A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  “Right,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Of course, you’re right. Don’t know what I was thinking. Thank you for setting me free, for breaking the shackle.” He eyed the door. “I ask only one favor. Will you wait to say anything until we can make the announcement together? We’ll show a united front, as business partners, and admit to being incompatible.”

  Her chin wobbled. Or maybe he was seeing things.

  “Yes, naturally. When do you think would be best to make the announcement?”

  “The betrothal dinner. It’ll be the most public, and both our families will be there to witness the end of it.”

  Her eyes widened. “What betrothal dinner?”

  “Ah. I assumed you knew. My father is coming. He’ll be here next week, any day really. He’s bringing with him my entire family, as well as yours. I think he hoped to press the banns and be present for the ceremony, see this through in case I spoil the match with my rakish ways; you know how men like me can be.” Closing his eyes, he said, “I apologize for that last comment. I don’t wish to say things I don’t mean. If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave of you. But please, let us wait until the dinner. We can announce the end together.”

  He gave her a bow as she nodded in agreement, then fled the house with what dignity he had remaining.

  Chapter 16

  The vicarage was in chaos. The village was in chaos. Abbie was in chaos.

  Mere days later, without notice, her Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Cecil, accompanied by Abbie’s sister Faith and her husband Tom, arrived at the Walsley’s home. Had Percival not warned her, and she then not warned her father, the welcoming reception would have been even more chaotic. Aunt Gertrude had sworn everyone to secrecy. A surprise, she said. A surprise of epic proportions. She wanted the first sighting of her to be waving from the carriage window, part of the earl’s caravan. Imagine, she had said, she riding with an earl and his countess! And had she mentioned—at least five times in the first hour—that she had dined with his eldest son and daughter-in-law, Baron and Baroness Monkworth, on more than one occasion since learning of Abbie’s betrothal?

  Abbie and Leland were the last to know of the visit and the betrothal dinner. Even Prudence and Bonnie had received letters to come and bring the children, for it would be a reunion to remember.

  The vicarage was not small, plenty of room for a vicar, wife, and four young daughters. Not quite enough room for a widower, four grown daughters with three husbands, said vicar’s sister and brother-in-law, and two youngsters, not to mention the baby one of the daughters was carrying, which nearly had a seat at the table with how much attention Prudence required for her needs in this delicate condition. They all fit. Just.

  The noise did not fit. It spilled into the garden and down the road, boisterous chatter and laughter. It was almost enough to guilt Abbie into retracting her decision to cry off. To tell all these people who were so happy to see her happy, or what they thought was her happiness, that the betrothal was at an end was overwhelming. But which was worse, she asked herself on more than one occasion: disappointing them now or living with a mistake for the rest of her life?

  She could not allow herself to give in to her own heart’s yearnings. Her decision had been for the best. She had set him free. There were no trappings, no strings, no shackles. He no longer needed to placate those around them with fictions and fantasies or to overcome his boredom with their country trifles.

  There had been a moment when she had wondered if he were sincere. He mentioned the estate. He spoke of falling in love. Her heart broke to be toyed with, for he could not mean such things; he had not even sounded sincere! He had tossed the declarations in the conversation with a bitter edge to his tone. Why wait to tell her those things in the moment they both realized freedom? If he had been sincere, he would have already proven it somehow, not waited until the moment of rejection to gain the advantage. He had not even denied her charges.

  Percival could never fall for an inexperienced wallflower.

  Or so she had told herself every hour of every day since the moment he walked out of the parlor. Abbie could not bear to think he might have been sincere. She could not bear it. Not after rejecting him.

  “I’m impressed,” Ronald said, looking out to the church spire in the distance. The two stood at the highest point on the property, admiring the valley.

  “Is that a yes, then?” Percival asked, his eyes on his father rather than the view.

  “It’s not a definitive yes until my solicitor studies the paperwork, but the answer is merely my opinion, son. You may do what you like with or without my opinion. Should I agree to your proposal, and from what I see here, I have no reason not to, the money is yours to do with as you like, be it purchase this estate or squander it at the tables.”

  Percival laughed. “I’m not much of a gambler, and you know it.”

  “No, but you understand my point.” Ronald turned in a circle, whistling. “I never would have thought you would hear the call of the land. A city boy through and through is what I thought. It’s modest, but that’s all you need. And it’s a beauty. Now, what’s this about the Core Copse Mill? Planning to sully our good name with industry?”

  “That I am.” He chuckled, knowing his father jested, one of the few aristocrats who would jest about industry. “From what I understand of the accounts—not much, mind—the estate isn’t profitable enough to yield what I would need for an investment, at least not for many years to come, but I hope to change that. With advice from Freddie. With advice from you. After a long talk with Mr. Wynde. I think we can find a way. With enough profit, I can invest in the mill.”

