“Given all that, her past failure must loom like the great blight of her life. It has likely affected everything since, made her this pursuer of perfection. All of that has changed in one night. It is a lot to take in.”
“Do you love her?”
Chappell smiled down at his benefactress. “Cupid. Yes, I have fallen in love with her. But there is time. She is going nowhere.”
“Good God, you are not twenty, you know!” Lady Bournaud struggled to sit up. “Don’t let her push you away. She is just frightened. She has never been married, never had a beau, even since that long-ago Season. Her feelings are likely alarming in their intensity, for I have seen in her eyes that she loves you. It is an adjustment to begin to think of herself as a lover and wife, rather than colorless companion.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Yes! I refused François the first time he asked me, you know. Scared to death, I was. Go to her. Find her, tonight!”
“No, I am not going to burst into her bedchamber at one in the morning like some Gothic hero.” He stood and kissed her hand. Her eyelids were heavy, and he blew out some of the candles, leaving only one to sputter, protected by a silver tray.
“Do what is right, Davey,” she said. “Everything will work out.”
• • •
The night sky was blanketed by brilliant stars scattered across the deep indigo. The air was so cold and still that every noise was sharp and crisp. Beatrice, cloaked heavily, made her way down the path, a stream of moonlight glistening on the snow ahead of her. Sleep was not coming this night. She felt like she would never sleep again.
Marriage. How could she even consider it? Melanie had been her friend, and David her husband. As a girl she had loved him before she should have, and loved him still, but did she deserve to find happiness, even now, when she was beginning to believe that David was right and she had been too harsh on herself?
And yet marriage to David would bring her such great happiness.
Ah, and there it was. She was afraid of that. She had never dwelt in that state before and did not know what to expect. She had found peace, even contentment in service to Lady Bournaud, but happiness was another animal, she thought. Would happiness, so long deferred, last, or would it fade? She could not stand it if she found such joy, only to feel it slipping away from her again. Would she be doing him a disservice by marrying him? Was her duty, after such great kindness as she had known, with Lady Bournaud?
Her footsteps squeaked in the snow, crunching through the crusty ice in places where the snow was unbroken. The chapel was silent, the square Norman tower a blot against the starlit sky. She approached the building and pushed the huge oak doors open, surprised to see the altar at the end flanked by lit candles. A figure knelt by the altar, and she knew instantly who to expect. She was about to turn and exit, but he heard the door and stood, turning and smiling in the gloom.
“Please, Miss Copland, come in. Do not let my presence keep you from this awe-inspiring place. On this of all nights it holds a wonderful peace.” The young vicar’s voice echoed in the sepulchral gloom, words lingering in the air like frost crystals.
She hesitated, but then started up the long aisle. “I have always loved this place above all here. It seems to hold the history of this land in the very stone of its walls.” The reverend, she noted, had placed an altar cloth on the altar, but he had not donned vestments.
He gazed up at the vaulted ceiling. “It makes me think of all the services past, here, all the weddings and funeral services, communions, baptisms, christenings. All the pageantry of human life. Maybe one day it will be a living church again.”
“It is possible. The St. Eustaces, who will inherit someday, have shown some interest in the chapel on their visits here.” She stopped just short of the altar. “You spoke of this as a place of peace. Did you feel in need of that peace?” She moved forward and sat in a pew.
He looked troubled and glanced away. “This should be the happiest time of my life. I have the great good fortune of my own parish in the New Year. Some men wait many more years than I. And yet . . .”
Beatrice felt a great sadness. She had thought that between two such young people as Lady Silvia and Mr. Rowland, both chaste and good, kind and admirable in spirit and behavior, that something would occur to bring them together, but it seemed that the world would intrude and make their love impossible. Lady Bournaud had been right in hoping that they did not fall in love.
“You will be happy again,” she said, hoping her words were not as hollow as they sounded.
“Perhaps. And if not, happiness is not the only reason we live. But what about you, Miss Copland. Did you come here for peace? Do you need time alone?”
“No, I don’t think my peace is to be found here. I have never thought that one building held the answers.”
“True. Answers come from the heart.”
She gazed at his handsome face, his cheeks red from the cold long hours already spent in the chapel. “How odd for a vicar to say that. Are the answers not from above, then?”
“We were given hearts and minds to reason and trust and ponder.”
“Then is there no hope of finding an answer outside of myself?”
“You are troubled in spirit,” Rowland said. He took a seat in the pew across the aisle. He leaned on his knees and clasped his hands together, rubbing them for warmth. “I should not have made it seem that I do not believe in divine guidance. I’m not sure where answers come from, but I do believe that if you ask for guidance it will come, whether it is from your own heart or the spirit world. Just ask. Whether you call it prayer or contemplation, you will find it in the stillness of your own soul. And maybe a sign will come.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rowland. I think perhaps you are right.” She rose, pulling her cloak around her tightly. “My advice to you is to take your own advice. I hope you find your answers.”
