Edward smiled. “Well, for starters, your father is the most powerful man in all of England, and it looks like he’s been actively fighting this crime syndicate.”
I tried to reconcile the dark rumors with what I’d experienced under Macy’s care. Every emotion twisted.
“For starters?” I asked, wondering what else Edward suspected.
He grinned. “Well, I can’t argue with his tastes.”
I furrowed my brow, not understanding at first, but then laughed. “So what happens to us now?”
“We wait, just as we always have.”
I cast him a curious look.
“If Macy is connected to even a fraction of the crimes associated with Adolphus, then it’s only a matter of time before justice catches up with him.” His voice sobered and grew tender, even. “He’ll be hanged, Juls. I want you to be prepared. There may be some infamy connected to being the wife of such a famous criminal.”
I smile now at the irony of Edward’s words, though his guess was as good as any other as to what would happen.
That day, however, I folded my hands and tried to mentally adjust to the possibility that I might see Mr. Macy dangling from a scaffold. Only once had I witnessed a man being publicly executed, and I had no wish to ever repeat the experience.
Edward took my hands in his, pulling my thoughts from such a gruesome possibility back to him. “Hear me, Juls; really hear me. Let this sink deep into your memory. I am coming back for you. No matter what happens, no matter how long this takes. I swear it.”
I nodded, feeling my throat thicken. “But what are we going to do about the difference in our beliefs?”
Edward laughed. “How different are they at this moment? Are you at least willing to admit perhaps there’s more?”
I swallowed, considering his question. Everything in me twisted anew at the idea of having to admit I might have wrong beliefs. I considered the sensation I’d felt in Eastbourne’s chapel and the impossibility of all that had happened. My fingers took in the carpet-like moss and rough texture of the bark.
How strange, I thought, to base faith on a tree.
But I laughed at the happy and foolish idea. “Yes, perhaps I can concede that much.”
Grinning, Edward slipped down from the tree. Strong hands grasped my waist, and a second later I joined him on the ground.
“What happens next?” I asked.
“I leave this afternoon.” He tucked my arm beneath his. “My parish needs me, especially in light of Churchill’s death. I can only imagine how anxious Henry and Elizabeth are.”
“I forgot to tell you,” I said, lowering my voice. “Mr. Macy had asked the bishop to come to determine if you should be allowed to remain in the church. I should have told you last night.”
Edward shrugged. “I’ll figure out something to tell him.”
“Or maybe you can allow Henry to explain it.”
He smiled at my jest. “No. I think not.”
We fell silent as Maplecroft loomed into view. Edward stood, his rebellious curls dishevelled over his forehead as his vestments undulated in the autumn wind.
“It doesn’t look any less imposing in daylight, does it?” Edward asked. His hand tightened over mine. “You can do this, you know.”
I nodded. I had family again. A father. And apparently a father who wasn’t as unfeeling as he first appeared. That would take some getting used to. And I had so many questions—questions about Mama, how they’d met, the circumstances surrounding my birth, why she had married the notorious William Elliston, and if it had been Lord Pierson writing to Mama in those final months. My throat ached as I acknowledged my truest wish. “Do you think I can make him love me?”
Edward grinned. “All I know is, Lord help the man.”
I squeezed his hand as tightly as I could, never wanting to let go. Yet I knew if I didn’t, I would never discover the other side of love.
I took my first step of faith.
THE EIGHT MONTHS that followed my arrival at Maplecroft have been called one of the greatest cozenages of our age. My father and I have endured endless speculation as to the amount of hours poured into its plan and execution.
Truth comprised of bare facts is rarely more flattering than legend. In reality, our sham was little more than a mad-dash scramble, composed of one improvisation after another. Events kept unfolding, forcing us to take new action, making it impossible to steer from collision.
