Timothy,
May your world always be filled with color. Thank you for your friendship and escort about London. I shall always cherish it.
Your friend,
Maryann
Timothy read the note through twice, smiling to himself and wishing he were already in Somerset. Everything was suddenly so very clear.
Maryann had been fifteen years old when she’d assumed charge of some of the household tasks of Orchard Hall so that Deborah could go to London for her season. Mother had been ill back then, but not failing.
By the time Maryann was nineteen, she was running the entire household. Mother was confined to her bed, her hands curling into themselves and her mind sputtering. Deborah had divided her time between Somerset and Sussex, where she visited their Aunt Bridget, Papa’s sister, who lived closer to Lucas’s family estate. Deborah and Lucas were waiting for Mother to improve before they married, but Deborah had wanted to become familiar with the society there too. Maryann was well suited for the household responsibilities and content to stay at home.
Now she was home again, mistress of her castle, as it were, and trying to remind herself that this was what she wanted. Would she really live out her life here? Alone? Childless? She knew she was being dramatic. She was only twenty-two years old, and just because she had not found her future in London did not mean there was not a future to be found. Only the future she wanted was so very specific, and she could not have it. She hoped that in time, she could make room in her imaginings for something else.
James, his sour wife, Adele, and their three wild children, had come to dinner last night. Their family lived in Orchard Cottage, a smaller house on the west side of the estate. If Maryann was not married by the time James inherited, she would likely trade places with them and live out her life in the smaller home. Because of her pending dependence on them, she had not asked after the missing furniture and artwork she’d noticed upon her return to the house nor did she refuse when they asked if she could entertain the children Wednesday afternoon.
Maryann did not mind having time with her niece and nephews, but the two hours would often become four, and maybe even six. In the past, Adele had more than once sent a note hours after leaving the children with her to ask that they stay the night as she had a headache, or stomach ailment, or a last-minute invitation to a friend’s entertainment and would be out late. Wednesdays were the governess’s day off, and Adele worked very hard to avoid being a mother on those days.
Today was not Wednesday, however, it was Monday, and Mondays at Orchard Hall were busy. Maryann welcomed the work. When her thoughts were humming with the details of household management, they were not reliving her dance with Timothy, or worrying about Deborah, or missing her friends in London. The contrast between a city full of friends and entertainment and an estate devoid of both was stark.
Maryann met with the housekeeper to go over the week’s menu, discuss staff, list household materials in need of replacement or repair, and half a dozen other items of household business. Seeing as how this was her first Monday back, there was more to be discussed than usual.
After meeting with the housekeeper, Maryann asked for tea to be brought to her father’s study where she reviewed the household accounts for the months she’d been away and made notes about those things she would need to discuss with Mrs. Sheils. Why was the amount paid to the butcher the same when the family had not been in residence? It should have decreased by at least half.
Maryann had lost track of time when there was a knock at her door. “Mr. Mayfield to see you, miss,” Mr. Barrett said from the doorway.
She blinked, sure the butler had said a different name than what she’d actually heard. The vicar was Mr. Morrley; perhaps that was what Barrett had said. “Who?”
“Mr. Timothy Mayfield. He claims to be a friend from London. I put him in the drawing room.”
Timothy is here? All the warmth and excitement she’d been trying to forget after Lady Dominque’s ball hit her square in the chest, and she hurried from the room while smoothing her hair and . . . her steps slowed as fear and insecurity pushed in. Why was he here? Though the feelings from the dance were still fresh, so was the heartbreak of accepting both their fates. His destiny was Miss Shaw. Hers was not Timothy; perhaps no one at all.
“Mr. Mayfield,” she said when she entered the room. He was standing near the fireplace and looked up at her with his usual smile in place. She turned toward Barrett, who had trailed behind her. “Would you bring us tea? Perhaps a sandwich for Mr. Mayfield as he’s traveled a long way to visit.”
Barrett nodded and left the door open behind him. She considered sending for Deborah but wanted to know for herself why Timothy had come before she bothered her sister. The journey home had been difficult for Deborah, and she was still recovering.
Maryann crossed to one of two matching settees that faced one another and sat down while waving him to the other. He remained standing.
“I did not expect to see you here in Somerset, Mr. Mayfield.” She did not know how to act and the role of “London hostess” seemed the safest default. “You look tired,” she added.
“Why are you not calling me Timothy?”
Because you are in love with someone else, and I need to protect my feelings toward you so they can return to what they should be. “I can call you Timothy if you would prefer.”
“I would prefer that, thank you,” he said and finally sat down on the settee opposite her. They sat in silence for several seconds, as though waiting for the other to speak.
“Thank you for the paints, Maryann,” he said, finally. “It was a very thoughtful and unexpected gift.”
“You are welcome.” That was not what had brought him here, was it? She’d thought of the paints only the day before leaving London, feeling the need to leave him with some token of the color he’d brought into her life. Or had she been creating one more opportunity for them to communicate with one another? Through a note, of course, not his presence in her family home.
“I have not used them yet,” he said. “I’m unsure where to start, but it may be the kindest gift anyone has ever given me. I no longer have any excuse not to paint.” His smiled widened.
She was terribly pleased by the compliment but did not want to give so much away. “I assumed Miss Shaw would be the one to teach you. She is a remarkable artist.”
“Yes, she is,” Timothy said. “But I did not ask her—did not even consider it, actually.”
That was strange, but it also felt like he wanted Maryann to ask why he hadn’t considered asking an accomplished watercolorist who was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman to teach him.
Because she knew he wanted her to ask, she took a different approach. “Is everything all right, Timothy? Why have you come?”
