Lakeshire Park

by Megan Walker

  Peter laughed softly, leaning near enough to radiate warmth. We sat together in amiable silence, two friends on a stone step lit by a lantern’s glow.

  I gazed up into the golden-spotted sky, so serene and magnificent. And so very far away.

  When Peter finally spoke again, his voice was soft, full of compassion. “Tell me what has you so out of sorts.”

  I swallowed. How could he know me so well? Were my secrets written so plainly in my countenance? “It is nothing. I am only worried for my sister. I fear I am not doing a very good job at securing a future for her.”

  “I do not understand. Why must you be responsible for your sister’s match? Is that not your stepfather’s responsibility? You should be free to live as you wish.”

  Should be. Yes, he was right, I should be free. But I was not. This fortnight was about securing our futures, and the surest way to do that was for me to marry Mr. Pendleton. The deed was nearly done. “You cannot possibly understand.” My words were weak, flat.

  “Then tell me, and I shall.”

  I gave him a half-hearted smile. “My circumstances are not your concern.”

  Peter shook his head, his voice low. “What if I want them to be?”

  I wanted to reach out to him, to let him wrap his arms around me and fall into his warmth, but as much as my heart ached for it, my mind knew it was neither practical nor sensible to let my emotions take precedence now. Peter did not know how great my needs were. And I could never ask him to work as hard as his father had for his mother. To sacrifice time and memories at home for financial security when he had everything sorted out so perfectly to match his dreams.

  I huffed, narrowing my gaze at him, and he drew a deep breath. For once, he did not press me on my silence.

  “I have something that might cheer you up.”

  He moved the lantern to the step above us, and I saw his face more clearly. Those gentle eyes that smiled into mine. In his hands, he held a small package.

  “For you,” Peter said, placing the package between us. “A bit overdue, I’m afraid.”

  He looked pleased, almost smug, as I untied the string. Had I ever been given a gift before? Not that I could remember, and certainly not from a gentleman. What had Peter thought to get me? And why? I removed the lid of the box and unfolded the thin paper wrapping.

  Gloves. Ivory gloves.

  Emotion welled up in my throat, and I swallowed, words eluding me. I looked to Peter, whose smug expression transformed into something new. His eyes were soft, yet serious, and if I hadn’t known him to be so shameless, I’d have almost thought him shy.

  “Do you like them?” he asked.

  I pulled the gloves out as delicately as though they were made of actual ivory. They were pristine, so bright and smooth. But what shocked me was the mustard pair also sitting inside the box. And the burgundy pair beneath them. Three pairs of new, perfectly sized, beautiful gloves.

  “Peter,” I breathed. “This is too much. And far too kind. I cannot—”

  “They are for you. I ordered them that first night. After you ran into me outside the drawing room.” Peter’s lips twitched. “I had to track down a retired glove maker, an old friend of the Demsworth family.”

  I shook my head, too stunned to speak.

  He took the ivory pair from my hands, placing it gently on the stair between us. His eyes met mine with a question, a hesitation, before he took my hand in his, loosening the glove from each of my fingers.

  My heart pounded with every soft touch, every tender caress of his fingers on mine. At last, he pulled my gloves free and held out the new ones for me. I pulled them on. A perfect fit.

  “How?” I asked incredulously. How had he figured the perfect size without my hands for a fitting?

  “You truly share hands with my sister. I stole a pair of her gloves to replicate.”

  “Thank you, Peter,” I managed. I hadn’t been allowed new gloves in years. Lord Gray had barely spared the expense for new dresses for the Season.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Luckily, you were already here. Otherwise I might have spent the entire fortnight trying to find you.”

  “I should confess I’d hoped to never see you again.” I raised my brow at him in jest.

  Peter feigned a gasp. “You wound me, Amelia.”

  “I am glad you’ve changed my mind on the matter,” I said, before realizing how forward, how flirtatious the words sounded. I bit my tongue, cheeks ablaze. I should not tease Peter. Not anymore.

