"Does this mean I can't have the fabric? You can see I'm much grown." She tugged at the snug lines of her bodice.
His lips flattened to a line. "Your mother and I have decided you should be aware of all your responsibilities."
"My responsibilities?" At this, she slipped onto the couch. Why did she have the feeling her cheeks would soon color the same shade of burgundy as the sturdy seat?
Sarah tugged upon her treasured coral necklace then started working embroidery thread from the coiled jute basket near her caned chair. Her gaze seemed to be wandering as her tapping foot lifted her cream-and-rose skirt. "You know your father's estate is entailed to the males of the Telfair."
"Yes, Timothy will inherit everything," Father coughed. His lungs raged as if he were coming down with another cold, the third this year. "You've made much progress with him. If you continue to keep him, I think he'll be prepared to manage Chevron Manor."
She stopped her fingers from twitching and then squinted at her unusually-silent stepmother. Her hands shook as she passed a needle through a snowy handkerchief. Something definitely was amiss. "Sarah, Father, I don't understand."
"We, your mother and I, feel you should be his permanent companion."
"Permanent?" Gaia clutched the arm of the sofa, her nails denting the swell of the cushioning.
Sarah raised her head. Her mouth opened and closed and opened again as her voice went from non-existent to low. "You... will be mistress of Chevron, making sure that he runs things well. My Timothy will always need supervision."
Gaia bounced to her feet and headed for the fireplace. Clasping the dark poker, she stoked the low flame and allowed the heat to dry the water leaking from her eyes. "But what of my hopes?"
Father wheezed, and he pounded the arm of his chair. "You've never been inclined to anything but books. And this will make sure that your sisters and mother will be taken care of always."
"My mother is dead." Gaia spun around and pointed to her stepmother. "This is her work. She's only worried about herself."
"Don't talk to her like that." His feeble fingers gripped the woman's hand. "And she's a good woman, unlike…"
"No, dear," Sarah wiped her leaky eyes. "You see she does not wish it."
Father left his chair and took the poker from Gaia's tight fingers. His clammy palms contrasted the blackness of the implement. "If my cousins press that Timothy is unfit, or they dupe his easy mind, all the family will be in jeopardy. I'm convinced your care will keep things well. You're level-headed. You will be the guardian of this manor. That's a worthy calling for you."
With the back of her hand, Gaia swiped at her cheek. The lenses of her spectacles steamed. "Abandon my dreams? Don't you think I want to marry?"
Father guffawed, placed the poker by the fire's grate, and twisted the fob of his pocket watch. "It's not possible; you've never had any inclination."
Why wasn't it possible? She squinted at his creasing forehead. "I want to. In fact, I want to marry Mr. Elliot Whimple."
"You want your cousin's leavings?" Father chuckled. "I can tell you now, Whimple is not looking for a bluestocking. We're even too poor for your sister's pretty face to catch anything. She'll be home on Friday with no offer."
No marriage for Julia. She must be crushed. Tears for her slipped down Gaia's chin.
"Mr. Telfair, she's in love," Sarah put down her needlework, and approached. Her almond eyes scanned up and down. "I suspect she's loved him for a long time."
Father moved toward the boxy pianoforte, his spindle legs drifting. "I wasn't aware, but it is of no consequence. The man doesn't look at you that way. Though he's good to his brother's household, I see him going to study in London. That's too far to watch over Timothy."
"I need a chance to convince him. If he could like me, I'm sure he will help in my brother's care."
He leaned on the instrument. "I can't be at peace if all my children are tossed to the streets. You owe this to me, to all the Telfairs."
Owe? "What do you mean, Father?"
"Don't, Mr. Telfair. She doesn't need to know. Gaia can be reasoned with without saying anything more."
The warning sent a chill down Gaia's spine, but she had to know. "Tell me why I owe my flesh and blood."
Father took her hand and pulled it to his pale face. "Do you think it's possible that fair Telfair blood could produce this?"
Her heart stopped, slamming against her ribs. "My mother's Spanish roots have browned my skin. That's what you've always said."
He dropped her palm as his head shook. "It was a lie, to cover my first wife's harlotry. You're a Telfair because I claimed you."
