his mind—if it was a chance encounter. He’d come to recognize what seemed like chance often had God’s hand in it. He did know that those brown eyes invaded his nights when he least expected them. He felt the draw of wife and family and prayed for release. None came.
He shook his head. For the time being he needed to focus on his sister. Everything cycled back to Angella. Surely she’d found a safe place....
For all his concern for his sister, his heart refused to let go of that image of brown eyes and the woman he’d actually spoken to but once. Betsy. The name always brought a smile. Her image warmed his heart and set his mind on what he tried so valiantly to release—a wife. As the ship sailed onward home to England, he looked up into the sky. “Lord, one way or another I need to know. Please, might I possibly see Betsy Carrington again?”
* * *
Miss Elizabeth Carrington, Betsy, was once again in London, this time for the season. Her mother, cousin Spensor—now the Earl of Lucashire—and Lord and Lady Alistair, who opened their London home for the season, were giving her and Angella a London season. So much had happened the past few weeks she could scarcely take it in.
Betsy grabbed Angella’s hands and danced around the parlor. “Finally cousin Spensor has seen the light.”
Angella’s green eyes sparkled as she disengaged herself from Betsy’s grasp. “It was quite the night.”
Betsy stopped and tugged at her sleeve, which kept riding up her arm. She tucked a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear and grimaced. Of course, her hair had already started to unravel from the coiffure her maid had fashioned earlier that morning. She’d refused to cut her long locks, so her maid fashioned it up with tendrils dangling teasingly about her cheeks. She was told the style was flattering to her height and long, narrow face as it added some width.
All Betsy knew was that it was also increasingly irritating. Mayhap cutting it would be less frustration, though she’d always felt her dark hair was her one redeeming feature. She tugged on a curl and ended with her hair loose about her shoulders.
Her excitement exerted itself again. “Think about it. I am in transports that, finally, you and cousin Spensor are engaged! I mean, no more trying to get you two together. Oops!” She bit her lip and backed up, only to trip. Angella’s quick grab prevented a fall.
“You all right?” Angella asked before releasing her arm.
Betsy rolled her eyes. “I wish I didn’t so easily get tangled up in my own feet. A London season and lessons in dancing and decorum haven’t done much to change that.” She sighed and drew Angella down on the sofa beside her. “But now that you are engaged to the Earl of Lucashire—” she straightened and posed with dignity “—the rest of the season will be fun for you. Though it will probably continue to be a trial for me.”
“Perhaps not,” Angella encouraged. “You may yet find a suitor. The season is not over by any means.”
Angella’s soft spring-green gown complemented Betsy’s sky-blue gown. Angella gazed at the ring Spensor had given her just that morning. “Oh, Betsy,” she said, changing the topic, “how could I have ever imagined that the Earl of Lucashire and I would have a future together? When my parents died so unexpectedly, I thought my life was over. And yet something wonderful has come out of tragedy.” Tears filled her eyes and Betsy squeezed her hand.
“My dearest cousin has been caught right and tight and I could not be more pleased. Oh, Angella, Spensor was always like a big brother to me. We’ll almost be sisters as well as bosom bows. I only hope...”
This time Angella smiled and squeezed her hands. “You hope for a similar outcome.”
Betsy could not entirely keep her face from showing what she wished to hide from her best friend.
Angella frowned. “Betsy, you do want to get married, don’t
you? Isn’t that why they parade us all over London for the season? I know it was different for me. After all, I already...”
“I know, had a tendre for my cousin. Now we get to plan your official engagement party.” Betsy sighed a happy, dreamy sigh. “Then we plan the wedding.”
“Not so fast, Betsy. First, we plan your coming-out ball.”
“La, and I’ll trip over my feet, rip my gown and make a cake of myself.”
“Not by half. Spensor will see to that...unless you have developed a partiality for another eligible parti and prefer another escort.”
Angella’s gaze narrowed at Betsy’s blush. “So you have formed a partiality. But I have seen you do little but call the young dandies flocking around us by such positive names as mutton-headed, addlepated and taken with their own consequence. So who is the paragon for whom you pine? One of the young men who’ve taken us walking in the park or done the pretty for us at the theater, ball or other events we seem to always be attending?” She rolled her eyes.
Betsy started to rise, but Angella tugged her back down. “Surely the young man isn’t some fribble, fop or scapegrace.”
Betsy shook her head. “No...no, never. Really, Angella you refine too much from my expression.”
“I do not think so.” Betsy all but wilted under her friend’s all too discerning gaze and struggled for a way to again distract her attention. Without thinking, she blurted, “Remember when we first met?”
The Lady's Hero Page 2
