An Heiress at Heart

by Jennifer Delamere

  Could you not send me some word? P. tells me you no longer have messages for him to deliver. He tries to make excuses for you, but they are weak, and not in keeping with your strong character. I must see you soon, for I have vital news to tell you.

  I will wait for you every day at our usual time and place.

  Until then, I remain, as ever,

  Your Rose

  Ria had told Lizzie that the letters were to “Bertie” from “Rose.” She had said Bertie was one of her father’s nicknames, and that the W. in the address stood for his middle name, which was Wilson. She further insisted that “Rose” must have been what Sir Herbert called Lizzie’s mother, even though her Christian name was Emma. “We are Thornboroughs,” Ria had said. “Our estate is covered in roses. It’s an obvious choice.”

  Lizzie was convinced of it, too, now that she had seen her mother’s handwriting. With dread for what she would find, Lizzie read the second letter.

  March 28, 1823

  My Dearest Bertie,

  My heart threatens to turn traitor, telling me you never intended to do right by me. For my own sanity I must refuse to believe it. However, if it is true, I beg that you will burn all my letters, so that no one but ourselves will ever know what a terrible fool I have been.

  R.

  Lizzie allowed the letters to fall to her lap. She did not need any more letters to know exactly what had happened to poor Rose.

  Tears began to trickle unbidden down her cheeks. She knew from firsthand experience what her mother had suffered. She, too, had borne the devastating blow of a love that is not returned, the bitter despair when reality crushes the naïve belief that love conquers all.

  “Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry.”

  Lizzie wiped uselessly at the tears as she was forced to confront the harsh fact she had shrunk from since the day Ria had told her about the letters: just like Lizzie, her poor mother had been cruelly cast aside by a man she thought had cared for her. She had been foolishly searching for true love, only to be burned by the fires of passion.

  The biggest difference was that Lizzie had never—thank God—found herself in the desperate straits her mother had been in. From time to time when Lizzie was a little girl, her mother called her “my little thorn.” If Lizzie was Herbert’s illegitimate daughter, her mother had good reason to call her that.

  Emma had died during a terrible cholera epidemic when Lizzie was twelve years old. If she’d lived longer, would she have been able to warn Lizzie against making such disastrous choices about men?

  Lizzie dried her eyes and read the letters again, doing her best to review their contents with reason and logic. In the end she had to accept that, although they might be construed as damaging to the Thornboroughs, they could offer no real evidence of the thing Lizzie most desired to prove. There was no way to show for certain that “Bertie” was Herbert Thornborough, or that “Rose” was Emma Poole, or that Rose had even been pregnant, despite the fact that the letter said she had “vital news” to relate. Above all, there was nothing to connect Lizzie with any part of the whole sad story.

  Why had Ria been so certain these letters were proof of their kinship? Lizzie chided herself for even wondering. Ria had, typically, jumped to conclusions, making large leaps of logic about things that could never be proven. And Lizzie had been foolish enough to believe her—to the end that she had come all the way back to England. To be sure, when Lizzie had left Australia, she’d thought nothing was left for her there. She had not known her brother would survive a terrible shipwreck, or that her actions would once again put him in harm’s way.

  Lizzie considered the faded letters, written so long ago. She’d been looking for undeniable proof, something that would sustain her, or even protect her, from whatever was to come. But these were proof only to her. She alone knew the handwriting on these letters belonged to her mother. Beyond that, she could prove nothing.

  Lizzie went to the window. Dawn lit up the diverse colors of the landscape, from the rich green meadow to the oak leaves now kissed by fall into glorious gold. Like the seasons, her plans had changed yet again. She must remain at Rosewood, far from London, and take on Ria’s identity so completely and unassailably that Freddie could do nothing. She would do what she could to protect her brother. She would give as much love and respect to Lady Thornborough as she could, as she had originally promised Ria.

  And she would forget that she had ever hoped to love again. She would never show Geoffrey her true feelings for him.

  Everything about her life was a lie now, and she regretted it more deeply than she had ever imagined, down to the very depths of her soul.

  “Please forgive me,” she said softly. It was a prayer, but to whom, she had no idea.

  Chapter 31

  How long do you think James will need in order to take her photograph?” Lucinda asked.

  From their vantage point on the hill, Geoffrey and Lucinda had a clear view of James and Emily by the river. James kept placing Emily in various poses, but with each passing moment, she grew more and more fidgety.

  “I have doubts that he will manage it at all. I don’t believe Miss Emily will be able to stay still for the time it takes to complete an exposure.”

  The two were out of earshot, and for that, Geoffrey was thankful. Not because he had any great desire to be alone with Lucinda, but because James’s prattling and Emily’s simpering laughter in response to everything James said were beginning to wear on him.

  “I’m so glad you were able to come,” Lucinda said. “The place was very dull before you and Mr. Simpson arrived.” Lucinda, who normally did not mind quiet, seemed nervous today, attempting to fill in any silences with attempts at small talk.

