Heat surged behind her eyes. To admit to such deception to her father was too much.
Her vision blurred. Her throat constricted. But she continued, “I lied to Lord Dunley to escape his proposal. I worried if I declined, his mother would find a way to pressure me and force my hand. So, I lied.”
Abbie took a deep breath and explained the whole of the tale as best she could. Her father made no interruptions, asked no questions, and made no expressions. When she finished her confession, she looked up, meeting his eyes at last.
“I’m the worst of daughters. I understand if you cannot forgive me.”
Leland cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. “I forgave you before you confessed, Abigail. It’s what I do. You’re a strong woman carrying a heavy heart. I hope telling me helps lighten the weight.”
“Aren’t you going to reprimand me?”
“You came here to confess, not to receive punishment. Do I wish you had told me? Yes. Anything else I’m feeling is immaterial. This is about you, Abigail, not me.”
The guilt she had carried was a far greater punishment than any reprimand he could give, but she did not need to say that to know he felt the same. Brushing the dampness from her cheek, she gave him a half-hearted smile.
“This next question,” he said, “is a difficult one. There’s no need to tell me the answer. Think it over and trust your best judgement. What will you say to Percival when you next see him?”
The storm kept Percival and most of the villagers indoors the next day. He did not get to see Abbie or the hall. There was no walk through the village nor companions in the private parlor for the coffeehouse hours. The weather was fierce and inconvenient. For most of the day, he alternated his time between studying estate management from the materials Mr. Wynde sent over and studying textiles from what he could find in the inn’s circulating library. It was not much. But not much was more than Percival had previously read.
How differently would his Oxford days have been had he discovered such studies then? The classes he had taken made no mention of textiles, management, or land ownership, but they had taught him several languages and the best countries in which to use those languages while shopping for new furniture or a mistress. No, that was unfair. He had the very best education, and it had covered a great many subjects. The trouble was, nothing about the offered professions—law, for instance—had interested him. He had been bored and restless.
His studies had not included the running of an estate. Such training was for the heir. His brother, the heir of the Camforth earldom, had private tutors to teach such intricacies. As the spare, Percival should have, or rather could have, been privy to those lessons, but being the hellion he was in his younger days, there had been far more trees to climb and lakes to swim than a single day allowed—who had time to be cooped inside with his brother’s tutors?
His father had been too lenient, too accommodating, and then too distraught over his wife’s death, then too in love with starting a new family with a new wife.
No, Percival could not blame his father. It was his own fault for being a lazy son. But how differently the past decade might have been had his education been taken more seriously, his days more disciplined. And perhaps his actions would have remained the same. It had taken a strange twist and a vicar’s daughter to help him find his way.
Fueled by newfound passion, he poured over the material at his disposal. The rain could almost be said to be a Godsend, forcing him to focus and prepare for his new life.
The following day, Friday, brought yet more storms. The rain and mud did not stop the mail coach. Percival sat in the public room, enjoying a coffee with Mr. Bradley, who was sharing possible baby names since his new son or daughter would arrive any day when the mail arrived with a letter for Percy.
The seal was unmistakable. The Earl of Camforth. Percy nodded to his companion and returned to his suite.
His father had written sooner than expected. It had been only a handful of days since he posted his proposal, a proposal that would nullify the ultimatum and free Percival of his dependence. It would set in motion the beginning of the rest of his life as a landowner and investor. If his father agreed, all allowance would come to an end. If his father agreed, Percy was free to marry whoever and whenever he wished.
Squeezing his eyes closed, he gripped the letter, his breath held, his hopes and dreams dependent on the contents.
With a shaky exhale, he thumbed under the wax and unfolded the paper.
My dearest son,
By the time this reaches you, I’ll be on my way to Sidvale. We’ll talk when I arrive.
Camforth
He blinked.
His father was coming to Sidvale. Ronald Randall, the Earl of Camforth was coming to Sidvale. Percy panicked. Did this mean his father disapproved of his proposal and was coming to talk sense into him? Did he distrust Percival or think he had gone mad? Did he like the proposal but want to see the estate for himself? Or was his coming nothing to do with the estate and all to do with the betrothal, a way to meet the supposed bride?
Then it dawned on him what this entailed.
His father did not travel lightly.
The man would bring a caravan of carriages, along with his wife and two children, and if Percival could place a wager, he would put money on his father’s bringing his eldest son and family along with, in all likelihood, Abbie’s relations from East Hagbourne, for the man would want pomp, fanfare, and a wedding. He would expect the banns to be read his first Sunday in Sidvale.
His father did not travel lightly.
He could be wrong. But he knew he was not. It was imperative to get word to Abbie. Should he tell her about the proposal he put to his father? It would be best to mention something, but he did not want her to be disappointed if his father was declined.
With a flourish of a quill, he jotted her a message that they needed to speak on a matter of urgent importance. He would come to her tomorrow morning at the vicarage, rain or shine.
