A Well-Trained Lady (Seasons of Change Book 4)

by Jess Heileman

  “My parents never grew to love one another.”

  I took Ruth’s hand in mine. Though I could not say as much, nor that Augustus had been my informant, I understood her plight more than she knew.

  Sarah stepped to my other side, handing me the last of the ribbons she had gathered. “So there is no hope of you becoming my sister?”

  My heart nearly broke. “If not sisters, then we shall always be dear friends.”

  She gave a small smile. “Do all ladies have to sacrifice love for a suitable match?”

  Unwilling to be the bearer of the news I had discovered—that even when love was present in the beginning it soon faded—I hesitated. “I suppose there are some who fall in love with their equal, though that seems to be more the exception. But there are nearly always tradeoffs if someone chooses love.”

  Ruth swayed back and forth, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Uncle Richard and Aunt Marina married for love.”

  “And how did her parents react?”

  “They cut her off,” Sarah said in a near whisper. “They never spoke to her again. And until they both died, Aunt Susan was forced to do likewise.”

  The room fell silent as the realization settled in. Life was not so romantic as the novels depicted, and I hated that it had to be me who told them so. At least I could take comfort in knowing I had not completely annihilated their hope in love. That realization would come in time and from their own experiences.

  Ruth released a quick breath. “I often wonder what would have happened if my mother would have disobeyed my grandparents and refused my father. Or if the gentleman she had loved had not jilted her.”

  I attempted to not appear startled by her declaration. “Do you know who it was—that jilted her, I mean?”

  “No. I only know that Father used to say”—Ruth’s gaze turned distant, as though she were trying to recall the words with exactness—“that he would not have married my mother had he known he was getting another man’s unwanted scraps.”

  My hand shot to my mouth, covering it. “That is a horrible thing to say.”

  Ruth gave a nod, her eyes blinking vacantly. “If only that were the worst of it.”

  “He treated her that way often, then?”

  Ruth scrunched up her nose. “I’m not sure I have the most accurate perception, being as I was not yet eleven when they died. But I remember when Father got in one of his moods, Mother would send me out of doors or to the nursery, and I knew I was not to return until she or my nursemaid fetched me.”

  My heart broke as I thought of young Ruth being my near shadow all those years. Had that been part of the reason? “Why did you never speak of it to me?”

  Ruth shrugged, the corner of her lips turned downward. “I suppose I didn’t know it was something worth mentioning. And it wasn’t as though he was always there, nor was he always like that. Sometimes my father was very kind. Especially when we had guests, or when Augi would come to stay. Father always had a high regard for Augi.” Ruth smiled, as though her words had conjured some pleasant memory. “It was quite fortunate that Aunt Marina and Uncle Henry thought to send Augi to go to school in Bath so that he could stay with us during his time off.”

  It seemed Augustus had been Mrs. Seton’s saving grace. At least until the end. “Was your father in one of his moods … that day?” I scanned her face to determine if I had taken my inquiry too far.

  “The day they died, you mean?” Ruth thought a moment. “No. Not that I recall. He had just returned to Blacksley the day before, and Augi was there for the week’s end. Father and Augi had gone shooting that morning, and when they returned, we all ate luncheon together.” Ruth squinted, as though recalling the memory took effort. “Mother then asked Augi to take me out fishing so we could have fresh trout for supper—Father’s favorite. And Father was in a generous enough mood that he lent Augi his new pole.”

  That certainly didn’t sound like the actions of a man planning to commit such an unspeakable crime. But I held my tongue.

  Ruth reached forward to take a short piece of ribbon from my basket and began running it through her fingers mindlessly. “By the time we returned with our catch, my parents were already dead. The whole house was in commotion as they tried to figure out what had happened and what to do.” Ruth fixed her gaze on the ribbon. “And that was when Augustus brought me to Fellerton to be with you.” She lifted her eyes to mine, tears glinting in them.

  I put an arm around her, leaning my forehead against her temple. “I am so sorry for it all, Ruth,” I whispered.

  She gave a weak smile. “It was so long ago that I often feel as though I’m relaying someone else’s story and not my own.” She paused, drawing in a shaky breath. “Sometimes I wish I knew what had happened, though I’m not certain I could bear it. It is probably for the best I shall never know.”

  Sarah moved to Ruth’s side, and Ruth reached out to grasp her hand. The three of us stood together for some time, the combination of the silence and my churning thoughts crushing down upon me. I needed to break free from the sorrow, and I wanted to bring Ruth and Sarah up with me. “I shared a kiss with Augustus … a long time ago.”

  They both turned to face me, their brows lifting to frame their widened eyes. My diversion was working, for them as well as for me, and I hoped I would not later regret my admission. “It was not long before you left Bath, Ruth,” I said, sending her an apologetic smile. “And I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t certain what to make of it myself.”

  Ruth pinned me with an expectant stare. “Well you know what to make of it now, so you must not leave out even a detail.”

  I laughed, and the simple act lifted me further out of the darkness. “Do you recall the time you were abed for those two weeks?”

  Ruth’s cheery expression faltered ever so slightly, and I paused. “Go on,” she said, nodding her encouragement.

