by Lara Archer
John sat up straighter, and looked his father’s old friend in the eye. “Miss Lawton is of course a charming and spirited young lady. With—with a…warm heart.” He had no idea, really, if Annabel Lawton even had a heart, but it seemed wisest to speak as if she did. “She might, perhaps, have formed…” What word would be appropriate, and not imply that the young lady was loose? Attachment? Fondness? “A...a preference of her own….For some particular gentleman?”
Spots of color rose on Lord Lawton’s cheeks, and his fingers tensed around his brandy glass. “If you are inquiring as to her chastity,” he said in a clipped, offended voice, “I can assure you that Annabel has always conducted herself according to the highest—”
“Oh! No, Lord Lawton! I have no doubts as to her conduct. Quite the opposite, in fact. I meant that, perhaps, out of a sense of duty and obligation, she might have forced herself to renounce any...liking she may have had for some other—”
“Lord Parkhurst!” Lawton said firmly. “Do not be absurd. Like all my daughters, she has lived her life almost in seclusion. And far more importantly, as you and I both know, my Annabel is not a lady for the common sort. Not even for the usual run of the nobility. She deserves the best of men. A man of true breeding, and the highest caliber of honor. The sort of gentleman only a peer like your father could raise.”
Guilt stabbed John’s gut. Nothing he could say now would make his actions any more acceptable to Lord Lawton, or to Society, or to his father’s memory. But he had to push forward with it. For Mary. “Sir,” he said, “you must know I hold your family in the very highest esteem, as did my father before me. Annabel is an exceptional young lady, beyond any doubt. However—”
Lawton’s eyes narrowed. The man was no fool. “If Annabel is not the match you seek,” he said, glowering like a thundercloud, “I have three daughters more.” The look in his eye very clearly said, and only the most shameless cad would dare reject them all.
“And all three are extraordinary as well. My admiration for them is complete. And, believe me, sir, my respect for you and for my father is absolute. I...I am well aware of the understanding between the two of you, made many years ago—”
“As well you should be!”
“But that is just the point. Your daughters and I were mere children, back then. Annabel was an infant. We could give no meaningful consent. And the world has changed greatly since those days. The modern ways of society—”
“Are an abomination to honorable men!” Lawton was red as a boiled lobster now. He slammed his brandy snifter on the side table, rattling the lamps. “Tradition. Tradition and tradition only forms the backbone of England. Our place is to uphold that tradition, to bind society together with the order and dignity and honor that have made our nation the greatest on this earth!
“Sir, I have no intention of destroying the backbone of—”
“Nonsense! That’s exactly what you’re suggesting! You think I was never young? You think I was never tempted to shape the world to my own youthful, foolish desires, to flout the wisdom of my own forbears? But I have learned better, from experience. The old ways—”
“Will never make your daughter happy!” There. That was what truly needed to be said, the very crux of the matter. “I do not love Annabel, and she does not love me. And I cannot see how the nation benefits from loveless marriages.”
Lawton’s eyes had gone wide in shock. “Such marriages join families together. They secure the lines of property, the ownership of land. If the young are permitted to follow their hearts helter-skelter, then the land will be splintered, the great family names dragged down into dirt! You may be too young to truly understand it, but you have a responsibility, boy!”
John stood. “I am no boy,” he said forcefully. “I am a man. And I will not be dictated to.”
Lawton stared at him in disbelief, his expression furious. “Enough!” His breathing rasped coarsely, and it seemed the very air might shatter with its force. “Call yourself what you will. You need say no more, Lord Parkhurst. I understand your meaning. I should not have thought I’d live to hear your father’s son say such things.”
Fury and shame combined shook John’s chest, but he held his ground.
Mary. He had to stand firm through this, or Mary could never be his.
Angry silence stretched between him and Lord Lawton for what seemed like an eternity. At long last, the older man’s breathing slowed, and the high color gradually receded from his face. He looked rather ashen, and much older than he had when they entered the study. “Very well,” he said, his words bitter, but slow and measured. “As you say, the modern world is what we must deal with now. And to hell with England.”