He smiled sadly. “I am not looking for answers. Unfortunately, I know the answers to my own problems. I am just finding the struggle to accept them long and difficult.”
She was silent for a moment, but she could see he would say no more. “Good night, Mr. Rowland. Do not stay out here too long or you will get a chill.”
• • •
Morning broke, sunlight glimmering, shimmering into Beatrice’s room. She awoke refreshed, as if she had had eight hours sleep instead of just four or five. Stretching, her hand brushed the table at her bedside and something fell onto the bare floor, tap-tap-tapping as it bounced and rolled.
Rolled?
She jumped out of bed, feet freezing on the icy floor, and got down on her hands and knees, looking under the edge of her bed. Something glowed, faintly, against the wood floor. She scooped it toward her and jumped back up on the bed, holding her hand flat.
A ring.
Not just any ring, she found, peering closely at it. She turned it over and over, knowing what ring it was, but unwilling to believe it. She set it aside and got dressed.
Breakfast was casual. Only Cook was working, and one girl from the village. It was Boxing Day, a day for the servants, and it was strictly observed in the Bournaud household. When David Chappell did not join the others at breakfast, Beatrice went in search of him and found him in the library, poring over papers on the desk, his glasses down on the end of his nose.
She closed the door behind her, holding one hand behind her back. He looked up, and his smile was warm when he saw her.
“Beatrice. How good to see you.”
“Am I interrupting?” Her voice sounded giddy and breathless.
“It is a welcome interruption.” He set his glasses aside and sat back.
She circled the desk and he frowned, sensing something, perhaps.
“What do you have behind your back?”
“Something I found this morning.” She held out her hand flat, and the gold circlet rested in the hollow of her palm.
He picked it up and looked it over, his expression blank at first,
and then changing, his crystal blue eyes widening.
“Do you recognize it?” she asked.
“I . . . it looks like . . .” He put his glasses back on and turned it to read the inside inscription. “It is! It is the ring I gave Melanie! How did you get it?”
Beatrice took it back, holding it up to the light. It was a simple gold band with a blue stone inset. “I didn’t know that before,” she said softly. “I should have known, I suppose. Why did she give it to me? It was a token of friendship, she said; she gave it to me the night she first . . . her first liaison with Oliphant. When I gave her her first alibi.” She glanced at David’s face, but there was no pained expression.
“I never knew where it was. When her body was brought back to bury, it was not on her finger,” he said. “I thought it was lost or stolen.”
“The inscription reads ‘To My Only Love.’ I didn’t see that at first, and then I never knew what it meant, who the ring originally belonged to.” Beatrice held it back out to him.
He didn’t take it. He set his glasses aside again and looked into her eyes. “I don’t want it. You may as well keep it, for she gave it to you.”
Beatrice bit her lip. “David,” she said, her voice shaking. She sank to her knees in front of him and he, concerned, took her quivering hands between his, the ring enclosed in their four hands. “When I awoke this morning it was on the table beside my bed.”
He was silent, waiting for more.
“It wasn’t there when I went to sleep, David. And I did not go to sleep until, oh, after two this morning. Until after I visited the chapel and Mr. Rowland advised me to ask for guidance. What to do. About you.”
“I don’t believe in signs, my dear,” he said gently, pulling her up and cradling her on his lap.
She looked down into his eyes. “I didn’t expect a tangible sign, though, you see, just some knowledge in my heart. I love you so very, very much.”
“Beatrice!” He pulled her face down and kissed her mouth, gently, lingering over the kiss.
“But I was afraid. And unsure. And so I just asked for a sign. From above, from my own heart, from anywhere. I just want to know that I am not fooling myself with what I want so badly to do. I want to know it is right.”
“And now?”
She watched his face. He didn’t look overjoyed, and she moved to stand but he held her waist.
“Don’t go. I just . . . Beatrice, I do not believe in signs, and if you needed this—”
“It says, ‘To My Only Love.’” She held out the ring.
“I thought she was that,” he said simply. “I was wrong.”
She sighed. “That, you see, was what I was worried about, and didn’t even know it. I was afraid that being older, we were both just grasping for happiness. That your only happiness had died with Melanie, and I was just a poor substitute.”
“Never, my darling girl. I did not know what love was at twenty-seven. I cared for Melanie, but if we had stayed married our love would have dwindled into bickering and coldness. I love you for who you are now, not for the silly girl you were, or the mistakes you made then. I love you now! Did I not say that last night? Did I not tell you how much you mean to me?”
She shook her head shyly.
“Dunderhead that I am. Likely why you, half asleep, took the ring from your jewel box last night and left it on your side table. You were worrying on it.”
She ignored, for now, his assertion that she had done it herself. “So you did not put it on my side table?”
“Good God, how could I when I did not even know you had it? I had forgotten its existence before you showed it to me just now.”
“True.”
“Forget about it, my love,” he said, pulling her down to nestle on his lap, her head in the curve of his neck. “May I ask you again now? And will you promise me not to run away?”
“I promise.”