  His father turned to walk back to the estate, his hands clasped behind his back. “If you want it, you’ll have it, son. Never underestimate the abilities of my solicitor and his team. He’ll have the price of the estate reduced, especially with the roof dilapidation you discovered and its long-term vacancy without even a staff to care for it. With a reduction in price, you’ll have more than enough remaining to invest and take your bride on a honeymoon. I assume she’ll want to tour the continent?”

  Before he replied, Percival allowed the news of the investment potential to sink in. Joyous indeed! As good as he was with numbers, there was still much to learn about management.

  “About Miss Walsley…” Percy swallowed, uncertain where to begin or what to say.

  “Either you’re about to tell me that now you’re free of my ultimatum, you don’t wish to marry and have convinced her to cry off, or you’re going to say you’ve already married her and forgot to send me notice.” Ronald’s shoulders shook with his good humor.

  “Neither, you’ll be relieved to know. I was merely going to say that I’d rather us wait until the betrothal dinner to meet her, if that’s acceptable. More pomp in the moment rather than trying to arrange for a meeting beforehand.”

  His father eyed him with skepticism. “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t have sent my card to the vicarage this morning?”

  “Why doesn’t this surprise me?”

  The two re-entered the hall rather than walk around to the courtyard. There remained a few more aspects of the home he wished to show his father, never mind that the man was already pleased with the estate. Percival felt too much pride not to show off his accomplishment.

  The betrothal dinner was only days away. Saturday, to be precise. However brutal of a rejection he received, he was not disheartened. He knew the moment he made the decision to stay in Sidvale that it was all a gamble. Should she not accept his official proposal, he would back away and move forward as a landowner, happy to have found his place in the world and a village he loved, even if that meant seeing her every day of his life as an acquaintance rather than a wife. But it would not be for a lack of trying. He had set everything in motion before her rejection, and he would see it through. This time, his wooing of the vicar’s daughter would
be sincere for there were no shackles, no strings, no trappings. With no other motive than love, she had to be convinced.

  The tying of twine about the manuscript was a monumental moment in Abbie’s life. Yes, it marked the completion of her first novel, but more importantly, it marked her courage to send it to a publisher. The address had been written for Mr. Bradley, who said he had a post-boy chosen for the task. It would go out tomorrow.

  Should this publisher decline, she had a list of others, but this one was her first choice, for he had a reputation for being open to women writers. Several letters of introduction lay in crumpled wads about the table, wasted paper, wasted ink. Her first signature had read Mrs. Button. She had rewritten the entire letter so the signature would read cleanly, and then altered it to Mr. Button, thinking she would gain more favor by posing as a male writer. At last, she took a deep breath, rewrote the letter again, and signed it as Abigail Walsley.

  While work would not begin on her next novel yet, she already knew her plot and characters. Now that Sir Bartholomew’s story had come to a close, she could not stop her mind from whirring with countless others. There was something to be said for the many fantasies she and Percival had weaved, tales that provided a plethora of ideas. Her next story would be of a young girl who disguised herself as a squire to save her family. She was itching to tell that tale. There would not be a Prince Dungheap in this version, but it was too good of a story not to write.

  It seemed too soon to be thinking of what she wanted from the next year, two years, or five, as Percival had put to her once upon a time, but with the betrothal dinner fast approaching and her plans to cry off imminent, she needed a plan, something to encourage her.

  She envisioned herself as a published author, known and loved by readers. Once every year, or at the most every two years, she hoped to publish a new novel.

  The trouble with her vision was she could not stop seeing Percival as part of it. All visions of the future were intrinsically tied to him. Each plot referenced something they had playacted on one of the many walks from the inn to the vicarage or on her charity rounds. And each vision of her writing had her sitting at the desk in Leigh Hall, Percival at her side. Somehow she had to replace those visions with her desk in the vicarage parlor or the table in her room, the chairs about her empty or with her father reading quietly by the hearth. Any day now, Percival would return to London, delayed only by the presence of his family and this dreadful, impending dinner. Try as she might, Abbie could not get him out of her head.

  The knock on her door would have sent the pages of her manuscript flying had they not been tied by twine. Clumsy girl. Thankfully, no spilled inkpots today. Opening the door unleashed a trumpeting of squeals, titters, and guffaws from her family in the parlor below.

  “A letter for you,” her father said, handing her the folded paper. “Join us soon? Your aunt is insisting on pairing off for games, and I’m notably without a partner.”

  Once he reached the landing on the stairs, Abbie closed the door and returned to her table. She turned the paper over in her hands. The only marks were her name scrawled across one side in bold, looping letters, the other side sealed with a wafer. It had not been posted but hand delivered. Unfolding it, she smoothed it out, her eyes first moving to the signature: Mr. Stitch. With an intake of breath, she leaned against the chairback and stared into space, gathering strength.

  Lucy,

  As I understand the situation, the trouble you’ve been having with a certain Mr. R. stems from your uncertainty if his actions and affections are genuine. This is the plight of many young women, so do not feel alone in the struggle. There are rogues who mean ill, as your aunt Mrs. Button will attest. I applaud you for guarding yourself against their charms. The trouble is, my dear Lucy, that should you mistake a sincere young man for a rogue, you will break more than one heart through the rejection.