  Peter leaned his elbows back on the step above us. “As am I.”

  Fuzziness clouded my thinking. The space between us smelled like the woods mixed with leather and soap. Peter. My deep breath felt like a saving grace; I feared I had stopped breathing altogether. Could it be that Peter cared? That he too felt this tingling, fuzzy pull?

  “What are you thinking?” he asked timidly.

  I wanted to tell him that I felt it too, that I wanted to spend another afternoon with him, to ask him about his childhood, his adventures, his travels. But I had too many secrets now. No matter what Peter thought of me or how I thought of him, there were too many reasons against us now. My lack of dowry, his family name, and perhaps greatest of all, our sisters’ opposition to each other. Clara especially would despise the connection. I could not create something new with Peter if it meant destroying my relationship with Clara.

  Besides, I’d already settled on Mr. Pendleton. He was not a risk in the least, but a sure means for security and comfort. He knew all of my secrets, and he needed me as much as I needed him.

  “We should go back inside,” I said. What if we were seen out here, alone in the dark? I could hear the pianoforte, which meant someone was playing and the musicale continued on, unaware of our absence. Perhaps Mrs. Turnball played. Or Georgiana.

  “Indeed,” Peter agreed, sighing. But neither of us moved.

  Peter still held my old gloves, brushing the fabric with his fingers as though the touch connected us. He turned his gaze to the stars, lost in thought.

  If only things were different. If only I was free. I knew I should go back inside—nothing good would come from sitting on this stair with Peter—but I wanted one more minute.

  “If you could be anywhere right now, where would you go?” I leaned on my hand nearest him. “And do not say something to tease me.”

  Peter looked at me with a grin, his full lashes hiding the smile in his eyes. “You asking me not to tease you is a tease in itself. But I have my answer, actually. I’ve been thinking about going back to Paris. It is a beautiful time of year for it.”

  “I’ve never been,” I admitted as a breeze blew through the shadowy trees.

  “You would love the food.” Peter winked, and I slapped him playfully on the shoulder. He ducked, grinning. “And the flowers, and the views of the Seine.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “London,” I answered with disdain. Clara and I had seen most of the city during the Season, but the busy chaos of town did not entice me to return.

  “Ah, yes. Your Season. Was it not all you’d dreamt?” He shot me amused eyes, still thumbing my gloves absentmindedly.

  “Not exactly.”

  “That is because I was not there for you to tease. Imagine this fun multiplied exponentially.”

  “Ah, yes.” I laughed, leaning closer to his twinkling eyes. “I can see you now, clad in your fancy tails with a colored cravat and a wicked grin on your face, trying to decide what to do with yourself.”

  Peter laughed alongside me, then leaned back and met my gaze. His eyes grew distant, thoughtful. An owl hooted above us in the trees. “I would steal your first dance.”

  My heart rattled and regained a faster beat. I had not yet imagined what it would be like to dance with Peter. Pulled close, o
nly the two of us. My eyes dropped to his lips, and I took a shallow breath. I grew tired of fighting the pull between us. Why did I try to deny what my heart so clearly wanted? If I had to marry a stranger, didn’t I deserve to enjoy one evening with Peter? I could worry about forgetting him later.

  “I would ruin you for all other women.” I nudged his shoulder softly with mine. “Where I lack in socializing, I excel in dancing. You wouldn’t be able to let me go, and we’d dance set after set. Everyone would stare at us. Think of the talk.”

  “Oh, yes, everyone would talk.” Peter looked heavenward. His jawline was smooth, squared, though a smile danced across his lips. “We would be banished from the assembly rooms for months. It would be delightful.”

  I could think of nothing better. “There is a ball at the end of the week. We can outrage the poor people of Hampshire all evening if you wish.”

  I reached for his arm to tug into mine. But instead of lacing arms, he pulled me up from the stair, grasping my right hand in his and placing my left atop his shoulder.

  “And dance we shall.” He grinned, holding my waist close with his left hand.

