As You Are

by Eden, Sarah M.

“Cut her quills,” Corbin answered under his breath.

  “Cut quills?” Philip answered with obvious disbelief.

  “They needed cutting.” They’d been terribly dull. He’d wanted to do something helpful.

  “So now she is probably convinced you were bored out of your mind.” Philip shook his head.

  “Truly?” Corbin felt uneasy all over again.

  “Truly,” Philip insisted.

  Corbin rose to his feet, making his way tensely to the windows of the sitting room. Did Mrs. Bentford think he’d been bored? Or unhappy? Nervous, yes. But there was a vast deal of enjoyment to be had just watching Mrs. Bentford as she went about her duties as hostess. Her grace and smile had been entrancing. Listening to her conversation had been captivating.

  No, he hadn’t been bored or unhappy in the least.

  “Or she may simply forget you were at her home in the first place.” Philip did not particularly ease Corbin’s mind.

  He certainly didn’t want Mrs. Bentford to be as oblivious to his existence as she had heretofore been. “What do I do now?” Corbin asked no one in particular.

  “Make your presence known,” Philip suggested, joining him at the window.

  Corbin looked at him. What does he mean by that?

  “Sorrel and I did not get along when we first met,” Philip said. Corbin smiled—that was certainly true. “But I guarantee she didn’t overlook me. Catching a lady’s eye is half the battle, brother.”

  “Just . . . just getting her attention?” It seemed too simple.

  “Once she’s noticed you, she’s more likely to fall head-over-heels for you. That will never happen if you blend into the wall.”

  “How?” Corbin had never captured anyone’s attention before.

  Philip grinned.

  Corbin got the sudden impression he would not like whatever was tossing around in Philip’s head.

  Chapter Four

  The congregation grew unusually talkative just before Mr. Whittle began his sermon. Something had set the citizens of Grompton chattering, but Clara couldn’t say what.

  “They sound like bees,” Edmund whispered to her not long after the conversations around them began.

  Clara smiled back at him. “They certainly do.”

  As the vicar’s sermon continued, a feeling of barely suppressed energy filled the air as if the worshipers were anxious to get on with their discussions.

  Alice had, once again, taken it upon herself to entertain Mr. Jonquil. Clara had noticed him behind them—his head of molten gold was difficult to miss. She’d hardly needed to turn her head. The briefest of glances in his direction had identified him.

  He had acted so strangely at tea a few days earlier. It seemed as if he couldn’t quit Ivy Cottage and her company fast enough. While Clara didn’t want to be warding off a suitor, she didn’t appreciate being looked down on either.

  The moment Mr. Whittle closed his remarks and the services ended, the conversations erupted again. What was everyone talking about?

  Clara guided the children from the chapel, hoping that whatever occupied the neighborhood would continue to do so until they could make good their escape. There would be no prayer-book ruse to rescue her this week, and she truly did not wish to be accosted. Her life and her past were for her alone and were not open to the evaluation of the curious.

  Only a few steps from the door of the chapel, Alice pulled free of Clara’s grip and ran around the edge of the pressing crowd. So unexpected was Alice’s defection that Clara lost a few precious moments in stunned surprise before she and Edmund followed Alice’s path. The girl had managed to weave a bit into the crowd, making following her a little tricky.

  “Mrs. Bentford,” a cringe-inducing voice greeted her.

  She did not stop to converse.

  Mr. Finley was often in Grompton. She had seen him importune more than one woman, preferring, as near as she could tell, those whose situations or personalities made them most vulnerable. Despite her best efforts, he had somehow sensed that in her. He followed her about if they were ever in Grompton at the same time, and he tracked her down after church when he attended. She only hoped his attentions would never go beyond bothersome.

  Clara continued navigating the crowd, attempting to follow the path Alice had taken, unwilling to call out to the child and draw extra attention from those who were far too busy gossiping to take much notice of her. All she wanted, all she’d ever wanted, was to be left alone.

  “Mrs. Bentford.” Mr. Finley caught up with her once more, stepping in her line of progress and effectively stopping her in her tracks.

