Daisies and Devotion

by Josi S. Kilpack

  She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. “Are you certain of that?”

  Timothy took a breath. “Please let us not dissolve into argument yet again. I do not think he is interested only in your fortune. I just wanted to make sure that you knew that he knew. Just in case.”

  Maryann felt as though she held the flint and steel capable of starting another fire between them. She was angry that he would assume her money would replace her appeal. Yet she recognized that—though offensive as it was—his assumption was the result of Timothy’s concern for her. She allowed herself to remember the afternoon they’d spent together this week, the way they had teased one another, the footraces in the park—she could still hardly believe she’d done it. If she wanted that ease to continue, she had to put the flint and steel away, even if she had cause to use it. She took a breath and softened her expression.

  “You once told me, Timothy, that you could never marry just for purse. I feel the same, but I also accept the reality that my fortune will be a boon to my future husband all the same. Colonel Berkins is the first man who has made me forget that I am an heiress, and that has been wonderful. His situation is secure, and I have no reason to doubt that his primary interest is in my character.” It felt good to say the words. Better yet, to believe them. Timothy still looked concerned, and she placed a hand on his arm and smiled. “But I thank you for telling me how he learned it and appreciate your concern for me.”

  Her releasing him from responsibility did not seem to reassure him very much, but after some mental argument with himself, he nodded. “I do want your happiness, Maryann.”

  “Thank you,” Maryann said. She stepped to his side and slid her arm into his. “Now you may escort me to my carriage and tell me how things are between you and Miss Shaw.”

  He took her up on her offer and recounted his time with Miss Shaw from earlier that morning on a walk and at that evening’s event. Maryann wished she could hear it without the twinge of envy, but she did believe that twinge was lessening.

  “She is quite remarkable,” Timothy said.

  “Are you convinced she is your perfect woman?”

  “Not yet,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.

  They bade farewell to the hosts before continuing to the foyer where the footman fetched her cloak as well as Timothy’s coat and hat.

  “The two of you seem to get on very well,” Maryann said. She’d seen them a number of times this evening, and Timothy had always been attentive and Miss Shaw had always been adoring. By the looks of things, he was as besotted as Mr. Fetich was with Miss Callifour. Yet he continued to have this hesitation. Why did some part of her like his caution?

  “We do get along,” Timothy said. “And since you are the keeper of so many of my imperfections, perhaps I can confess this one additional thing to you and ask if you might advise me.”

  Timothy helped Maryann with her cloak before putting on his own coat and extending his arm to lead her down the front steps where they would wait for her carriage.

  “I am always happy to offer advice to a friend, Timothy,” Maryann said.

  “Yes, well, as I’ve spent more time with Miss Shaw and considered making an offer to her, I’ve realized that it is not just making an offer. It is rising from my place as a penniless bachelor to a man of land and family. In a sense, making an offer will change everything I have known regarding life as a grown man. It is rather overwhelming.”

  “Indeed it is,” Maryann said with a nod. “As a woman, I suppose I have always taken it for granted that a man knows how to establish such things, but it does sound quite intimidating.”

  A woman’s responsibilities were demanding as well, but Maryann had been raised to her place, and when her mother became ill, she and Deborah had shared their mother’s work until Deborah and Lucas married, and then Maryann had taken the whole of it.

  “I’ve never seen it done,” he said so quietly that she did not know if she’d heard him correctly.

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked embarrassed as he faced her. “My father died before I was born, as you know.”

  She nodded for him to continue.

  Timothy glanced down the path as if looking for the carriage. “My mother wouldn’t keep servants; she’d been a maid and was uncomfortable managing other people. Because of that, our home was . . . unkempt and rather chaotic. Though we were children, we learned to manage many things—especially my sister—but only enough to get by.

  “For instance, I remember one year after a spring storm, the ceiling began to leak. We placed a pan beneath the leak, and it became my job to manage that pan . . . for the next three years. It didn’t occur to any of us that the roof needed to be fixed, and it wasn’t until Uncle Elliott came to see us during one of his visits from India to England that he had it fixed. He instructed our steward to do monthly checks inside the house, even if my mother tried to refuse it.

  “My clothes were all hand-me-downs from Peter, and to this day I am not sure where he got his clothes, as mother did not sew and no one came to see us save the vicar and his wife a few times a year.

  “Mother simply did not have the capacity to function the way normal women did, and she had no one she trusted enough to rely on. She died when I was ten, and I went off to school, where I learned from other boys how to better manage myself. After school, I moved into rented rooms befitting a London bachelor.

  “I’ve never lived in a managed household, never instructed staff or spoken with solicitors or men of business or stewards or such—save for an appointment I had with my uncle last week regarding my upcoming inheritance. Yet, as a married man with holdings of my own, I will be expected to take on all such things and more, and I’ve not the first clue how to do it.”

  “Oh, Timothy,” Maryann whispered, placing a hand on his arm. “I had never considered this.”

