by Julia Kelly
“What’s brought this on?” Mrs. Sullivan asked softly.
“It’s my fault. I fear it was something I said,” Caroline could hear Mrs. Parkem say from across the room.
“No,” Caroline sobbed before burying her head in her hands, ashamed and broken and most of all hurt. She was mourning the loss of something she’d treasured without fully having understood what it was when it’d been hers.
She cried and cried, leaning against Mrs. Sullivan’s skirts while the lady rubbed small, comforting circles on her back, until her sobs slowed. Her shoulders and sides ached from the convulsions of her body, and there would be no saving her eyes from the puffiness of her hot tears. Yet somehow she didn’t care. Not around this woman, who’d been nothing but sympathetic from the moment Caroline had sent the calling card that she’d carried up with her from London.
Mrs. Sullivan’s hand stopped. There was a rustle of silk, a clatter of china, and the splash of liquid hitting the bottom of a cup.
“It’s time to sit up,” said Mrs. Sullivan gently.
Caroline did as she was told.
“Mrs. Burkett has a cup of tea for you,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
Caroline took the cup from Elsie’s hands with a murmur of thanks.
“Now that you have fortification, let’s have a chat,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“I suppose you’ve heard about the fight here,” said Caroline shakily.
Mrs. Sullivan’s gaze slid over to Elsie. “I’m afraid there was little avoiding it, but Mrs. Burkett provided me with the details the newspapers missed.”
Carefully, Caroline took a sip of tea, her eyes closing a moment as she soaked in the comfort of the warm, strong brew.
“When it happened, I was mortified,” she said. “But I never would’ve given that a thought if he’d only . . .”
“If only Mr. Moray had told you he loved you,” said the matchmaker.
Caroline nodded miserably. “I know he’s not the man you intended for me.”
“Quite the contrary. For all that I match couples who want to find a spouse, I’m happiest when two people find each other and need little help from me. I simply presented you with a selection of men. I could’ve told you from the beginning that Mr. Trevlan was wrong for you, but you would hardly have believed me, because he was keen and you wished to marry. I’d hoped you would figure out on your own that he’s a crashing bore and wants something between a sportswoman and a china doll he can set on display in his drawing room. Neither of those is you.
“Mr. Moray infuriates you, yes, but you also light up in his presence as you did with no other man. I suspect that the gentleman has spent some time earning that blush on your cheeks.”
Caroline’s face heated even hotter. “I’ve done everything that an unmarried lady isn’t supposed to do.”
“And if you had to do it all over again?” asked Elsie.
Caroline sucked in a breath. “I would do exactly the same thing, except this time I wouldn’t get caught.”
“I would expect nothing less from you,” said Mrs. Sullivan with a nod of approval.
“He doesn’t want me,” said Caroline, burning with shame at her blurted-out half proposal to him.
“I doubt that very much,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“I’ve accepted another man’s proposal.”
“Proposals can be broken,” said Mrs. Parkem.
Caroline looked up and Elsie nodded.
“You can’t live your life in fear, Miss Burkett. If you give up on love, you’ll have given up on everything,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“You make it sound so easy,” Caroline said, folding the handkerchief and lifting it to her eyes.
Mrs. Sullivan’s smile had a touch of sadness about it this time. “It’s not easy. It’s the hardest thing in the world. You’re placing your heart in the hands of someone else, and you have to trust that he’s going to guard it as carefully as you would.”
Caroline shook her head. “I’m too scared of being hurt again. You didn’t see his face when I told him I was accepting Trevlan’s proposal.”
The door opened, and Michael stepped inside, polished and respectable in his cutaway coat.
“The carriage is here to take us to the church,” he said quietly.
Caroline looked down at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand and at the wedding dress she wore, and all at once the room was suffocating.
“I need out of this dress. I can’t breathe,” she said, sucking in huge gulps of air.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Parkem, moving swiftly to undo the first few buttons of the bodice.
Air whooshed into her lungs, and Caroline pressed her hand to her pounding heart.
“Perhaps a few moments alone,” said Elsie.
Caroline nodded.
Her brother looked with concern from Caroline to his wife. “I’ll tell the driver to wait.”
“Thank you, Michael,” said Elsie.
“We’ll leave you too,” said Mrs. Sullivan, placing an arm on Mrs. Parkem’s elbow.
Elsie rose, but Caroline grabbed her hand. “I can do this.”
“Of course you can, darling, but should you?”
“If I don’t marry him and leave him at the altar, it will cause a scandal. You and Michael will be caught up in it,” said Caroline.
“If you deprive yourself of your happiness, it’ll be a tragedy,” countered her sister-in-law. “I don’t know what to say to make any of this better.”
“I don’t know that anything can,” said Caroline, tears pricking her eyes. “It hurts too badly.”
Elsie sighed.
“What is it?” Caroline asked.
“I was only thinking how wonderful it must be to have felt such a powerful love. To be brave enough to choose what you truly want,” said Elsie, slipping from her grasp and out of the room.