  “Peter!” I sucked in a breath as he waltzed me along the grass under the light of the moon. “If anyone sees us—”

  “You were not lying. You are quite a good dancer, even with no music.”

  We danced to the music made up in Peter’s head, and I laughed as he twirled us under the stars, lifting me up and twirling me again. His green eyes smiled into mine, and for a moment I felt like nothing bad in the world could ever happen again. Like I finally belonged, right there, with Peter.

  When our silent music ceased, Peter slowed, swaying me back and forth in his arms. I rested my head on his shoulder, breathing in pine and soap, and he released my hand to brush a curl from my face. I ran my hand up his arm and to his shoulder, my heart pounding against my chest.

  I loved Peter Wood. I could see that now. As clearly as I could see each star in the sky.

  But would my love be enough when he was expecting a dowry? Would he be forced to continue his father’s legacy despite his own personal dreams? I could not bear the thought of his rejection if he knew the truth of my circumstances. Neither could I endure our love turning into bitterness or resentment or pain. How could I know that choosing Peter would not end as tragically as Father’s choice with my mother had? Days, weeks, even sometimes a year was not enough to know if love would last. I could not risk it.

  Mr. Pendleton was the safer choice. His was a match where both companions knew what they would receive. Where neither party was in danger of disappointment. He was a companion who could protect me, keep Clara from pain, and provide security for us both.

  All I had to do was reject my heart.

  I pushed back from Peter and retreated a few steps. “We are both here for our sisters. We should go inside and focus on them.”

  Peter frowned, his hand gripping air as though he still held a part of me. I turned back to the stairs to retrieve my lantern.

  “What if we weren’t?” Peter’s voice, soft and inviting, stopped me in my tracks, and I turned to face him. “If you were here alone, would we still be outside, dancing under the stars together?”

  He stared intently at me, as though my answer meant everything to him. His question filled the corners of my mind. Why did he persist? It was cruel, really, to imagine anything other than the bleak future ahead of me. But he asked the very question I’d been aching to answer for days. What if Peter was only Peter, and I was only Amelia? What if I was not nearly destitute nor controlled by circumstance?

  When Peter walked in a room, would my heart still chase after him? Would I let it?

  I did not know how to respond. This was no longer a question I could tease my way out of answering.

  “Amelia?” he asked softly, waiting.

  I turned away from him. “We should not be talking like this, Peter.”

  “How else should we be talking? Would you like me to go first? I have plenty to say if you’d let me.”

  “No.” I spun around, but I was not prepared for the look in his eyes. It was hopeful and sweet, captivatingly handsome in a new way. A light only Peter could shine. A hope I did not want to dull. But I had to. “Please. This trip has always been for Clara. I must give her heart this chance. If Sir Ronald offers for Georgiana, Clara will be devastated, and any connection to your family will only cause pain. I am sure Georgiana will feel the same. We must maintain our distance. It is better this way. We are better as friends.”

  “I disagree entirely.” He frowned, and my heart crumbled, hopeless and brooding.

  But I had to speak the words. I had to cut the last tie that connected us. “I must cancel our bargain, Peter.”

  “What?” He reared back. “Why?”

  “My life is more complicated than what you know. I do not think you would be dancing with me under the stars if you knew the whole of it.” Of Mr. Pendleton, of Lord Gray, of our pending homelessness and poverty.

  “I do not understand.” Peter shook his head, his voice breaking. “I know you. I have told you more about myself than I’ve divulged to anyone else. You must give me a better explanation, a better reason than that if you wish to dismiss me so easily.”

  Easily? This was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I steeled my resolve. This was for the best. For everyone. “We’ve only known each other a fortnight. You do not know me—not really. Anything you have to say is not based on rational thinking.” I thought of my parents, of the choice they made after one night. I took a step back.

  Peter stepped forward, focused, pleading. “I assure you I have thought of everything—”

  “I shall have to beg your forgiveness.” I wiped away a tear, clearing my throat. “At present, I cannot offer more of an explanation. I think in time you will see I have made the right choice.”

