“Much too sudden if you ask me,” his sister mumbled.
“Which is why we did it quietly,” he replied. “I courted Emma for less time than that, and we were very happy for the few years we had together.”
Mrs. Baines gave him a wave of her hand but said nothing.
“Sir James,” John said, “does Arthur still have plans to pursue a career in medicine?”
“I do.”
All eyes turned toward the door where Arthur stood, coat on, hat in hand.
“Where is my niece, Mr. Wilcox?” Mrs. Baines asked.
“My wife hasn’t come down yet, Aunt Dorothea.” Mrs. Baines’ mouth dropped open, but Arthur regarded John with cryptic eyes. “Lord Turner.”
John stepped over to him. “Arthur, I’m glad to see you. I owe you an apology. I behaved very foolishly. And ignorantly. I’m sorry, and I hope we can remain friends and, one day, colleagues.” He held out his hand.
He didn’t take it. Had he pushed him too far? He would understand if he did.
“That is very good of you, Lord Turner.”
The new Mrs. Wilcox entered and took her husband’s arm. She gazed up at him, one brow delicately arched. Arthur’s shoulders slumped, and the groom who had looked at the library with such fascination took John’s hand. “I’m sorry too, sir. There was more than once when I was disrespectful.”
“Not at all,” John replied. He’d deserved it. “Things might not have ended well if it hadn’t been for you. In more ways than you know.” He clapped Arthur on the back. “And congratulations to you both. I assume you are off on your honeymoon. Be prepared to work hard when you return. Dr. Royston and I will not be easy taskmasters.”
“I will, sir—wait. You and Dr. Royston?”
The young couple held such similar expressions of wonderment John gave a small laugh. “Yes. Both of us.”
“You have my word, sir.” Arthur threatened to shake his arm off.
“I hope you will allow me to help, Lord Turner,” Sir James chimed in.
“Of course.”
“All very touching to be sure.” Mrs. Baines scowled. “But it would not be wise, James, to have too close a connection with this man.”
She handed him the letter. John clenched his jaw. How much deeper would she attempt to dig her talons?
Sir James frowned as he read it. “You will remain silent about this, Dorothea. I won’t have our name connected to a scandal.”
“But James, this woman should not be caring for those in Woodley.”
He ignored her outburst. “I have written to Charles. He is willing to accept his share of the responsibility as our brother in supporting you and is expecting you in York.”
Without another word, Mrs. Baines rose and left the room, pausing only to embrace her bewildered niece and nod to her new nephew.
Her brother looked after her. “Miss Howard has done a great deal for the Hall and Woodley. I want that good work to continue. And I’ve certainly made my own mistakes.” He handed the letter to John.
He took it, tension seeping from his neck and chest. Sir James would be an ally then. Good. He reminded him of Robert in many ways. “Thank you.”
“We must be off, Papa, or we will miss our train.” Mrs. Wilcox released Arthur long enough to embrace her father.
John and Sir James escorted them to the door and watched as they made their way down the steps.
Arthur paused at the bottom. “Lord Turner, that day at the Castle when you found the stone marker. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it. I wasn’t to tell. Ever.”
“Don’t let it concern you. I understand.” John joined him. “I think you already realize how hard being a doctor can be. I’m glad you do because I didn’t, and I nearly destroyed myself. Grace is powerful medicine. Dispense it generously.”
They shook hands before Arthur climbed into the carriage with his new wife.
Sir James invited him to take tea with him, a request John felt he could not refuse in light of the man’s promised discretion. But as soon as politeness allowed, he made his way back to Ashford Hall, albeit slowly this time. His leg protested all the riding and standing he’d done today. He paused on the drive and gazed at his inheritance. The Hall had never looked more inviting, the way it glowed in the light of the setting sun.
