The Lady's Hero

by Carolyn R. Scheidies

  Though Betsy averted her face, she felt Angella’s gaze. “Um. Mayhap you have more of a partiality for the marquis. He thinks you are top drawer, especially on the back of a horse.”

  “I do like him well enough, I suppose, though I scarcely can say I know him. I do like that he doesn’t care a fig whether I have a goodly portion or not. Said he is well enough placed, and for him, such things don’t matter.”

  “I see.”

  Betsy heard a world of unspoken thoughts in Angella’s words.

  “So, has he spoken for your hand, mayhap?”

  Betsy flushed and glanced at her friend. There was no gainsaying Angella. “All right. He has hinted around the subject.”

  Angella pursed her lips. “But you haven’t given him sufficient reason to pursue the subject?”

  Betsy shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t know, Angella.”

  She knew her friend read her distress, for Angella took her hand and squeezed it. “I do so want you to find someone. I know you have a partiality for my brother, but I do not want you to set your heart on him. He’s been gone for so long...”

  Betsy pulled away. “Don’t you think I know that? But...”

  Angella nodded. “I know. You need to be sure.” Angella sighed. “Then we’d best pray my brother shows up before that decision needs to be made.”

  At that moment, Betsy’s mother entered the room. She tucked a stray strand of hair under her broad hat as she surveyed the girls. “Alistair says he has time to take us down to the mission after lunch. What about it, girls? We’ll all be far too busy tomorrow with your coming-out ball, Betsy.” Her expression held a certain smugness that made Betsy cringe. “I think at least two bachelors...and more will be at the ready for the evening.”

  Betsy clapped her hands over her burning cheeks. “Really, Mother.”

  Angella got to her feet. “Come on, Betsy, let’s change for our afternoon at the mission.” They had started wearing their older fashions to that part of town for their own safety.

  Betsy did not need be told twice. She was eager to escape her mother’s speculation.

  While the time at the mission was rewarding, Betsy could not help being excited about her ball. A party put on for her and her alone. The thought was heady indeed.

  * * *

  Her gown was everything she could have imagined as it sparkled in the light of the crystal chandeliers, candelabrum and the myriad lit candles situated around the room decorated with fresh flowers in silver bowls. The dressmaker had done wonders with the gown and lace overlay that fit her thin figure to perfection. Betsy actually felt graceful in the gown, at least more graceful than usual. Her mother surprised her with a delicate emerald and diamond necklace.

  Her cousin, very much the aristocratic gentleman in a black superfine coat, gray waistcoat and black breeches, led her out in the first dance. His smile was gentle and proud as he held her. “You look beautiful, Betsy. You will certainly turn heads tonight.” He grinned. “Here tell you’ve already turned some heads.” He winked. “Good for you. You’ve come a long way from the insecure child who tried to hide away on my grand birthday celebration.”

  Betsy’s expression tightened with the memory. “Yes, but as always, you left your guests to hide away with me for a time in the barn.” She patted the shoulder of his jacket. “You did not care a fig whether or not you got your clothing, even then the first stare of fashion, dirty.” A smile touched her lips and faded. “I do not know what I would have done without you in my life, Spensor, especially after Father....after Father...passed on.”

  Lucashire’s hold tightened. “Losing him so unexpectedly in that accident was dreadful for you, for all of us who cared for and admired him.” He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, “He would be proud of you tonight, Betsy. You are all that is kind, gentle, good...and you are managing to stay on your feet.” His quick change startled Betsy into giving him a slight shove.

  “Hey. It is true. You should be proud of yourself.” She followed his gaze to where Baron Fritton slapped his gloves against his palm nervously and where the marquis danced with an older woman with a gown of shocking red that did not set off her rather rotund figure well. The sight made Betsy cringe until she caught the gaze of the marquis, who nodded.

  With the dance completed, Lucashire held out his arm to escort her back to her mother. Spensor pulled her attention back to him. “You may not have taken all of London by storm, but it appears you do have a couple of serious suitors.”

  Betsy blushed. “Oh, Spensor, such stuff and nonsense.”

  As they moved slowly through the packed crowd, his eyebrow lifted. “Really, now. Doing it up a bit much, are we not? Do not forget, I’ve seen the young Fritton groveling and have spoken with the marquis.” His expression grew serious. “I think both are serious contenders for your hand, and there are others waiting should you offer encouragement.”

  “Spensor, it is almost too much. This is a dream, so different from your birthday party. I was an antidote.”

  “No,” Lucashire said, his lips firm, “they were unnecessarily cruel. But now, this spring in London, you’re coming into your own.” With a flourish and a bow, he landed her back beside her mother before commenting, “There is a new confidence about you. I like seeing your smile.”

  His words lifted Betsy as nothing else could have and she floated through the evening. She relished her role as belle of the ball and danced and laughed and never stumbled once. The attention of two contenders and many other would-be contenders was heady indeed. She was not such a green head not to realize some of those showing attention were desperate for a bride with even a respectable, if not overly abundant, portion.