  She forced herself to remain calm. He was too forward, too sure of himself, and too often threw himself in her way. But thus far he’d not gone beyond that. He had never raised a hand to her, hadn’t taken to verbal threats. In that respect, he was better than any of the other men who had ever been part of her life.

  “You are blocking my path,” Clara told him calmly.

  Edmund took refuge behind her, clutching her hand the way he did when he was worried or afraid. How Clara wished the boy had a role model, someone to teach him how to be a man, but a good one.

  Mr. Finley doffed his tall beaver hat and smiled quite handsomely. Behind the benign expression, though, was the very clear belief that she should be falling at his feet, flattered at his attentions. He was too arrogant by half. “I only wished to give you good day,” he said.

  “Good day.” Clara returned the greeting as a farewell and moved quickly around him, Edmund clinging to her like a bat to the eaves.

  “I do not like him,” Edmund whispered to her.

  “Neither do I.” Why couldn’t the world just leave her be?

  “There is Alice.” Edmund pointed ahead of them.

  Clara followed his gesture and, sure enough, saw Alice, hands clasped to her mouth, laughing. Her tiny giggles gave way to fits of uncontrolled laughter.

  “Alice,” Clara called out to her.

  Alice spun at the sound and, still laughing, toddled back to her. Clara knelt on the ground before her. “You know you are not to run off, dearest.”

  “So funny.” Alice sputtered through her fingers.

  “Dearest.” Clara attempted to chide the wayward girl, but Alice’s laughter had infected Edmund. In the next moment, Clara laughed herself, though she was at a loss to explain why. “Just what, Alice, is so funny?”

  “Mister,” she answered through another sputter.

  “Mister?”

  “Funny.”

  “And who is Mr. Funny?” Clara asked, her own laughter impossible to hold back now. Alice had a laugh that instantly sent others into fits of hysteria.

  “Mr. Jonquil, I believe.” Mr. Finley’s voice answered the question.

  Why couldn’t the infuriating man simply take his leave?

  “Yes,” Mr. Finley continued. “Mr. Jonquil can, at this moment, only be described as excessively funny.”

  Clara looked up at that, not at Mr. Finley but in the direction from which Alice had only just come. Mr. Jonquil stood there but not at all as she remembered him. When he had come for tea, he had been quite appropriately inconspicuous in his appearance, his clothing the subdued colors considered quite suitable for a gentleman. Indeed, his dress had always been unexceptional.

  But there, in the churchyard, stood Mr. Jonquil, clad in a severely cut coat in a surprising shade of bright blue, paired with a waistcoat of orange-and-blue stripes. His watch chain must have held a half dozen fobs. His shirt points all but eliminated the line of his jaw.

  “Mr. Funny.” Alice giggled. Edmund laughed as well.

  Clara only barely managed to bite down an answering laugh but could not keep a smile from reaching her face. He really did look utterly absurd, and Alice’s infectious laugh was not helping.

  Mr. Jonquil’s look became instantly tenser, his brows knit, mouth turned down in a frown. Clara wanted to laugh simply at the sourness of his expression but found she could not.

/>   “It appears, Jonquil, you have been taking lessons from your brother.” Mr. Finley chuckled the way children did when taunting their playmates. “You look every bit as ridiculous as Lampton does on a daily basis.”

  The tenseness around Mr. Jonquil’s mouth increased with each word Mr. Finley spoke. Clara felt unexpectedly compelled to speak up, regardless of how ridiculous Mr. Jonquil actually looked. She despised bullies.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Finley,” she said. “I do believe Mr. Jonquil looks very well in blue. A man with brown eyes, for example, would look quite unhandsome in such a vivid color.”

  As Mr. Finley’s eyes were decidedly brown, he seemed to bristle at this remark. Clara kept her expression as innocent as possible until the frustrating man took himself off. She felt a moment of triumph at that.

  She turned to offer her apologies to Mr. Jonquil for Alice’s unfortunate fit of hilarity, but when she glanced back in his direction, she saw him in the lane just beyond the churchyard, mounting his horse.

