A Foolish Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  Mercy was watching her cousin, too, a frown wrinkling her forehead. “Deborah is convinced that her father will never countenance the match unless he is forced to do so to avoid a scandal.”

  Solomon considered Mr. Coburn with a tilt of his head. “The man looks quite unexceptionable.”

  Mercy smiled.

  “What?”

  “You say unexceptionable. Uncle Richard would rather say unexceptional, I think.”

  It was true, even from what Solomon could observe from fifteen feet away. He had wispy blonde hair that stood up stubbornly in places and a few freckles on a nose that tended toward bulbous. Everything about the man screamed average—his attire, his name, even his face had that familiar look to it that might lead one to greet him in public, only to discover he was not the person one had thought he was.

  “Mr. Coburn is kind and good,” Mercy said, “but he can hardly compare with Solomon Kennett.” She lowered her eyes and looked away, as if realizing the implication of her words, and he felt his pulse quicken.

  His body’s response to her words only angered him. His heart assigned the words a particular meaning, but he knew better than to believe his heart. There was another possible meaning to what Mercy had said—more likely and much less flattering. There weren’t many whose fortunes could now compare with Solomon’s.

  “You mean, I assume, that he is fortuneless?”

  Pink crept up into her cheeks. “I believe that is my uncle’s main hesitation, yes.”

  “One you very obviously share.” He couldn’t keep the bite from his voice. But it was true. It was for just such a consideration that she had jilted Solomon, and now here she was, scouring the English countryside to ensure that her cousin didn’t marry a man without a fortune either.

  “Solomon.” Her voice was placating, and he could almost feel the heat emanating from her cheeks.

  “Please,” he said decisively, raising his hand to stop her from saying anything more. “Do not.”

  He strode into the room toward Mr. Coburn, determined to assist this motley group of people so that, as soon as possible, he could leave Mercy. For good this time.

  Chapter Nine

  Mercy swallowed the lump in her throat as Solomon left her side and entered the private parlor. In her determination to spare Solomon the humiliation of chasing a couple in love, and in her intent to dissuade Deborah from her rash decision, she had never considered how her desire to intervene would appear to Solomon.

  If he had harbored any doubt at all about the place fortune took among Mercy’s priorities, he certainly wouldn’t do so now. But how could she explain to him how wrong he was?

  Lost upon Solomon was the fact that things between Deborah and her father had come to a crossroads. A decision to elope with Mr. Coburn would send them along a painful path—one from which Mercy doubted there was a return. Uncle Richard was weary of Deborah and had expressed his determination to withhold her fortune if she rebelled against him. He was entirely capable of doing so in his anger.

  If Deborah could only be persuaded to demonstrate to her father that her affection for Mr. Coburn was enduring, and if Mr. Coburn could secure a decent position that would bring in a reliable income, Mercy had hope that her uncle would soften to the match.

  He truly did want Deborah’s happiness. But he needed first to see that she was capable of making a well thought-out decision rather than acting impulsively as she so often had.

  Viola was watching Mercy from her position behind the chaise longue. Realizing how melancholy she must have appeared, Mercy donned a smile and stepped into the room, inhaling deeply, as if the breath might fill her with something other than her unenviable thoughts.

  Mr. Coburn’s head hung back, his mouth partially open. “Is he unconscious, then?” Mercy asked with a hint of alarm.

  Deborah shook her head, keeping her eyes on her beloved. “He was in such pain that I gave him some laudanum.”

  Mercy frowned. “How came you by such a thing?”

  “I always bring a vial with me when I travel, for one never knows just how uncomfortable and loud an inn will be.”

  Mercy bit her lip to stop a smile, and her eyes found Solomon’s. He too seemed amused, though his smile flickered slightly as he caught Mercy’s gaze.

  He averted his eyes. “Very practical of you.”

  Mercy had only been in Solomon’s company for ten minutes, and already she found her eyes seeking his. It did not bode well for her foolish heart.

  “Has the doctor been called for?” she asked, watching Mr. Coburn adjust his arm and wince in pain.

