“Gracious, Mamma. Not with this winter, I shan’t. Do you not want to escape the cold? Yet I have my doubts all that snow will be gone from Pennsylvania until May.”
A smile flitted across Mother’s lips, then away. “But March, dear… ’tis Lark and Emerson’s wedding. You would have to wait until afterward, but then your cousin will be on her wedding trip.”
Penelope fluttered her lashes like an innocent and smiled like a devil. “Now, Aunt Margaret. We have all refrained from pointing this out, but we also all know Lark has no intentions of keeping her promise. Why, that silly girl has no care at all for your feelings, for all she’s put you and Uncle Benton through. ’Tis time to give up on the hope she will do what is right and let those of us who have honored our parents have our day.”
Why that little…
But Mother narrowed her eyes. “I know not who you think to be fooling with this act of yours, Penelope, but I assure you, ’tisn’t me. Whatever you did to come between Lark and Emerson—”
“I?” With the expert performance of an acclaimed actress, she blinked back tears from her wide eyes and pressed a hand to her heart. “Aunt, you injure me. What could I have possibly done?”
Mother’s chin rose a notch. “Knowing you as I do, it is hard to say. But I find it no coincidence that an engagement proceeds without bump for two years and then falls to pieces the very day you meet Emerson.”
Not exactly without bump, but Wiley had no desire to interrupt this display in defense of mere facts.
Aunt Hester puffed out her chest like an angry bird. “And why is that Penelope’s fault? She can hardly help it if she is a more alluring girl than that dull, sullen daughter of yours. If Emerson was smitten with her, ‘twas Lark’s fault, not Penelope’s.”
“How dare you!” Mother surged to her feet, the tower of her hair doing its usual wobble. “My Lark is the sweetest, loveliest girl I have ever met. It is your little doxy of a daughter who leaves insult and destruction in her wake wherever she goes!”
Wiley pressed his lips down on a smile and looked to Aunt Hester, whose face had gone red. She, too, took to her feet. “You were always jealous, Margaret. Jealous of me, and now jealous I have a daughter capable of making whatever match she pleases.”
“Jealous?” Mother looked a hairsbreadth from vibrating with rage. “Why in the world would I be jealous of your sour temper, or of a child so indiscreet you must leave your home in the dead of winter to avoid scandal because she dallied with a—”
Penelope’s screech drowned out the sordid details, though Wiley strained forward, hoping to catch them.
He could have sold tickets to this.
“Perhaps my Penelope gets carried away with her feelings now and then, but at least she can keep a man’s interest, unlike Lark.”
Mother sucked in a long breath and looked as though she wished for a dagger. “I do not care for her method of keeping a man’s interest. And if the entire coast were not locked in snow, I would toss you both out on your backsides.”
Aunt Hester tucked a now-crying Penelope to her side. “Rest assured we will be out of your miserable home as soon as Mr. Owens can arrange travel for us to Georgia.”
“Which will not be soon enough.” With a regal pivot, Mother stormed from the room.
Aunt Hester and Penelope left too, the elder murmuring phrases meant to soothe while Penelope increased the pressure of her crocodile tears.
Well. That had been entertaining. Wiley almost hated to see it end so soon. Though when Asa announced Mr. Owens’s arrival a minute later, he supposed it was a good thing the theatrics were over.
He stood to greet the guest. “Morning, Owens.”
“Likewise.” Owens looked around, brows up. “Is Miss Moxley about anywhere? She knew I was coming this morning. I am taking her to meet my grandmother here in Williamsburg.”
“Ah.” He tried to fight his grin. Truly he did. “She is collecting herself. Some minor disagreement about where the nuptials should take place, you see. I believe she convinced her mother of the merits of Georgia, though.”
“Excellent.”
Wiley motioned to the furniture. “Have a seat. It may take her a few moments to properly preen for you.”
Conscience niggled as Owens sat. He really ought to leave well enough alone and let the man take Penelope away for good, but… Wiley sighed. “Have you any idea what you are about by marrying her?”
