by Megan Walker
Peter was too perceptive. “I suppose so, yes. If there is anything I learned from my parents’ story, it is that love is the greatest risk a person can take. And I simply cannot indulge chance.” Not with so much at stake.
Peter leaned toward me, willing me to hear him, to believe his words. “Love is not a risk, Amelia. Love is an inevitable outcome of living. And sometimes it does not make any practical sense at all. But that does not mean we should fear it.”
His warm eyes held me there, pulling me closer to him. How was it that Peter could evoke such emotion from me with only words? For all his charm, it was his heart that appealed to me most. I wanted his secrets, all of them, for myself.
“That is a beautiful sentiment,” I replied, and he seemed satisfied. I wished I could believe him. I wanted to be brave. “Your turn. Same question.”
“Ah, fair enough.” Peter took a deep breath and hesitated. “It isn’t exactly for gentle ears.”
I gestured to the horses in the stall with us. “I think you are safe here.”
Peter rubbed his eyes, grimacing. “All right. I’ll just . . . get it out then. I have told no one this, not even Georgiana, so I appreciate your discretion.”
“Of course,” I said. What could Peter have to disclose? Surely it was no worse than what I had just offered.
He shifted in his spot, turning toward me. “My mother . . . perhaps you have guessed. She is not exactly well. It is more of a sickness of the mind than a physical illness.” He looked to me, sadness in his eyes.
“When my father died, I rowed at her. On and on and on. I blamed her for his heart attack. She had caused it, I was sure, from her constant bickering at him about his dress, his habits, his expressions . . . nothing was ever good enough for her.” Peter’s shoulders sunk, and I ached for his weary heart. His parents. For the burden he carried. “I told her he’d worked himself to death trying to please her, to build enough wealth to satiate her, and make our life appealing so she would stay. We barely had him home long enough for a conversation some weeks.
“But of course she rowed back, blaming everything and anyone but herself. I can’t remember ever seeing her so angry and terrified all at once.” He shook his head. “She did not even cry.” He paused. “I have not seen nor spoken to my mother since. It has been almost a year. And it’s not that any of it was untrue to say. Only, perhaps some things are better left unsaid.”
Peter stared at his hands, lost. How had I never seen this wounded side of him? Bruised and tormented like my own? Without thinking, I reached out to him, my fingers grazing his, and he took my hand, locking us together.
“I’m sorry, Peter. That sounds very unfair,” I managed softly, captivated by the warmth of his hand on mine.
“Yes, well. I think unfairness in life is something we have in common, do we not?” He thumbed my fingers, igniting a blaze in my chest. How was this the same Peter I’d met days ago? My enemy and the single most irritating man in existence? Something was changing between us, like a cloud evaporating under the sun.
Winter twitched in his sleep, and Summer looked over her shoulder, quickly satisfied that all was well. But a scraping of wood on stone startled her, and a melody of voices filled the room.
“She’s over here,” Sir Ronald said loudly.
“What handsome stables, Sir Ronald.” Beatrice praised. Most likely paired with Mr. Bratten.
Releasing Peter’s hand, I stood, snatched my gloves from their perch, and dusted off my skirts. He rose and opened the door more fully to greet them.
“Wood, there you are. We’ve been wondering after you,” Sir Ronald said, examining the stall door. “Good. Beckett’s fixed the latch here.”
Winter woke, and though I tried to calm him back into slumber, his curiosity got the better of him. Summer tensed but allowed him to hobble toward the door near her. Georgiana approached him first, taking off her gloves and fingering his mane. Then Beatrice, followed by Clara, took turns admiring him under the watchful eye of Summer.
“And Miss Moore as well, I see.” Georgiana eyed her brother pointedly. “Where is the groom?”
“Not far,” Peter said, and I wondered if he truly knew.
Clara reached for my hand, pulling me outside the stables. Part of me wanted to stay with Peter, to continue our conversation, but loyalty to Clara won out. When we were alone and out of earshot, she smiled.
