“Really, this is such a crush, one is almost reminded of a London ballroom,” Mother complained. “One cannot imagine why so many feel the need to attend services on a Sunday.”
“Which day would you prefer people to attend, Mother?”
“There is no need to be impertinent. Oh! Dear Lady Osterley!”
Clara moved to one side as her mother began conversing with one of Brighton’s inveterate gossips. She smiled politely—it would never do to get on that lady’s bad side—and returned her attention to the crowd. It seemed a veritable who’s who of Brighton society attended the church of St. Nicholas.
Nicholas.
Her heart dipped, her thoughts returning to the earl. Nicholas Stamford, seventh Earl of Hawkesbury, love of her life.
Eyes burning, she jerked her reflections away.
Only to encounter the fixed gaze of the man she’d bumped into two days ago.
“You!”
The pretty lady blinked. Averted her eyes. Stepped a pace back, closer to the headstones littering the churchyard, as though preparing to flee again. Ben couldn’t really blame her. He might have been raised a gentleman, but she’d be hard pressed to tell by his recent behavior.
He pushed past a couple of gossiping old biddies to where the brunette stood, green eyes the color of tropical seas widening at his approach. “You again.”
Her gaze lowered. “I don’t know—”
“Forgive me, but did we not meet on the Steyne two days ago?”
“Clara?” One of the ladies he’d abruptly pushed past eyed him with a frown. “Do you know this young man?”
“No, Mother.”
“Young man, I do not know who you are, and neither, it appears, does my daughter.”
Her daughter named Clara. A pretty name for a pretty face. Ben swallowed. Nearly introduced himself as captain before recalling that title was gone forever. Mr. Kemsley sounded so very plain in comparison. He opened his mouth to speak when the hatchet-faced lady plucked the other’s sleeve and said in a loud murmur, no doubt designed for him to hear, “Some young gentlemen these days are simply not what one could wish.”
Heat crept up his neck, her words a sad echo of Jane’s father, who’d forbidden Ben’s suit all those years ago. Perhaps Lord Ponsonby had been right. He could never have borne such a prideful family, nor—truth be told—could they have borne him, when he’d returned a not-quite-whole man. He could only thank God that youthful infatuation had soon blown over, revealed to be little more than a newly promoted lieutenant’s fanciful dream. Jane herself had quickly proved the depths of her feelings, marrying another but two months after Ben had returned to sea.
He glanced at the young lady, whose blush suggested she’d overheard and even felt a mite of pity for him. He jerked a nod, and walked stiffly away. So much for a letter of commendation from the Regent. His lip curled. What difference would placing pride in such things ever make?
“Kemsley!”
Ben turned. “Braithwaite! Forgive me. I did not expect to see you here.”
“More fool you, then, seeing you invited me.”
He grinned, shaking hands. “I’m glad you came.”
Braithwaite nodded. “A tidy service. That brother-in-law of yours packs them in.”
“David is a good preacher.” He paused. “He preaches truth.”
A wave of sadness washed over his friend’s face. “I would like to believe, but …”
“But you still cannot let go of your doubts.”
“How can a good God permit me to live? Answer me that.”
“Braithwaite, did you not hear the message? None of us are blameless. Not one. The only perfect man to have lived is our Lord Himself. And even Jesus refused to pick up a stone.”
As if Braithwaite had not listened, he shook his head and muttered, “But I’m the one who should have insisted a chronometer be used. And Miss York’s life lost, and I am responsible …”
Ben bit back a sigh. What would it take for the man to forgive himself? Self-recrimination would eat at a man until all semblance of self-worth was gone. The only one who could heal was Jesus, but until a man chose to listen …
He clasped the other man’s arm. “Remember that God loves you.”
Braithwaite gave a mocking laugh. “Which is why I’m left in torment.” His desperate eyes fixed on him. “Can we meet again this week?”
“Alas, no. I’m to take my sister to my brother in Kent.”