  But Geoffrey knew it was time for more than idle conversation. It was time for the discussion he had been putting off for too long. “Miss Cardington…” he began.

  She turned her face toward him. “Yes?”

  He had been preparing for this moment for several weeks now—ever since he had made up his mind what he should do. But now that he was looking into Lucinda’s expectant face, he found himself tongue-tied. This was not going to be easy.

  “Yes?” she repeated gently. Her eyes were bright, her face alight in the afternoon sun.

  Geoffrey and James had been at Stanford Park, the country estate of Lord and Lady Cardington, for nearly a week. Geoffrey knew they were expecting him to offer for Lucinda’s hand; they had made very little effort to conceal it. But the time had come to be honest. He could not marry Lucinda. He took her hand in his. “We have spent a lot of time together over the past several months.”

  She gave a tremulous smile. “Very pleasant times.”

  Her mind was, of course, moving swiftly in the wrong direction. Geoffrey knew he had better speak fast or be forever bound to the wrong person. But he had to tread lightly as well. He had no idea how she would react. She seemed quiet and sensible, but what if the disappointment drove her to hysterics? It was a daunting thought. Geoffrey reminded himself of his own certainty that he was doing the right thing, that the Lord surely had something better in mind for both of them.

  He took a deep breath, sent one last, silent prayer heavenward, and said, “Miss Cardington, I admire you very much. You are a kind woman, with many talents. And your father has been most generous with his support of the Society.”

  Her smile faded a bit at the unexpected mention of her father. “I am glad you think so highly of us.”

  “I do,” Geoffrey affirmed. “I want you to know that I will always hold you in the highest esteem. I hope that we may always remain good friends.”

  The smile was gone now. “Friends,” she repeated. Her brow furrowed. “Have I done something to displease you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Someone in my family, then?”

  She was thinking of her mother. She had to be. But Geoffrey did not want her to think Lady Cardington’s peculiarities had influenced his decision not to offer for her. “Please
do not misunderstand me.” He tried to begin again. “You are a woman of kindness and integrity—”

  “So,” she said, her eyes registering confusion, “kindness and integrity are not what you are looking for in a wife?”

  “Of course it is. But I—”

  “You want more.”

  She said it with such a downcast air that Geoffrey felt himself the worst possible kind of rogue, to hurt her in such a way. He was tempted to propose, simply to redeem himself.

  Lucinda sighed. “It’s a relief, to be honest. I think I…” She gave a nervous cough. “I would prefer not to get married.” She looked at him guiltily as she said this, as though she were making a terribly shocking confession. He had no doubt she was telling the absolute truth.

  Geoffrey was completely bewildered. He had been the golden marriage prize for so many months that it never occurred to him Lucinda might want something different. How quickly had his hubris grown. It was a good reminder to him that pride goeth before a fall. With an abashed smile he said, “I would have been a disappointment, then?”

  She shook her head, smiling in a way that suddenly made her more attractive. “It is my own shortcomings that I am too aware of. Trying to hold my own in society, giving fancy parties and knowing who to invite to them. Having all my actions observed and commented upon. Although my dear Mama cares only to see me marry into the peerage, the thought terrifies me.”

  “Does she know how you feel?”

  “Certainly not!” She said it with such melodramatic horror that Geoffrey wondered if she had a hidden sense of fun. “I never had the strength to stand up to Mama, as I’m sure you are aware.” Her gaze shifted to James and Emily, who were still caught up in their own playful banter. “If I do not procure a husband this year, it is my sister who will be most upset with me, I fear. It will delay her own marriage, for Papa wishes me to be settled first.”

  “She is only sixteen—far from being on the shelf.”

  “I certainly hope I can get her to see it that way.” She sighed. “Everyone is relying on me to get married. I know I shall be a great disappointment to them.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that,” Geoffrey encouraged. “You may yet find someone that you truly do want to marry. And in any case, I do not think it is wise for us to live our lives based entirely upon what others expect of us.” Geoffrey surprised himself as he said these things. It dawned on him that he had been trying to live up to others’ expectations far more than he had realized. “Surely there is a better way.”

  “I imagine that way requires a great deal of fortitude,” Lucinda mused. “It’s very hard to go against the current of people’s expectations.”

  “So it is. However, you are stronger than you think.”

  She looked at him, considering. “Of course, you will say that we should be most concerned with what the Lord expects of us.”

  He pretended to look surprised. “Why, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  She laughed.

  They regarded each other with easy warmth, Geoffrey’s esteem for her mingling with a newfound respect. Eventually it dawned on him, however, that things were growing too quiet. Not even the distant chatter of James and Emily could be heard. He turned his head toward the river.

  Lucinda followed his look. James and Emily were nowhere to be seen. “Oh, dear,” she said. “It appears I must go rescue my sister. Lord knows what trouble they may be getting into.”

  As they rose to begin their walk down the hill, Geoffrey took hold of her arm one last time. “Lucinda, I pray you will find every happiness in your future.”

  She rested her hand on his. “And I shall be praying for yours as well.”

  And so they descended the hill, arm in arm, as true friends.