Alone, with nothing to distract her from her thoughts, Caroline felt her chest contract. All her life she’d done what was expected of her. She’d been Julian’s fiancée until he’d cast her aside. She’d reluctantly gone along with Mamma’s lawsuit. She’d even turned away from Moray and refused to forgive him for his distrust because Trevlan was willing to become the husband she should want. But now that her anger had dissipated and she’d come to understand Moray’s fierce protection of his past, she realized all that she’d lost.
She’d never get to let Moray know just how ardently she loved him. They’d had so little time together, and yet he’d wound his way into her heart. Now it broke at the thought that she’d never know if there could be a chance that one day he might love her the way she loved him.
But there was one thing she did know. For the first time in her life she was going to choose herself. She wasn’t going to settle. Her happiness was worth the risk of another scandal—this one all of her own making.
She tore at the sleeves of her wedding gown, thankful that Mrs. Parkem had undone enough of the back that she could slide the bodice off and shed the confection of fabric. Then she pulled on the plain yellow dress she’d worn earlier that day. Most of her things were packed into trunks, to be transported to Trevlan’s home before she and her new husband departed on a honeymoon that would take them into the Highlands and to Skye. A small valise, however, held a change of clothes, some money, and her personal effects. But most important of all was Henrietta’s letter. Her lifeline.
There was no guarantee that people weren’t outside Elsie’s bedroom, so instead Caroline slipped into the dressing room that was attached to Michael’s room, which was mercifully empty. It was also built on a corner of a corridor, giving it two doors. Carefully, she opened the door around the corner from her room. No one was there. It was nothing to steal down the servants’ staircase and into the small side return of the house.
Her leather valise smacked against the side of her leg as she did her best to run to the waiting carriage.
“You there!” she shouted to the driver, who was using a penknife to dig out the grime from underneat
h his nails.
The man jolted to attention.
“I need to go to Waverley Station, quick as you can,” she said, unlocking the door and flinging her bag into the carriage before hauling herself up behind it.
The trap looking down into the carriage opened with a bang, and the coachman stared down at her. “This carriage is for Miss Burkett’s wedding, miss.”
Putting on her haughtiest voice, she said, “I’m Miss Burkett, and I’ve decided there won’t be a wedding. Waverley Station, now.”
The man laughed and shrugged. “If you say so, lass.”
The trapdoor shut, and a moment later the carriage lurched into motion.
When Moray walked into the building that was home to the papers he hated the most, the young man at the desk jumped up.
“You again!”
Moray spread his hands. “I just want to see Ross.”
“He’s not in,” said the secretary, edging toward the door.
“I’m not going to barge in, I promise,” said Moray.
The secretary’s eyes narrowed. “Last time you did.”
“That was last time and this is this time. I’m growing,” said Moray.
“Moray, are you harassing my staff again?” Ross’s voice boomed from over his shoulder.
His rival newspaperman was, in fact, entering from outdoors, carrying a walking stick and bedecked in a tall beaver hat and—was that a cape?
“You look like the villain in a penny dreadful,” Moray said.
Ross snorted a laugh. “And you look like the dead risen. Have you slept at all recently?”
“Yes.” No.
“I can send a boy for the constabulary,” said the secretary.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ross. “We’re all businessmen here. We should be capable of having a civilized conversation. If you’ll follow me to my office.”
Moray fell in behind Ross, and soon he was settled in one of the large leather club chairs that sat in front of the man’s desk. He peered around, noting that there was no evidence that Ross’s managing editor had carved out space in his office. He stored that fact away to relate to Eva later.
“What can I do for you?” Ross asked.
“You’re being remarkably pleasant,” said Moray.
“I find that beating you and the Tattler improves my disposition.”
“The Lothian is still outselling the Edinburgh Record two to one and the Scottish Evening Record even more soundly,” said Moray.
“How do you know my circulation numbers?” Ross asked sharply.
“How do you know mine?”
Ross huffed, but reached for a box. He pulled out a cigar and then held the box out to Moray, who waved the offer away. Ross snipped the cigar, lit it, and sat back.
“I take it you didn’t come here to snipe at me, so what can I do for you today?” Ross asked.
Moray pulled out a document from his jacket pocket. He unfolded it and threw it onto the desk. Ross’s brows rose, but he picked up the paper and began to read. The man was no more than two lines in when his mouth opened and his cigar fell out.
“You’re serious about this?” Ross asked, scrambling to scoop up the cigar before it set fire to anything on his desk.
“As the grave.”
Moray’s rival picked up the paper and began scanning faster. Then he put it down again. “You want to sell me the Tattler.”
Moray nodded. “And in exchange you’ll sell me the Scottish Evening Record and pay me an additional twenty thousand pounds.”
Ross brushed at the ash that had fallen on his desk, the wheels no doubt turning in his mind. “Why?”
“My time as a scandal-sheet publisher is at an end,” said Moray. “The Tattler no longer fits the business model that I wish to pursue. Since it’s clear that you have someone in my organization spying for you, you’ll know that I’ve been wanting for some time to start an evening paper, but the stress and expense of two newspapers has meant having to hold back on that plan. Since I also have a spy working here, I know that the Scottish Evening Record is a source of frustration for you because it’s not selling as well as you would like despite breaking good stories. I can turn it into something extraordinary.”
