Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

  How could he have ignored the soft pleading in those blue eyes? How could he have coped with the disappointment sure to live there had he refused? Despite the thumping headache and the recriminations from the doctor and his family, he was glad to have served her. Although …

  His forehead furrowed, sharpening the pain. He was sure the gypsy he had tried to help was not the one who had attacked him. Would that he could remember. But there had been something so plaintive in the gypsy’s expression that it was impossible to think he would then turn around and harm the one who had tried to help. Father wasn’t so sure, and Ned was unsurprised to discover he had enlisted local support to round up the gypsies and discover the culprit. Father might hold compassion, but attacks on the son of an earl might well see a man swing. He could only pray they found the right man, and did not hang an innocent.

  He rolled to the side, trying to ease the ache thumping the side of his head. Innocent. For some reason that made him think on her again. The trust in those eyes. The clear pale complexion. The shy manner that made him want to be braver and bolder and do what he could to protect her. He hoped she did not hold herself responsible for what had happened …

  A tap came at the door. Ned rasped an “enter” and opened his eyes. A footman entered the room, his look apologetic. “Excuse me, sir, but your father asks if you feel well enough to come downstairs. The magistrate is here and wishes to speak with you.”

  “Colonel Porter cannot attend me here?”

  “If you would prefer that, I can convey the message to them.”

  But if he insisted on that, it might simply confirm his status as an invalid, and lead his mother to further anxiety. “No, no. I will come downstairs shortly.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The footman inclined his head and departed.

  Ned shifted back against the headboard, prayed for strength as he eased from the bed. Strength to stand, and strength to speak the truth of last night’s events but in a way that would not see a guiltless man hang.

  The door opened and his valet hastened in, his face a picture of anxiety. “Sir, you really should not be up just yet.”

  “Get me my coat, Griffiths.”

  “But, sir—”

  “No, the blue one, thank you.” He fought a wince as his valet helped him shrug into the coat sleeves. “I could not … let injustice …” He ground his teeth, as a savage spear of pain shafted his head.

  “Of course not. But, if I might say so, sir, the man is only a gypsy.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You may not say so,” Ned gritted out, glad to see the slightly crestfallen expression on his valet’s face. Griffiths always had a tendency to look down on those he deemed beneath him, legacy perhaps of his family’s service to an earl’s for three generations.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Ned eyed him. “Gypsy or no, the man is still one of God’s creation, formed in His image. You would do well to remember it.”

  “Of course, sir.” Griffiths bowed his head respectfully. “May I be permitted to do your neckcloth, sir?”

  “Thank you.”

  A few efficient twists of the white linen and he was pronounced ready, and then was descending the stairs, slowly, so he would not need to hold the bannister as he wished to do. The butler hurried towards him.

  “Sir, we are glad to see you are better, but did not expect—”

  “Thank you.” His head was swimming. “In here?”

  “Yes.”

  At the butler’s urgent gesture, footmen opened the doors, and Ned walked into the drawing room, where he found his father, brother, and the magistrate engaged in conversation which ceased at his entrance.

  “Ned!” His father rose, frowning. “I was not sure you would feel up to this.”

  “I am fine,” he lied, nodding to Colonel Porter, an action which sent a fresh shaft of pain through his brain.

  What followed was an interview that forced him to carefully circumnavigate certain facts as he shared his memories of the evening, answered questions, deflected queries. Colonel Porter had little sympathy for travelers, even less for those so imprudent as to attack an earl’s son. So when he asked Ned why he was speaking to the gypsy—an action which held a very grave consequence even for an earl’s son, he was sternly warned—he was forced to pause. How could he answer honestly, and admit Cecilia Hatherleigh’s role in any of this? It was not as if she had been guilty of anything but compassion; no, it was best to keep her name out of it.

  “Mr. Amherst?” Porter prompted.

  “Forgive me. I … I feel a trifle unwell.”

  “Of course.” The magistrate looked at him, not unkindly. “It would perhaps be best if we put this off until you’re feeling better.”

  “Thank you,” Ned murmured. “But … I would like to ensure that there are no … no consequences for the man accused, not until I have had a chance to recall everything.”

  A frown dipped the magisterial brow. “Such consideration for a gypsy is a trifle untoward.”

  “But not if it prevents an injustice,” Ned said softly.

  “Of course.” Colonel Porter rose, bowed to the three men. “I hope we can resolve matters soon, when you are feeling more the thing.”

  “Thank you,” Father said, and Ned echoed.

  John said nothing until the door had closed behind their visitor, and he turned to Ned. “Seriously? You cannot remember?”

  The sneer in his brother’s eyes panged afresh in his heart. He turned to his father. “I am sorry. Please excuse me.”

  “You should not have come downstairs.”

  Ned pressed his lips together. His father was right.

  “Go, rest. And we shall talk more when you remember.”

  He inclined his head, and moved back to the staircase.

  Dragging himself up the steps exhausted him far more than the descent, and he was very glad to strip off his neckcloth and gingerly collapse onto his bed, and even gladder to have managed the feat unobserved by his mother, thus precluding her unnecessary worry.

  Griffiths entered the room, pursed his lips, then helped remove Ned’s boots and coat.

