A Heart's Rebellion

by Ruth Axtell

  “Capital,” her father said, rubbing his hands again. “We haven’t a lot of room for a retinue of servants, but we would certainly wish to have you stay with us during your visit. And of course to sup tonight.”

  Mr. Marfleet looked to Jessamine as if asking her permission, and she could only offer a small smile, too confused by the rapid turn of events to do more.

  It seemed to be enough because he turned to her parents and thanked them again for their hospitality. Her mother then took charge, going with him when he left, to give his servants directions to the inn.

  “Well, my dear.”

  “Well, what?” she asked carefully, afraid of what her father would say.

  He took her by the elbow to lead her toward the window, where they watched the footman unload Mr. Marfleet’s baggage. “I do believe you have a serious suitor.”

  “I think he is only here to see your plant collection. I . . . I told him much of it when I knew him in London.”

  Her father chuckled. “I shall be pleased to show it to him if that is the reason he claims.”

  “I don’t know if that is what he claims.” She didn’t want to make Mr. Marfleet out to be a deceitful person. “I was only deducing that from his words.”

  He patted her hands, which she realized she had begun to wring. “Never mind what you think he means by his visit. I am just happy that he seems a fine young gentleman. A man both your mother and I could be well pleased with if our only child has caught his favor.”

  She looked into her father’s loving gaze, unable to find any words to refute him.

  23

  The days went by quickly—too quickly for Lancelot. He’d been at the parsonage five days already, days spent in the bosom of a family such as he’d never known, a family filled with love and warmth for each other and for anyone under their roof. They had received him as one of themselves.

  All except Miss Barry.

  He still didn’t know her true feelings. He glanced sidelong at her now as they trudged along one of the turf paths in the countryside. She took him on one of her long walks each day, except the one day when it had rained, which they had spent in the greenhouse helping Mr. Barry transplant some seedlings of a species he was propagating.

  Miss Barry was unfailingly friendly and sympathetic, showing interest in whatever topic he spoke of. She was everything a good friend could be, but was there hope for more?

  Anytime he broached anything approaching his own feelings, she changed the subject in such a polite, gentle way that he could not take offense, yet still he felt rebuffed.

  He had not pressed the point because he, too, wanted to make sure of his heart. Taking his sister’s advice, he used the days to ascertain whether what had drawn him to Miss Barry in the first place had in any way diminished.

  It had not. Each day brought new delight in her company and a greater certainty that this was the woman God had for him.

  But he could not deny the reluctance in her.

  Was he yet so distasteful to her? Was her resolve never to be a vicar’s wife unchanged? But he would not always be a vicar, she must realize that now.

  He drew out a breath, knowing whatever her sentiments, he could wait no longer to express his own. His parents needed him home. And he needed to make a decision on his own immediate future.

  He felt the letter that lay folded in his pocket, the one he’d received that morning.

  The bishop needed an answer.

  “May we sit awhile?” He pointed to a grassy area under a large oak tree in the nearby meadow.

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  Once they were settled under its shade, he knew of no way but to go directly to the point. “Do you know why I came to visit you, Miss Barry?”

  She looked away from him and made a vague motion with her hand. “I supposed you wished to see my father’s collection.”

  “Your father’s . . . ?” He let out an abrupt laugh, which he cut short as soon as he saw her look of alarm. “No, that was not the reason—though I have enjoyed discussing botany with him and seeing his achievements.”

  He drew in another breath, hoping his next words wouldn’t repel her. “I wished to see if you . . . you returned my feelings.”

  This time she didn’t look away but repeated faintly, “Your feelings?”

  He nodded. He edged closer to her and took one of her hands in his. He loved the feel of her smaller hands the few times he’d been able to hold one of them. They were so soft . . . and felt so right in his. “I wished to ask you to be my wife.”

  Her lips parted, and her green eyes scanned his. “I didn’t think you’d—” She shook her head and pulled her hand away, leaving him with a sense of dread. She half turned from him, giving him her back. “You can’t want me for a wife, not after how I behaved with Mr. St. Leger. You will be Sir Marfleet some day. Your parents would never accept me.” She waved back toward the way they’d come. “You see how humbly my parents live.”

  He reclaimed her hand and held it firmly. “But what do you wish, Miss Barry?”

  She shook her head. “It’s too late for what I wish,” she said in a choked voice.

  His heart sank. Did she still have feelings for Mr. St. Leger? “What is it?”

  She bowed her head. “It’s too late for me to wish for things.”

  “Because of what happened that night?”

  She nodded, not looking up.

  “I’ve told you—you did nothing wrong. And if you showed poor judgment in encouraging Mr. St. Leger in any way . . .” He struggled for a way to express what he wanted to say. “It is perfectly understandable. You were a young lady enjoying her first season. Perhaps you flirted a bit with St. Leger. It’s not wrong to be flattered by a young man’s attention.” It was coming out sounding all wrong.

  But as he spoke, she slowly turned to face him again, and he tightened his hold on her hand, feeling encouraged. His heart hitched at the sheen of tears he detected in her eyes.

