Daisies and Devotion

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Colonel Berkins had rejected her? Timothy wanted every detail but could not ask it. “Perhaps if—”

  “I am finished with London, Timothy,” she said with finality. “And Deborah needs my help in Somerset.”

  Deborah had lost a child shortly before her mother died, but Timothy could not shake the feeling that Maryann was using Deborah’s happy news as an excuse to hide her own feelings.

  “Why will you not come back next season? You make it sound as though you have given up on finding a match entirely.”

  The footman arrived with her cloak, and Timothy took it from the man so he might put it on Maryann himself. He sensed a strange energy between them as he settled the fabric upon her shoulders. Was the tension due to his frustration with her leaving? Her sadness at losing Colonel Berkins? He stepped around to face her and attempted to tie the strings of her cloak, but she shook her head and took them in hand, turning away. At the same time, Timothy realized they were no longer alone. Miss Shaw and her aunt had entered the foyer with Mr. and Mrs. Clauson. Had they arrived in time to see him helping with Maryann’s cloak? He didn’t like that it made him feel guilty.

  “Your carriage is ready,” the footman informed Mr. Clauson. Timothy proceeded to help Miss Shaw with her cloak so he would not seem to have paid particular attention to Maryann. When he finished, he realized Maryann had slipped out. The footman handed him his hat. Timothy had had no need for an additional coat on such a warm night.

  As he walked down the steps with Miss Shaw, he saw Maryann step into the Landsing carriage ahead of them. Timothy helped the ladies into the Clauson carriage, complimenting their company and agreeing that it had been a fine evening.

  “Are you sure we cannot offer you a ride, Mr. Mayfield?” Mr. Clauson said a final time.

  “No, thank you,” Timothy said with a shake of his head. “I appreciate the offer, but my rooms are not far. I shall see all of you at Lady Dominique’s ball Saturday night, I believe. Tonight has been great fun.”

  “It was a lovely evening,” Miss Shaw said last, holding his gaze as he began to close the door.

  “It was, thank you.”

  He wished them a safe ride, then stepped back so the carriage could pull away. Ahead of them, the Landsing carriage turned right at the end of the street. He turned and walked the other direction until he could round a corner, out of view. Then he removed his jacket, leaving himself in only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and pushed his hat low over his face. He took off in a run, utilizing his familiarity with London and a half a dozen shortcuts he knew of to put himself ahead of the Landsing carriage. Thank goodness he’d had his boots stretched, otherwise he could not have made it half a block.

  Running at full speed, Timothy reached Holland Street just as the carriage turned the opposite corner. He could barely breathe and was sweating through his shirt in the muggy night air. He summoned a final burst of speed and arrived in time to wave off the footman who was reaching for the carriage door. Good thing he practiced such exertion every Sunday.

  He opened the door while sucking for air.

  Maryann had already leaned forward to exit the carriage and jumped back into her seat when she saw him. “Timothy!” she said in half surprise, half reprimand. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “We . . . are . . .” He braced his hands on his thighs and took another deep breath. “Not finished . . . talking.”

  She looked at him through the carriage doorway with wide eyes. “You chased me here?”

  “Not . . . exactly.” Another breath. “Can . . . we talk?”

  She pursed her lips, and then shooed him forward so she could step out of the carriage. He was late extending his hand to help her down but put it out once she was on the sidewalk. She raised her eyebrows and walked ahead of him to the front door where the footman waited. The carriage rolled away, heading for the stables.

  She led Timothy directly to the well-lit parlor. Lucas was reading near the fire and looked up when they entered. He stood quickly, apparently surprised to see Timothy so late at night. “Uh, good evening, Mayfield.”

  “Might I talk to Maryann for . . . a few minutes, Lucas?” Timothy asked. He was still breathing hard and had his coat over his arm, but at least he could speak in full sentences. Or nearly full sentences.

  For a moment, Lucas looked as though he might protest, then he turned to Maryann.

  “It’s fine,” she said, taking off her bracelets as she crossed the room. “There is a fireplace poker handy if it becomes necessary to defend myself.”

  Lucas looked as unimpressed with this comment as Timothy felt. What had he done to deserve that?

  “It is fine,” she repeated when she reached the side table where she deposited her jewelry and began peeling off one of her silver gloves.

  Lucas looked between the two of them, a hundred unasked questions behind his eyes. “I shall be in the study.”

  He left them, leaving the door open a few inches. Timothy did not think Lucas would eavesdrop from the hallway but there wasn’t much he could do about it either way.

  Focus.

  He turned to Maryann, who was pulling off her remaining glove by loosening each finger in turn. He looked away as though she were undressing, which she wasn’t, but it was a strangely intimate action, and the sensation it evoked reminded him of the feeling of her hand on his knee. He waited a few seconds longer to be sure that she would be finished when he looked up at her again.

  She stood, waiting expectantly, her ungloved hands clasped in front of her.

  “Why would you not return to London next season?”

  She lifted her hands and began fiddling with one of her earbobs. “Honestly, Timothy, why does this matter to you?”

  “Because we are friends, and I feel that . . . I feel that you are hiding something from me. If Colonel Berkins is part of your decision, I hope you will accept my apology for having facilitated the introduction.”