“Tessa?”
Ben nodded and the light in Braithwaite’s eyes faded. He should take issue with the man’s familiar use of Tessa’s name. Yes, taking his sister away from Brighton—and Braithwaite—might be necessary for all. “I shall be in London soon. I might write, and we could meet there, if that is suitable.” He hesitated then added, “I plan on seeing Burford and Lancaster, too.”
Braithwaite groaned. “Such a meeting would be torture.”
“It need not be—”
“It must be.”
Ben saw Tessa’s red curls move towards them. “Forgive me. I must away.” He clasped Braithwaite’s hand. “You are in my prayers.”
“I need to be,” was the muttered response.
Ben forced a smile to his lips as he advanced on his sister, steering her gently to the side.
She peered past his shoulder. “Was that Captain Braithwaite?”
“He is a little busy.” Wallowing in regret.
“Oh, I wanted to say goodbye.” She sighed. “I wish we did not have to leave for Kent. I do not want to stay with George.”
“It will be better than you think. Now, where is Mattie?”
“Oh, she’s always busy talking.” Her face brightened. “But I saw her speaking with Miss DeLancey. It was good to see her. I have not seen her here at services before.”
Miss DeLancey he neither knew nor cared about, but he would like to know more about the pretty brunette named Clara.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
Green eyes met his.
His heart thudded. Clara was peeking back at him as the older lady shepherded her away.
CHAPTER SİX
THE SOUNDS OF the pianoforte rang out through the drawing room. Clara finished the last run and lifted her hands. A little Mozart had always helped soothe away inner turmoil.
“Very nice, my dear,” Mother said from the doorway. “It is good to hear you play again.”
Clara smiled. Her sore arm had made practice challenging, but playing again had been necessary, if for no other reason than to clear her mind of the disquieting thoughts elicited by Sunday’s encounter with that man again.
He had appeared far more handsome and gentlemanly than previous encounters had led her to believe possible, given his disconcerting gaze and uncouth manners. She couldn’t help but admire his neat appearance, dressed as he was in a well-fitted coat of dark blue that had stretched across the broad width of his shoulders—no need for padding there!—and pantaloons that hinted of muscular strength, his cravat arranged with such precision that even Richard would approve. Mother had commented about the unknown man’s forward manner, remarking disparagingly about his tanned face which indicated he spent too much time in the sun. Clara had kept her thoughts to herself: that the tan showed off the blue of his eyes to greater advantage, whilst his manners reminded her of Matilda’s similarly free and easy way. She hoped, indeed almost dared to pray, that if they did meet again—when they met again, as Brighton’s small number of year-round inhabitants strongly suggested they would—he would not remember their first time of meeting, atop the cliffs on a windy night.
“When does the vicar’s wife come again?”
“Mother, you say his occupation like you think it something poisonous.”
“And so it is. Harmful to our way of life.”
To their pursuit of self-interest, perhaps. Clara kept her lips pressed together. Since hearing Mr. McPherson’s sermon, she had felt an inner restlessness, a tugging in her spirit only music seemed to pacif
y. Though she rather doubted anything could ever truly heal her soul.
The doorbell tinkled.
Clara slid from the piano stool and moved to join her mother in the drawing room. From the hall came a murmur of voices, then the door opened, and Mrs. McPherson was announced.
As had occurred previously, Matilda’s broad smile kindled Clara’s smile in response, before she settled down to follow Mother’s lead in the usual conversational niceties: the weather, mutual acquaintances, and news from London. Matilda must have passed Mother’s silent test because tea was ordered.
By the time Meg arrived with the tea and a plate of currant scones, Mother was at her most conciliatory, even going so far as to enquire about Matilda’s family home.
“I understand your family comes from Kent.”
“Yes, my lady. We grew up not far from Chatham Hall, when Father’s cousin had the baronetcy. Father died before inheriting, so it passed to my brother George two years ago.”
“And your mother?”
