Promises and Primroses

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Am I mad?

  “Six.”

  Elliott

  Elliott couldn’t stay away. He was sixty years old, set in his ways, a determined bachelor, devoted to the security of his wards, irritated with Amelia Edwards Hollingsworth, and yet he had thought of little but her in the week since he’d left her home. He was coming to see her, again. Unannounced, again. But he was on a specific errand this time, one that intrigued him, and he desperately hoped for a different mood to this visit. Each time he saw her, he understood it could be the last time, and while this visit was no different, it could lead to at least one more encounter.

  On the ride from Howardhouse to Feltwell, Elliott listed all her bad qualities: controlling, hard, stubborn, uncaring for her daughter’s happiness, unforgiving, prejudiced, judgmental. But he did not turn back, nor did he stop at Peter’s but instead went past Elsing by thirty miles. Amelia’s home was not convenient. Amelia was not welcoming. They disagreed on a sensitive issue. Eight hours in the saddle would leave him sore for days. He was not a young man; he should have brought a carriage. He should have avoided the trip entirely and sent the information in a message, which Peter had expected and she likely would have preferred. None of it made sense.

  Elliott reached Feltwell at just after three o’clock in the afternoon and dismounted at a public stable. He paid the extra coin to buy a bag of oats and fresh water for his horse; who knew how long the water had been sitting in the trough? He had to walk a rather substantial distance to Amelia’s house, but it felt good to stretch his legs. He paused in front of her house—immaculately kept—and smiled at the yellow blossoms that seemed to light the flagstone path to her door.

  Their exchanges had not been encouraging, and yet he knew there was more to her than what she had chosen to show him. Those hidden aspects drew him like a bee to a flower. Like moth to flame. Like birds to dawn. Like—

  A sound stopped him. Humming.

  He quietly moved from the walkway to the eastern corner of the house.

  Amelia was on her knees, bent over what he thought to be an herb garden. Her face was relaxed, her apron dirty, and she was humming . . . a hymn? She was at her leisure, without tense shoulders and anxious eyes. And she was lovely. Truly lovely. All those poor qualities he’d listed the last forty-some-odd miles were hard to remember, and instead other truths about the years that had passed rose up with greater definition.

  She was a widow, forced to find her way alone in a world she was not raised to be a part of, concerned for her youngest daughter, and working hard to make the small corner of the world she lived in more beautiful. She had succeeded at most of those things, and he admired her as a competent woman who had overcome much.

  He’d decided long ago he would not marry—first, because he had work to do, and now because he was old and tired—and yet what if he’d met Amelia by accident a month ago and she’d been happy to see him after all these years? What if they had met in a way that did not involve her questioning his nephew’s honor and Elliott trying to balance what she wanted against what Peter—and Julia—deserved?

  A young female voice called out, “Mrs. Hollingsworth,” and Elliott ducked around the corner, pressing his back against the bricks.

  “Good morning, Clara,” Amelia said.

  “Good morning. My mother sent round this jar of preserves as thanks for your help with the new baby.”

  “What a kindness from your mother.” Her voice was so soft and easy; she had no pretense with this girl, no pain to hide or history to remember. He envied the young woman on the receiving end of Amelia’s easy conversation very much. “And how is your new sister doing?”

  They went on to converse about such things as diapers and what type of compresses the girl’s mother should use for engorgement, whatever that was. Elliott knew enough to know he did not want to know. They shared their goodbyes a few minutes later, along with a promise from Amelia to stop in after church the next day.

  Then Amelia began humming again, and Elliott realized that any minute someone could walk in front of her house and see him pressed up against it like a criminal. So he took a breath and walked around the corner again, standing in full view of her, though she did not notice him right away. She kept weeding her herbs, cutting some bits to put in the basket beside her, and humming her hymn.

  Amelia reached for the basket and caught sight of him. She startled, those big blue eyes bigger and perhaps even bluer. “Elliott!” She scrambled to her feet, but in the process, caught her foot in the hem of her apron and pitched forward.

  Elliott quickly crossed the space between them and caught her, but she pulled away from him, lost her balance again, and fell backward into the herb bed behind her.

  Elliott froze, his hand still outstretched.

  Amelia froze, her eyes and mouth open. They stared at one another for a few seconds, both as surprised as the other at what had happened so quickly.

  “I am so sorry, Mrs. Hollingsworth.” Taking a chance, he stretched his hand out further to help her up. This time, she took it—dirty garden gloves and all—and he pulled her fluidly to her feet.

  The momentum caused her to stumble forward, those wide blue eyes locked on his as she stopped mere inches from his chest. They both froze again. Taken off guard, without her defenses drawn and her agenda before her, she was open and bright and beautiful in her vulnerable surprise. The moment could not last forever, but Elliott would have ridden another eight hours to have had another one.

  She dropped his hand, stepped back, and brushed at her skirts before glancing over her shoulder to appraise the extent of the damage done to the back of her dress. When she looked at him, her cheeks were flushed.

  “What can I do to amend having startled you, Mrs. Hol­lingsworth?”