  “My father wouldn’t have condoned flirting with Mr. St. Leger.” She sniffed. “I allowed my vanity to believe he found me attractive—pretty enough to compete with the other young ladies of the ton.” She brought a fist up to her mouth. “I was so hurt by . . . by . . .” She struggled once more and he waited, his breath held. Drawing in a shuddering breath, she continued. “When Rees—Mr. Phillips—fell in love with Céline and left me for her.”

  For a moment, he felt confusion. Then he remembered meeting Mr. Rees Phillips. The revelation was like a clanging bell in his chest. So, he had been right—she did love Mr. Phillips!

  The next second, his hopes plummeted. If he could scarce compete against a rogue like St. Leger, how could he ever think to banish a ghost like Rees Phillips from her heart?

  “Do you still love him?” he asked with great difficulty, every fiber in him tensed in preparation for her answer.

  The tears overflowed her eyelids, and she gave an angry shake of her head. “No—no! But I felt unloved and unlovable for so long. When Mr. St. Leger began paying me special attention, it helped me forget how . . . how Rees had spurned me.”

  She began to cry quietly, biting her lower lip to restrain herself but unable to stop the flow of tears.

  Thinking only to comfort her, he brought his hand up to her face and brushed away the tears with his thumb. Her skin felt as soft as he’d imagined.

  “I—I’m sorry—”

  “Shh,” he murmured, continuing to stroke her cheek.

  She didn’t pull away from his touch. Emboldened, he wrapped his arm about her shoulders, drawing her toward him.

  She continued to cry and he sat quietly, stroking her back until the shudders ceased.

  He prayed quietly for her peace and comfort, setting aside his own feelings. When she sat still within the circle of his arms, he was reluctant to move. He shifted only enough to extract his handkerchief and bring it up to her face. She took it from him and wiped her cheeks. But she didn’t move away from him, and he t
ook heart from that.

  Unless she viewed him only as a brotherly shoulder to cry on. The thought disheartened him, but still he didn’t move.

  Should he or shouldn’t he carry on with what he came for? He prayed for courage.

  “I’m sorry for being such a watering pot around you. I usually am not so,” she said in a more matter-of-fact tone, drawing away from him enough to meet his gaze. He loosened his own hold but kept his arm around her.

  She was so close he could detect the soft rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes and nose were red, her cheeks flushed, but she looked so beautiful it took all his control not to close the gap between them. But he wouldn’t scare her the way he had that day at Kew.

  Dear Lord, help me!

  But then it seemed it was she who tilted her face upward. Scarcely daring to trust what he saw, he inched downward. The next instant, whether it was he or she or both of them who moved, his lips touched hers and he heard her small sigh.

  Encouraged, he deepened the kiss, all rational thought fleeing in the sheer sensation of touching and tasting her once again.

  When she didn’t push away, he ventured to put his other arm around her and draw her closer once again. His eyes were closed, so he didn’t see when her arms came up. With a start, which quickly transformed to pleasure, he felt her fingers entwining in his hair.

  “Jessamine,” he breathed against her lips before pressing them once again.

  His passion intensified as it found an outlet at last. He’d dreamed of this moment with her for so long. Realizing she was doing nothing to halt him, he at last broke apart, panting.

  His eyes scanned hers, his arms still around her, seeking any fear or disgust in her green eyes. But he saw only wonder and acceptance.

  “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife,” he said in an unsteady voice.

  The wonder gradually died as the meaning of his words penetrated. Her arms came down and she drew away from him. A sharp stab of disappointment pierced him, and he kept his thoughts in check, refusing to believe she would deny her feelings for him.

  “I don’t know what to say . . .” she said, bringing her fingers to her lips as if still trying to understand what he had done.

  He quirked his lips upward. “Say yes.”

  Her gaze flew to his. “You can’t want to marry me.”

  “I’ve wanted to marry you for quite some time.”

  “But that was before.”

  “Before what?” He tried to keep his tone light but was having a hard time keeping his hope alive.

  “Before my . . . shameful behavior.”

  He caught her hand in his. “I thought we’d already discussed that and put it aside.”

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And before your brother’s passing.” Her eyes gazed earnestly into his. “You were only a simple vicar, not a future baronet.”

  “I am still only a simple vicar.” He patted the letter in his pocket. “In fact, I have been offered a living in Reading, and I must inform the bishop forthwith of my reply.”

  Her eyes widened, and for a moment they glowed. He was heartened that she seemed pleased by his appointment. Her words confirmed this. “That’s wonderful. Will you be able to accept—I mean, with your new situation in life?”

  “I think so. My father is healthy. I don’t expect him to expire anytime soon,” he quipped, though his tone immediately sobered. “It’s true I didn’t expect Harold to succumb so quickly, but he had lived a rather dissipated life for quite some time, so despite his looks, I think his body was weakened.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He took in a breath. “But as for my father, I have no reason to suppose he shall not be lord of his manor for many years. I do not believe he will object to my accepting this living in the meantime. It’s a large church—that can only help train me to manage a large property someday.”

