As You Are

by Eden, Sarah M.

  “I will answer that before I go, ma’am,” Mrs. Henderson said, sticking her head back inside the sitting room.

  “Thank you.” Clara’s heart hammered once more. She exchanged a knowing look with Mrs. Henderson. Check first. Mrs. Henderson nodded her understanding. The kindhearted lady didn’t know exactly why Clara was so careful of any new arrivals, but she obliged her in taking a moment to identify visitors.

  In the next moment, the gentleman she’d invited stood in the doorway. He was intimidating and unfamiliar, but she wasn’t truly afraid of him. Not yet. Clara was tall for a woman, but he was taller. It never ceased to amaze her that his hair was precisely the color of a polished guinea. Clara’s hair was quite plainly brown. This man’s was pure gold.

  Shaking off the thought, Clara rose, as did the Whittles.

  “Would you be so good, Mr. Whittle,” Clara addressed the vicar, “as to perform an introduction? I fear this gentleman and I have not had the opportunity to be appropriately introduced.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Mr. Whittle spoke with his usual broad smile. “Mrs. Bentford, may I present Mr. Jonquil of Havenworth.”

  Havenworth? The impressive estate just west of Ivy Cottage? Edmund insisted on stopping whenever they walked past to watch the many horses there. Havenworth, she had heard, was a horse-breeding farm and a highly successful one at that.

  Clara curtsied as was expected, though she didn’t cross any closer to him. Men were best dealt with from a distance. Even Mr. Whittle, who had proven himself harmless time and again, would have set her on edge if he didn’t always come with his wife.

  Mr. Jonquil executed a very proper bow. He looked displeased, his eyes surveying the room. Under his arm, he held a prayer book—Clara’s, no doubt. He appeared to be muttering to himself.

  Might as well attend to the business at hand, Clara told herself. “I have your prayer book just over here, Mr. Jonquil.” She crossed to an end table near the fireplace, picked up the book, and turned, bracing herself to find him uncomfortably close. Mr. Jonquil, however, had not wandered an inch from the doorway.

  A strange gentleman, to be sure. Clara returned to where he stood and held the book out to him. “Thank you again for inventing a means of escape for us.”

  Mr. Jonquil nodded and traded books with her.

  “Escape?” Mr. Whittle asked, standing nearby.

  “The congregation descended upon us as we left the chapel on Sunday,” Clara explained, turning toward the vicar.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Whittle replied. “They do have a tendency to do that. Overly curious if you ask me.”

  “I would not mind for myself,” Clara lied—was it particularly wrong to lie in front of a vicar? “But it does unsettle Edmund.” That, at least, was the truth.

  “And Mr. Jonquil provided you with an escape route?” Mr. Whittle asked.

  “Yes.” Clara looked once more at Mr. Jonquil. He still appeared entirely unhappy to be at Ivy Cottage. That tendency in her to prickle up, the very character trait her father had often warned her against, came to the surface once more. With a hint of cheek, she added, “Though I am afraid he did so by means of a most desperate lie. Having uttered such a glaring falsehood on the hallowed ground of the churchyard, I am quite certain Mr. Jonquil has compromised his salvation and has condemned himself to an eternity of torment and suffering. There is, I fear, no hope for him.”

  Clara glanced at Mr. Jonquil out of the corner of her eye, wondering what his reaction might be. His eyes continued wandering about the room, but he was smiling. It was a handsome smile and might have been far more pleasant if he didn’t still appear so disapproving.

  “Was it worth it, sir?” Clara asked. “Trading your eternal reward for our momentary comfort?”

  “My father always said—insisted—that a good deed can make up for—No. Atone for . . .” The sentence dangled unfinished as Mr. Jonquil’s mouth set in a stern line.

  “‘Absolve sin,’” Mr. Whittle finished for Mr. Jonquil. “The words of Peter, I believe.”

  “And Mr. Jonquil’s father, apparently,” Clara replied. “Is your father a man of the cloth as well?”

  “Mr. Jonquil’s father was the Earl of Lampton,” Mr. Whittle answered for Mr. Jonquil, a look of near amazement on the vicar’s face. “Mr. Jonquil’s oldest brother now holds the title.”