  “Thank you.” Ned exhaled, easing back against the pillows, and closed his eyes. Had he done right? Should he have confessed the all? Surely protecting a young lady from Porter’s interrogation had been the gentlemanly thing to do?

  “Some correspondence has arrived for you, sir.”

  “I’ll attend to it later.”

  The valet cleared his throat. “If I may, sir, you might want to read the top missive first.”

  Ned cracked open an eye. It was rare for Griffiths to push such things.

  “I believe it is from a young lady.”

  Now both eyes opened. “You believe?”

  Another cough. “I happened to be in the servant’s hall when a groom arrived from Aynsley Manor, with the note addressed to yourself. I was asked to ensure it was seen by your eyes only. You may notice that it, ahem, is not sealed.”

  Which meant neither Lord nor Lady Aynsley would have sent it, especially not by such clandestine means. He gestured for it to be handed over, then waited for Griffiths to leave before unfolding the page.

  Dear Mr. Amherst,

  Please forgive my boldness in writing to you. I know it is most untoward, but I could not wait another moment without expressing my deepest regret for the incident that has occurred. Please understand that I had no thought of your being harmed, and only wished to see the poor man assisted in some way. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me.

  Please know you are in my prayers.

  Yours truly,

  Cecilia Hatherleigh

  Ned swallowed, tracing the neat cursive of her name. What a thoughtful young lady she was, how sweet, how compassionate. Her consideration for his welfare and willingness to bend propriety’s rules to make him aware of her concern touched his heart, soothing the jagged edges there. Truly, she was as kind a young lady a
s he had ever met.

  He read the note again, lips pulling tight at the expressed regret. She was not responsible; she had not struck him with the branch. Neither had she dragged him to the gypsy camp; he had been the one to agree. But how to explain this when he could neither visit nor entertain her visit? He sighed. Seemed he had another task to complete.

  A pull on the bell rope soon brought Griffiths to the room once more, soon saw paper and pen delivered to him, soon saw him inscribing a reply.

  Dear Miss Hatherleigh,

  I trust this note finds you well and in good spirits. Please know that I in no way consider you responsible for the foolish incident that occurred. Truth be told, I cannot be certain as to who precisely was responsible, but unless you had stolen into the woods and found a rather large and heavy oaken branch, I do not think you can dare assume blame. If, of course, that was your doing, then I must ask that you refrain from further displays of the kind, and beg your forgiveness for whatever I have done to cause such animosity, as it is not my intention to see discord between us.

  Please know that I appreciate your prayers, and know you are in mine also.

  Yours truly,

  Edward Amherst

  CHAPTER SİX

  CECILIA CLUTCHED HIS letter to her heart as joy bloomed in her soul. He’d forgiven her! He did not hold her responsible! How truly wonderful to know he apportioned her no blame. He had written with such grace and humor, written to say she was in his prayers—in his prayers! Surely he would not pray for her—would not even bother to write a response—if he did not care? But did this mean he cared merely as a friend, or could it mean something more? She unfolded the sheet of paper and studied it again, examining each word, each line, hope underscoring every flicker of her eyes as she searched for further meaning.

  Oh, how she wished she could speak with him. How she wished to know his heart. Did he think on her, like she did him? Surely he must, if he prayed for her—prayed for her! Did not prayer entwine two hearts and draw them closer?

  “Ah, Cecilia, here you are.” She hurriedly hid the note and rose from her chair as Father entered the bedchamber, his expression rather drawn. “I suppose you have heard about the latest scandal involving the Amherst man?”

  She nodded, wincing within. She knew her father had never quite approved of the younger of Lord Rovingham’s two sons. Heaven help her if he’d seen Ned’s letter!

  “A terrible business, of course. I can only be glad you were kept safe.”

  “I … I was in the company of Lady Heathcote the entire time.” Well, apart from that one moment when Ned had come to her rescue. But she didn’t think her father would wish to know that.

  “I’m pleased to hear of it, and very glad no mischance came your way. I really can’t understand what Amherst was doing in a gypsy camp. But he was always an odd kind of fellow.”

  Again she bit her lip, was forced to duck her head. But when her father did not speak she dared glance up. His brows had lowered.

  “Your mother tells me you have something of an interest there.”

  Cecy’s cheeks heated. “Only as a friend.” Isn’t that what he had said they were?

  “Hmph. I don’t go crying into my pillow when I get news one of my friends is ill.” He eyed her narrowly. “Are you sure you don’t hold him in warmer regard?”

  She swallowed. What could she say that was true but also kept him from alarm? Father would not like to know she had exchanged letters with him; such things were quite beyond the pale. “Mr. Amherst is our neighbor, and I … I have thought him to have suffered quite needlessly this past year.”

  “Needlessly?” He snorted. “If I had a son who acted the part of a married woman’s cicisbeo then I would just as soon disown him, not welcome him back with open arms like Rovingham has. The prodigal son, that’s Ned Amherst for you.”

  “But he has come back, and by all accounts has grown wiser for the experience.”

  He snorted. “Hardly wiser of him to be mixed up in this affair.” As if recalling her earlier words he said, “Exactly whose accounts have you been listening to for such a judgment to be made?”

