A Lady's Choice

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Chapter Eleven

  She hadn’t thought he would answer, but he did, and without hesitation.

  “Yes, I do love Miss Danvers. But I don’t see what that has to do with us?”

  She was stunned, so stunned that she could not think or talk. Of all the things she had expected him to say, “yes” was not one of them. She had expected to have to worm it out of him, or coax it, or possibly never to know the whole truth. But he said it so boldly, as if it was a small matter and not worth speaking of.

  “You . . . love her?”

  “I do. Our love is old, existing since we were children.”

  “Ah, you love her as a friend, then!” There was some relief there.

  “No.” His expression was serious, thoughtful. “I love her as . . . as a woman.” He clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at the ground. “I will always love Miss Danvers. She will ever be first in my heart.”

  Hearing herself speak with a detached tone, Rachel said, “And yet you saw fit to affiance yourself to me?” The day had taken on an unreal quality. Who would have thought she would be forcing a confession out of her fiancé that he loved another woman? They were to be wed in just six months!

  “I do not see what one has to do with the other, Miss Neville.” His tone was cool, but he would not meet her eyes. He gazed now over the green lawn toward a group of gentlemen and ladies strolling down a pathway. “Millicent is not suitable to be the wife of a marquess, unfortunately. I would wish things were different, but they aren’t.” He took a deep breath and stiffened his back. “I am a realist. You are perfectly suitable. You are beautiful and healthy, so I may hope any children we are so fortunate to have will be physically well-looking, though that is not of primary importance to me. Your family is old and honorable, and of good character, even if your grandmother is so very odd. But she will not live long, and we will seldom be near Yorkshire, so that does not signify. And you, yourself, have the demeanor and stance of a true lady, well behaved, elegant. My mother approves of you; that was a primary consideration for me. And you have no unfortunate connections to trade.”

  He enumerated all those things so easily. He must have thought it out thoroughly. Rachel would have liked it better if it were not so. It sounded so cold recounted like that, and yet had she not chosen him on exactly those grounds? She had had a list of requirements, and he fulfilled more than any other gentleman who had expressed an interest in her. It was that simple. It was that cold.

  She stumbled away from him toward the tree. She reached out blindly and felt the bark under her gloved hands. Everything at a distance, even the feel of nature must be barricaded with silk. She stripped her glove off and laid her hand against the rough texture, feeling, as if for the first time, minute traces of moss, the ancient trails of insects and the sharp edge where some bark had just broken away.

  All her life since she was thirteen she had been keeping things—people, emotions, pain—at a distance, as though sensing it only through silk. Edges blurred, sensation muted. Yarnell offered her a life lived that way. He would never intrude on her pain, never expect more from her than courtesy. Day would follow day and there would be no turbulence, no untidy emotions to contend with.

  Perfectly civil, perfectly calm, perfectly cold. Life viewed through a smoky glass, all of the sharpness blurred and bearable.

  “Miss Neville,” he said gently. “I have, perhaps, been remiss in answering your questions with such honesty. But I would have that between us, at least.”

  Rachel nodded absently and stroked the tree trunk, the sharp bark prickling the tender pads of her fingers. Honesty. If only she had been honest with herself before now. A stray beam of sun found her face and touched her lips and cheek, warming her. She closed her eyes and turned her face toward it, feeling the warmth seep into her.

  What a fraud she was, telling herself this was what she wanted, making herself almost believe it. The veil had slipped once or twice. She had been on the verge of telling someone, anyone, that she wanted to go home and think for a while, forget about the London Season this once. She loved London with all of its bustle and hurry, but it was no place to think.

  But now she knew there was one thing she did not need to think about. One thing she must do while she had the courage, while she still could. “My lord,” she said, turning and pulling her tight-fitting glove back on with jerky, hard motions. “I find, after giving the matter much thought, that we shall not suit.”

  “I have upset you,” he said, chagrined. “Miss Neville, I never meant to hurt your feelings. My emotions for Miss Danvers will always, I assure you, be kept in the strictest check. I will never, by thought or deed, betray—”

  “Then you are a fool,” Rachel ground out, her voice guttural. She strode away from him.

  He caught her arm and whirled her around. “What did you say?”

  She stared up at him, noting that his dark eyes were blazing with sudden anger, the first real emotion she had seen on his face toward her. “I said you are a fool.” She searched his eyes, reading life beneath the surface. What had made him hide from emotion as she had? She would never know. Didn’t really care to, if the truth could boldly be said. “You have real, lasting love in the palm of your hand, and yet you reject it? You’re an idiot,” she said contemptuously. “You’re rich, you’re powerful, you’re a man. Whomever you marry becomes instantly acceptable, and you must know that. There can be no true objection to Miss Danvers, who is everything genteel and ladylike. If you let your mother keep you from marrying the woman who holds your heart, then I would not marry you ever, for you are not a man, not in every way that is important!”

  His expression bespoke fury, first, and then bafflement. “Are you jilting me, Miss Neville?”