Owens lifted his brows and rearranged his coattails. “Certainly I do. I am taking the most beautiful woman I have ever met home as my bride.”
He sounded far from naive as he said it, but… “How can I put this delicately? Owens, beauty, in this case, comes at a price. Penelope is the nastiest, most selfish creature I know. She will make your life miserable.”
Yet Owens chuckled. “Now Benton, ’tis all a matter of whether I can handle her or not. And I assure you, I can.” He leaned forward, amusement and determination on his countenance. “I am a wealthy man, I will not equivocate about it. That is undoubtedly why your cousin is interested in me. And since I am interested in her solely because she will look charming on my arm, I do not mind her superficiality. I intend to be the pillar of Savannah society. To do that, I need a wife who will awe the masses with her beauty.”
Wiley frowned. “Will it not undermine that position, though, when she turns on you? Discretion and loyalty are not my cousin’s virtues.”
“I daresay the allowance I give her will keep her in line.”
Well, Wiley had to give the man credit—he knew her well for so brief an acquaintance. And at any rate, he had issued the warning, so his conscience was clear. “I wish you all joy, then. Even if I cannot fathom how you may achieve it.”
“’Tis all a matter of one’s expectations.” Owens made himself comfortable, but then stood, his gaze on the door.
Wiley followed suit, though he was more than a little surprised to see Penelope back so soon, and without a trace of tears.
“There you are, my darling.” She rushed forward as if her life had not begun until that moment. It would have been enough to make Wiley ill, had it not been so amusing. “Let me fetch my cloak, and I shall be set to meet your grandmother.”
Owens smiled and patted the hand she had thrust at him. “Oughtn’t you be dressed first, my love?”
Her laugh rang out as she brushed her free hand down the straight skirt of that barely-a-dress she was so fond of. “Oh, you silly man. This is a new fashion. Of course I don’t wear it to the balls—”
“Certainly not, everyone would think you forgot to put your real gown on.” Owens somehow said it with a charming smile. “Now darling, Grandmother is an old-fashioned sort, still wearing powdered wigs for all occasions. She wouldn’t know what to make of this…lovely style. I am sure you do not want to shock her.”
Penelope paused only a moment. “Of course not, darling. I will run upstairs and choose something else.”
“I do appreciate your consideration.” His smile was almost childlike. And therefore all the more cunning. “I am sure you will exercise as much thoughtfulness among the society of Savannah, who are a bit behind the times in their fashions as well. You can lead them forward, but it will have to be in small steps. All the ladies shall look up to you, but you will not want to appear too foreign to them either.”
“Oh…well…”
“The first order of business when you arrive at your new home will of course be to visit the dressmaker. I imagine the two of you can put together a stunning new wardrobe to impress everyone.”
Apparently the promise of limitless new things was enough to mollify Penelope. She pulled away with a beaming smile. “I shall make you proud, my darling.”
“Of course you shall. You are the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen. Now run along. We mustn’t be late, or Grandmother will be put out.”
As Penelope sped from the room, Owens turned back to Wiley with hands spread. “See there? Easy enough, if one’s purse is deep e
nough and one’s tongue well accustomed to flattery.”
“You are a man above men.” Wiley took his seat again, chuckling. “And yet, I envy you not in the slightest.”
* * * * *
Lark set down her quill and blew the words dry. She hadn’t used the journal Kate had given her as much as she had expected, but this morning had seemed a fine time to put down her thoughts.
I am to blame too. That was the insight with which she began her musing, and it still made her insides tense up to admit it, even if only to herself.
I am to blame too. For the failure of my engagement, for the distance that caused it. All along I thought it was Emerson, his lack of feeling, his fault. But how could it have been? Yes, he did wrong. But I never challenged him to do right. I never invited him to do right. I just sat there and let my hopes dissolve. I was content to leave the direction of my life up to him.