“She died when we were very young.”
“I’m sorry,” Clara murmured.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Mother said, offering their guest more tea. “And is your brother married?”
“Both my brothers are unmarried.”
Clara swallowed a smile. Yes, because one of them was but a boy.
Mother sighed. “We thought Clara would have been wed by now, but life can take such cruel twists sometimes.”
The internal smile fled.
“Very true, Lady Winpoole.” Matilda’s serious tone, her swift—pitying?—glance at Clara froze her insides. Had she heard something of Clara’s pitiful past?
Fortunately, Mother seemed content with the damage so far inflicted and soon excused herself. Awkwardness filled the room in her wake. Should Clara explain? Should she refrain? Oh, what did it matter? Her story was one oft repeated in a hundred drawing rooms.
“Please forgive my mother’s comments. She is still bitter. I was going to marry an earl, you see.”
“Oh!” Matilda’s eyes grew round. “Forgive me, I did not know.”
Where had she been hiding the past two years? Surely the story of the Honorable Clara DeLancey’s failed pursuit of the Earl of Hawkesbury was known to all and sundry! Or was she even more of a nonentity than she’d realized?
Matilda watched her carefully, biting her lip as if unsure what to say.
Which made two of them. Should she continue her explanations? Or had she said too much already? Something urged her to continue. Matilda McPherson was the first person in a long time to offer Clara friendship. And if she truly was uninformed, then at least Clara could present her side of the story without previous tattle tainting Matilda’s perception.
“It was the Earl of Hawkesbury,” she admitted.
“Oh! I have heard of him. Something of a good sportsman? And a hero in the war?”
She nodded. Try good at everything. He was even good at jilting. The bitterness slashed again.
“I remember now,” Matilda said. “Did he not marry a year or so ago?”
Her head jerked.
“That must have been very hard.” The sympathy in Matilda’s eyes pricked heat in her own. “Had he proposed?”
“Yes. No.” She swallowed. “It had been implied … it was always understood.”
“But not by him if he married someone else.”
“It was the dearest wish of our mothers.”
“But not his own.”
Heat crawled across her chest, strangling her voice to a raspy no.
“Oh, forgive me, Clara. I do not wish to offend you.”
“I am not offended,” she lied. This had been a mistake. She glanced at the tall case clock. How soon could she get rid of her visitor?
“I have upset you.” Matilda sighed. “I am sorry. Mothers should wish for their children to be well situated, but they can be blind also, thinking something might be good when in actuality it can be the reverse.”
How could marrying the earl have been anything but good? How could being laughed about, sneered at, whispered about in a hundred ballrooms ever be considered good?
“I see you do not believe me.”
Clara willed a smile to her face. “I confess the past two years have not felt particularly good.” As if compelled by a greater force, she murmured something of the failed schemes to win him back, something of her despair.
“Oh, my dear.” Matilda’s eyes grew shiny, as if she wished to cry.
The compassion forced Clara’s gaze down, tugging at the last of her defenses. “I hated her—and him—those first months. Hated them!” She peeked up. “I suppose you think me evil for admitting such things.”
“I think you honest, not evil.”
Clara swiped at her eyes. Why was she admitting to such ill-feeling? Could Matilda even be trusted? But it felt as though a pond had burst its banks and nothing could gather the spilled emotion again. “Now I just hate myself, for spending so long caring for someone who could not care less.” A sob hiccupped from her depths. Mortification stole across her. This was simply not how one made a friend, let alone kept one!
Before fresh shame choked her, she was being clasped in a hug. She stiffened. Matilda’s arms only tightened. After a moment, Clara relaxed, too weak to resist, her pride shriveled under the weight of honesty and the burden of loneliness that had so long held sway.