  “Well, despite the impropriety of it, Augustus and I met in the woods as often as occasion would permit, which so happened to be very often, him being on a school holiday and my mother away visiting her sister until near the end of it. One afternoon he was teasing me mercilessly regarding my fondness for William Morris.”

  Ruth’s face cheered again, and she laughed.

  “Who is William Morris?” Sarah asked me.

  “The son of one of our tenant farmers. Augustus had been writing me love letters and allowing me to believe they came from him.”

  Sarah giggled. “That does sound like something Augustus would do.”

  “Yes, well, it worked—at least somewhat. I did not fancy myself in love with William, but I admit the thought of being in love intrigued me greatly at the time. And William was quite handsome, was he not, Ruth?”

  Ruth bobbed her head up and down in agreement.

  “So, what happened?” Sarah asked.

  “Well, during this particular afternoon together, he would not stop bombarding me about my feelings for William. Asking me what I thought of his letters, and if I would ever consider marrying a pig man’s son.” A smile crept onto my lips at the memory. “His persistence drove me to near madness, and I finally marched right up to him and told him that the only reason he cared was because he was jealous of William. That he was obviously besotted with me but was too much of a coward to tell me so.”

  Ruth covered her mouth. “That was exceptionally bold of you.”

  “I don’t know what it is about Augustus, but he is the only one who can provoke me in such a way—get me to behave so out of character.” I paused, recalling the scene in my memory as I had done so many times. “But once it was said, he did not deny it. We just stood there staring at one another, uncertain what to do next.” I shook my head, amused at our clumsy attempt at first love. “Then, without warning, he pulled me in and kissed me.” Warmth settled in my cheeks. “It was perfect. Full of light and hope.”

  Ruth evaluated me with a creased brow. “And that was the only time?”

  “Yes.” I lowered m
y gaze. “The next time Augustus came to Blacksley …” The words caught in my throat. “Well, that was the day your parents died.”

  “Well, perhaps it may not be your last.”

  I dropped my shoulders, looking between Ruth and Sarah’s hopeful glances. “I fear with him it must be. But I shall always think fondly of our time in the woods. And his kiss.”

  Both ladies released an audible sigh, and I couldn’t be certain that I did not join them without meaning to.

  The days crawled by as we awaited Augustus’s return, and though I refused to admit to myself how desperately I missed him, my lessons were growing lackluster and laborious as a consequence of his continued absence. The most promising part of our week was visiting the modiste and having two gowns commissioned for Ruth—one in ivory silk and the other of gold colored tulle over white satin.

  In a desperate attempt to keep my thoughts from dwelling on Augustus, I encouraged Mrs. Brundage to extend an invitation for the Whitmores to join us for the evening despite the improperly late notice. Yet dinner, with its false smiles and polite chatter, was hardly the relief I had hoped for, and when we entered the drawing room, I was exhausted.

  Mr. Treynor stepped in behind me, and I smiled at him. “I do hope you are not put out by being the only gentleman among us this evening. I fear I had not thought of the consequence of our offer when I encouraged Mrs. Brundage to extend the invitation.”

  “I consider myself fortunate to represent my sex amongst such a charming group of women.”

  “Speaking of charming women,” I said, lifting my chin in Ruth’s direction. “Does Ruth not look stunning in that color? Lilac is most becoming on her.”

  Mr. Treynor followed my line of sight. “I daresay you are right. Lilac suits her perfectly.”

  “She mentioned that she was eager to speak with you. Something about Arabian horses.”

  His face colored to its familiar shade of red. “Is that so?”

  “It seems you have inspired her. She has spent countless hours reading about thoroughbreds these past few days, and I’m certain she has many questions.” I refrained from mentioning it was at my recommendation that she did so.

  His regard moved to Ruth again, a look of determination on his face. “If you would excuse me then, Miss Godwin.”

  “Of course.” I watched Ruth’s face brighten as Mr. Treynor approached her.

  “They would make a lovely match.” Miss Whitmore stepped to my side, her consideration on the delighted couple.

  I nodded in agreement. “But whatever the outcome, it is good to see Ruth gain confidence in her abilities. She has so very much to offer, but unlike most ladies I’m acquainted with, she does not realize it.” I kept my gaze on Ruth. “I believe it’s part of her charm. What say you?”

  Miss Whitmore paused and tilted her head to the side. “I find her modesty most endearing, and it is quite apparent my cousin believes it to be as well.”

  We both laughed, and, in that moment, I wondered if Miss Whitmore and I could be friends—real, authentic friends—unlike the friends I kept in Town.

  “I heard what you are doing for Ruth and Sarah,” Miss Whitmore said with a kind smile. “It is good of you.”

  Not trusting myself to ask how she had known of it, I simply gave a nod of acceptance.

  “Has Augustus sent word about when he is likely to return from Bath?”

  I whipped my head to her. “Bath? Did he not go to London to aid his brother?”

  There was uncertainty evident in her features. “Forgive me. I thought he would have …” Her words halted. “Perhaps it was I who was too bold for inquiring after his destination.”

  I stared, unable to conceal my shock. “You spoke with him before he left?”