  “Well,” she said, her tone unexpectedly light. “Perhaps you could pretend it never happened?” She arched an eyebrow at him and gave him an embarrassed smile.

  This was the Amelia he remembered. Comfortable, funny, and light. This was why he’d ridden fifty miles. This was what he was longing to see. And she had called him Elliott. By accident, surely, but he locked it away all the same—like pennies dropped on the cobbles, there was value even in the accident. “Shall I present myself at your front door in ten minutes’ time? Will that be long enough for the amnesia to set in, do you think?”

  She chuckled and swiped a tendril of hair behind her ear, leaving a swish of dirt on her cheek that looked as though it had been put there by a watercolor brush. “Plenty of time, I hope. Thank you.”

  He turned away so she might make a dignified exit and walked back to the flat-front of her house. When he remembered the preserves and the basket, he returned to the side yard to fetch the items, as well as a small trowel he hadn’t noticed before. A tuft of something green with small leaves had been smashed when Amelia fell, and he tried for a moment to right the stems before realizing such work was out of his depth. He wiped his hands on the inside of his coat—his valet would have a fit—and returned to the door with the items Amelia had left behind.

  He surveyed the immediate area about her home. On the north side of Milburn Row were thick shrubs and intermittently planted trees that created a natural border and a lovely view. Her home was built from red brick with a pitched roof, and there was an orchard of some sort behind it. Was the orchard hers or did it belong to someone else? She did not live in the more populated part of the village but within a mile of the shops, church, and market—walking distance. He saw no stable.

  Her life is so different from mine, he thought uncomfortably. One of the stipulations he’d made in the marriage campaign—as Peter had called it—was that his nieces and nephews marry gentry. Amelia would not qualify under those terms. Neither would Julia; he and Peter agreed on that fact. Elliott had said Julia’s ­station—­so far below his own—was reason enough for Peter to feel comfortable with her in the house,
but Peter had refused to keep her for any reason. But now he was hosting a dinner party and inviting Amelia to attend. Certainly it was to reassure her that Julia was happy and safe in the household. But what if there were a different reason? Elliott had been disappointed when Peter had said he did not plan to marry again, and Julia’s station had nothing to do with anything, really. Peter did not need the wedding gift Elliott had arranged for him. He could marry whomever he wanted.

  Oh, dear.

  The front door opened, and he turned to face a still-smiling Amelia standing sheepishly in the doorway. She wore a different dress—a nicer one—he noted. He smiled and held out the basket toward her. “These were left in the yard. I fetched them for you.”

  “Thank you, Lord Howardsford,” Amelia said as she took the basket.

  Did she remember that she’d called him Elliott before? He wished he dared remind her.

  She showed him to the parlor, then excused herself—­leaving him alone with the portrait of Richard Hollingsworth. Elliott wondered if he would have liked the man, had they ever met, or if he would have disliked him on the principle of him having married the only woman Elliott had ever cared for. When he heard movement in the doorway, he stood and hurried forward to take the tea tray from Amelia.

  “I am capable,” she said as he took the tray.

  “As am I.”

  He noticed her scowl as he made his way to the table but dared hope it was not entirely sincere. A sincere scowl on this woman’s face was fearsome, but he did not yet feel icy undertones and dared to be optimistic. “I hope my chivalry does not cause further awkwardness between us.”

  “I shall let you know.”

  He looked over his shoulder, and her teasing smile moved through him.

  “Though I am sure I do not know to what other awkwardness you are referring since you only just arrived.” She arched an eyebrow at him.

  He chuckled. “Indeed.” Once he’d put the tray down, she moved around the table, sat, and began serving the tea.

  She remembered he did not take sugar or cream and handed him the cup. He took it carefully, watching her, though she was not watching him. After she prepared her tea, she sat back in her chair and took a contented sip.

  “I must say I am intrigued, Mrs. Hollingsworth, by your disposition today. At our other meetings, I felt as though you wished you could throw me through the nearest window.”

  She laughed—gracious, what a happy sound. “Well, perhaps I did want to throw you through the nearest window.”

  “But not today.”

  She turned her head slightly and gave him a look that could be considered coy. “Not yet.” She placed her cup down and faced him fully. “Outside of a certain recent event in my herb garden that shall not be discussed, I have had a particularly successful week that I expect will bear very positive results. I am also hoping that your presence—unannounced though it is yet again—will add to my optimistic expectations. Has there been progress made toward my daughter’s situation?”

  Elliott’s hopes began to fade. Oh, yes, how could he forget that the bond between them was forged from her bitterness toward him and his nephew. “I suppose whether or not my presence will add to your optimism depends on how you feel about coming to dinner at Peter’s house on Tuesday evening.”

  Her smile fell. She said nothing.

  Elliott pretended not to notice how the room took on a shadow. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed Amelia’s invitation, which Peter had sent with the one intended for Elliott. Peter had asked Elliott to forward it to her. Instead, Elliott had brought it fifty miles in person. Because he was intrigued by this woman. Because he was insane.

