He returned to his chair. “We must play the cards life has dealt us, and I am attempting to play my hand with integrity and practical acceptance. If you have heard reports to the contrary, I would like the chance to defend myself, as any accusations are undeserved.” There had been a stolen kiss or two, but that could be said of any young buck in London. This season, especially, Timothy had been a perfect gentleman, determined to make a solid match.
“I’ve heard no reports,” Uncle Elliott said, shaking his head. “And I commend you for your thoughtfulness considering your circumstance.” He leaned forward and rested his hands on top of the leather binder on the desk. “What would be different if you had means of your own?”
“I prefer not to indulge in such fantasy. My imagination is such that I can too easily be carried away.” More than one woman over the years had unknowingly led him to wonder if somehow love could be enough. He’d corrected his course in each case when reality descended, and regretted that he’d bruised a few hearts, as well as his own, along the way.
“I commend you for that as well,” Uncle said, before pushing the leather binder across the desk. “I have taken each of my nieces’ and nephews’ situations into consideration and created what I believe to be an opportunity to remedy your individual difficulties. In your case, I have formulated the means for you to support a family.”
Timothy held the blue leather binder in his lap and read over his name printed in gold in the lower right-hand corner: Timothy Roman Mayfield. He looked up at his uncle, who nodded his permission for Timothy to open the folder.
Timothy felt his eyes widening as he read the words inside. When he finished—barely able to keep his eyes from skipping ahead on the page—he went back to the start and read again with greater focus, nearly forgetting he wasn’t alone until he heard the squeak of his uncle’s chair. He lifted his eyes without closing the binder. “Is this sincere?” He heard the reverence in his tone. “You mean to gift me . . . all of this?”
Uncle’s eyes were soft when he smiled. “I want you to have a good life, Timothy, a happy life, and I would like for your choice of a wife to be made through good sense and genuine affection. I admire the way you have gone about your situation, but I think this”—he nodded toward the folder—“might put you in an even stronger position to make a match that can ensure security and happiness for the next generation of Mayfields.”
Timothy turned his attention back to the folder, barely able to breathe through the swirling energy in his chest. “A house in London,” he read out loud, then glanced up. “The London house is entailed upon Peter.”
“Yes, the Mayfield London house, this estate, and a portion of the tea plantation that I went to India to build up in order to save our family from financial ruin—all those things are entailed upon Peter as heir. But I have personal ownership in the plantation and have used those profits to make my own investments over the years, separate from those of the family. I spent thirty years building my personal wealth alongside the family coffers and those assets belong to me to do with as I see fit. I purchased a house on Montague Street some eight years ago when I came to England for one of my visits and have been letting it ever since. Upon your marriage, it will become yours.”
“And land?” Timothy continued, overwhelmed by the details. He would need to study his uncle’s offer carefully in order to become familiar with the particulars.
“The one hundred and fifty acres are at present still attached to the lands of a friend I made while I was in India. His brother manages the whole and pays my portion annually. It would merely be a matter of legalities to formalize a division. The proceeds will keep the house on Montague Street and meet the needs of a family for some time, though not in extreme luxury.”
“I have no need for extreme luxury,” Timothy said. He was good with numbers and knew the income reflected on this page would make him far more comfortable than he was now. A carriage. A horse. A home in London. Land in the country where, perhaps one day, he could build an estate house. Perhaps he could invest in innovations that excited him, maybe even build a mill or purchase a shop to bring in further revenue. He could become the sort of man Peter had become, without needing his wife’s fortune to make something of himself. He looked up at his uncle again. “I need only make a match and all of this comes into my ownership?”
“A match of my approval,” Elliott clarified. “As I have evaluated our family’s situation, I feel that poor marriages have been at least one cause of the disconnect. Bitterness between my siblings and their spouses kept you from knowing your cousins, and enforced isolation kept each family dependent only on each other, and sometimes not even that. I want to remedy those generational disappointments by giving you motivation to establish a whole and responsible life. A woman of good reputation and family, equally prepared for a life with you as you are for a life with her, is an essential element of that future success.”
“You will choose my bride?” The offer suddenly lost some color.
“No, no,” Elliott said, chuckling. “If you turn the page, you will see the requirements. I only ask that I meet the young lady and have the chance to evaluate for myself that she meets the stipulations I feel necessary for a solid match. I am not trying to extend any prejudice, I have nothing against other classes, however I have seen the difficulties of marriages that are not on an equal plane. I am sure I need not explain the details.”
Timothy shook his head, knowing full well that Uncle Elliott was referring to his mother, Carolyn. After Theodore’s death, Mother had not known how to function in the world left to her. She had become solitary, raising her children as best she could but rarely venturing into the outside world. She became prone to long, drawn-out periods of sadness where she struggled to care for herself while the children were left to manage the house—without servants. Timothy had never outgrown the feeling that he had failed her all those years ago. If he and Peter and Donna had been able to fill the void their father had left behind, or if they had known how to help her, maybe she would not have lived in such darkness within her own mind.