  He hails from the aristocracy? It was little wonder, then, the man was so decidedly unimpressed with Clara’s very humble dwelling.

  “Forgive me for speaking so lightly of your father,” Clara said, regretting her moment of cheek. “Especially in light of your loss.”

  Mr. Jonquil only nodded, his mouth drawn more tightly, a sure sign of discomfort and disapproval.

  A moment of awkward silence passed while Clara chided herself. “Won’t you please come in, Mr. Jonquil,” Clara invited. A man’s temper could be cooled by a satisfied stomach. “You must take your tea before it becomes cold.”

  He quite obviously hesitated.

  “Do come sit with us, Mr. Jonquil,” Mrs. Whittle added her weight to the invitation.

  After another moment of apparent mental debate, Mr. Jonquil moved farther inside the room. He could have at least affected a look of approval. Perhaps he wished to make his displeasure clear.

  Clara sat beside the tea tray and began pouring out for her guests. Mr. Jonquil chose a seat a little removed from the others, at Clara’s small writing desk.

  Not very sociable, Clara thought to herself. The observation proved prophetic. Despite the efforts of the Whittles and herself, Mr. Jonquil said very little and occupied himself, after rather quickly consuming a cup of tea, with sharpening the quills lying on the writing desk. He appeared to constantly mutter silently to himself.

  Clara no longer worried about Mr. Jonquil’s intentions. He obviously felt her far enough beneath his touch as to be completely unworthy of notice. It was both a stinging setdown and a tremendous relief. She far preferred a gentleman who disregarded her to a gentleman who was in relentless pursuit.

  Chapter Three

  Corbin rode back to Havenworth, his mind whirling. Mrs. Bentford had been a pleasant surprise. Her manners were impeccable; that much he had anticipated. He hadn’t expected her obvious wit and intelligence. Mr. Whittle had casually mentioned the renewed war on the Continent, and Mrs. Bentford, unlike many in England, had a grasp of the intricacies of the situation with Napoleon and the implications of continued conflict after two decades of war.

  He’d discovered she had a sense of humor. And after speaking lightly of Corbin’s late father, Mrs. Bentford had immediately offered her apologies and sympathies, which seemed to indicate she was also compassionate.

  It was, of course, a great deal to assume after a single call lasting less than thirty minutes, one in which he hadn’t said more than a handful of words. He’d wanted to. He’d rehearsed a few things, both before arriving and as he’d sat in her sitting room. What little he’d managed had come out too uncertainly, too quietly.

  From the moment he’d stepped into Mrs. Bentford’s sitting room and seen her amazing eyes turn toward him, Corbin had been unable to do much beyond stand—or sit, as it were—and try to avoid making a further idiot of himself. He’d seldom been so uncomfortable, so lacking in self-assurance. Every intelligent observation he’d mentally scripted had fled from his mind.

  There had to be a means of improving the impression he’d made, something he might say or do the next time they were in company with each other that would show he was not a bumbling idiot or a simpleton.

  Ivy Cottage sat only a mile from Havenworth, tucked behind a copse of trees. Corbin hardly had time to reflect on his visit before arriving home, and the sight that met him at Havenworth’s portico immediately shifted his thoughts.

  Corbin recognized the Jonquil family arms emblazoned on the door of the traveling carriage sitting in front of his house. The earl’s coronet included in the arms identified the carriage’s owner as his eldest brother,
Philip, the Earl of Lampton.

  Corbin dismounted, allowing Johnny from the stables to lead Elf away. He took the stairs quickly, feeling his smile grow. He nodded to Simmons, the butler, as the man opened the door to allow Corbin inside.

  “They are in the sitting room, Mr. Jonquil,” Simmons informed him.

  He headed directly there, looking forward to seeing his brother again.

  “I believe I shall find myself a tartan waistcoat, my dear,” Philip was saying when Corbin reached the sitting room door. “No point standing out among the local population.”

  “Then you had best hope the local population are horribly bruised, Philip,” his wife, Sorrel, replied. “Because if you begin sporting an even more ridiculous wardrobe than you already wear, I will beat you with my walking stick.”