“Alone in the stalls with Mr. Wood? You are dedicated to your task to the risk of propriety.”
“It was an accident, actually. I had no idea he would be here.” An accident resulting in the most real conversation I’d had in years.
“I must ask you to continue your time with Mr. Wood, though I know how he irks you.” Clara looked past me, as though assuring herself that no one had followed us. “Sir Ronald is paying me particular attention now. And I mean to encourage him.” Clara looked at me shyly, and I drew a breath.
“You are sure?” Could it be true? Had Sir Ronald finally come to his senses? The thought of Clara’s heart opened wide for the breaking terrified me.
“I am.” She gave me a tremulous smile. “One of us needs to marry with Lord Gray so ill. And if I get a say in whom I shall marry, I’d want it to be Sir Ronald. If he offers for me, would you approve?”
I pulled Clara into a tight hug, feeling confident that should she more fully encourage a match, Sir Ronald would be happy to oblige her. Not to mention that their marriage would help us both immensely when Lord Gray left us. “I approve wholeheartedly.”
“Do you? Your opinion, your blessing, means the world to me. I could not accept him without your approval.”
“Clara, you have always had it. You do not need my blessing to follow your heart.”
Clara’s smile touched her eyes. “And what of your heart, sister? I fear your afternoons with Mr. Wood are being noticed by our company. Beatrice asked after him this afternoon, and Georgiana was sure he was sleeping. And the look on her face when she saw you together just now. I thought she would shoot arrows from her eyes. Are you quite sure your affections are not swayed by the time you’ve shared with him?”
I scratched my neck, looking away. People were talking? Our arrangement, having been made and kept in secret, might indeed seem confusing from the outside looking in. But Peter knew as well as I did, if not more so, that our afternoons together were only part of a greater scheme for Clara and Georgiana. Admitting our secret arrangement to Clara now would not please her, and we’d just shared such happy news. I would have to feign innocence for a few more days.
“No, of course not. Mr. Wood and I are barely friends.” My mind was in agreement, but as I said the words, something else inside me fought against them. A curious feeling. Some hope within me that demanded its voice be heard. In truth, I’d never experienced such a feeling before.
Clara let out a breath. “Good. I confess you had me worried for a moment. Can you imagine being tied to the Wood family after Sir Ronald proposes? How awkward and uncomfortable. Or worse, if he proposed to Georgiana, having to be tied to her. To them together. I couldn’t. I never in my life wish to see the Woods again after this trip.”
The disgust on Clara’s face tightened my chest. Peter was not all that bad. True, his presence had not always been one I desired, but something was different these past few afternoons. He was different. I’d seen a new piece of Peter, perhaps even a missing piece he kept from the rest of the world. He’d shared some rather personal thoughts with me. Things he likely did not want shared any more than I did the things I’d admitted.
But even still, I could not disagree with Clara. It wouldn’t work to be tied to the Woods after Sir Ronald’s proposal. There was no way to tell how things would go, and life had taught us not to risk chance. Practicality always seemed the safer bet. It would never be possible to form any sort of relationship with the Woods. We would always be on opposing sides.<
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The company spilled out of the stables, and Sir Ronald led an examination of the grounds. Much had been ravaged by the storm. Small tree limbs and leaves littered the clearing, with overturned buckets and feed barrels scattered around as well. What a mess. Clara locked arms with Sir Ronald of her own accord, and I nearly fell over at her confidence. It seemed I was not needed here after all. Slowing my pace to separate myself from the group, I saw Peter tossing a stick into a heaping pile by a fence.
Would he notice my absence? Did I want him to? As I trudged back to the house, I could not help but think that secretly I did. And that was a problem indeed.
Chapter Twelve
With nowhere in particular to go, I entered the drawing room, which was lit with afternoon sunlight.