“I also want to ensure that any young woman you choose is not marrying you only for your money—a possibility you should consider as you return to London. You may go public with this information if you like, but be sure you understand the risks.”
Timothy turned the page and read through the list of requirements Uncle Elliott set out for the type of woman he would approve: a God-fearing woman of character from a good family or with a fair assessment of their failings; a woman who would be devoted to Timothy, committed to raising a family and upholding the highest of moral standards; moderation in vices, affection, and willingness to adapt to the lifestyle he was able to offer.
Timothy tapped the page. “If I were a more cynical man I would ask about the catch. There is nothing here that I would not seek for myself.”
Uncle smiled. “That is precisely what I had hoped. Only, now the woman you decide to court will not need to be wealthy—though she still could be, I suppose.”
Timothy read the list a second time to make sure he understood each detail, his spirits lifting higher and higher with every line. Finally, he closed the folder and laid it reverently in his lap. He cleared his throat, thick with the emotion rising from his chest. “Uncle, I have not the words able to express what this means for me.” He had to clear his throat again to keep his voice even. “After years of fearing I would have to settle in one way or another, I can now make a choice of my heart, for my heart’s sake. Have you any idea how this shall change my entire future?”
A glimmer of sorrow Timothy did not understand entered Uncle Elliott’s eyes as he nodded slow and sober. “I think I have some idea of what this means to you, Timothy, and I am very glad to be able to open this door for you. There is nothing more important than family, and I am humbled to be able to help you on your way to finding happiness in your life.”
&nbs
p; Maryann completed the final dance of the set, curtsied to her partner, Mr. Andres, accepted his arm, and allowed him to walk her back to her party. He was as stiff and awkward leading her back as he had been when leading her to the floor, which was disappointing as he’d seemed to relax some during the dance.
“Thank you for the p-pleasure, Miss Morrington,” he said, releasing her arm and bowing to her like a rusty hinge.
She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Andres.” She gave him a nod, and he shuffled off. She watched him sympathetically. This was his first London season, and he was unaccustomed to the city. Hopefully in a few more weeks, he would not feel so out of place.
Deborah stepped up beside her. “Was the dance as uncomfortable as it looked?” she asked, her voice purposefully light.
“No,” Maryann said, taking the cup of punch Deborah offered her and giving her sister a narrowed look. “He is a nice young man, only . . . new to the city, that is all.”
“And new to the dance floor, I presume,” Deborah continued, her gaze scanning the ballroom. “I swear I could see his lips counting out the steps.”
“Don’t be cruel. We all come as we are.” Maryann had turned twenty-two on Boxing Day, which made her feel ancient compared to the other debutantes. She hoped the young men would not judge her harshly for her age and thus was inclined to overlook their own weaknesses. Unless their weakness was poverty or debt, then she was unable to give much encouragement because she knew they only pursued her for her fortune.
Deborah shrugged and took a sip of her own drink—wine, not punch. Married women could get away with such things. “All in all, the evening seems to have been a success. This is the first set you have not danced.”
“I might sit out the rest of them,” Maryann said, lifting one foot and attempting to ease the cramping arch. “My feet are killing me.”
“I told you not to save the new slippers for a ball,” Deborah chided.
“I shall follow the advice for my other pair, mark my word. I only did not want to get them dirty by wearing them prior to tonight.” She extended her foot forward to admire the shimmery gold of the satin in the candlelight of the ballroom. They really were fabulous slippers, cramps and all.
Deborah touched Maryann’s elbow, and she looked up to see what had caught her sister’s attention. As soon as Maryann saw him, she felt her shoulders relax and the corners of her mouth turn up. “He’s here,” she said under her breath.
“Indeed he is,” Deborah said, as self-satisfied as though Timothy’s arrival had been her doing. Deborah made no attempt to hide the fact that Timothy Mayfield was her choice for Maryann.
Lucas had been friends with Timothy since Cambridge, and Deborah had insisted on introducing him to Maryann as soon as she could. The little sister in Maryann wanted to reject her sister’s choice as a matter of course—she would never hear the end of it if Deborah chose her husband, whoever he might be—but such a rejection would be silly rivalry, and Maryann was beyond such things.
Timothy was lively, kind, and handsome in a boyish way that put her at ease regarding her own rather plain looks. From their first introduction, she’d felt a warmth in his presence, a sparkle of . . . something that had only grown since. She never felt as though he were keeping up pretenses with her, an aspect he had proven at his last visit when he’d admitted to being in the market for a wife of fortune. Maryann had been peckish that day, her head throbbing and her mood as gray as the skies. She’d been shocked by Timothy’s answer to her surly question regarding his intentions, and even mildly put off, but by the end of the visit, she had been grateful for the truth. That he was not seeking her out only for money deepened the connection she’d felt to him from the start. Being married to such a man would bring laughter and adventure into her life as well as a reprieve from the shadows that had moved in during the years of her mother’s declining health.
