The ladies stood and curtsied as Hugh departed, but William could not even suffer a bow.
His insides tied in knots, pulsing heat flooding through every vein. He could not bear the idea of Miss Paxton marrying such a man—especially because he knew she was convinced to do such a thing by her brother.
“William, are you well?” Mother asked across the room, apparently having seen his reddened face.
He blinked, unable to look their way. “Yes. I…” He couldn’t take this any longer. Abruptly, he pushed away from the desk and strode directly from the room. “I will return in just a moment.”
“William?” Charity called as soon as he left, but he did not stop.
He hardly cared if they suspected anything at this moment. He had only one thing on his mind, and he would not stop until he confronted Hugh about his duplicity.
He stormed down the corridors as the front door clicked open and closed. Picking up his pace, William ran past his bewildered butler and left the house just as Hugh was reaching for the reins of his horse.
“Hugh!” William shouted, taking the steps two at a time.
Hugh turned, his brow raised before a smile tugged his lips. “Mr. Eastwood. Didn’t have enough of my visit, eh?”
“Hardly,” William growled. “Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Losing all control, William grasped onto the lapels of Hugh’s jacket and raised him toward him. The groom who’d delivered Hugh’s horse eyed the two gentlemen before scurrying back to the stables.
“Tell me what happened between your sister and Mr. Roberts.”
Hugh sputtered. “Unhand me at once, sir.”
William seethed, speaking through clenched teeth. “If I discover that you played any part in her agreeing to marry that cad, you will answer to me.”
Fear flickered in Hugh’s eyes, but he hid it with a raise of his chin. “Should you not be more concerned over your own betrothed instead of Mr. Roberts’s?”
William shook his head, disgust rising within him. He released Hugh, pushing him away as the man stumbled a few feet back and bumped against his horse. The steed skittered back and tossed his head in protest.
Hugh straightened his collar with a swift tug, but William was already walking toward the stables.
In a matter of moments, he rode out on his own horse, sailing across the countryside at full-speed until he reached the cottage, intent on barging in through the front door and demanding answers from Miss Paxton.
But she was not inside.
He slowed his horse to a canter, eying her as she stood near the brooklet on the outside of the gate, picking apart a burnt orange leaf and tossing the pieces one by one into the water. Her expression was solemn, the edges of her lips pulled down, her eyes missing the signature light he’d grown so accustomed to seeing.
His taut chest deflated. The woman had clearly been coerced into doing something she did not want to do—again. There was no reason for William to be upset with her.
He dismounted, walking toward her as she looked up to discover him.
“Mr. Eastwood?” She immediately brushed the rest of the torn leaf from her hands and faced him. “It is a pleasure to see you.”
Her words were formal. Too formal. Too…not like Miss Paxton.
But this was not the time for pleasantries. He would be blunt, just like she was.
“You are marrying Mr. Roberts?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Amy’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. Mr. Eastwood’s words were not spoken in anger, though he did not look particularly happy either.
“Why?” he asked when she remained silent.
She’d already answered the same question from Mother, Father, Hugh, and Mr. Roberts.
She’d been expecting to do the very same for Mr. Eastwood. Mr. Eastwood, who knew of her disdain—past disdain—for Mr. Roberts’s actions.
Each response had differed, depending on with whom she had spoken.
“Mama, I have very little choice on the matter of whom I marry now. With three rejections and three spent Seasons, I’ve run out of options.”
“Father, you know I will not allow him to treat me with anything other than respect.”
“Hugh, you said yourself. I liked him once. I can do so again.”
“Mr. Roberts, you and I are both desperate. You, for money, myself, to marry.”
And her answer for Mr. Eastwood?
“Because I wish to,” she stated.
Each of the answers held a partial truth, but no one knew the entire truth.
Amy had been using her fear of becoming a burden on her parents as the main reason to find a husband. But, in actuality, she knew her parents would never regret a single day they spent with their daughter.
The truth was, Amy wished to marry. She longed for companionship, for a spouse to care for her for the rest of her days. She longed for children, for a house of her own, and for love.
Since she’d lost that love with William, she knew she would never find it again. So her next best option was to settle for mere companionship instead with Mr. Roberts—for he was the only gentleman to have ever expressed any desire to marry her.
“Because you wish to?” Mr. Eastwood repeated, shaking his head at her response, just as she’d expected him to. “That is not true, and you and I both know it. I’ve heard from your own mouth that you did not wish to marry that man—that you could not stand him.”
He tied his horse to a low tree branch then progressed toward her, lowering his voice. “You do not love him. And you must know that he does not love you.”
Amy pulled back, her pride wounded. Of course that was the truth, but was it necessary to fling such harsh realities at her?
“That hardly matters. You of all people should know, marriage does not require love. Does it?”
She stared at him pointedly, and he looked away. “That is beyond the point.”
“Then what is the point, sir?”
“The point is that you should not marry him because…because you clearly do not wish to.”
“That is where you are wrong. I do wish to marry him. This was my decision, and I will—”
“Was it?”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Was it your decision?”