“England will survive well enough, sir, I am convinced.”
Lord Lawton regarded him with mournful, disappointed eyes. That look was far worse than the anger. “For the first time in my life,” he said, “I’m glad I have no son of my own. I could not bear to see him turn out as you have. Now get out, and let me contemplate how I shall break this scurrilous news to my daughters.”
The words pierced like a dart. But, truly, he knew that if those daughters were to have any hope of real happiness, there was no other way. “This will be for the best, sir,” he said, “for all of us. I promise you.”
“The scandal will be dreadful.”
“Surely it cannot be so very much. No formal contract was ever drawn up, no public announcement made. People will assume they jumped to conclusions, if they expected anything.”
Lawton shook his head grimly. “Easy for you to say. You’ll be thought a fine catch regardless, with your title and your money, but Annabel’s turned twenty now. Gentlemen will wonder what’s wrong with her, that she’s sat unclaimed so long.”
“No one could think such a thing, not of her. You said yourself that’s she an exceptional beauty. You’ll see—give her just one Season in Town, and she’ll be the toast of London.”
“If you’ve ruined her life, boy, you’ll pay for it, believe me.” Lord Lawton snatched up his glass again and drained the brandy in one gulp.
John could not resist taking a hasty sip of his own, if only to stop himself from saying something he’d regret.
Then Lord Lawton leaned back thoughtfully in his chair. The light of calculation gleamed briefly in his eyes. “I tell you what,” he said with great deliberation. “I’ll give you a day to think on your words, and come to your senses. I won’t tell my girls what you’ve said, not just yet.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“Maybe not. But maybe so. In the meantime, don’t say a word to Annabel at the dancing tonight. Promise me that, at least. I’ll wait a day, as I’ve said, and if you really are as stubborn a fool as you seem, I’ll tell her in my own way. Not that her heart won’t be broken, regardless.”
The tension in the room thickened, but there was no way around it. “All right. I’ll say nothing to anyone, for now. But you will need to tell your daughters tomorrow. And one day, when you see Annabel truly happy, you will know as surely as I do that this is the right thing. For her heart, as well as mine.”
“The right thing,” Lawton repeated flatly.
“It is, sir. And I hope one day you will understand.”
Lawton looked at him as if he were a slab of spoiled beef. “Oh, I understand you already, boy. I understand you very well.”
Nothing else John could say would make things any better. So nothing was left to do but bow civilly, then turn and walk away.
Heaviness hung on him as he left the house—he could scarcely help feeling his dead father’s disappointed gaze on his back.
But rising up from beneath that weight came a buoying feeling.
He knew what he’d done was for the best. He’d accomplished what had seemed all but impossible just a few hours before: he’d cut himself and the Lawton girls loose from the bond that had held them all fast almost since birth. And all it had taken was speaking honestly...and following his heart.
&n
bsp; Annabel Lawton had no more claim on him, nor he on her.
He was a free man.
And now maybe Mary would listen when he told her he loved her.
Chapter Nine
Mary lied about a headache to avoid the May Pole dancing, but no lies would be needed for the evening—as the sun began to set, she sat at the little dining room table staring into a steaming cup of tea, and felt like the sides of her skull would split. The day-long struggle to imagine a future in which she could be happy was not going well at all.
And her brother was clearly growing suspicious about the true nature of her ailment. Empathy was one of Thomas’s God-given gifts as a clergyman, and he seemed determined to exercise it on her now. “What’s wrong?” he asked, hovering over her. “You’ve never stayed away from the May Day celebrations in your life.”
She puffed a breath into the steam of her tea and watched it whirl.
What could she possibly tell him about the last few days? How could she explain why she felt so heavy and dull and empty inside? How she couldn’t even sip her tea because all she could think when she touched the teacup was how she’d held its now-smashed mate in slackening fingers while John pressed her up against the cupboard and kissed her senseless?
She tried a joke instead. “Maybe I’ve just become more serious and sober in my old age.”