“Miss Beatrice Copland, the only woman I have ever truly loved and ever will, will you marry me?”
A ray of sunshine touched the ring on the desk. A sign? Or just coincidence? Did it matter? “I will marry you,” she sighed.
After a suitable length of time, David murmured, “I suppose we ought to go tell the woman who planned all this.”
“Mhmm,” Beatrice whispered. She sat up. “I was so horrified when I figured out why she had invited you.”
They stood together and started toward the library door. “You knew she was matchmaking?”
“I did finally. I was mortified. But it was so good to see you again. When you didn’t recognize me, I thought we could get through the holidays and everything would be all right. But I didn’t count on falling in love with you all over again.”
Oh, dear. Too late.
“All over again?” He stopped her and turned her around to face him before they could leave the library.
Her face flaming, she moved closer to him. “Forget I said that.”
“No. What did you mean?”
She reached up and touched his cheek. “I was wildly, unsuitably in love with you twenty years ago. That was partly why I felt so guilty over the whole affair. I felt like I had had some unconscious affect on events, just through my . . . my infatuation.”
“My sweet Beatrice,” he murmured. He pulled her close and held her to his heart. “I never knew.”
“But I love you now for who you are now, not for who you were then.”
“Good, because I am a much nicer fellow now.”
“Mmm, yes. And even more handsome, if that is possible.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Burning all night over Verity’s refusal of his generous marriage proposal, Vaughan stalked out the garden door and down the long path toward the stable. He was going to get to the bottom of the whole affair. No girl who kissed like she did should stay unmarried. Silly colonial chit. Did she think she was going to get a better offer? Not bloody likely.
He stomped into the dim confines of the stable and stamped the snow off his boots. Lady Silvia had implied that Verity was likely to be found in the stable at this time of day, and he was not going to wait any longer for her pleasure. He heard a murmuring and moved toward it, finding it was coming from the stall where Bolt was kept.
He leaned against the doorway and watched. When she came around from the other side of the horse, currycomb in hand, she jumped, startled at his appearance. Bolt whinnied and stamped.
“There, boy,” she said. Then she turned on Vaughan. “What do you mean, sneaking up on me like that?” she whispered, her cheeks pink with fury. She took a deep breath as Bolt shifted nervously. “Do you not know that horses, especially this one, are high-strung creatures? Need calm.”
“Seems to me you care for his comfort much more than mine,” he said, crossing his arms.
“You’re right.”
“You are engaged to me. Shouldn’t be avoiding me.”
“We are not engaged.”
“We are,” he said stubbornly. “Won’t have it said that a Vaughan ran out on his responsibilities.”
Her knuckles whitened on the comb, but she maintained her even stroking motion. “I am not your responsibility.”
“But you are! You’ve been compromised and I should marry you!” Frustration boiled through his veins. He strode forward and jerked her hand away from the horse. Bolt shied, and Verity struck out at Vaughan and then stalked from the stable.
“Get away from me,” she cried when he followed her.
His fists clenched, he watched in horror as tears came to her eyes. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. It struck him like a lightning bolt from the blue; he had fallen in love with this gallant idiot, but she didn’t love him in return. Still, she must marry him for her own sake. Had he known even when he sent Bobby back that she would be hopelessly compromised, and that marriage would be the only remedy?
Didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that she see what must be, and that he would do his damnedest to make her happy. But how did one sa
y that? What would do the trick? Tears rolled down her pale cheeks. “Dammit, Verity. What is wrong with you?” Hurt and rage boiled up. “Why don’t you want to marry me? Don’t you like me? Can’t you love me, just a little?”
“I do like you,” she cried, standing with her own fists clenched. Bolt stamped uneasily in his stall. “I like you more than you deserve, you pompous ass! I love you!” she wailed.
“Then why the hell won’t you marry me?”
“Augh!” She turned and stomped away, then whirled on her heel and strode back to face him again. “Because, you chucklehead, oddly enough, I want my husband to love me back!”
She whirled once again to flounce away, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. He pinned her against the stall wall as Bolt snorted and whinnied, and kissed her hard, with all the newly discovered emotion in his heart. “There, you maddening vixen,” he said fiercely, releasing her. He stepped away, his whole body shaking. “I love you. All right? I love you to distraction. It is driving me mad! All I want is for you to marry me. I’ll do anything, go anywhere. Just marry me!”
“Blithering idiot! Why didn’t you say so?” She whirled him around and pinned him against the stall, kissing him with a ferocity that equaled his own.
And then there was silence in the stall for a while. Bolt settled down, finally, his nerves soothed by the murmuring and cooing coming from the other side of his stall wall.
Until the peace was shattered by a loud exclamation and Bobby’s loud whistle. The boy capered off as the two scrambled to their feet, red-faced.
“I think we had better go in and make the announcement, or you will be worse than compromised,” Vaughan panted.
And for once Verity agreed with him.
• • •
And so there were two engagements to celebrate in the Bournaud household. The new year rolled in with most of the household merrily looking forward to new lives, new loves.
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