I am an old woman now. Ancient some days. I had no idea my story would cause such an uproar. When I first penned it, my only intent was to address the rumors of how the entire affair started. I was weary of hearing how I seduced Mr. Macy. As if I, or anyone, could. The very idea is laughable. Long life has its advantages. One’s perception grows clearer, even if sight does not. I now better understand how shocked the infamous Lady Foxmore must have felt during our presentation. Her pretension was unequalled. Yet there I stood, a pale, scrawny girl in rags, chosen by one of the most illustrious men in her circle to be wed to him. It is no wonder she thought it a grand jest. How could she, or anyone who knew Macy intimately, have guessed just how resolute he was upon marrying me?
Since my story’s publication I have been accused of deceit, of besmirching the innocent by fabricating my story in order to gain public sympathy. Some have pointed out that I unfairly suggest that Mr. Macy is responsible for the murder of Churchill, Edward’s solicitor. They remind me of the documented fact that the culprit was apprehended, and he was little more than an unstable man—and that it’s merely coincidence that his death occurred on the same day that Mr. Macy collected me.
Others state that if I were truly innocent, then how is it my story escalated to treason, and how could it have ended so tragically?
It is this last challenge that causes me unrest. I cannot recount the mornings I’ve stood before my window, debating whether it is best to allow the matter to rest or to persevere and tell the tale in its entirety. I’ve wrestled with my conscience, wondering what good it will do to reveal all. Shall I so easily expose the sins of my father? Like Ham, shall I peel back the tent flap and expose his naked shame to the world? Will it bring back the dead? Or change anything?
It was only this morning, as I turned to retreat to my favorite chair, that I decided. I caught sight of my paternal grandmother, Lady Josephine, watching me. She is ageless, of course, forever capturing the bloom of our youth. It is curious to me now that I did not consider myself pretty then. Youth is its own beauty, and I wasted mine wishing I were other—more fair, more statuesque. But of no mind! As I paused and studied her painting, my great-grandchildren rushed past my window, tripping on their own merry shrieks. They fell in a muddle, and then just for the glory of it, lay on their backs, spread their arms, and laughed.
I chuckled, imagining their incredulousness to learn my frolics were once as madcap as theirs. Lady Josephine also watched with her ever-present coy smile. For some reason it brought to mind how her portrait gave me strength during those long months with my father. Something about her smile used to assure me that her anecdotes were no less mischievous than those I shared with Henry, Edward, and Elizabeth. I regret that I will never learn about them.
It is this thought that decided me.
I will for my grandchildren and great-grandchildren to know me.
Not the version they’ll find archived in the newspapers. Heaven forbid they search there! I care not to contemplate the opinions they’d form. No, I will write this wrong. Let them at least judge me by truth, though it is hard to say whether it makes me less of a culprit. Let the world think what it will. I am much too old to care, anyway. I have aged past the point of cowing to opinions.
It all began, of course, with my father.
Not my stepfather, William Elliston, whom I believed begot me up until that devastating night that I wed Mr. Macy.
But Lord Pierson himself.
A narrow sliver of light streamed through the dark hall as I pushed the library door open ever so s
lightly. Careful not to be heard, I took measured, tiny steps forward, fearing the door might creak and give me away.
“What did you expect I’d do?” My father’s was the first voice I heard.
“Even if she’s not placed here by Macy,” Mr. Forrester shouted, “this will ruin you! They may forgive you for having an ill-begotten child, but to lie about it is committing political suicide. You can’t honestly think you can hide her identity from that lot!”
Holding my breath, I leaned forward and finally took my first glimpse. Inside, a roaring fire cracked and hissed, casting a glow on the heavily polished wood. At the hearth, Mr. Forrester spread the tails of his frock coat apart as he warmed his backside.
My father sat, bent over his desk, carefully writing out a document before him.
“She doesn’t even resemble your wife.” Mr. Forrester dropped his tails. “Nor does she possess grace or manners. How are you going to convince anyone she’s lived her life in a finishing school? What school produces something like her?”
The uncomfortable look that passed over my father’s face as he dipped his pen told me he secretly agreed with the assessment. “You can keep wasting your breath,” my father said, “but I shall move forward with this. Either help me or leave.”
