by Allison Lane
“Heavens, indeed.” He laughed. The side panel was carved in lurid relief, depicting a man – identified as Farmer Parrot – being struck down by a flail. “God’s reward for working on Sunday,” he quoted the inscription. “I wonder who paid to produce so expensive an object lesson.”
“Undoubtedly the local squire – who was probably a devout Puritan,” she added after squinting to make out the date. “1645. I suspect he was one of Cromwell’s fanatics. I doubt you’ll find a more interesting inscription than that.”
“True. I’ve never seen anything so blatantly moralistic.”
“This side holds more details,” she said, moving around the end. “He plowed, sowed, and harvested on Sundays, as well as threshed, forsaking obeisance to his heavenly Father.”
“Appalling.” He was grinning.
“Given such insupportable disdain, the church itself might have commissioned this tomb.” She giggled.
“Perhaps. How could they condone such heresy?” He drew in a breath. “Miss Vale, please allow me to—”
Again she interrupted. “Here is a newer monument.” She ran one hand over an unadorned pyramid.
“John Bryan, stonemason,” he read, even as he cursed his cowardice. The man’s father, Joseph, was buried under an exquisitely sculptured headstone. Other examples by the same hand stood nearby, including an ornate stone honoring fellow mason Thomas Hamlett. “Beautiful. I’ll wager these were John’s work. What an artist. How sad that his successor lacked his talent.”
“I suppose he considered it unlucky to carve his own stone in advance. Death is too final, so contemplating it casts a pall over life that can diminish even our greatest triumphs. Who will care once we are gone?” She shook her head over the pyramid, then headed toward the street. “We should start back. Those clouds will bring rain before much longer. And despite his protestations, you know that Mr. Linden needs his rest.”
The sun had indeed moved behind storm clouds. He toyed for one brief moment with the idea of dragging her inside and forcing her to listen.
Yet his hand remained at his side. The words that might have stopped her froze in his throat.
Again he had failed.
He was a fool. Many times a fool. He deserved every curse his father had ever uttered.
But as he silently handed her into the carriage, a bolt of lightning rent the sky, illuminating the darkest reaches of his heart. His hand trembled, for he was more stupid than he’d thought, dooming them all. Contemplating death was not the only way to tarnish life.
He did not join Miss Vale’s banter with Jon. Instead, he cursed long and hard. And futilely.
Chapter Twelve
Tony turned his tired horse toward Vale House, plodding along the lane at only a fraction of the speed at which he’d left four hours earlier.
His head had been swirling since he’d admitted defeat yesterday. Even before that bolt of lightning cleared the cobwebs from his mind, he’d known he could never wed Miss Vale. He didn’t love her. He could rarely tolerate her company for more than a few minutes before shifting his attention elsewhere. When she’d left the churchyard, relief had buckled his knees.
The ride back to Vale House had been interminable, adding a layer of guilt to his other woes. Jon had clearly overexerted himself, falling into a doze before they’d covered a mile. Miss Vale had given up after failing in her third attempt to draw him into conversation. But his attention was focused inward. The excursion had been a disaster all around.
Jon had stumbled off to bed, with orders to remain there until morning. Miss Merideth had not returned by dinner. Though Miss Vale shrugged, making light of it, she was clearly anxious.
So was he, fearing an accident, an encounter with a highwayman, or some other calamity. Not until she arrived home at nearly midnight had he relaxed. But he’d not spoken to her. First he had to decide what to do.
His first reaction, while returning from Painswick, had been to leave, to abandon his shameful conduct, to abandon Linden Park and everything that went with it. The advantage was that Miss Vale would never know of his deceit. But such a course was cowardly – even more cowardly than hiding his identity to begin with.
His reputation had never seriously bothered him because he knew it was a lie. At heart he was an honorable man who had never harmed anyone but himself.
But turning tail to avoid embarrassment was inexcusable. No gentleman would consider it. So he must face the mess he had created. The question was how.
“Start at the beginning,” he urged himself for at least the hundredth time.
What is the point? You’ve been over every fact.
“True.”
The first rays of dawn illuminated an oak, its burnished leaves blazing like Miss Merideth’s hair. Yesterday’s lightning had awakened him to a truth he’d been trying to ignore since their embrace: She had become the most important person in his life – more vital than Jon, more precious than his mother, more deserving than himself.
He stopped at a crossroads, peering at the faded signpost as he tried to remember which lane led to Vale House. His life was at a similar crossroads. It was time to change directions.
He turned right.
If he hadn’t been so stubbornly arrogant, he would have recognized the truth sooner. I always keep my word. He’d said that only two days ago. Well, this was one vow he must break.
Stupidity didn’t begin to explain his blindness. He should have realized the truth the day they’d climbed the cliff. Or during those evenings they’d spent in exhilarating debate. Or any of the thousand times lust had distracted him from digging.
Or the last time she had pulled Jon aside, leaving him free to court Miss Vale. He’d paid little attention to his own conversation as his eyes strayed to her corner, his ears straining to hear every word. Keeping Jon under control, he’d told himself, but it had been a lie. He rarely fretted when Jon was entertaining Miss Vale. It was Miss Merideth who drew his eye. He’d begrudged his cousin every smile, every laugh, every twinkle of her warm brown eyes. Her delight had sliced a knife into his heart.
