A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh

by Carolyn Miller

  In a strange and twisted way, she was almost glad he had not spoken to her, glad she did not have to hear whatever excuses he had offered. Mama’s arrival, like that of an avenging Fury, had seen Caroline’s swift removal, precipitated by her horror at Caroline’s blackened eye. Within the space of two days they had left Saltings, Mama’s disgust at the scandal she blamed Grandmama for leading to a bitter exchange of words.

  Mr. Kirby had apparently called to see her, but had been barred, his interview with Mama all too brief. Mama had scarcely spoken of the matter on the journey home, her outraged sensibilities such that Caroline had little desire to ask and invite further censure on her head. And she was strangely relieved that Mama had scarcely spoken of the matter; it was good to pretend she could put these matters behind her, to pretend she did not care. For though her heart was bleeding, she could not align herself with someone who had admitted he did not love her.

  He did not love her. Her eyes blurred. He did not love her!

  She shook her head at her wretchedness, her shoulders slumping. How could she have let herself succumb to such a pitiful state? She was almost as bad as Cecy! Was she destined to live like poor Emma had been, bound in matrimony to one man while secretly caring for another? Oh, that she could stuff these foolish emotions away, and revert to her former thinking, that marriage was simply an alliance, and that she would be happy with a sense of mutual esteem and a degree of affection. How much easier that would be than this wretched half living she now endured, made worse by society’s demands that she smile as if she had no cares.

  Her heart panged, rebuking her once more for her self-centered thinking. Of course, in comparison to some, she had no real concerns, other than wounded pride and a splintered heart. Such things might recover, much like the angry purple bruising she and poor Mittens had sustained that night, bruising that took weeks to heal. Even now poor Mittens walked with a limp, something the veterinarian had said would likely heal in time. Some things held hope of healing, whereas others …

  “Dear Lord, please heal dear Emma.”

  The prayer fluttered to the ceiling. Of poor Emma Caroline knew only that she still clung to life, though the babe had miscarried. She had heard no further talk, not even in tonight’s ballroom. And she would not be so foolish as to ask questions that would only provoke the curious to gossip about what they did not, could not, know. No. She might not be able to do much for her friend save pray, but Caroline could give Emma the dignity of not speaking of her pain.

  Another, silent prayer for her friend’s well-being rose, followed by renewed resolution to remember her example. Emma’s quiet grace and dignity sustained a greater quality of ladylikeness than one encountered in most ballrooms.

  The sound of the door opening hastened her to brush wet eyes and affix a smile to her lips.

  “Here you are!” Mama’s voice, accompanied by her now familiar troubled look. “Did somebody have the effrontery to say something to you, my dear?”

  “No,” Caroline said. “I just needed a moment to gather my thoughts,” and gather her courage, “which I now have.”

  “I see. Let us return then, shall we?”

  Caroline acquiesced, and together they reentered the ballroom, her mother scanning the vicinity as if searching for any potential suitors.

  “Oh dear,” Mama murmured behind her waving fan. “Here comes that dreadful Lord Snowstrem. Really, he is the most tiresome bore. You would do well to avoid dancing with him if you can escape gracefully. One can be sure that whatever is said to him today will be tittered over in all the clubs tomorrow.”

  “Ah, Miss Hatherleigh.” The fat man bowed, his corsets creaking. “Such a lovely addition to the circle here tonight.”

  “Lord Snowstrem.” She curtsied, forcing her lips to curve. Please God, let him not ask about the past weeks.

  “It must be nice to have opportunity to enjoy oneself with a dance.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “After the incident in Devon, wasn’t it? Rather a terrible time, I gather.”

  She said nothing, her artificial smile growing brittle.

  “Of course, it must have been helpful to have had the assistance of someone like young Carstairs there.”

  Who?

  “I gather he was quite helpful, eh?”

  Again, she had no words. Oh, for her youngest sister’s rapier wit right now!