  Not what one would expect to hear from a newlywed couple, and yet Corbin was not the least surprised. And as he fully expected, both his brother and new sister-in-law were smiling at each other, sitting beside each other on a settee, completely oblivious to Corbin’s presence in the doorway.

  “Perhaps not the tartan, then,” Philip conceded.

  “We may expunge the dandy out of you yet,” Sorrel said.

  “That is quite an undertaking, Sorrel.” He leaned closer to her, one eyebrow raised.

  “Philip.” She half laughed, half scolded as he leaned ever closer.

  “Yes, my dear?” Philip kissed her quickly.

  “Suppose Corbin were to walk in suddenly?” Sorrel pushed him back a little with her hand.

  “He would be pleased to see you haven’t murdered me yet.” Philip leaned back at her continued insistence.

  “Surprised, perhaps,” Sorrel answered.

  Corbin stepped back out of the sitting room. It would have been terribly awkward to have entered while the couple was talking about him. He waited a moment before reentering.

  “There you are, Corbin,” Philip said.

  Corbin nodded, his usual greeting. He offered Sorrel a bow.

  “We’ve come to brighten your day, brother.” Philip smiled. Sorrel seemed to roll her eyes. “Bring a little color.”

  Philip gave the immediate impression of a dandy, a man with little but fashion and nonsense on his mind. Corbin knew better, as did all of the Jonquil brothers, save one. Jason, Corbin’s twin, found Philip and his posturing annoying and made a point of making his feelings obvious. Corbin did not know why Philip had adopted the mannerisms he had. But since falling in love with the lady who was now his wife, Philip had begun showing signs of returning to the intelligent, thoughtful gentleman who had resided just below the surface for years.

  “Simmons said you were away from Havenworth,” Sorrel said.

  “I was visiting. A neighbor.” Corbin explained his absence.

  Philip seemed surprised. Corbin did tend to keep to himself, not being very skilled as a conversationalist and always feeling a little out of his element in company. His one attempt at a Season in Town had been painfully awkward for everyone involved. Philip had never suggested Corbin try again.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me”—Sorrel awkwardly rose to her feet, hand clutching an ebony wood walking stick—“I would appreciate lying down for a time.”

  “Of course.” Philip walked with his wife to the door of the sitting room and kissed her on the cheek before she disappeared through the doorway.

  “She seems to be in pain—in more pain than before,” Corbin said.

  “Traveling makes her stiff.” Philip still watched through the open door as his wife made her way up the stairs to the guest chambers above. There was less and less of the mindless fop in his tone. Corbin liked seeing again the brother he’d known growing up. “We’ve come from London, you know.”

  Corbin would have expected Philip to stop at the family seat, a mere fifteen miles from Havenworth.

  “We received word from Dr. MacAslon, a surgeon in Edinburgh,” Philip said, crossing back to the settee he had occupied before. “He and a colleague have been discussing Sorrel’s leg, and he thinks he can help her. We are going directly to Scotland.”

  That was decidedly good news. From what Corbin understood of the new Countess of Lampton’s history, she’d been severely injured by a rampaging horse a few years earlier and was plagued by continued pain, difficulty walking, and recurrent infections. It would relieve Philip’s mind to have his wife’s pain alleviated in any way possible.

  “I hope you don’t mind putting us up for the night,” Philip continued. Sorrel truly had proven a sobering influence for her husband. Corbin approved of the change. “Sorrel needs to rest.”

  Corbin answered with a nod, though he wondered again why they hadn’t stopped at their own home.

  Philip briefly smiled his gratitude, but his expression remained far too grim. Corbin took a seat nearby and watched him closely. Philip almost never allowed his worry to show. Even after their father died, Philip, at only eighteen and left with the weight of a large family and estate on his shoulders, had come across as unfailingly confident and assured.

  He seemed to notice Corbin’s scrutiny and chuckled a little. “I’ve turned into a doting husband, haven’t I? It will be the next trend, you realize. Husbands throughout the ton will waste away, worrying over their wives.”

  Marriages in the ton were too often based on mutual apathy and seldom included doting in any form. If anyone could set a trend, however, it would be Philip. The Earl of Lampton, though generally lauded as not entirely intelligent, did have a sense of fashion just eccentric enough to be famous.

