by Sawyer North
“My deepest apologies, Mr. Wordsworth.”
He smiled thinly. “No need. You may blame your fever.”
She laughed again. “Mr. William Wordsworth. Do you know you possess the same name as a poet of some renown?”
“So I have been told. However, I am merely William Wordsworth, Distributor of Stamps in Ambleside and husband to Mary when she is not disinclined to admit as much.”
Mary stabbed William with an elbow to the ribs, causing him to flinch. “Oh, William. Incorrigible, you are. Stop teasing the girl.”
“Very well, Mary.” He smiled again at Jane. “And yes, I am also a humble poet of some apparent renown, though disrespected in my own house. You know what they say about prophets and honor and home countries.”
Jane tried again to sit up, only to be forced back by Mary and Adam. Her mouth began to run of its own accord. “Oh, Mr. Wordsworth! I read your Lyrical Ballads again and again! Oh, Tintern Abbey! Oh, and the Solitary Reaper! As a miller’s daughter, I am especially drawn to that one.”
Wordsworth waved his hand impatiently. “No need to fawn, Miss Hancock. My poems are mediocre. Ask Mr. Coleridge. He will be most happy to explain my mediocrity.”
“But, Mr. Wordsworth…”
“Not another word, young lady. Do not make a fuss, and do as Mary instructs. I have found that doing as Mary says alleviates much anguish.”
Mary elbowed her husband again. “Please, William. Now, take the men and leave us alone. We must attend to your lovely admirer.”
William nodded and left with Mr. Barlow. Adam hesitated long enough to brush a hand over hers. “I will wait just outside there.” He pointed to the hallway. “Rest now.”
He left, closing the door behind him. She watched the point of his departure with disappointment and loss. Meanwhile, Mary and Aunt Hester began the process of disrobing her, starting with the gloves. In the absence of excitement, she struggled to remain awake while they stripped her to her petticoat and tucked her beneath warm blankets. Aunt Hester’s hand on her cheek brought her eyes open again.
“I will return shortly with a cold compress, dear.”
As her aunt and Mary left the room, Jane spied Adam briefly beyond the doorway perched stiff-backed in a chair, watching intently. A powerful sense of comfort settled into her soul as she considered his vigil on her behalf. The sensation brought a smile to her lips. Here she was welcoming the devoted attention of an Ashford. Who would have ever thought? The pleasing notion carried her rapidly into a deep and drifting sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Adam lasted only an hour outside Jane’s door while Hester and Mary moved in and out. Finally, the situation became untenable. He began moving into the room by degrees. First, he merely opened the door halfway so he could better monitor her while she slept. Then he moved his chair from the far side of the hallway to the doorway threshold. Next, he shuffled the chair forward until it rested just inside the room, partially blocking the doorframe. The second time Hester tripped over his feet, she yanked him into the hallway by his collar.
“Mr. Ashford,” she whispered emphatically. “Either return to the hallway or move to Jane’s side. You cannot remain halfway between. A neutral position serves no one’s best interest.”
For a moment, he wondered if Hester’s pronouncement held dual meaning. If so, her steady expression did not betray it. He peeked at Jane, who slumbered obliviously beneath a mound of blankets. “Would not sitting by her side be improper?”
Hester, hands on hips, frowned at him. “Pining for one woman when you are promised to another is improper. Against that, keeping vigil over a sick friend is nothing.”
He picked at his collar with sudden discomfort. Was her statement one of condemnation or challenge? Still, her expression provided no clue.
“Then, if I sit by her side, you would approve?”
“Yes. But only if you are sincere in your devotion. Only if you promise not to abandon her when circumstances change. She needs reliability, not false hope or empty promises.”
Adam cocked his head and frowned. “You are not speaking of the chair, are you?”
She smiled coolly. “Well, of course I speak of the chair. Of what else would I be speaking?”
He nodded and expelled a breath. “I understand.”
“Very well. What is your decision, then? Inside or out?”
Without answering, he stepped into the room, retrieved his chair, and carried it to Jane’s bedside. He sat down and glanced at Hester. She dipped her head once, opened the door fully, and departed. He turned his attention to Jane. The blankets encompassed her, leaving exposed only her face and hair, the latter spilling luxuriously over the pillow. His chest tightened with helpless alarm. He could no longer dismiss his feelings for her as incidental or temporary. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her, protect her, and make everything right for her. His body rocked forward before he realized he should not act on his desire. He leaned back into his chair, expelled a sigh, and clenched his hands together in a knot.
“Oh, Jane.”
Although no more than a whisper, the simple speaking of her name exposed his raw emotion for what it was.
Futile.
The preservation of his land and legacy was paramount, rendering any future with her impossible. But what of Jane? The terms of the contract with Mr. Rutley spun through his mind. What if she lost in this venture and landed in debtor’s prison? How could he protect her then, particularly given that he would be married to another? How deeply would he breach propriety and risk his reputation if he secreted money to Jane to purchase decent food in prison? If Miss Rutley learned of such an act, what a scandal it would cause! How it would wound her. Worse, if Mr. Rutley ever discovered his secret deed, foul actions were certain to ensue. He seemed a man who could cause someone to mysteriously meet with harm.