  Amelia took the invitation while Elliott explained what she could read for herself. “Peter is having a dinner party, and he’s invited you, myself, and his former governess and her husband, who is also his parish vicar. Julia will also be in attendance.”

  “A dinner party for what purpose?”

  “I have no idea.” He put down his cup. “He asked me to forward the invitation to you, and I feared that it would not reach you in time, which is why I am here.” He knew that she knew he could have sent it by post.

  “He did not say why he was inviting me to this dinner party?”

  “No, he simply requested your company.”

  “I am vastly uncomfortable with this prospect.”

  “As am I,” he confirmed with a nod. “But I plan to attend, if only to satisfy my curiosity as to the purpose of the event.” He did not add that, to the best of his knowledge, Peter had never hosted a dinner party.

  Amelia picked up her cup and took a thoughtful sip while focused on the invitation beside the tea tray as though if she stared hard enough it would surrender its secrets. After a moment, she met his eyes. “You have already sent your acceptance?”

  “Yes. From here, I am going to his home, where I shall stay through Wednesday, after the dinner party is concluded.”

  “There is something afoot.” She pressed her lips together. One would think the invitation was a rodent by the expression on her face. Possibly a dead rodent.

  “Yes, likely there is.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You are certain you do not know your nephew’s agenda?”

  “He did not give me a reason, though I can’t help but wonder if he is hoping that you becoming familiar with him and his household might lead to your approval. It is the only theory that makes sense.” His other theory that had developed during the last several minutes was that Peter and Julia had somehow come to an understanding of one another that went beyond the professional and Peter wanted to inform Mrs. Hollingsworth in person. “Regardless, I have no reason to refuse the invitation.”

  “That is very well for you,” Amelia said, bristling even more. “I have more than enough reason.”

  Elliott did not ask, as he knew the reasons would be derogatory toward either him, Peter, or both of them. After all, they were Mayfields and therefore untrustworthy. Despite the pleasant beginning to his visit, he could feel the increasing tension creeping up on them.

  Why on earth did you come here, old man?

  Elliott felt his fatigue funneling into the places left behind from his fading optimism. He took a final sip of his tea and returned the cup to the tray. “I have issued the invitation as I was asked to do. It is now in your hands to decide if you will accept it or not.”

  He stood, but a shot of pain in his left knee caused him to shift his weight to the right. He had to catch himself on the chair in order to maintain his balance.

  Amelia jumped to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  Still braced by the chair, Elliott looked across the table at her. Her eyebrows were knit with concern, and she leaned forward slightly as though she would throw herself beneath him if he lost his balance again. Tempting. He used his left hand to massage the back of his knee, easing the pain and stiffness but also drawing out the moment. He liked being the recipient of her sympathy.

  “I twisted my knee several years ago. It will bite me like a snake from time to time, but it always passes.” He put weight on the leg, bouncing slightly to test the recovery. “Likely I have simply spent too much time in the saddle these last weeks. It will be good to arrive at Peter’s and rest my old bones.” He smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring, then turned toward the door. It would take a few hours to travel to Peter’s home. He could make it by evening, and then perhaps take a hot bath before going to bed early with an extra glass of whiskey to ease the ache.

  “Wait.”

  He turned at the doorway. She was holding the note, still sealed. “Please tell Peter that I accept the invitation.”

  Elliott hid his surprise at her quick change of heart and nodded toward the invitation in her hands.

  She looked down as though she’d forgotten she held it. With a sigh of irritation—whether at him
or herself, he did not know—she broke the seal and unfolded the paper. He watched her beautiful blue eyes scan the page. “Five o’clock, and because of the distance, he will have a room prepared so that I might stay the night. He has offered to hire a carriage for both directions.”

  Well done, Peter, Elliott thought. “It should be an enjoyable evening, then.”

  “Perhaps,” she said suspiciously.

  “You will have the opportunity to see your daughter, if nothing else,” he told her, afraid she might be trying to come up with an excuse. “Perhaps it would be a good time to share your concerns with her. I must say I am less and less comfortable with the maneuvering taking place without her knowledge. One way or another, that needs to be remedied, I think.”

  A calculating look replaced Amelia’s concerned expression, which made him uncomfortable. “Hmm,” she said, tapping the invitation against the palm of her hand. “Perhaps you are right.”

  It was a good thing he was encouraging her to attend, wasn’t it?

  Julia

  Julia began clearing the supper dishes while the girls tidied the toys strewn about the room. When Mr. Mayfield came for his hour, Julia would take the girls’ dirty linens downstairs, where she would set them to soak until she could return and finish laundering them after the girls went to bed. As their governess, she was responsible for their clothing, just as a valet or a lady’s maid was responsible for the men or women they served.

  That she often lingered outside the nursery for a few minutes after leaving, and again before entering, listening to their father tease them, or sing to them, or tell them stories about their mother, was something Julia kept a secret. It was ill-mannered to eavesdrop, and yet Mr. Mayfield could be so comfortable with his daughters—playful, affectionate, and kind. Papa had been like that; he would just be with her. Back then, she looked forward all day to the time she would spend with him in the evenings alongside the dogs.