Percy stared down at his missive, uncertain. It was best to sort their betrothal once and for all before the earl arrived, but it was too soon. What did he have to offer her without the estate in his possession? Promises could be broken.
Nevertheless, they could not go on as they were with the earl coming. Something had to be settled. If he explained his plan, his reason for writing to the earl, maybe, just maybe, she would believe him sincere. Over the past several weeks, he had gone to such lengths to publicly prove his faux affection that convincing her of actual sincerity would be a daunting task. If she would not believe he had fallen in love, just maybe she would believe he had found a new life here in Sidvale, which was the most he could ask for under the circumstances.
In time, anything could happen, even love.
Saturday morning, the rain had lightened considerably. While Percival had not received a response from Abbie about his visiting that morning, he had not expected to. His missive was an announcement of his morning call rather than a solicitation of invitation. He trudged up the muddy road to the vicarage, a dodgy umbrella overhead. His valet had apologized to find it in less than its best condition when unpacked. A steady drip down the back of his neck kept him company on his walk from the inn.
They had far more to discuss than the earl’s visit. Percival had awakened to yet another letter, this one delivered by staff from the Dunley house.
Lord Dunley had written to inform Percival of several points of interest.
The first point of interest was that he would be expecting as guests the Earl and Countess of Camforth with their two children, and Baron and Baroness Monkworth with their three children. A subtle but not impolitely worded invitation was extended for Percy to join them, which Percy could not decline fast enough. Lord Dunley also anticipated the vicar would have lodgings for his out of town relations from East Hagbourne, but the viscount would read
y additional rooms for them in the event the vicarage was too quaint. Percival had chuckled at this since there was nothing small about the vicarage, and undoubtedly, the vicar’s family would much prefer to stay there than the Dunley estate.
The second point of interest was that Camforth had left it in Dunley’s capable hands to arrange a betrothal dinner.
The third and final point of interest was that the betrothal dinner would be a double celebration in honor of Mr. Percival Randall’s engagement to Miss Abigail Walsley alongside his own to Miss Henrietta Clint.
Percival’s eyebrows had risen high on his forehead at the final bit of news. As to which was more shocking, he could not say—the bridal choice being Miss Clint or the engagement of Lord Dunley. One thing was for certain; this marked their freedom from the betrothal. The time had come at last where Abbie was free not to be engaged. The freedom had him grinning from ear to ear. Now they could choose to be engaged. No pretenses, no games, no questioning when or if she would cry off. Now the engagement would be real.
If she would have him.
Heart in his throat, he knocked on the front door. There was no waiting this time, much to his relief since the drip down his back was cold and unpleasant.
Rather than one of the Walsleys, the footman greeted him. “I’m afraid they’re from home, sir.”
Percival stared at the man as though he were daft.
“It’s Mrs. Bradley, sir. The baby’s coming. They both left less than an hour ago.”
“Right. Tell them I came ‘round, eh?”
With little choice, he sloshed his way back to the inn in hopes of dry clothes. So much for his grand plans. Instead, he spent the day hunched over the desk in his suite, resuming his studies.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Rain or shine, he would see Abbie. Tomorrow was the day everything would change.
The curious thing about services that morning was the contradictory expressions worn by Miss Abigail Walsley.
When she thought he was not looking, she frowned. No, frown was not the correct word. It was a frown all right, but such a word did not depict the myriad of emotions he detected. Melancholy, worry, concern, anxiety.
When she caught him looking, her expression transformed. Smile was not the correct word for that expression either. It was forced, and yet it conveyed, or attempted to convey, a message of mutual understanding and mutual happiness, the two in this together, whatever this might reference.
He could not say with confidence what such expressions meant. They did not bode well. She knew about Dunley’s engagement because the first of the banns were read. Whether or not she knew of the impending arrival of her aunt, uncle, sister, and brother-in-law was unknown. Whatever she knew, it had affected her, and he did not like the direction of those expressions as an indication of how it had affected her. Her considering him as a real suitor was precarious to begin with, but those expressions signified a death knell.
Did she feel nothing for him? Was his affection unrequited? Surely not. She had kissed his cheek only days ago, for heaven’s sake! She valued his opinions on her novel. She had dressed with care on more than one occasion. She had enjoyed their kiss in the churchyard, even if he had made an arse of himself afterwards. The affection could not be one-sided.
And yet affection did not mean love or a desire to marry.
He had known he needed more time to woo her, for she was not a woman to fall for flatteries she perceived as false. Now everything was happening before he had his chance. Just a little more time. Just enough to prove his sincerity, to show himself not a man of dreams and lies and false promises but a man of substance, dimension, action. Just a little more time.
Had it not been for her expressions, he would have escorted her back to the vicarage with the grin of a love-struck fool, ready to propose. Or at least ready to propose a future proposal, once the hall had been purchased, once all had been settled. Now, he escorted her in silence, anticipating the end. Where had it all gone wrong?
Today proved a light drizzle only, but enough to warrant an umbrella, even one with a bend and dribble. Percival held the umbrella over them both, Abigail’s hand tucked in the crook of his arm.
