by Regina Scott
Forgive me, Father. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what John wants of me. I don’t know what You want of me.
“Amelia.”
She opened her eyes to find John standing in front of her. The planes of his face had tightened, his dark brows drawn down.
“What have I done to make you think I have no use for you?” he asked. “How could anyone so much as dislike you?”
She sucked in a breath. “I don’t know. I try, John, I truly try to be kind and accommodating.”
He met her gaze, intent. “I have never met anyone kinder than you. Always you find the good in the situation. Kensington was right—you are a ray of sunlight.”
“But still you care more for your horses than your wife.” Oh, why had she been given this gentle voice, this quiet heart? She wanted to rail, to shake her fists, to shout at someone. To change the world.
He took a breath, as well. “I can understand why you would think that. I spend a great deal of time with the horses.”
“You spend all your time with the horses,” Amelia corrected him. “Admit it. You wanted to bolt for the stables even when we visited Bellweather Hall today.”
“I will not deny the attraction,” he admitted. “But I will deny that it has anything to do with you. I am comfortable with my horses, Amelia. I understand what they’re thinking.”
Amelia shook her head. “How can a person possibly understand the mind of a horse?”
“Here, I’ll show you.” He took her hand and led her back to the door of the stable. Inside, her rivals for his affections were being brushed, given water and boxed in for the night.
“There,” he said, nodding to Argentia. “You see how she’s bobbing her head to the groom? Very likely she’s done something to offend him and is letting him know she’s sorry.”
“Really?” Amelia watched as the groom stroked the horse’s neck.
“It’s all right, Argentia,” she heard him say. “I know you didn’t mean to step on my foot.”
“And there,” John said, turning her attention to the mare Providence. “Listen, and you’ll hear her nicker. She’s anticipating her dinner.”
A low rumbling sound came from the mare, her nostrils twitching along in time as a groom approached with hay. John drew Amelia back out into the sunlight.
“I have learned to understand how horses think,” he said. “But no matter how hard I try, I cannot understand people in the same way. They smile and say kind words, then lie and cheat. What kind of father mistreats his only daughter? Why would a man steal the woman his brother loved?”
She felt as if her heart was breaking anew, and this time for him. “Oh, John, I don’t know. I’ve asked myself the same sorts of questions. Is it something I’ve said, something I’ve done, something I lack?”
He caught her face in both hands. “There is nothing, nothing lacking in you, Amelia. The fault lies entirely with your father, I am certain of it.” He let his hands fall. “I only wish I could say the same of myself. I could not find the words to tell Caro how I felt once. Those feelings have gone. Now I have others, and still I struggle to say them aloud.”
He had feelings? For her? Her heart seemed to fly up into the blue of the sky and dance from sheer joy. “I am listening.”
“And here I stand, tongue-tied, staring at you like a horse at his oats. That is why I hide in the stables, Amelia. If I cannot speak my thoughts to you, how can I communicate with people far more complicated, like your father and our guests? Believe me when I say that you are better off without me. I would only shame you.”
His head was bowed, his tone subdued. Even though they stood in the sunlight, the shadows crept upon him. Had he been one of his horses, she would have thought him sickening.
This was wrong. He was a fine man, an honorable man, for all it had taken time and proximity for her to appreciate that. Amelia felt her spine stiffening, her head coming up.
“John,” she said, “you could never shame me. You are honest, loyal, dedicated to those you care for. If our guests cannot appreciate that, they are the ones who should be ashamed, and I am very tempted to tell them that this very instant!”
*
John had rarely seen Amelia so sure of herself. Her head was up, her eyes shining with righteous indignation. She might have been leading a charge across a field of battle, so firm were her convictions. He only wished he shared them.
“And are you certain you won’t care if one of my blunt sayings insults your father?” he challenged.
Those petal-pink lips curved. “If you insult my father, most likely it will be because he deserved it.”
He could not deny that. “It still won’t reflect well on you.”
“On the contrary. He might actually come to respect our strength.” She must have noticed she wasn’t convincing him, for she put a hand on his arm, the touch soft. “Not everyone will be so sensitive, John. I have seen you be blunt with Dr. Fletcher. Does he take offense?”
“He can’t,” John said. “He values his position.”
“And apparently my father values yours,” Amelia replied. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed to our marriage.”
John snorted. “It wasn’t me but the horses he valued, and I think we both know that.”
She was turning pink again. “Still, if you hadn’t been so insistent, I’m sure he would have refused you.”
John regarded her. “Is that what they told you? That I rode up and demanded your hand in marriage? Small wonder you find me a brute. I assure you, Amelia, I came to London to tell your father in no uncertain terms that nothing had happened between us which would require us to wed.”
Her golden brows knit. “Didn’t he believe you?”
“I don’t think he cared,” John replied, remembering the cool, assessing conversation. “He was intent on a horse from the first. I think he smarted that I’d refused to sell to him before.”
She threw up her hands. “Of course! Even my father prefers horses to my company! Perhaps I should learn to nicker!”
John chuckled. “You have no need to nicker, Amelia. Men are only too happy to draw closer to you.”