“Miss Moore, what a surprise. Are the others far behind you?” Lady Demsworth asked from the settee she shared with Mrs. Turnball and looked up from her stitching expectantly.
“They continue their walk along the grounds. I fear I have not quite recovered from this morning,” I answered, finding a seat nearby.
It wasn’t entirely untrue, but after my conversation with Peter in Summer’s stall, I could not deny a new feeling also. A lighter, happier feeling that surpassed the lingering exhaustion from this morning. But Clara was right. What place did Peter Wood have in my life? Who knew his intentions for certain? I was here for one purpose, and one purpose only. To secure Clara’s match with Sir Ronald.
“Of course, dear, and how could you be? Though I am sure the party misses you.” Lady Demsworth returned to her stitching. “Mrs. Turnball and I were just discussing the upcoming ball my dear friends the Levins are hosting at the end of the fortnight. It was so kind of them to extend the invitation to our entire party. They are lavish hosts. I am certain their ball will feel as polished as any in London. Do you not agree, Mrs. Turnball?”
“To be sure,” Mrs. Turnball added. “Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Moore?”
“I love it. And I did not dance enough in London. A ball sounds very inviting.”
Lady Demsworth clucked, pulling her needle up through canvas. “With your beauty? Were the men blind this Season?”
Mrs. Turnball motioned to the pianoforte in the corner of the room. “Play for us, won’t you, Miss Moore?”
I had not played since arriving at Lakeshire Park, but with a nearly empty room, now seemed the perfect time. I knew Lady Demsworth and Mrs. Turnball would forgive my inadequacy. The only song I could play well was Father’s. And that did not render me an accomplished lady.
The women sitting next to me made the job of being a proper lady seem effortless, easy, as though the training was ingrained in their bones. They made conversation easy and pleasant. In fact, as I studied their faces, their gentleness and easy comradery, I could not help but wish to be like them. They were so vastly different from the women I’d met in London.
Mrs. Turnball, though quiet and serious, held depth behind her eyes. I truly believed if she was forced into a battle of wits, she would win, and yet her first instinct would not be to battle at all, I was sure of it. Her elegance and grace took precedence. The way she held her head, high and unyielding, confirmed it.
The same was true of Lady Demsworth. Even earlier while wearing her morning clothes, she exuberated dignity and propriety. In her eyes was a natural kindness, a sympathetic compassion, and yet she fiercely devoted herself to her family. Clara would do well to tie herself to such a mother-in-law. To be among such society.
A Mozart piece spanned the music desk on the pianoforte, and I slid my fingers along the smooth, cool keys to find my place. My eyes studied the notes. I could already tell my playing would be far too slow for what was required.
A knock sounded at the door, drawing my attention, and Mr. Gregory stepped inside, holding a silver platter.
“Pardon me, but a letter has just arrived for you, Miss Moore,” he said from the doorway.
Who would write to me here? My stomach rolled as I moved my heavy feet across the room to meet him. The only person who knew my whereabouts, who might need to write to me at all, was Lord Gray.
But as I took the letter from Mr. Gregory, the scrawl was not Lord Gray’s. And yet the address was Gray House, Brighton.
“Please summon my maid,” I said, hurrying toward the stairs. My intuition told me something was very wrong.
Closing the door to my bedchamber, I stopped in the center of the room, the letter weighing a thousand pounds in my shaking hand.
“Miss Moore, what is it?” Mary burst through the door, breathless. “What is wrong?”
“I have a letter from Gray House. But it is not from Lord Gray.”
Mary took the letter from my hand, eyes scrutinizing the words. “This is Mr. Jones’s hand. Why would he write to you?”
My heart sank, fearing the worst. I took the letter back from Mary, slowly pulling the fold and breaking the seal.
Mary stood beside me, waiting for my reaction. Any fate I assumed would also be hers.
