A Foolish Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  Viola peaked her head back into the corridor, noting that Mr. Kennett had gone. “She deserves nothing less,” she said too softly for Edith to hear.

  Rushing down the corridor, Viola made her way toward Mercy’s bedchamber. Whatever Mercy pretended about her feelings for Mr. Kennett, Viola knew the signs of love enough not to believe her. His presence in the house must certainly be wreaking havoc on Mercy’s emotions.

  Before Viola reached Mercy’s bedchamber, though, she came upon Deborah in the corridor, rubbing her lips distractedly as she stared at the place where the wall met the floor.

  “Are you well, Deb?” Viola asked hesitantly. She was still awed by her cousin, and she feared provoking Deborah’s volatile temper.

  Deborah looked up, letting her hand drop to her side and nodding unconvincingly.

  Afraid to push, Viola smiled bracingly and moved past her cousin.

  “Do you really think that love is worth any cost?” Deborah’s words came quickly, as if she was embarrassed at her question.

  Viola stopped mid-step, pausing before turning toward Deborah. Was her cousin truly so terrified to insist that she wouldn’t give up Mr. Coburn? Certainly Deborah’s father had an intimidating temper—but then so did Deborah. They seemed well-matched. And yet Deborah was exhibiting an unusual amount of uncertainty.

  “I think,” Viola said slowly, “that if you do not fight for your love with Mr. Coburn, you may spend the rest of your life wondering.”

  Deborah clenched her eyes shut. “And if Father disinherits me?”

  Viola smiled sadly. “Then you will be in very good company, for nearly all of the people I venerate and revere have experienced such a fate.”

  Deborah’s mouth twisted to the side, and Viola moved toward her, taking Deborah’s hand and placing her own atop. “I assure you there are worse fates than financial hardship.”

  Deborah looked her in the eye, biting her lip, and Viola could feel her cousin’s unease as it was vibrating through her body. She needed a dose of courage. “I have just the thing to help you, Deb. Only give me a moment.”

  Viola squeezed her cousin’s hand before continuing toward Mercy’s bedchamber. She knocked, but there was no response from within. Mercy must have taken one of her walks outside. She was wont to do so when in one of her more somber moods.

  Viola pushed open the door and looked around, her eyes landing on the small cedar box on the bedside table. She opened it, grimacing at the sight of the full satchel of rosemary she had given to Mercy a few days ago. Viola had been hoping that it would help with the grief she had seen weighing on Mercy since she had discovered Mr. Kennett’s return to England. Clearly she had not made use of it, though. Mercy never said as much, but she had always been skeptical of Viola’s remedies.

  Viola took the satchel in hand and brought it to her nose, inhaling the woodsy scent. It was invigorating—it smelled of courage and hope and love, and it brought Viola’s aunt forcibly to mind—the times they had picked herbs together in the vicarage garden, the draughts and potions they had made, and the good they had done with her aunt’s extensive knowledge of all things mystical and natural.

  Viola gripped the rosemary more tightly. It was exactly what Deborah needed.

  She turned decisively toward the door, and her eye caught the view of something white in the fire grate. It was old and creased, as if it had been opened and closed, read and reread multiple times.

  Stepping toward it, she bent down and took the paper in hand. One edge was charred, as though it had been lit on fire and then left, but the flame had never taken hold.

  She set down the rosemary on the mantle and opened the paper so that it hung limp in her hand. Her eyes widened. It was a letter to Mr. Kennett. If the state of the letter hadn’t been enough to testify of its age, the date in the top right corner would have—almost a year ago.

  Viola hesitated, but her eyes seemed to scan the lines of their own accord, stinging and watering as she read the pain and love in Mercy’s words. A tear dropped onto the page, and she brushed it off hurriedly, glancing at the door with the fear that Mercy might suddenly walk through.

  How could Mercy destroy such a thing? It was like love incarnate.

  Viola folded up the letter, tapping it on her hand for a moment as she stared at it. In a decisive movement, she tucked the paper into the shoulder of her dress. Her heart quickened, letting her know that what she was doing was questionable.