  “Apology accepted,” she said simply as she put one of her earbobs—a round sparkly thing—on the table beside her bracelets.

  “He hurt you, then?” Timothy would call the man out!

  She shook her head. “No, but his happiness was not mine. At least I learned of it before I was much compromised.”

  “Much compromised?”

  She worked on the other earbob. “Do not worry yourself. It was only a few kisses, and not very good ones.”

  “Just a kiss?” Fire lit within his chest. “You kissed him?” Before she could answer, he made another realization. “And what do you mean ‘not very good’? What have you to compare it with?”

  She smiled at him, more sincere than polite, and placed the second earbob next to the first. “I don’t think that is any of your business,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “Do you think you are the only man to steal kisses from gentlemen’s daughters?”

  Timothy’s face caught fire to match the heat in his chest. “Wh-what are you talking about?” How could she know?

  That bark of her laugh set his back up even more. She undid the necklace from her neck—her lovely, smooth neck. Focus, he ordered himself again.

  “What do you think we women talk about when we turn a room or giggle behind our hands? I have spoken with and learned of many of your conquests, Timothy, which is why your reaction to my conquests surprises me.”

  “Dear heavens, do not say ‘your conquests’ ever again.” He rubbed a hand over his face, appalled. He imagined the women of the ton talking about the intimacies he’d shared with, well, some. Nothing salacious, just a quick kiss when no one was watching. He felt it a necessary tool for measuring physical compatibility. He never imagined they would speak of it to anyone. Certainly not Maryann.

  Timothy straightened and stared at her. “I promise, Maryann, never to share this with anyone. Your reputation will not be affected.”

 
She smirked as she transferred the necklace from one ungloved hand to the other and back again. “As you wish. Is there something else you wanted to speak about? I’ve explained why I am leaving London and assured you that I bear you no ill will regarding Colonel Berkins. How else may I help temper this fettle you find yourself in? A footrace perhaps?”

  He straightened his waistcoat, wondering if she would take him more seriously if he was wearing his coat rather than being in his shirtsleeves. “If you leave London and do not return next season, how shall you make a match?” Every year counted against her.

  She smiled and added the necklace to the small pile of jewelry she’d been making. “The lovely thing about being an heiress with an older brother and sister is that there is no requirement that I marry at all. When I am thirty, my money becomes mine, so why should I want to give it to a man who cares not a whit for me?” She gave him a teasing grin. “After all, I shall have to kiss the man who marries me and bear his children. I could never accept such actions with someone who does not make my blood run warm through my veins.”

  He allowed her words to take center stage and ignored the increased warmth of his own blood when she spoke of intimacies. He was beginning to understand why men and women did not form friendships like this.

  “Maryann,” he said, keeping his tone as even as he could manage. “Are you saying that you may not pursue marriage at all?”

  “Yes, that is what I am saying.”

  “But that would be such a . . . waste.”

  “A waste of what?” She sat down on one of the striped chairs and put her hands daintily in her lap. He was too worked up to sit and began to pace back and forth.

  “It would be a waste of your talents and gifts,” he said, turning on his heel to retrace his steps. “You will make some man a very good wife, and you deserve the blessings of children and security—not money, I understand you have that. You deserve a man to care for your heart and for your person.”

  “I thank you for such beautiful compliments, but London does not seem to be the place where I will find such a man. I must matter for my own sake, Timothy. And I have yet to meet a man who seems to see me at all.”

  He stopped and found her eyes. I see you, he thought. “I shall miss you, Maryann. The city will lose some of its joy without you in it.”

  She looked toward the fireplace. “It is kind of you to say so, but I am sure you will hardly notice.” She said the words with a laugh, lighter than her usual, which led him not to trust it as genuine. “It is time for you to begin officially courting your paragon so that you might not lose her to the interests of another man. I believe she was rather put out with your attention to me tonight.”

  He did not know why she’d brought Miss Shaw into this; the girl had nothing to do with it whatsoever. “I shall still miss you,” Timothy said again, needing her to believe him. “You say you are leaving next week?”

  “Wednesday, I think. Deborah is coming with me, and Lucas will come a week or so later, when he has finished his responsibilities in Parliament.”

  Timothy’s shoulders slumped. “I shan’t return from my brother’s until Thursday next. You will already be gone. I may not see you again.”

  She smiled sadly at him. “As your friendship with Lucas is unchanging, I am sure we shall cross one another’s paths again in the future. And are you not going to Lady Dominique’s ball on Saturday? Deborah has been resting all week in anticipation of being able to attend. She’s assisted in the planning. It shall be our last public event.”

  “I am attending,” he said with a nod, not mentioning that he had offered to serve as Miss Shaw’s escort—the first time he would serve in that official capacity.

  “As am I, so I shall see you there.” She stood but did not move toward him.

  “And that will be our last opportunity to visit.”

  “For a time, but not forever.” Her smile was false, and he hated it.

  He held her eyes for several seconds. “Will you miss me, once you are in Somerset?”

