Beneath Spring's Rain (Ashton Brides Book 1)

by Rebecca J. Greenwood

  “Everything I know of him is honorable.” She nodded. “I will speak with him, briefly, if you will provide a chaperone.”

  “Very well then. Wait here, and we will bring him to you. This room will serve as well as any.” Miss Smith left.

  Nerves assaulted Eliza. How did she look? There was no mirror in this room. She rubbed at her face, straightened her white linen cap by feel, checked the pins holding the front of the dress and the fichu in place, shook out her brown skirt.

  She looked like a Magdalen, she knew, in the equalizing uniform of the house. It had been liberating to be surrounded by women wearing the same thing, with no need to worry about how she looked, or primp for the gaze of men, or the judging eyes of Ton ladies. But now she had a case of feminine nerves. She looked the plainest and poorest of her life.

  No matter. That was what she was now. Poor and plain.

  She paced the room one length then another. How far had they to bring him?

  This was silly.

  She sat down at the pianoforte, and began a Bach composition she had long memorized, the soothing lullaby Sheep May Safely Graze. She had found refuge here at the Home. She was safely grazing and growing strong.

  Her stomach tightened. Captain Lord Daniel Ashton brought change.

  Lord Daniel. She remembered him as a chubby youth with the loose gangliness of recent growth, his voice cracking when he spoke and his face spotty. He had been awkward but always kind. What was this he was speaking of? Marriage?

  She heard footsteps down the hall, a large man’s heavy footsteps, accompanied by the lighter tread of women. The air changed as they reached the door. A soft tap and the door opened. Her shoulders tensed, but she forced them down as she finished the phrase. The piece had several more phrases yet to be played, but to continue would be impolite. What was worse in her mind, however, was not completing the musical thought. To leave a phrase hanging without completion was a rudeness and discomfort she had to accept when working with the choir, but she still disliked it.

  She finished the line and descended into a musically satisfying conclusion with a trilled chord and a soft low G. The vibrations hung in the air, leaving a lingering stillness. She took in a deep breath, stood from her bench, and turned.

  The head matron and Miss Smith had entered and stood to the side. A tall man with shoulders that filled the doorway stood in the entrance to the room, dressed in the red officer’s uniform of the heavy dragoons. She scanned his face, scarcely recognizing the spotty youth in the mature planes. The chubbiness was gone, burned away in war. The long limbs had filled out into masculine strength.

  His eyes were a soft gray-blue, his hair a dark blond touched by sun and swept forward in fashionable waves. He wore the insignia of a captain on his uniform, with gray breeches and shining jackboots. His plumed helmet and gloves were in his hand.

  His heavy brows were lifted, and his light eyes were wide in an expression that she struggled to identify. Her heart jumped at that look. She could not hold his gaze, did not know what to do with that expression in a man’s eyes. A near-stranger should not look at one with such tenderness. She focused on her clasped hands and drew in a breath. Her heart pounded in her chest.

  “Miss Moore.” He took a step in, bowed, and filled the room. It had been small before, but now it was stifling.

  “Lord Daniel.” She curtseyed. “It has been a very long time since I last saw you. I hope you have been well.”

  He didn’t answer. She looked up, and a strange half-smile was on his face. His expression, though directed at her, did not appear focused. He blinked, his gaze sharpened, and said, “Yes, it’s been five years.”

  Her stomach tightened, and she clenched her hands before her. His unwavering stare was more than she knew how to take.

  He shifted, a movement of awkward discomfort. “I have been on the Continent.”

  She seized on this conversational opening. “With the army of occupation in France?”

  “Yes, and before that, the Peninsula.”

  “Did you fight in the battle at Waterloo?”

  “No, my regiment missed it. We were en route when the battle occurred.”

  “Were you sorely disappointed to miss it?”

  “My fellows were. Myself, I was only disappointed because it was to be hoped that with more numbers our losses might not have been so great.” He frowned, his brows furling. “But I have come through the long war whole enough. I have little to complain of.” He opened his hand, and his expression smoothed.

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “Miss Moore, I . . .” He moved closer.

  “We will just converse over here, Eliza.” The matron and her assistant sat down on two wooden chairs with embroidered seat cushions.

  “Thank you.” Eliza nodded to them.

  Lord Daniel blinked, looked over at the matrons and then away. Color rose in his cheeks. He shifted again, took a breath, and stepped closer to her. A look of determination came over his face.

  Tension ran through her. He was so much taller and bigger than she.

  “I discovered your predicament when I arrived in town Monday. No one knew where you were. I searched . . . I was afraid you were lying dead somewhere.” His eyes scanned her face. She kept herself still, her breaths shallow.

  “Word finally reached me of where you were, and I was so grateful. Grateful that you were alive and safe.”

  She looked down, shifted her weight, uncomfortable under his gaze. She forced a response.

  “I am sorry for any distress my disappearance may have caused you or any other . . . kind individual. I wished to be secret.” She tightened her grip on her fingers.

  “I can understand, I think, why you wished to not be found. But for my sake, I’m glad you were.”

  She furled her brows, glanced up at him. What was all this? “For your sake?”