  But she was dedicated to love, was she not? And she couldn’t help hoping that this letter might still have a place in the future. If not, it would never see the light of day, and Mercy would never know any differently than if it had burned.

  But Mercy had written the letter, and that meant that somewhere deep down, she wanted Mr. Kennett to know the sentiments she had conveyed.

  Viola would not do anything with it now—she believed in letting nature take its course whenever possible. But she would keep it just in case nature—and love—needed some assistance. If there was any justice in the universe, Mercy and Mr. Kennett would end up together.

  She took the rosemary in hand and slipped quietly from the room, making her way back to Deborah.

  Solomon pulled out his brass pocketwatch, grimacing as he noted the advanced hour and glancing through the window he stood beside. There was no sign of his host. Solomon had been anticipating that they would be able to finalize the details of the engagement and set a date for the wedding before dinner, but that seemed unlikely at this point.

  Of course, there was no real reason for urgency, and yet Solomon was impatient for it to be done. Settled.

  This engagement would bear little resemblance to his last—and so much the better—but he couldn’t entirely stifle the nerves that cropped up despite that. The sooner he and Miss Lanaway were married, the better, as far as he was concerned. Being back in England and seeing Mercy had brought back too many memories of what could have been.

  He trusted that the finality of a wedding would snuff out any last bits of stubborn attachment which might be buried deep inside him. He had the very uncomfortable suspicion that there was more of it than he had previously thought. It was not only foolish but embarrassing that any of his own feelings would linger, even after so much time away and after the rejection Mercy had served him.

  Feeling restless, he tucked his pocketwatch back into place and made for the door. Perhaps Miss Lanaway would be in the drawing room waiting for the shooting party’s return. They could use the time to come to a better understanding of one another. If her mother was there, Solomon needed to pay her his respects too.

  As he reached the bottom of the staircase, the butler’s gaze landed upon him. He held a note out in front of him, as if anxious to be rid of it.

  “Sir,” the butler said, “this was brought from The Red Lion ten miles north of here. It is urgent, the messenger said, and is to be read without delay.”

  Solomon frowned, glancing at the note and putting his hand out for it. “An urgent note for me?”

  “Not precisely, sir,” the butler said. “It is only addressed to Westwood Hall.”

  Solomon’s hand dropped. Surely he was the last person to read such a note. “Should it not be given to Mr. Lanaway?”

  The butler shook his head, his jowls trembling. “He has not yet returned.”

  Solomon looked down at the note. “And Mrs. Lanaway?”

  “Lying down with one of her spasms, I fear. She is not to be disturbed on any account—Mr. Lanaway’s orders. But the messenger said it was a matter most urgent.” he extended the note a bit farther toward Solomon.

  There was no seal on the note, and Solomon didn’t recognize the script—little wonder. As the butler had said, it was addressed to no one in particular, with only the words Westwood Hall. URGENT, written on the front. Even if it had been written by someone who communicated frequently with the Lanaways, Solomon wouldn’t be likely to recognize it. He was a stranger in this household.

  And yet the butle
r was watching him, his eyes shifting between Solomon’s face and the note in his own hand. He quite obviously wished to be rid of the responsibility of it.

  “And Miss Lanaway?”

  The butler shook his head. “Nowhere to be seen.”

  Solomon sighed resignedly. “Very well.” He took the note and unfolded it. It was short and clearly written in a slapdash manner.

  On the road to Gretna Green. Unwillingly. Help.

  Solomon’s brows snapped together, and he reread the words, then looked up at the butler. “Is the messenger still here?”

  “No, sir. He barely stayed to relay the message.”

  Solomon let out a frustrated breath. “Is anyone in the household dressed and down for dinner yet? Miss Lanaway perhaps?”

  Or Miss Marcotte? Somehow he felt that Mercy would be more useful in such a situation than Miss Lanaway.

  “I haven’t seen anyone, sir,” the butler replied, “but, if you’ll excuse me, I shall ask the other servants.”