Thomas laughed his cheerful laugh. “You’re three years younger than me! And if you don’t go, who’ll organize the rest of us? No one will know where to put the cakes and punch. The dancers will forget their steps and collide together, and the musicians will all be playing in different keys. You know everyone in the village depends on you, Mary.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. And then more ruefully, “I organized all the committees two months ago. Everything will go like clockwork.”
“All the more reason to attend, then—the hard work’s been done. You’re the one always telling me to go have some fun, and not let my preaching collar strangle me.”
She turned away from her teacup then and took her first really good look at her brother—and was startled. Lost in his books as he usually was, Thomas tended to ignore his physical existence. Most days, he looked rumpled, with his thick curls uncombed and his waistcoat buttoned askew, but this afternoon he’d groomed himself with unusual care.
He wore the new blue waistcoat and crisp linen shirt she’d sewed for him for Christmas, which he’d left in a drawer until now. His neckcloth was not only clean and starched, but neatly tied—a feat that must have taken him hours, since he hadn’t asked her to help him with it. His chestnut hair was carefully arranged, up off his forehead so the vivid blue of his eyes stood out brilliantly. He looked...straight-backed and strong, very much like their father. Handsome, even. Thomas really had gotten all the good looks in the family.
Under her sudden scrutiny, Thomas blushed and stared at his feet. Lord, even his shoes were polished. For a dance that was to take place at night.
“Please, Mary,” he said, an unfamiliar vulnerability in his voice. “I want you to enjoy yourself, but I confess I need you to help me as well. Don’t make me arrive at the assembly all alone. Not tonight. I find I need an ally.”
Thomas needed an ally? He was nervous? Amongst his own parishioners?
“What’s going on, Tom?” she asked. “Why are you all gussied up?”
Now he blew out his breath in what sounded suspiciously like a sigh.
Oh. “Thomas Edgar Wilkins,” she said, “Has some young lady caught your eye?
His blush deepened. “Hush. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if you spent time starching your own neckcloth! Tell me.” Mary’s heart began to lift a bit. She might be miserable, but maybe Thomas at least could end up happy. He certainly deserved to be. “Which young lady is it?”
“I’ve already told you, it’s nothing.” His mouth quirked, and an odd expression flickered in his eyes. “I mean, it’s no one appropriate. A lady who wouldn’t have me anyway, and who’d make a terrible wife for a man of my vocation.”
Great heavens—Thomas had been making his own inappropriate match? Whom did they know who’d make a terrible vicar’s wife? Lady Ellerby? Mrs. Trumbull? Or...
One of the beautiful, spoiled Lawton girls. Oh, dear.
Just how much had been going on inside her brother that she knew nothing about? Well, to be fair, he had no idea what she’d been doing with Viscount Parkhurst—and Viscount Parkhurst was the very definition of inappropriate. In more than one meaning of the word.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Thomas, with an attempt at his former cheer. “I can forget her. But I’ve set my mind to finding someone who is appropriate.”
Mary’s heart gave a squeeze. Lord knew, she didn’t want to go anywhere near Birchford Green tonight. But if anyone in this world ought to find love, it was her warm-hearted brother, and it wasn’t in her nature to abandon him when he needed her moral support.
It was just a country dance, after all. And, more importantly, this was her own village. She could scarcely live her life if she avoided all events that might include the viscount.
She patted her hair. She hadn’t coiled it into a tight bun after she came home this morning, just twisted it loosely with a fall of curls at the nape. Other young ladies would be wearing much the same style tonight.
Why shouldn’t she as well? Why shouldn’t she go and….dance? With any man willing to stand up with her.
Viscount Parkhurst wasn’t the only man in Birchford who had legs. Even if his were unusually long and well-muscled.
Today was the first of May, after all.
“Stay here,” she told her brother. She ran to her room and opened the little oak box her mother had left to her. She pulled out her one bit of finery—a small cameo suspended on a string of tiny seed pearls—and fastened it around her throat.