  “I am, Lord Yarnell, even if it destroys both of our reputations. Even if it ruins the rest of my life. And if you do not, this instant, go to Miss Millicent Danvers, fling yourself at her feet and beg her to marry you, then I think you are the greatest fool I have ever known. If you have an ounce of passion in your heart, you will not let any man or woman—including, or especially your mother—keep you two apart.”

  “I do not think we have anything more to say to each other,” he said in a voice heavy with resentment.

  “You’re correct.”

  “I will escort you home.”

  “Thank you.”

  • • •

  The plans of a lifetime crumbled to dust about her feet, Rachel stayed home that evening for almost the first time since they had come to London nearly three months earlier. She did not tell her mother, nor did she tell her grandmother of her decision, made in haste and repented only for the fuss and bother she would have to endure. There was, she found, great emotion attendant even upon a decision which one felt forced into, even one for which there seemed no alternative. She could not go out and face society just yet. For all she knew, Lord Yarnell and his mother could make her life very difficult in London, if they made it known that she was a jilt, and she might have to retreat to Yorkshire. The rest of her life and her very reputation was balanced on a knife’s edge, but for now, all she wanted was to stay home and think.

  Her mother fussed over her for a few minutes when she stated she was staying home, asking if she was sick, but since it was clear that she was not ill, eventually the woman left her alone and went off to a card party. So she was alone now, and sitting by the window in the ugly drawing room.

  What would she make of her life now? She had fulfilled the plan of her lifetime only to find it did not suit, so what now? She didn’t regret her decision to jilt Yarnell and would do the same again. Let others view it as they may; she had, for a while, begun to see that life with the marquess would be dreary and the company of his mother insupportable. And he would never love her enough to defy his mother. The only hope for Yarnell was if he could cut the strings that bound him and marry Miss Danvers. If he did that he might become a man. She did not hold out much hope for that.

&nbs
p; She sat for hours, watching the sun set, the sky muddy with indefinite clouds and smoke from thousands of coal fires. How did one live life without a plan, she wondered. Did others meander through life with no clear object? And did life answer with the gift of a purpose?

  A footman came in and lit the evening candles, and Rachel heard the tap tap tap of her grandmother’s cane on the floor outside the drawing room door. There was a hesitation, and then the door opened behind her. She looked over her shoulder and smiled.

  “What are you doing sitting here alone in this gloom?” the old lady asked. “You sickening for something?”

  “No.”

  “For the first time I think that is the truth.” The dowager grunted and sank into a chair with a groan. “I am getting old. I suppose I have known it for some time, but I feel it more this spring.”

  “At home you do not do so much. You’re just tired with all of the visiting and parties.”

  “True.”

  Rachel could almost feel her grandmother’s perspicacious glance, the question that would likely be writ in the watery blue eyes. She knew she was behaving differently, but didn’t feel like explaining to anyone yet how her life had changed. There would be time enough for that tomorrow, time enough for decisions and plans. Right now all she wanted to do was sit and watch out the window as carriages took people away for their evening’s engagements and brought people for a card party in a town house three doors down.

  Life observed at a distance. Hadn’t that always been her way? And yet she was poised on the threshold of something. She just didn’t know what it was yet.

  Her grandmother cleared her throat to speak, but at that moment the butler came into the room and bowed. “A note, Miss Neville, for you.”

  Rachel took the note and unfolded it.

  Miss Neville, it read. Forgive my presumptuousness in writing this hasty note to you, but I must say, thank you. Francis has told me what you said and did. We are on our way this moment to the Continent. We will marry at Dover before we go. Thank you. I already said that, did I not? But I will never find adequate words to express how deep my gratitude is. My wish for you is that you find the love you so obviously deserve for your selfless, gracious, benevolent heart.

  Yours,

  Millicent Danvers

  Rachel smiled and refolded it, glancing up at her grandmother. With just a moment’s hesitation, she handed the note over to the other woman, who unfolded it and held it close to the candlelight, adjusting her spectacles, which always hung on a ribbon around her neck.

  “Francis . . . that is Yarnell, is it not?” The dowager looked up at Rachel and there was an odd expression on her face. “Selfless? Benevolent? What does this mean? This Miss Danvers, is she not that chit who visited the other day? And the girl you told me of, the one Yarnell is in love with?”

  “Yes.” Taking a deep breath, Rachel said, “I jilted Yarnell. Told him we would not suit.”

  “And he has eloped with Miss Danvers?”

  “Yes. They have an old connection and he told me today that he loves her. It was all I could do. They should not have been kept apart by our engagement.”

  The old woman gazed at her shrewdly, squinting against the glare of the candle between them. “Going to play up the martyr angle, are you? Won’t fly with your mother, you know, who will damn you as a fool. Doesn’t play with me, either, young lady, since I know you better. In many ways you are more like me than any of my grandchildren. You had already decided you didn’t want to marry him, hadn’t you? What would you have done if there hadn’t been a Miss Danvers?”

  Rachel first smiled, then felt a bubble of laughter that was irresistible. She chuckled first, then laughed outright, and then threw back her head and guffawed. The dowager joined her, and their laughter echoed in the cavernous heights of the high-ceilinged room.

