And she knew the answer.
When Jenny returned home, she did write a letter to Mr. Morris. She could not stop herself.
She even dared to sign herself Jenny.
Her letter was not particularly interesting. She thanked him for the books and wrote about the ball . . . but it was a start.
Childs arrived the next day as promised with another package for her. The colonel was not at home this time. Jenny had a book with her letter in it ready to be returned. She was very pleased to see that Fyclan had kindly written to her again.
In the sanctuary of her bedroom, she pored over every word. He wrote in this letter about his adventures in India and how he hoped soon to be named a director with the Company. He was presenting his prospects to her. The thought gladdened her soul.
She had not imagined him an adventurer, yet he had fought the Marathas. He didn’t speak of war. Instead, he talked of the animals he’d seen with such vivid descriptions she could almost feel the hot breath of the tiger he’d once confronted or smell the monkeys. They had stolen his shaving kit: They wanted the glass in it and spent hours in the trees not far from my window gazing at their perfect reflections.
Jenny had to write him back. She had no choice. She was full of questions.
And thus it began and grew.
Meanwhile, the very public race for her hand was on. She no longer cared. She didn’t even worry about gambling debts or her sisters’ prospects. She smiled and nodded at the appropriate time for suitors or when she went out into society—but herself she saved for her letters.
Of course, all was not perfect. Her father’s creditors were starting to come around. His questions about marriage offers became strained. He took to staying at home in the afternoons so that he could be present for her callers.
In turn, the gentlemen, even the duke, were not pleased with his presence and the amount of her father’s gambling debts. Jenny had overheard a reference to them more than once.
Serena had taken to acting as if she were in mourning. She was certain Evan had forgotten her. She worried that he was in Lansdown, planning to wed his cousin.
And Alice was surly. She rambled incessantly about her husband’s need to purchase a promotion so that his brilliance would be recognized.
Their mother spent most of her day in her room.
Jenny became three people. For her family, she tried to appear smiling and flirtatious with her suitors. However, with the gentlemen, she was distant and a bit solemn. She discovered that men did not appreciate cold aloofness—any more than they did her father’s blustery confidence.
Only with Fyclan was she true to herself.
Her letters moved beyond social niceties. She found herself writing about her family’s disappointments and the changes in them since her father had returned home. All were secrets she should not share with an outsider. However, she had come to trust Fyclan.
He answered with sensitivity and wisdom. He assured her everything would be all right. She hoarded his letters, hid them carefully in a ripped seam in her mattress, rereading them whenever she felt low.
I don’t care what other people believe, she wrote. It is your goodwill I consider. You have become the sun to the shadows in my day.
He wrote back. Then know that my admiration and respect for you have only grown stronger with each passing moment. If I am the sun, then you are the moon. I am not good at flowery language. Let me state my case clearly—I cannot imagine my life without you.
Jenny stared at his last sentence. She felt the same. Others wooed her with flowers and wealth. Fyclan courted her with words and honest emotion.
She dreamed of the portrait room almost every night. Each time, the dream was more vivid, more real. She began wondering if Mr. Higley might have been wrong. After all, her skin was smooth and cream-colored, not the blue of her birth or early childhood. Perhaps she had outgrown any malady. She even felt strong. Was the dream not a sign that she might have children?
Hope is a fragile thing, but she discovered it can quickly grow into conviction. And she found she wanted to believe, desperately so. Her arms ached to hold a child of her own making. Her soul yearned to trust that she could have a full and complete life.
Nor did she wish to marry an old man, not when another held her heart.
Soon, she lulled herself into trusting that all would work in her favor. It must. She was in love with Fyclan Morris, and didn’t people belong with those they loved? Isn’t that what the poets lauded? Didn’t their letters to each other prove love in its highest form?
She prayed it was true.
However, in spite her hopes for a miracle, she found herself completely unprepared when there was a knock on the front door moments after her family finished an early supper. They would be going out for another rout, another opportunity to lure in Stowe or the others. Jenny was heartily tired of the game.
She was on the stairs, ready to go to her room before leaving, when Lorry opened the door. She glanced back in curiosity and was startled to see Fyclan standing there.
For a second, she feared she would collapse. He appeared extraordinarily handsome in a jacket of deepest blue velvet and white evening breeches. His black hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. He held his hat under his arm.
She took a step down the stairs toward him while her father charged forth.
“How dare you place yourself on my doorstep, Morris.” He would have slammed the door in Fyclan’s face except the Irishman raised a rock-hard arm to stop him.
“You need to hear me out.”
“I need nothing from you.”
“Tarleton, I’m not here to fight.” He offered a leather packet that he had been carrying. “These are your gambling vowels.” He referred to the slips of paper her father had signed acknowledging his debts.
“What are you doing with them?” The colonel’s knuckles tuned white as his hand tightened its grip on the door.
“Giving them to you.”
“Why?”
“May I come in to discuss this?”
