There was a knock at the nursery door, and Julia turned to answer. Perhaps Colleen had come for the dishes rather than expecting Julia to return them to the kitchen.
The door opened before she reached it, and Mr. Mayfield stepped into the room.
“Mr. Mayfield,” she said in surprise as she came to a stop. The girls exclaimed “Papa!” and ran for their customary hugs around his waist and knees. He bent down, smiled and complimented them, and then sent them back to finish their task of cleaning up the room. Then he turned toward Julia, and his expression changed from charming father to cautious employer. It was, unfortunately, a familiar change.
He was hosting a dinner party tonight, and the staff had been arranging dishes, polishing silver, and scurrying about for days in preparation. He was already dressed for the evening in a standard black jacket and breeches with a snowy white shirt and cravat. She’d never seen him in formal dress, and though he looked very handsome, it didn’t entirely suit him and made him seem far away from the man she knew. She’d overheard a conversation about this being the first event he’d hosted since Mrs. Mayfield had died, Maybe he looked ill at ease because he hadn’t worn evening dress like this for such a long time.
“I have arranged a dinner party for tonight,” he said abruptly.
Julia nodded.
“I would like you to attend.”
Julia felt her eyes go wide as her arms fell to her sides. “Me?” She touched her fingers to her chest.
“Yes.” He looked down and straightened his already straight cuff. “Mr. and Mrs. Oswell will be there, as well as my uncle, Lord Howardsford, and . . .” He cleared his throat and looked at her with apologetic eyes. “Your mother.”
“My mother!” Her own anxiety began flashing bright lights all around her head. She raised a hand to her hair out of habit, then lowered it and managed a shaky laugh. “Surely you are teasing me, Mr. Mayfield.”
His expression seemed to say that he wished he were teasing her, which only confirmed that he wasn’t. “Mrs. Oswell suggested it,” he said as though trying to absolve himself of any blame. “Seeing as how your mother does not live so very far away. She felt it would be . . . helpful.”
Helpful for what? Julia wondered. The temperature of the room had risen several degrees even as her nervousness continued to build. “You invited my mother to dinner and are only telling me three hours before the meal is to begin?” She’d been careful to curtail her boldness in his presence since the day Bumbleberry had her puppies, but she couldn’t manage much restraint right now.
She reached her hand up and began removing pins from her hair. Mother always told her to keep her styles soft. When the plait fell down her back, she realized she could not take down her hair in front of Mr. Mayfield.
Mr. Mayfield shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Actually, dinner is at five. I was in Norwich all day and unable to inform you earlier. My apologies.”
Unable to inform me earlier? Surely he had known her mother was coming before today. Wait, had he said five o’clock? She lifted the watch she kept pinned to her bodice so she could see the time. Her head snapped up. “It is already after four!”
“Colleen shall help you get ready, then tend to the children for the evening. I will have my time with them now so you might make yourself ready. I, uh, do apologize for the short notice.”
He stepped forward into the room, and Julia turned sideways so he would not brush against her. Her stunned surprise quickly turned to frustration. They lived in the same house, she saw him every day, and this dinner party—and the guest list—must have been planned for some time. He could not have taken five minutes before now to inform her that he’d invited her mother? Her mother, who wanted her to live in Feltwell so she could manage Julia’s life? The two letters she’d received from her mother so far had both been supportive and easy, but what her mother truly wanted had not changed.
Without another word for fear she would say something she would regret, Julia hurried to her room that adjoined the nursery. Colleen was already filling the basin with water, and the maid’s warning from a few weeks earlier came to mind, that Julia should watch herself. Julia could not keep from blushing with embarrassment at the entire situation.
“I put lavender in the water,” Colleen said coldly.
Julia forced a smile she did not feel. The thought of Colleen helping her into her dress and fetching her slippers was more than Julia could bear. “Thank you, Colleen. I shall be well enough on my own, I think.”
“Mr. Mayfield said I was to assist you.”
“And so you have. I would not have had time to attend to the basin.”
Colleen looked at her with narrowed eyes, and then left the room through the door that led to the main hall.
As soon as she was alone, Julia closed the door and began undoing the ties of her dress. The only other dress that would do for such a party was the yellow muslin she wore to church each week.
“What a man you are, Mr. Mayfield,” she said scornfully as her dress fell to the floor, leaving her in her petticoat and shift. She did not bother with stays when she was not going out, which meant she would have to manage them on her own for tonight. She stepped over the puddled day dress on her way to the blocky wardrobe and began removing all the trappings she would need.
She had less than an hour to make herself presentable for a formal dinner and prepare to see her mother for the first time since fleeing Feltwell. Her position did not earn her a place at Mr. Mayfield’s table for a dinner party, to say nothing of earning a place for Julia’s mother—whom Mr. Mayfield did not even know. Her stomach roiled, and her head began to pound.
Elliott
Are you going to tell me the purpose of this dinner before the other guests arrive?” Elliott asked Peter once they were together in the parlor with glasses of sherry in hand. Elliott had been staying at Peter’s for three days, and yet the two men had expertly avoided the reason Elliott had come. They’d gone riding and hunting, and Elliott had gone with Peter to Norwich that morning to deliver a foxhound to a buyer. But they had not talked about the dinner party.
