Honour's Choice

by Joan Vincent

  Sarah shook her head. He is far from recovery. He is away from everyone who would give him the love and reassurance he needs. I am the older. I must be the wiser. She refused to acknowledge that the kiss had changed everything.

  Hadleigh pressed a kiss into her palm. “I—”

  “Do not say anything.” Sarah laid a hand against his cheek and tried to master her heart.

  A young lady came out the walking hall’s outer door as they gazed at one another. Observing them holding hands, she halted.

  Amabelle Edgerton at seven and ten years had just finished her third year at Mrs. Bailey’s Academy for Young Ladies of Quality in Bath. Amabelle possessed a slender yet curvaceous figure. Her locks were brilliant golden curls. Her complexion had often been the subject of poems by her young swains. With blue eyes that sparkled, a pert nose, and high cheekbones attractively enhanced by a sociable smile, she was a beauty. This, and being Sir Rufus’ only child, had made her the centre of attention from birth.

  Amabelle harboured no dislike for her stepmother. At ten, the young girl had been prepared to do battle when her father had unexpectedly remarried. But Sarah had not tried to be a mother. She acted like a much older sister, kind and generous. They had reached an amicable understanding while Sir Rufus lived and it continued.

  The decision to go to school in Bath was prompted by Amabelle’s desire to learn the ways of and go among the haut ton who frequented the Pump Room in Bath. And in doing so, partake in the entertainments in Bath’s Assembly Rooms.

  She had arrived just as her Aunt Elminda left and had received a copious, if slanted, account of Sarah’s recent activities. She purposefully chose the walking hall so that she could better assess the stranger who caused all the excitement.

  Sarah, Amabelle noticed, had lost weight. Her colour was high and her hair dressed far more attractively than the young woman had ever seen it. The thin starkly handsome stranger with her piqued Amabelle’s interest.

  The Manor will not be as dull as I feared. I shall forgo my campaign to go to London for a time. Amabelle ran a hand over the artistic arrangement of her curls.

  When the gentleman brought one of Sarah’s hands to his lips in an intimate manner, Amabelle was stunned. How could a man, especially one so very interesting and much younger than her stepmother hold the dowdy middle-aged woman in any degree of affection?

  Amabelle had been shocked when she had discovered that her stolid stepmother corresponded with Rupert Hale, but had accepted his interest. He was, after all, older than Sarah and spoke of nothing but medicines.

  When she saw Sarah lean close to the gentleman and caress his cheek, Amabelle put a hand to hers. A militant gleam glinted in her eyes. She pinched her cheeks and rubbed her lips to enhance their colour. An innocent smile assumed, she tripped lightly forward. “Dear, dear Stepmama, I am home.”

  Sarah jerked free and stepped away from Hadleigh. She did not know whether to be upset or relieved at the interruption. Nor did she know what to make of Amabelle’s odd greeting.

  Watching the young woman approach with annoyed resignation, Hadleigh tried to grasp what had just occurred between Sarah and him. He saw Sarah’s momentary surprise when the young woman clasped her in a warm embrace and brushed a kiss on her cheek.

  “I am so very glad to be back at the manor, Stepmama,” Amabelle gushed in her best Assembly Room manner. She took Sarah’s hands. “You are a bit pale, Stepmama. Come, we must go inside.” Then, pretending she just now saw the man on the chaise lounge, Amabelle gasped.

  “Oh, Stepmama, I am sorry. I did not see your guest. “My pardon, sir,” Amabelle prattled. She blushed prettily as she sank into a curtsy.

  Never had Sarah had so strong a desire to box the girl’s ears. But knowing her stepdaughter, she put on a smile. “It is good to have you home again, Amabelle. Of course you did not disturb us, child. Let me introduce our guest. Hadleigh Tarr, may I present my stepdaughter, Miss Edgerton. Amabelle, Mr. Tarr.”

  After they exchanged greetings the young woman reproved her stepmother. “But, Stepmama, you will give Mr.Tarr a wrong notion of me.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “I may be far from your three and thirty years but surely, since I shall be nine and ten this fall, I am no longer a child?”

  Hadleigh’s gaze sharpened at the young woman’s innocent smile. He saw Sarah blanch and sought to draw her stepdaughter’s attention to spare her. “Did you have a comfortable journey?”

