“I have, many times.” She gazed a little wistfully out the window. “But it has been a long while since the last.”
“Owen told me what happened to your nephew. I am very sorry.”
She turned her gaze to me, a sad twist to her smile. “Yes, he and Owen were very close. Owen nearly died when Theodore did. He was lost in anger and resentment for so long.” She shut her eyes and shook her head, as if trying to forget an already banished memory. “He knew from a young age that he would need to find a profession, having an elder brother. So it was only one year later when he began medical school, determined to be an honorable physician and a great man. I think he has come to be both.”
Grandmother perked up with round eyes and pursed lips, giving me her full attention. “And quite handsome too, no doubt.” She winked. “Don’t you agree?”
I laughed and looked down, feeling my face warm. “I suppose.”
A few minutes later, around the time Grandmother had finished her hooting laughter, we arrived at the village. I stepped out of the carriage, amazed at the amount of shops lining the streets, many more than the village near Oak Cottage. Grandmother led the way, pointing out her favorite bakeries, jewelers, and bookshops. On occasion, she peeked her head into the door of a shop and greeted the owner—all of whom instantly recognized her. It did not require much perception to gather that she came here often.
I watched as young children flocked to the windows of sweet shops, nearly drooling as they pressed their faces against the windows. I smiled as I watched them, thinking of Peter and Charles and how much they would love it here.
“Here we are,” Grandmother said, stopping in front of a little dress shop at the curve of the road. She threw the door open and marched inside. “Gertrude!”
I eased my way through the door, surprised and amused again at Grandmother’s familiarity with this village. A woman appeared from around the corner wearing a smile so large and open-mouthed, that I imagined, had she been closer, I would have seen the back of her throat. “Harriet! Oh, it has been nearly a week since I have seen you! Much too long!” Grandmother met her halfway across the room with a hug. She began saying something else to her, but I couldn’t decipher the words.
Then the mantua maker hurried across the room to me, making the floorboards creak beneath her feet. Seeing her more closely, I noticed that she seemed to be a bit younger than Grandmother, but not much. Her eyebrows were extremely arched and thin, and she had a large, dark mole at the corner of her mouth. “I hear you need a gown. My name is Madame Fareweather. Come, come, we will get started.”
She grasped me by the arm and led me to the center of the shop. “First, I will need to do a fitting. If you become nervous, just fix your eyes on my beauty mark. Count the hairs if you like. Customers have claimed it works wonders.”
Oh, my. As much as I tried, I couldn’t hide my shock.
She and Grandmother burst into hooting laughter. I laughed too, relieved that she wasn’t serious. “I’m teasing! Although, I cannot imagine who wouldn’t adore looking at this lovely little thing.” She stroked a finger over her “beauty mark.” I laughed awkwardly, wondering if she had actually been serious after all.
Still chuckling, she set to work on my fitting, measuring and pinning and taking notes as she went. As much as I tried to prevent it, my gaze was drawn to the mole much more than I would have liked. And, feeling the boredom she anticipated, rather than counting the hairs, I decided to come up with a name that was a little more fitting than “beauty mark.” After much thought, I decided that “beast mark” would be sufficient.
“There. I’m finished.” She beamed at me. This time, I actually could see the back of her throat. “Now, how many gowns would you like made?” she asked, turning to Mrs. Kellaway.
“Just one today. Something suitable for a ball.”
“Very well.” She raised a very thin eyebrow and eyed me from head to toe, circling around me. Then she stopped at my face and I watched her brown eyes carefully studying every one of my features. “Not the longest neck, tolerable nose, nicely colored lips, rosy complexion, very handsome eyes … ,”
She rubbed her beast mark and looked up, clearly deep in thought. I had no idea what she was doing, but it certainly made me uncomfortable. “I have it!” she screeched, making me jump. “Pink! Oh, yes, pink is the color for her.”
Dread dropped through me. “I don’t wear pink.”