Adam stood abruptly from his chair in helpless frustration and loomed over his sleeping friend, his fists clenching and unclenching. If only he had known Jane—the real Jane—before agreeing to Mr. Rutley’s terms, he would have fought to negotiate another agreement. If only he had not forgotten what he once knew of her, he would have been more willing to bargain. He began to pace beside the bed, ruing the feud that had robbed him of Jane’s friendship until friendship could not be achieved. He was still pacing when Mr. Wordsworth stepped into the room.
“Sit, Mr. Ashford,” he said quietly. “You will wear a hole through my floor.”
Adam nodded sheepishly and resumed his position in the chair. Wordsworth stepped to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Your devotion to Miss Hancock is admirable. Is she your intended?”
Adam cut his eyes upward at the man, certain he was joking. Wordsworth gave no indication other than sincerity. Adam chuckled softly. “No, sir. She is not my intended. In fact, she is my sworn enemy.”
Wordsworth squinted at him with apparent disbelief. “I rarely abide sarcasm when it concerns matters of the heart, young man.”
Adam shook his head. “I mean what I say, sir. Miss Hancock has been my adversary since before we met, and a formidable one at that.”
Wordsworth perched gently against the edge of the bed, crossed a leg over the other knee, and leaned forward with folded hands. “I sense a fascinating story. Perhaps you might indulge my curiosity.”
Adam peeked at Jane. Satisfied that the conversation had not so much as stirred her, he decided to oblige. “The story began seventy years ago with two friends, but quickly descended into violence.”
With that introduction, he relayed to Wordsworth the history of the feud. He included his various encounters with Jane, most of which had ended badly for one of them. The poet listened raptly. When Adam finished, Wordsworth rubbed his forehead while studying the floor. Then he peered at Adam.
“I remain puzzled. What you describe is a decades-lo
ng war of attrition between your families. A war in which you and Miss Hancock have appeared happy to participate. And yet, here you are traveling in each other’s company seemingly more lovers than adversaries. Why, I have not seen half your tender care from most married couples I know. What, sir, are you not telling me?”
Adam’s head drooped. “Your perception is admirable.”
“An idiot could perceive as much. Do not attempt to evade my question through undeserved flattery.”
With a sigh, Adam told the rest of the story. How their desperate circumstances had thrown them together. How they searched for the gold that would save one and condemn the other. How he would lose her either way. Again, Wordsworth listened intently, nodding and humming acknowledgment as the tale unfolded. When Adam finished the story, the man eyed him for a moment while shaking his head with disapproval.
“It seems, sir, that you are the idiot of which I spoke.”
“Pardon me?”
“You heard me correctly. The fact that you would agree to such a dastardly contract with a known snake marks you as either insensible or idiotic. Do you disagree?”
“I cannot. I regret my foolishness immensely. Now, I struggle over what to do.” He glanced up at Wordsworth as a hopeful thought occurred. “You are a poet. You understand distressing matters of the heart. What should I do?”
His host began to laugh but stifled it as Jane stirred. When she stopped moving, he leaned toward Adam. “Sir, poets do not understand matters of the heart any better than do non-poets. We just have the alarmingly bad sense to write about the subject.”
“In truth?”
“In truth. And only love would drive a man to seek the counsel of poets.”
Adam blinked. “I am not in love, sir.”
Wordsworth chuckled and shook his head. “Stop deluding yourself, young man. The ache will only grow deeper otherwise.”
Adam perused the floor beneath his feet, considering the accusation. Was it love he felt for Jane? For his lifelong enemy? How could that be possible? Still, he admitted that his feelings for her were novel. No woman had elicited in him anything similar before. As confusion mounted, he looked up again at Wordsworth. The man was watching him with a wry smile. Adam sighed with resignation. “May I ask a question, sir?”
“I anticipated as much.”
“As a poet, what would you write about this scenario? About Jane and me?”
Wordsworth settled back and put a knuckle to his chin. He hummed nearly inaudibly for a moment while staring at the ceiling. “In a word, regret.”
“Regret?”
He returned his gaze to Adam. “Yes, regret. How it is the deepest of sorrows, because opportunities ignored are rarely encountered again. No amount of wishing and hoping can recreate the past.”
The depth of emotion behind the statement piqued Adam’s interest. “You seem to know much of regret, sir.”
Wordsworth nodded slowly as his eyes became unfocused. “Mine was Annette. A French beauty who captured my heart when I toured the continent. Our time together proved brief but produced a daughter, Caroline. When the opposition of her family and the outbreak of hostilities between Britain and France forced me to leave, I vowed to return to Annette and my daughter. However, owing to the length of the war and my callow youth, I left them to fend for themselves for ten years.” He refocused his gaze on Adam. “For that, I am regretful. Those ten years can never be restored.”
“And now?”
He smiled. “It was Mary who awakened me to my responsibility. Before our marriage fifteen years ago, she insisted I speak to Annette. The Peace of Amiens allowed me to do so. I have been in contact with Annette and Caroline ever since, and even arranged Caroline’s dowry when she married earlier this year.”