Maryann had been the natural choice to be her mother’s companion, and it had not been difficult to forgo her own ambitions in order to attend her. When Mama died last fall, Maryann had lost her closest friend. It had been a very long winter, and she would not have come to London except that Deborah had convinced their father that Maryann needed to get out from under the cloud that had darkened the skies for all of them. Timothy, more than anyone else Maryann had met, had opened the drapery and let sunlight back into her life. Now that word of her fortune was drawing impoverished men to her like ducks to bread, she appreciated his friendship more than ever.
She watched as Timothy made the rounds of the room, saying hello to everyone, it seemed. At one point, he looked up and caught her watching him. She ducked her head, embarrassed, before looking coyly away. When she looked back, he was leading Miss Larkin, a debutante with golden hair and sparkling blue eyes, to the dance floor. There was no reason whatsoever for her to expect Timothy to ask her to dance first. And yet, she had imagined that he would cross to her directly and ask her to the floor. She’d all but counted on it, considering this was the first time she’d seen him since his return from Norfolk.
Timothy whispered something to Miss Larkin as he passed her in the steps of the quadrille. Miss Larkin laughed, then covered her mouth with her hand to hide the reaction.
Maryann turned away completely, feeling foolish, and Deborah raised an eyebrow. Had she been watching Maryann watching Timothy?
“I must step outside for a few moments,” Maryann said, coming up with a quick excuse for escape. She put her cup on one of the nearby tables. “It is quite warm.”
“Quite,” Deborah said, but she had not looked away, making Maryann feel like a book waiting to be read. An unwilling book.
It was a comfort to have Deborah in London, acting as her sponsor for the season and keeping Maryann from her inclinations to stay at home. But sometimes Maryann felt as though she was expected to lay her entire life open like a map for her sister to peruse and critique at will. If Deborah’s pregnancy last summer had come to term . . . Well, many things would be different, including the attention Deborah could direct solely at Maryann. It was unfair for Maryann to think such things, however. No one had wanted that child more than Deborah had, and if managing Maryann’s belated season lessened some of the pain her sister still carried for the loss, then Maryann could not complain.
Still, she needed some air and some distance for a few moments at least. Timothy had not even crossed the room to say hello.
Maryann headed for the veranda doors, nodding at a few acquaintances and pausing to converse a few minutes with Susanna Hansen, before continuing outside. The cool air on her warm skin tingled. She welcomed the sharpness. There were not many people out, which suited her, and she found a quiet section of balcony where she could lean her forearms on the stone railing. She inhaled the night air, highly fragranced with smoke from both household fires and the factories from the east end of town. Father said that industry would soon take over society, but she hoped industry would not bring this part of life to an end completely. There would always be a place for fine evenings and pretty gowns, wouldn’t there?
She let her eyes drift closed and, against her better judgment, invited a new fantasy to mind now that her original fantasy—that of Timothy crossing to her immediately—had come to naught.
This time, he’d look about the ballroom after his dance with Miss Larkin only to find Maryann missing. Determined to find her now that he’d fulfilled his duty to Miss Larkin—perhaps he’d lost a bet or owed her brother a favor—he’d begin a search for Maryann, eventually finding her on the veranda, looking over the moonlit garden with the gentle breeze stirring the curls that dripped down her back. In the moonlight, she would almost look beautiful.
She imagined him standing in the doorway even now, watching her, then crossing to her as silent as a falling petal. He would reach her, but not speak. Instead, he would put out his hand and brush his fingers across the back of her neck, inviting a shiver of such
delicious heat that she would be more grateful than ever to have stepped outside.
“Miss Morrington?”
“Hmm,” she said, captured within the image of Timothy leaning closer, repeating his words in her ear. She angled her chin so as to put her profile at its most alluring.
“Miss Morrington?”
The voice was too direct to be fantasy. Her eyes popped open, and she spun around to see Mr. Barney Fetich jump back, startled by her reaction. She put a hand to her chest as fire shot up her spine and filled her cheeks. “Goodness,” she said, trying to catch her breath and feeling like the most idiotic of women. “You frightened me.”
“I am sorry,” he said, his cheeks red, too. “I had thought you heard me the first time I said your name. My apologies.”
She had heard him the first time. Only she’d thought it was Timothy within her daydream. She forced a smile and squared her shoulders, though her cheeks continued to burn. “Yes, well, I am sorry to have been so distracted. Um. How are you this evening, Mr. Fetich?”
“I am well.” He spoke as though he were not entirely sure how he was doing. “I had wondered if you were already engaged for the waltz. It shall begin in a few minutes.”
She had, of course, hoped to waltz with Timothy, but he had not asked her before taking Miss Larkin to the floor, nor had he found her on the veranda when that set had finished. “I am not already engaged, Mr. Fetich.”
His face relaxed into a smile. “Would you, perhaps, consider waltzing with me, then?”
“Certainly.”
He put out his arm, and they walked back into the ballroom, making small talk about the party and the weather as they waited for the set to finish. Maryann had no trouble locating Timothy dancing with yet another blonde debutante. She furrowed her eyebrows at that. Granted, she had not been part of the London society for long, but Timothy had tended to be a bit less . . . cliché at other events.
Daisies and Devotion Page 3