She closed her eyes, felt Matilda stroke her hair as she imagined Mother might have done a score of years ago. How long since she’d felt affection from anyone? How long since she’d been comforted so? Her parents had been angry on her behalf, but never had that translated into tears as she’d seen in Matilda’s eyes. Was the blow to their pride what had caused their anger? At times it was hard to tell; they seemed angry with her, too. Warmth and affection had never been characteristics of her family. Perhaps their love for her lay dormant, like a spring bulb, under layers of duty and pride. She preferred the honest emotion Matilda exhibited now, even if she knew Mother would die of shame should she return and see such unseemly behavior.
Clara drew in a breath, caught a tang of lavender as she eased from the hug. She smoothed her hair, wiped underneath her eyes, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. I’m sure I would feel similarly in the same situation.”
Her kindness wrapped around Clara’s cold heart like a thick blanket, impelling her onwards. “I … I just feel so lost, like I don’t know who I am anymore.”
There was a pause. “So who is Clara?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who are you? Really?”
Clara sat back, thinking. Who was she? Daughter of a viscount? Someone whose chief interests included the acquisition of new clothes? Pleasure? Someone forever lost in a dream that could never happen? The earl had certainly moved on; wasn’t it time she did also?
“Will you truly allow one man’s rejection to define the rest of your life?”
Clara laughed brokenly. “I rather think it is the sum total of all the men who have rejected me.”
“God does not reject you, Clara.”
The words washed around her heart, that infinitesimal tugging of past days growing stronger. “I don’t know …”
“I do. I know that God loves you, that His plans for you are good.”
Matilda’s confident words instilled a mite of hope. Did God really notice her? Could the Creator of the universe really care about her?
“Perhaps this is a time for you to allow God to heal you, to show who He thinks you are.”
Clara swallowed. “Perhaps.”
“Now, did I hear someone playing the pianoforte when I arrived?”
The abrupt change in subject made her blink. “I … er, yes. I was playing.”
Matilda smiled. “Then I’m sure part of God’s plans involve your musical ability. You’re really very good.”
“Thank you.” She bit back the prideful comment, a
bout how she had once played and sung at some of London’s finest salons. Those days were long past.
Matilda’s brow puckered, then cleared as she smiled. “Would you mind helping us by playing at the mission? Benjie, my brother, is keen to help the sailors and soldiers adversely affected by war.” Her eyes twinkled. “Your music would ensure the men will be keen to attend.”
“Oh. I …” How could she graciously refuse? But—a little part of her heart niggled—she did not want to refuse. Didn’t she need to live differently than before? And it would provide her the chance to meet Matilda and Tessa’s revered brother. “I … of course.”
“Excellent!” Matilda pushed to her feet. Held out her hand. “Thank you so much for today. I hope you know that I will never breathe a word of your pain to anyone.”
“I do,” she said, surprised at the revelation. Somehow she knew she could trust her new friend implicitly, that the cords of friendship had only strengthened today. “Thank you for not condemning me.”
“Ah, well, we’ve all done things we’ve been ashamed of. And if it’s any help, I did not meet Mr. McPherson until people thought I was well and truly on the shelf. It just shows that good things are worth waiting for.”
Clara’s smile grew wry. Apparently she was waiting for someone very good indeed.
Chatham Hall, Kent
“But, George, don’t you see? It will not do. If Tessa marries Braithwaite she’ll forever be held hostage to his melancholy.”
His brother eyed his own reflection in the glass, touching his recently rearranged neckcloth. “How the man can blame himself when you obviously do not, I cannot fathom.”
Ben bit back his initial response. Bit back his second response also. There was a lot his dandified brother could not fathom, particularly anything demanding self-sacrifice. He strode to the windows overlooking a garden as green as he remembered the Ceylon trees to be. As for blaming himself for the shipwreck, that was something he’d come to terms with months ago. The wreck of the Ansdruther had been an unforeseen tragedy, one that possibly could have been averted through the use of Braithwaite’s precious chronometer, but the winds and the waves had been so fierce there quite likely would have been loss of life even had they not been pushed onto the reef.
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 5
