Foretold Heart

by Camille Oster

  "And how is your friend recovering from hearing she will not marry the one she wishes?"

  "Well, you do know a disturbing amount about what transpired that evening."

  "Your brother was very forthcoming."

  "How generous of him."

  "He also mentioned that he's worked very hard at chasing a multitude of unsuitable attention away from you."

  Her hard stare suggested this was news to her. Then she recovered and she straightened somewhat as she looked around to see her brother seated with her father. It was true that he was stirring a bit of trouble. Partially because he wanted to see how she would behave.

  "What does it say that he hasn't tried to do so in any capacity with me?"

  "I suspect he feels the match is highly unlikely."

  "Or does he believe in fortune tellers and such, I wonder. Your mother seems convinced it would be a good match."

  "You are a wealthy man with a title. Every mother in London will overlook a multitude of your faults. You should, however, not do the same, and my impetuous curiosity should definitely put you off."

  "I will take that under advisement."

  "May I suggest Rose Westbrook? She is quite enamored with you—which is apparently something she can be without ever having spoken to you. Or that enamourment may be dependent on that exact same fact."

  "Contrary to popular belief, I am not actually seeking a wife."

  "Disappointed sighs sound across London, I'm sure." She considered him for a moment. "Lady Wenstropp seems quite adamant to introduce you to every marriageable woman in London."

  "It is a game we play."

  "Oh. Do you play such games?"

  "Not by choice. I need the good lady to sell me a piece of land—or rather the Injured Soldiers commission. She is considering it."

  "Ah, and how far will you go to acquire this land?"

  "Enough to let her drag me around a few ballrooms."

  Any more of this discourse was interrupted by Mrs. Bellworth joining them, which caused Sylvia's smile to grow brighter.

  "I am so sorry to hear you are leaving us for a while," Mrs. Bellworth said. "But you said you would be back for Lady Wenstropp's soiree.”

  "Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said tightly, hating every moment of this artifice, because he would miss it if he only could. Perhaps he wasn't cut out for being commissioner for this fund. Each time he had to smile and utter platitudes, he cringed internally. Maybe he needed to reconsider this commission, but he strongly believed in the cause, and there was precious little he believed in these days. "But as I have an early departure in the morning, I must bid my leave."

  He had stayed sufficiently long and had a good excuse for not extending the evening. Not that he was particularly looking forward to going back to his large, dark and silent house. At times he wondered if his current position was tenable at all. This commission was the only thing that gave his life any semblance of meaning. The idea of endless balls, dinners and etiquette was too cruel to contemplate. If he were a man who would ever acknowledge being unhappy, then now was the time.

  Although he had enjoyed goading Miss Sylvia Bellworth. She gave as good as she got, but she was no mastermind in games of manipulation and seduction. Every word she uttered, she fully believed, but she wasn't afraid of uttering her opinion, which was perhaps something that many would discourage. He understood why she was seen as appealing and her brother felt the need to chase people away. The perfect blend of innocence, charm and forthrightness. But perhaps he didn't personally see her charm at its fullest.

  Clearly, her forthrightness got her the things she wanted, even to the point where she had sought information on who her husband would be. But then she didn't like being told either—or her objections were more deeply of him as a person, which was fully possible except for that fact that she knew nothing about him. As for her protestations that she didn't believe this prophecy, she also feared that it might be true.

  Chapter 13

  NOT MANY HAD A LARGE conservatory in London like Beatrice Marmont. The sun gently warmed the inside, and tables had been set up in the middle of it for this winter garden party. It was a clever idea—if you had a beautiful conservatory. For some reason, they always made a sad impression on Sylvia, as if the plants were trapped, wishing for freedom. Still, they would die out there, so here they were like invalids in their prisons, kept there for their own survival.

  Ester's attention was on Marcus, who was sitting a few tables down, talking to Araminth Skogholm, the blond goddess. Her father was a minor in the Swedish royal family, which made her just about irresistible, on top of her being utterly beautiful, with light blond hair and cornflower blue eyes. It was hardly surprising she would attract Marcus' attention, but Ester couldn't stop watching.

  In this regard the fortune teller was right, but admitting that would mean that Sylvia’s own prediction was true, which it clearly wasn't. Apparently they both liked to believe it wasn't true, but Ester was hurting herself by keeping this hope alive. Marcus was an awful man, but for some reason—actually, mostly because he was very handsome—Ester had fallen in love with him.

  "They'd have ridiculously beautiful children," Andrew said, not unaware of where their attention was.

  Ester cast him a scathing look and then she sighed. "How am I supposed to compete with someone like that? She's more beautiful, wealthier, and she's really nice to boot. I can't even hate her, but it's so unfair."

  "Yes, but have you ever spoken to her?" Andrew said. "It's like talking to a wall—a really pretty wall, though."

  "Andrew," Sylvia chided. "She'd just reserved."

  "I don't think it's her conversational skill Marcus is after. He's such a…"

  "Troll?" Andrew suggested.

  She didn't answer.

  "Lout?"

  "Magpie," Ester finally said. "Can't walk past a shiny thing."