  Amabelle fluttered to the table and with slow delicate movements unfastened her chip straw bonnet’s large bow. She threw a glance at the gentleman to let him gain the full measure of the effect of the blue ribbon which matched her eyes and then removed the bonnet with extreme care.

  A surreptitious glance took in the crutches, the odd footgear on his left foot, and the ponderous bandage on the right. Amabelle brushed past Sarah and drew a chair close to the chaise and sat. “I know Stepmama has taken very good care of you, Mr. Tarr. She takes care of everyone.”

  Amabelle sniffed and sighed expressively. “Even stable boys. I wonder that Mr. Crandall does not complain at her lack of propriety,” she continued. “But then he once had a tendre for—” She blushed, lowered her gaze.

  “Mr. Crandall has asked about you often, Amabelle,” Sarah interrupted dryly. “He will be delighted you are home.”

  “Yes,” the younger woman sighed, “he has always taken such a fatherly interest in me. Is not that kind of him, Mr. Tarr?”

  Hadleigh looked from Sarah to Amabelle. He tried to read between the words and looks. He was practised in dealing with beautiful misses newly out of the schoolroom. If one discounted her ill manners, she was much like André’s sister, Leora. “One must be careful in judging where another’s interest lay.”

  Hoping to direct the conversation to safer ground, Hadleigh added, “Lady Edgerton, your stepdaughter is very pretty. She reminds me of a young cousin. Leora is seven and ten and plans to take London by storm next season.”

  “Why, Mr. Tarr,” Sarah warned. “You recall someone else?”

  Hadleigh put a hand to his forehead. “I —” He rubbed his brow, his expression pained. “I think she is André’s sister.”

  The interruption narrowed Amabelle’s eyes. “If I am able to convince Stepmama to take me to London perhaps I shall meet your cousin,” she commented. “Do you and your wife live there?”

  Tarrant ignored her question. “Some say London stimulates. I must admit there are many attractions.”

  “Have you shown them all to your wife?” she persisted.

  “Amabelle,” Sarah warned.

  “I do not ... recall if I have a wife.” Hadleigh leaned back with feigned exhaustion. “Miss Edgerton, may I impose on you? Could you please see what keeps our nuncheon?”

  “I would be delighted to do so,” Amabelle said with a coy smile. How did one not recall a wife? “I shall see you are served at once.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a nod. When Amabelle was gone he turned to Sarah. “Thank you. I must guard my tongue around that young miss. If Amabelle is as daring as Leora, I do not envy you her guardianship.”

  Laughing, though she knew not whether from relief or concern about what her stepdaughter had seen, Sarah rose. “Amabelle means no harm. She is somewhat spoiled but her nature is sweet. You just witnessed finishing school lessons.”

  “Sweet as long as she is not crossed?” Hadleigh asked rhetorically. “No, do not puff her up for me.”

  His gaze turned serious and searching. “Sarah, we must talk.”

  “Yes,” she forced lightness, “you have not said where you mean to go when you are able to leave.”

  Hadleigh’s heart sank at her evasion.

  Sarah looked over her shoulder and saw Amabelle followed by Darton and a grim Cauley bearing a cold collation.

  “Let me assist you, Mr. Tarr,” Amabelle bubbled when she joined them.

  “No. Please sit with Lady Edgerton,” Hadleigh told her.

  Sarah put her arm t
hrough her stepdaughter’s and held her fast. “Do tell me about your journey home, Amabelle. Did you spend a night with Miss Garnet’s family?” she asked, and guided her stepdaughter to the table.

  Chapter Ten

  Edgerton Manor May 17 Wednesday

  Hadleigh glared at the letter he had received from Castlereagh’s secretary Tuesday afternoon. It rankled that it came from this underling rather than Castlereagh, but not as much as the contents or lack thereof.

  Hadleigh drank the port Cauley had reluctantly brought. His nature, he had grudgingly concluded over the past few days, was the sort to overindulge.

  Though disturbed by the letter, Hadleigh was more perplexed by the turn his relations with Sarah had taken. It angered him that the mere sight of her sent his brain to his breeches. Her cool reserve, her unwillingness to discuss what had happened in the garden was a sure sign that he did not have the same affect on her.

