A Foolish Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 1)
Page 13
He nodded, reaching for the strange-looking glass of pansy potion. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could set his mind to planning his departure for Jamaica. He couldn’t put distance between himself and England soon enough. Perhaps John would come with him. He had missed John terribly during his time in the West Indies.
Miss Pawnce put a hand on his to prevent him from bringing the glass to his lips. “Mr. Kennett, I must say the words before you partake.”
He lowered the glass obediently and raised his brows.
Miss Pawnce drew in a breath, then let it out slowly.
If into love thou wilt repair
Drink thou this glass and heed this prayer:
With her ‘pon whom thine eyes first set
Thy heart shall play endless duet.
Solomon controlled his unruly lips, which were threatening to turn up at the absurd poem, and waited for her to indicate that he was free to drink.
She inclined her head at him, and he took a last, dubious glance at the glass, saying, “To your health, Miss Pawnce.”
He put the glass to his lips, cringing as the strangely cold and thick liquid met his lips. It smelled sweet, though, and as he drank it, his brow lightened. It would not tax his acting abilities after all.
He set down the glass and looked at Miss Pawnce, who was watching him almost hungrily.
“You make a fine elixir, Miss Pawnce.” He rose from the bench. “Certainly the best I have ever had.”
“The best? Or the only one you have ever had?”
He only smiled.
“Remember the words,” she said.
He dipped his head. He had every intention of avoiding the place where Miss Pawnce had instructed him to go, for he heavily suspected that she had orchestrated things in such a way that his “eyes first would set” upon a very particular person. And Solomon had no desire at all to navigate the awkwardness of such an encounter with Mercy.
But what Miss Pawnce didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She need only believe that Solomon was too stubborn in mind for the elixir to be successful—or that he had no faith in love to be found. They were both true.
He sent a last glance over his shoulder at Miss Pawnce, who was sitting straight in her chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as she watched him go.
Chapter Sixteen
Viola sighed as Mr. Kennett disappeared around the ruined wall. She didn’t despair of him entirely, of course, but his mind was very clearly set against the unseen realm.
Well, she couldn’t force him to open his mind and heart, nor could she force him to obey her instructions. She had done what she could, and now it was only left to trust in the groundwork she had laid and let the powers that be work through the elixir.
She certainly didn’t regret strengthening Mr. Kennett’s dose. It would be needed—every drop.
A rustling sounded behind her, and Viola spun around.
A face disappeared into the greenery which wrapped around the small window in the ruined wall, and Viola stood. “Is that you, Deb?” She walked toward the wall and peeked around it with a frown. No one was there.
Deborah and Mr. Coburn certainly shouldn’t be spying upon her in the gardens—they should be reuniting in love on the south side of the house in the glow of the sun, which was beginning to set. Had everything there gone according to plan? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to make certain.
She held up her skirts and rushed toward the side of the house, only to stop mid-step.
No, she mustn’t interfere any more than she already had. Not yet. She needed to trust the heartsease to do its work. How could she scold Solomon for not believing when she herself was showing so little faith?
She straightened her shoulders and turned back toward the ruins. She would take the glasses inside to be cleaned—Mercy’s in particular should be seen to swiftly, for she had failed to drink the full contents of the glass. She had looked so miserable that Viola hadn’t the heart to censure her for it. She suspected the remaining liquid might congeal if left to the air, though.
She let her hand glide along the ivy-strewn wall as she turned back into the gardens, but she stopped short as they came into view.
Miss Pickering stood within, her head thrown back as she drank the dregs of Mercy’s glass. Her head came down, along with the glass, and she licked her lips, then froze in place.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Miss Pawnce. I..I…”
“You drank it,” Viola said slowly, her eyes wide.
Miss Pickering’s face crumpled, and she slumped down in the chair, empty glass in hand. “I am desperate!” She covered her face with a hand.
“I don’t understand,” Viola said, stepping back into the gardens.
“I have roamed outside for hours, but still I find myself at a loss.” She looked up at Viola, anguish in her eyes. “I heard you speaking to my nephew and thought…I only thought…”
Viola nodded, inviting her to continue.
Miss Pickering’s shoulders came up. “I thought that if I could see through the eyes of love, I could perhaps understand my characters.”
Viola smiled sadly at her. Dark rings circled the woman’s eyes, and they gleamed with desperation. She hadn’t drunk nearly enough for the elixir to have any effect upon her, but Viola hadn’t the heart to tell her such a thing.
Perhaps just the thought of having partaken of the elixir would be enough to sharpen her senses and prompt her imagination. “I understand, Miss Pickering. And I hope it will serve you well.”
Viola gently took the glass from her, and Miss Pickering smiled gratefully as Viola left with the tray in hand.
Deborah paced the freshly cut grass in front of the south side of Chesterley, wringing her hands and glancing toward the corner of the house. Surely it shouldn’t take this long for Frederick to drink the elixir?
A horse whinnied in the distance, and Deborah shut her eyes, trying to still her nerves. What if Frederick fell in love with someone else? Deborah had been assuming that the elixir would act on Frederick’s heart as might a jug of water over someone’s head: a quick but powerful awakening to what he already knew, a reminder of the love he had once felt for Deborah.
