“You were a great looby, weren’t you?”
He could not withhold a chuckle at her response. “Yes, the greatest. But I am a great deal wiser now. Wise enough to be very sure before I take another step. She does not want our courtship to become a matter of speculation, and nor do I—for her sake. I want to take her home to Buxton where we may be free of all these concerns over status and gossip. But how do I convince her to leave you? And once that is accomplished, how do I get her there in a respectable fashion? I cannot travel with her, but nor do I want her to go alone.”
“You are overlooking the very simplest solution of all. As your wife, her social status would be assured and you could travel anywhere you desire—and take as long getting there as you want. There might still be speculation, but mostly of a positive nature. I do not believe she would care any longer about the opinions of a few spiteful people.”
His wife. Sir James’ mind held onto the thought, fixated on the joys of such a blessing. “Do you mean that I should marry her here? Now?”
“Certainly, sir. The sooner you leave to acquire a special license, the sooner we may arrange your happy ending.”
11
Pure Poetry
Cornelia focused on taking calm, steadying breaths as one of the maids tied her stays. She felt an urgency, an impatience to be done, though the sun had not yet risen high enough to burn away the dusky shadows of the night. It had taken her weeks to grow accustomed to rising early, but this morning, she had gotten out of bed when the servants had just begun to stir. Somehow today, she would show Sir James that she welcomed his advances.
Surely, for such a happy future, she could brave the censure of those who would disapprove. But the rapid beating of her heart proved how deeply anxious she felt at taking such a step.
With the last pins and ties securing her morning dress, she thanked the chambermaid who had helped her and sat at her small vanity to put up her hair. She pinned it into place, then, feeling utterly brazen, pulled out a few wisps of hair around her face and smoothed their wild curls into ringlets. It softened her face and showed, her youth whereas, normally, she sought to hide it with a severe style.
A knock at the door surprised her for no one ever came this way except the maids who were assigned to help her. Going to the door, she saw Damen and raised her eyebrows in question.
“Sir James sent me to find you,” he murmured, casting his eyes down the corridor as if to assure no one could hear him. “He’s in the stables. You’d best hurry. It looked to me as if he was setting out on a journey.”
“Thank you.” Cornelia did not wait to ask him any of the questions that sprang at once to her mind. No doubt Damen had told her all he knew. If Sir James was indeed on the point of departure, there was no time to waste. Her worry, her insecurities, her reluctance to have him gone gave wings to her feet as she ran through the rabbit warren of corridors that made up Somerstone.
Impatient of the time it took her to reach the stables, Cornelia did not notice her labored breath or the way her hair began to pull free of its pins. Turning through the garden and through the gate to the stable yards, she immediately beheld Sir James, holding the lead of a prime stallion who fidgeted while a groom fastened on two saddlebags. Sir James ran a soothing hand down the horse’s neck while murmuring to him.
“You’re leaving?” She asked, her voice rough as she tried to catch her breath.
Sir James turned immediately when she spoke and motioned for a groom to take the horse. He strode to her and took her hand, leading her to a sheltered corner near the high wall of the stable yard. “Yes. I have business in London.”
“London?” Cornelia searched his eyes, surprised. “But that is a three-day journey. You will miss the rest of the house party.”
His strong fingers gripped her elbows a moment, then ran gently up and down her arms, soothing her as he had his horse. “I fully intend to return for the ball.”
“But how?”
“I can travel faster riding than is possible in a carriage, and I shall be moving at a wicked pace, I promise you.”
“But what is so urgent? So necessary that you must leave now instead of waiting a few more days?”
“Cornelia, I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think it was important, but do not make me speak more about it now.” He paused a moment and she searched his eyes. They were shadowed with concern and worry. His shoulders looked tense, as did the muscles in his jaw as he clenched it. “I had planned to read a poem tonight at the reading, but since I cannot, can I give you a few lines now?”
Her pulse raced. “Please do.”
“It is from ‘I Speak Not’ by Byron,” his tone sounded like a warning, and he hesitated.
“Go on,” she said, anxious to hear.
“And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet, with thee at my side, than with worlds at our feet.”
Cornelia gasped softly, not just at the power of the lines, but at the intense passion with which he spoke them. “James…”
“By thunder, if it wasn’t impossible to leave you before. Don’t look at me like that, my darling, or I’ll never find the strength to get on that horse and ride away.”
“Then I will endeavor to do precisely that and keep you here, as the poem says, at my side.”
He stood still, his eyes burning her with the fierceness of his emotion. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “But you see, for me, the words of the poem are why I must leave.” Then, pulling her firmly towards him, he pressed a firm, urgent kiss to her lips then turned sharply away. More quickly than Cornelia would have believed possible, Sir James mounted and rode out of the gate. The two grooms on duty looked as amazed as she felt.
Turning away, needing peace to order her thoughts, she ran back to the garden. Tears ran hard and hot down her cheeks. She fumbled for her handkerchief then realized that she did not have one. She wiped her wet fingers on her skirts, trying to numb herself to the sharp longing in her chest. She shuddered and started crying again as she realized she had not told him she loved him.