“Of course it was. Who do you think…” She trailed off, understanding finally dawning. “You believe Hugh made this decision for me?”
“There is no other logical explanation. I cannot allow you to marry him. I forbid it!”
A derisive laugh escaped her lips. “Who are you to say such things? You forbid it? You cannot allow it? I thought you were different from your grandfather, sir?”
Mr. Eastwood flinched, and he took a step back in silence.
The words were cruel, but Amy couldn’t help it. Who was he to try to make her decisions for her?
“The logical explanation,” she continued, “is that I chose him for myself, Mr. Eastwood.”
Finally, he found his voice again. “I am not trying to control you, Miss Paxton. I simply…” He tossed out his arms to the side of him. “I cannot understand how that is logical. The man wishes to marry you to receive his fortune!”
“If you recall, I was the one who told you that very fact.” She took a step toward him. “But Mr. Roberts told me his side willingly before I agreed to wed him. He was honest with me.”
He winced, pulling his eyes from hers. “Is that true?”
“Yes. It is.”
It was true. When Amy had pulled Mr. Roberts away from her family to speak, she’d told him she would reconsider his offer of marriage if he merely promised one thing—to help Amy be happy.
“Of course, Miss Paxton,” Mr. Roberts had agreed instantly. “I will strive to do so each day of my life. Only…” He had paused, his brow crumpling. “To make that so, I must be honest with you about something first.”
Apparently, Hugh had not told Mr. Roberts that A
my was aware of his real reasoning behind his proposal and then proceeded to share the truth with Amy.
“I do admire you, though, Miss Paxton,” he’d said. “And I will strive to make you happy.”
And Amy believed him. He’d always been more honorable than Hugh. Or at least, so she hoped. At any rate, the fact that he’d shared the truth with her had solidified her desire—not to mention he was her only option. Mr. Fisher and Mr. Payne had long been forgotten, and she did not know them as well as she knew Mr. Roberts.
She may not be in love with him, but at least he was honest. And at least she would no longer be alone.
Mr. Eastwood ran his fingers through his hair, holding his hat in his opposite hand, bringing her attention back to the present. “I just…I cannot understand it. I cannot understand how you can shift so swiftly from despising the gentleman to marrying him.”
Angered at his continuous disapproval, Amy took a step forward. “And I cannot understand how you can shift so swiftly from merely being friends with Miss Winslow to now being engaged.”
He swallowed, his nostrils flaring.
“Yes, that is right, sir. I have heard that your engagement has been made official. Miss Winslow must be relieved to know you will actually tell other women that you are, in fact, spoken for. Or is your plan to remain quiet about that fact long after you’re married?”
His brow furrowed. She knew she was being heartless, her words borne from her pain, but in her anger, the man deserved this treatment.
“Yes, Miss Winslow and I are engaged. Now that it is official, I will not hesitate to share the news. But I will not feel sorrow for something I did not do—which was lie about our relationship.”
Amy scoffed, turning away. “This again?”
“Yes, this again.” He ran up to her, grasping her arm with a firm grip. “I have already admitted I was wrong in not informing you that I was intending to marry Charity. I have already expressed my sorrow, my regret. My utter shame.” His eyes, dark and stormy like the sea-green ocean, bore into hers. “But I will not say that I did so to be cruel, underhanded, or deceitful. Miss Winslow and I agreed to pursue marriage if she returned unattached to another—and if I remained unattached, as well.”
As he maintained his hold of her arm, Amy stared up at him, trying to make sense of his words. That was what Miss Winslow had been doing in London—looking for other men? So Mr. Eastwood had been allowed to pursue other women, as well?
All this time, Amy had thought Mr. Eastwood was willfully being dishonest with the woman.
Her breathing shallowed, and she peered up at him in silence.
As their eyes locked, Mr. Eastwood blinked, his grip on her arm softening until he released her altogether. “Forgive me, I should not have spoken to you in such a way. I cannot bear the thought of you marrying such a man.”
“Why?” she breathed. “Why does it bother you so?”
He shook his head, backing away. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t. It doesn’t.”
But Amy had seen the answer in his eyes. She had seen it when he’d nearly kissed her, when he’d held her hand at the fair. When he’d brushed her hair back in the garden at the cottage.
A few days before, she’d stopped him from saying how he truly felt. But now, was there nothing she could say to have him share his feelings?
Her heart flapped like a bird anxious to escape its cage. She had to try. Advancing upon him, she blurted out, “Do you wish to know the real reason I am to marry Mr. Roberts?”
He slowed, hanging his head, though he did not say a word.
“It is to ease the bleeding of my heart.”
His shoulders tensed, and he turned halfway toward her.
Her voice broke. “It is because I have thought myself in love with three men in the last year. But now I know…I was only ever in love with one.”
Tears pricked her eyes as the truth filled her heart. The sheer joy he’d brought into her life, the way he encouraged her to be who she was. The way her heart swirled was unlike anything she’d ever felt with anyone.
Yes, she was engaged to Mr. Roberts.
Yes, Mr. Eastwood was engaged to Miss Winslow.