Of course, with his words he had tried to persuade her that he loved her still, but his actions told quite a different story—one that made Deborah’s heart ache and ache with longing for the past.
She had been so certain that Frederick wished to elope with her. But, looking back, she could see signs of his hesitation—mortifying indicators that it was she and not he who had insisted upon that course.
He had gone so far as to beg that someone save him from marriage to Deborah. Just the thought of it made her want to curl up in a hole, never again to emerge.
And rather than speaking with Deborah about his true feelings, he had taken Mercy into his confidence. Mercy, to whom everyone seemed to flock and whom everyone trusted and loved so easily.
She let her head to fall back as she stared at the glowing afternoon sky above. All she wanted was to go back to the time when Frederick’s world had orbited her, and when hers had orbited him. How could she prove to him that she was the one he wanted?
Should she try harder to make it appear that she was truly considering a marriage to Mr. Kennett? Or would that only push Frederick and Mercy together more?
She lowered her head, thinking of the words of Viola’s incantation:
With him ‘pon whom thine eyes first set
Thy heart shall play endless duet.
Had Viola said the same words to Frederick? What should happen if his eyes first landed upon someone else?
She glanced around, hoping to see Frederick running toward her, apologizing for ever betraying her, but her eyes instead settled upon the groom, leading a foal out from the stables.
She stilled, and her eyes widened. No, it couldn’t be. The groom was not the person she was meant to love. This was a mistake.
Her heart raced, and she averted her eyes. Perhaps she hadn’t loo
ked at the groom long enough for it to mean anything. Besides, hadn’t Viola said it would take half an hour for the elixir to take effect? It couldn’t have been a full half hour yet.
Or could it?
Deborah shook her head from side to side rapidly. No. This was entirely wrong. She must find Frederick. She must!
She picked up her skirts and glanced over her shoulder, hoping that no one would see the unladylike manner in which she was about to run.
Frederick Coburn turned the corner of the ruined wall, feeling the liquid from the elixir he had just drunk as it gurgled in his stomach.
Did Miss Pawnce already know whom his eyes would first set upon? It had all felt so rushed, he hardly knew what to think. He didn’t even rightly know if he believed in the magic she claimed to possess.
But at this point, he was willing to try anything—anything to sort out the muddle that had become of his relationship with Deborah. This was a side to her he had never seen, with her quick anger and harsh words. He didn’t know what to think.
He loved her as sure as anything—or at least he loved the woman he had known before this chaotic, failed elopement.
He had thought himself to be doing right by Deborah—protecting her reputation from gossip, saving her from being cut off by her father.
Of course, in hindsight, he realized that he should have told her as much rather than writing that hasty note, but everything had happened so quickly. What had one day been idle talk of resorting to elopement if every other option was exhausted was the very next day a note from Deborah demanding they elope that very day, or she should never be allowed to see him again.
So set had Deborah been upon eloping, so unwilling had she been to listen to any alternatives, Frederick hadn’t dared put his foot down as his conscience had urged, and he had instead found himself scribbling a note requesting assistance in the two minutes Deborah had permitted them at their first change of horses.
But how could he marry a woman who cared so little for his qualms? Who seemed to brush aside his attempts to keep propriety and to guard her precious name against scandal? She seemed to care not at all for how it twisted his heart to violate his principles.
His foot knocked against a stray tree root, and he nearly tripped. He looked around, frowning. He hardly knew where he had walked. Had Miss Pawnce not directed him to the south side of the house? Where was he now?
He narrowed his eyes, glancing ahead at the copse of trees.
Miss Marcotte was there, one hand picking up her dirtied skirts, the other passing from tree to tree to stabilize her.
Frederick’s eyes widened.
With her ‘pon whom thine eyes first set
Thy heart shall play endless duet.
Miss Marcotte. No, it couldn’t be right.
Could it?
His heart beat at a quicker pace. Miss Marcotte had listened to him patiently as he had unleashed upon her the deluge of emotion and confusion he felt at Deborah’s behavior. She had sympathized with his reluctance to elope and even thanked him for sending the note, as she was in full agreement that an elopement was not in his or Deborah’s best interests.
Deborah. What of Deborah?
He stood, feet fastened to the ground as his mind writhed—balking at the thought of even considering another woman besides Deborah but simultaneously doubting what he had with her.
He could only stare wide-eyed into the trees as Miss Marcotte bent down.
Chapter Seventeen
Mercy had not obeyed Viola’s instructions. She doubted she had even heard them, truthfully. It had been all she could manage to sit still when her heart was failing her. She needed a place to think, a place to breathe.
There was a small wood not far from the ruins, and she took quick steps toward it, anxious for an enclosed area where she needn’t worry about someone coming upon her.
Nothing had changed, of course. There had never truly been the prospect of a reconciliation between her and Solomon, and yet, her heart had hoped for it, all the same. And that brief moment when they had seemed transported back two years, laughing and smiling together as if nothing had happened—it had been fuel for that flickering hope, only to be snuffed out entirely by Solomon’s words.