Lark paused, tapped the feather of her pen against her chin. At home, it had been so easy to play the part she was expected to play, yet was she ever satisfied with that role? Only with Wiley had she ever felt truly comfortable, and only now did she realize it was because he challenged her to be more than what was expected. Emerson was right. Had she acted from the start as she did now, their relationship would have been very different.
She bent back over the diary.
And now we are here. My eyes have been opened to parts of this world, this life I had never imagined. I am forced to examine what the consequences of my decisions will be. If I do not marry Emerson, where will that leave me? Not in straits so perilous as Alice’s, to be sure. But nevertheless serious.
And if I do marry him? What then? Will he love me, truly love me? Can I love him as he deserves to be loved, or has my devotion heretofore been based on qualities too superficial?
Perhaps it was. Perhaps I fancied only his face, his pleasing manners. Now, though, I see that those things that drew me are rooted in qualities that run deep within him.
Still, I hesitate to trust him, not knowing what he may do with my heart. But I do not want to be like the delegates, who risk all they fought for because of the threat of inclement weather. If I have stood up, demanding to be loved for who I am, then how can I refuse to take a step toward the hand now outstretched?
She sighed and put the quill in its holder, staring long at the words. The world seemed at once so stark, yet so blurred. Right and wrong begged for recognition in political matters, yet clarity there showed her nothing about how to apply it to her life. Still she was unsure whether she had the strength to take a risk for what she believed.
For the Calverts. Or for Emerson.
Her eyes slid shut. Kate had said that she must give her direction over to the Lord. Had she ever done that? Certainly she had the roots of faith within her. She knew that Christ had shed His blood in atonement for her sins, she knew that God formed the world. He was Providence. He was Heaven. But had she ever thought of Him as Father, as the Calverts did?
Drawing in a long breath, Lark rested her head against her clasped hands. “Please, Father, show me Your will for me. And give me the strength to follow it.”
Unable to think of any other words to suit the churning within her, Lark rose from her seat and turned to look out the window. She smiled. The boys had crossed Tabernacle and descended upon the lawn in front of Bladen’s Folly to throw snowballs at one another, and apparently while she was lost in her musings, Emerson had joined them.
She leaned into the window frame and watched him slip and slide around, lob a white ball at Johnny, and dive to escape retaliation. It had been years since she had seen him play. He and Wiley had once sought out any mischief to be found, even into their adolescence. But since the war, there had been no snowballs, when a rare snow descended. There had been no water fights in the summer. There had been no boyishness, only the responsibilities of men.
She admired the men. But she missed the boys.
More youngsters soon came upon them and apparently lured the Randels into another pursuit. Emerson waved them off and headed toward the house. And why should that make her heart race? She’d seen him nearly every day for weeks now.
Perhaps she could risk loving him, and letting him love her. Perhaps she must.
Sucking in a long breath and pressing a hand to her stomach, she whispered another prayer that consisted of little but “Dare I, Father?” and headed downstairs.
Mrs. Green and Emerson both stepped through the front door, though the woman stopped him with a scowl. “You will stomp off that snow before you step foot in here, young man.”
Emerson grinned. “I certainly shall. But as Poor Richard would say, Mrs. Green, ‘Clean your finger, before you point at my spots.’”
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes then widened them and looked down at her own feet. Her pattens were packed with snow, and her guffaw of laughter made Lark grin.
“So he would, Mr. Fielding, so he would. Miss Benton, be a dear and take these packages so I might clean myself off, would you? I would have come in the back way, had I not seen your young man approaching and thought to let him in.”
Lark accepted the basket of goods from Mrs. Green and smiled at Emerson as the housekeeper took off her pattens. That was another of his admirable features—the ability to know what to say to win over anyone. She had always attributed it to charm, but it was more than that. He had to first understand someone to know how to speak most effectively.
He sent her a wink and then cleaned off his boots, removed his snowy cloak. A minute later Mrs. Green bustled away with the damp wool and her basket, and Lark motioned toward the library. “Mrs. Randel and Sena are in there; Mr. Randel is out.”