  Philip’s smile and humor faded. “It will be a difficult surgery.” His brows furrowed in concern. “And terribly painful. Her leg will have to be broken again and reset. Though she is going to great lengths to hide it, Sorrel is nervous. And there is no guarantee the operation will be successful.”

  “Can I do anything?” Corbin offered, realizing he likely could do nothing but wishing otherwise.

  “Actually, yes.” Philip straightened and resumed the air of an earl and a man in control of every situation. “I do not plan to bring Sorrel back until I am certain she has fully recovered. We could be in Scotland for a month or more. Layton and Marion will be in Derbyshire for at least another week. And Stanley just left for Tallow to rejoin his regiment, thanks to Napoleon’s escape from Elba.” Philip rose and began pacing. “Jason, no doubt, won’t budge from Town, regardless of the motivation.” Philip shook his head.

  Why is it that Philip and Jason don’t get along? Corbin wondered for not the first time.

  “Harry, despite being a new cleric, is still relatively young,” Philip said. “And Charlie is only seventeen.”

  Seventeen—only a year younger than Philip had been when Father died.

  “I am leaving behind a family in need of looking after,” Philip said. “Sorrel, despite her insistence otherwise, will need my attention during her recovery. Layton ought to be permitted time with his new bride. So I need you to take charge of things while I’m away. Check on Mater now and then. Make sure Charlie isn’t giving her too much grief. She’ll have Caroline with her at the Park while Layton is gone, so she’ll be run ragged as it is.”

  Corbin nodded his consent. Havenworth was an easy distance from Lampton Park. He knew he could be spared now and then.

  “I will feel more at ease knowing you are nearby to help with the family in my absence.”

  “I would do whatever—would do anything for—” The words weren’t coming out right.

  Philip seemed to understand the avowal Corbin couldn’t manage to get out intact. “I too would do anything in the world for this family.” Philip gave him a look that told him, beyond any doubt, that he had sacrificed more for his brothers and Mater than any of them realized.

  Corbin couldn’t remember Philip ever turning to him for assistance with anything. Layton or Jason, even, had more often been the brothers looked to in difficulty. Corbin liked the idea that Philip trusted him—Philip, who had pulled the J
onquil family through the death of their father, had held them together through countless difficulties in the years since.

  “I’ll look in on Mater,” Corbin promised.

  “Thank you.” Philip immediately looked relieved. Then he smiled the way he always did when he was up to some mischief. “How are things in the neighborhood, Corbin?”

  Why did Philip seem to find that question so amusing? Corbin shrugged a reply.

  “You were visiting a neighbor, you said,” Philip went on. “Anyone in particular?”

  Corbin couldn’t hold back a smile. Philip could be remarkably pointed. “Mrs. Bentford,” Corbin answered quietly.

  “And Mr. Bentford?” Philip asked, studying his fingernails.

  Corbin didn’t answer but looked away.

  “It is she, isn’t it?” A hint of excitement entered Philip’s voice. “She is the lady you mentioned to Layton.”

  “He told you?” Corbin shifted uncomfortably.

  “Corbin.” Philip chuckled. “You have never once in your twenty-five years shown the slightest interest in a female, except when you were six and were in love with Bridget Sarvol for a few months, until you found out she didn’t like horses. Of course Layton told me.”

  He heard no pity or laughter in Philip’s voice.

  “So have you finally been introduced to Mrs. . . . Bentford, was it?”

  Corbin nodded.

  “And?” Philip pressed.

  It didn’t go well. But Corbin didn’t express the thought out loud.

  “What did you talk about?”

  Corbin cringed inwardly. Talk about? Corbin had never held an actual conversation with a virtual stranger. His business dealings were conducted as much as possible in writing.

  “Oh, lud.” Philip chuckled, apparently realizing his error. “You must have done something. I can’t imagine the two of you simply sitting in silence for the space of an afternoon call.”

  “Tea,” Corbin answered. “With the vicar. And his wife.”

  “And during tea you . . . ?” Philip attempted to lead the conversation.