“How’s Mrs. Bradley?” he asked as they approached the vicarage.
“Doing well. A little boy. They named him Everitt after his papa. Their sixth child, the fourth boy. He was so very tiny, but the midwife assured he was healthy. Certainly a healthy pair of lungs,” she said with a quiet laugh.
He stood dumbly at the door as she opened it and stepped over the threshold.
“Will you come inside? Papa will be at the church for another half hour at least. We can talk in the parlor.”
As with her expressions, her voice now contradicted. It was low, soft, sad, but she wore a sunny smile, even if it did not meet her eyes.
Devil take it. He had been counting down to this conversation. They were free, and he was about to be freer still if he could convince his father to advance him the money for the estate. Think, man. Think. What can I say to convince her I’m the man for her? His mind blanked. The fact that she was beyond beautiful today did not help him think straight. All he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless.
He followed her to the parlor. Although she took a seat near the hearth, he was too antsy. He propped an arm against the mantel instead, a hand tucked into his waistcoat pocket.
They spoke simultaneously:
“I wrote to my—”
“Now that he’s—”
They stopped, shared an awkward laugh, and then Percy waved for her to go first.
She took a deep breath, not meeting his eyes. “Now that he’s engaged, we can finally be free of this farce. It could have taken longer, so we have Hetty to thank for moving this along. But at last, freedom!” Her laugh was a touch too loud, her smile a touch too wide. “Neither of us wanted this betrothal, so now we may resume life as it was before the disruption. You’ll return to London, naturally, and I’ll return to…well…my life. You must be feeling as relieved as I am. I thought it would never end!”
Percival narrowed his eyes, trying to judge the honesty of her words. Was she saying this because she meant it? Or was she saying this because she thought he would feel that way? There was only one way to find out.
“We most certainly are free,” Percy said, trying to catch her gaze which kept flitting to the floor. “We’re free to make the choices we want to make. You don’t want to end the betrothal, do you?”
She looked up at him, a sharp look, startled look. “What do you—but of course, I do. That’s what we agreed. I’ll cry off publicly so there’s no confusion. I’ll say you chose to live in London, and I refused. It’s believable.”
“No, it’s not,” he argued. “I wrote to my father about Leigh Hall. About purchasing it. I’m dependent on his answer, but I did write to him. I proposed an end to the ultimatum and my dependence. If he fronts me the next two years’ worth of allowance, I can purchase it.”
Every expression he had noted at the church crossed her face before she said, “Write him again and tell him there’s no need. It was a ridiculous notion anyway, and I don’t know why you did it. You’d be miserable as a landowner. Before the first month ended, you’d be back in London. Write to him and tell him you’ve changed your mind, or that you were never serious about it, which we both know you weren’t, or that I’ve cried off so there’s no point anymore.”
He shook his head.
If he could only know whether she was trying to convince herself or him, this would be easier. Had he misread the signs? Devil take it; he believed he had. She had been friendly because they were stuck together, but this whole time, she had no more interest in him than she had in Lord Dunley. Unless she really was trying to convince herself.
He was no more accustomed to begging than he was to being rejected, and yet he could not stop him
self from saying what he said next.
“If I told you I’m in love with you, would that make any difference?”
The moment the words left his lips, he wished he could retract them.
The look of horror on her face told him everything he needed to know. He might as well have told her he ate dogs for breakfast.
“I don’t believe you,” she said at length. “Whether you think you are or are so accustomed to telling women you are, I can’t say, but it’s not possible. I believe you’re a man who tumbles in and out of love faster than I change bonnets. We’ve been thrown together in unusual circumstances, and that’s the whole of it. If you take time to think about it all, you’ll see I’m right. You don’t want Sidvale. You don’t want me. The country would bore you, and so would I. It’s best to end things now as we planned than be stuck together, miserable and unhappy because you developed a passing fondness for a damsel you thought needed saving.”
Percival laughed, a harsh sound that made her flinch. “You’ve defined me from the start, Miss Walsley. You’ve known me better than I’ve known myself. Without your wisdom, I would throw my life away on estates and love. How will I ever get on without you to tell me who I am and what I should do?”
“I can’t speak to the future, but for now, you should take your chance to escape. Be free. Go back to London and live the life you love. You’re not Sir Bartholomew. You’re Mr. Percival Randall, Londoner, rogue extraordinaire. Take this chance while you have it, and don’t look back. You’ll see I’m right. You already know I’m right. I see your relief.”
“What you see, Miss Walsley, is a far cry from relief.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the back of it damp. Getting out of this room was the best course of action. He needed to think. He needed away from her.
In the back of his mind, a voice whispered that she was on the offense, so afraid of rejection or insincerity that she had to attack to save her own vulnerability, to save her own heart from breaking. This was exactly what he thought might happen if he did not woo her, convince her of his sincerity first. But that was only the whispered voice in the back. His rational mind told him he had fallen for the one woman he could never have, perhaps because he knew he could not have her. What a wicked woman was love.
A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 15