  The butler rushed down the corridor, leaving him to scratch his head over the note.

  What in the world was he to do? If only the person had taken the time to write just a few more words—anything to provide a bit more explanation. Their identity, for instance. Or perhaps why in heaven’s name they had sent the note to Westwood Hall, of all places.

  When the butler returned, his face was grim. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “Miss Lanaway was seen half an hour since leaving the house.”

  Solomon stared at the butler. Leaving the house just before dinner? He lowered his gaze again to the note in his hand. “Was she with anyone? Did she go in a carriage or on foot?”

  “She left the house alone, sir. But the stablehand who witnessed her departure said he saw her being assisted into a carriage at the end of the lane by an unfamiliar young gentleman—who seemed very anxious indeed.”

  Solomon read the words again.

  On the road to Gretna Green. Unwillingly. Help.

  Had Miss Lanaway been taken to Gretna Green against her will? And no one left in the house to go after the man who had kidnapped her?

  He swore softly.

  This put Solomon in the devil of a position. He and Miss Lanaway were not formally engaged yet, of course, but surely the strict particulars mattered little in such a situation. He couldn’t allow his future wife—or anyone, for that matter—to be kidnapped without raising a finger to stop it. If only her father had come home as he was meant to! Surely this was a job for him.

  He blew a gush of air through his lips. Time was of the essence.

  “Have my carriage prepared immediately,” Solomon said in a decided tone. “I shall be down in five minutes.”

  The butler nodded and rushed off again, leaving Solomon with the note in his hand.

  He hesitated only a moment longer, setting it on the table that stood against the wall in the entry hall before taking the stairs two at a time up to his bedchamber, where he could gather a few things.

  If it was true that only half an hour had passed since Miss Lanaway had left, he might well catch up with her and her captor this evening. But it was better to be prepared in the event that he was obliged to spend the night at an inn while in pursuit of them. Whoever her captor was, he could hardly ride the days-long journey to Gretna Green without stopping.

  Solomon cursed again.

  This was not at all how he had envisioned spending his time at Westwood Hall.

  Chapter Seven

  On Mercy’s way outside for a walk, she had met Deborah in the corridor. But her cousin had been evasive when questioned about why she had not told Solomon the truth. “Stop fretting, Mercy. I know what I am doing.”

  Somehow Mercy found that very hard to believe.

  She spent as much time as she dared walking the more remote parts of Westwood’s gardens and more time again in her room, but there were only so many letters one could write before one’s fingers became numb.

  She glanced at the grate and shut her eyes. The letter was gone—burned to ashes.

  It was for the best, though. Holding onto it had acted as a persistent thread of hope, and her situation merited nothing of the sort.

  She set down the seal stamp and stood, stepping in front of the mirror to scrutinize her appearance.

  Letting out a resigned sigh, she pulled on her gloves. What did her appearance matter? Solomon cared little whether she was looking her best—he knew too much of the worst of her for such a superficial consideration to have any bearing on his opinion.

  A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door, and Viola stepped in, her resistant curls tamed somewhat by the ribbon wound over and through them. She was looking much more at home in a place like Westwood Hall than she had when she had first come to live with Mercy and her family a year ago. She wore more confidence now, her cheeks had a healthy glow, and despite the constant spouting of poetry and her inclination to interpret everything through a decidedly romantic lens, she was becoming a beloved companion of Mercy’s.

  Viola deserved the best, and Mercy hoped she would learn to take advantage of every opportunity for it, rather than relying upon some fantastic, exaggerated vision of love to carry her away on a wave of never-ending happiness.

  “I don’t think she will marry him, Mercy,” Viola said as they descended the stairs. “Deborah is too stubborn to marry someone she doesn’t wish to.”

  Mercy sighed. “Very reassuring. Except that it means an inevitable battle between her and Uncle Richard. He will not take kindly to her reasoning—or to the embarrassment of sending Mr. Kennett off after having raised his expectations. And I can’t blame him.”