Peter stared into his glass a moment, then downed the whole of it, which was not typically how one sipped their sherry. “It was Mrs. Oswell’s idea.”
“I assume she had a purpose for suggesting it.”
Peter let out a breath of surrender before explaining that he’d asked Lydia for help while he found a new governess and she’d refused him. “She feels I will not find a better governess than Miss Julia and suggested I create an opportunity for her mother to see that my household is run without reproach.” He shrugged and then added, “She did eventually agree to care for the girls if this dinner party does not go well and I still decide to turn Miss Julia out. As this evening has approached, I have questioned the entire idea; it has all the elements to make for a blasted uncomfortable evening. I appreciate your attendance, however. It may be the only thing that will give me any ease.”
“I am happy to be here,” Elliott said, sipping his drink while Peter poured himself another. Elliott had, apparently, been right about his first guess regarding this dinner—a hope that Amelia would see how well Julia fit the household here and withdraw her complaint. But Elliott’s second guess was still unanswered. “And I agree with Mrs. Oswell. I cannot imagine another governess could be any better suited. I hope Amelia will see the same.”
Peter stared into his empty glass. His distress was obvious.
“Are you all right, Peter?”
His nephew did not look up. “I grow both less comfortable with her presence and more determined to keep her by the day, Uncle.” His tone was barely above a whisper. Peter poured himself another drink—his third. The clock in the corner ticked. The fire crackled.
Oh, dear. “Because of the notice you confided in me before?” Elliott crossed to the sideboard, put a hand on Peter’s
shoulder, and gave it a squeeze.
Peter faced him, his eyes reflecting his inner torment.
Elliott put down his glass and gave his nephew his full attention.
“She is in my employ.” The pleading tone made Elliott’s heart ache. “She lives in my house. Her mother is against her even being here, and . . . I still love my wife.”
Elliott swallowed against the lump in his throat. Had he ever seen Peter so raw with his emotions? Had Peter ever been so raw?
“Does Julia know you feel this way?”
Peter shook his head. “I barely speak to her.”
Odd, that, Elliott thought to himself, and yet he believed he understood. Peter was terrified. Of feelings he never expected to feel again. Of what others might think of a situation that would look too similar to the scandal that had produced Peter. Of Amelia’s reaction, and perhaps even Julia’s.
“I planned this dinner to assure her mother that her daughter was safe and happy here. I wanted Mrs. Hollingsworth to watch Miss Julia interact with the girls and the pack, to see that I was a man of honor, and to withdraw her complaint. Since that time, however, I have questioned the wisdom of my decision. No offense, Uncle, but perhaps Mayfield men are all broken in some way. Perhaps I will be her ruin.”
Elliott kept his expression neutral. “I do not believe for a moment that you would ever make an untoward advance upon any woman, Peter, and you certainly would never be the cause of someone’s ruin. You must not fear yourself, nor the feelings you have.” He paused, then pushed forward, hoping that what he had to say was wisdom. It is not as though he had ever given such advice before. “You are a man, and Julia is a woman who might be exactly perfect for you.”
“I cannot even think that direction,” Peter said, shaking his head. “How could she be right for me? You acknowledged yourself that we are of two different worlds. Your entire marriage campaign is based upon compatibility of station.”
“If this is about the campaign, I can—”
“It is not,” Peter snapped. The words could not seem to get out of his mouth quickly enough. He scrubbed his forehead. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer but still tight. “I don’t need nor want your gift. You know this.”
There seemed a dozen things he could say about a dozen different facets of this situation. He chose just one point of focus. “I think Julia Hollingsworth could make an excellent wife for you, Peter.”
Peter closed his eyes, as though pained at Elliott having stated what he already knew. Elliott would prefer that he be relieved rather than further burdened.
The clock chimed five o’clock, which meant the other guests would arrive any minute. With only borrowed time between them, Elliott took the bolder path. “I am glad to know the whole of your feelings, Peter, and will do everything I can to support you. The first thing you need to do is impress her mother. Be kind, gracious, complimentary, and yet professional. Do all you can to assure her that Julia is safe in your home.”
Peter opened his mouth, but Elliott cut him off. “She is safe in your home.”
Peter nodded, though with reluctance.
“The second thing you must do is let down your guard with Miss Julia. You must learn if your feelings are because of her, specifically, or if they are because your heart has healed enough to entertain the idea of loving another woman—and Julia happens to be the woman you interact with most often.” That such a thought came to him so quickly felt like inspiration, a confirmation that his advice was sound.
Peter nodded, thoughtful.
“And, if you determine that your feelings toward Julia are valid, then you need to move her out of your house before you propose a change of relationship between you. I don’t know how to make that happen and have her stay close enough for you to interact, but surely you can find a way. This will preserve you both.”
Peter looked up, surprised. “Mrs. Oswell actually offered the use of her guest room so that Miss Julia could attend to the girls during the day but otherwise live at the vicarage. I found it a very strange offer at the time.”