“Of all the stupidity, Roy. Tell them it was a misprint. Or send her to a real finishing school.”
My father picked up the document and perused it. “No.”
Mr. Forrester hit the oak mantel with his fist. “What about marrying her off?”
To my dismay, my father chuckled. “Is that an offer, Robert?”
Mr. Forrester sneered before slumping into a nearby chair. “No, absolutely not.” He paused a moment, as if winding up again. “And what are you planning to do when it’s time to present her at court?”
My father dipped his pen, ignoring him.
“Who do you think is going to sponsor her? Have you even thought of that?”
Still my father didn’t answer.
“What? Are you just going to sit there and ignore me now?” Mr. Forrester asked. “You haven’t a clue, have you?”
“If necessary, she’ll come out this season and take her place.”
There was a derisive snort. “As what? Mrs. Macy?”
“She’s no more his wife than I am. And you know it.”
“I know nothing of the sort.” As if at wit’s end, Mr. Forrester grabbed his hair and held it in his fist for a second. “She’ll be the ruin of you. She’s mannerless, rude, short-tempered. One morning I found her whiskey-slinging before breakfast! No one is going to believe the story you’ve concocted.”
“Isaac met with her before determining how to handle this. He thought her capable enough.”
I frowned, not certain who Isaac was, but then recalled Lord Dalry, the gentleman who’d greeted Edward and me the night we arrived.
Mr. Forrester scrambled to his feet, knocking over a nearby glass. “After all he’s sacrificed for you, you’re destroying his career along with yours. Have you even considered how selfish you’re being?”
My father’s features hardened before he retrieved his pen, dipped it in ink, and started to write again. “I’m not doing anything to anyone. He and I discussed this possibility before I left, and he chose to take it.”
Mr. Forrester’s mouth pulled downward as his jaw jutted. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on your daughter. Had I known any of this would happen, I never would have fetched you that night.”
Instead of a reply, my father considered Mr. Forrester. “Would I better gain your support, Robert, if you knew that this measure thwarted Macy?”
Mr. Forrester huffed. “How do you mean?”
Sighing, my father leaned back and opened a bottom drawer of his desk. “Look over some correspondences between her mother and myself. Simmons collected all documentation after her death, so you’ll find my letters in there as well. You’ll see that Macy has been planning to collect Julia for some time now.” He slid a black portfolio across the desk.
I gasped, but thankfully it went unheard.
Mr. Forrester snorted and sprawled himself into one of the teak chairs planted before the desk, leaving his arms and legs dangling. “It makes no difference. Even if Macy planned this years ago, your daughter is his strumpet now. Her loyalty sleeps with him.”
Nevertheless, he opened the portfolio with a flip of his hand and withdrew a sheaf.
Sight of that first letter tortured me. After Mama’s death, I’d spent months searching for the mysterious correspondences that frightened her. I’d emptied her desk, torn apart her wardrobe, dumped out every drawer, and overturned her mattress. The passion seized me one afternoon after I’d been staring at the endless circles the rain formed in puddles. Like a feebleminded woman, I went from despondent to frantic. Believing Mama had taken her own life because of a series of correspondences, I wanted answers. And I would not be put off. I had searched and searched until Sarah finally found me sitting in the middle of a wrecked room and begged me to cease.
Even from my distance, I recognized sheaves of Mama’s stationery and had to resist the urge to rush into the library and snatch up the file.
I couldn’t see Mr. Forrester’s face, but he made quick work of the first letter, then picked up the next. Again, I felt desperate. I recognized that letter, too. It bore a tea stain from the time Mama’s hand shook so much, she overturned her cup while reading it. I wanted to scream. It was maddening that for once in his life, Mr. Forrester wasn’t giving commentary.
My father waited in silence, using his thumb to twist a ring on his fourth finger.
Mr. Forrester turned over the last page in the file, then hooked his elbows behind his chair. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, which is why I’m keeping her here.” My father sanded the document he’d been working on, folded it, and slid it into the shoulder bag he’d worn home that evening.