* * *
If Cornelia had never before felt such a keen unrest and loneliness as she did after Sir James’ departure. Throughout dinner and the poetry reading, she performed her duties but took no pleasure in them. Though the drawing room was full of laughing, applauding people, all bent on courtship and social maneuvering, all Cornelia could feel was the lack of Sir James’ presence.
She didn’t hear the poems recited for the guests, only the one Sir James had quoted to her in the stable yard for her ears alone. Try as she might, she could think of no urgent business that he might have in London. She knew all too well that his business concerns all revolved around his lands around Buxton. If anything, he should have been called home.
But speculating would do her no good, nor would it bring him back. All she could do was remember the gleam in his eyes and the passion in his voice and hope that he cared for her as he had so often intimated. If only she had not taken so long to understand and accept her own feelings.
When the poetry reading was done, the Countess directed her to ring for tea. The butler came in a moment later with the tea service, closely followed by Damen. With so many guests, the Countess did not pour the tea herself. It was Cornelia’s duty to see to it with the help of the servants. As she carried steaming cups to Miss Fairchild and Miss Townshend, she heard Sir James name spoken behind her. Alert and curious, she listened carefully as she returned to the tea tray.
“I don’t know where he’s gone off too,” Lord Ian said. “Hared off early this morning.”
“No doubt he finally tired of that companion creature setting her cap at him and slipped away.”
Cornelia stiffened, her fingers gripping the teapot so hard her knuckles turned white. The second voice belonged to Lady Summers, her mocking tone striking like arrows in Cornelia’s flesh. Her words were followed by badly muffled laughter.
Mortified and angry, Cornelia looked over her shoulder and saw tha
t Mr. Tierney was also part of the group. When he had mastered his laughter enough to speak, he said, “Does anyone even know who she is?”
“Of course not." Lady Summers said. "People who have connections are not employed as paid companions. I pity her really. She must be quite desperate to secure a match and rise from such a lowly position. But why she must needs cast her lures at Sir James is beyond my understanding. Lord Bloomsbury I could understand for, really, who else would marry such a man? But Sir James? Well.”
Lord Ian spoke up then, his voice unsteady with mirth. “Who knows? Perhaps Sir James does mean to make her an offer. There are different sorts of offers, you know.”
“There are indeed,” Mr. Tierney said. “I wouldn’t mind making her such an offer myself. She’s pretty enough after all and has quite the figure under all those dull gowns she wears.”
Lady Summers sniffed. “No doubt she would throw herself at you if you showed her some interest. And you might be doing Sir James a favor—though I’ll be surprised if he returns.”
The teacup Cornelia held rattled on its saucer as her hands shook. She wanted to scream and claw and hiss, but more than anything, she wanted to escape. But, how could she? If she ran out now, they might see and know that she had heard them. No, she would not give them the satisfaction.
Just then, a hand came out and took the china dishes from her hand. “Go,” Damen said. “I will cover for you.”
She looked up at him, and though she had often been wary and even mistrustful of him, she saw such a shade of sympathy in his eyes that she nearly broke apart right then. But somehow, it also gave her strength. “No. I will not run away anymore.”
Running away from pain was the reason she was here in this position. If she’d had the courage to stand and face her problems, how much different might her life have been. She took the cup back from Damen, and with only a slight tremor, poured the cup of tea. Then, she took five lumps of sugar and stirred them into the hot brew until they disappeared.
“That’s nigh on enough sugar to choke a person,” Damen said, his voice at once shocked and amused.
“That I should be so fortunate.” Pressing her lips together, Cornelia added two more lumps and stirred them in, then turned and carried the cup over to Lady Summers.
When the woman saw her approaching, she looked shocked for just a moment, then looked sideways to her two male companions and bit her lip in an effort to hold back her laughter.
Cornelia’s resolve firmed. “Here is your tea, Lady Summers.”
“Why, thank you.”
“I think you’ll find it contains just what you need.” Cornelia smiled, dipped a mocking curtsy and walked away, enjoying the sound of sputtering and gasping that erupted as Lady Summers drank the tea.
She passed Daman, who watched in great amusement from the tea tray. She paused next to him. “If the Countess should inquire after me, tell her that Wellington needed to go out.”
He nodded, a sign of respect she thought, and turned back to his duties. Cornelia collected Wellington from his seat near the door and left with her head held high.
12
To London and Back Again
Sir James awoke to weak sunlight filtering through grimy windows, rough sheets, and the raucous noise of London streets. He sat up, groggy, and tried to orient himself. Not being a man given to drunkenness, he hadn’t found himself in such confusion since his early days at Oxford. But this was no hangover. No, in only a few moments, he remembered his exhausting and torturous ride from Yorkshire to London.
Sure, Dick Turpin was famously reported to have made the journey overnight, but James had never been more certain that it was a complete fabrication. He had made the ride in thirty-six hours, and he was quite sure that doing it in less would have killed him.
Still, after a late visit to Doctor’s Commons, Sir James had acquired the special license he had come for. Reaching out, he took the paper from his riding coat, which lay across the end of his narrow bed, and smoothed it open on the coverlet. There, his eyes went to the name which meant more to him than any in the world—Miss Cornelia Greystock, aged twenty-one of Buxton.
