Penelope set her jaw. She knew what she would hear next.
“It was innocent at first. We would meet near the docks and just walk. He was so gallant and kind. But eventually, that was not enough. We both wanted more.” She screwed her eyes shut. “We went to his rooms.”
Penelope struggled to steady her voice. “Did he promise to marry you?”
“Yes. When Papa called me to his study, I thought he had come and asked for my hand. But I had been discovered slipping out unaccompanied. He was very angry, and I was terrified he had heard something more.”
“Had he?”
“Yes. And no. He heard I was meeting someone, but nothing beyond that.” She swiped her hand over her cheeks. “He said he would not have any scandal, and to oblige my eagerness for independence, he sent me here alone.” Her next words were stretched and thin. “But he will find out soon enough. My time hasn’t come for two months now.”
“Oh, Clara,” Penelope whispered. She walked to the window, but rather than trees and sky, she saw Papa and the twisted expression on his face when she told him of her child. And how it happened.
“You hate me now,” Clara said.
She strode back to the bed. “No, I most certainly do not. I want to help you. Will you tell me who the father is?”
“Oh, just telling you has been too much.” She covered her face with both hands, and her tears returned with deeper force. “Please, please don’t ask me.”
Penelope couldn’t understand her vehemence. Why wouldn’t she say? Then again, she was already so overwrought—she must try to calm her. Hysterics could not be good for the child.
Eventually, the tears abated, and she took a rough breath. “I cannot tell Papa. I have to get rid of it somehow.”
Penelope gripped her shoulders and forced her to look at her. “No, no, Clara, you mustn’t.”
Her eyes darkened, and she wrenched herself free. “What else can I do?”
Penelope swayed and leaned back on her arm. How well she recalled such raw desperation. Uncle William had persuaded her to reconsider. She used his words now. “I will go with you when you tell your father. And whatever happens, I will help you.”
“You don’t understand. How can you?”
“I do.” Penelope clenched her fists. Only one other time before had she spoken of it. She drew herself up onto the bed close to Clara, who was now staring at her with round eyes. She kept her voice quiet, mindful of the open window. “Five years ago, I met an army officer named Edmund Kern. He seemed everything a young man should be. Gallant. Kind. Handsome. But my father and uncle did not like him. I could not understand why.” She swallowed away the tightness in her throat. “I was willful and young, and Edmund easily convinced me to elope. We would ask for forgiveness later, he said. But it was all a ruse. Once he had me away in the carriage …” Her mouth refused to form the rest of the words, and her voice would not allow her to utter them.
Silence laid a heavy cloak over the room. It seemed even the bird call and the whispers of the wind in the trees were muffled. Until Clara’s voice rent it.
“And there was a child?”
“My uncle arranged for me to have her in a lying-in hospital in London.” She slipped her voice down an octave just to get the final words out. “But she was stillborn.”
They had wanted to wrap her in newsprint and throw her into the Thames. But she hadn’t let them. She had stolen her away, and in the dead of night, her uncle had her buried under the oak tree at the Castle.
Clara’s arms warmed the cold ache in her bones, and they clung to each other. Eventually, Penelope pulled away. “We must decide what is to be done.”
The girl took her hand. “You must give me time. I want to write to the father.”
“But you are so far along already.”
“Please.” Clara gripped her fingers tighter. “I promise not to do anything to the child.”
Penelope relented, against her better judgment. If only she could take her to the cottage hospital and have her checked by Dr. Royston, but that was impossible. There would be too many questions. She knew little about midwifery, but her limited knowledge would have to do. “Then tell me how you’ve been feeling these past weeks. I want to make sure you and the child are well.”
She stayed longer than was necessary, perhaps, but in the end, she had been able to ascertain that Clara’s health was good and advise her on the morning sickness. She had some peppermint tea at Fairview she would bring over the next day. It should settle her stomach enough to enable her to teach by Monday.
Hunger churned her stomach as she walked up to Fairview’s door. She had foolishly skipped luncheon. Afternoon tea would have to sustain her until dinner. The front door popped open as she approached it.
“Where in the blazes have you been?” Hannah stood in the hall and took her cloak, bonnet, and basket like a thief in the night. “I thought you were to be home by luncheon, and here it is nearly teatime.”
“I had an unplanned visit to make.” She started for the kitchen but paused at Hannah’s next words.
“It’s finished.”
That smile on her face. It was far too broad and self-satisfied. “The dress?”
“What else? It’s time you tried it on.”
Penelope drew in a deep breath as Hannah took her by the arm and prodded her up the stairs. She reached out to open the door to the older woman’s room, but Hannah laid her hand over the handle.
“I want you to know I had to take apart more than just the one dress. I hope I didn’t tear apart one you were overly fond of.”
That did alarm her, but not for the reason Hannah feared. At the rare expression of worry on the housekeeper’s face, she sought to reassure her.
“It’s all right. My memories of Mama lie here.” She laid a hand over her heart. “And I think she would be pleased that her dresses were being used instead of gathering dust.”