The dressmaker gave me a look that said, you will wear what I say you’ll wear. But instead, she asked, “Why ever not, my dear?”
My heart sunk. I had no plausible answer. She tapped her foot impatiently. “Um … well, I—”
“You will look stunning in it.”
“Wait—”
She turned around to face Grandmother and said, “Harriet, I will have the gown delivered six days from now, as you requested. Thank you very much for coming!” Then she pressed a hand to my back and led me to the door, prattling on about how lovely I would look in the pink gown.
Once out of the shop and away from that frightening woman, I was able to fully comprehend what had just happened: I had no choice but to wear a pink gown to the ball! I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. Yes, the rose didn’t seem so awful anymore, sitting on my writing desk nicely as it was, but wearing pink was much different than seeing it, and I did not know if I could bring myself to do it. My list of worries and questions was reaching a length that inspired madness.
Despite my feelings about the gown, I thanked Mrs. Kellaway and Grandmother for being so kind as to purchase it for me. And on the carriage ride home, I missed the excitement I had felt about wearing a ball gown. It had now deserted me entirely, making me empty and dull inside. My newfound worries and questions from the past day would have to suffice to fill the emptiness within me. There were so many, after all, so I had no doubt that they could.
A
I gave Peter and Charles each a hug when we arrived back at the house late that afternoon. They told me of the enjoyment they had with Grandfather, reading books, learning tricks, and learning to play whist. They were so energetic and lively that I had to laugh when I saw Grandfather asleep on the sofa. They had clearly worn him out.
“And look what he gave us!” Charles held out his little palm, revealing two shiny pennies. “Two for me, and two for Peter.”
Peter showed me his hand where two identical pennies lay.
I smiled down at them. “That was very kind of him. Keep those pennies safe until you can use them to pay for something you want. No need for stealing.”
“We must pay for what we want,” Charles said, repeating the line I had tried to commit to his memory. “Can we use them to pay for some sweets at the bakery or a pie from Mr. Co-worm?”
I laughed lightly. Mr. Co-worm was a much more fitting name for that odious man. “Of course. Just be sure it is something you really want. We do not want to waste money either.”
They nodded, clutching the pennies in their fists. I had a feeling they would keep them very safe.
I stole a glance around for Owen, but didn’t see him. I thought about asking Mrs. Kellaway where he was, but with Grandmother in the room, I didn’t dare. But as if my thoughts controlled it, Owen walked through the door immediately after I noticed that he was gone. His eyes landed on me and he flashed his easy smile. I instantly smiled back. Thankfully, it didn’t feel awkward at all.
After Owen had greeted each of us, I watched as a footman approached him with a letter on a salver. Owen opened it promptly, not waiting to read it privately. His eyes ran smoothly down the page, then stopped suddenly. His jaw clenched and his grip tightened on the paper.
Something was wrong, I could tell. I glanced around at the others in the room, but no one seemed to notice what I did.
My gaze jumped back to the rapid rise and fall of Owen’s chest, and the distress that cried out in every line of his face. I watched with alarm as he crumpled the letter in his hand and strode from the room, closing
the door behind him.
It startled me to see him like that. I scanned the room for any similar reactions, but still no one else acknowledged his departure. Whatever was in that letter had certainly troubled him immensely. I needed to find out what it was.
Trusting that Peter and Charles would behave for a few minutes longer, I sneaked out the door, endeavoring to find Owen and discover what that letter entailed. I hadn’t seen the entire home yet, but I had seen most of the main floor and the second floor where my bedchamber was.
After scouring the first two floors, I found no sign of him. The staircase to the third floor awaited me, so I started carefully upward. At the top, I felt an odd sensation that I was trespassing—that I wasn’t meant to be up here. But my curiosity carried me forward into the long hallway, not allowing me any control.