  She grinned as Angella danced by in the arms of Spensor, both so caught up in each other, they scarce noticed her. The expression on her mother’s face was one of triumph. Betsy could almost read her thoughts. “My daughter has done well.”

  The marquis bowed before her, asking to escort her to supper. As she accepted, she noticed the baron close behind him, his expression stricken. Her heart went out to him. With a smile she stepped forward and tucked her hand through the arms of both. “Why don’t both you fine gentlemen escort me to supper?”

  Fritton gasped and grinned, pleasure written all over his face. The marquis glowered, but dipped his head in acknowledgment. With two such different companions, supper proved interesting and fun as they touched on all manner of subjects, from the marquis’s favorite subject of horses, racing and breeding to Fritton’s concern for the needy and farm management. The two men managed to stay civil.

  Betsy sent up thanks the other women at their table refrained from posing on the latest gossip. She sent the marquis a glance of approval when he diverted the men whenever they drifted into discussing the recent war with either Napoleon or the colonies. She always cringed at the tendency to spread the on dits, knowing how quickly one could become the subject of nasty gossip and rumour.

  As conversation eddied around her, Betsy surveyed the two men at her side. With a suddenness that took her by surprise, she realized their attentions, while exciting, were not part of a game. These men came to London to court and marry. They wanted companions, children and heirs. From her admittedly short acquaintance, she knew the men spent most of the year on their estates and took their responsibilities seriously—and that included finding a mate.

  Would either or both offer for her? Betsy studied Fritton as she smiled and spoke to him. Tall and thin like herself, he had once been as picked on as she had been herself, she sensed. Yet he’d grown into a sweet, gentle man who would make a woman proud. Betsy searched her heart. What did she feel for the caring young man? Friendship. Yes, she cared about him true enough, but more.... With insight, she admitted to herself he reminded her more of the younger brother she always wished she had than the suitor he wished to become. With a s
igh, Betsy turned to the marquis.

  About that time others stood and headed back to the dance floor. She had little time to assess the situation before finding herself on the arm of the marquis, who escorted her out into the garden. While this garden was not the first style of elegance of the sculpted garden where she first walked with the marquis, the Alistair garden allowed for a wide variety of wildflowers in the more restrained space.

  He placed a hand over hers tucked in his elbow. “Time we leave the cub behind, my dear. You are kindness itself, but he is not for you.”

  Betsy sighed, not sure whether to be relieved he understood or irritated the man took so much for granted. For a time they strolled along in silence. Betsy breathed in the fragrance of the flowers and listened to the gentle rustling of the trees around them. Her special night had turned into more of a success than she had anticipated.

  At least two of the gentlemen who approached her tonight belonged to the young peers who had teased her younger self for her awkwardness. There was no time for recriminations tonight, especially not since one actually stuttered an apology. The other acted as though he never met her before. Mayhap he really did not recall his cruel childhood antics. Betsy glanced upward. Peace pervaded her heart and she smiled. It was time to release the hurt of the past. Thank You, Lord.

  “Betsy. Betsy.” The marquis’s tone drew her back. “Where have you gone?”

  She blushed, scrambling for something to explain. “This is a perfect night. So peaceful, quiet.”

  “Glad I can make you feel that way.”

  Betsy bit her lip, not wishing to explain he was not the reason. Her silence seemed to encourage him. In the shadow of a large tree, the marquis turned her to face him. Taking her hands, he stared down into her face with such intensity Betsy glanced away. It surprised her how much light the lanterns hung around the garden offered. Even in the yellowish shadows, she made out his features.

  His voice held a hint of hesitation that surprised her and brought her gaze back to the marquis’s face. “Please tell me you are not seriously considering the young baron as a suitor.”

  “I was.” Betsy bit her lip. “Mayhap... It is not as though I need decide now. Yet...”

  “So what changed your mind?”

  Betsy felt the grip of his hands and the sweat even through his gloves. So the man wasn’t as sure as he let on. Her response mattered to him. The thought that any man considered her response so seriously quite set her head in a spin. The marquis, who knew what he was about and who knew what he sought in a wife, thought her smack up to the mark.

  Somehow the cant phrasing of her thoughts brought a slight smile to her lips. Then a frown as she forced her mind back to the matter at hand. Fritton. She liked him well enough, even considered him a friend. But more...Betsy did not even want to imagine him kissing her.

  “Do not tell him so. He is a dear man, but...but,” Betsy finally confessed, “he’s more like a friend or brother to me. I fear that is all he shall ever be—a friend.” Betsy gazed up at the marquis. “Please do not tease him about this.” She sighed. Matters of the heart were difficult to negotiate without hurting feelings. “I wish to speak to him myself about the matter should he choose to approach me.”

  “I understand, Miss Carrington. I am not so rag-mannered as to crush his expectations.”

  Betsy colored. “I did not mean to imply...”

  The marquis touched her face, lightly, gently, causing Betsy’s heart to flutter. She wished it was Edward’s hand touching her face instead, Edward’s face gazing down at her with intense gentleness and more. But the marquis stood beside her, not Edward.