Gaia couldn't breathe, and crumbled to the floor. Hot tears drenched her face as she wished for a hole to break open and swallow her. "A mistake; please, say this is a mistake."
The man whom she'd called father, whom she’d worshipped, shook his head again.
She lifted a hand to grasp his shoe but stopped, missing the black leather.
Was this why she’d always felt as if she could never grasp a hold of his love? Is this why he treated her a little differently from the rest? "Then who am I? Whose am I?"
"Some traveling bard, some African poet who captivated her whilst I travelled. When you came out so close to white, with so little color, the ruse was borne; no scandal would befall my name. I'm just lucky you weren't a boy. Then, Chevron would fall to a mulatto. How would the Telfair line handle that tragedy?"
She waved her fingers, studying the light pigment coloring her skin. Mulatto. All this time she’d blamed her flesh on fate or heritage, not lust. She tugged at her elbows, feeling dirty. Glancing at him between tears, she silently begged for him to say it didn't matter, that he loved her still. "Father?"
With a grimace painting his silent mouth, he buttoned his waistcoat. "I'm going to lie down. Talk to her, Sarah; make her understand."
Desperate, Gaia's hand rose this time, but his back was to her in a blink and he walked from the room. Her fingers felt cold and numb as they sank onto the thin rug. The breath in her lungs burned. Adultery, not a Telfair by blood – these thoughts smashed against her skull.
Sarah knelt beside her and stroked her back. "I'm so sorry. You should never have known."
Gaia shook her head and pulled away. "No more lies."
"Please, I'm not the enemy."
Rearing up, she caught the woman's beady gaze. "You want me to believe you don't want the almost-bastard to be a servant to Timothy? Would you wish one of your children to be given this sentence, to become a governess to their own flesh and blood? Well, at least they can claim to be flesh and blood to Timothy."
Sarah reached again and wiped tears from Gaia's cheek then opened her arms wide. "You are his sister. You love him so. This is no failing of yours."
At first, Gaia fell into the woman's sturdy embrace, then stiffened and pulled away. She needed to flee, to let her brain make sense of the emotions whipping inside. Her slippers started moving. "I must go."
"Sweetheart, wait!"
Gaia shook her head and backed to the threshold. "Why? Is there something else you have to disclose to steal the rest of my dreams?"
Without a thought for a bonnet or coat, she rushed down the hall and out the front door.
Wham! She slammed into a man in fancy, sky-blue livery. The servant was tall and black; black, like some part inside of her. Her eyes fixed on his bronze skin and wouldn't let go.
"Miss? I've come from Ontredale. Are you well, miss? You look pale enough to faint."
Not pale enough; never would be. "Sorry." She ducked her eyes and side-stepped him.
"Ma'am, I bear a note—"
"You want a Telfair. They are inside." She started running and kept going until not a cobble of Chevron Manor could be seen. Salty drops stung and blurred each step, but she strode forward, deeper into the welcoming woods. A hint of spring blooms stroked her nose, but the streaks lining her wet face obscured them.
A fleeting thought to go to Seren's crossed Ga
ia's mind, but she couldn't let her friend see her like this, even more pitiful than normal. Would Seren even want to be her friend if the truth of her birth became known? "God, I have no hope."
As if her slippers bore a mind of their own, they led Gaia back to her special place. Heather grasses and lousewort danced about her mighty oak, as if there were something to celebrate. Her dance card was now filled with pity. Her fortunes forever changed. Nothing good ever changed for Gaia. "God, spin back time. Let me be ignorant again; ignorant and meek and unnoticed. I won't complain this time."
Anything was better than what she was, a secret bastard. If not for the covering lies of the Telfairs, she would be a by-blow. She studied her shaking hands. If she'd been dark like the servant she'd collided with, would she have been tossed away?
Making a fist, she beat against her oak. The snickers of her friends, did they know, too? How many sly remarks were actually hints at her mother's infidelity? The village was small. Gossip burned like a candle's wick, bright and fast.
Did it matter with white and black, all trapped inside her limbs? Her stomach rolled. Nausea flooded her lungs. She lunged away, dropped to her knees, and let her breakfast flow out. Maybe the ugly truth could drain away, too.
