Promises and Primroses

by Josi S. Kilpack

  She seemed to struggle saying his title, and it sounded strange on her lips. “Please call me Elliott, Amelia.” He smiled and looked her over once more. “It is remarkable to see you again. You are as beautiful as ever.”

  She swallowed. “Thank you, Lord Howardsford, but I must address you as is appropriate, just as you should call me Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  Elliott took a mental step back. What did she mean? Were they not friends?

  She cleared her throat. “As I stated in my letter, Peter Mayfield, your nephew, has recently taken my daughter into his household.”

  Shift, think, focus. He needed to match her mood so as not to be distracted. He took a breath and tried to settle his thoughts into a line of professional considerations. “He hired her as a governess, you mean.”

  “Yes, that is her official position, but she is a young woman in a household of a widowed man. That, in and of itself, is improper. That he is your heir makes it an impossible situation, and I would like your help in remedying this situation.”

  Remedy? “I do not know the details of . . .” He trailed off and waved toward the chairs. “Would it better for us to have this conversation seated?” Perhaps they could order tea, relax, speak slower. She could lose her tightness, and he could listen without feeling as though she wanted to rap his knuckle with a ruler.

  “No, thank you.”

  Elliott felt the sting, intended or not, and the shock and wonder of seeing her after all these years began to fade. She did not want to be comfortable nor extend this interview any longer than she had to. The carefree girl from London whose eyes had lit up when he entered a room and who had kissed him behind hedges was becoming harder to see in the woman before him.

  “Very well,” he said. “As I mentioned, I do not know the details of Peter’s household, and it is certainly not within my rights to dictate to him how he should manage it, but if he hired your daughter, then she must have applied for the position. I see no reason why either you or I should interfere, though I am sorry that you are against it.”

  Amelia let out a breath and shook her head, crossing her arms over her stomach. “She does not know who he is.”

  Elliott frowned, and his defensiveness increased. “He is Peter Mayfield, a widowed father of two girls, respectable, and God-fearing. I daresay your daughter is fortunate to work for such a man. I can confirm his good character.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “And why would your confirmation give me any peace?”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  She swallowed, showing her discomfort. “Speaking plainly, I do not want my daughter to have any connection to your family, Lord Howardsford. I can see that you do not share my concerns, but I hope you will be considerate of mine.”

  “Considerate of the fact that you do not want your daughter connected to me even in some minuscule way? You are being ridiculous.”

  Her nostrils flared, and she dropped her arms to her sides. “How dare you say such a thing to me.”

  “How dare you lob such an accusation at my nephew.”

  “I made no accusation.”

  “You are accusing him of being some kind of threat to your daughter,” Elliott returned. “That is ridiculous.”

  Her eyes flashed, and her chest heaved with indignation even as he mentally reprimanded himself. He put up his hands to signal a pause for both of them. “Forgive me. That was ungentlemanly of me.”

  She glared at him, and he thought that if he did not know this was Amelia Edwards, he would not recognize her for the tightness of her face and the fury in her eyes. She was still lovely, but she was hard and . . . ridiculous, though he would not say so again.

  “You obviously have some serious concerns,” he said diplomatically. “Could we please sit so that we might discuss them in a calmer manner?”

  “No.”

  He all but threw his hands in the air.

  “You owe me this, Lord Howardsford.”

  He stared at her a moment, waiting for her to clarify or elaborate, but when she didn’t, he had no choice but to respond. “I am supposed to interfere with my nephew’s household because I owe you?”

  She nodded once. And crossed her arms again, her stare unwavering. In another situation, he would find the flush of her cheeks and confidence of her expression rather impressive. But not now.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Hollingsworth, but why on earth do I owe you such a thing?”

  She swallowed and looked toward the window as though reorganizing her thoughts.

  He’d caught her off guard, which only confused him further.

  “We had a connection once, Lord Howardsford, and it ended . . . poorly, for me at least. Because of that history between us, and in light of the scandalous nature of so many of your family members, I do not feel confident having my daughter living beneath a Mayfield roof.” Her mood softened, and a hint of pleading appeared in her tone. “She is young, and I fear for her future positions if she is linked with such scandal. Please understand that I mean no offense to you and yours. I am only protecting the security of my child. I am asking for your help in this.”

  “Because I owe you.” He felt rather stuck on this part but forced himself forward when he saw her jaw tightening again. “I am the last to condone the actions of members of my family, I regret their choices, but Peter does not deserve your censure. He is as respectable a man as I have ever known. Those responsible for the reputation you are concerned with are gone.”

  Something hateful flashed in her eyes. “Not all of them.”

  Elliott felt as though he’d been slapped. She meant him? It took a few seconds for him to recover. “Even so, Peter does not deserve your prejudice. He is a good man.”

  Amelia walked to the window. She pulled back the curtain, but he sensed she was not looking at anything specific on the street. He hoped she was thinking about what he’d said and how unfair she was being.