  "Seriously, Ester. He'd make a terrible husband, because his interest in shiny things doesn't stop at society's parlors."

  "What do you mean?" Ester asked, accusingly. She swayed from deriding him to defending him in the blink of an eye. This wasn't like her at all. Being in love with Marcus was making her slightly mad.

  "I mean he likes to toy with the prettiest actresses, and I don't think that's going to stop when he marries."

  "Someone should warn Araminth," Sylvia said.

  Ester sighed and turned around so her back was to Marcus and Araminth. "I know I should stop. He is not ideal—I know this. I just can't."

  "They describe love as a sort of madness."

  "Even that stupid fortune teller was telling me to stop. Maybe once he's married off, I can finally stop."

  "I think you need to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and admit he would make a miserable husband," Sylvia said. "These feelings will fade. They're not based on real love. It's simple infatuation."

  "I know, I know. That's it. No more mooning over Marcus."

  "Besides, he snores like a cart horse," Andrew said with distaste.

  "Does he really?" Sylvia asked.

  "Well, I'm assuming. And he slurps his tea. That's definitely true. And his feet stink. The prettiness is definitely on the surface with that one. Don't be fooled."

  Ester chuckled.

  "And you don't want a husband that is running after every young and pretty actress in London. Can you imagine having to put up with that for the rest of your life? Someone really should warn Araminth."

  "Speaking of unpleasant men, I understand you had supper with Lord Britheney. Didn't burn the house down, then?" Ester said. Sylvia was relieved to change the topic from Marcus, but didn't really want to turn it to Lord Britheney instead. "Not here today, I see."

  "Not sure this is his set," Sylvia said.

  "He's left London for a while," Andrew added.

  "Oh," Ester said.

  "And he quite firmly is not seeking a wife—before you let any strange notions run away with you. He stated as much," Sylvia added.


  "It's a strange time of year to go to the country."

  "Related to some investment or other. Turns out our Lord Britheney is nearly a saint, supporting the poor and destitute," Andrew said tartly. Ester's eyes widened.

  "Don't listen to him. It was a role foisted on him, I'm sure." Even she knew that sounded unkind and was probably untrue, but the last thing she wanted was for Ester to support a match between her and Britheney. Because she could not see that. Saying that, she couldn't really see herself being married to anyone else either. Maybe she was one of those women who went through their whole lives unmarried. It was also hard to imagine all the girls here looking down on her for failing to find a husband. It was a harsh life for a spinster, but maybe she should try to embrace it.

  "Do you like him?" Ester asked Andrew.

  "He is not a man of many words. Doesn't converse easily, but he seems a sensible, intelligent man."

  "An estimation from a man who is neither of those things," Sylvia said wryly.

  "I'll have you know I am highly regarded amongst my peers."

  "You are too mean to poor Andrew," Ester said.

  This was a development as well. Normally Ester was in alignment with her exasperated opinion of Andrew. Granted he was growing out of that very young stage when he was simply incorrigible and always drunk. Now he often drank as opposed to always being drunk.

  And she hadn't forgotten what Britheney had said about Andrew chasing away suitors. It wasn't a topic she had been able to raise, but she wanted to know exactly what that was supposed to be referring to. The last thing she wanted was Andrew making decisions about who would be an appropriate suitor. There was also the assertion that Andrew wasn't chasing Lord Britheney away. That couldn't be true. Surely Andrew wasn't supporting the match.

  "Thank you, Ester. I can depend on your good heart even when there are few to be found," Andrew said. Was he flirting with Ester? The realization hit her with a bang. Could her brother have sweet regard for Ester? Obviously, they had been in each other's lives since Andrew had been a choir boy with the voice of an angel. That period was well gone now. Well, he was probably barking up the wrong tree there. Surely Ester couldn't have tender feelings for someone she had seen go through that awkward stage when he'd grown like a beanpole and was afraid to speak in case his voice broke.

  Or maybe Andrew was simply being kind and distracting her from the disaster that was her infatuation with Marcus. Andrew had never been unkind to Ester.

  Andrew smiled and Sylvia's eyes widened. He was definitely flirting with Ester. They were going to have words about this at home tonight. And worse was that Ester smiled back. What in the world was going on here? The last thing anyone needed was for Ester to switch out Marcus as the target for her infatuation for Andrew. And Andrew should definitely not be encouraging it by smiling at her like a blithering idiot.

  "Excuse me," Ester said and rose from the table, probably to go find the privy.

  "What are you doing?" Sylvia demanded.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're smiling at her."

  "Who?"

  "Ester."

  "What? I've always smiled at her. Why wouldn't I smile at her—she's like a sister to me."

  "Are you sure, because you don't smile at me that way."

  "Alright, she's like a nice sister that I actually like."

  "That's what worries me. The last thing she needs right now is you trying to make her feel better by smiling at her all the time."

  "You aren't making sense."

  "What if she falls in love with you."

  The smile melted from his mouth. "Do you think she would?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Then why are you telling me off for smiling at her?"

  "Because I don't want that to change."

  "Well, I'm a damned sight better than Marcus Sousey."

  "In what regard?"

  "In every regard."