“Why should I give you my paper and pay you?” Ross asked.
“Because as well as being your main source of competition among society papers, the Tattler is healthy and thriving and the Evening Record is a money pit,” he said. “I’ll be taking a problem off your hands. You should pay me more for it.”
Ross grunted. “It’s not as bad as that.”
“It is. Think of it this way, you’ll still keep a hand in news by maintaining ownership of the Edinburgh Record. You and all the other morning papers can still run nipping after the Lothian’s heels.”
“I’ll have to have my solicitors look over this,” said Ross, tapping the business plan Moray had written up.
“As will I. I suspect mine will have an aneurysm when he realizes what I’m proposing, but I have the utmost faith in his abilities. There is one more condition. If it’s not met, the sale will not go forward. Full stop.”
“What is that?” Ross asked suspiciously.
“I would like an official ban on any further articles reporting on the activities of Miss Caroline Burkett. Effective immediately.”
“Soon to be Mrs. Robert Trevlan,” said Ross.
Moray tried to ignore the punch to the gut that accompanied that particular fact.
“Everything about her is off the table,” said Moray.
“What about her marriage announcement and her obituary? They’re matters of public record and fact,” Ross said.
“An obituary is acceptable. Her marriage has already been announced,” said Moray, his voice cracking as he tried to hold back his nausea.
Ross tapped a finger on the proposal in front of him, and then laughed. “What the hell? I’ll walk away with the Tattler. I’m happy with that.”
Moray stuck out his hand. “I’ll have my solicitor start drawing up the documents today.”
Ross stood to shake his hand vigorously and then dropped back down into his chair.
It was done. He couldn’t stop everyone from dogging her, but Moray had taken out the most aggressive threat to Caroline. That would be his gift to her.
The door opened and the secretary walked in with a note for Ross. Moray didn’t miss the look of loathing the young man shot him. It was time for Moray to go. He’d done what he’d come to do.
“We’ll speak soon,” he said, making his way to the door.
“Before you go,” said Ross, just as he was turning the knob, “I want to know one thing.”
“What?” he asked.
“Why protect Caroline Burkett? She’s planning to marry another man.”
Moray stilled. “Because she deserves better than I could give her.”
Ross grunted. “Do you love her?”
“Yes.” The word—so simple and unencumbered—slipped out before Moray could even think about it.
“Good. I’ll be happy knowing there’s a woman distracting you from your business going forward,” said Ross.
“She’s not going to be distracting me any longer,” said Moray. Not when she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to see him anymore.
Ross tossed the note the secretary had given him onto his desk. “In that case, you probably don’t need to know that we just received a report from one of our sources that Miss Burkett was seen slipping out of her house and getting into a carriage. They think they heard her tell the driver to head for Waverley, but of course that’s unconfirmed.”
“What?” Hope leapt in his throat even as common sense told him to slow down. Caroline wouldn’t run from her own wedding. Not when what she wanted was to be married.
She wanted you to ask her. She might’ve married you until you shut her out.
“Considering that it’s Miss Burkett’s wedding day, I imagine that will cause something of a stir. Are you certain
the Tattler and the Standard can’t write about that?”
A grin broke across Moray’s face. “No. No they can’t.”
Ross shrugged. “Shame. I’m sure you’re aware there’s an eleven thirteen train that calls at stations in Yorkshire. Isn’t that where a cousin of hers lives?”
Moray had to get to Caroline if there was even a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe there was a chance for them.
“I need to leave,” he said, lunging for the door again.
“Good luck!” Ross shouted after him.
And, strangest thing, Moray felt like the man actually meant it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
CAROLINE SWALLOWED HARD, determined to push her tears back. She was glad she’d run, but that didn’t make her any less terrified of what she was doing.
In the coach she’d dug out her letter from Henrietta giving her the address of the house in Yorkshire. She hoped that her cousin didn’t mind her descending on the spinster cottage. If she did . . . well, Caroline would just figure out what her next step was then.
Caroline reached Platform Two, where the train steamed, waiting to load and pull out. She would be leaving this city behind much as she’d arrived, with the unknown stretching out before her. But she wouldn’t regret her time here. Moray had become a part of her, making her whole for the first time in years. It was a feeling she wouldn’t give up for anything.
Caroline tilted her chin a little higher and mounted the steps to the train compartment, handing her ticket to a porter, who led her to a sliding door.
“Your compartment, miss,” said the man, pulling back the door to reveal a comfortable, luxurious space lined on two sides with red tufted leather benches. One wall was entirely windows, framed in dark wood with brass fixtures. There was even a tiny cart where a traveler could order tea to be served. There hadn’t been any tickets left save for those for the compartments, and the expense had depleted her funds dramatically, but she was glad she’d spent it. She’d been grieving for weeks, but here she would have privacy to heal.
She thanked the porter, who deposited her case on a little rack out of the way. Then, with the door shut solidly behind her, she crossed the compartment to peer out the windows. The crowd on the platform was beginning to thin as passengers climbed aboard to the conductor’s final whistle. Steam drifted down from the engine, enveloping the platform in a haze.