“If that was true, I wouldn’t be living at Hollyoak Farm,” she retorted. Immediately she flamed. “Oh, John, I’m so sorry! That sounded as if I’d prefer to be elsewhere.” She stomped her foot in a good imitation of Firenza in a pet. “See! This entire business has me so rattled I forget my manners!”
For her, there could be no greater failing. “I understand,” John assured her. “We are quite a pair at the moment. You forget your manners, and I had none to begin with.”
“Nonsense,” she said, and he thought she was recovering herself by the way her chin lifted. “Please, come back to the house with me. The thought of facing my father alone makes me want to jump on Firenza’s back and ride until we both collapse.”
Which was how they had arrived at their marriage, John realized. Amelia had quarreled with her mother, she’d said, ridden away and cried herself to sleep in his stable. Now she was facing her father the same way. John wasn’t sure which was worse, that the man had schemed behind her back, or that he might be unkind to her face.
“Of course I’ll come back with you,” he replied. “But I can’t promise to be civil. If he takes you to task in front of me, he’ll find himself sleeping at the village inn.”
She slipped her hand into his. “I’d like to see that.”
Her touch buoyed him, and they turned for the house together, hands clasped, orange-blossom perfume floating about him. He could feel her determination, drew strength from it. He was so focused on Amelia he nearly missed the fellow leading his horse toward the other stable block. The cob had caved sides and a swayback.
John drew to a halt. “I know that horse,” he said, even as Amelia said, “I know that man.”
John met her gaze, saw her blue eyes widen. “I saw him on the road north and later on the road to Dovecote. He must work for my father. Oh, John, Father’s been sp
ying on us!”
John couldn’t fault her logic. But he did wonder why Lord Wesworth felt it necessary to keep an eye on them. Could the marquess have been more concerned for his daughter than he’d originally let on?
“Let’s locate your father,” John said. “I suddenly find myself eager for conversation.”
*
Unfortunately, when they returned to the house, they first met Mr. Hennessy, who reported a change in plans.
“His lordship has already donned his riding coat,” the butler explained. “I believe he is expecting a tour, my lord. Lady Hascot has agreed to join him. And Major Kensington has gone down to the inn, something about posting a letter.”
Once, John would have used just such an excuse to escape. Now he wanted more to confront Lord Wesworth.
“I’ll see to your father and Caro,” he promised Amelia. “Take the next hour or so for yourself.”
“Oh, John,” she said, as if he’d given her a priceless jewel. He was surprised to feel rather pleased with himself as he went to find his guests.
They were in the stables, where his lordship was ordering the disposition of the animals he’d brought with him while Caro stood nearby posing prettily. Much as he wanted to speak to the marquess, John interceded on the arrangements first. Most of his more mature horses knew how to get along with newcomers, but the mares and foals would require time apart. He was directing his staff to take the carriage horses to the other stable block when he noticed that Caro had led the marquess closer to Magnum’s stall.
“And this is John’s pride and joy,” she was telling Amelia’s father. “I give you Magnum Opus, the magnificent.”
Magnum eyed them as if unsure they warranted his time.
“And is not your greatest composition wasted here in Derby, sir?” Lord Wesworth challenged John as he drew up to the pair. “I could more easily see this fellow leading the charge at Waterloo.”
“That is something I would not see,” John replied. “I understand you wanted a tour, my lord.”
“All in good time,” Amelia’s father said, turning to stroll along the aisle as if he owned the space. He glanced at this horse and that, paused with head cocked as if to estimate size and strength.
Caro nudged John. “An eager buyer, I think.”
John didn’t answer. He’d originally thought something about the man spoke of cruelty and greed. The marquess’s subsequent actions and Amelia’s reactions had confirmed the traits. Lord Wesworth had been promised a colt if he could prove himself to John. He owed Amelia’s father nothing more.
But now Caro was frowning at him as if she didn’t understand his attitude. “Honestly, John,” she said. “Do you never intend to sell your darlings? I understand you even refused Major Kensington. The fellow is a hero! I would think that cause for commendation, not reproach.”
John shook his head as Lord Wesworth ordered the chestnut mare Providence saddled for his use, despite the fact that the horse had just eaten and was being made ready for the evening.
“Amelia was right,” he said to Caro. “You’re trying to change my mind about selling to Kensington.”
She drew herself up. “She spoke ill of me behind my back? I would not have thought her so devious.”
“Devious is not a word I would use to describe Amelia. Dedicated, delicate, perhaps, but not devious.” He signaled to a groom to fetch Magnum’s saddle, as well.
“And I suppose I am devious?” Her lower lip trembled. “Oh, John, can’t you see? She’s trying to come between us. She doesn’t understand the special bond we share, forged by sorrow and tragedy.” She put her hand on his arm and gazed up at him, brown eyes swimming.
The touch should have been sweet, imploring. Instead, he found it controlling, possessive. As if she sensed his feelings, she pulled back.
“I told Lord Wesworth I would accompany you,” she said, “but I cannot like your mood, sir. And I believe you are making a great mistake in valuing your wife’s opinion over one from a lady who has known you for years. Allow me to prove it to you.”