Her dress would have to do as it was. She’d already put on her stays and shift and petticoats when she came home from the forest. And no one would see the wrinkles in the lantern light.
Before she knew it, she and Thomas were walking down the lane between the vicarage and the church, headed for Birchford Green. The lovely promise of the morning had held all day, and the evening was as warm as everyone hoped, clear and dry, with balmy air. As the sun dropped below the horizon, gold and pink clouds streaked the sky, and the first bright stars appeared in the dome of deep cobalt blue above them.
The world held all the enchantment it had at dawn. Pure magic.
She studied Thomas out of the corner of her eye—he was scanning the crowd almost anxiously, his whole body tense. And as they approached the Green, Mary couldn’t help noticing that several young ladies, the moment they caught sight of him, stopped whatever else they were doing to simper prettily at him.
Well, goodness. Perhaps Tom’s interest in romance wasn’t quite as one-sided as he feared. Now that she thought about it, her brother had matured quite a bit in the past couple of years, finally shedding the gangliness of youth. He’d put on muscle walking and riding so far each day to visit his parishioners, often helping one repair an outbuilding, another build a stone wall—he was, after all, a loving pastor to his flock, one who did charitable works as naturally as breathing.
And if the charitable work broadened his shoulders and bronzed his skin, the local maidens could hardly be blamed for noticing. From the looks of things, Mary would be moving down to the housekeeper’s quarters sooner than she’d expected.
“Thomas,” she said under her breath. “I believe there are several young ladies here who’ll be glad to dance a reel or two with you.”
A blush once more stained his cheeks.
And then she saw him flinch.
Following the direction of his gaze, she spotted Rosamund Lawton. Rosamund held herself aloof, unaware of Thomas’s approach. Or perhaps pretending to be unaware of it—given that she stared fixedly at the wooden sign of the Fox & Crow, an unlikely focus for a young lady’s rapt attention.
Rosamund’s beautiful profile was etched against the sunset sky, and her golden hair gleamed. Thomas made a sound in his throat that suggested a sudden blockage in his lungs.
Oh, Lord. If a Lawton girl had ensnared her brother’s heart, he’d do well to break the attachment as soon as humanly possible. Lord Lawton would never give one of his daughters to a poor clergyman.
“I’ll make a deal with you, Mary,” Thomas whispered, leaning close. His voice sounded tense, but determined. “I think it high time for both of us to be looking for some sort of happiness in this life. Appropriate happiness. We will both dance with as many partners tonight as we possibly can. And keep our minds open. What do you say to that?”
She felt a rush of tenderness for her brother. Look at the two of them—all duty and responsibility on the surface, but underneath, as human as anyone. She might be doomed to misery, but if Thomas could find a way to be happy….
“All right,” she said. “And whoever dances least must wash all the dishes for the next month!”
Thomas laughed. “You’re on.”
A little orchestra of sorts had formed at one end of the Green, made up of local people who regularly practiced together at the church. They were in the midst of a sprightly tune, and before long, she and Thomas were both standing up with a throng of their neighbors, dancing and whirling beneath a glowing full moon.
Thomas was good as his word, going down the lines of clapping villagers, first twirling pretty Betsy Pike, whose father owned a fine dairy, then all three of the high-spirited Marston girls, one after another, and then their giggling mother for good measure. And, goodness, at one point he was capering arm-in-arm with the beautiful and scandalous Lady Ellerby, who threw back her head and laughed at something he said.
He didn’t dance with Rosamund Lawton, she noticed, though Rosamund stood conspicuously close and turned down two other men who worked up the nerve to ask her.
For her own part, Mary danced vigorously as well, standing up with the blacksmith, the baker, and several broad-shouldered young farmers. Silver-haired Mrs. Simpkins, the apothecary’s wife, squeezed both her hands and told her warmly, “So nice to see you dancing, Miss Wilkins! It’s about time!” And Mary realized that her usual habit at such events was to focus on ensuring that fresh platters of food came out regularly to the tables, and that elderly ladies had conversational partners and something cool to drink.