He would never forget what she had done.
Mercy leaned against one of the trees, shutting her eyes and breathing in the scent of damp dirt, the aged bark, and a leafy breeze.
A cough sounded nearby, and her eyes flew open, alert and scanning the dark grove, where long shafts of golden light pierced through to the ground in patches.
A shuffling of feet directed Mercy’s attention to an area to her right where, ten yards away, Solomon stumbled and fell to the ground, the hand which rubbed his eyes catching his fall.
“Good heavens,” Mercy said, rushing over cracking twigs toward him, where he kneeled. “Solomon.” She knelt next to him on the ground.
He raised his head, and his eyes squinted and blinked as though she were too bright.
“What happened?” she asked, setting a stabilizing hand on his shoulder.
“Told you,” he breathed out, “it was the devil’s own brew.”
He put a hand to his mouth, then retched, covering the ground before him.
She sucked in a shocked breath, clenching her eyes shut for a moment as the smell overwhelmed her.
“There now,” she said, brushing a lock of his hair away from his face.
He looked up to her from his hunched position, his eyes strange even in the dim light of the wood, with their pupils dilated so much that Mercy drew back slightly.
He lifted a wrist to his mouth, and his hand trembled violently.
“Help!” Mercy cried out, not taking her eyes from him.
He retched again, and Mercy clenched her eyes shut, stroking his back. “What have you done, Viola?” she said softly.
Rushing footsteps and breaking twigs sounded behind her, and she turned to see Mr. Coburn.
His eyes rested on her for a pregnant moment before turning to Solomon. “He is ill?” He put his free hand to his nose, glancing down at what remained of the elixir Solomon had drunk.
“And very weak.” Mercy put a hand to Solomon’s forehead. It was hot but oddly dry to the touch. “Feverish, too. Help me get him inside, if you please.”
They changed sides so that Mr. Coburn could use his good arm to help Solomon. They assisted him to a standing position, though he stumbled slightly and shut his eyes, leading both Mr. Coburn and Mercy to shoot a supportive hand out. Their own hands touched in the exchange, and Mr. Coburn looked at Mercy oddly, swallowing as he held her gaze.
She slipped underneath one of Solomon’s arms to help him toward the house.
They navigated their winding way out of the woods, Mr. Coburn and Mercy both breathing heavily with so much of Solomon’s weight resting upon them. He seemed prone to stumble sideways with each step.
When they emerged from the trees, they were approached from one side by Deborah and from the other by Miss Pickering, both of whom stopped in place and trained their gazes upon Mr. Coburn.
“Why, Mr. Coburn,” said Miss Pickering, hurrying toward them. “Are you in need of assistance?”
“If he does,” said Deborah, coming over to his side, “then I am more than able to provide it.”
Miss Pickering and Deborah leveled their evaluative gazes at one another.
“Mr. Coburn is plenty capable,” Mercy said bitingly. “But we must get Mr. Kennett inside before he retches again, or worse, loses consciousness.”
The two women held each other’s gaze for another moment, an unspoken battle of wills, and Mercy let out a gush of impatience.
“For heaven’s sake! Deborah, go find Viola immediately. We must know what she put in the elixir, for it seems the only explanation for Solomon’s illness. Miss Pickering, please ensure that the doctor is sent for. I sincerely hope he is already on his way, but he must be informed that we have an urgent case requiring his attention.”
Mercy and Mr. Coburn had the unenviable task of assisting Solomon into the house and up the stairs, which were not nearly wide enough to allow for three people to walk abreast. In the meantime, Solomon seemed to be getting worse, and he would, from time to time, settle his bobbling, fluttering gaze upon Mercy and say in a slurred voice, “Thank you, my love.”
By the time they reached Solomon’s bedchamber, Mercy’s cheeks flamed red, and she only hoped that Mr. Coburn attributed their color to the exertion rather than to the extreme effort it required of Mercy to remind herself that Solomon’s words were nothing but the ramblings of a seriously ill man.
As they helped him onto the bed, he did his best to level his languid gaze upon Mercy, though the swaying movement of his head made it nearly impossible. He shook his head and wagged an unstable finger at her. “Should never have left me. Rich as a nabob now, you know.”
Mercy’s eyes flew to Mr. Coburn. “We must hope that the doctor can give him something that will…” She left the sentence unfinished.
Viola rushed through the door and toward Solomon. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she said softly. “Has he vomited?”
“Twice,” Mercy said. She braced herself as Solomon heaved yet again. “Quick! Have someone bring a pot or...something.”
But they were spared this time, and he lay back onto the pillow behind him.
Mercy turned her concerned gaze to Viola when she returned to the room. “Vi, what did you give him?”
Viola glanced down at her closed fist before reluctantly meeting Mercy’s eyes. She opened her hand, revealing two shiny black berries. “It was a terrible accident,” she said defensively. “I thought they were part of the heartsease plant, which is ridiculous now that I consider it, for of course pansies don’t have berries, but—”