The library was dimly lit. And empty. He expected to find Penelope curled up in his chair by the fire, perhaps reading Jane Eyre. But the fire was cold, and the oil lamp was turned low, throwing off half-hearted light. He pulled the bell and found her favorite book while he waited. In all likelihood, she was checking on Miss Bromley. He allowed the tome to fall open in his hands and skimmed a few lines. Would he be able to persuade her to read to him before she left? No, she was sure to be tired. He’d read to her.
Parker entered.
“Where is Miss Howard?” John asked.
“Mrs. Lynch told me she went home, my lord,” he replied. “She said she mentioned having a matter to deal with at Fairview.”
“Oh, of course.” If only things hadn’t taken so long at Hartsbury. No matter. He would see her tomorrow. And every tomorrow after that. His chest warmed at the thought. “Go to bed, Parker. It will be a big day tomorrow.”
Both brow and voice rose as he spoke. “Very good, my lord.”
Parker had just reached the green baize door when he called out to John. “A message came to you from London, sir. George has it.”
“Thank you, Parker. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
John climbed the stairs, still clutching Jane Eyre. He’d read a chapter or two before he went to sleep. How those blue eyes of hers would warm when he began to talk about it tomorrow. He hoped the message Parker mentioned wasn’t urgent. Who could have sent it? Mr. Smith concerning some unexpected paper he needed to sign? He didn’t know anyone else in London—he stopped at the top of the stairs. Reason told him he shouldn’t jump to conclusions, but his heart urged his feet to stride toward his room as quickly as possible.
CHAPTER 31
The morning dawned crisp and bright. If only Penelope’s mood could match it. Her evening had been spent unpleasantly. Ridding her brother’s studio of the filth he’d painted, not only of Clara, but other women as well, had unsettled her stomach enough that she declined the food Hannah had offered. She refused to allow the housekeeper or Fanny to help her. They didn’t deserve to see what, had Mrs. Lynch been less giving, would have surely ruined them all. It was fortunate his studio had a hearth large enough to allow fire to devour his indiscretions. Sleep had eluded her at first, and she worked far into the night, putting the rest of his supplies and the few landscapes he had painted in a large crate. By the time she finally slipped down to her room, there was little to indicate the studio had ever been an artist’s haven.
Thomas had left no note. The only thing that indicated he was indeed gone was the absence of his clothes and his leather sketchbook. She could only pray nothing within its pages were as damning as what had been in his studio.
After breakfast, she sat at his desk in the study. Mrs. Lynch had given her the ledger when she urged her to return to Fairview yesterday evening. By midday, she had partially sorted out the mess he had made of the Hall’s accounts. It seemed he had not been embezzling for very long, only since their uncle passed when he received Fairview alone as his inheritance. But he’d been clever enough to steal a great deal of money in a short amount of time. Money she could only assume he had taken with him.
She rested her head in her hands. Lord Turner hadn’t sent for her. Mrs. Lynch told her she was sure he would first thing in the morning. And after what had transpired between them in the library …
She drew in a shaky breath. A moment later, her mouth went dry, and she raced up the stairs. Stealing from the Hall might not have been the only crime her brother had committed. A search of her bedside table left her hands shaking uncontrollably. Edna’s letter was gone.
She sank on her bed. He knew. No wonder he’
d been summoned to Hartsbury. Thomas had given Edna’s letter to Mrs. Baines. It was the only explanation.
“Miss Penny?” Fanny called from the doorway. “You’re needed at the Hall.”
Only death itself was quieter than Ashford Hall. The fresh flowers which always stood on the front hall tables were gone. Through its open door she saw sheets covered every stick of furniture in the library. He was leaving? Of course. He knew about her now. Why would he want to stay?
But instead of the library she was escorted downstairs. Why would he want to see her in the servant’s hall? Because that’s all she was to him now. Joseph led her to Mrs. Lynch’s sitting room where the housekeeper sat at her desk and perused a letter with a sour expression. Penelope’s chest tightened. Was it Edna’s letter? Had Thomas really been that cruel? Where was Lord Turner?
Mrs. Lynch stood, laying the note aside, and grasped Penelope’s hands.