“No. State your purpose and begone.
Fyclan’s gaze slid to meet Jenny’s. “I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Before her father could speak, Jenny said, “Yes. Yes, yes, and yes.”
Chapter Nine
WHEN FYCLAN STATED his purpose, he’d watched Jenny because she was the only one who mattered.
Her eyes had widened at his proposal, then the words had poured out of her.
She would have launched herself from the step toward him, and he was ready for her. He’d waited eagerly for her letters but he wanted, no, needed her presence, in his arms, in his bed, and in his life.
For two weeks he’d been pacing the floor of his room wondering what she was doing, how she was being treated, whether she was happy. He hated that other men could call on her, and, finally, he’d realized that if he wanted Tarleton to take him seriously, then he must step forward.
It had been no trick at all to collect the colonel’s gaming debts. His debtors were happy to release them. They had doubted if Tarleton would ever pay. Some believed that, even if he did find a wealthy lord for his daughter, those gentlemen wouldn’t be as generous as Tarleton expected them to be. After all, Stowe and the others were not fools. Why should they pay another man’s debts?
Hearing this made Fyclan all the more determined to claim her. He would not allow a star as bright and sparkling as Jenny to be gossip fodder.
Now, she reached for him, her happy “yes” ringing in his ears, her eyes full of joy—but her father blocked her path.
“No. I forbid it. No daughter of mine will accept the likes of you, Morris.”
“Are you going to give him back your gambling debts, Father?” Jenny challenged.
Tarleton held up the packet. �
��They’ve been handed to me. They are mine. Morris knows he should never have given them over.”
“They are a gift,” Fyclan answered. “You wish to barter your daughter’s hand for money. I have money. What is the cost?”
Before Tarleton could open his mouth, one of Jenny’s sisters came forward. “I want advancement for my husband,” she said anxiously.
“I want everything that Jenny has received,” the other said. “I want to be presented for a Season and wear the finest clothes and I want my own bedroom. And a dowry. I want a good dowry.”
It was clear that marrying Jenny wasn’t going to be an inexpensive proposition.
Fyclan could see that same thought in her worried eyes, and he wanted to laugh out loud. She had nothing to worry over. His fortune rivaled Stowe’s and was of his own making.
Well, he had a fortune. The Tarletons seemed bent on taking a huge amount of it, but he didn’t care. He’d been waiting for Jenny all of his life—
“You’ll not be receiving anything from him,” Tarleton told his daughters, “because I would never let an Irish scoundrel touch any of you.” He scowled at Fyclan. “I prayed to someday put you in your place, Morris, and the time has come. You aren’t fit to polish my boots, and I’ll not have you in my family no matter how much money you wish to wave in front of me.”
“Don’t you believe your daughter has something to say in the matter?”
Tarleton snorted his opinion. “My daughters do what I tell them. My Jenny is going to be a fine lady. A marchioness or a duchess. That is one thing your money can’t buy. Now be gone.” He slammed the door in Fyclan’s face.
And, of course, the bastard had kept the gaming vowels.
But Fyclan wasn’t discouraged yet. He had done what was honorable. Regardless of what Tarleton believed, Jenny was going to be his wife. His Gran had seen it. Her gift never lied.
He walked down the steps.
The hour was the soft light just before the sun set. He knew Tarleton watched him from a window in the house. He walked to the corner and turned down the side street. He followed his instinct and took an alleyway behind the row of houses.
Jenny’s voice rang in his ear, Yes. Yes, yes, and yes. She knew her own mind. She was fire and lightning. No man could cow her, not even her own father.
And then there she was.
Jenny stepped through a gate behind one of the houses and into the alley. She was hatless and didn’t wear gloves.
For a second, he feared his eyes deceived him, and then she came running to him.
She threw her arms around him. She smelled of the spring air and her own delicate, wonderful scent, and he wasn’t about to ever let her go.
He kissed her, right there for all to see if they’d had a mind to, but she ended it quickly.
“We must hurry,” she warned. “Father will soon know I’ve left—that is, if you will have me after all his angry words?”
He started to declare his love but she placed her fingers on his lips. “I warn you, Fyclan, I am coming to you with nothing but the clothes I’m wearing. I told him I needed to return to my room for something, then I went down the servants’ stairway.”
“You are all I want,” he said. “All I’ve ever wanted. And, of course, you are right—your father will want my head, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that you have chosen me. Come then.” He took her hand. He led her in a direction that he didn’t believe Tarleton would think to search first. After all, he’d learned in India that Colonel Tarleton was not the most resourceful of men. However, his daughter was his prized possession.
Or so he’d claimed.
“Where are we going?” Jenny asked.
“Scotland.”
She came to a halt. “We are eloping?”
Fyclan recognized his mistake. If he was going to take on a wife as quick as Jenny, he needed to start talking to her instead of keeping his plans in his head. “I meant what I said. I want you for my wife.”
She wavered a moment.
