The Road through Rushbury (Seasons of Change Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

Dinner. Georgiana had entirely forgotten about it in her preoccupation. “I don’t wish to disturb him,” she said.

  The maid waved a dismissive hand and smiled. “I won’t be but a moment.”

  Georgiana’s heart picked up speed again, and the smell of roast mutton and potatoes drafted through the door as the maid’s departure shifted the air.

  The first face she caught sight of was Mr. Burke’s. He preceded the vicar to the door, tipping his hat and inclining his head at Georgiana as he reached her.

  “Good evening, miss,” he said. “I am just on my way out.”

  The reserve and coldness of manner of which she had been the recipient the morning before were gone.

  She smiled at him, turning her head to watch him as he passed by her and left her to face Samuel alone.

  She tightened her grip on the record book before turning her head to the vicar at the last possible second. To her surprise, the anger and hardness were absent in his gaze, and all that remained was a cautious glint in his eye.

  “Miss Paige,” he said.

  She didn’t miss that he had reverted to addressing her more formally, and it surprised her how much that one word stung—the wall it represented between them.

  She extended the record book toward him. “I am very sorry to disturb your dinner. I only wished to bring you this.”

  He looked down at it and took it from her slowly, his eyes searching hers as if for understanding.

  She smiled sadly. “I wish to offer my resignation as surveyor of the highways and leave these records in your care.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, and she put up a hand to request his silence. He nodded for her to go on.

  “I understand that the position is obligatory, but I hope that there might be some allowance made in this case.”

  He frowned. “And why is that?”

  She took in a fortifying breath, averting her eyes from his face. Nothing would weaken her resolve more than looking into his eyes and seeing all of the hope and warmth that had been there before suddenly absent. “I believe that someone from the village—someone more well acquainted with the area—can better fulfill the duties of surveyor than I have done. Perhaps more importantly, I shan’t be able to attend to the obligations all the way from London.”

  He had been rubbing the front cover of the book with his thumb—just as she had done at the church—but his head came up abruptly at her words. “From London?” His voice cracked slightly on the words.

  She nodded. “I will be journeying there with my brother”— she resisted the urge to look away as she said the words, knowing how much havoc Archie had wreaked in his short time there — “in two days.”

  Samuel’s jaw hardened and his nostrils flared. Was it hurt or anger in his eyes? “I see.” His eyes moved away from her face and down to the book in his hands.

  “I believe the records are complete,” she said, swallowing down the hurt in her throat and indicating the book with her head. “I hope that they will be of use to whoever takes my place.”

  He said nothing. She wished he would have said anything, given her any indication of his thoughts. Was he angry? Apathetic? Hurt?

  She cleared her throat, unwilling to dwell on that last possibility. The hope would crush her. “I also wished to apologize sincerely for the consequences of my time in Rushbury.” She suppressed an impulse to take his hands in hers and force him to look at her. “I never meant to cause any harm.” She looked down. “I have come to love Rushbury as I have loved no other place. It feels like…home.” She bit her lip and shut her eyes. “But I don’t belong here.”

  She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. And for a brief time, she had. But no more.

  She brought her head up to look at Samuel. “Thank you for taking me in and making me feel welcome here. I know it has come at great cost to you, and I shall never forget your kindness.”

  I love you.

  The words stayed on her lips, eager to take flight. But she couldn’t allow them to. She couldn’t face the rejection that would follow them. She had lived with rejection for years—there was no rejection as implicit or constant as eight years in London without a single offer of marriage.

  But to tell Samuel her feelings for him would invite a rejection much more acute—one so loud that it would ring in her ears and reverberate through her heart, perhaps for the rest of her life.

  “I wish you well on your journey to London,” he said, standing straighter and meeting her eyes.

  The small distance between them felt wider than eternity, and Georgiana wanted nothing more than to close it—to remember what it felt like to be in his arms as she had been so briefly, to see him look at her the way he had.

  She hesitated, clenching her eyes shut, delaying the moment when she would step away from his doorstep—for he hadn’t invited her in.

  This couldn’t be goodbye with Samuel. It was so cold, so distant and formal. She let out an involuntary gush of frustration. This was her last chance with him. What would she regret more: telling him how she felt? Or failing to do so?

  “Samuel,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her and swallowing down her fear.

  He looked up at the sound of his name, and there was no mistaking the hardness that had reentered his eyes.

  She froze at the sight, unable to get any words out.

  “Goodbye,” she finally said, turning on her heel and stifling the involuntary sob that rose in her throat.

  Chapter 21

  Samuel stood rooted to the spot, watching Georgiana’s back as she retreated farther and farther down the path leading to the main road.

  She was leaving.

  And he didn’t know whether to throw the book in his hand and yell or slump down on the ground and weep.

  Frustrated as he had been with her and with himself, he had harbored a shred of hope still inside him—a hope to be proven wrong, to be shown that she wasn’t like Miss McIntyre.

  But she was leaving. Leaving him. Leaving Rushbury.

  All her talk of plans to stay there indefinitely had been nothing more than idle words. She had stayed while it was convenient, and now that there was real trouble, she was leaving.