Wiping her mouth, she crawled back to her oak and set her wrist against a thick tree root. Her skin was light like butter, compared to the bark. The skin was almost like the Telfairs’, just a little tan, a little darker. Not good enough.
She wasn't good enough.
Now she knew she could never be good enough.
Envy of her sisters' fair, pretty skin, had it not always wrestled in her bosom? The English world said the lighter the complexion, the more genteel and the more one would be held in esteem.
But she should have envied their blood instead. They knew with certitude who their father was. Julia, the twins, each had a future that could include love. What did Gaia have?
She stood and wiped her hands against her skirt. The grass stains and dusting of dirt left her palms, but the off-white color of her skin remained. She brushed her hands again and again against the fabric, but the truth wouldn't disappear.
A light wind whipped the boughs of her tree, as if calling her for an embrace. Tripping over the gnarled root, she fell against the rough bark. Arms stretched wide, she held onto the trunk. Moss cushioned her cheek as the rustle of crunching leaves sounded like a hush, as if the oak knew her pain and tried to stop her tears.
More crackling of leaves made her lift her chin, but the strong sun shining through the jade canopy of leaves blinded her. She clutched the scarred bark with trembling fingers, and hoped whoever was near didn't see her. No one should witness her shame.
A white handkerchief waved near her forehead.
Gaia surrendered to the fact that she'd been discovered. Slowly, she stood, smoothed her wrinkled bodice, and turned. Nothing mattered any more, not even the opinion of a stranger. Shame mingling with tears, she took the fine lawn cloth from the man who'd caught her Sunday, praying aloud about Elliott.
CHAPTER THREE
A Stranger's Comfort
WILLIAM GAZED AT the young woman wiping her face. With her having no gloves, bonnet, or even a scarf, something terrible must've occurred. Though a quiet dignity settled onto her shoulders, trouble brewed behind the dark rims of her spectacles. Her luminous hazel eyes seemed vacant. Something horrible had to have happened to take her fire.
"I've wrinkled this." She tried to flatten and stretch the linen.
The poor girl should stop. Only Mrs. Wingate's iron could make it pristine again. "That's what a handkerchief is for."
Turning to give her a moment to collect herself, he tied Magnus to one of the long, octopus-like arms of the oak. He'd sought the moors to relieve his own anxiety, not to chaperone a female. No new news of the blackmailer had come, and Mr. Telfair hadn't responded to his note, probably crushing it as Mrs. Wingate had predicted the proud man would do. Perhaps his latest gesture of sending Albert, his loyal footman, to Chevron Manor would fare better.
Yet Mrs. Wingate warned it was a bad idea to send Albert. Why? And why should William cede to the old woman's wishes? This was his daughter's help at stake. No, Albert would return with good news.
The heat of the sun and his anger beaded moisture upon his neck. He swiped at it with every intention to leave, but he couldn't. Alone on the beautiful moors, the upset young lady could get into trouble. He straightened his waistcoat and fanned his face with his top hat. It was his duty as a gentleman to make sure she came to no harm. He marched back to her.
"Here," she handed him the rumpled square. "You needn't interrupt your day. I'm fine."
"Yes, I find my time is cluttered with females crying their eyes red." That was true. Mary had had another bad night.
The young woman pivoted and faced the tree trunk. Her shoulders shook, and the muffled tears that drew him from his ride now sang a haunting melody. Was it regret? Despair?
He fiddled with his tan gloves, and searched for something comforting to say, but no words came to him. His stomach sickened at the false notions shared by his friends and family at Elizabeth's loss.
She loved you and Mary so.
Such a beautiful, accomplished wife.
Any man would be so happy.
Lies.
He rubbed his brow. Never could he toss those sentiments. Laughter was supposed to be good medicine. Maybe it would help them both, he and the misery-prayer warrior.
He walked in front of her, and again extended his handkerchief. "Pleasant weather for a walk… would you take a turn with me?"
Her head moved from side to side as she hugged her limbs. The modest grey broadcloth of her gown clung tightly to her arms. She wasn't delicate, but very feminine and curvy; very different from Elizabeth's lithe form.