Miss Moore,
Forgive me for writing to you while you are away, but I felt it necessary considering the circumstances. Lord Gray’s condition has worsened since you left us. He is now bedridden, and the doctor predicts he has but days left before his lungs fail entirely. Because of this, I have penned a letter summoning your cousin, Trenton.
I fear this is finally the end. None of us imagined Lord Gray’s illness would progress this quickly. I implore you to find a means of securing yourselves while you have the chance. There will be nothing left for you here when you return.
I have included a letter from Lord Gray, written a few days ago. I am sure he meant to send it.
If I may be of service to you in any way, rest assured I will do everything in my power to help you and your sister.
Ever faithfully,
your servant,
T. Jones
“Miss?” Mary touched my arm, and I realized I was crying.
“It’s Lord Gray,” I said. “He will die any day. What shall we do, Mary? Our time is running out faster than I imagined. I am not prepared.”
Mary squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. “I feared it, miss. More than anything, I feared this very thing when we left.”
“There is another letter,” I said, wiping my tears.
I set Mr. Jones’s letter aside and unfolded the second paper. Lord Gray’s last letter. What would he have to say to me? One last jab at my family name? I tore at the seal, bracing myself.
Amelia, Clara:
I do not wish to convey regrets, for I am ready to die, and I have been for some time. I only wish to answer for how my death will affect you.
I promised your mother I would see that you both were secured when you came of age. It does not surprise me in the least that you have failed on your own. Since I cannot recommend you to any of my associates for marriage, I have tasked my barrister the burden of finding suitable employment for you so I may meet your mother with a clear conscience.
Upon my death, if you are not married, he will contact you to make arrangements. Your things will be sent for his care until you are ready for them. Do not burden him with your needs until then.
With this letter, I end our association. I do not need your pity, nor your false appreciation for the life I gave you after your mother died. It was all for her. My only regret is that I did not save her that night after your father ruined her reputation. Had I married her then, I would not have the burden of you now.
Lord Robert Gray
“Miss Amelia?” Mary said quietly.
“We are finally alone,” I answered, my sadness hardening into bitterness. “We have nowhere to go.”
I wadded the paper into a ball as armor wrapped itself around my throbbing heart. “We will be all right, Mary. Please—speak not a word to Clara.”
Mary wiped away a
tear of her own. Had she known what was to become of us? “Of course. Not a word.”
“And, Mary?”
Her face was red, and I knew she wished to escape, to process the news alone. “Yes, miss?”
“I need an audience with Lady Demsworth right away.”
Chapter Thirteen
I stood outside Lady Demsworth’s personal sitting room, waiting as her maid introduced me.
“Miss Moore.” Lady Demsworth beckoned me to join her by the window. The room was quaint, but bright, with a small chandelier reflecting the sunlight like a thousand tiny stars.
“Thank you for seeing me, Lady Demsworth,” I said, sitting beside her. My hands were shaking. “Forgive me for interrupting your time with Mrs. Turnball.”
“I am so pleased to have a moment to visit with you privately. I’ll confess that I’ve thought of nothing else but how I can repay you for your determination in saving Winter.”
I adjusted my skirts nervously. “Actually, that is precisely why I’ve called for you. I need your help.”
Lady Demsworth clasped her hands in her lap. “Please do not be shy, Miss Moore. I am wholly at your disposal and will be the soul of discretion.”
Having known her for so short a time, could I trust Lady Demsworth with my secret? Would I be ruining Clara by admitting my need? Whether we were ruined now or later, we could not change our circumstance, and truth always found a path one way or another.
“Please,” I said, before I lost the nerve. “Do not feel in the least obligated toward me. My endeavor with Winter is unequal to a favor of this magnitude. All I ask is for your connections, and if none exist that prove of benefit, I am satisfied solely by you entertaining the thought.”
She smiled. “Go on, dear. You have my complete attention.”
I stole a glance at the closed door behind me and forced my hands to remain still. Whatever happened next was completely out of my control, but I had to ask.