  "Alright fine, I will grant you that, but there is no need for you to toy with her."

  "Maybe I'm not."

  Sylvia stared at him, not entirely sure what had happened to her brother. None of this was making sense. "So you flirt with her, make her fall in love with you and then what?"

  Andrew shrugged in that annoying way he always did when he didn't want to answer her.

  "You might be a lot of things, Andrew, but you are not cruel."

  "My intentions with Ester have never been to be cruel."

  "Then what are they?"

  "You're not her father, Sylvia."

  "I can very much have him come here and ask you in person," she said with warning. "Then you'll be in trouble."

  "Maybe."

  "Maybe," Sylvia said with a snort. "Have you been putting brandy in your tea?"

  "No, do you have any?"

  With a groan, Sylvia rolled her eyes, then smiled as Ester returned to the table. "I do quite like a conservatory. I'm perhaps not the dead keen gardener that would actually justify building such a structure, but it's certainly nice sitting in here in winter with living plants and flowers."

  Chapter 14

  GETTING OUT OF LONDON, Felix felt like he could breathe again. Or was it just the fact that he was doing something—going somewhere?

  Teasing Miss Sylvia Bellworth had been the only thing in London that he had enjoyed. Rarely did he indulge in such banter either now or in his previous life, but he had enjoyed seeing her bristle and retort. It was a far cry from all the gracious smiling and compliments he normally received from all females he spoke to. Everyone seemed to have someone they wanted to marry off. It almost made him wish he was already married so he didn't have to deal with being the target of so much intent.

  The roads were a bit rough in places after rain had softened the earth, so it was slow travel, but he didn't mind. The longer he could be away, the longer until he had to return to his new life.

  Along the way, he took in at Inns for the night to let his horse rest and to sample the local fare. He'd been so young when he'd left, he hadn't actually done a lot of traveling in his own country.

  Eventually, he reached the site where the engineers were struggling with their plans to traverse a range of hills. Building a tunnel was an option, but it was the expensive option, not to mention dangerous. The issue was that a stream with an extended floor area was the only alternative, which meant they had to run significant risk of flooding, or build a bridge. None of the options were particularly appealing, but they had to decide on something.

  Construction had commenced on the railway, even without securing the needed piece of land from Lady Wenstropp. There was an alternative plan to circumvent the land, but it would involve significant financial compromises, and in their case, those compromises were felt by families who couldn't afford to.

  Now with this tunnel or bridge being needed, Lady Wenstropp's consent was even more important than before. She simply had to sell them her land, and if he played things right, he might even be able to get her to donate it. Money was not at the center of the woman's thinking, so there was the possibility she could see her way to being generous.

  Construction was going well. It was harder in the winter months with unyielding earth and harsh weather. On the wettest days, they simply couldn't work. But the engineers did their best and their decisions were reasonable, so Felix decided not to disturb them more, but instead of going home, he decided to traverse onto Scarborough. It was a place he had never been, and a good excuse for not returning to London more than anything.

  Once there, he admired the sea in its gray and powerful form, beating against the coast like an angry beast. The sea was not in his family like it was in others’. He had no particular call to it, but that didn't mean he couldn't admire it—even as he was glad he wasn't currently on it.

  Lieutenant Simmons house was not more than a small white cottage down one of the lanes leading from the boardwalk. It was a fraction the size of his own and for a moment, Felix marveled at how differ
ently society treated them—when Simmons was an excellent man, as brave and trustworthy as they came. It was all a consequence of birth, which had nothing to do with character, because he trusted Lieutenant Simmons more than most of the ponces he met in the ballrooms of London.

  His friend treated him with warmth as he arrived and invited him into the small cottage.

  "What brings you all the way to Scarborough?" Simmons asked.

  "I was nearby," Felix said, at face that wasn't entirely true. "And I thought I would see the wild Nor eastern coast so many have told me about."

  "It is a beauty, but it is rough weather, so it is wild today."

  "Yes," Felix agreed.

  "This is my Marie," Simmons said and introduced a woman wearing a white dress and a blue apron that had seen better days. She was pretty, her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Pink lips and clear eyes—he could see why Simmons had fallen in love with her. And her accent was local, apparently, and Felix listened to it as she spoke.

  Two children came running out, one of them tripping, which drew Marie away to lift up the crying child. The other child, embraced Simmons' leg and stared up at the visitor. They had messy hair and one had a bit of grub on her cheek. For a moment, Felix felt he had been plunged into chaos. Maybe it had been a mistake coming here.

  "Please, sit. Marie is just putting the little ones to bed," Simmons said as if reading his urge to flee. "It is always something they do unwillingly."

  "A battle then."

  "At times, of the fiercest kind."

  They had both known the fiercest kind of battle. They had both known what it was like to be cornered and fighting when hope was fading. Somehow, they had both survived.

  Simmons walked to the cupboard and drew out a flask of whiskey, then sat down at the table and poured into two glasses. Felix could use a drink and he overcame his urge to flee. He heard the children giggling in the other room.

  "How has life treated you since you've returned," Simmons asked. "I understand you are helping the injured and their families. Important work, that."