  He smacked a hand against the door frame, clenching his eyes shut and cursing his foolishness. How had he let himself fall in love with her? As if he hadn’t known better. And so far from showing the caution that would be reasonable for a man with his history, he had fallen much deeper this time, with no one to blame but himself.

  He looked at the book in his hand, holding it so that the pages flipped until he stopped them with a thumb.

  His throat felt thick as he scanned the lines Georgiana had written during their survey of the parish roads.

  Particularly rocky stretch going from the base of Rush Hill to the meadow path.

  He could still remember the way she had hesitated as she wrote, tilting her head to the side and asking him how to refer to that particular hill. She had been so anxious to learn about Rushbury, her brow furrowed thoughtfully as he had related his knowledge to her. He remembered the way she had looked upon opening her eyes before the meadow of flowers.

  However he had felt for her before then, those two days had solidified his feelings. It had been the point of no return for his heart.

  He shut the book with a snap and tossed it onto the table just inside the door. Stepping back outside, he pulled the door to the parsonage closed behind him, making his way toward the garden.

  Stooping down once within, he inspected the leaves of the lettuce and cabbage plants. The distinctive lamb ear silhouette was punctuated with crescent-shaped bite marks. He pulled the fragile leaves to and fro, making his way down the line, his breath coming faster and harsher with each step.

  Not a beetle in sight.

  He stood and rubbed at his mouth, clenching and unclenching his jaw, then kicked at one of the plants. Dirt flew in front of him, and he strode out of the garden. This would clearly not be the year he succeeded as a ga
rdener. Or as anything, it seemed. He had failed John Reed; he had failed the parish.

  He had failed himself.

  Georgiana’s valises and portmanteaux sat open on her bed, with only a bit of space left for the few items still to pack.

  There were dresses she had never worn, meant for warmer weather. She had intended to stay in Rushbury indefinitely, after all.

  Suddenly the amount of clothing she had packed seemed ludicrous. Hadn’t Samuel commented on it when she had first arrived? Had he known then that her stay would be so short?

  She let out a soft, sad chuckle as she thought on that first meeting with the vicar. She had probably appeared deranged to him. Little had she realized how she would come to care for him, to crave his company.

  A knock sounded on her door, and she turned toward it, opening it to reveal Archie’s face.

  “Will you be ready to leave in the next two or three hours?” he asked.

  She nodded, biting her lip. “But I wondered,” she said, “if you might do me a favor on our way?”

  He narrowed his eyes. Archie was always wary of committing to anything.

  “I wish to visit John Reed in the Wakefield gaol on our way.” She said the words unapologetically. She would go with or without Archie, but it would certainly be less unpleasant if he accompanied her. She had never visited such a place and suspected that she would cause a bit of a stir going on her own. She needed to reaccustom herself to requesting chaperonage whenever she went out.

  She stifled a sigh at the thought.

  He pursed his lips, finally nodding. “I will accompany you if you are set on going, but gaol is no place for someone like you, Georgie.”

  He had said something similar when he had first discovered her intention of coming to Rushbury. What place was for someone like her? She belonged nowhere.

  “First, I must make a visit to the Gilmours.” She set a folded shawl inside a portmanteau. “I shall be back within the hour.”

  She made the walk to Amblethorne Park with a heart both nervous and heavy. Everything she did felt laden with significance in her last moments in the village. Even a place like Amblethorne that Georgiana had mixed feelings about became a symbol of lost opportunities.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she discovered that Sir Clyde was at home. It was a bit forward, what she was about to do, and yet the knowledge that she would never see him or Lady Gilmour again gave her confidence and courage.

  Sir Clyde smiled at her as he entered the drawing room. “Miss Paige, what a surprise. What can I do for you?”

  She returned the smile, hoping that his kind welcome was an indication of being in good humor. “I am very sorry to arrive in such an unexpected manner, Sir Clyde, but I am very glad to find you at home. I came to retrieve the items I left with Lady Gilmour, hoping that she had the chance to show them to you.” Her voice ended on a questioning note.

  Sir Clyde’s brow furrowed. “It must have slipped her mind,” he said, “for I cannot think to what you are referring.”

  Georgiana’s muscles clenched in frustration. She should have known Lady Gilmour would fail to convey her request.

  “Oh,” she said, trying to sound less disappointed than she felt. “Well, perhaps it is for the best. I was hoping to speak with you myself, in fact, but you were not at home when I came the other day. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

  He nodded, inviting her to sit down and taking the seat across from her.

  Trying to strike the balance between appealing to Sir Clyde’s business interests and his heart, she spent the next five minutes explaining her request and the benefits she saw him reaping from complying with it. His brow was wrinkled in thought as he contemplated her words, and she felt encouraged by the questions he asked. He expressed the same hesitation and doubts as had his wife, but unlike her, he seemed to be seriously considering Georgiana’s words—a fact she attributed to the careful way she had made the case for John Reed’s potential as a manager.