Mr. Forrester shifted in his chair, allowing me to see his face. “This is Macy we’re talking about here. How do you know he didn’t plan this, too?”
My father withdrew a new sheet of paper. “Because no one would expect this bold of a move. Consider it from my point of view, Robert. I never wanted her here either. But now that Macy’s forced my hand, I’m calling his bluff and raising the stakes.”
Mr. Forrester snorted again. “And what if he’s not bluffing?”
“He’s stalemated, and he knows it.” My father’s voice softened as he picked up his glass. “Think on it. He lacks proof of the marriage. He lacks proof she’s the girl he married, and even if he could prove it, the legality of the union is debatable at best.”
Mr. Forrester lifted the portfolio and waved it in the air. “No proof?”
My father glowered. He looked askance, taking a swallow of his drink. A look of sadness crossed his face before he stood and held out his hand. When Forrester handed him the portfolio, he hesitated for a second as if regretting the action, but then, seemingly emotionless, tossed the entire correspondence into the flames.
A Note from the Author
SOME STORIES insist upon being written. This is one of them. When I first started writing this book, I was nineteen. My intent was to tell a story about a Victorian girl who unexpectedly falls in love while visiting a Gothic estate. It didn’t take me long to realize the true story was happening behind the scenes—and it was far more sinister. I liked what I had written, but I didn’t see how that story fit into a Christian worldview. So I set it aside.
Yet the story haunted me. Over the next decade, each time I sat down to write, no matter what I intended to put on paper, I always ended up sketching a quick vignette about that girl, or the estate, or about the other characters. In my late twenties, I realized if I was ever going to write anything else, I needed to get this story out of my system, so I began in earnest. This time, I incorporated God into the picture and began to see spiritual themes developing too. As I wrote, I shared my work with my sister-in-law and my bes
t friend. They grew so interested that they encouraged me to get it published. Little did we know it would take still another decade to learn the craft, the industry, and the necessary marketing skills.
During these years, the story has gone through several transitions. At times, the faith element has been too strong, while at other times it’s been buried except through symbolism. It’s always been Gothic. After many years of working on this story and these characters, I’m thrilled that this book is now finally in your hands.
Please feel free to contact me via my website, www.jessicadotta.com.
Blessings,
Jessica
Acknowledgments
I AM INCREDIBLY BLESSED by and grateful for the people who have poured their wisdom and time into this novel.
Kelli and Lynn—can you believe Julia’s story is now an actual book? How can I thank you enough for taking such interest in the growing story? Without your encouragement, I never would have undertaken the publishing journey.
My heartfelt thank-you to Kingdom Writers for setting up a forum where newbies can receive critique and feedback. I am especially thankful for those of you who followed an early version of this story and took the time to make me a better writer by providing feedback. A particular thank-you is owed to Jean Olsen. You were such an encouragement. A very special thanks to Janet Jones, Angela Joseph, Rich Maffeo, Chris Egbert, Brian Reaves, Sally Murtagh, Barbara, Darlene, and Andrea.
I am so grateful for my personal critique group, Penwrights. I couldn’t ask for a more dedicated and talented group of writers to work alongside. Yvonne, you are a brilliant writer and editor. I am so thrilled to have your books on my shelf. Reni, your enthusiasm for this series has helped me persevere more than you’ll ever know. Michelle, I hail thee as president and head of the Macy fan club. Lisa Ludwig, thank you for your awesome insights and wisdom. Mike Duran, thank you so much for your encouragement and for rejoicing with me. Noel De Vries, I used to so look forward to your comments; they were so valuable. I can’t wait until one of your books is on my shelf. Terri Thompson and Eunice, thank you for your faithfulness. A special thanks also needs to go to Jamie Driggers, Cindy Sproles, Steve Wallace, Patty Kyrlach, Louise M. Gouge, Donna Gilbert, Kelly Klepfer, Heather Smith, and Felicia Mires.
Born of Persuasion Page 40