  I am glad of it, Hadleigh told himself yet again. He could never ask Sarah to be his mistress. Sarah could have been Amabelle’s mother.

  Cursing, Hadleigh drank and picked up the letter.

  “My dear Mr. Tarrant,” he read aloud.

  “I am so dear no one has called to see if I lived or died.” Hadleigh snorted derisively and sipped port. “You will understand the necessity of continuing not to write anyone,” he glanced up, “and anyone is underlined three times—until you are notified it is provident. The investigation is in a very delicate state at this time. Baron de la Croix is at present in Folkestone and his efforts promise to prove more helpful than yours. His lordship sends the enclosed bank note for your use.”

  He tossed the letter aside. “More helpful than my own. Hrumph!” Hadleigh raised his glass in mock salute and drained it.

  * * *

  Edgerton Manor May 23rd Tuesday

  A bright splash of early afternoon sunshine peeked through the clouds as Sarah entered the narrow walking hall. She glanced out the windows. Her gaze was unwillingly drawn to the pair seated beneath the old oak, their heads bent together. Amabelle’s yellow gold curls glittered against Hadleigh’s black. She blinked back sudden tears.

  What foolishness, she thought. I insisted Amabelle entertain Hadleigh. Sarah caught her reflection in the glass. She is nearly seven years younger. You are over eight years older, she mused. Men, especially young men, desire young beautiful wives. Ones who can bear them children ... as you cannot.

  A fierce sorrow rose. For the children her barrenness had not permitted her. For Hadleigh who could never be hers.

  Sarah countered grief with the belief that what she did was best for Hadleigh. That any feelings he had for her were only calf love born of gratitude and would soon die away.

  Rupert Hale, on the other hand, did not desire children. He had expressed the wish to call on her “to ask a personal question” when he returned to England.

  Rupert is an agreeable man, Sarah assured herself. One who shares my interests and encourages my work. That the touch of his hand does not make my heart race as does Hadleigh’s is irrelevant. If I were to remarry Rupert would be the best choice. Reason seconded this but it was a poor comfort.

  Sarah took a last look at the pair beneath the oak. She hurried on, anxious to bury herself in the work of the stillroom away from her fears, away from her hopes.

  * * *

  Hadleigh leaned back in his chair eyeing Amabelle with appreciation. “How do you always manage to take the last trick?” he asked while she moved the pegs on the cribbage board to reflect the current points in their game of piquet.

  Triumph glittered in her eyes. “Amelia Fashionwaite told me I was a natural at piquet. No school girl ever beat me.” She cocked her head and pursed her lips. “Nor any gentleman.”

  “If only I could claim your beauty as the reason I am so soundly trounced,” Hadleigh sighed.

  “That is very ungentlemanly of you.” Amabelle pouted as he dealt the cards. “Amelia’s brother Ralph did not care that I beat him. He said my eyes were cerulean blue.” She batted her lashes at him.

  Hadleigh pictured Leora practicing her wiles during his last visit at his uncle’s estate. He thought of Cousin Michelle’s illness. Damme this restriction on writing, he fretted. What has happened to everyone? Where is André?

  “You need not frown so,” Amabelle protested.

  “Frowning was I? My deepest apologies, Miss Edgerton. I was ... wondering about my family.”

  Amabelle’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “You truly do not remember anything? What about the letter you received a day after I arrived home?”

  Tarrant dammed his error. “Your luck is run out,” he teased, “if you resort to questions—and not even about London.”

  “Amelia says a lady must encourage a gentleman to speak about his interests,” she answered primly.

  “Then I may speak of pugilism,” Hadleigh said with feigned eagerness. “The mill between Cribb and Jem Belcher in ‘07 lasted forty-one rounds.”

  “You know that is not an acceptable topic, Mr. Tarr,” she admonished with a shake of her finger. “It is not I who fear another game. We should ignore Stepmama’s stricture and play for at least a pence a point to prove we are in earnest.”

  “Never,” he laughed. “I would be a fool to play for even those chicken stakes. I shall never live it down if my friends learn how easily I was fleeced by a slip of a girl.”

  “Ah, ha!” Amabelle said, shaking her finger in earnest. “Please recall you lost the right to call me a ‘girl’ last week. Now you owe me two crowns.”