  He had offered not so much as a “by your leave” or a “farewell.” Certainly an unsociable gentleman. Perhaps he simply disdained to socialize with his neighbors. The son of an earl was, no doubt, accustomed to much higher company than that found in Grompton. He might not have appreciated her defense of him, but Clara fully meant to be proud of herself. There was once a time she would have cowered in silence.

  “Come along, children,” she said. “I believe Suzie will be making sweet biscuits this afternoon. We don’t want to arrive too late to help her clean the spoon.”

  That set the children to nearly running. Clara’s longer legs made keeping up with them a simple task. She found she had a great deal of time to think over the morning as they wound their way down the lanes leading west from Grompton.

  She no longer wondered at the whispers that had echoed off the chapel walls and around the churchyard. Mr. Jonquil generally blended into his surroundings. She herself probably would not have noticed him if he didn’t sit behind them week after week. If she was being completely honest, his golden halo of hair drew her attention more often than it ought. That morning, however, his attire had drawn the attention of all the town.

  What had brought about so odd a choice of clothing? It didn’t suit him, despite what she’d told Mr. Finley. Clara felt a hot flush spread quickly across her face. That wasn’t entirely true. The color perfectly suited him. His eyes were certainly blue—another thing about him she couldn’t help noticing—but the blue of his coat had rendered them breathtaking.

  “Can we stop, please?” Edmund asked, pulling on her hand.

  Clara jumped from her thoughts and looked around, momentarily disoriented. They were not far from the turnoff to Ivy Cottage and were standing at the edge of Havenworth property. Clara followed Edmund’s eager eyes toward the enclosed field. Several gorgeous horses capered about, manes furrowing as they bounded and jumped. Clara appreciated the pleasant picture they made. Edmund, however, stood positively mesmerized.

  “I wish I had a horse,” Edmund whispered, leaning against the fence. “I would be a good rider, I know it.”

  Her heart squeezed at the longing in his voice. When did Edmund ever ask for anything? He willingly went about his studies. He watched out for Alice. The poor boy had endured Mr. Bentford.

  All he ever wished for was a horse.

  Clara could not begin to afford one. She forced down the lump that formed in her throat. “Someday, Edmund,” she promised him, squeezing his overly slender shoulders. “Someday you will have your horse.”

  They watched the graceful animals for Clara knew not how long. By the time she pulled Edmund away from the sight, Alice had fallen asleep in her arms. Edmund continued their journey but reluctantly so, despite the promise of biscuits.

  There had to be a way, Clara told herself. There had to be a way to give Edmund the only thing he’d ever wanted.

  * * *

  If they only ate three times a week, it might be possible. Clara laid her quill on the writing desk beside the sheet of parchment that contained her calculations. Two days had passed since Edmund had stood wistfully at the Havenworth fence.

  She’d gone into Grompton that afternoon after the children had finished their lessons and had inquired after the price of various aspects of keeping a horse: shoeing, a saddle, bridle, feed. Without even taking into account the purchase price of such an animal, nor the cost of stabling—either constructing a stable at Ivy Cottage or paying to have the animal stabled elsewhere—she hadn’t the means to keep so much as a pony, let alone a horse Edmund could grow in to.

  She exhaled a quick puff of breath and rose from the desk, crossing the sitting room to the tall eastern windows. The sun had long since set, and the children were sleeping in their rooms above. Even Suzie had retired for the night, leaving Clara the sole member of the household still awake. She looked through the windows into the darkness outside.

  Dear, sweet Edmund.

  “There has to be a way to secure a mount for the boy,” Clara told herself yet again.

  Far into the dark night a light shimmered, no doubt flickering through the many windows of Havenworth, too distant for details but near enough for the light to be seen. That estate must have seemed the very picture of heaven to young Edmund. It was a beautiful home, small when compared to the grand estates of the aristocracy but far too grand to be labeled “quaint” as Ivy Cottage was. The grounds were lush, the trees near the house tall and majestic. Havenworth’s stables were at least as expansive as the house itself—home to quite a number of fine horses and ponies.