  Being of a wise vantage point, I thought it prudent to offer a different perspective. You can spot a man in love easily enough. Does he spend as much time with you as possible without motive? Does he focus his attention on you during those times? Does he support your endeavors, goals, and dreams? Does he act in a fashion that plans for a future wherein the two of you might be together? Does he admire you even when your hair is mussed? Does he embrace your family as though they were part of his own? These are only a few of the signs to gauge, but if you answer in the affirmative to these, it could be a sign your young man is sincere. Trapped men, bored men, men who toy with the affections of young women, either do not do any of these or cannot maintain the façade for long.

  I offer my thoughts freely and with no obligation. It is only for you to say if Mr. R. is a rogue or genuine in his affections. A pity it would be, don’t you think, to charge him too soon, especially if his affection runs deep? Think on my words, and perhaps, just perhaps, give Mr. R. a chance to prove himself. Your humble servant,

  Mr. Stitch

  Abigail slumped into the chair. Did he have a motive? Was his father pressuring him? She could not think what he could gain from an alliance with her. This was his moment of freedom. She had offered him every chance to escape the snare. He could return to London with his reputation secure and marry an heiress, a beauty, anyone he wanted, and yet he sent this.

  Folding the paper along its creases, she smoothed it into its original, tidy square. What did it mean? She had no beauty, no dowry, no connections. She was simply Abigail.

  Did she dare hope his words of love had been sincere? Patting the letter, she tugged at her bottom lip, chin quivering, and smiled. Oh, she dared!

  With a loop and flourish, Percival signed the paperwork. The hall and demesne of Leigh were his, for better or worse. The weight of responsibility settled onto his shoulders, a contrary that lifted the burden of dependency and listlessness.

  He looked to his father and solicitor. Both wore stern expressions. The twinkle in his father’s eyes, alone, showed the pride in his son’s decision. The executors of the estate were not as eager to sell as Mr. Wynde had implied. They tossed around words like long-term lease and termed leasehold, as well as impetuous, followed by squabbling over a reduction since the vacancy was to do with an understandable contention between the settlement and the will rather than their choice to let the hall sit unoccupied. His father’s solicitor, and now by right of purchase his own solicitor, put an end to such squabbles.

  A shake of hands around the table sealed the deal. Mr. Percival Randall was a landowner.

  Once in the earl’s carriage, his father said, “Next thing I know, you’ll be running for parliament.”

  Percival howled in laughter. “I’ll leave the politics to you, but I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “Your first action as a man of means?”

  The carriage rocked into motion, moving away from the executors’ law office in Sidbury, on the road for Sidvale, his father’s solicitor following behind in his own conveyance.

  “My first action,” Percival said, a hand on the leather strap as they bumped along the roadway, “is to write the butler in London to arrange for the transport of my possessions. What I wouldn’t give to have my curricle. And my horses. Good heavens—I’ll be able to move out of the inn and sleep in a decent bed at last. I swear my backside has bruises from a month of lumpy stuffing.”

  “Staff would be my first order of business, but what do I know? I’m just an earl.” The smugness of his expression had Percival renewing his humor.

  “Too right. And what do I know? I’m merely a wastrel of a second son, my priorities on carriages and fashion.” This tickled them both into laughter.

  It was good to have his father here. A more loving papa a boy could not ask for, even if Percy did oft avoid family gatherings.

  The humor faded, his father eyeing him. “Now that my ultimatum is void, will you still be marrying Miss Walsley? Pardon my skepticism, but I had not anticipated you
’d choose a vicar’s daughter. I had wondered if it was a ruse.”

  His smile slipped. Percival looked to the barren fields from the carriage window when he said, “I can’t speak for Miss Walsley, Papa, but I’m in love with her. If she’ll have me, I’ll marry her any time on any day.”

  Although he continued to face the window, he could feel his father’s penetrating stare. Not until they turned down the single carriage lane leading to Sidvale center did his father say, “I do believe you are in love, my boy.”

  Abbie accepted the cup of tea from Lady Camforth, moments before her father did the same. They occupied a private parlor in the Dunley manor. To her relief, Lord Dunley’s whereabouts were unknown, and Lady Dunley was with her future daughter-in-law and a modiste to arrange for a bridal gown befitting of a Dunley. Even more relieving was Percival’s absence. He and his father were on an errand, although no one would say what that errand might be or when they might return. She had not yet met his father. Her more pressing concern was avoiding Percival, especially with his family looking on, for she had not seen or spoken to him since the rejection. She wanted to see him, especially after the curious letter, but she did not want the awkwardness of meeting with onlookers or with so much confusion now in her mind.

  Her rejection had been final. And yet she could not stop thinking of the implications of the letter.

  “We’re delighted you’ve called on us, Mr. Walsley, and that we have this opportunity to meet Miss Walsley. My husband is keen to meet you both and will be forever envious that we had the opportunity to do so before him,” Lady Camforth was saying.