by Regina Darcy
Her throat felt a though it were being squeezed gently, her mouth filling with sand. She could hear blood roaring in her ears as she dropped her gaze to the floor, hating that she was so weak and so utterly useless.
“We have much to discuss, I think.”
Lady Stanway’s voice broke the silence, just as Caroline felt herself grow hot with embarrassment and frustration. She lowered her eyes and slowly resumed her seat, reaching for her needlework as though that would help her avoid any further interest from Lord Stanway himself.
“Yes, I believe we do,” she heard Lord Stanway say, his voice low and gruff. “Do you mind if I seat myself, however? My leg is somewhat of a bother right now as I am still not yet fully recovered.”
Caroline felt her heart in her throat as he moved closer to where she sat. Her senses burst into life as he took the seat next to hers, his nearness unsettling her completely.
Was it because she feared that he knew it had been she who had written to him and that, in some way and at a time of his choosing, would reveal as much in front of Lady Stanway? Surely that could not be so? What would Lady Stanway do, should she discover that Caroline had not only read the letter that Lord Stanway had sent, but also chosen to respond to it? Most likely, she would be deeply angry with Caroline for her arrogance and she would send her away, which was, of course, no less than Caroline would deserve.
“Does your leg pain you awfully, Lord Stanway?”
Caroline turned her attention again to her needlework as Miss Ruthford began to talk directly to Lord Stanway. She was only the companion after all, Caroline reminded herself. It was best for her to remain in the shadows, fading away into the background so that Lady Stanway and Miss Ruthford might talk to the long lost Earl.
“It does, Miss Ruthford,” Lord Stanway stated, plainly. “I fear that I shall never be able to ask for you to join me on the floor for any sort of dance, once I have regained enough strength to attend such frivolities such as balls and the like.”
To Caroline’s surprise, Miss Ruthford laughed softly, as though such a thing were quite ridiculous. She cringed inwardly, hating the young lady’s lack of candour.
“Oh, but you shall be able to waltz, I am quite certain,” Miss Ruthford said, decisively, as though she was not about to accept Lord Stanway’s assessment of his impairment. “That is one dance I am sure you will be able to enjoy.”
“I hardly think that such a thing would be appropriate, Amy,” Lady Stanway said, darkly, bringing the smile on Miss Ruthford’s face crashing to the ground. “Given that you have not yet received permission to waltz, to suggest such a t thing to Lord Stanway is both improper and highly ridiculous.”
The atmosphere grew tense and Caroline leaned over her needlework a little more, not wanting to say or do anything that would either bring about more tension or bring an end to their difficulties. She was to be entirely invisible, she reminded herself, fully aware that she was much too conscious of Lord Stanway’s presence near to her.
“You are quite right, aunt,” Miss Ruthford said, coolly, after some awkward moments had passed. “How could I forget that I had not yet been granted permission? It was quite foolish of me.”
Caroline closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a long breath and trying to steady her nerves. There was no need for her to be present at this moment, not when it was clear that Lady Stanway required time and space to reacquaint herself with her stepson.
Caroline bit her lower lip. The stepson whom she had claimed was dead and buried, whom she had refused to even acknowledge as alive even when the first letter had arrived. Of course, now that Lord Stanway had returned home, there was very little choice for Lady Stanway but to greet him and welcome him home, even though Caroline knew that this was not at all what the Dowager Countess wanted to do. There was a tense nervousness that filled the room, making Caroline’s mind scramble with what she might say in order to extricate herself from the situation.
It would mean speaking in front of Lord Stanway, which was not something Caroline was certain she would be able to easily do. Her mouth felt dry as she dropped her eyes back to her needlework, trying to think of something which would allow her to quit the room.
“Ouch!”
The needle embedded itself in her figure as she drew her hand away sharply, sucking in a breath as she cursed her foolishness. In her frustration and confusion, her hand had slipped and now a spot of bright red blood formed on her finger.
“Do excuse me.”
She got to her feet and her needlework slipped from her lap to the floor, landing with a soft bump. Entirely embarrassed, Caroline made to bend down to retrieve it, only for Lord Stanway to do so, stretching out from his seat so that he might pick it up and hand it to her.
“Here,” he murmured, holding it out to her. “Are you quite all right, Miss Winters?”
She nodded, her throat constricting as she tugged a handkerchief from her pocket and bound up her finger quickly before taking her needlework from him. Their fingers brushed and, such was the shock of the contact that Caroline jumped violently, not quite managing to hold onto her work.
The needlework fell to the floor for a second time and Caroline felt her face burn scarlet as she closed her eyes tightly, aware of just how ridiculous she must appear.
“Do excuse me.”
The words came from her mouth in nothing more than a whisper, her gaze stuck to the floor as she turned from Lord Stanway and her needlework that lay on the alabaster carpet and made to hurry from the room. She was quite certain she heard Miss Ruthford let out a quiet, scornful laugh as she passed, which only added to her mortification.
She could not explain why she behaved so whenever a young, eligible gentleman so much as spoke to her, but she could not prevent herself from becoming immediately embarrassed, struggling to speak to them with the ease and the grace that so many of her acquaintances could do.