  She paused a moment before the drawing room door, taking in a breath, preparing herself for more time in Solomon’s company.

  “‘Courage is reckoned the greatest of all virtues,’” Viola quoted.

  Mercy smiled at her. Viola’s words acted as a glass of cold water over her head—if Viola felt the need to bolster her with poetry, Mercy was clearly being overly dramatic about things.

  She pushed the door open determinedly, only to stop short on the threshold.

  Only Edith was there, sitting with a book in hand. “Ah!” she said upon seeing Mercy and Viola. “Finally. I thought perhaps I would be dining alone this evening.”

  “Where is everyone?” Mercy asked.

  Edith shrugged.

  Uncle Richard was known to stay out shooting as long as possible, so Mercy wasn’t terribly surprised that he hadn’t yet returned, but where was Deborah? Aunt Harriet? Solomon?

  “I think I shall search Deborah out.” She said. She knew a hint of misgiving, given Deborah’s strange behavior earlier.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” Edith said with an ill-suppressed smile. “Dinner will be much more pleasant without her and Uncle Richard at loggerheads.”

  Mercy couldn’t argue with that. But Edith didn’t seem to believe Mercy would actually refrain from searching Deborah out, and her eyes returned to her book.

  “I shall accompany you,” Viola said, following Mercy out.

  Mercy closed the door behind them and turned toward the sound of footsteps in the corridor, her eyes alighting upon a footman.

  “Have you seen signs of anyone else, Patrick? Or has dinner been pushed back this evening?”

  “We await Mr. Lanaway, miss. He was very particular about that when he left this morning. But as for the others, Mr. Kennett left not ten minutes since in pursuit of Miss Lanaway. Mrs. Lanaway has experienced one of her worst spasms in years, miss, and is laid up in her room. We are under strict orders not to disturb her on any account. However, I wonder if you might wish to inform her of”—he cleared his throat— “the turn of events.”

  Mercy looked to Viola, whose eyes were round, reflecting everything Mercy felt. Solomon in pursuit of Deborah?

  “Forgive me,” Mercy said, “but I am not sure what you mean. To what turn of events do you refer?”

  The footman raise
d his brows. “The note.”

  Mercy felt her patience beginning to wear thin. “You will have to be a bit more specific. What note?”

  He bowed. “Follow me, if you will, miss.”

  Viola shot Mercy a significant glance, and they followed the footman down the corridor to the entry hall, where he indicated a paper. It sat on the table, open but partially folded in on itself.

  Westwood Hall. URGENT.

  “Mr. Kennett left almost directly after reading that,” the footman said.

  Mercy took in a breath, feeling her stomach flutter. She unfolded the paper. It was the shortest note she had ever seen.

  On the road to Gretna Green. Unwillingly. Help.

  She looked up, staring blankly at the wall, uncomprehending. It made no sense.

  That Deborah had chosen to elope to Gretna Green, Mercy had little trouble believing. The sudden urgency of her situation now that Solomon was here was more than enough to set her on such a disastrous course.

  But then, what was this note? Naturally Deborah wouldn’t be requesting help or claiming to be an unwilling party when she and Mr. Coburn were head over heels in love with one another.

  “You said that Mr. Kennett had gone in pursuit of Miss Lanaway, but why should he assume that the note is from Miss Lanaway at all?”

  “As to that, miss,” Patrick said, “she was seen earlier this afternoon, climbing into a carriage with the help of a gentleman.”

  Mercy clenched her jaw. There seemed to be little doubt that Deborah had indeed decided to elope with Frederick Coburn. No wonder she had been so unwilling to communicate her plans.

  But if Deborah hadn’t written the note, who had? Mercy’s head spun with the incomprehensibility of it all.

  Did Deborah truly understand what she was doing? An elopement would mean forfeiting her dowry. And whatever romantic notions Deborah had taken into her head about living with Mr. Coburn in blissful want, Mercy knew her well enough to know that she would not fare well under such conditions once the novelty of being married wore off.