  A wry smile crossed the marquis’s face. “I know.”

  Betsy leaned forward. “I appreciate your sensitivity on this manner.”

  For a moment the nobleman regarded her. “No, I would not wish to distress him or you in such a fashion.”

  Betsy refrained from hugging the man. He would not only think her manners to let, but also would probably consider her behavior forward. He might well read more into her response than intended. Betsy tugged at her sleeve, silently decrying the restrictions of polite society. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The marquis frowned. “However, Miss Carrington, I did not bring you out here to speak of Fritton or any other man for that matter. I have come to care for you, Miss Carrington.” He paused as though judging her response, before continuing. “I came to ask if there is any hope for my suit.”

  Betsy gulped. Her stomach churned. What could she say, should she say? What was the truth? She enjoyed spending time in his company. While he was a supreme horseman and followed the races, he had more depth than the recitation of the bloodlines of racing horse favorites.

  They shared a love of good books, though she’d not confessed her love of those scandalous novels by Mrs. Radcliff. Though many women of society read them, most who did pretended no knowledge of such works. Why they focused on romance and love and dangerous situations rather than dry literary topics. Betsy bit her lip to keep a smile from her lips.

  It would not do to make the marquis feel she mocked his suit or took his manner less than seriously. She shifted from one foot, now going to sleep, to the other. She’d rather walk, but the marquis held her attention as he pressed his suit.

  The marquis had been all that was kind and gentlemanly. He was a fine figure of a man—on and off a horse. Betsy sighed. Here was a good man, a man she could trust. Furthermore, Spensor had all but given his approval to such a match if the marquis came up to scratch. He said the marquis conducted himself with integrity without the vices of many peers. From her cousin’s expression, she knew this included his own antics not so long past.

  Still and all, instead of being excited and breathless at the implications, Betsy felt trapped.

  For a moment she scolded herself. Marriage would please her mother and ensure that both of them would not need worry about finances in the foreseeable future. And yet...how could she sell herself for simply a comfortable position in society? No!

  Betsy’s heart cried out to the one man who held her heart. Oh, Edward! It was not as though he pursued her or wrote to her or in any way indicated he wished for a wife. But he was coming to London. She would see him again. Then she would know, wouldn’t she?

  Still and all, she was not ready to entrust another man with her heart. Lord, she cried out silently, where are You in this?

  Her silence prompted the marquis to repeat his question with less confidence. Betsy took his arm. “My dear marquis. You are a kind and good man. Any woman would be honored...”

  “But not you, Betsy?”

  She sensed his masked hurt.

  She glanced up at him and away. “I wish...I wish I could feel for you the way the woman you choose should feel. I do care for you.” She hesitated. “Truth be told, we scarcely know each other.”

  Yet had she not fallen for Edward not when they met, but when she first viewed his portrait? She’d spent far more time with the marquis than she’d ever been able to spend with Edward, and still something bound her to him. With the marquis all but declaring himself, why couldn’t she forget Edward and love a man like the marquis?

  He had the qualities she looked for—a man who cared about his people and estates, a horseman who wasn’t afraid to compliment a woman with similar skills, a man of faith and integrity and a man other men respected. In their talks even on such short acquaintance, Betsy realized she’d learned quite a lot about the man. Anger simmered. If she had not gone with Angella to the vicarage that night, she would never have seen that family picture.

  Betsy was honest enough to admit that would have made little difference when she met Edward at his reception on completion of his studies. She sighed. Such a tangle and her stomach knotted.

  “You might grow to care, Miss Carrington.” Hope flashed in his eye
s.

  Biting her lip, Betsy swallowed. “I would like to think so, but to own the truth, I cannot say time would make a difference.”

  His eyes narrowed in thought. “There is someone else. But if not Fritton, who?”

  Betsy smiled then, a small sad smile that ended in a long sigh. “Sometimes we cannot dictate where our hearts take us—even when we might wish elsewise.”

  “Then you are not yet spoken for?”

  Betsy shook her head. “No, nor am I sure of anything.”

  When she witnessed growing confidence in his eyes, Betsy wished she had been less forthright when he told her, “Sometimes the heart can be persuaded, my dear.”

  “I cannot give you encouragement, my lord.”

  At that moment, they were interrupted, leaving Betsy in a world of confusion.

  Chapter 6

  The Reverend Avery Jeremiah welcomed Edward profusely. “Come in. Come in, lad. Did not think you were due in London for some time yet.”

  Edward felt a twitch start in his cheek. “Yes, well, there were circumstances that necessitated moving up my schedule.”

  “I see.”

  Edward felt the man’s gaze and shifted uncomfortably. His mentor always did have the ability to see beneath the surface. Reverend Jeremiah reminded him sharply of his father, and he felt a pain deep inside that he’d never again see his father this side of Heaven. The minister’s response held a world of questions, and Edward knew the man would seek to discover the reason for the truncated schedule.

  Edward was more than happy to put his things in his room and relax a moment or two. It turned into more. In the place where he’d spent so many happy hours as a student, Edward, for the first time since arriving in England, fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.