  “No.” Deborah set a hand on Mr. Coburn’s forehead. “I think we might try to go one more stage tonight before calling on someone to examine him.”

  Mercy’s eyes widened, and she looked from Deborah to Mr. Coburn and back again. “Surely not, Deborah! Mr. Coburn’s arm needs to be attended to, and his head as well. You cannot be thinking of continuing on. He will be in agony.”

  Deborah looked up at her, and Mercy recognized the stubborn, warning glint in her cousin’s eyes. “Yes, Mercy, it is quite obvious that you do not wish for our success on this journey. You made that abundantly clear by the note you left.”

  Mr. Coburn shifted uncomfortably in the chaise longue.

  “You are mistaken, Deb,” Mercy said. “Besides, why would I leave such a note if I planned all along to come after you myself?”

  Deborah’s mouth opened and closed.

  “Precisely,” Mercy said. “It makes no sense at all. Why can you not see that I am here with your best interests at heart?”

  Deborah’s eyebrows flew up. “You sound more and more like my father. I know you have chosen his side over mine, though I cannot at all understand why.” She sighed, dropping her shoulders as she looked at Mercy with betrayal and hurt in her eyes. “Why could you not simply let Frederick and I do things our way? Why must it matter what anyone else wants when we wish to elope and start our life together?”

  Mercy let her head drop back as she closed her eyes and pleaded silently for patience from a greater source. “I am not an enemy to your love, Deborah. I wish you could understand that. I simply believe that this elopement is entirely the wrong way to go about things. Let us return home and speak with your father. Please.”

  Deborah shook her head decisively. “My father will never agree to my marrying Frederick. He will force me to—” She broke off, and her cheeks flamed red as her gaze flitted to Solomon.

  Solomon smiled wryly. “I am no more an enemy to your love than is your cousin, Miss Lanaway. I am not an ogre come to demand that you comply with your father’s wishes. If you had merely let me know how things stood when we spoke earlier today, I would have arranged to speak with your father and put an end to the arrangement.”

  Deborah smiled sadly. “You are a good man, Mr. Kennett. It is not that I have anything against you”—she looked down at Mr. Coburn, and her eyes softened—“only that Frederick and I are meant to be together.”

  An airy sigh emanated from Viola, who looked on the lovers as might a benevolent godmother. She glanced up, her gaze shifting between Mercy's and Solomon's watchful eyes. “You must admit, it is very romantic. ‘Love is a smoke made with the fumes of sighs; / Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes.’”

  Solomon looked at Viola in alarm, as though she had just spoken a language foreign to him.

  Smiling in amusement, Mercy replied. “If you are able to see a fire sparkling in Mr. Coburn’s heavily lidded eyes, then you have a gift indeed, Viola. Besides, the play you have chosen hardly augurs well for these lovers, if their story is to be anything like the one referenced.” Mercy narrowed her eyes in thought. “‘For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’”

  Deborah pushed herself to a stand, looking at Mercy with eyes blazing. “You are determined that everyone shall be as unhappy as you are, Mercy. It is terribly cruel of you, and I wish with all my heart that you hadn’t come he
re.”

  Mercy’s smile dissolved, and the thick silence in the room pushed in on her from all sides.

  No one wanted her here. She had come on a fool’s errand. Deborah saw her as an enemy, and Solomon? A mercenary without affection. To stay in his company would be to torture herself.

  Her throat tight with hurt, Mercy turned and left the room, putting a forceful hand to her chin to stop it from trembling.

  Viola would follow her—Mercy knew that. They could be on their way, and at least Uncle Richard would know she had tried everything in her power to stop Deborah.

  Sure enough, she heard footsteps behind her as she passed through the door of the inn and into the courtyard. No doubt Viola would have some snippet of a poem from Lord Byron appropriate for the situation.

  “Miss Marcotte, wait.”

  Mercy froze in place just beyond the door. The cool outdoor air made the tears she hadn’t even known she was crying tingle on her skin, and she wiped hurriedly at them.

  She couldn’t turn and face Solomon. It was too much, and her heart too tender.

