Miss Wilton's Waltz

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “You know your way around a stable.”

  “I am horribly self-sufficient, I’m afraid. We did a great deal of the care when I was growing up.” She wondered where Miss Keighly and Catherine were but did not want to ask. The pleasantness of the afternoon still lingered about her, persuading her to allow him to stay, even though she should dismiss him.

  Mr. Asher took the blanket from her, and she reached around him for the currycomb. She started with a light touch, but when Miss Devonshire made no protest, she increased the pressure, moving the comb in small circles as she moved across the horse’s flank. Mr. Asher remained in place, watching her. It did not make her feel as uncomfortable as she thought it ought to.

  “I am glad you came out with us today, Miss Wilton.”

  She glanced at him before focusing on her work again. “I am glad I came as well.”

  “I do hope that we can be friends and that . . . I hope that you know I am trying to do the best-right that I can within the circumstances.”

  She looked at him, her hand stilling. “Best-right?”

  He nodded. “If doing the right thing were black and white, it would be a far simpler choice, but it seems I have put myself in the middle of a gray area that proves difficult to navigate. But I am trying, and it is important to me that you know that—or for me to say it, at least.”

  “I believe it is right for people to honor their commitments.”

  “Yes, I know that you do.” He kicked at the ground at his feet.

  “You do not agree?”

  Mr. Asher put his hands in the pockets of his coat and rocked back slightly on his heels, an unexpected hardness or maybe frustration showing in the lines around his eyes. “I know you will interpret my answer as further evidence against my character, but I believe each person should be committed to their own happiness.”

  Lenora was immediately uncomfortable and went back to currying Miss Devonshire. “I’m sure Miss Keighly will make you happy, Mr. Asher. Was that not your expectation at the time of your proposal?”

  “Certainly I believed that once,” he said, nodding thoughtfully but looking at the ground. “And then I found someone who could make me happy now and later, but she will not have me, and so I must settle for the second choice—the best-right.”

  Second choice. The words reminded Lenora of how she’d felt as Evan Glenside’s second choice, and then learning she was Mr. Asher’s second choice as well. And yet, he was saying that wasn’t the case, that Lenora was his first choice, if she would allow him to make it, which she could not. She could not risk the life she felt she was holding on to by a thread on the words of a man she could not trust. She heard him step toward her, and she looked up, certain her contrasting emotions showed on her face.

  “Do not worry for me, Miss Wilton. I will make the best of my marriage to Miss Keighly, and I am certain we shall find accord. She is a good woman—I have never said otherwise—and is willing to take me and my situation with Catherine as is.”

  He was close enough to reach out and touch her face as he had once before, close enough that one step would bring them near enough to kiss. She had been the one to step forward for their first kiss. She was the one who had gone up on her toes. It would not be difficult to repeat it, and she sensed that he wanted her to, just as the traitorous parts of her own body and mind wanted to comply with that wish. But back then, she had not known he was engaged. It had been a mistake, but not a sin. To kiss him again, now, with full understanding, she would have no defense. And it would unravel what she knew she must do, which was forget everything he’d made her feel.

  They stared at one another across the short distance between them. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, and it was as if she could hear the soft movements of the river behind her. “In my heart, I believe you and I would have found far more happiness together than I ever shall with her.”

  He held her eyes, which she could not move away from his face, then turned to the stable door and left her to her solitude. She faced the horse again, who shifted impatiently. Lenora began the circles again, slower than before, her mind elsewhere.

  Lenora was reading aloud on Friday afternoon while Catherine followed along in her own copy of the book of nursery rhymes when she looked up to see Jacobson standing in the doorway of the second-level parlor. Lenora glanced at the clock. Was it three o’clock already?

  “Mr. Asher awaits you downstairs, Miss Catherine,” Jacobson said.

  His name shot a shiver through Lenora’s chest, transporting her back to the stables, the last time she’d seen him, when he had confessed his love to her . . . again. She’d relived that moment a hundred times, sometimes disbelieving it had happened and reminding herself what a fool she would be to trust his words. Other times believing everything he’d said to be sincere and genuine. Why had she not confessed her own feelings? Why could she not admit her heart and have faith in his?

  Because he was engaged to Miss Keighly, of course.

  Catherine sprang from her chair, her eyes dancing as she closed the book and tossed it on her chair. Mr. Asher had sent his standard two letters that morning, and Lenora had tossed the one to be opened if Catherine had received warnings into the fire. His plan of rewarding her behavior was working very well. The letter Catherine had earned had simply said that he had a surprise in store and would meet her in Aunt Gwen’s drawing room at three o’clock.

  Catherine was hoping for a set of paints, as she had decided she wanted to be a watercolorist after Lenora had shown her some of the paintings her sister Cassie had done; they’d arrived yesterday by post and sparked a bit more homesickness. Lenora did not tell Catherine that her uncle had no idea of her newfound passion and therefore would not know she wanted paints.

  “Where do the books go, Catherine?” Lenora called out when the girl was halfway across the room.