  “I perceive you are without a partner. May I be so bold as to solicit you for the next dance?”

  Caroline cast a desperate glance at her mother, who seemed similarly struck dumb by the man’s impudence, before another voice lilted, “I’m rather afraid you cannot, dear Buffy, as the young lady is promised to me.”

  Caroline turned gratefully to the newcomer, her mouth falling open foolishly.

  Her savior was none other than Lord Kenmore.

  “Lord Kenmore,” she said, holding out her gloved fingers. “How do you do?”

  He bowed, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. “Please forgive my tardiness,” he said, eyes watchful under smooth brows.

  “Yes, of course,” she managed, glancing at Lord Snowstrem. “Excuse me, but I promised Lord Kenmore this dance long ago.”

  His expression fell, like that of a greedy child whose sweet had been snatched away.

  “That’s correct, my dear. Shall we dance?” Lord Kenmore held out his hand, then drew her firmly into the set just forming.

  “I am surprised to see you in London,” she said, when they finally had a moment to speak.

  “Forgive me, Miss Hatherleigh. My time has not been my own.”

  She would not ask him about Mr. Kirby; she would not! Instead she offered a cool smile. “Thank you for coming to my rescue just now. I could not bear to dance with Lord Snowstrem.”

  “And I could not bear to watch you do so. You must allow me to thank you for agreeing to avert such a spectacle.”

  Her gaze faltered, her step slowed. “You think me a spectacle?”

  “I think”—he murmured in such a low voice she had to peer up at him—“we need to make it look like we are dancing, so we are free to talk about what really is of import.”

  “You mean Emma?” His name she would not speak. “Have you seen her? How is she?”

  He smiled, but drew her into the movements of the dance. “We shall talk as soon as we are not being observed. Be patient.”

  But patience seemed so far away, the dance progression taking an infinitely long time. Yet she knew Lord Kenmore’s words to be prudent; Buffy Snowstrem was not the only person watching them with keen curiosity.

  Eventually they were released to stand at the head of a set, allowing some small time for them to converse. “You have seen her? Where is she?”

  “I have just come from there, and yes, I am happy to report that she is improving slowly,” he said. “And she is safe?”

  “She is very safe. She has no one who wants to harm her.”

  “Thank God,” she said.

  “I do.” His expression sobered. “I am so pleased you are here, and I have opportunity to tell you personally. I know you have been a very good friend to them both.”

  Both? Was this a test to ascertain her feelings about Mr. Kirby? If so, she would not give him the satisfaction. She smoothed her expression to one of polite interest.

  “I see you do not ask about our other friend. I presume Gideon still counts as your friend?” he asked, eyebrows aloft.

  She bit a suddenly wobbling bottom lip as tears rushed to escape. She blinked rapidly.

  “You may be glad to know that he is well.”

  “I’m so glad,” she managed, her gaze dropping to his starched neckcloth. “Truly.”

  But if he was well, why had he not contacted her? Her chest grew tight once more.

  “If you are so insistent on being glad, may I enquire why your countenance appears to state otherwise? Or am I allowed to guess?”

  Her cheeks grew hot. “Please do not tease me, my lord.�
��

  “I beg your pardon.” And the movement of the dance drew them apart once more.

  When next they were together he gazed at her soberly. “It is, however, on his behalf that I attended tonight. I had been all set to refuse the invitation when your estimable family’s name was mentioned among the guests, and I found I did not have it in me to decline such an opportune moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, my dear Miss Hatherleigh, that matters were left in some disarray after Sidmouth, and I have come as an emissary of peace.”

  “My lord, I am tired of hearing nonsense. Won’t you say plainly what you mean?”

  “Very well.”

  But at that moment, the music drew to a close, and they were forced to exchange bow and curtsy, then he was obliged to escort her to her parents where she made the introductions. “Father, Mama, this is Lord Kenmore, an acquaintance—”

  “A friend,” he interjected.