“Good afternoon, my dear.” Her tone was soft, almost too kind. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“He’s leaving, Mrs. Lynch. I can see that.” Her voice felt thin, and she cleared her throat.
“Actually, he left last night, not long after he returned from Hartsbury. I understand he went to London.” She pulled a letter from her pocket. “I’m supposed to give this to you.”
Edna’s letter. She took it and slipped it into her reticule.
“I understand.” She understood she had failed him. His memory of her would be forever tainted. While hers of him would be purer than driven snow. In her heart, despite everything, he was the most honorable man she’d ever known.
“About Miss Bromley. Is she up to being moved? I don’t mean to sound unfeeling, but I must close the house.” The housekeeper’s words scratched like a stiff broom.
“Of course. I shall take her to Fairview. Is it possible to borrow Ellen and the use of a coach?”
A short time later, Penelope was following one of the Hall’s coaches home. From inside her heart, she watched a shade of herself going through the motions of life. Settling Clara in her mother’s room, assuring Ellen she could visit whenever she liked, taking dinner with Hannah and Fanny, even completing the task of cleaning up the Hall’s ledgers. It wasn’t until the most silent, darkest watch of the night that she allowed her grief and regrets to well up and overflow onto her pillow.
The first thing that worried her was who would take her brother’s place. But it seemed Lord Turner had already taken that into account. The bailiff from Somerset, Mr. Hale, arrived at Fairview’s door in short order, and Penelope and Hannah spent two days taking him around to meet the tenants. He did not stay with them, of course. Arrangements had been made for him to room at the pub in Woodley, as he would be going back and forth between here and Somerset. The ambiguous story that Mr. Howard was gone for a time was not questioned. What she would say when the magistrate came to call she couldn’t imagine.
Except he didn’t come.
“He must not have contacted him,” Clara said as they sat in the parlor. It had been more than a week since Lord Turner left. She was up and about, and her thickening middle showed she still carried her child.
“He should have come by now to ask questions, to see if I know where he went.” Penelope flipped through the pages of a book absentmindedly before shutting it with a snap.
“Is it possible he called at the Hall and found out what he needed from Parker or Mrs. Lynch?”
“I suppose.” Penelope rose and placed the book back on the shelf. “I shall call there tomorrow and find out.”
Clara nodded and regarded the fire. It snapped and popped as it ate away at a large log. “In the meantime, what are we to do about me? As big as I’m getting, I can’t return to teaching.”
“I know.”
“Ellen told me her grandmother was a midwife.” Clara fingered the fabric of the blanket lying across her lap. “She lives in a small village outside Hull and has told Ellen she would be happy have me live with her. She knows and understands my situation.”
“Hull is a long way away.”
“I know, but it will be for the best.”
Penelope gave her hand a squeeze and settled back down in her chair. While Clara resumed her knitting, Penelope laid her mother’s Bible out on her knees. It was time she rallied.
But the passage in John did not speak to her as it once did. It seemed so ordinary, so everyday. She flipped to Romans.
And we know that all things work together for good …
But where was the good in all this? Thomas had been found out and was no longer stealing from the Hall. Clara had found a safe haven. Ashford was being well cared for, judging by the tenants’ comments to her. Those were all good things to be certain, and she had no doubt God’s hand was in them. But with regard to her, His goodness seemed to have dissolved.
No, that wasn’t true, and she knew it. She just couldn’t see where He was leading her.
Penelope had every intention of driving straight past the ruins on her way to the Hall the next day. But before she realized it, she took the lane to the Castle.
Her heart spun in two different directions. She longed to see her angel. And yet she couldn’t bear the thought of being in the same place where she had been with Lord Turner. But something— her angel, most likely—coaxed her from the cart and to the base of the Angel Tree.
She swept the grass from the marker as she usually did and, pulling off her bonnet, settled down next to the tree, anchoring her shoulder against the trunk.