  “I was so relieved,” Rachel gasped, wiping tears away from her eyes. “You would not believe it. I detest his mother, and he had not the intestinal fortitude to stand up to her. I would always have been second best until the day that wretched woman died, and I would have despised Yarnell for his lack of courage. Mother is nothing to her!”

  “And so how did you find out about his feelings for Miss Danvers?”

  “I inferred from things she said.” Rachel sobered. “She said he was romantic and poetic. She told me things about him that I could not conceive, and I saw it in their faces when they met. So I asked him, and he admitted that he loved her and always would, even though he still fully intended to marry me. I had the opportunity to do something . . .” Rachel stopped on the verge of saying that she had done what she did out of selfless altruism. “No.”

  She laughed out loud. “No!” she repeated, and it echoed off the ceiling. “I was going to paint myself as the kindhearted lady who wants to see true love triumph, but the truth is, I could not see myself being second or third my whole life. First to his mother and then to the woman he would always love and want. When I told him our engagement was over, I did not even know for sure that he would go to Miss Danvers. In fact, I rather thought he would not, his pride is so great and his feelings of family obligation.” She told her grandmother about the objections to Miss Danvers from his family.

  “It changes how I view him,” the dowager said, “that he would elope with her. I would not have believed it of him, and must say I will not until I see the notice in the paper. What will you do now?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m frightened. Our broken engagement may be the ruin of both of us.”

  “I think you can weather it, child, but it will require courage.”

  “I have always had a plan, though it often was averted by circumstance. But I always knew I needed just one good Season in London, and I would find my husband and make my mark on society. I had that opportunity. Yarnell still wanted to marry me, even after admitting to me that he was in love with another woman. And pride would not have stopped me. I had no real reason to believe that if I rejected him he would marry Miss Danvers.” Pensively, she added, “Though I am happy for them, especially for her. She loves him so, and she has always been faithful in that love. She would have been a good friend, even if Yarnell and I had married.”

  The old lady stood and hobbled around to her grandchild. She put one arthritic hand on the younger woman’s shoulder and said, “I am so proud that you have done this, for whatever reason. Your mother will not be happy and there may be some difficulty if it becomes known that you jilted Yarnell. But you will prevail. I advise that we stay in London, defy the gossips, and that you enjoy yourself. Just enjoy the Season without a goal, for once.”

  Rachel thought about it for a minute, covering the old woman’s hand with her own, letting her youthful warmth seep into the arthritic joints. “Perhaps you’re right, Grandmother.”

  “Why have you never just called me Grand, like the others?”

  Rachel grinned. “It seemed too familiar for so ‘grand’ a lady as yourself. You require the full title of your name.”

  The woman cocked her head on one side. “I have misjudged you, my dear. I have sorely undervalued you, and I find myself in the unenviable position of having to apologize. You have more bottom to you than I ever would have thought possible.”

  “Do I? I’m not so sure. I have been used to thinking well of myself, but I don’t know what to think right now.”

  “You will know if you just let your heart guide you.” The dowager shook herself and dropped her hand away from Rachel’s shoulder. “I begin to sound like the worst sort of romantic now, and I will leave off before I tell you that true love will find you, for it very well may not, and then wouldn’t I look like a maudlin old fool? I am going to bed now, my dear. We will tell your mother in the morning.”

  Rolling her eyes, Rachel said, “It is the one thing I dread.”

  “Oh, then let me,” the old woman said, her eyes glittering. “It would give me something to look forward to.”

  “Grandmother, you a
re an evil old woman.”

  “I know. And it is something to anticipate in your future, my dear. Plan for it. There are endless opportunities for amusement.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Colin, whistling a merry tune, jaunted down the stairs of the Strongwycke mansion, thinking that despite how the Season had started, all in all he was reasonably satisfied with how things were going. He and Andromeda had received a note from Lord and the new Lady Strongwycke. They were at Shadow Manor and blissfully happy, riding every day, making plans, and looking forward to having Belinda back in a month. They had sent a kind letter to her, too, with a package of gifts and books.

  Andromeda had her interests, and Belinda went with her everywhere. Sir Parnell was fast proving to be as good a friend as he was a trainer, and had scheduled a bout for Colin in two days. Life was good.

  He strode into the morning parlor, where he knew Belinda and his sister would be making their plans for the day, and was startled to find Rachel there, her head bent close to Belinda’s over a pattern book of dresses.

  Both looked up.

  “Hallo, Uncle Colin,” Belinda said, in the form of address she had decided on of late. He rather liked it, since he had no nieces or nephews in reality.

  “Hello, Colin,” Rachel said, her cheeks pink for some unfathomable reason.

  Andromeda, seated at a nearby table, glanced from one to the other and said, “We have just been planning our assault on the ton tonight. Miss Neville has kindly invited me to a ball given by an acquaintance of hers.”

  “I have my friend’s permission to invite as many guests as I wish,” she said. “And since there is always a dearth of . . . of eligible gentlemen, would you come, too, Colin?”