  “Wretch,” Hadleigh said, “you know it is only one.”

  Amabelle shrugged and expertly shuffled the cards. She splayed and fanned them as Miss Fashionwaite’s brother had shown her after being bribed with the promise of a dance.

  Waiting for the full twelve to be dealt before picking any up, Hadleigh looked back toward the house. “Where is your stepmother? I thought she meant to join us.”

  “You asked that same question earlier,” Amabelle complained. “Why would Stepmama wish to watch us? She does that every evening. It is very bad we can not make up a foursome more often,” she told him petulantly and picked up her cards. “I did ask if she was feeling ill. Just as you bid me. She said she was preoccupied about some new herbal receipt.” Amabelle studied her cards and then looked up, her eyes wide and innocent. “What say you, sir?”

  Hadleigh wondered if Sarah’s interest in Hale was serious.

  “Your discard, sir,” Amabelle insisted.

  He assumed a bland expression. “I discard three. Now—”

  “Sir, we are playing piquet, not gossiping,” Amabelle reprimanded. “Stepmama is her usual self. Please, do pay attention to the game. I discard one.”

  “You are a wretched minx, albeit an entertaining one,” Hadleigh told the beauty. He gave up hope of learning anything further about Sarah and looked back at his cards.

  “I have four points.”

  She smiled and laid out six Hearts. “I have six.”

  Hadleigh was still at zero when Amabelle claimed the game. Glancing past her, he brightened. “I am to be rescued.”

  Amabelle swung around in her chair and scowled when she saw Cauley. “I do not know how you tolerate that surly bear,” she frowned. “He never smiles and is very rude to me.”

  “Are you rude to him first?” Hadleigh asked with more brotherly candour than gentlemanly politeness.

  “A lady is never rude,” she answered, and stood.

  Hadleigh recalled Leora. “Your eyes are not cerulean. More the blue of the tiny brooklime flower.”

  “Why, thank you, sir,” Amabelle said with a calculated toss of her head. “That is very handsome.” Picking up the board, she curtsied. “Thank you for my winnings. Until this eve.” Ignoring the valet, she waltzed away.

  “The cut direct, Cauley,” Tarrant said with a wry smile.

  “Jack-at-warts she be,” Cauley mumbled as he picked up the crutches. He eyed Hadleigh’s fe
et, and grimaced. “She’s kept ye up too long, sir. The right’s fair swollen.”

  Using the crutches, Hadleigh stood. “I am the one who will pay for it,” he snapped. He ignored his valet’s help and began the laborious journey back into the house.

  When he was settled for his afternoon rest, Hadleigh studied Cauley. “Why have you taken the beautiful Miss Edgerton in such dislike? She is a good sort, just high-spirited.”

  “Not for me ta like or dislike the young lady,” Cauley said. “Be there anything else, sir?”

  “Please mix a sleeping potion.” Hadleigh winced at the valet’s surprised acceptance. It confirmed his fear that he was a coward not to face the renewed nightmares.

  * * *

  Amabelle sauntered into the stillroom after she left Hadleigh. She watched her stepmother stir a mixture in a glass bowl atop a smaller metal pot and wrinkled her nose at the odour. “What is that?”

  “Comfrey and oil—heated for two hours. It is almost ready to be strained,” Sarah answered. We call this a hot infusion—”

  “Oh, do not explain,” Amabelle exclaimed. “I have no interest in such things.”

  “Then you must develop one,” Sarah said quietly. “When you have a family you will need to know what herbs to use to treat your husband, children, and servants.”

  “But I will need only ask you,” Amabelle asserted.

  “And if I am not here?”

  “Not here? Do not be nonsensical, Stepmama. Of course you shall be here.” She stilled her hand atop a bottle. “Surely you did not think you must leave the manor when I marry?”

  “This house and its lands become yours then, Amabelle. Of course I shall find a home of my own.”

  The petit blond twirled a curl about a finger. “Close by?”

  Sarah hesitated. “I would like to travel for a time.”

  “Travel?” Amabelle repeated, surprised and puzzled. “But you have never even wished to go to London.”

  “Not for the Season. But there is more to London than the haut ton.” Sarah shrugged at her stepdaughter’s affronted look.