  Chapter 32

  Unwatched, the garden bough shall sway,

  The tender blossom flutter down,

  Unloved, that beech will gather brown,

  This maple burn itself away.

  Lizzie sat under the large old oak, reading Tennyson’s poem and thinking about Ria.

  The landscape here, just as in the poem, had continued its pattern in timeless harmony with the seasons, regardless of those who had come and gone.

  Till from the garden and the wild

  A fresh association blow;

  And year by year the landscape grow

  Familiar to the stranger’s child.

  Lizzie could well see herself as the “stranger’s child.” The landscape was indeed familiar to her now. Nearly a month had passed since she’d given herself wholly to her new life, and her days were growing into a comfortable pattern. She and Lady Thornborough would eat meals together and spend the evenings by the fire. Occasionally they would go out to dinner at a nearby neighbor’s home. Once they had even attended a small dance, and Lizzie had enjoyed the music and dancing and the lively conversations with the local gentry. Most of these were people Ria had known only casually, so Lizzie was able to “reacquaint” herself with them with relative ease.

  In the afternoons, Lady Thornborough was usually occupied with the business of the estate. This was Lizzie’s favorite time of day. She often spent it out of doors, where she could pass the hours unhindered with her thoughts.

  She once again scanned the page whose words she knew by heart.

  As year by year the labourer tills

  His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;

  And year by year our memory fades

  From all the circle of the hills.

  She looked out across the endless, timeless landscape. Although Ria and Edward were gone, she could keep their memory alive here for just a while longer.

  Her gaze settled on the bay mare tethered some yards away, a lively creature with an easy temperament who had become Lizzie’s steadfast companion. Lady Thornborough had procured a riding master to come and give lessons to Lizzie several times a week. All had been amazed at how quickly she had learned to ride. The riding master had already declared her competent enough for short outings on the estate. Though she was usually accompanied by a groom or Mr. Jarvis to assure her safety on the horse, she was sometimes able to ride out alone so long as she did not stray too far. She could not let them know that she had ridden much farther distances in Australia. Nor had she told them that one day last week she had used the opportunity to ride to the post office in the nearby town of Sennoke to post a letter to Australia.

  Writing that letter had been Lizzie’s greatest trial thus far. It had taken her multiple tries and an ocean of tears to compose it. She knew she had to tell Tom she had taken on Ria’s identity. He would be so angry with her, but she could see no way around it. She told him she had a new life here, and she was happy. She begged him to stay in Australia, that coming back would be ruinous to them both. After much debate with herself, she decided not to tell him Freddie was alive. This would bring him back to England for sure, and renewing a feud with Freddie would jeopardize his life and his freedom—the things she was trying hardest to protect.

  The letter had skirted another very important fact. Lizzie supposed that, if she tried, she might have found a way to leave England—to secretly slip away and return to Tom in Australia. She knew Tom would want her to do this. Her reason for staying in England was not the new life she was building, as she had told Tom in the letter. It wasn’t even her growing affection for Lady Thornborough.

  It was Geoffrey.

  Geoffrey filled her waking thoughts and moved through her every dream. Tom had been a loyal and loving brother, and their fellow settlers in Australia had been kind in a rough, plain sort of way. But no one had filled the yearning in her heart that had been real and palpable. Not until Geoffrey. Even if she could never be more to him than a sister-in-law, this was inexplicably preferable to leaving him behind forever.

  The mare lifted her head and whinnied, attracted by something on the hill.

  “What is it, Bella?” She turned to follow the horse’s gaze. Even as she did so, she had a kind of tingling, presc
ient awareness that a man would be there. She knew exactly who it would be. There, standing at the crest of the hill, as though she had conjured his presence with her very thoughts, was Geoffrey.

  *

  The moment Geoffrey laid eyes on her, he knew he was a fool for coming here. She was the very picture of loveliness as she sat reading, deep in contemplation, under a tree on the hillside. Sunlight filtered through the thinning leaves, causing a play of light and shadows to dance upon her face and her golden hair. Irresistibly, he thought of how she had felt in his arms when he had danced with her, and when he had kissed her.

  He had spent far too many hours thinking of that evening. He kept telling himself it was something that was best forgotten—for both their sakes—and yet deep down he longed to know why she had returned his kisses so eagerly. Was she falling in love with him? It seemed incredible even to contemplate.

  Ria stood up and hastily brushed the grass off her dress as he moved to close the gap between them. From a distance she had appeared serene, but now as Geoffrey drew closer, he could see that her face reflected deep sorrow.

  He was unprepared for the hesitancy that overtook him. He stopped a few feet away and bowed. It seemed an absurdly formal gesture in this natural landscape.

  “Geoffrey,” Ria said, her voice filled with wonder. “What are you doing here?”

  He tried to discern from her expression whether she was pleased to see him. She seemed so, smiling even as she brushed a few tears from her eyes. He did not answer her question, but only remarked with concern, “You’ve been crying.” He offered her a handkerchief, which she accepted. “Were you thinking of Edward?”