“She would indeed.” The Cheshire cat grin returned as she turned the knob and let the door swing open. Penelope’s jaw dropped as she saw the gown gracing the dress form in the center of the room.
“Oh. Hannah. What have you done?”
She should be sick with her head spinning at such a rate. First Clara, and now the dress. What would she do? She couldn’t go to Hartsbury clothed in such finery. How could she possibly? And what was to be done about Clara? What would she tell Thomas if the father relented and married her?
A sharp tap of spoon against cup brought her back to the moment. “Do be careful, Thomas. This tea set was Mama’s.”
Yet he still set his cup down with a distinct tap. He thrust the plate of finger sandwiches at her. She stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“What do you mean ‘what’? Clearly something is bothering you.” She waved away the sandwiches. “Has something else occurred with that tenant?”
“Which tenant?”
“The one in Somerset. I thought the matter was settled.”
“It is.” He took two sandwiches for himself but didn’t eat them. “I’m just tired.” She started to suggest he turn in early later this evening when he spoke again. “What about you? You weren’t exactly all here when we sat down.”
“Hannah finished the dress for the ball.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? It’s only a few days away now.”
“Yes, it’s just—” How could she explain this to him? They were close, but there were things he couldn’t understand due to the simple fact he was a man. “It’s nothing.”
He shrugged and picked up a sandwich. “We shouldn’t be going in the first place.”
“We can’t back out now. It would look badly on Lord Turner and the Hall. Especially after all the fuss he made.”
“And we can’t have that, can we?” he muttered.
Penelope’s brow knit together. He really was in a foul mood. She had meant to ask him about the tie pin, and like a coward, she had put it off for the past two evenings already. It had to be
now, or she would never ask. She opened her mouth and blurted out a completely different question. “Have you been able to sketch lately?”
The words had barely left her lips when he whipped the napkin from his lap and threw it on the table. “No, I haven’t.”
He strode over to the window, and she joined him. She started to wrap her hand around the crook of his arm, but he pulled away. He hadn’t been this way in a long time. Not since he’d come home from London years ago. “Please, Thomas. Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help.”
“Help.” His voice sounded odd. “Yes, you are always eager to help.” He ran his fingers through his hair and after a moment seemed almost normal. “I’m sorry, old girl. As I said, I’m tired. I rode and drove quite a lot over the past two days.”
“Where?”
“I visited every farm and cottage the Hall owns for one reason or another today and yesterday.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “And then, all the way to Highclere on Wednesday— which reminds me: Do you have my tie pin? Someone turned it in to the Castle, and Lord Carnarvon sent word that they had it. I put it in that basket Mrs. Lynch returned to you.”
“Of course.” Thank goodness. At least that was one worry she could remove from her ever-growing list. “I’m so sorry. I did find it and meant to give it back to you. I wondered how it had gotten into my basket.”
Thomas’ gaze cooled. “And what form did your wondering take? Did you think I lied about how I lost it?”
“No. I wasn’t sure what to think.”
Ice was warmer than his gaze. “I still have more to do today. I should get going.”
“Thomas, wait.” She pulled him into a hug. “I’m sorry.”
He said nothing, and his face was inscrutable as she watched him leave. That went well. There had been a perfectly reasonable explanation for the tie pin, yet she still managed to make him think she distrusted him.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes. This day had not gone at all as planned. Thank goodness it was nearly at an end. She needed a diversion. A drive perhaps. But she knew exactly where she would end up if she did that. She wouldn’t go to the Castle. Not today. Going tomorrow would be hard enough. Instead, she forced her feet into the study. A book would do the trick. She rarely had time to read anymore.
But on her way to the bookshelf, the letter tray caught her eye. It was mostly estate correspondence for Thomas, but familiar stationery jutted out from beneath the rest. She fished it out and flipped it over to find the seal still intact. A breath escaped she hadn’t realized she was holding. Thomas hadn’t seen it then. He had almost opened last year’s letter. She made for her room and, after locking her door, settled into her window seat.
Dearest Penelope,
I hope this yearly missive finds you well and happy. How have nearly five years passed so quickly? It seems only yesterday we parted ways. How are your brother and uncle? My parents are both well. At least, I am told they are. Sadly, we are still estranged. My sister is well too, though I do not see her as often as I would like since her marriage. She sends her best wishes.
How are you? I find that the passage of time has not muted the pain I felt when they took my child from my arms. They still ache to hold him. I thank the Lord we came to know each other during our confinement. I think I would have burst if I could not have spoken of this to another living soul.
We both lost our children in different ways, but the pain is the same isn’t it? My child may as well be dead too. I do not know to this day who adopted him. You will be pleased to hear I have finally stopped trying to find out. You were right. It is not good for my soul to do so. I do pray he was placed with a good family. And I find that I still must mark the day by walking by the lying-in hospital. It is the closest thing I have to a memorial.
I have pleasant news to impart. I am engaged to be married. He is a good man, a solicitor. I met him while I searched for my son, so he knows about my past mistakes. He does not hold them against me, not in any way. I thank the Lord every day for him, for I know I do not deserve such a man.