  Catherine stopped but dropped her shoulders with a dramatic sigh. “But it’s Friday!”

  “And I can still give you a warning for not taking proper care of the book, which still needs to be shelved even on a Friday.”

  Catherine groaned but returned to her chair and picked up the book. She crossed to the bookshelves and put it where it belonged, or at least on the same shelf. Lenora nodded that it was good enough. “I shall see you Monday, Catherine. Enjoy the weekend.”

  “Are you not coming to see my reward? It could be downstairs this very minute.”

  “I was not invited, Catherine.”

  Catherine frowned, and Lenora hurried to remedy what might have sounded like a complaint. “Which is just as well because I have some music to copy before I return it to Mrs. Grovesford tomorrow morning. You should not keep your uncle waiting. I shall see you next week and look forward to hearing all about your reward. I am very proud of your behavior this week.”

  Catherine seemed to consider arguing, but then nodded and left the room.

  Lenora shelved her book and gathered up papers from the desk. Once there was no evidence of the school day, she retrieved the sheet music Mrs. Grovesford had loaned her and the crisp parchment she’d purchased upon which to copy. She’d used the last of her lesser-quality paper copying the school’s sheets. She had sent the music sheets back to Mrs. Henry last week, along with a note of apology for keeping them so long and for causing such difficulty for the school. Mrs. Henry had not written back, though Lenora hadn’t expected she would.

  This finer paper was an extravagance for a woman with such modest income, but not nearly as dear as purchasing printed music sheets. It was a blessing that musicians with better-lined pockets than her own were generous. Lenora was trimming her pen when she heard the pianoforte from the first-level parlor.

  Aunt Gwen was out, so it must be Catherine playing, and yet the song was not one she had ever played for Lenora. Catherine’s repertoire was rather small and limited to common pieces. Lenora put the pen back
in the stock and walked to the doorway to listen, then to the top of the stairs, and finally down the hallway until she could peek through the doorway of parlor. She could not see the pianoforte, but she could see the green-striped skirt of the dress Catherine had worn that day. She was sitting in one of the chairs rather than at the pianoforte.

  Miss Keighly, Lenora told herself, the realization crushing her curiosity. Miss Keighly had once said she was accomplished on both the harp and the pianoforte and must have decided to perform.

  Lenora turned back to the second level, not interested in staying for the rest of the piece she did not recognize and mildly offended on behalf of her aunt that the woman had taken liberty with her parlor and her pianoforte without permission—though she was sure Aunt Gwen would not mind. Neither would Lenora if it were not Miss Keighly who had taken the liberty. Lenora rolled her eyes at her own pettiness.

  As she made her retreat, Lenora wondered if Miss Keighly’s playing was Catherine’s reward for the week. If it were, she did not want to overhear Catherine’s protest, though a small and wicked part of her took some inappropriate satisfaction in it.

  Lenora was at the top of the stairs when the playing stopped, and two sets of hands applauded the performance. “Uncle Aiden, that was lovely. I had no idea you could play so well!”

  Lenora stopped. Uncle Aiden?

  “I’ve had little opportunity to play for some time, but I told you I could play and felt it was time I proved it. The Bath Hotel allowed me to use their pianoforte to practice.”

  Catherine laughed. “We should play the duet Miss Wilton and I learned! Do you remember I told you about it? Could you play her part, do you think? I could ask her for the sheet music. She has an entire collection, you know.”

  “I’m afraid I do not read music, Catherine.”

  “Then she can teach you the part as she taught me mine!”

  Everything went silent.

  There was a feminine clearing of the throat, and then Miss Keighly’s voice spoke, “Perhaps another time. We’ve tickets to a musicale tonight as your weekly reward and shall need to be ready in two hours’ time. Your uncle has rented a carriage so that we do not need to walk.”

  “That is my surprise?”

  The petulant tone reminded Lenora that she was eavesdropping. She did not wait to hear the reprimand Miss Keighly would deliver, which Catherine deserved for being ungracious, and returned to the schoolroom parlor, where she closed the door so that she would not be tempted to overhear anything else.

  It was good that the three of them were going to be a family, she told herself. Catherine needed a firm hand and Miss Keighly was that.

  “It is what you wanted,” she said out loud, but the lump in her throat was difficult to swallow as she turned her attention back to the sheet music waiting for her to copy. The copy must be perfect, nothing scratched out or vague in its transcription. It took meticulous attention and focus, which is why Lenora never attempted the work when Catherine was there.

  An hour passed before Lenora decided to take a break. Her hand was beginning to cramp, but she had made her way through a perfect copy of the first half of the piece. It would be lovely to have this piece in her collection. Catherine would not be ready for it yet, but it was a fun Irish jig the girl would likely enjoy once she improved enough.

  Lenora took the completed sheets to the downstairs sitting room so she could play them through, but regarded the pianoforte with a bit of trepidation from the doorway. The last person to play the instrument had been Mr. Asher, which gave it an aura of intimacy. It is just an instrument, she told herself as she forced herself across the room and settled on the piano stool.