  “Please, don’t,” she said softly, continuing toward her carriage with firm steps. She tried to ignore the sound of him following her.

  “If you think,” he said, “that I will allow you to leave me here with your minx of a cousin, her unconscious lover, and a young woman who seems to spontaneously erupt in poetry”—he came abreast of Mercy and took her arm to stop her progress.

  She shut her eyes for a moment before drawing in a steadying breath and looking up at him. There was both humor and compassion in his eyes, and the corner of his mouth pulled up ever so slightly into an uneven smile as he let her arm go. “—then you are terribly wrong. For I shan’t allow it.”

  More footsteps were heard, and Mercy saw Viola out of the corner of her eye, stopping short at the door when she saw Solomon and Mercy outside.

  Mercy shook her head. “There is little purpose to my being here. Neither are you, of all people, obliged to stay. Deborah clearly does not intend to hear reason.” She stepped away from him.

  “Mercy.” He reached for her hand.

  Her heart lurched to hear him address her so; to feel his hand grasping at her gloved fingers, keeping her near him.

  “For some reason I fail to understand, you have assumed some responsibility over your cousin. Is that correct?”

  She nodded. It was a role she little relished, but she couldn’t deny the weight of duty she felt to look after Deborah—to do whatever was in her power to prevent her cousin from making a decision she might live to regret.

  “If you get into that carriage and ride back to Westwood,” Solomon said, “you will doubt your decision. And if anything should happen to your cousin and Mr. Coburn, you will blame yourself. ”

  Mercy bit the inside of her lip. He was right. In her desire to marry Mr. Coburn, Deborah seemed not to comprehend how urgently he needed care.

  Solomon let her hand drop. “You said it yourself: Miss Lanaway cannot spend the night in this inn. But what if there was an alternative? One that even someone as fastidious as your uncle would agree to? It would allow you time to bring Deborah around, or at least to ensure she understands the consequences of her choice.”

  Mercy moistened her lips. “What kind of alternative?”

  “Do you know where we are?” he asked.

  She glanced around them, but the countryside was bathed in darkness. She had lost track of how far they had come—at the speed they had taken, they would have traveled much farther than was usual in the amount of time since leaving Westwood. She shook her head.

  Solomon gestured vaguely toward the darkness.“My aunt lives a half hour’s ride from here. Aunt Almira. Perhaps you remember me speaking of her.”

  Mercy had never met the woman, but she knew her by reputation: she was the most exacting and punctilious of spinsters. “I remember.”

  “I left a short note at Westwood to inform your uncle that I would bring his daughter home. I think that is no longer possible this evening—not with Mr. Coburn’s need for medical attention and your cousin’s...bullheadedness.”

  Mercy smiled wryly, and Solomon continued. “But I think we might write to him and inform him that we are staying the night at my Aunt Almira’s and will return tomorrow. He can rest easy with the assurance that, not only is his daughter with you—for I somehow doubt that Miss Pawnce’s presence will inspire him with confidence—but she is under the unimpeachable care of Almira Kennett, confirmed spinster—and a woman well above reproach.”

  Mercy mulled over the suggestion, rubbing one thumb with the other thoughtfully.

  If she had a little more time to convince Deborah that she was no enemy to a match with Mr. Coburn, perhaps she could convince her to try a different approach. She could reassure Uncle Richard and beg him for mercy toward Deborah.

  It wouldn’t be easy, but certainly it was better than doing nothing.

  Mercy looked at Solomon. “If you are truly willing and believe your aunt will take us in, I think it would answer.”

  He chuckled. “Truthfully, I imagine my aunt will grumble considerably at being disturbed at this time of night—she is abed by 10 o’clock at the very latest, you know—but if we appeal to her notions of propriety, I think she will assume the role of chaperon with gusto.”

  Chapter Ten

  Miss Lanaway was not quick to agree to the plan Solomon and Mercy had decided upon. She was still hopeful that she and Mr. Coburn could travel another stage—she seemed to live in constant fear of her father’s arrival.

  “I think that if you, Mr. Kennett, would be so good as to help transport Frederick to the carriage, we could go another ten miles while he continues to sleep.”