"Sir, I'd rather be alone."
"Though the moors are quite picturesque, this is not the place for a young woman alone. If I were your fa... older brother, I'd be very concerned."
For a moment, a dimple twitched as if a smile fought to emerge, no doubt at his slip into vanity. Her thumb traced the gold threads of his initials on the handkerchief. "Privacy, please. Will anyone respect my wishes? No, I don't get anything I want."
He wasn't ready to leave. The only enjoyment he’d had these past days was the memory of his banter with his misery warrior. And wasn't he bemoaning the same thing, about doing what he wanted without censure?
With a bow, he rounded to the other side of the oak and sat down, pushing his back against the trunk. Maybe his intrusion would lift her spirits, getting her to pray again for something outlandish.
"Sir, I asked for privacy."
Smoothing out the charcoal tails of his jacket, he winked at her then pulled his top hat down closer to his eyes. "You are on my side of the tree, miss."
Squinting, he could see her hands lifting to her round hips. He smothered a chuckle.
"As a gentleman, I think you should leave. I was here first."
"Well, you are not a gentleman, and I hope they don't grow men quite so pretty here."
Her eyes widened, and her lips mouthed the word, pretty. Cheeks darkening, she folded her arms and tugged on her slim cuffs.
"When I am done enjoying this place and have had my fill of amusement, I could be made to leave."
The flicker in her eyes had the beginnings of a rebellious spirit. This could be quite entertaining.
"No one can make anyone do anything; certainly not me." She went back to the other side and sat. Her trim-less skirt bunched at the legs, exposing neat ankles. "I refuse to do anything that someone tells me to do today. I should be the equal to any. Oh, never mind."
Witnessing the passion of her expressions, with that kissable mouth pouting, was half as fun as her impolitic notions. He scooted a little closer, fully capturing her eyes. "So whatever I say, you'll do the opposite?"
"Why are men so obtuse? You know what I mean. My father, well, Mr. Te... the man who raised me
, should know I have dreams, that I want his approval, his love." She put a hand to her mouth then rocked her head against the oak. Her golden auburn curls glistened against the chocolate bark.
Oh, how William wanted his own father's approval, but some things just can't be accomplished. "Well, fathers can be difficult. I take it he disapproved of your misery prayers?"
She shook her head. A few more pinned tresses rained down. "What do you do when everything you knew to be true was just a convenient lie?"
Like Elizabeth swearing before God to love him and to be faithful? A sigh leeched out as his innards groaned. "It's devastating. Parts of your soul you didn't know existed begin to hurt. Maybe even a little bit of your faith dies."
Not meaning to be so transparent, he covered his mouth. "Excuse me."
She blinked, before her large pupils settled upon him. She wasn't looking through him, but right at his face, as if all his painful memories were etched upon his cheek, possibly mirroring hers.
Counting the flecks of cedar and moss-colored specks in her eyes, he was captive, and dared not move or breathe. Never before had he thought a woman's heart could hold such honest hurt, not after Elizabeth.
She blinked violently and bounced to her feet. "I'm leaving now because I choose to leave."
He chuckled. She looked marvelous with her cheeks flushed. "Good; and be more judicious when you come looking for me."
Shaking her head, she pivoted. "Don't tell anyone you saw me crying?" She ran through a bush of aconite. The yellow lobes of the flowers waved her forward.
Perhaps the headstrong girl would now go home and listen. Yet if the lass's father were anything like his, dictatorial and lacking in forgiveness, William could understand why she ran.
With a good stretch, he stood and dusted his buff breeches. How could he mention this visit to anyone? He didn't know the lady's name.
Marching to his gelding, he caught himself humming. Brushing the leaves from the folds of his greatcoat, he stretched to see whether he could catch a final glance of the miss, but she'd disappeared. With a click of his tongue, he turned Magnus toward Ontredale. It's good he didn't know her name. It could be dangerous to a man wishing to remain a bachelor. "Come on, Magnus; Albert should be back with good news to help Mary."
Unmasked Heart: A Regency Romance (Regency Romance: Challenge of the Soul Book 1) Page 3