It still did.
He wanted her with an intensity he had not known was possible. He needed her to ease the ache she had ignited with that fevered kiss. And that need surpassed the physical. She stimulated his mind as well as his body, fulfilling dreams he had never put into words. He could be himself with her.
Be himself…
He shifted in the saddle. Was she really that different? Perhaps she was only responding to his own unusual openness.
He only knew three people well enough that he could relax in their presence. Yet he was not fully honest with any of them. His mother knew nothing of Torwell, and he hesitated discussing his frustration, his reputation, or his father with her, knowing that it would add to the burden she already carried. Jon was so innocent that he often censored tales to keep from shocking him. Simms listened to any complaint, but he never forgot his place, so friendship was impossible.
Now he had found a fourth in Miss Merideth. Despite his masquerade, he felt free with her. And he had not played a role in days, for they discussed only antiquity while on the site. Torwell was his natural role. When he was digging, he forgot that he was anyone else. For the first time, he’d been able to discuss his excavations. Of course he would revel in it.
It is more than that, countered his conscience, even as pain stabbed his heart.
True. She was more than a colleague willing to debate theories. He could never forget that mouthwatering figure, or the way her eyes sparkled with excitement, or the eagerness with which she had returned his kisses, or…
Go ahead and say it.
“All right! I love her.”
It was the first time he had put it into words, though his conscience had known it since yesterday. But he could no longer deny the truth. He loved her. That was why he had failed with Miss Vale. He could never offer for her, knowing that he loved another.
Maybe Jon would be willing to t
ake her. She might even prefer Jon. Her solicitude over his illness went beyond the duty of even the most conscientious hostess. But he would not suggest such a match. And he would never count on Jon to care for his parents.
He could not in good conscience walk away from them. They were family. Since fate had left them in worse circumstances than him, they were his responsibility, so he must offer them a home. This disaster might even shame Linden into keeping his mouth shut. Not that it mattered. Somehow they would work out an amicable arrangement. But it would strain his budget to the limit.
Which meant he might not be able to offer for Miss Merideth. Providing for her would be tricky at best. He hated nipfarthings, but he would have little choice but to become one. Buying an estate would use up his investments and encumber him with a mortgage. The estate income must cover living expenses, mortgage payments, and the cost of whatever excavations he found time to pursue – once the world learned his identity, he had no guarantee that anyone would support his digs. Another disastrous harvest like the one just concluded could cost him everything.
Turning through the Vale House gates, he examined the problem from all sides. Buying his own estate was the only sane path. Renting a house that would accommodate his parents, his wife, and any children they produced, would require more than his current income, forcing him to dip into the principal. That would soon exhaust his resources, so he had to have a property that produced income. The one he had been considering in Somerset would provide digging sites for at least the first year, but then he would have to spend months in other locations if he wished to pursue the one activity he truly loved. And that would cost money.
So he would become a nipfarthing. To win Miss Merideth’s hand, he would do whatever was necessary and pray that she could accept it. She was the woman he had dreamed of, someone who complemented every part of his life.
The next problem was finding her. Leaving Orpheus with a footman – he didn’t want to explain to the groom why he’d taken a horse out in the middle of the night – he headed for breakfast.
She was avoiding him. That sudden trip to Stroud had been a clear case of running away. It hadn’t been planned, and Miss Vale had made no mention of an emergency. So it must be his fault.
He hoped their embrace had awakened similar feelings, but he could not be sure. Perhaps their passion had frightened her. Or maybe she thought he was trying to seduce her. Companions were often targets of lecherous guests. And considering the sort of men Sir Winton befriended, she had undoubtedly been approached before.
The problem couldn’t be his identity. She had no way of knowing he’d considered her ineligible until now. Vicars often chose companions as wives.
Whatever her reasons, he had to see her. He would explain everything – including his identity – then hope she would accept his proposal. Pray that she would accept it. She’d decried deceit more than once.
He didn’t miss the irony of having planned the same approach with Miss Vale only yesterday. But the stakes were much higher today. He was putting everything on the table, including his heart and his soul. He didn’t know what he would do if she refused. The very thought froze something inside.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door of the dining room. She was seated in her usual chair. But the eyes she raised flashed with fury. Crumpling the letter she’d been reading, she rose.
* * * *
Jon awoke before dawn, as he often did. Pulling on his clothes, he headed for the library, where he could read until the others were up. But this time he didn’t escape unnoticed. He nearly ran down Miss Vale when he turned a corner.
“You are up early.” He felt his face flush. Though he had all but abandoned the role of rake, he still managed to embarrass himself. Why had he mentioned her sleep habits? Or uttered yesterday’s horrid remark about sinking a barge of pins.
“As are you,” she said in that sweet, calm voice he was enjoying far too much. “Are you recovered today?”
He nodded. “Thanks to your excellent care. Are you going down for breakfast?”
“In a few minutes. I need to check the music room first. We’ve a new maid in training.”