  One of the distant lights extinguished. Havenworth was turning in for the night. Did Mr. Jonquil realize she could see his home from Ivy Cottage? She imagined not. He certainly had more important things to do with his time. He’d made that abundantly clear during his afternoon call the week before.

  Clara leaned against the window frame. If she thought on the problem long enough, surely a solution would present itself.

  Edmund had inherited an income from his late father. Most of that would not come to him until he reached his majority, some fourteen years down the road. In the meantime, the boy received a quarterly stipend, enough that, were she to tap deeply into the account, they could live more comfortably than they were. Clara, however, was determined not to use a single halfpenny more than she absolutely had to. That money was all he had to secure his future and allow him to attend Eton without the degradation of doing so as a charity student. Despite their straitened circumstances, Edmund had something to fall back on. Alice didn’t even have that.

  She would one day require a dowry if she ever meant to marry. A dowry did not guarantee marital happiness, Clara knew well, but she would not force Alice into a life of misery for the sake of connections or family pride. She valued her children’s happiness above such things. So if Alice never met anyone she could trust enough to treat her with kindness and respect, she would need an income to live on. Here was yet another expense Clara was ill-prepared to meet.

  The dowry could wait. But Edmund really ought to learn to ride. She simply could not think of a way to accomplish the feat.

  The last light at Havenworth extinguished, bathing the countryside in black. Only the single candle lit in the sitting room broke the darkness. She took the candle and slowly made her way up the stairs to her room. She undressed methodically, her mind heavy, and sat on the edge of her bed in her warm, flannel nightdress, her bare toes cold in the chilly night air.

  She blew out the candle and lay back on her pillow. She had her faults, heaven knew, but she had always been determined. Somehow, she would give her children what they deserved.

  She just simply had no idea how.

  Chapter Five

  Philip and Sorrel had reached Scotland and would be meeting with Dr. MacAslon in a few days’ time. Not an ounce of the frustration Corbin felt with his eldest brother abated as he read the letter that had only just arrived. Five days had passed since the episode at c
hurch.

  “You need to catch her eye,” Philip had said. “Stand out from the crowd,” he’d insisted.

  Corbin, like a dolt, had gone along with the entire harebrained idea. He and Philip were of a size, similar enough in build for Corbin to borrow a few items of clothing. Years spent at the stables, working as hard as any of his stable hands, had given Corbin a little more mass than his brother, rendering the attire more form-fitting than it was on Philip. But, Philip assured him, a tight fit was considered quite stylish in Town.

  Philip had been right on one count. Mrs. Bentford had certainly noticed him. If the fits of laughter she and her children had burst into upon first sight of him were any indication, he had certainly stood out. And he hadn’t failed to notice the rest of the congregation taking note of the ridiculous picture he’d made. Corbin couldn’t remember the last time Mr. Whittle had been required to stand at the pulpit for so long waiting for the chapel to quiet down.

  When Philip came back from Scotland, Corbin was going to kill him.

  He dropped the letter onto his desk and leaned back in his chair, spinning his sealing stamp in his hand. He’d made a complete and utter fool of himself, that much was certain. Half the stable staff had ribbed him over his mishap. He hadn’t yet returned to Grompton. He wasn’t sure he’d ever venture back.

  Eventually, he realized, he’d have to face her again. Mrs. Bentford was his neighbor. He could see Ivy Cottage from the windows of Havenworth.

  Corbin got to his feet and moved to the windows, passing his sealing stamp from one hand to the other as he thought. He’d simply wanted to capture her attention but not at all in the way he had. Perhaps he ought to think of a means of redeeming himself, making a better impression. Nothing came to mind.

  The door to the library opened. Corbin turned to see Simmons step inside.

  “Mrs. Bentford is here to see you, Mr. Jonquil,” the butler informed him.

  Corbin dropped the stamp.

  “On a matter of business,” Simmons clarified.

  “Mrs. Bentford?” he asked in shocked astonishment.