  “I think,” she said, “that you might set the mill quite apart from the others in the region by doing what others have not done: placing a high value on the well-being of those you employ. If you can gain the trust and respect of those people, they will make up for any extra costs you sustain through their hard work and loyalty.”

  Seeing him nod, she was encouraged to go on. “Rather than grudging labor, you will have people eager to please you and live up to the high standards you set for the mill.”

  She straightened, making the final push—the part that might well determine the future of John Reed. “And I truly believe that the key to that is employing someone like John Reed, who not only understands wool better than anyone in the region, but understands what will inspire better work from the laborers since he has been one himself.”

  He stared at his clasped hands in his lap thoughtfully, his lips turned down in a frown. “You make a very good case, Miss Paige, I must admit. If you had told me ten minutes ago that I would be considering requesting the release of the man who destroyed my machines, I would have laughed in your face—or perhaps shown you the door.” He chuckled. “But I see the value in your proposition. It is a risky one, though.”

  She nodded. She needed to make Sir Clyde feel safer in submitting to her request—she needed to make it seem like less of a gamble. “What if you were to offer Mr. Reed a trial period? Say, two months, to see whether the arrangement suits?”

  His brows went up, acknowledging the wisdom and appeal of her suggestion.

  “And please don’t think I have forgotten the cost you have incurred with the destruction of the machines.” She sent him an understanding grimace. “I imagine that Mr. Reed would gladly agree to forgo some of his wages in order to make payments toward the replacement of the machines.”

  This was perhaps the greatest hurdle of her argument, for it would take years of accumulation for a fraction of Mr. Reed’s wages to replace the machines, and there was no guarantee that John Reed would even agree to any of this. He was a prideful man, and she knew how much he valued his craft—one he believed machines devalued and undermined.

  Sir Clyde let out a sigh, and his head bobbed up and down thoughtfully. “I surprise myself by saying this, but I am inclined to agree with everything you have said.”

  She nodded, feeling a sliver of hope for the first time since witnessing John Reed’s arrest.

  He stood and began pacing the room.

  “I will give the orders for Mr. Reed to be released from gaol,” he said, turning toward her and stopping as she held her breath, “on one condition.”

  She waited, feeling the hope expand inside her.

  Sir Clyde’s face became stern and grave. “If I have any problems with Mr. Reed—if he shows any tendency at all toward the violence he showed in destroying the machines, I will call again for his arrest. And there will be no mercy shown him then.”

  She nodded quickly, feeling the hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end at his words.

  She hoped that Mr. Reed would live up to the assurances she had given Sir Clyde of him. But that was not within her control. She could help him to water, but she could not make him drink it.

  “I think that is a very fair condition, sir,” she said. “And I admire you greatly for the kindness you are showing to a man who has wronged you. It says much about your character.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed slightly to accept the praise. “I confess I am unsure what should be done now.”

  Georgiana could hardly contain what she was feeling inside, feeling full to bursting with a desire to speak with John Reed immediately. “I think,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a calm, level voice, “that you might write a note requesting the release of Mr. Reed. I had intended to go there myself—accompanied by my brother, of course—and I imagine that Constable Burke would be happy to come with us to handle any of the official or legal matters which might arise.”

  He nodded. “Very good. Grant me five minu
tes, if you will, and I will send you with the note.”

  Chapter 22

  Archie was waiting for her when Georgiana returned, their belongings already loaded into the basket behind the traveling coach. The letter Sir Clyde had written rested safely in the pocket of her woolen coat. She had returned the wool stockings to the Reed home, desperately wanting to tell them to expect the return of their husband and father, but too nervous to do so before everything was settled.

  Aunt Sara stood outside, watching the preparations and smiling serenely at Georgiana as she approached. She put out her hands, and Georgiana took them gladly.

  “Can we not convince you to come with us, then?” Georgiana asked.

  Aunt Sara shook her head. “I had enough of London to last me a lifetime, my dear. I am quite content here.” She looked around with the same smile of satisfaction with which Georgiana had looked upon her surroundings just a few short days ago.

  How she envied Aunt Sara.

  “You needn’t worry about me,” Aunt Sara continued, a teasing sparkle lighting up her eyes. “Rachel will be here Monday or Tuesday at the latest, and I think that the quiet, slow life here at Granchurch will suit her very well.”

  Georgiana nodded, removing Sir Clyde’s note from her coat and slipping it into her reticule to mask the tears.

  “I worry more for you than I do for me,” Aunt Sara said.

  Georgiana worried what her father would say upon her unexpected arrival home, too. She worried about what the future held and sincerely hoped that her parents would not ask her to continue attending all the events that Daphne would attend. Surely they could see that she was past that and no credit at all to Daphne. It would make most sense—and be most merciful—if she could return home to their estate.

  In time, if Georgiana had her way, she would find a suitable female companion to share with her in the renting of a cottage near the sea.

  With a heartfelt embrace, Georgiana bid her aunt farewell and instructed the coachman to take them first to Mr. Burke’s home and then to Wakefield gaol. She climbed into the coach with a final glance at Granchurch House. She would always miss this place.