“No housekeeper?” Another stupid remark, he realized, kicking himself. He’d seen no sign of one in a fortnight of living under this roof.
“Sir—Father sees no reason to employ one when A—Merideth and I can both work.”
Jon let the observation pass, but he had a sudden urge to adjust Sir Winton’s attitude – by force. “If you don’t mind, I will accompany you.”
“Not at all.” She smiled warmly, reminding him of her pleasure at yesterday’s outing.
“Did you enjoy our excursion to Painswick?” he asked, offering his arm. She limped less with help.
“Very much. I had not realized how beautiful this area is. My only regret is that we did not postpone it a day, so you could have enjoyed it more. I feared you would suffer a relapse.”
“Not at all. Sitting in the drawing room would have left me just as weary. Besides, today is colder. But tell me about the church.” Since she treated him exactly the same, Tony must have postponed his confession yet again. Avoiding unpleasant duties was so unlike his cousin, he was beginning to think that some other force was at work. Had Tony realized that Miss Vale deserved better than a marriage of convenience?
He was entertaining a strong desire to wring the Honorable Anthony Linden’s neck. Every new delay made the situation worse. By now, truth was so entangled with lies that he doubted they could straighten out the mess without hurting both ladies.
Miss Vale laughed. “We never got inside. Mr. Torwell wished to see the churchyard. That is another reason I wish we had waited until today, for you would have loved it. One tomb had an elaborate carving that showed God smiting down the sinner who dared to work on Sunday.”
“Was he struck by lightning?”
“No, he was hit in the head by a flail.” After running a hand over the top of the harpsichord, she inspected the edges of the carpet for hidden dirt.
“A flail?”
“If the carving is accurate, he smote his own temple while threshing grain.”
He chuckled. “Possible, but quite odd. Did you see the church?”
“No.” She turned away to straighten several piles of music that didn’t need straightening. “I was concerned about your illness, so once we’d explored the churchyard, I demanded that we return.” The back of her neck turned red. “I owe him an apology, for it was quite bad of me, particularly after he expressed an interest in the church. I do hope he doesn’t think me rude. I really did enjoy the outing. It was kind of him to suggest it.”
“But typical, for he knew you would welcome it. He has always reached out to help others.” Making the praise sound sincere was difficult, for he remained irritated with the man.
But you owe him so much.
Memory drove his anger away. He had arrived at Linden Park at age ten, alone, still in shock from his parents’ deaths, hardly able to string two words together without blubbering like a girl. Many boys would have resented having a cousin thrust into their home, especially a cousin who monopolized everyone’s attention for months. Yet Tony had welcomed him, willingly sharing his possessions and his heart. That selflessness had done even more than Aunt Mary’s love to pull him out of his grief.
It was a gift he could never truly repay, though he had tried. He’d often pleaded Tony’s case with Lord Linden, and he’d made sure the tenants and villagers knew Tony’s true character. He’d even ignored Tony’s wishes by revealing who had paid to repair the church roof, to provide pensions for three old servants, to send a village boy to school so he could win a post in the solicitor’s office…
“I suppose that is why he chose to enter the church,” said Miss Vale, jerking him from his memories.
“Chur—” He recalled himself in time to change the words to, “Yes, it was an ideal career.” She did not seem to notice the strain in his voice.
“
I wish all vicars were so kind. Our local one ignores the parishioners, and the one who replaced Father was cruel, tossing me out on the street without even asking if I had a place to stay.”
“What an awful—” He stopped as her words registered. “Father?”
“Dear me, I must be babbling again.” Her face had flushed crimson.
“Who are you?” His heart pounded.
“Miss Vale.”
“The truth.”
Her shoulders slumped. Limping closer, she faced him, though her blue eyes revealed the courage it took to do so. “Miss Sarah Vale. Please don’t hate Alex, sir. It was only supposed to last a day or two, but she has been so excited about working with Mr. Torwell, that she keeps putting off ending it.”
“What do you mean by it?” He couldn’t be hearing right. But his head was already cataloguing the evidence that should have told him the truth days ago – the stumbles whenever she mentioned her supposed father, Sir Winton’s disdain for her foot, the portrait that must be Miss Merideth herself. He cursed himself for not realizing that the clothes in that picture were barely ten years out of date.
Her face grew even redder, though he had not thought it possible. “You must know your r-reputation, sir. Alex was appalled at what Sir Winton had done to your family. She never wanted to wed anyone, but when she discovered that there was no way to return your property, she knew that marriage was the only way out. But she feared your reputation. When you turned up so unexpectedly, she thought you meant to force her, so she asked me to exchange identities with her until she discovered if she could tolerate you – even a man of your reputation would think twice before seducing a cripple.”
“Stop this!” he ordered, furious that she would demean herself so badly.
“I know you are angry, sir, but I beg you. Don’t blame Alex. I could have talked her out of it, but it did seem to make sense. And she never expected it to last past a day. But she was so thrilled to meet Mr. Torwell that she lost her head, postponing her confession for another day, then another. She’s learned so much from him – not that it excuses her deceit. I’ve begged and begged her to end it, but she’s as stubborn as a mule at times. Now I’ve let her down. How can I face her?”