  I grabbed the lantern and Peter’s gift from the step and walked alone into the house.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I’d trained my heart against pain too well. Too easily it retreated to its cage, like an animal too beaten down to stand. I slept in the next morning, having no good reason to wake.

  When I entered the drawing room, Mr. Gregory approached Lady Demsworth, bowing. “Sir Ronald and the men are anxiously awaiting your arrival in order to begin the competition, my lady.”

  What competition? Had I missed something?

  “Of course. Now that Amelia is here, we shall depart directly. Inform Miss Turnball, if you would, please, Mr. Gregory.” Lady Demsworth turned to me. “It appears Ronald cannot wait another moment. Shall we?”

  “Forgive me, I must have missed an explanation—”

  “Of course you did, what with your mind on other things,” Lady Demsworth said as she led me out onto the veranda. “The men have organized a fishing competition. The biggest fish wins a prize.”

  “Oh. That sounds . . . diverting.” What sort of prize were they competing for? And would Peter be there?

  Beatrice and I accompanied Lady Demsworth to the pond, which was as serene and beautiful as I remembered it being, to find Mrs. Turnball, Clara, and Georgiana already there. A small group of chairs had been placed a short distance away from the men.

  Poles in hand, the men looked serious, having each secured a spot along with a servant to assist them with their tackle. Peter stood near the pond, and I leaned back in my chair, watching him. Waiting. But he would not meet my gaze. It seemed that even our friendship was ruined. I tried to tell myself I did not mind, that the distance between us was all for the best.

  “Welcome, ladies.” Sir Ronald waved. “I have decided that the biggest catch will win tickets to a symphony at the concert hall this evening with the lady of his choice. The competition will last two hours. After which, the largest fish will be weighed, a winner declared, and then Cook will prepare a delicious feast f
or us all.”

  “Huzzah!” Lieutenant Rawles cheered, nearly dropping his pole.

  Peter wiped his brow with a handkerchief, looking rather worn already. He was fiercely competitive, but was he a good fisherman? I’d yet to see him fail at anything.

  “On my count,” Sir Ronald called. “Three. Two. One!”

  At the mark, the poles were cast, zipping through the air like invisible arms reaching out for prey. The men were silent, eyes focused on tiny ripples in the water.

  “Where did they get their poles?” I asked behind a gloved hand.

  “Sir Ronald bought them from a tradesman,” Clara replied. “They are bamboo rods imported from India, but the gamekeeper made the line and flies himself.”

  “That is impressive.” Try as I might to remain impartial, my eyes flicked to Peter. Though he stood far enough away I could not determine his expression, the tenseness in his shoulders and curve in his back told me he awaited a bite. Could he want the prize as greatly as Mr. Bratten or Sir Ronald did?

  “Mr. Bratten’s creel is a bit presumptuous, is it not?” Georgiana snickered at the rather large and bulky basket hanging from the man’s side.

  “He had it custom-made,” Beatrice said, biting her lip. “He picked it up at the market last week, when we all went to town together. I pray he catches at least one fish.”

  “Oh, look!” Clara pointed in the distance. “Lieutenant Rawles’s line is jolting!”

  “He’s got one.” Lady Demsworth lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the piercing sun.

  A flopping tail broke the surface of the shiny water. Lieutenant Rawles’s man hurried forward with a net, scooping up the fish after the lieutenant had reeled it in close enough. The fish was large, but not as meaty as some I’d seen with Clara. There were certainly bigger fish to be caught.

  Beatrice jumped from her chair in applause when Mr. Bratten proved as much a few minutes later, followed by Sir Ronald, and then Peter. I clapped with the ladies as Peter reeled in what seemed to be the largest fish yet. I watched for his reaction, but Peter seemed despondent as his man rolled the fish inside his creel. It was as though the sport held no real competition. Or perhaps winning meant nothing to him.