“You can return,” he said, even though the words felt as if he was ripping his heart from his chest.
“No, I can’t. The moment I walked out of the house, I threw my lot in with you. It is just that it give me a moment’s pause to think of leaving my mother, my sisters. Father won’t take this well.”
“He will not.”
“They might not as well.”
“If it is the eloping, we can try and think of another way.”
In day’s fading light, she gave him a smile, a brave one that said she was uncertain of the future, yet chose to go forward. “There is no other way. You are right. There will be anger, but I believe I’m in love with you, Fyclan Morris.”
“I know I’m in love with you, Jennifer Tarleton.”
“Love is enough, isn’t it?”
“It will be for us.” He held out his hand. “And we will stare them all down.”
She placed her palm in his. They laced their fingers together. “When you came to the door, I realized I didn’t want to live if living meant not being with you. And that isn’t a prophecy, Fyclan, it is the yearnings of my own heart.”
“You will never regret your choice, Jenny.”
She laughed. “I’m not worried about that, Fyclan. I fear you may be the one with regrets.”
“Never.”
“I shall hold you to that, sir.”
And he was fine with the challenge.
He found a vehicle for hire and had them driven to the Lion’s Head, a coaching inn. There he made arrangements for a post chaise, a fast team, and postboys to drive them to Scotland.
She didn’t waver in her decision again, and, within the hour, they found themselves traveling north.
THE TRIP TOOK almost three full days. Fyclan did not let them stop except for meals. He thought her father might follow, but Jenny suspected differently.
Her father wasn’t one for defiance. His gaming debts were settled, so what more did he need? Fyclan had done what Tarleton would have asked her husband to do.
She was somewhat curious as to the amount of those debts but didn’t ask. However, between the settlement and the expense of the horses for their trip to Scotland, she was gaining a healthy respect for Fyclan’s financial standing.
She knew he worked. Then again, she’d heard that while many of the men in service with the East India Company were very wealthy, others not so much.
“Does your employer know you’ve left?” she asked Fyclan. They had just changed the horses and were on their way.
“I imagine your father has told them.”
“Will they be upset?”
Fyclan sat back in the seat. The weather was good for travel. He’d taken off his coat, and he now put his arm around her.
The first time he’d done it, she’d been quite shy and very conscious of the postboy riding the team of horses. Still, it felt good to be this close to him. His shoulders were strong and muscular. She liked resting against his chest. He seemed completely at ease with her but respectful. She appreciated his patience because, even though she had been raised in the country, she was uncertain what was expected.
Human mating couldn’t be like two sheep, could it? She hoped not.
However, in Fyclan’s arms, she felt safe.
“I may be asked to leave,” Fyclan said, “but if I am, I have no regrets. We’ll be fine.”
“I know we will. I’d live in a hut with you, Fyclan, and I’ll have you understand, I know a bit about cooking. I won’t kill you with it.”
He laughed, pleased.
After their first stop, he had returned to the chaise with a deck of cards and had quickly learned her father wasn’t the only gambler in the family, or so Fyclan claimed. They spent hours trying to best each other at piquet and vingt-et-un.
“I�
��m discovering you are not a gambler,” she accused back.
“Quite true,” he admitted.
“Then how do you make your money?”
He shuffled the cards a moment before saying, “With careful study. I don’t hope, I know what the return will be before I use my money.”
“And you have never lost money?”
“A time or two. I do not use money that I can’t afford to lose. That is my first rule.”
The rule made sense. Her father hadn’t been able to afford any of the money he lost.
They didn’t stop to rest. Fyclan opened his arm, an invitation for her to snuggle against him that she couldn’t resist. Of course, the first night of their travel, she’d been tense. She’d sat away from him in the close confines in the chaise. However, now she was more comfortable. She was becoming familiar enough with him to snuggle up.
And he was pleased.
His lips brushed the top of her hair. “I may have more money than Stowe and many others,” Fyclan admitted. “But it wasn’t until I had you in my arms that my life became rich.”
Chapter Ten
THEY REACHED THE Scottish border in late afternoon. Gretna Green was only another nine miles, and the horses were fresh. When they arrived, they had no difficulty finding the blacksmith’s shop.
The blacksmith, Joseph Paisley, took one look at them and knew what they wanted. He told them there was plenty of time left in the day for marrying, so why delay?
Fyclan and Jenny agreed, and the blacksmith offered Jenny the use of a private room to freshen up a bit.
“You can cool your heels under that tree waiting for her,” Paisley told Fyclan, “although you look happily ready to take on married life.”
He was right. Fyclan had always thought that a man besotted by love was a weak one.
He now knew the opposite was true.
He loved Jenny. Yes, she was a pleasing to look at, but it was her spirit that captivated him.
He adored the way she rolled her eyes before playing a card and giving away her intent. Or brought her brows together as she tried to analyze why he always knew her purpose.
A Little Thing Called Love Page 6