Pulling the door closed behind her, Caroline let out a long breath of relief and sagged against it for a moment, her eyes closing tightly as she fought against the sense of embarrassment that still wound its way through her soul. She had nothing to fear from Lord Stanway and certainly no reason to be so embarrassed from what had been a simple brushing of the fingers as he had attempted to hand back her needlework. And yet, she was filled with such a deep sense of shame that it was almost impossible to untangle herself from it. This had always been her great challenge, for no matter how much she tried, she could not prevent herself from always ending up in a state, no matter who the gentleman might be or what he had tried to say to her.
It did not help either that Lord Stanway was as handsome as an Adonis. Se swallowed hard. And particularly irresistible was his hazel eyes that held so much emotion within them. Caroline had found herself wanting to know what it was he felt, the hidden depth of the pain in his expression. Would she be able to sooth it? She wrung her hands and sighed. It was foolishness, of course, for there was no reason that someone such as her could attract the attention of any gentleman considering she could not even have a simple conversation with one!
“Ridiculous,” she whispered to herself, pushing herself away from the door as murmurs of conversation began to filter through the door towards her.
“You are quite ridiculous, Caroline.” Little wonder that Miss Ruthford had laughed at her ridiculousness. She just had to hope that Lord Stanway would be more interested in returning to society and even in Miss Ruthford than attempting to converse with her again. She did not want to make a fool of herself for the second time.
“Why can you not simply talk to him?” she asked herself aloud, shocked to find angry tears sparking in her eyes as she walked away from the drawing room. “What is it you cannot say? Why does your throat close up, your mouth fix itself closed?” A single tear ran down her cheek but Caroline dashed it away hurriedly. This was why she had become a companion, she reminded herself.
Walking up to her room so that she might see both to her finger and to her blood-s
tained handkerchief, the regret and shame that the decision brought, hovered at the corner of her mind. Lifting her chin stubbornly she listed all the reasons she was in the current predicament, least she forget.
She had become a companion because she had no hope of finding a husband, not when she could barely get a word in edgewise.
She had become a companion because there was no other path for her, three years of humiliation was enough. Why now should she expect to be able to converse easily with Lord Stanway?
She sighed.
More importantly why did she find herself longing to be able to do so?
FIVE
Their first meeting had not gone as terribly as Francis had expected. Lady Stanway had obviously been shocked as to his sudden reappearance, but he had expected as much given that she had clearly not been the one who had written the response to his letter. At least, she had engaged him in conversation and, once she had recovered from the shock of seeing him again, had made it quite plain that she was not about to ask him to leave the townhouse.
Although, Francis recalled, as he wandered the length of the hallway, his leg stiff and sore beneath him, she had offered to find herself another residence, reminding him that she had the Dower house to which she might return. He had refused this idea at once, aware that his stepmother delighted in being in town for the Season and having no desire to send her back to her own property away from London. This had brought a small smile to Lady Stanway’s lips – the first one he had seen since his arrival – and part of him had begun to hope that they might have an amicable relationship in time.
That had been two days ago. Since then, Francis had done nothing but attempt to reacquaint himself with what life was like for a gentleman of his ilk. He had not left the house but once, in order to take a carriage ride with Miss Ruthford and his stepmother as they were driven around Hyde Park. Whilst he had been glad to have the summer sun on his face, he had not particularly enjoyed the many glances and gasps of surprise that had come from those in the beau monde who had either seen him or been told of his presence back in London. Apparently, it was something of a shock that he had returned from the quasi-dead. Either that, or the ton thought it most improper for him to have returned to London for the Season when he had not returned to England in order to bury his father.
“My heart is filled with such sorrow that it cannot be expressed, no matter if I had all the words from all the corners of the earth.”
The sound of a young lady’s voice caught his ears, the gentle tones capturing his heart. Pausing, he came to a stop just outside the library door, seeing it a little ajar and wondering who was within. The voice was gentle and sweet, evidently reading aloud from some book or other. The pain in his leg began to diminish as he heard the voice continue to read quietly, his ears straining to capture each and every word. There was a good deal of gentleness in that voice, a measure of tenderness and understanding that Francis wished could be directed towards himself.
“My lord.”
Startled, Francis jumped visibly and turned around to see his manservant – now his valet, Stevenson, hurrying towards him.
“Yes?” he asked, waving away the man’s apologies for startling him. “What is it?”
The man inclined his head. “I have been informed that you are to dine out this evening, my lord,” he said, quickly. “But your clothes have not yet been delivered and I do not know what it is you desire to wear.”
Francis frowned heavily. He had not accepted any invitation to dine, he was quite certain. He had sent out for new clothes, given that his current garments were not of the highest fashion and certainly rather lacklustre after his years away on the continent, but as yet, none of them had been brought to the house. He had not thought it of any urgency, given that he was to remain in the townhouse for some days yet, but now Stevenson was stating that he was expected for dinner somewhere that evening.