  “I assume you have already asked your daughter to leave his employ and she refused?” It didn’t explain why Amelia had come to him, necessarily, but perhaps it would clarify some aspect of the situation. Obviously Amelia felt strongly about this, but he still did not fully understand why. If her daughter was employed by Teddy, or if Peter had even the slightest lack of moral character, Elliott would understand, but neither of those was the case, which made her position feel prejudicial and punitive.

  She took a breath and let it out, still looking at nothing through the dirty window. “I have no wish to burden my daughter with her mother’s childish fears or spread gossip about your family. I am certain she is, so far, ignorant of those things for now. But I do not want her working in that household.” She turned back to him and, though her expression was again determined, she lowered her voice a touch. “If you ever cared for me, Elliott, help me. Give me the peace of mind I need.”

  Elliott had not realized how much he’d hurt her until this moment. All these years and she was heartbroken enough to go such lengths to keep herself separated from not only him but his entire family. Elliott could not separate his shame from her prejudice. He also could not look away from her as she held his eyes. There was a time when every thought and feeling had showed on her face, but not anymore. That carefree girl had grown into a fearsome woman.

  Regardless of how she felt she’d been treated by him, what she was asking was unfair—to her daughter as much as to Peter. To agree to any part of Amelia’s request felt like an agreement with her bias. But Elliott could not find the words to tell her no. Perhaps he did owe her. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to break her heart again. She was different, and he mourned the parts of her that she’d seemed to have lost in the years since they had last met, but there was still some kind of connection between them—a curiosity of just how much might be left beneath the mask she’d worn for this confrontation. Thirty-six years. If he gave her what she wanted, mig
ht he have the chance to see her again?

  “I can speak to Peter and share your concerns with him.”

  She didn’t look particularly pleased with this solution.

  “Surely you do not expect me to walk into my nephew’s home and order her out of the house. Handled badly, it would be a disaster for everyone involved. But I will talk to him and see if there might be . . . something.” He had no idea what that something was. Amelia seemed to only want her daughter out of Peter’s house, and yet she was not willing to go to her daughter in person, so she too was mindful of some considerations. “That is all I can do, though I am unable to go until next week. I have matters to attend to before I can get away.” This part was not entirely true.

  Peter’s brother, Timothy, was coming up from London so Elliott might introduce him to the marriage campaign, but Elliott could be to Elsing and back before Timothy arrived. Rather, he wanted time to craft the right approach that might allow him to see Amelia again. Perhaps after a few days of reflection, she would reevaluate. Maybe she would even withdraw her objection.

  “Thank you,” Amelia said, sounding relieved but still cautious.

  “After I’ve spoken to him, may I contact you?” Did his tone sound casual and professional? He hoped it didn’t reveal his ulterior motives of wanting a second opportunity to see her.

  “Yes, that would be all right. Perhaps the clerk has a pencil and paper we might use.”

  He inclined his head and then stepped aside in order to allow her to exit the parlor. As she strode past him, a memory of leading her down a garden path and taking her face in his hands became so real for a moment that he forgot time and place. Amelia had not shied away from his attention back then, but she could not even look at him now.

  What might have been different if I had stayed here instead of going to India?

  He followed her to the desk, where she requested a pencil and paper from the clerk. She did not look at Elliott as she took the items and wrote out her address. When she finished, she thanked the clerk and turned, paper in hand. She must not have realized how close he had been standing behind her as she startled slightly before taking a step back. He took the paper and glanced at it. “You live in Feltwell?” It was not close—some fifty miles away—but neither was it far.

  “Yes.”

  “That is where your husband is from, then?” He’d already noticed she had not included her husband’s name in the address.

  “Yes.” She did not expand on her answer. Was she estranged from Mr. Hollingsworth? Was she a widow? Or did she simply not want to invite the familiarity of sharing any details of her life with him? Because he could not be trusted. Because his entire family could not be trusted.

  Elliott folded the paper and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. They stood in the middle of the foyer for a moment, waiting for the other person to speak, while the desk clerk looked on with curiosity.

  “It was good to see you, Am—Mrs. Hollingsworth,” Elliott finally said. Impulsively, he reached out his hand and touched her arm. She pulled away as though he’d used a hot poker and took another step away from him. The glare she gave him caused his own cheeks to heat up. “My apologies,” he said, embarrassed at having been so forward. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her reaction to be, but he hadn’t thought she’d be so repulsed.

  “I shall look forward to your letter,” Amelia said, her expression wary. “Good day, Lord Howardsford.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Hollingsworth.” He held her eyes another moment, frustrated with her prejudice, and yet something told him she hadn’t changed as much as she seemed. He’d hurt her, and this was her reaction. He inclined his head and turned away from her.

  So help me, I hope to see you again.

  Julia

  Julia arose Monday morning of her tenth day at Peter Mayfield’s house firmly convinced that she’d been right about this position from the start—it was perfect for her.

  She took her morning walk. The country was lovely, and the estate backed a wooded area threaded with a variety of footpaths she hoped to one day have memorized. When she returned, she looked in on the dogs for a moment, brushing Bumbleberry’s long coat and then petting the long, sleek backs of the greyhounds, head to tail. Fortified for the day, she went inside and woke the girls at exactly eight o’clock.