My footsteps echoed on the marble floors as I looked all around me, taking in the beautiful arched windows and the portrait gallery across from them. I stopped in front of a portrait of a young boy. He looked to be close to Charles’s age. Stepping closer, I recognized his deep blue eyes and golden hair, and the little dent in his cheek. Owen.
I smiled at how endearing he looked as a young boy. I stood on my toes and looked even closer. The artist had captured his countenance perfectly. I gasped, and then laughed, identifying the expression in his eyes. It had the same mischievous twinkle as Peter’s and Charles’s eyes.
Walking down the line, I saw the portraits that I assumed must be of Owen’s brother, Edmond, and sister, Alice. As children, the three of them looked very alike, but as I walked, I found recent portraits of the entire family, and the resemblance was slight. Edmond, the eldest, had Owen’s same striking blue eyes, but his hair was much lighter. Alice had the same auburn hair as her mother, and a faint mischievous twinkle in her eye as well. I smiled, suddenly looking forward to meeting her again.
Remembering why I had ventured here in the first place, I continued down the hall and turned right. Just as I did, the sound of a pianoforte reached my ears. It played a soft, simple tune, and stopped. I paused where I was, waiting to hear more, but the sound never came. It was enough, though, for me to follow.
I hurried on soft feet to the end of the hall and peeked through the doorway from which the sound had come. The room was dim and large, with a lofty ceiling and one small window. And sitting on the bench of a pianoforte, with his head bent over a letter, was Owen.
He couldn’t see me from his angle, but I could see him clearly. My heart twisted at seeing his face. Whatever frustration he had exhibited when he first read the letter, was now raw sadness. I watched his eyes skimming the wrinkled paper again, and what looked like guilt flashed in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, then slammed it down onto the bench.
I was startled. I had never seen Owen so uncollected, and I never could have pictured it in my mind. But here it was, right in front of me, and I had no idea of what I should do.
I felt awful, standing here watching him, for I was sure that he wouldn’t want to be seen this way. I cursed myself silently. I shouldn’t have come up here. He needed to be alone. I tried to put myself in his situation, and I knew that I would have certainly preferred to be alone, rather than have someone sneak up on me wanting an explanation for something that was obviously very upsetting.
My decision was clear: I needed to leave. But before I knew what I was doing, my disobedient feet carried me past the doorway and across the room. My heart pounded in my ears. My mind censured my movements as I inched closer to Owen. His head was still bent over the letter, and I was so quiet that he didn’t notice me until I was five feet away.
His head jerked up and I spoke too quickly. “Owen, I know I should not have followed you up here, but I wondered what was the matter.”
He didn’t say anything, but looked at me with such heavy pain in his eyes that I wanted to reach out and comfort him somehow.
“You can speak with me about it. If … if you would like.” I was horrible at this.
He held my gaze for several seconds in silence before he released a sigh and set the letter down on his lap. Hardly aware of my own movements, I sat down beside him on the bench. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at the letter again. Taking a deep breath, he turned his head to look at me.
I realized with a rush of hot embarrassment how close I had sat to him. I shifted a few inches away discreetly, which caused an unwelcome sense of disappointment to drop through me. I ignored it and waited a little longer, until Owen finally spoke.
“A patient of mine … she—” His voice was throaty and quiet, and he struggled to finish the sentence. He looked down at the letter again. “I just received word that she died three days ago. I couldn’t save her.”
My heart cried out for him. I remembered what he had told me in the library, about the doctor that could not save his cousin. “Owen, it is not your fault.”
He looked up sharply. “Of course it’s my fault! Her family trusted me. She was even engaged! I know that feeling of disappointment and anger. And now, I’m the physician I swore I would never be.”
I studied his profile as he stared at the letter. He was completely distraught. I needed to choose my words carefully. “Did you do everything you could to save her?” I asked gently.
He turned his gaze back to me and breathed heavily. “Everything.” His voice cracked as he said the word.