But surely…surely love would…
Worry wrung out her hope like a wet rag. Mr. Eastwood had yet to look at her, his head hanging low. She was perched on a precarious limb, offering herself up with the risk of being rejected once again.
“Mr. Eastwood,” she said, taking a few steps toward him. Her nerves threatened to swallow the question she longed to ask, but she drew a deep breath and pushed forward. “You told me that you and Miss Winslow would marry if you both remained unattached. She clearly has. But have you become attached to another?”
He closed his eyes, his shoulders falling before finally, he looked at her. Sorrow twisted his features. “Amy,” he whispered, “I wish I could tell you. I wish I could express my…” He trailed off with a sigh. “But my parents, Miss Winslow, our families. They’ve been expecting this since…I am sorry, but I-I can’t.”
He turned swiftly away, but not before Amy caught the tears shining in his eyes.
As she wiped away her own, she drew in a deep breath, watching Mr. Eastwood fleeing on his horse until he disappeared down the tree-covered road.
She would not cry any longer about his decision. At least, not right now. She’d seen his turmoil. She knew of his pull to do his duty, to help his parents and Miss Winslow.
Had her heart not been broken, she would have understood him even better.
Because things were better this way. They’d already made their promises to Miss Winslow and Mr. Roberts. And at least now that Amy would be wed, she would no longer make stupid decisions—like declaring her feelings to yet another gentleman.
Yes, they had all chosen their own lives.
And now it was time to live them.
“So you’ve finally made it official with Miss Winslow. You have my sincerest well wishes, son.”
William nodded at Mr. Rutledge’s comment. Dark brown walls and a crackling fire provided a comfortable atmosphere to the elderly man’s small room, despite the somberness William felt at Mr. Rutledge’s weakened tone. He had not improved in weeks, but still he clung to life, lying in his bed, unable to lift hardly a finger.
Mrs. Rutledge cooked dinner in the room just below them, pots and pans clanging through the paper-thin walls.
“It certainly has been a number of years, has it not?” William responded. He tried to smile. After all, such a thing should be easy for a gentleman who would be wedded in a fortnight.
Instead of a smile, however, he must have grimaced instead, for Mr. Rutledge’s weak expression further faltered. “Is something bothering you?”
“Not at all.” To prove his words, William raised a flippant shoulder from where he sat on the chair beside Mr. Rutledge’s bed.
William had visited Mr. Rutledge once a day since discovering more about his poor health, but William still had not grown used to seeing his father-like figure in such a state. He wouldn’t speak of anything that might upset the ailing man further.
But Mr. Rutledge narrowed his eyes. “Come now. Tell me what is wrong. I haven’t the energy to fight you on this, but you know I will.”
William sniffed a laugh. The Rutledges always knew how to coerce the truth from him—a talent he both loved and despised. “It is nothing really. I just have a lot on my mind as of right now.”
Mr. Rutledge stared, waiting a moment before continuing. “Are you looking forward to the wedding?”
“Very much so.” Why did his words always turn out so flat? He pushed a more upbeat tone. “Why would I not be?”
“Only because you look as excited as Mrs. Rutledge does each time she must clean up after dinner.”
William gave a half-smile, turning to eye the single window pouring afternoon light and a soft breeze into the otherwise stale room. “Surely a wedding will be more exciting than washing dinnerware.”
“I am not sur
e about a wedding, but a marriage, most certainly. At least, that is for what one hopes.”
William looked away from Mr. Rutledge’s pointed stare. William had not always wanted an exciting marriage. He had been perfectly content with the notion of a simple life with Charity until Miss Paxton rode into town with her blue eyes, and contagious smile, and—
No. He’d promised himself he’d no longer think about her. He’d broken her heart—and his in the process. He could not go back now.
“Do you believe you and Miss Winslow will be happy together?”
William searched his mind for a reply that would not give away the truth. “Yes, we will be quite content.”
There was no reason for them not to be content, so long as Charity did not prevent him from visiting the Rutledges as she’d tried to do that morning.
“Must you really go out when there is a wedding to be planned?” she’d asked gingerly.
“Charity, Mr. Rutledge is ill. He will very likely not live to even see our wedding.”
She’d lowered her eyes. “Very well. And…is that the only call you will be making today? Or need you see other tenants?”
William knew she’d been referring to the Paxtons, especially after his mad dash from Birchwick. With a clenched stomach, he had shaken his head. “No, only the Rutledges.”
“Content?” Mr. Rutledge repeated, bringing William’s mind back to the present. “There is that familiar word, one you use so often in regard to your life. Tell me, son. Have you ever been more than content? Happy, perhaps?”
William pushed away the image of playing Battledore and Shuttlecock, of eyes that sparkled joy so radiantly that it was impossible for him not to feel the same happiness. “Occasionally.”
Mr. Rutledge stared. “Mrs. Rutledge says you were the happiest she’d ever seen you a few weeks ago. Something tells me that had to do with a woman. A woman who is not your betrothed.”
William’s cheeks warmed, and he stared down at his hands as he leaned forward on the creaking, wooden chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “I haven’t any idea to whom you are referring.”
The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5) Page 23