  He smiled. “Obviously, neither have I until recently. It is therefore difficult for me to separate my being ready to make Miss Shaw an offer and being ready to step into all this responsibility.”

  “What of your brother? Did you not tell me that he had restored your childhood home?”

  “Yes,” Timothy said. “I barely recognize the house when I visit, which I shall be doing next week, by the way.” He brightened, his countenance lifting. “He is having an engagement party. I can only imagine it’s her idea as Peter is not one to entertain.”

  “I imagine he would be glad to give you advice, especially as he understands your situation better than anyone. He had as little example as you did.”

  The Landsing carriage pulled up in front of them, and Timothy signaled to both the driver and the footman that he would assist her inside.

  “That is an excellent idea, Maryann. Once again you have come to my rescue.”

  She laughed without thinking and then banked it quickly, though the echo seemed to ring through the night air.

  Timothy took both of her hands in his and stared at her intently, suddenly serious. “I should never have said what I said about your laugh, not only because it was cruel but because your laugh is sincere and bold and . . . just like you.”

  “I think you mean brash and—”

  “Real,” he cut in. “Promise me you will never contain it again.”

  “You are not the only one put off by it, and I’ve no wish to make anyone uncomfortable.”

  He shook his head before she even finished speaking. “Promise me,” he said. “It is everything it should be and everything you are. Never hold it back again. Promise?”

  How could she say no to him when he held both her hands between them and stared into her eyes with such sincerity and regret? “I promise.”

  He grinned that boyish grin that made her heart skip a beat, and then released her hands and opened the door of the carriage so he might hold her hand while she stepped inside.

 
“Have a good night, Maryann,” he said as she settled onto the bench.

  “Would you like a ride?”

  “No, thank you.” He pulled his hat down low over his eyes but lifted his chin so she was all but looking up his nose. “I fancy a run tonight.”

  She nearly held back her laugh, but then remembered her promise and laughed loud and bold. It made him grin even wider.

  It was nearly midnight before Maryann returned home. Lucas was reading in the drawing room as he often did on the nights she attended events alone. They talked of who was there, who wasn’t, the latest gossip, and how Deborah was feeling—tired, as had become her usual disposition.

  “I spoke with Timothy tonight,” Maryann said, hoping her voice sounded casual. She straightened the lace doily on the side table to avoid his eyes. “I think he’ll be making an offer to Miss Shaw.”

  “Miss Shaw?”

  She met his eye. “Miss Rachel Shaw. I introduced them a week ago.” Had it only been a week? “She is . . . perfect for him.”

  Lucas’s expression was intent enough that she shifted in her chair but pushed forward. Her thoughts had been filled with Timothy through the journey home. “I wonder, Lucas, what you know of Timothy’s childhood and, uh, family.” She was troubled by all he’d gone through and wanted to discuss it with someone she knew cared for Timothy as she did.

  “His childhood? Norfolk, I think, or possibly Nottingham. I know he has an older brother and sister. His uncle is a viscount, and he supports Timothy, I believe.”

  Was that all he knew? “What of his mother? Has he ever talked to you about her?”

  “I believe his mother was a bit reclusive.”

  Isolated, Maryann corrected silently in her mind. A former maid.

  “She died before he came to school, and I think his father died when he was young.”

  Before he was born, Maryann corrected once more.

  “Timothy’s sister was caught up in some sort of scandal—I’ve never embarrassed him enough to ask details—and his cousin, Harry Stillman, is a bit of a scamp here in London. Were it not for Timothy’s excellent character, I think he would suffer more for Harry’s actions and the lack of family consequence. But, well, Timothy seems to outshine such things, a remarkable thing for a society so quick to draw out the worst.”

  Maryann nodded her agreement, wondering if she knew more about Timothy’s family than anyone else did. Though Timothy had a great many friends, none were closer than Lucas, and if Lucas did not know the details, she did not imagine anyone else would. The possibility that she could be the sole keeper of his history made her feel a combination of gratitude and responsibility.

  “Why all the questions, Maryann?”

  She stood and smiled in case any of her thoughts had shown on her face. “Just curious. Miss Shaw seems to be a good match for him.” It was true, wasn’t it? Did Miss Shaw know anything about Timothy’s family? Was that part of Timothy’s confession tonight, testing out the things he would need to tell his intended wife?

  “I played cards with him last night, and he said nothing about a new woman of interest.”

  “I imagine he doesn’t keep you up-to-date on the women he is attentive to, though, does he?”

  Lucas considered that. “Well, no. But he talked about your shopping trip in Piccadilly.” He grinned, as though he wanted her to draw some conclusion from his comment. She refused to do so.

  “We had a nice afternoon,” Maryann said before turning to leave. “Good night, Lucas. You really don’t have to wait up for me.”

  “Except that if I don’t, Deborah can’t sleep.”

  She looked back. “You’re a good husband, Lucas.”

  His smile softened. “I am trying to be.”