  Solomon had raised his brows. “And what then do you intend to do when you arrive at the next inn at an advanced hour of the night and with an unconscious gentleman at your side? Plead the help of an inn servant or two to convey Mr. Coburn to his room? Or perhaps you mean to carry him yourself?”

  Miss Lanaway had clearly not thought that far ahead, and she stumbled over her words.

  Mercy and Miss Pawnce stood a little retired from Solomon and Miss Lanaway, watching their discussion.

  Solomon could only marvel at what had led him to follow Mercy out of the inn and convince her to stay, to say nothing of offering up his own aunt’s home as a refuge for their strange group. But his anger had melted as he had watched Mercy being berated by her cousin, and he simply couldn’t bear watching her walk off into the night in such a state.

  “Miss Lanaway,” he continued, “I am afraid that you have few options at this stage. The innkeeper has informed me that he has only one vacant room for the night. Whether or not you and Mr. Coburn decide to continue this elopement, I am certain you agree that such an arrangement will not do. I imagine Mr. Coburn would take great exception to it if he were conscious.”

  It had been but a guess. Solomon had no knowledge whatsoever of Mr. Coburn, but it seemed that his words had hit home, for Miss Lanaway looked worriedly on the form of her lover.

  Solomon decided to press home his advantage. “Come, the hour is advanced. I assure you that your cousin and I will not force you to abandon this scheme if it is still what you wish for tomorrow. But for this evening, at least, let us go to my aunt’s. I imagine you must be quite exhausted.”

  “‘The deep of night is crept upon our talk, / And nature must obey necessity.’” Miss Pawnce said the words softly, as if she didn’t wish for the others to hear and yet couldn’t prevent herself from saying them.

  Solomon glanced at Mercy, whose eyes twinkled as she looked at her cousin.

  Mr. Coburn stirred once again, a little moan escaping his lips, and Miss Lanaway nodded defeatedly. Solomon clenched his fists behind him in victory, and Mercy sent him a weary but grateful glance.

  He thanked the powers that be that he was not to be married to Miss Lanaway, for he found her stubbornness maddening. He would certainly have to shake Mr. Cobu
rn’s hand whenever he woke from his opium-induced slumber—first, to congratulate him on his hopeful nuptials; and second, to thank the man for saving him from the fate upon the edge of which Solomon had danced for several days.

  Solomon took a few minutes to compose a note to Mr. Lanaway, assuring the man that both he and Mercy were determined not only to protect his daughter’s reputation from scandal but to return her to him as quickly as possible.

  Mercy asked to add her own note to her uncle, and Solomon stood away from the writing desk, watching Mercy’s quill glide quickly and firmly across the paper in the looping script he had known well.

  From Miss Lanaway’s words, Mercy seemed to hold some sway with her uncle. Solomon hoped that she might exercise that persuasion on his account too if Mr. Lanaway needed further convincing that Solomon and his daughter were not suited to one another.

  Once Mercy had finished, she held the letter up, reread it, and blew softly on the ink before bringing it to Solomon with a smile full of clenched teeth. “I hope that will set him at ease and perhaps even cause him to look on the return of Deborah with leniency, for I assure you that he cannot abide elopements.”

  She handed the note to Solomon, and he folded the two letters together, sealing them and ordering that they be taken to Westwood Hall without delay.

  Instructions were given to the innkeeper for the handling of the broken carriage axle, and Mr. Coburn was installed as comfortably as possible in Solomon’s carriage—a process which had disturbed his drug-induced slumber only long enough for him to thrash his head around for a moment and mumble a number of unintelligible words.

  The two-equipage procession made its way down the main road for a few miles, then turned onto a long, narrow lane leading to Chesterley House, the secluded home of Miss Almira Kennett.

  Solomon felt an uncomfortable bubbling of nerves as he thought on the reception they were likely to receive. He envisioned Aunt Almira, descending the stairs in her dressing gown and nightcap, prepared to lecture him soundly and complain at length of the town habits people insisted upon bringing into the country.