  “Because I care for you, Miss Moore, and for your welfare.”

  She looked away.

  He continued. “I came to London with the purpose of seeing you. To discover if you were free, and if you were . . .”

  He paused, looked down on her and then away. He swallowed.

  “You see, I recently came into a position where I might marry.” He shifted his weight. His face reddened further, as well as the tips of his ears. She remembered they had stuck out some before. The thickness of his forward swept dark blond hair and rich side whiskers disguised them now, but the blush that reached them brought them to her attention. She stared at them with fascination.

  “I do believe you are not aware of this, as I was in great pains at the time to have my fondness not be evident, but I have long favored you over all other ladies of my acquaintance.”

  He favored her? He wanted to marry her? It was beyond belief.

  “And now that I have the opportunity to marry,” his words became rapid, “I intended to inquire if you were still free, and if you were, I would seek your favor, in hopes of seeking your hand. When I arrived, when I was told that you had disappeared—” He caught her eyes, and the concern in his made her catch her breath.

  She dragged her gaze away, her mouth tight. Her heart raced, and jitters ran through her stomach.

  He took an audible breath. “Miss Moore, it appears that you have found a place here, and protection. I’m glad. But it is temporary, is it not?”

  She caught his slight jump when the matron spoke. “The function of the hospital is to reform, to train, and then to send the girls out into the world again with jobs and skills. Two years is the general length of an inmate’s stay.”

  Their conversation, so intimate in subject, was being overheard. His face flushed with color again, and she felt heat rise in her own cheeks as well.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins.” He gave the matron a small bow, then turned to Eliza again. “Do you have plans, Miss Moore, for after the institution?”

  She took a small step back, trying to give herself space from the overwhelming size of him before her, bu
t there was little room to move in. “Yes, I . . . intend to go away, out of England, and become a pianoforte instructor. If I can find a sponsor.”

  “I see.” He frowned. “May I offer another possibility? Perhaps a way for you to take your place in society once again?” He paused and watched her. “And to live the life that you were bred to, before misfortunes beset you?”

  Her heart hammered. She looked away, frowning.

  He leaned closer, drawing her eyes again. There was earnestness in his face.

  “You’ll be able to hold your head up high. Be able to have a . . .” he stumbled over his words, moved back. “. . . a family.”

  Her heart jumped, and she averted her gaze away from him, tension running through her.

  “You will even be able to travel, as my leave will come to an end soon, and you could come with me to Paris to rejoin my regiment. You’d be an officer’s wife, with the society of other officers’ wives. You’ll be able to grace Parisian society with your beautiful playing.”

  She could not look at him, could not.

  His voice came quicker. “Our circumstances will be more straitened than I had hoped, but I offer myself, my good name, my protection. I am willing and . . . and happy to . . . to take you and cherish you, Eliza—Miss Moore.”

  Her breath came in short gasps. A trembling had taken hold of her. This was too much.

  Lord Daniel reached down—she had the urge to flee—but his warm fingers took her clenched-together hands into his. They sprang apart at his touch, and she realized she had wrung her hands tightly enough to cause numbness. He lifted her hands and held her chill fingers between his solid ones, strong and steady. She became aware of how cold she was as warmth spread through his touch to her fingers. He was offering himself. A rush of heat flooded her body. She felt unsteady. Her knees might not support her.

  His hands were firm, holding her upright.

  “Would you please consider, Miss Moore, my offer of marriage?”

  “I . . . I,” she stuttered. She was overwhelmed. “I do not know what to say. This is too much, sir. Too much.”

  She looked up into his face, and the kindness in his eyes threatened to undo her.

  It defied logic that he didn’t, but he must not know about the rumors, about her ruin. He would not offer for her if he knew. “You don’t know . . . You can’t know what they have been saying about me.”

  “I do know.”

  Panic flared in her. And mortification. If he knew, why was he doing this? What did he want from her? She tried to tug her hands free of his, but he held firm.

  “Is any of it true?”

  “No!” Her voice came as a strangled gasp. “No, none of it is true. No—I—he—he kissed me, and we were discovered. That is it, that is all. The other things—they are not true.”

  “I believe you.” Conviction was in his eyes. “I don’t believe the rumors.”

  Her eyes widened. How could he be so sure? She searched his face. The sincerity there eased the tension in her. She took a slow breath. “How can you? How can you believe me?”

  “I have a confession of false witness by one man your name has been linked to. It was all a fabrication, and you have been made to suffer. But no more. Marriage to me will protect you from him, and all others.”

  “You do? It will? But that doesn’t matter. I’ve been tried and convicted by the court of gossip! It wouldn’t stop tongues from speaking viciousness. They would just turn it towards you.”

  “And I can take it. I am willing.”

  “We barely know each other. We’re strangers.”

  “We knew each other once.”

  “A passing acquaintance!”

  Something moved over his face—a grimace, a flinch, as if stuck by a blow. A second, and it was gone. “We can rediscover each other, then. And you’ll be safe. I’ll protect you.”

  A sob rose up in her throat, but she caught it, and swallowed it down. Tears pressed against her eyes. “It’s too much.”