Intriguing. “Perhaps Mrs. Oswell saw something you had not yet admitted.”
Peter’s cheeks pinked slightly. “She said I would know if I ever needed to take her up on the offer.”
“Well, then,” Elliott said with a smile. “That problem is solved.”
“Should it come to that,” Peter answered, avoiding certainties. “This evening feels like nothing short of madness.”
A knock at the doorway caused both men’s heads to turn.
“Mrs. Amelia Hollingsworth,” Mr. Allen announced before bowing slightly and exiting the room.
Amelia entered the parlor wearing a rose-colored dress perfectly fitted to her frame. The fabric moved fluidly with every tentative step she took. Her hair curled around her face, her satin gloves reflected the candlelight, and her demeanor was one of elegance and grace.
Time seemed to warp around Elliott, and he was awash in memories of their time together in London all those years ago. A flush crept up his neck as a deep and abiding attraction burst forth. In an instant, he knew exactly how Peter felt: surprise at feeling what he never thought he would feel again and not knowing what on God’s green earth he could—or rather, dared—do about it.
He swallowed, and Peter glanced at him with a questioning expression before putting on a smile and moving forward to welcome Amelia. Elliott remained rooted in place, overwhelmed by the awareness that Peter was not the only one confronting his feelings tonight. He somehow knew that this moment would change everything.
Julia
Julia could hear muted conversations when she reached the drawing room door. It was nearly a quarter after the hour, and she was likely the last to arrive, which meant everyone would turn and look at her and she would blush and feel ridiculous and then wish she could run for the nursery, where she belonged. She would not be dressed as finely as they would be. She only had a Sunday dress, no jewelry, and the same shoes she wore every day. Plain. Insignificant. Out of place. And her mother was on the other side of that door.
Why am I here? She took a deep breath, praying it would keep her steady. I can do this, she told herself as she placed her hand on the door. I can, I can, I can.
She remembered to smile as she crossed the threshold, and, as she’d feared, everyone in the room turned toward her. Her eyes first went to Mr. Mayfield—he was always the biggest presence in the room—and then moved to her mother, who was coming toward her with outstretched arms.
“Julia, dear.”
It was a relief to feel genuine pleasure at seeing her mother. Julia had been gone from Feltwell for almost exactly a month, she realized. It felt as though so much had happened, and then nothing had happened at all. She held the embrace, inhaling the scent of her mother—peppermint and yeast—and then pulled back, both of them clasping arms just above the elbows.
“It is so good to see you, my dear,” Mother said.
“As it is to see you,” Julia answered. “How was your travel? Were the roads good? We’ve had so much rain.” Do you know why you were invited? Why did you come?
“Travel was quite comfortable,” Mother said. “Mr. Mayfield hired a well-sprung carriage with a skilled driver.” The words were gracious, but Julia could hear the underlying coolness, and it made her already tight stomach pull tighter.
Julia released her mother and exchanged greetings with the other guests—Mr. and Mrs. Oswell, as well as Lord Howardsford, who did not look at her as intently as he had the first time they had met. He did, however, watch her mother a great deal. Perhaps he stared at everyone he met for the first time?
“Shall we go in for dinner?” Mr. Mayfield asked after introductions had been made and small talk had taken place. He put his arm out for her mother, who took it after a slight hesitation. Lord Howardsford then put his arm out for Julia, while Mr. and Mrs. Oswel
l came behind them. Julia had not attended such a formal meal since her time in London, where, gratefully, she had honed the etiquette her mother had taught her.
Relax. Do not draw attention to yourself. Enjoy a fine meal.
Lord Howardsford sat to her right and Mrs. Oswell at her left. Mother was seated across from her, between Mr. Mayfield and Mr. Oswell. Julia allowed the small talk to move around her, until, during the soup course, Lord Howardsford spoke to her directly.
“I understand that prior to coming here, you spent some years in London.”
“Yes, five years. I worked for a family there.” Was it all right for her to talk about her work?
“And did you enjoy your time there?”
“Very much,” Julia said, carefully avoiding negativity. “The parks are lovely.”
“Ah, yes.” He nodded. “I found the parks to be my favorite part of London. That and the company.”
She glanced at him in time to catch him looking across the table at her mother, who looked up at the same time. Their eyes met, locked, then both of them looked away.
What was that?
Lord Howardsford continued to talk about London, asking her about Vauxhall Gardens—she’d never been—and the theater; she’d attended an opera once.
Mulling over the look she had caught between Lord Howardsford and her mother, she raised her voice and added, “My mother lived in London when she was younger. Mother, did you spend much time in Hyde Park? I understand it included more wilderness back then.”
There was a beat of silence, so pronounced and obvious that Julia did not breathe for a moment. Her mother, Lord Howardsford, and Mr. Mayfield seemed caught in the silence as well, then simultaneously unfroze themselves and acted as though nothing had happened. She caught a fleeting glance between the Oswells that reflected her own confusion. The three avoided her eye, and she felt heat rise in her chest. There was a knowing here that she did not know. And no one seemed to notice that Mother did not answer her question about Hyde Park.
Promises and Primroses Page 16