  She said good night once more and then made her way up the stairs, humming to herself as she reviewed the evening, which had been one of the best she’d had in a long time. The bedchamber was lit, and when she entered, Lucy stood from where she’d been waiting in the window seat.

  “Oh, Lucy,” she said in a sweet and dreamy voice. “What a lovely evening I have had this night.”

  She crossed to the vanity, but stopped when she realized the maid had not said anything. She turned to Lucy, whose eyes did not reflect Maryann’s happiness. Maryann felt her smile fall. “Lucy, whatever is the matter?”

  “Oh, miss, I am so sorry,” she said in a tight voice.

  Maryann took hold of her arm. “What is it? Deborah? The baby? Has something happened?” She looked to the door of her bedchamber. Lucas would have said something if—

  “It is not your sister, miss, or anyone of the household.”

  Maryann held onto Lucy, potential relief frozen because, though the problem was not Deborah, there was obviously still a problem. “Then what is it?”

  “It is Colonel Berkins. I am so sorry. He is not what he has worked so hard to seem, and he has managed to fool everyone.”

  The shock and hurt of Lucy’s discovery only lasted a short time, then Maryann transitioned into the woman she’d been at home at Orchard House—the one who managed the household and her mother’s care and thanked people who asked after the family’s well-being without dropping a shred of evidence toward the toll it all took. Like then, this situation wasn’t different because she knew the truth. The decision to not let this situation linger and fester was the easy part, but she was awake for hours considering the best way to confront Colonel Berkins. Her first priority was to protect her and her family from embarrassment and scandal. The second consideration was to protect Colonel Berkins from the same.

  Sunday moved forward at a snail’s pace, and she felt trapped in the confines of the town house with no sea to escape to. She could not go anywhere in London without an escort, but all she wanted was to be truly, totally alone. She feigned a headache in order to claim some sense of privacy for her thoughts, and spent the day in her bedchamber reviewing her options.

  She could not call on the colonel, and to invite him to come to her house would require that Deborah attend them. She considered trying to meet him unattended, but she was more mindful of her reputation than ever. Finally, amid the heaviness of a second sleepless night, she wrote him a request that he take her on another carriage ride Monday afternoon. It was the only real option for them to have a private conversation.

  She tiptoed downstairs in her nightdress and left the note on the tray for outgoing messages; there were some invitation responses already set there, waiting for the footman to deliver them at decent hours. Then she moved silently back to her room, crawled beneath the covers, and willed herself to sleep with the knowledge that she would be all right. She had not been in love with him. Not yet.

  She slept until eleven o’clock—bless Lucy for informing the household that she would not be receiving visits that morning—and then dragged herself through her morning routine. Near noon, she received Colonel Berkins’s response of excited acceptance, and at a quarter past two, he lifted her into the carriage. She’d have used a ladder if one had been available in order to avoid the intimacy, but she did not have the option. The feel of his hands on her waist did not excite her this time. She wouldn’t let it.

  She only waited until they had turned off Holland Street before she spoke, hoping that once she said the words out loud they would stop looping through her mind.

  “I have some questions about Spain,” she said.

  “Ah, one of my favorite topics,” he said with a grin. “What would you like to know?”

  “Why did you not stay there?”

  “The war all but ruined the country, and my land is here in England. My mother and sisters are here too. I have been gone a long time.”

  “But to leave something you love so much, is that not difficult?”

  He nodded, and his expression fell while his eyes got a faraway look. “Of course.”

 
“You once said you wanted to bring the best parts of Spain back to England.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling again, but she sensed some nervousness there. Or perhaps she only wanted to see nervousness so he would seem less a cad and more the desperate man she preferred to believe he was. They turned a corner, but she had already braced herself by gripping the edges of her seat so she would not fall against him.

  “Did you specifically mean that the best parts of Spain were your woman and child and that you actually brought them to England with you?”

  He froze completely, and all color drained from his face, but he did not turn to look at her. A few moments passed, and he steered the horses to the right to avoid another carriage.

  Maryann took advantage of his speechlessness. “I certainly cannot know more about Spain than you, a man who has lived there,” she said, impressed with herself for speaking so evenly. Lucy’s revelation had shocked her Saturday night, and yet she’d felt more foolish than betrayed. Confronting him did not hurt. “But aren’t there areas of Spain that have been less affected by the war than others? I know the country does not run as England does, but it seems a man with military training and English manners—and who speaks the language and has a vested interest in the people—could do quite well there. Why did you not marry this woman and live in Spain as an honest man rather than pretending she is a servant with a dead husband?”

  He swallowed. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Maryann—”

  “It would be best if you called me Miss Morrington,” she said, her tone remaining calm. “And better still for you to be honest with me. I am trying to help you, Colonel Berkins, if I can.”

  He was silent for several long seconds.

  Maryann waited him out. Maybe it would have been better to have met him in secret, where one of them could turn and run from this. Why should she have any concern for his situation after what he’d done? But she was worn out and did not have the energy to make this about her, when it was not about her. At all.