  She went to put her copied sheets on the music rack, only to see a stack of sheets already there and held together with a gilded clip. Carefully, she set aside her copied sheets and picked up the unfamiliar papers—printed music by Schubert, one of her favorite modern composers. The song was unfamiliar to her, and she quickly turned to the last page to see that the year of composition was 1817, which meant this was brand-new music. Perhaps the very first public printing of it available for purchase, which sent an invigorated shiver through her chest.

  Then she noticed her name printed in the upper corner. A slower perusal of the pages showed “Lenora Wilton” written on every page, which marked these sheets as her own. The hand that had written her name was the same from the letters she and Mr. Asher had exchanged.

  Lenora blinked back the tears, wishing she could disregard or dislike such a thoughtful gift. But she couldn’t. She removed the clip and spread out the music before settling her hands on the keys. It only took a few measures to realize that it was the same song Mr. Asher had been playing earlier, but since he did not read music, and it was a new composition, he must have had someone help him learn it. Miss Keighly, perhaps?

  She thought back to the sound of his playing, wishing they were in such a place that she could compliment his skill—she’d known very few men who were so proficient and now better understood his support of Catherine learning to read notes. Lenora would have to write a thank you letter, but as the idea made her stomach feel tight, she pushed it aside and let herself simply explore the notes and measures for now.

  Aiden returned Catherine to the terrace house on Monday, more than a week after the horseback ride. He did not go inside for fear he would see Lenora. The less he saw of her after having confessed himself again—and too openly—the better. He could only hope that in time he would not want to see her, wish to see her, plan his day according to the possibility that he might see her.

  He walked through the drizzly morning to the White Hart to collect Miss Keighly, whom he escorted to the Pump Room each morning. She had melded into Bath society as easily as butter on hot bread. He admired her ability to make friends and feel comfortable in a new environment, and yet he did not enjoy the sociality as much as she did. Though it did mean he was becoming accustomed to her company.

  The hope he’d had that Catherine might give Miss Keighly reason to cry off had not come to fruition. She handled Catherine’s misbehaviors with grace and acceptance, and Catherine was becoming more compliant in the process. It was exactly what Aiden had hoped would happen when he’d made his offer to Miss Keighly. He should be pleased. But instead, he was resigned.

  He had said everything he could say that day in the stables, and Lenora had remained unaffected. At church yesterday, he’d seen her across the yard but had not approached her. At one point, he thought that he and Lenora had caught one another’s eye, but Catherine had pulled on his sleeve just then, and the moment had broken, leaving him unsure if he’d imagined it or not.

  He hoped she’d enjoyed the sheet music he’d left for her on Friday—a reward for her patience and excellent teaching of his niece. He could push all his personal feelings for Lenora aside and would still feel overwhelming gratitude for what she was doing for Catherine. The success and security he’d tried so hard to find for Catherine seemed to have been achieved, and yet he was unsatisfied with how his future would now move forward.

  “Good morning, Miss Keighly,” Aiden said when she descended the stairs of the White Hart to the foyer. As always, she was perfectly coiffed and dressed and presented.

  “Good morning, Mr. Asher,” she said as she slid her delicate hand around his elbow. “I do hope you brought an umbrella.”

  “Of course,” he said, waving toward the door where he had stored his large black umbrella, big enough for four people if necessary.

  “Very good,” she said.

  They made small talk on their way to the Pump Room. “I expect to receive our contract from my solicitor this afternoon,” Miss Keighly said as they walked across the Pultney Bridge to the east side of Bath. “I shall look it over and then give it to you, if you’re agreeable.”

  Looking at the water of the river beneath them drew him to other memories, which
he pushed away. “Certainly,” Aiden said, though his stomach tightened.

  “We should talk about a date for the wedding, now that the paperwork is nearly in order,” Miss Keighly said, nodding to one of her new acquaintances as they passed. “I was thinking January would be well enough, perhaps the twentieth.”

  “So soon,” Aiden said, his mouth going dry in an instant.

  “It is nearly three months from now, and will be just over a year since our engagement.”

  Unofficial engagement, he wanted to say, although he seemed to be the only person who saw it as such. Everyone else acted as though the agreement had been signed and sealed months ago. “We had discussed next summer, after Catherine had completed a full year of school.”

  “And yet she is not even in school, is she? If the contract is finished, then there is no need for delay.”

  There wasn’t any need for delay—other than the hope he had not yet completely released from his heart. You must give it up, he told himself. This is your future, embrace it. He reminded himself that twice he had laid his heart at Lenora’s feet, and twice she had pushed it away, like a piece of driftwood blocking her path. He had nothing left to give her. It was time to accept that she did not want him, and he would never have her.

  “Very well,” Aiden said, making sure he didn’t sound petulant.

  They reached the Pump Room and took the waters—dreadful. He told Miss Keighly about drilling a well in Jamaica, a surprisingly difficult job, and she was attentive and asked thoughtful questions. She would make a good wife. He needed to remember that.