  “I’ll let you think—give you time. Would you like time?”

  She nodded, blinking against the threatening tears.

  “Shall I come again tomorrow?”

  She swallowed. “Yes, I thank you. I will consider—” she swallowed. “Consider your kind offer.”

  Chapter 13

  The next day

  Eliza pounded the keys. She had stewed over Lord Daniel Ashton’s proposal all night, not sleeping enough and eating little.

  His eyes haunted her. There was so much gentleness and compassion in them. When had she last seen compassion in the eyes of a young, attractive man?

  She transitioned into softer music, moved tenderly over the pianoforte keyboard.

  Lord Daniel had looked at her with what she could almost mistake as love, though that was preposterous. What had brought this on?

  She wished she had her trunk and could pull out the old portrait he had drawn in chalks and look at it with new eyes. He had stared at her with such intensity back then.

  Had he harbored a tendre for her all these years? Why had he not acted on it? Then it might be dead by now, instead of, apparently, nursed and cherished for years. Was it truly such a bewitching passion that he would throw all sense to the wind and ask her, a fallen, ruined woman, to marry him? Was he actually willing to drag himself down with her?

  He could only have the fickle love of youth: tremulous, based on nothing. It would dissolve in the light of chill morning.

  Lord Daniel might be a fool, but she would not let him destroy himself. She would turn him down. His mad, baseless passion would fade. When his fevered mind was able to calm, he would realize the cannon shot he had dodged, and see clearly the unsuitability of a marriage with one such as her.

  She was safe here at the Magdalen Hospital. She had support and a plan. She needed only sponsorship to travel and set herself up in business. A few months here, and hopefully a benefactor would be acquired for her, and she would be able to leave London forever.

  She took a breath. Yes, she was safe in this fortress of women and the strict Queen Caroline’s patronage.

  The only sensible answer to his proposal was a polite refusal.

  He didn’t know her, she didn’t know him, and she couldn’t allow him to destroy his life by tying himself to her. It flew in the face of all logic and reason.

  She could not allow the taint of her ruin to ruin him as well.

  No, the course of her life was set. She would never marry.

  She would never bear children.

  Unless she married Daniel Ashton. With him, she would have a family, future children. Her fingers almost stilled on the keys, but she forced them to continue with only one stuttered staccato note to mar the composition she played.

  He had such hope in his eyes.

  He was an emotional man, she decided. Her calmer head would save him from himself and his artificially heightened emotions.

  Her world had become ordered here at the Home. She desperately needed an ordered world. This emotional man with his compassion and self-sacrifice had barged in and tried to upend it again.

  Her heart throbbed, and she realized that at some point she had transitioned to playing a folk tune, “The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington.” It was a love song, an old ballad of a stubborn love. Why was she playing this piece?

  One of the girls had been humming it earlier, that was why it was running through her mind and into her fingers.

  Lines from the song intruded into her thoughts.

  “She was coy, and she would not believe that he did love her so.”

  And the final line of the song: “Here she standeth by thy side, and is ready to be thy bride.”

  Her face heated, and she transitioned away from the ballad, and pounded out her frustration with a very fast rendition of Prelude and Fugue No. 2 from Bach’s first book of the Well Tempered Clavier, the turmoil of the beginning of the piece matching the turmoil in her heart. Her blood riled in her veins, and her heart pounded.
She sweated with the discordant uncertainty of the piece.

  This was safe intensity. Controlled emotion, safely residing in the music and not in herself. She was only a conductor, an interpreter, a translator of the emotion, not the originator.

  She heard the door behind her open wider and footsteps enter the room. Lord Daniel was here. She would give him her answer. But the piece was transitioning to its softer end. She did not want to interrupt it and leave it without its conclusion. She continued playing. He and their chaperones could wait.

  “You may leave us.”

  The voice was low, but its familiar tones cut through the music like ice water to her scalp. Lord Crewkerne.

  She gasped, her fingers stumbled, a sour chord clanged from the pianoforte and rang in the too-small room. She leapt up and turned, her heart pounding with terror.

  The Earl of Crewkerne stood inside the room, his eyes on her, a small, satisfied smile stretching his mouth.

  Horror froze her limbs, impeding her ability to breathe.

  “You can go, girl. You are not needed further.”

  What? Eliza’s panicked brain finally registered that Pauline, her one friend, was in the room with them. She stared at Eliza, her eyes wide.

  Lord Crewkerne was trying to rid himself of his escort.

  Eliza shook her head rapidly at Pauline, pleading with her eyes to not leave.

  Her throat was too tight to speak. A strangled “No” was all that she could force to sound.

  “Here, girl. Pauline, was it? A five-pound note for you.” He held a slip of paper money out to her. “Walk out of the room and go about your business. There is much for Miss Moore and I to discuss, and I do not need your services any further.”

  Pauline stared at the bank note. It was likely more money than she’d had in her entire life. Her eyes scattered between the note, Eliza, the earl, and the door, conflict stretching her young face.

  The earl took two steps and grabbed up Pauline’s hand. She jumped at the contact. He placed the note in her palm. “There, my dear. Now, run along.”