  “—I made whilst staying at Saltings. Lord Kenmore, these are my parents, Lord and Lady Aynsley.”

  She ignored her mother’s narrowed eyes whilst she listened to the men exchange views on various matters of Parliament, before the seemingly more important matter of horseflesh was mentioned, forcing her to bite down her impatience.

  “Miss Hatherleigh, I wonder if you might honor me with a stroll along the terrace. It is a trifle cooler out, and I fear you must be tired from our earlier exertions.”

  She made a suitable reply, and having received Mama’s permission, soon attained the terrace, sipping from a glass of punch that had been liberated from a footman’s tray.

  “Now we can speak more freely,” Lord Kenmore said. “I know it is most unorthodox to speak of such matters, but I have felt for some time that Kirby’s actions after Sidmouth were not as they should have been.”

  She stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He is too punctilious in his reckonings, and did not want you to feel forced into something for which you had no wish.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Then understand this: after being alone with you for that amount of time in the cave, your reputation was compromised and he should have made you an offer.”

  “Which he did, at least through Grandmama.”

  “But he never spoke to you personally, did he?”

  “No.”

  He made an impatient noise, muttered something under his breath. “Such a fool.”

  “Thank you, Lord Kenmore. That is a fact I am made aware of on an hourly basis.”

  “My dear, I don’t mean you. Gideon is the fool.” He shook his head, his lips wry. “You poor thing.”

  His sympathy stung, unleashing frustration to steam through her chest. Yes, she did feel helpless. Once she’d thought she could hunt down Mr. Kirby and ask him his intentions. But now, after his denial of affection … She rather thought even Verity would balk at that!

  He remained silent for a long moment. “Would you care to accept his suit if he spoke to you personally?”

  “I don’t know why this concerns you, sir.”

  “I mean no disrespect. I only speak to you about this as I’m aware of my friend’s despair.”

  Her heart quickened. “He despairs?”

  “Despairs.” He nodded solemnly. “One would think that having discovered such a magnificent specimen of an ichthyosaurus and having helped save his sister’s life, he would not be so utterly wretched, but it appears that is not the case. Apparently he misses his young lady.”

  “His young lady?”

  “Did you not hear Belcher refer to you so? Kirby certainly esteems you in that way.”

  “But he … he denied it to Lord Pratt. He said …” The dreaded tears returned, her voice wobbled. “He said he did not care for me.”

  “And you believed him? Oh, my dear, I assure you such things were said to ensure your safety. If Kirby told me once he told me a hundred times how much he regretted speaking in that way.”

  He had? Tremulous hope lit within.

  “Truly, you have touched him in a way no one else has.”

  “But if that is so, why has he not ever said anything to me?” She strove to lower her voice, conscious it had reached a pitch too high. “If he loved me—”

  “Loves you,” he corrected gently.

  “Then why has he still not said anything?”

  “Because, I fear, he might have thought his chance with you was gone after that awful night with Pratt.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would he think that?”

  He coughed. “I believe he was given to understand not to hope.”

  “Are you suggesting it is my fault he has said nothing?”

  “I’m suggesting he could perhaps do with some encouragement.”

  She placed a hand to her head, her thoughts, emotions, awhirl. What to do? What to do? “I … I do not know what to say.”

  “Shall I perhaps convey your regret at how things ended? Perhaps I could say you still feel a great sense of hurt that he said nothing.”

  “That is all true, I suppose.”

  “Then I have your permission?”

  What would it matter if he knew she was upset? She nodded. “You may trust me to deliver the missive in an appropriate manner and style.”

  “I hope so.” She eyed him doubtfully.

  He laughed. “Your misgivings are without basis, I assure you.” He clasped her hand. “Thank you. You have no idea what a relief it is to know my wife has such a good friend.”

  “Your what?”

  “Oh, did I forget to mention it? Emma and I were married by special license two weeks ago.”

  Her jaw sagged. “Truly?”