  She nodded ever so slowly. “He stopped at Safford Park on his way out.”

  My heart sank at her confirmation. Augustus had gone to see her before leaving? I was tempted to ask her what his purpose had been, but I knew that was not my place. And in truth, I wasn’t certain I wished to know. “I suppose he did not want to mention the details of his trip with Ruth present,” I said, more for myself than Miss Whitmore.

  “He is very cautious when it comes to her. And rightfully so.” Her eyes settled on Ruth, and she released a quick breath. “I cannot fathom the suffering the dear girl must have endured to lose both parents, especially in the manner in which she lost them.”

  I gave a vacant nod of agreement. It did not come as a surprise that Miss Whitmore should know of Ruth’s past; they were all dear friends, after all. Yet understanding why Augustus would take her into his confidence did little to ease my vexation at the image it conjured—the two of them alone together, speaking of such private matters. Had she cried as I had? Had he comforted her as he did me?

  I looked again to Miss Whitmore, and it was then that I realized that despite any hopes of a friendship between us, we could never truly be close. Not when we desired the very same thing. I, too, desired Augustus. My heart hammered inside at the realization, and I glanced about, desperate for a diversion. “I believe Mrs. Brundage had hoped we both would agree to perform on the pianoforte this evening. Perhaps we should go see if that is still her wish?”

  Miss Whitmore’s brow creased together, but she gave a slow nod. “Very well.”

  “That does sound most pleasant,” Mrs. Brundage said when I reminded her of the notion, and our group made for the music room. The small rectangular shape of the space made for a cozy atmosphere, and, at Mrs. Brundage’s direction, I performed first at the pianoforte.

  Miss Whitmore followed with a lovely piece she played to near perfection and, because Ruth insisted she played very ill and Sarah was not among us, I performed yet again, this time singing as well. The group offered their polite applause when I finished, and I moved back to my seat.

  “That was absolutely lovely, Miss Godwin.” Mrs. Brundage stood, her hands cupped before her. She looked to Miss Whitmore. “Would you care to delight us a second time, Candace, or shall we reconvene in the drawing room?”

  “I have no intention of playing again, unless Ruth wishes for me to accompany her.” Miss Whitmore smiled and looked to Mr. Treynor. “She has the voice of an angel.”

  Ruth’s blush was apparent even in the dim light. Could she truly sing as well as Miss Whitmore proclaimed? And if so, how had I not known of it?

  Ruth shook her head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t really know many songs.”

  “Then why don’t you sing the song your mother used to sing to you?” Mrs. Brundage said. “It doesn’t require the pianoforte, and you know it well enough.”

  Ruth bit at her lip.

  “I would love to hear it,” Mr. Treynor said, offering her the most influential form of encouragement a girl could receive.

  She looked to me, and I nodded.

  “Very well.” Ruth stood, crossing her wrists in front of her and intertwining her fingers. “Mother sang this song to me each night before bed. And though I will attempt to do it justice, my own voice is not equal to hers.” Ruth closed her eyes and drew in a quivering breath. Then, ever so quietly, a pure note sounded, stilling me. More followed, and her voice flowed through the melody with little effort, creating a sad tune.

  Love is a rose bud, my dear one

  Love is a rose bud when it’s found

  Lost in the frost or burnt in the sun

  Hold it tight while it’s around

  Her expression grew distant as she sang, and I wondered what image she conjured in her mind as her rich alto voice enveloped us. Was it her mother she visualized?

  Love is a rose branch, my dear girl

  Love is a rose branch when it’s yours

  But ever growin’ thorn and burl

  When held too tightly, blood and sores

  Love is a rose heart, little love

  Love is a rose heart buried deep

  Though all barren from above

  Still alive it e’er will keep

  Even when
the last notes of her song had faded, I could not remove my eyes from her. She had presented us a piece of her soul, and in some way, I felt it revealed a piece of my own. I had already learned love could be lost, and when it was, the pain was excruciating. Yet the warmth that engulfed me affirmed that real love did not die; it was simply waiting to grow anew. But was I willing to risk the loss and the pain all over again?

  Applause echoed through the small space, and I pulled myself from my thoughts in time to see Ruth curtsy.

  Mr. Treynor clapped most exuberantly. “An angel, indeed.”

  “Thank you.” Ruth smiled at him, then glanced at me.

  I tipped my head to the side, my heart swelling so much I nearly wept right there in front of everyone. “You are exceptional.”

  There was complete contentment on her face when her eyes darted behind me. “Augustus! You’re home!”

  It was as if a weight lifted from me so suddenly, when I spun in my seat to see him, I nearly tossed myself from the chair.

  Augustus gave me a quick smile, before looking back at Ruth. “I am. And that was the perfect welcome.”

  Ruth hurried toward him and wrapped her arms around his waist, a gesture he eagerly greeted. “What took you so long? We expected you sooner.”

  He pulled out of her embrace enough to look her in the eyes. “We shall talk later. Yes?” Ruth nodded, and he looked out at the rest of us. “Are there to be more performances, or have I just made the last?”

  Mrs. Brundage stood, walking toward Augustus. “The last, I’m afraid. Unless you prefer to offer us a song, dear?”