  “Very much,” she said in a whisper soft enough he wanted to wrap it around his shoulders on a cold winter’s night. She opened her mouth as though to say more, but then closed it and took a breath. Her expression turned mischievous. “But I am sure I shall find some local boy to distract me.”

  He scowled at her and resisted asking her how many men she had kissed and why she had kissed them, and then make her promise that she would never kiss another. He followed her lead in trying to keep things light. “I wish you were wearing a bonnet so I might pull its strings in retribution.”

  She laughed, loud and true, and he found himself filled by it. “Oh, you are such a child sometimes,” she said.

  He walked to her and tugged at one of the curls on the side of her face instead, but he did not release it, transfixed by her eyes. Finally, he let the sleek curl slide through his fingers and withdrew his hand. “Saturday night, then.”

  She nodded, without looking away. “Saturday night.”

  Maryann had not expected to be sad about leaving London, not after feeling so much relief when she’d made the decision to go. Though the season had brightened for a time beneath the sun of Colonel Berkins’s attention, knowing that light was false had been enough to make the skies even gloomier now that she knew the truth. She wanted to get away from the pomp and ceremony, the gossip and posturing she could no longer tolerate. But mostly she’d wanted to get away from him. Timothy. Without anyone to distract her, the feelings she’d tried so hard to overcome had crawled out of hiding once again. And then he’d said that he would miss her.

  Staying will not change what is, she told herself. It would not make the fortune hunters stop hunting, nor would it change the fact that she was so much older than the majority of the debutantes. It would not make her prettier or willing to settle for less than being loved for herself. And it would not make Miss Shaw less perfect for Timothy. It was inevitable that he would overcome his nerves and make an offer. What man wouldn’t?

  Tonight, Lady Dominque’s annual birthday ball—always held on June fifteenth—might be the last grand event she would ever attend. Once I am back in Somerset, I will not miss such things, she told herself. Her beloved sea and the familiar faces of people she’d known all her life would make up for anything she left behind here. She could put flowers on her mother’s grave. She could sleep in the bed she’d slept in every night of her life before coming to London.

  Deborah, standing beside her in a circle of women, suddenly drew a breath at the same moment she took hold of Maryann’s elbow, tight. It was a signal they had decided upon before having left the house.

  “Will you please excuse us,” Maryann said to the women, interrupting Mrs. Whittaker’s account of her trip to Ireland. Maryann quickly steered Deborah toward the woman’s retiring room, which, thanks to Deborah’s detailed knowledge of this event, was nearby. She’d been nervous about being too far away from it at any point in the evening so they had kept to the western side of the ballroom.

  As soon they were out of the ballroom, Deborah lifted her skirts and quickened her pace, pushing past women dressed in lovely satins and organza gowns. There were shocked exclamations and squeaks as Maryann followed Deborah through the maze of women, throwing out apologies like coins at a wedding. She caught up just as her sister reached the retiring room, bent over a chamber pot behind one of the screens, and retched. At least her hair was pinned up and the retiring room was clean and well attended. A maid came to offer a wet towel. Maryann thanked her.

  After much heaving on Deborah’s part and soothing comfort on Maryann’s, Deborah straightened and took the wet towel. She held the cool cloth to her mouth, folded it, and then pressed it against her sweaty forehead. She was crying, and Maryann led her to a small bench also behind the screen. They sat side by side, Deborah’s head against Maryann’s shoulder as she sobbed. The maid slipped behin
d the screen to remove the chamber pot and restore a clean one in its place. Maryann smiled at the girl, who nodded before disappearing. Quiet as a mouse. She thought of Timothy’s mother, a maid in a household such as this.

  “I am such a ninny,” Deborah said as she finally caught her breath. “I have rested all week and I ate toast before we left and everything. I have not vomited for three whole days.”

  “You are not a ninny,” Maryann said as she rearranged the soft curls around Deborah’s face. Her sister’s eyes were red and puffy, but her skin was gray, and she looked utterly exhausted. Her collarbones stood out more than they should. “I think it best that we go home.”

  Deborah shook her head. “It is your last London ball, and Lady Dominique will be so disappointed if we leave early.”

  “I do not care a fig for it being my last ball, and Lady Dominique will understand better than anyone. She knows how difficult it was for you to come at all, and we managed to stay a full hour.” Maryann’s only regret was a selfish and confusing one. This was her last time to see the man who may have ruined her for every other man in the world. Perhaps it was best that last night’s conversation be the end of it between her and Timothy.

  Deborah looked at her doubtfully, then her expression turned sad. “I was hoping Timothy would come and that you two would dance.”

  Maryann pulled back and laughed loudly to cover the tenderness she felt towards her sister; never mind that she had been hoping the same thing. “Oh, Deborah, you are hopeless.” She kissed her sister on the forehead and then looked her in the eye. “Timothy has made his choice, and I am glad for him. As I told you, all is well between us, and I wish him every happiness.”

  Deborah nodded glumly, and Maryann stood. “I shall find Lucas and have him order the carriage. Perhaps it would be best if you stay here until it is ready.”

  Deborah frowned. “Do I look that atrocious?”

  Maryann did not answer but scrunched her face, which Deborah interpreted clearly enough.