  “You don’t feel reluctant to be a landlord one day?” she asked slowly.

  “It is not what I would have wished.” He clasped his hands loosely between his knees, trying to formulate an honest reply. “I have spent many hours in prayer and in the Scriptures since my brother’s death—to try and understand why this change in my family’s circumstances. I felt called into ministry and now it is as if that has been pulled out from under me.

  “I find it hard to accept that the Lord would take me from that, first by ending my career in India, and now by making it clear that my ministry here in England will not be a permanent call. But, I have come to an acceptance of whatever the Lord has for me to do. I can be a minister of the gospel in whatever role—be it vicar, landowner, member of the House of Commons, as long as I am true to my convictions.”

  When he risked looking at her, she nodded slowly as if processing what he was saying.

  To his surprise, she reached out a hand and covered his clasped ones. He sat still, afraid to frighten her away.

  She took a deep breath. “I am honored by your proposal.”

  He held his breath, anticipating a refusal.

  “I should be happy to accept—”

  His heart soared until he heard her next words.

  “But for two things.”

  “Which are?” He felt he was waiting on the edge of a cliff ready for someone to push him off into the abyss.

  She moistened her lips, and he remembered the taste of them. “First—and most importantly—I wish you were not to be your father’s heir. I hate the thought that you might think I am disposed to marry you now because of what you may inherit and not because of who you are.”

  Her words brought a burst of feeling in his chest. “I wish there was something I could do to reassure you, but I cannot change my circumstances.”

  “I know,” she whispered with a sad smile.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t believe you are marrying me for my future position.”

  “Thank you. But what makes you so sure?”

  He faltered, finding it hard to put into words. It would sound presumptuous of him to claim he knew what was in her heart. “The person I have gotten to know in London is not a person who would marry because of a man’s position in society. You are the product of the two fine people who have raised you. You are a sweet, dear woman with strong principles of right and wrong.”

  Her sad smile returned. “Are you sure you are describing me? It would seem my actions were not those of someone with strong principles.”

  “We all fall at times. I have not been free of all sin since surrendering my life to my Lord.”

  She seemed content with his words.

  “And your second reason?”

  She took a deep breath and looked away from him. “I fear to cause a breach between you and your parents. I cannot believe they will accept me as your choice for bride. You can have anyone you wish.”

  “And I wish you.” He took her hand in his. “They will be so happy that I am finally marrying that they will be very pleased to accept my choice. They have already met you and approved of you.”

  She didn’t return his smile. “What if they don’t like me upon further acquaintance? I doubt they will think me good enough for their only son.”

  A wave of sadness at the description of “only son” passed over him. “They used to be very high in the instep.” He smiled ruefully. “When Harold entered society, they examined the pedigree and portion of every young lady on the marriage mart that season. Only a handful of young ladies qualified.”

  “You prove my point.”

  “I said used to.” His smile deepened, his thumb tracing a pattern against the back of her hand. “Since Harold married Rosamunde, a young lady of impeccable pedigree and sizable portion, and who proved barren after a decade of marriage, they have altered their views.”

  He glanced at her figure. “Forgive my indelicacy, but now they will only be concerned about your capabilities for breeding.”

  “Oh!” Color flooded her cheeks. “I see. But . . . how can they tell?” />
  He pursed his lips, continuing to eye her. “I haven’t a clue.”

  She shifted away from him as if trying to hide from his scrutiny.

  “I beg your pardon,” he hastened, realizing how indelicate he was being and averting his gaze. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “What if I don’t . . . measure up . . . in their estimation?”

  He shrugged, offering a reassuring smile. “It doesn’t matter. Any future heirs are completely in God’s hands. What matters is my love for you.” He paused, his heart in his throat, gauging her reaction to his declaration. “And yours for me.”

  Instead of giving him the words he longed to hear, she returned to the issue of children. “But what if we . . . were to—ahem—marry and . . . a few years later, I were to prove like your sister-in-law?”

  “I shouldn’t worry too much. The Bible says that children are a blessing of God, and I trust His goodness and grace toward us in that area. But children or not, it won’t change my love for you.”

  Her eyelashes swept down over her eyes. A few seconds later, she looked straight ahead of her, off into the meadow, and said quietly, “Thank you. It does reassure me.”

  Any disappointment he felt that she didn’t acknowledge or return his declaration of love, he didn’t let show. Instead, he rose and held out his hand to her. “I’m glad. Come, I should get you back.”

  As he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and walked back along the path homeward, he said, “I hope you will think about my proposal and be able to give me a reply before I leave.”

  She glanced at him. “You are leaving?”

  He nodded. “I must. My father and mother need me there for the time being. I must give the bishop a reply and make arrangements to take up my post in Reading.”

  She turned and focused on the path before them. “Would you mind very much if I waited until you have gotten your parents’ permission to marry me?” She turned to him, as if a new thought were occurring to her. “Have you spoken to my father?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I spoke to him the day I arrived.”

  Her eyes widened. “He hasn’t said a word to me!”

  “He didn’t seem at all surprised by my request. I wish you were as accepting as he and your mother.”