In her mind, a five-year-old little sprite played with the early oak leaves which had fallen from the tree. She smiled as she watched her gather them up and then throw them in the air for the wind to catch. For a split second, she could almost catch the scent of her hair and the music of her laughter. A gust of wind scattered the leaves and the image.
Her gaze drifted to the entrance to the cellar. It had been her angel’s birthday. Lord Turner had quoted Longfellow, and she had told him she loved Jane Eyre.
Where was it that Rochester declared himself to Jane? Under a tree? How ironic. Here she sat, under a tree, where she and the man she loved had promised to forget about what they felt for one another.
That kiss.
She rose. It was time she returned.
“Where are you going?”
She started. Just her imagination. She’d imagined her angel. Now him. Letting out a humorless laugh she answered as Jane had. “To Ireland.”
“Then the cord that connects me to you will snap, and I will take to bleeding inwardly.” Lord Turner stepped out from the other side of the tree. “I think that’s how it goes.”
No. It couldn’t be him. Another gust of wind would blow him far away. But the next moment his arms were around her, burying her into his chest. Searing heat and bitter cold shot through to her very core, and she shook. She lifted her head. “What are you doing here?”
He lowered his forehead to hers. “I came for you.”
“Why? You left.” Her voice hitched. “They told you about me, and you left.”
“If you mean Sir James and Mrs. Baines, they didn’t tell me. Mrs. Baines tried to, but I already knew. I overheard what you told Clara. I know, and it doesn’t matter.”
If she hadn’t been in his arms, her knees would have certainly given out. He’d heard? “But you left.”
“An old friend of mine, Dr. Robert Matthews, is in London with his wife. Sarah fell ill and he sent for me. I was the only doctor he trusted with her care.”
“But Mrs. Lynch said—”
His voice darkened. “Mrs. Lynch lied to both of us. And she destroyed the messages I left for both you and Parker. This whole time she was covering for Thomas while he went to London to withdraw the money he stole.”
“Why? He used her just as he used Clara.”
“I wish I knew. It’s possible Thomas was holding something over her head.”
“I went over the ledger. He has a great deal of your money.”
“No, he
doesn’t. While we were in London, George was out running an errand for me and spotted him. He’s in prison waiting for his trial. And Parker told me Mrs. Lynch suddenly left the Hall last night. She must have heard somehow.” He drew her closer still. “It’s over, Penelope. There’s nothing to stop me from making you my wife.”
She shook her head, tried to push away, but he held her fast. He shouldn’t want her. Not if he knew what she was and what she could never give him.
“Penelope, trust me, there isn’t.”
“But there is.” She pounded her fists against his chest. She couldn’t let him do this. “If you heard what I told Clara, then you know there is. My lord, you can’t marry a woman who cannot give you an heir.”
“John. My name. Is John.”
Her lips parted, but words refused to come. They fled at the passion in his face, his arms, his very being. He didn’t care. She was all that mattered. Her soul trembled and she buried her head in his chest. It was too much. Nearly everything her heart had dreamed could not possibly be in her arms at this moment. He lifted her chin and brushed her lips with a light and agonizingly brief kiss.
“Penelope, say it. Say you’ll marry me. And use my name.”
“Yes, John,” she murmured.
EPILOGUE
One year later...
John wasn’t surprised when his wife slipped away while he met with the new estate agent. He knew exactly where she’d gone. She’d wanted to stop on their way back to the Hall yesterday, but their train had been delayed and it was too dark by the time they arrived in Woodley. He watched her through the library window as she rode off. He would follow as soon as he could. The meeting was brief. He had been careful to stay in touch as they toured Athens, then Rome, and then during their stay in a remote villa in Tuscany.
As he saw the agent out, Clara walked into the entry hall. The man’s eyes sparked with interest, and Clara twisted her fingers together when he introduced them. But she kept her face impassive, her manner reserved as she had whenever she had been introduced as Penelope’s lady’s maid in the past year. They escorted him out the door to the front steps and watched from there as he mounted his horse.
A Perfect Weakness Page 24