I turned so I faced him completely. “Then if you believe you’re like the physician who treated your cousin, you are wrong. Because you told me that he was lazy and uncaring. You told me that he did the minimal amount of work and treated the illness like nothing. Yes, the outcome was the same for you, but the difference between yourself and that physician is significant.”
I tried to convince him with my eyes when I said, “You didn’t give up, and you did everything you could to save her. He did not. That is what matters, and you cannot blame yourself after you’ve done all you are capable of. I am sure her family sees that, and if they don’t, then they are to blame for their false accusations.”
Owen dropped his gaze. I waited, hoping my words had done something to lessen his pain. The room was silent for a long moment except for the sound of his breathing. I waited even longer, and I could sense a sort of struggle within Owen as he stared at the letter again. Then he drew a deep breath and held it, and when he exhaled it sounded like a heavy sigh.
When he looked at me, the guilt I had seen before was gone. “Thank you, Annette,” he whispered.
Then he moved, shrinking the space between us. And by the end of that one swift motion, he had his arms wrapped around my waist, his face buried in my shoulder, his cheek against my neck. I caught my breath, and as if completely independent, my arms wrapped around him too. He held me tight, and I was consumed by warmth, and I could feel the beat of his heart against me. His breath brushed the back of my neck as he thanked me again.
I hardly knew how long he held me like that, or how fast my heart was racing until his arms loosened and he pulled away. I felt a cold chill as soon as the warmth of his closeness was gone, but the look in his eyes nearly matched it.
He gave me a small smile just as I felt something melt and catch fire inside me. There was nothing more to be said, and something about this moment made me think that any more words would only trivialize everything else.
So I stood and walked from the room. For some reason, it didn’t feel like walking at all. I was convinced that my feet never touched the ground. I stopped at the top of the staircase and took a moment to steady my breathing. I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the steady beat of my heart, when seconds ago I had felt Owen’s, so close to my own. I couldn’t identify what my heart was feeling at that moment, but it was very unique and intense.
And suddenly, for the first time, it felt like my heart was trying to tell me something. It surprised me so much that I quickly blocked it out before I heard it. I couldn’t listen to my heart! My heart listened to me—I was in charge.
My heart had always known that.
So why did I feel like that was bound to change?
A
Chapter 12
When I took Peter and Charles to the north lawn the following day, Owen was waiting to meet us for his next lesson. After I had left him on the third floor the day before, I hadn’t seen him much all evening. But when he did come down for dinner, he told us to meet him here. It worried me, after his first lesson, that I would be a major key to another “demonstration.”
But thankfully, when we arrived, I noticed targets set up across the lawn. The only way I could imagine being used in a demonstration of archery, would be as a target. Even that was extreme for Owen, so I allowed myself a sigh of relief.
Owen greeted us with a wide smile. “Are you ready to learn how to shoot?” I was grateful that he was back to his cheerful self again.
Peter and Charles looked across the lawn in awe and hurried to Owen’s side, nodding and giggling as they went. I smiled as I watched them. This was certainly an activity that most young boys enjoyed, and one that they had been deprived of.
Owen walked toward me and placed a bow in my hand. “Do you know how to shoot?”
I shook my head. It was something I had always wanted to learn, but never had.
“Then you must join us.” He gave me such a cajoling smile, that I couldn’t possibly say no.
“Very well.” I said, studying the bow I now held. I had no idea how to use it.
Owen motioned for me to stand in front of a target, and he stood in front of his own. Beginning with a demonstration, he removed his jacket and raised his bow. I had never seen him without his jacket before, and it made him seem more like himself—casual and free. He released the arrow and hit the target perfectly. He turned toward me with a winning smile, then bowed swiftly. I rolled my eyes.
He then shot three more arrows, and I watched with quiet awe the way his muscles strained against his shirt. I had known he was strong, but without his jacket, it was completely obvious, and I couldn’t take my gaze off the steady, graceful slope of the muscles in his arms and shoulders. He hadn’t lived an idle life; that was certainly evident.
Mischief and Manors Page 14