Emerson nodded, but rather than stepping forward, he grinned and held out a rectangular package wrapped in calico.
She stared at it for a long moment. The last time he had offered her any sort of gift, it hadn’t signaled a great day. Granted, this didn’t look to be the family diamonds. “What is it?”
His grin went lopsided, dry. “Nothing my mother foisted upon me for you, I promise you that.”
Oh, she wished her hands wouldn’t tremble as she reached for it. She ought not be fearful, not given how attentive he had been lately. But it came so naturally.
When her fingers closed around it, though, relief swept through her. “You brought me a book?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “It struck me as one you would enjoy. Though if you prefer a gift of jewels, I have a very nice set of emeralds in my room at the tavern.”
A chuckle slipped out as she untied the twine and exposed the cover. “Gulliver’s Travels.”
“If Don Quixote is your favorite, this ought to be to your liking too. Have you read it?”
She ran her fingertips over the embossing in the leather and shook her head. Such a lovely copy. Such a thoughtful gift. So very perfect. “Wiley has spoken of it, but he has been unable to locate a copy for me.”
Her voice broke, and tears stung her eyes. She might have laughed it off as being a silly female tendency, crying over such things, but Emerson had already reached to frame her face in his chilled hands.
“Oh, darling, I’m a dunderhead. Even when I try, I make a mess of things. Please, do not cry.”
She chuckled and looked up into his face, more handsome than ever when creased with concern for her. “You have made no mess at all. The opposite.”
“Ah. These are those kind of tears.” Yet he didn’t release her. Instead, he thumbed away the moisture that had spilled onto her cheeks and drew a fraction closer. “I suppose if I am going to make you cry, I want it to be from happiness. But I confess, I prefer to see your smile.”
She blinked rapidly, drew in a breath she hoped would steady her foolish emotions. But what was she to do? This was the Emerson she had always dreamt of, the one she had wished so long would love her. This was the Emerson she had given up on ever seeing come to life in her company. Yet here he was, gazing deep into her eyes and tracing the co
ntours of her face with soft fingers.
“Lark.” His voice was only a rumble, but his eyes spoke much, and eloquently.
She ought to pull away from the intent she saw so clearly. Someone could happen by at any moment. They were no longer engaged. And really, what had changed since he tried to kiss her before? Nothing.
Everything.
He dipped his head, keeping his eyes on hers, so slowly she would have had ample time to resist. Instead, she held the book to her chest with one hand and reached to touch his cheek with the other. Tingles raced up her arm.
The first brush of his lips was only a feather’s breath, light and sweet. Yet that was enough to make those rampant emotions surge again. He cradled her face as if she were precious, kissed her as though she were beautiful. Whispered her name as though he loved her.
For the first time in her life, she thought maybe she was. Maybe he did.
At the exaggerated “ahem” of a voice behind them, they jerked apart. Lark spun around, but then sighed when she saw it was only Sena.
Her friend sent them a fierce frown and planted her hands on her hips. “If you expect me to pretend I did not see that,” she said in a deepened voice that borrowed her father’s cadence, “you will be disappointed. What are your intentions, young man? You had better be willing to marry a girl if you stand around kissing her.”
Heat flooded Lark’s face, but Emerson laughed. “I believe that speech needs to be aimed at Lark, rather than at me. I want nothing more than to marry her—the question is whether she is yet inclined to have me.”
Wishing the blush would fade, Lark raised her chin and clutched the book to her chest. “I am not as disinclined as I once was.”
“Well.” He took one of her hands, kissed the knuckles. “Where there is progress, there too is hope. Whenever you are ready for those emeralds, my love, just say the word.”
The flutter of her heart was far too immediate for her peace of mind. So she grinned, trying to look as flippant and bright as Sena could. “For now, the book will suffice.”
Love Finds You in Annapolis, Maryland Page 22