“Yet you still harbor regret?”
“Eternally, particularly concerning Caroline’s childhood. Although I proved more fortunate than most. The prize for my foolishness was Mary. She has made virtuous my sins, forged a fiery sword from my regret, and raised the ignoble to nobility.”
Adam laughed. “You really are a poet.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Love makes a poet of every man who is unafraid to speak his feelings. I recommend you do so when your Jane awakens.”
Adam’s brow knotted, matching the reflexive clench of his gut. “But I am pledged to another, sir. Convention prohibits such an action.”
“Convention be damned. You should tell her anyway. Anything less will engender only deep and lasting regret.”
Adam studied Jane for a time before sighing. “I will consider your advice, Mr. Wordsworth. After all, dismissing the counsel of a poet seems potentially foolish and regrettable.”
“Now you begin to understand.”
Adam’s gaze did not leave the sleeping Jane. “Despite my continuing bewilderment, sir, perhaps I do.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fevered dreams beset Jane, one after another. Initially, she was back at the archer’s window of Carlisle Castle defending the keep. The ranks of the enemy, countless in number, all wore Adam’s face. This scenario confused her very much. Each time she rose to nearly rational thought, the fever redoubled its grip and dragged her again to the depths of irrationality.
Eventually, the scenario changed. For a time, she and Adam were running together. Toward what, she did not know. Away from what, she could not say. She knew only that both the beginning and the end seemed abjectly terrifying in their own way, and that the sole comfort was found in the continued journey. That repetition gave way to another more horrifying than the last. She followed Adam for days and days, always ten steps behind, calling his name. He never turned to answer—not even once. This was the image seared into her mind when she finally emerged from the string of delirium. Her eyes fluttered open. Unaccustomed to the light, she blinked several times as the dismal vision abated and logic reasserted its rightful place.
A wall. Floral paper covering it. A bed, soft and warm. Memory crowded in. She had become ill. Adam had carried her to a house. The house of…no, no, no. That could not be right. Another remnant of the delirium, no doubt. Was she alone? Abandoned? She rolled carefully from her left side to her right. The sight that greeted her elicited immediate tears of relief. Adam sat sprawled in a chair, hands folded, chin on his chest, eyes closed. She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. He had not abandoned her! The comfort of his ongoing vigil flooded her, elbowing aside the vestiges of delusion left by the fever. Afraid of shattering the moment, she lay silently, watching him. The steady rise and fall of his chest gave evidence of his slumber. In a sleeping state, his handsome features would have appeared boyish if not for the stubble peppering his jaw and chin. Clearly, he had not shaved for a time. How long? Even as she considered that question, his breath hitched, and he stirred. Brown eyes opened and rapidly locked with hers. He stood abruptly from the chair.
“Jane!” This single word seemed all he could manage. She produced a weary smile.
“You were expecting another, perhaps?”
Her words emerged raw from a parched throat. He laughed, settled back into his chair, and leaned toward her. “No. As you seem particularly devoted to this bed, the presence of another would have proved rather shocking.” He reached for the floor and retrieved a glass of water. “You should cool your throat before speaking further.”
When she lifted her head, he held the glass gently to her lips while she sipped the contents. When her head fell back to the pillow, he returned the glass to the floor.
“Very good, Jane.”
“Thank you.” She yawned wide before embarrassment drove her to cover her mouth. “Pardon my manners.”
“Not to worry. My presence elicits a similar reaction from many people wherever I go. It should be no different with you or in this place.”
Jane squinted. “Speaking of this place, my recollection i
s foggy. We are in someone’s house, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“Good, then. Now promise not to laugh at me.”
“Laugh at you? About what?”
She tucked her chin and smiled sheepishly. “While I slept, I was visited by strange and disturbing dreams. In one, I dreamed we had come to the house of William Wordsworth, the poet. Is that not odd?”
A smile stretched across Adam’s face. “Very odd. And what renders it odder still is the dream’s accuracy. We are, indeed, guests of the aforementioned poet.”
Surprise overcame her. She tried to sit up only to be driven back to the pillow when the room spun around her. She clutched her temples to halt the spinning. “Oh. That was an ill-advised maneuver.” When the room steadied, she glanced at the open door and brought her hands to her chest. “Tell me. Would Mr. Wordsworth think poorly of us for occupying a bedroom? Alone? Together?”
Adam shook his head. “Not at all. He seems not the kind of man to cast aspersions on others. Recognition of his own flaws prevents that.”
“And Aunt Hester? Mr. Barlow?”
“They approve. You have been very ill. Watching over you was my duty as a gentleman, chivalrous and virtuous.”
She smirked. “Chivalrous, you say? Are you a knight, then?”
“In all my fantasies, yes.”
“Well, then, Don Quixote. In your fantasies, what role do I inhabit?”
She immediately regretted the improperly forward question. In fishing for his regard, she had sailed out of her depth. Much to her relief, he did not appear appalled, alarmed, or otherwise surprised. He simply maintained his easy smile.
“In truth, your traditional role in my fantasy has been the windmill at which I tilt. A lazy metaphor, I know, given your status as a miller’s daughter.”