  They spent the morning as had become their routine: dressing, breakfast, reading, a short walk, then playing in the ­circle yard until Cook rang the outside bell to announce lunch. Usually she served sandwiches and lemonade, but yesterday she’d served a lovely salad of different greens, including dandelion and yellow primrose petals. Cook had been surprised that Julia recognized the flowers, and they’d had a short discussion about edible plants. She hoped it helped their relationship a bit. This was only the second household she had ever been part of the staff for, but it had taken some weeks for the staff at the Cranstons’ house to warm up to her. She hoped the transition would be faster here, though everyone was so busy with their responsibilities there hadn’t been much time to get to know people.

  “Can we check on Bumbleberry before we go inside?” Marjorie asked.

  “Certainly,” Julia said, reaching out one hand to each girl. She loved the warmth of their soft hands in hers as they headed toward the dog yard, where Mr. Mayfield kept his foxhounds on one side and the pregnant dams and new greyhounds on the other. Julia was glad for the foresight of separating the breeds; the hounds’ bouncing energy made the girls anxious. However, they were quite taken with the calmer animals.

  Bumbleberry was a beautiful black-and-white, long-haired female collie—the only collie Mr. Mayfield owned—and nearly to term with her first litter. Marjorie was excited to meet what she thought of as “her” puppies, and Julia did not dare break the girl’s heart with the fact that the puppies would likely be sold. For a good price, if Julia had to take a guess.

  The periodical Julia had borrowed from the study a few nights ago—Mrs. Oswell had told her she was free to read anything from Mr. Mayfield’s collection—had an entire article on future expectations of dog ownership in Great Britain. Collies were one of the breeds specified as growing in popularity, yet Mr. Mayfield had made the decision to bring on collies months before the periodical had been published. She would have loved to discuss the addition with him, but the man only spoke to her when he was coming and going from visits with his daughters, which were infrequent.

  Mrs. Oswell had explained that Mr. Mayfield was too busy with the dogs to regularly attend children’s hour—from five to six at night—and often, the only time he saw his girls was when he came to kiss them good night. Leah was usually asleep by then.

  When the three of them reached Bumbleberry’s pen, the dam did not come to greet them like she usually did. Julia scanned the enclosure until she saw Bumbleberry lying by the side of her shelter. Her tongue was out as she panted heavily, although the day was not so warm as to warrant it.

  Bumbleberry had been fine when Julia had checked on her that morning. “Oh, dear,” she said under her breath.

  “What?” Marjorie said.

  Bumbleberry heaved herself to her feet at the sound of their voices, whimpering slightly as she lumbered towards them. Julia looked around for Gregory, the handler. Had he not recognized that Bumbleberry was in labor? Surely Mr. Mayfield would not have left the dam alone if he knew.

  Bumbleberry put her muzzle through the fencing, and Julia rubbed her ears. She looked past the dog to the empty water bowl and felt heat rise up in her chest and neck with irritation and concern. A whelping dam with no supervision and no water?

  “It’s going to be all right, Bumbleberry,” she said soothingly, forcing a calm tone and a smile. “You’re going to be a mama.”

  “She’s having her puppies?” Marjorie asked with delight, eyes wide and hopeful.

  “Today?” Leah exclaimed.

  �
�I think so.” Julia visually assessed the dog as best she could. The physical changes she observed showed that the dam was well through the first stage of labor. Julia stayed calm, for all their sakes, and gave the dam a kiss on the nose, then took each girl by the hand and quickly led them out of the yard toward the house.

  “We need to get your father,” Julia said, concern mingling with bubbling enthusiasm in her chest. Caring for their dogs with her father had been one of the most enjoyable times of Julia’s life, and it had been fifteen years since Julia had enjoyed daily interaction with dogs of any kind, let alone being nearby when a new litter of puppies was born.

  As soon as the three of them entered the kitchen, the girls let go of her hands and ran for their father’s study with such energy that Julia winced. Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, did not like it when the girls ran in the house, but it was too late to call them back, and Mrs. Allen was not in sight. Cook, however, was stirring something on the stove, and Julia turned toward her.

  “Have you any idea where Mr. Mayfield is, Mrs. Burbidge?”

  “He has not yet returned from the village. Went to put in notice for a new handler.”

  “But Gregory—” Julia began.

  “He turned Gregory out yesterday. Mr. Mayfield don’t tolerate dissolute behavior.”

  Julia had no time to ponder Cook’s words. She thought of Bumbleberry. No water. No handler. No Mr. Mayfield. Her anxiety rose even higher. “Oh, dear.”

  “Miss Julia?”

  Julia looked back at Cook. “Bumbleberry is delivering her pups.” The sound of pounding feet rumbled above them. The girls would not find their father in his study as expected and would return soon. “Where is Mrs. Allen?”

  “She’s to town on Monday mornings to buy for the upcoming week.”

  Julia clasped her hands together. “The dog should not be alone, Mrs. Burbidge, but I am not sure what to do. I could supervise until Mr. Mayfield returns, but I would need someone to watch Miss Leah and Miss Marjorie.”

  Cook eyed her skeptically. “You’ve experience with whelpings?”