He turned away from the library door and began to wander along the corridor, his valet walking beside him. “Might I ask who has informed you of this?” he asked, slowly, his mind working quickly. “And where exactly is this dinner?”
His valet cleared his throat. “The house of Lord Williamson,” he stated, making Francis’ brow lift at the mention of his old acquaintance. “And Lady Stanway said as much to both myself and her lady’s maid earlier today.”
Francis shook his head, his breath coming out in a long sigh.
“I did not know of such an engagement,” he stated, darkly. “I believe that Lady Stanway must have arranged the soiree and purposefully kept me in the dark.”
Apparently his stepmother had realised it would be better for her to pretend to be overjoyed at her stepson’s return, instead of attempting to remain aloof in company. They still had much to discuss, for their conversations had been stiff and rather strained these last few days but for appearance's sake, it seemed his stepmother intended to look as though she was delighted that he had come to claim his title.
Of course, Francis was well aware of the truth. She had never once returned his letters, save for the one she had written to him when he had informed her that he would not be coming home for his father’s funeral. It had been curt and filled with ire. She had stated, quite clearly, that she would think of him no longer for he had shamed his entire family line by refusing to do his duty.
And yet, he had written to her once each year, with his final letter being sent from the inn where he had lost himself in darkness and thought himself close to death. She had never once responded. But now, they were to appear as close as stepmother and stepson could be.
Sighing heavily to himself, Francis rubbed at his forehead and considered what he was to do. He had gone out on a carriage ride, yes, but that was to go out and have diner. But to attend a gathering where he would need to rise and walk about, where everyone would be able to see his pronounced limp, was more than a little mortifying.
“My lord?”
“Send a boy to see if they can send at least one presentable outfit for this evening,” Francis said, sighing heavily again. “My shirts and cravats are –”
“They are more than suitable, my lord,” Stevenson said, looking a trifle more relieved. “But everything else will need to be sent here at once, if you are to be presentable for this evening.”
Francis nodded and repeated his instructions for Stevenson to send a boy to see if one outfit could be procured in advance. Stevenson nodded and left, leaving Francis standing in the hallway alone.
“Oh, Lord Stanway!”
He turned his head, leaning heavily on his cane as he did so. His leg still pained him terribly, especially if he was making use of it for extended periods of time, he gritted his teeth and put on a blank expression.
“You look rather tired,” Miss Ruthford said, coming towards him with a concerned expression on her face. “Do you care to rest?”
Francis frowned suddenly, recalling how he had heard a voice speaking aloud from within the library, where Miss Ruthford now appeared to be emerging. Had it been she who had been reading aloud? A sudden hope burst in his chest, quickening his heart as he smiled at the young lady.
“I should like to sit down for a few minutes, yes,” he admitted, not wanting to reveal just how much pain he was in but finding that his need to sit down was increasing steadily. “The library, mayhap?”
She looked surprised. “You would not prefer the parlour? It is brighter there and –”
“No, I think the library would suit me very well,” he said, hearing a sudden noise behind him and turning his head to see what the sound was. Nothing was there and, shrugging inwardly, he turned back to Miss Ruthford. “I confess that I do enjoy a good novel although….” He gave her a thoughtful look, twisting his head to one side as they walked. “Perhaps you prefer poetry?”
Miss Ruthford did not immediately answer, her eyes a little contemplative for a moment as though she were attempting to find an answer. “I suppos
e I do prefer poetry,” she said, after a few moments, pushing open the library door and stepping within. “It is, I think, easier to take in to one’s mind, would you not say?”
Francis, who had never really read a good deal of poetry, shrugged. “I cannot say I have much experience of it, Miss Ruthford, although I would enjoy listening to you read it aloud at some point, I am quite sure.”
Miss Ruthford seemed quite surprised at this remark, for she did not say anything for a few seconds, her eyes fixing on his with a wide eyed stare. A slight flush of colour rose in her cheeks and, eventually, she gave him a small yet uncertain smile as though she could not quite work out what he meant by such a comment.
Hope flared in Francis’ chest. Was she too afraid to state that it had been she who had written the letter in response to him, in place of his stepmother? Did she fear that she would somehow find herself in disgrace by admitting that she had done so? Surely she could not think that he had any intention of revealing to his stepmother that someone had written to him in her place?
“I – I am very touched by your compliment, Lord Stanway,” she said, eventually, as they made their way slowly towards the seats by the fireplace. “I would be glad to read to you any time you would wish to hear me.”
Francis was about to state that he wished to hear her read at this very moment, wanting confirmation that it had been she whom he had heard reciting poetry, only for another noise to catch his attention. Looking over his shoulder, he saw another young lady enter the room – although she did not so much as look at either of them. Her head was lowered to the book she held in her hand, which was open near the beginning of the book. It was clear that she was reading as she moved, entirely unaware of their presence within the library. In her other hand, she held a small pencil and another book of some kind, which Francis took to be a book she used to make notes about specific matters. His interest was caught for a moment, intrigued as to how this young lady could be so caught up in what she was reading that she did not so much as look in their direction.