I pray all well with you. I look forward to your reply.
Sincerely,
Edna Neale
So Edna was settled. At least one of them would have a happy ending. But who was she to say that? She may not be able to have children and, therefore, would never marry, but she had a happy ending, after a fashion. She had a roof over her head, a brother who loved her, and fulfilling work. The Lord had simply taken the dream she once had of a home and children of her own and exchanged it for another. She was blessed, even if she had some difficulties to deal with. Light and momentary troubles. He would help her work out Clara’s difficulties, and who would remember what she wore to a ball in a year? And wasn’t Thomas always having bouts of melancholy? She would apologize to him. For now, she should take advantage of his absence and write to Edna and congratulate her.
Laying her friend’s letter on her bedside table—it wouldn’t do for Thomas to happen upon it—she went down to the study.
Her mind may have spoken sense, but her heart refused to listen. As she wrote to Edna of Uncle William’s passing and his new heir, she was forced to lay down her pen for a moment and purge Lord Turner’s handsome face from her thoughts the only way she knew how. Handsome faces seldom are. Taking up the pen again, she concluded her letter, but then came another attack, worse than the first. Admirable … I can’t imagine a better person … you are very kind … a soothing manner ... an amazing woman.
Enough! There would be no more of this foolishness. Just as Edna marked the day of her son’s birth by walking by the lying- in hospital, she would mark her daughter’s by visiting her grave. And she would force her heart to realize that a future with Lord Turner—or any other man for that matter—was impossible.
CHAPTER 14
Thomas snapped the ledger shut. “I’m not sure what I’ll be able to find for the man to do.”
“There must be something.” John leaned back in his chair. “What about his wife?”
“Mrs. Fletcher died a few years ago. The man’s health has declined since his son’s accident.” Thomas drew forward. “And Peter needs a great deal of care.”
“Then find someone to help care for him, and I will ask Parker if there is something Mr. Fletcher can do at the Hall.”
“My sister is already seeing to that.”
Of course she was. He should have known. “Good. In the meantime, don’t demand his rent.”
“Very well.” Mr. Fletcher was already a month or so in arrears, but John didn’t care. He couldn’t evict the man over circumstances beyond his control.
He rubbed his eyes. As expected, the dreams had returned. They weren’t as intense as they had been just after the war. But it was still unsettling to be woken in the predawn hours to the sensation of a man beating you to death with his own bloody limb. The limb you had just cut from his body.
“Are you all right?”
John dropped his hand and rose from his seat “I’m fine.”
He glanced back at the mantel clock. It was still early in the day yet. So why had it seemed like their time going over estate matters had dragged on forever? As they walked through the library past the newest stack of medical books he’d prepared for Arthur, he rubbed his fingers against the palms of his hands. They passed into the hall, and John saw Thomas down the steps to his horse.
“Are you and your sister ready for the dance?” he asked as he watched Thomas mount.
“I suppose.” The reply was lukewarm at best.
“I know it was unorthodox of me to insist you go, but you both deserve it.”
“Of course, thank you.” He smiled, but it didn’t seem genuine.
John tried a different tack. “I heard they’re inviting a number of young ladies.”
Thomas arched a brow. “All for your benefit.”
He shrugged. “I can only dance with one at a time. Besides, I have no intention of getting married.”
“Hmm. Maybe
I’ll have a chance after all.”
“Of course you will. And don’t think I won’t give you a raise if you pick one of them.”
“Right.” Thomas chuckled.
Gripping his hand, John bid him a good day, and he rode off.
He didn’t go back inside right away. Instead, he looked up at the gray sky. Too bad it seemed like rain. Going for a ride might make sleep easier. His leg hadn’t really bothered him since those first couple of days. And he hadn’t visited the Castle yet. He wanted to see where Miss Howard had fallen to determine whether any other improvements could be made, aside from those that had been recommended.
Miss Howard.
He strode back to the stack of Arthur’s books. He checked the titles once, twice, three times. But warm blue eyes taunted him, and he leaned against the desk, his arms straddling the stack of books.
Why had he said anything? He should have left. But her question cut so close to the matter, he couldn’t have moved if he wanted to. And not just that. He’d never felt so free to speak with anyone. Even Maggie. Especially Maggie. Talking to her had always been an uphill battle. Half the time, their conversations had ended in a fight or hurt feelings. Miss Howard sensed what he felt and thought without him having to say a word.
With a violent shake of his head, he pushed away from the table. Enough of this stupid schoolyard crush. He had no business comparing her to the woman he’d almost married as if there were some chance with her. He would go for a ride; if it rained, it rained. Anything to purge these foolish thoughts from his mind.
George helped him change into riding clothes and, rather than call for his horse, decided to go to the stables and saddle Fortis himself.
“But my lord,” Arthur said as John pulled a saddle from the tack room. “I can do that for you.”
“I’ve saddled many a horse in my time. I know what I’m doing.” He handed it to him so he could lay a blanket on the stallion’s back. He paused. A little company would go a long way. He took the saddle back. “Go get a horse for yourself. I want you to come with me.”
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