  “Lady Rovingham told me,” she answered in a small voice.

  “When was this?”

  “Earlier this year, when Mama and I visited her.” Cecy had expressed her hope for Ned’s good health, and Lady Rovingham had asked her to hold him in her prayers “for I know that you believe as we do.” Well Lady Rovingham knew this, as she’d led Cecy to faith last year. Of course Cecy had agreed, thrilled at the approval in the countess’s eyes, their conversation leading to other discussions about faith in recent months.

  “Well, I cannot like what he has been involved in. I find him to be of quite unsteady character.”

  “Oh, but Father, he has changed!” Her cheeks heated at his hard stare. “Lady Rovingham believes it to be so. Why, even Caro agreed.”

  “Yes, but this latest incident—”

  “He was not responsible for what has happened.”

  “No? How can you know that?” His gray eyes grew penetrating. “Do you know something about the events of last night?”

  She froze. How could she admit the truth without further implicating herself, and Ned, and possibly even the Heathcotes?

  “Well?”

  Cecy prayed for wisdom, before saying carefully, “I saw him there last night, near the bonfire. Ned—I mean, Mr. Amherst—was very solicitous in ensuring the crowd did not get too rough.”

  “Too rough?” His brows snapped together. “Where was Heathcote while this was happening?”

  “He … he was looking after his mother and sister as well as me.”

  “I feel there is more to this than you are telling me.”

  That’s because there was. “Truly, I would not have you think ill of Mr. Amherst. He … he is so very kind that … that after helping me, he noticed a poor man requiring assistance and went to his aid.” All true. “Mr. Heathcote was escorting me to the carriage at this time, but I am sure that it was after this that he must have been attacked. Truly, he was not seeking anything clandestine or ill-natured. He is all that is good.”

  Her father grunted. “I rather doubt that.”

  Would it help to share that he had assisted Mrs. Cherry? Or would that admission only lead to certain trouble for herself? “I … I have seen his concern for others, and his willingness to help.”

  “Have you?”

  She fought to stand upright, to put steel into her backbone and not wilt under his stare. She only hoped her words had given enough strength to her case, and that he would not ask to see the letter. For while she knew Ned’s actions had not been in any way improper, she rather doubted Father would be willing to consider a secret letter in such a way.

  “Well, regardless of your unfortunate fixation with the man, I am pleased to know that the village shall not be troubled by any more of those troublemakers again.”

  “They have found the men responsible?”

  He nodded. “They have found the culprit, a gypsy like we knew. A man with some kind of speech impediment, or so it seems.”

  A man with a speech impediment? No. Oh no.

  “Yes,” her father continued, “it would seem the man could not explain his whereabouts and refused to answer when the magistrate questioned him. And being a gypsy, well, we all know how wicked they can be.”

  She ignored her father’s bigotry and focused on his earlier statement. “But … but how could he answer a magistrate if he has speaking difficulties?”

  “It does not matter. He will be convicted and then he will swing. Now, my dear, I don’t want you to concern yourself with this any—”

  “No, but Father, it is not right! It is surely unjust to accuse someone who cannot answer.”

  “He is a gypsy. His life holds little value anyway.”

  Her mouth sagged. “Father! It is … it is positively inhumane to say such a thing! How can you be so unjust, so unkind, to speak that way?” Her eyes blurr
ed. “Do you really believe some people to be less worthy of life than us?”

  “That’s enough, my girl. You are obviously overwrought and should probably return to bed. Perhaps a good sleep will return some sense into your head. No, I do not want to hear another word from you. You have shown yourself far too prone to sentimentality and soft-headed notions that do not suit a daughter of Aynsley. No”—he held up a hand—“not another word. I know you think I’m being harsh but I will not be spoken to in such a way by my daughter. I will instruct the servants that you will take your evening meal here and then I want you to sleep and rid yourself of foolish notions.”

  She was being sent to bed like a child? Cecy blinked against the burn, bit down on her trembling lower lip. Well, at least she would not act like one!

  His eyes softened. “I have no wish to bring you pain, my dear, but you would do well to rid yourself of any thought of the Amherst fellow, or anything else deriving from last night. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Father,” she murmured.

  “Good, then.” He drew close, pressed a kiss to her brow. “Now get some rest.”

  Cecy nodded, forcing her lips upwards until he finally exited.

  She would rest—as soon as she had written of this disastrous turn of events to Mr. Amherst.

  They were going to do what?

  Ned stared at the page, gratitude at Cecilia’s latest missive mingling with the same frustration that leapt from her words. How could men be so quick to judge, so quick to blame, without any true sense of the facts?

  He shifted to gaze out the bedchamber windows, the park beyond glinting in morning sunshine. Cecilia’s message had arrived late last night, but he’d not received it until this morning, which meant time was spilling far too quickly. He pushed out of bed, stumbled to the wardrobe, and dragged on his clothes. His head might ache, his vision might swim, but he had to speak to the magistrate once again, to see their accused and determine if there was some way he could save him.

  Ned was halfway down the stairs when his father saw him. “Edward? What are you doing?”