This piece of paper would enable him to her his at last. If, that was, she would accept him. He was almost entirely sure she would, but even the smallest bit of doubt caused him great anxiety. When he thought of the two days journey ahead of him, as brutal as that which he’d already been through, he groaned.
Anxious to get it over with, he ignored his muscles as they screamed for mercy, and got out of bed. He washed his face and neck and hands then dressed as speedily as he could manage.
Ready to leave, he picked up his saddlebags and descended to the common room of the inn. He looked around, relieved to find that though the place was a bit rough, it was decently clean. He needed sustenance for the journey ahead, so fortunately, this looked like a respectable establishment.
“Awake, are ye?” said a high-pitched voice. Her question was closely followed by a giggle. “I never did see in all me days, a gennel-man so shaky on ‘is shambles.”
Sir James eyed her, amusement brightening his blood-shot eyes. “Is that a fact?”
“Aye, me lord. I ‘elped you to bed meself or ye never would ha’ made it.”
Chagrined at this knowledge, Sir James repressed a shudder. “Thanks for your help, madam. I’d like to eat some breakfast and pay my shot, before I leave, if it’s possible.”
“Right away, me lord. I’ve a good kidney pie and the best home brewed that ever filled a man’s gullet.”
Within moments, the innkeeper’s wife produced a filled tankard and a wedge of pie. Sir James took a long pull of the ale and nodded. “My gullet thanks you, ma’am.” He dropped some coins into her palm to pay his shot and turned away to a table across the room.
Eating hurriedly, he planned the journey ahead of him. It would be difficult to get out of London quickly this time of day, so it might be noon before he was able to make good time on the open road. His horse would last to five or six hours ridden hard before he would want to change out for a fresh horse. His aim was to make Grantham by dusk and ride as far as Newark before resting for the night. By leaving again at dawn, he could make it to Bawtry before noon and retrieve his own horse from the Crown where he’d left him. He was a powerful horse with amazing stamina. Being fresh, Sir James had every confidence the horse could carry him the rest of the way to Somerstone.
When he was at last on the road, he leaned out over his mount’s neck, encouraging her to fly, occasionally racing past carriages leaving or heading toward the sprawling metropolis. Past villages and fields, forests and cities, he anxiously marked the passing distance, measuring how much closer he was to her—and what he hoped was his future.
When it was necessary to walk his horse or stop at a stable or stream for water, he chafed at the delay. What if he was delayed on the road and he could not attend the ball as promised? Would she think he had deserted her? She had looked so worried, so forlorn as he had left her three days ago.
Stopping for the night in Newark as planned, he found it difficult to walk. His muscles had never been exerted in such a fashion before. He’d never asked so much of his whole body, and it complained vigorously about the ill-treatment. But with the thought of at last having Cornelia as his wife ever before him, it was not difficult to find the motivation to get back on his horse the next morning, even though storms threatened to beleaguer the final stage of his journey.
“The devil,” he shouted, as he watched the western horizon. He hoped he could outride the storm, and at least make it to Bawtry in good time. But his horse was soon winded and he was forced to slow the pace to a walk the last three miles to the Crown where he’d stabled his stallion. He turned the horse over to a stable hand just as the storm broke.
“Have my stallion ready to ride in twenty minutes,” he told the boy.
“But, sir! The road will be a right mess with all this rain.”
“Can’t be helped, lad. See
to it.”
He went inside where he drank a tankard of ale and ate a quick dinner of ham and roast potatoes, paid his bill, and went to find his horse. The stable boy eyed him like he’d gone stark raving mad, but he’d done a good job, so Sir James tossed him a coin and mounted. Fortunately, his greatcoat did a fine job of shielding him from the downpour, but the incessant rain at times blinded him as it ran off the brim of his hat and blew back into his face.
Just as the stable boy had predicted, the rain quickly made the road treacherous. Sir James' steady hand kept his horse on a safe course, but the pace was too slow. The ball would be starting in only a matter of hours. There was no doubt now that he would be late. Just not too late, he hoped. Not too late for all of the Countess’s carefully laid plans for a private wedding ceremony.
After another mile, Sir James' most urgent desire came true. The rain slowed, then stopped. The sharp wind blew the clouds away, and just when Sir James thought he would have to stop since riding in the dark would be impossible, the moon came out to light his way. Unfortunately, it’s pale light gleamed on an obstruction in the road ahead. A carriage had overturned in the mud.
The coachman wrestled with the terrified horses and the carriage lay drunkenly in the ditch with its sides leaning against the trunk of a tree. For just the barest of moments, Sir James thought about riding past. He had no time.
But he also couldn’t leave people in need of help. As much as he wanted to shake his fist at the fates, he dismounted. As his boots squished in the mud, he gave up all hope that tonight would bring him a wedding night with Cornelia as his beaming bride. As he peered into the window of the carriage, he saw that instead, it seemed, tonight had brought him a crotchety old man in need of rescue.
The Unwanted Suitor: Regency House Party: Somerstone Page 8