She turned and swept toward Magnum’s stall.
John darted in front of her. “Stand back,” he ordered. “He’s been temperamental lately, particularly around women.”
“Around Amelia, you mean,” she said. She stood at the stall’s entrance and watched as the groom saddled the stallion and led him out for John to mount. To John’s surprise, however, she started forward, and the black lowered his neck to nudge her hand.
“There now, big fellow,” Caro crooned. “Aren’t you a fine figure of a horse? I can see why your master is so fond of you.”
Magnum bobbed his head as if he quite agreed.
John raised a brow.
Caro glanced up at him. “I know you respect your horses, John, more than the people around you. Perhaps you should ask yourself why your favorite horse likes me and not another lady of your acquaintance.”
Before he could do more than stare at her, she sashayed past him for the house.
Chapter Eighteen
Peace, blessed peace. Amelia let out a sigh as she climbed the stairs. No one to impress, no one to find fault. A few precious moments all to herself.
Thank You, Lord, for Your kindness, and John’s.
She didn’t like the idea that she was leaving her husband to Caro’s questionable graces, but she was beginning to believe that John was proof against the woman’s machinations. And with Major Kensington out of the house, Amelia had no one to whom she was beholden, for the next hour, at least.
She nearly entered the room at the top of the stairs, then remembered it was no longer hers. She should continue on to the next story, where her new bedchamber was tucked away near the schoolroom.
But as she made the turn on the landing, another door presented itself, the door to John’s room. Though she knew he was in the stables, she felt as if his presence seeped through the paneled wall of the corridor, calling to her. She still hadn’t attempted to redecorate the room. She hadn’t felt she had the right.
Was it a spacious room? Welcoming? A retreat from the busyness of life? Or, like her room when she’d first arrived, was it a dark, solemn place more fitted to despair than delight?
Perhaps she should look.
She glanced down the stairs and around the landing, but saw no one in evidence. Still, guilt tugged at her. Recognizing it, she shook her head. What was she doing, sneaking about like a thief? She was the mistress of this house. It was her responsibility to make sure her husband was well cared for, that his room was airy and pleasant. She swept up to the door, put her hand on the latch and swung the portal wide.
Like the other rooms, this one was paneled in long strips of dark wood. The only painting brightening the space was along the wall at her left, two boys standing beside their mother. Wandering closer, she saw that the boys were very alike, dark hair, dark eyes, that hawklike nose made softer by youth.
But one was decidedly heavier. He stood beside his honey-haired mother, who was seated on a gilded chair, a set of creamy matched pearls at her throat. Though the signet ring on the boy’s pudgy finger proclaimed him the heir, his possessive gaze going out into the room left no doubt that he felt himself the owner of all he surveyed.
The other boy’s eyes were trained on his mother, and his smile spoke of his love and devotion. So did the hand that rested on hers. It promised care throughout life and into the life beyond. Tears welled up in Amelia’s eyes, and she put a hand out to touch the little fingers.
She had no doubt she was looking at John and his brother, and even less doubt which child was which. Was the woman plaguing her now at least partly responsible for the transformation from a sensitive boy to a withdrawn man?
Anger shot through her, and she yanked back her hand and turned from the painting. Shame on Caro for being so inconstant! Shame for building up hopes only to dash them! Amelia had met other women on the ton who delighted in winning hearts, only to turn aside this fellow as too unworthy, lacki
ng fortune or face. Such games demeaned them all and left devastation behind.
Wiping away her tears, she approached the box bed. Made from black walnut carved with fanciful shapes and draped with emerald hangings, it dominated the room from where it squatted along the opposite wall. But Amelia was more interested in what lay beside it.
Bracing the bed were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, obviously of a newer date by the lighter wood and plainer construction. She sighted familiar authors and ones she herself loved: Shakespeare, Milton and Everard. The spines were cracked from well use; the books laying on the table beside the bed were dog-eared. The leather cover of one was so well-worn she could no longer make out title or author.
She picked it up and opened to where a black satin ribbon marked a place.
“Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, until seven times: but until seventy times seven.”
Amelia closed the Bible and rested her hand on the leather. It seemed she was not the only one having trouble forgetting the past. When was the last time she’d turned to the Bible for comfort?
Forgive me, Lord. Show me how I can reach John. How can I prove that I will never be like Caro? That his love is something I value?
All at once the room felt too close, too familiar. She set down the Bible, turned and left.
She wanted nothing more than a few moments to herself, time to think, time to pray. But upstairs, she found Turner trying to cram one more gown in the walnut wardrobe that took up a corner of the little room.
“Sorry, your ladyship,” she said. “They just won’t fit. I put some of the heavier gowns in boxes under the bed.”
“A good choice,” Amelia told her. “And don’t be concerned. I don’t expect to stay in this room long.”
“Less time than the other Lady Hascot is staying, I warrant,” the maid muttered.
Though she feared the same, Amelia tried for a smile. “I thought you found Lady Hascot rather dashing.”