  “Truly.” His expression grew gleeful.

  “How abominable you were not to tell me earlier!”

  “It is something of a surprise, I know, and remains something of a secret still—heaven forbid propriety be offended! But we had no desire to put our plans on hold simply because certain societal ladies might believe something had occurred with undue haste.”

  “Propriety can be overrated,” she admitted.

  “Exactly so. No, I saw no sense in waiting, and when Emma was well enough to know her mind, I knew I could not delay asking that question I have longed to these many years.”

  Her eyes blurred, and she managed to say, “I wish you both every happiness.”

  “Thank you.” He grinned, and then his face grew thoughtful. “It seems sometimes God blesses the undeserving with the greatest gifts.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sometimes those gifts might require much patience.”

  She nodded.

  “I trust Emma and I may soon be able to wish you joy also, my dear. Now, let me escort you back to your mother. I fear I have overstayed my time with you, and she will be displeased.” He carried on in this jovial manner for a few minutes more, while her head and her heart spun with the ramifications of what he’d said. “Ah, Lady Aynsley, thank you for allowing me the pleasure of your daughter’s company. I trust I may be able to call upon you in the not-too-distant future?”

  And with a smile to Caroline, and a bow to her mother, he was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Royal Geological Society

  London

  “AND THIS is why I believe …”

  A sense of awe filled him as he gazed out at the sea of faces listening expectantly as he continued the evening’s dissertation about his recent find. The interest had been immense, both in his find and in the story of his entrapment which could have ended tragically.

  He continued speaking, taking questions at the end of the lecture.

  “Mr. Kirby, you talk about how you believe these finds speak to an ancient past. Could you tell us, how do you reconcile this with the creation of the world as recorded in the Bible?”

  Gideon grasped the lectern a little more firmly, and uttered a silent prayer that his words would make sense and honor God. “I believe
man can never hope to fathom all the ways and means of our awesome Creator. We may regard the creation of the world as occurring in seven days in a literal sense or something more metaphorical. Regardless of how God created the world, I do believe it was created by Him, and not just an accident or a collection of random events that somehow formed such intricate unity.”

  More nodding of heads. He felt a moment’s ease within his soul. Encouraged, he continued. “Just think of a babe, and how its very being develops and grows, nearly always into perfection. Science shows us that a child develops from a tiny life within its mother’s womb into something that can one day have rational thought, can feed itself. Can we believe such a process to occur by chance? How can we not consider this a miracle?”

  Amid more head nodding, he felt his spirit clench. How could he have not considered poor Emma’s child a miracle? How could he only see it as being a product of that monster, when in fact it had been his sister’s child also? Had been, in fact, a child created by God? Conviction clanged within for his too condemning words, and too faithless prayers.

  “A child’s growth and birth is, to my mind, evidence of a Master Designer at work, so if the question concerns whether I believe in God, then I do. Do I believe He has created the world? Yes, I do. Do I believe that the world holds evidence that suggests it has changed over time? Again, I do. Do I believe there are mysteries we are still to search out? Yes, indeed.” He eyed the questioner. “And do I believe God created this creature? Yes, I do.”

  A few more questions and then he was released to hand clasps and patted backs. Gideon exhaled, glad to have reached the conclusion of tonight’s proceedings. He met the evening’s organizers, was thanked profusely, and then escorted to the front doors. Minutes later he was in a hackney cab, being driven to Portman Square, as his thoughts wandered freely.

  The opportunity to speak at tonight’s prestigious gathering had been a long-held dream. But he realized now how hollow such a thing was in comparison to other matters.

  The past few weeks had been ones of torture interspersed with moments of joy. Feeling sure he would lose Emma, only to have her miraculously restored. He had not let the doctors leech her after the first days, but he was sure the bloodletting had removed some of the toxins the poison of her child had caused. No, the fact that she had returned to health—well, a version of it at least—was truly one of God’s miracles. Even the doctors agreed.