“Why have I come,” he repeated. He stared at the floor, took a deep breath, let it out, and then looked up to meet her eyes. “I am not in love with Miss Shaw.”
She blinked and stared and held herself tightly. Controlled. “You came all the way to Somerset to tell me you are not in love with Miss Shaw?”
He suddenly smiled, as though something had just occurred to him. He sat up straighter, and when he spoke, his tone was light, almost playful. “Actually, I need help sorting it all out, and you are so very good at helping me to do that.”
The knot inside her that was anxious and unprepared for this visit became even tighter. “I helped you sort out tight boots and how to match a waistcoat. That is not worth a hundred and fifty miles distance.”
“You are worth that distance, Maryann,” Timothy said with as much seriousness as he’d ever said anything before. “And that is why I have come. I am not in love with Miss Shaw, but . . . I am in love with you.” He grinned, wide and proud and quite pleased with himself.
Was this a game? She took a breath and remained calm despite the fact that he
seemed to be watching her for a reaction. “I believe the woman who will make you happy is blonde, green-eyed, has a mother who loves you, plays the piano—”
“Not so,” Timothy interrupted, shaking his head. He jumped up and began walking the perimeter of the room. “I thought that was what I wanted, but I should have listened to you when you told me that list was foolish. It was foolish, and I have come to know that for myself.”
She continued to hold her feelings close and stood in front of her chair. “What is this, Timothy? Miss Shaw will not have you? Is that it?”
Cat. Mouse. Games. Players. Win. Lose.
Timothy’s smile faded, and he shook his head. “Miss Shaw is not the woman for me, Maryann.”
“Because . . . Did she not like babies after all? Was her appetite not as hearty as you would like?”
“Forget the list, I beg of you. The list was folly. Miss Shaw is not the woman I want. You are. Have you not heard that?”
“What I have heard are excitable thoughts from an excitable man who sounds a bit panicked.” She considered a few moments and cocked her head to the side. “You are tired of living in rented rooms and can’t stop thinking of the house in London and the land in, where was it, Kettering? You need a wife after all, and anyone will do.”
“No,” Timothy said rather sternly, if a bit desperately. “If all I wanted was a wife, I could find one easily enough. But I want you, Maryann. Have you not heard me say that any of the three times I’ve spoken it out loud? I am in love with you.” He walked toward her, a new smile teasing his lips.
She crossed her arms in front of her and stepped behind her chair. He stopped, pulling his eyebrows together.
“Why are you saying these things?” she whispered, every part of her body throbbing with caution and warning. She knew he’d expected her to run into his arms, but after all these months of trying to ignore and forget her feelings for him, and after the dance that had ignited them all over again, she could not risk the pain of rejection again.
“Because I am speaking from my heart,” he said, putting a hand to his chest.
“When I left London, you were courting Miss Shaw. She was your heart’s choice.”
Timothy shook his head. “I was never courting her. I did think she might be the woman I had always dreamed of—she fit the list—but I believe a great deal of the anxiety I confided to you was due to my knowing she wasn’t the right woman for me.”
Maryann said nothing, and Timothy dropped his hands to his side, his shoulders slumping. “I have no desire to speak poorly of her, but . . .”
He paused, then continued. “She did not know which course at dinner she liked the best. Honestly, she lacks opinions about most things, simply either agreeing with me or stating she has no preference. I pressed her on where she would want to live, and she could not give me an answer. She would only say that she would be happy living wherever her husband lives.”
“Any woman would give the same answer, Timothy.”
He gave her a challenging look. “You would not.”
She lifted her chin in defiance. “How would you know?”
He moved toward her, stopping on the other side of the chair so that it was all that separated them. He cocked his head to the side and smiled again. His smiles were his undoing, as they only made Maryann more cautious. She’d been a fool for those smiles too many times already.
“All right, where would you like to live, Miss Morrington? Assuming you could have your pick of the country or the city—which would you choose?”
“I will live wherever my husband chooses.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And if he left the choice to you?”
“He wouldn’t.”
He let out a harrumph of a laugh and crossed his arms over his chest. “All right, what is your favorite play?”
“I’m not sure. What is your favorite play?”
“Hamlet.”
She batted her eyes and gave a false smile. “That is my favorite play, too.”
He dropped his arms and his smile. “Stop that. Tell me what you really think. Be . . . you.”
She did not dare. Things were too vulnerable. “Miss Shaw told you what every girl is taught to tell prospective husbands. ‘My will is your will, dear husband.’ That is what we do.”
“But that is not what you did. Not with me. You told me to change my coat and trim my hair and stop bouncing my knee beneath the table and get advice from my brother. You told me I was an idiot to think that the woman I could find lasting happiness with could be found by matching up a list of requirements.” He paused. “And you were right. Miss Shaw is exactly what I thought I wanted, but I did not miss her when we were apart. She does not make me a better man. You do that.”
“Just because you do not want Miss Shaw does not mean you want me. And you do not need me now that you have a fortune of your own. That need was the only reason you pursued me in the first place. There are several weeks left in this season, and then next season or the one after that. You are tired and—”
“I am not tired, Maryann,” he interrupted her sharply. “I am in love with you.”
The words fell like stones at her feet. He did not understand what he was saying.
“No, you do not,” she said evenly as she blinked away the tears rising in her eyes. “And if you were any friend to me, you would not spout off such things in your frustration and fear.”
She headed for the open door before she lost control. When she felt his hand on the back of her arm, she pulled away and faced him. She did not meet his eyes or give him time to speak. “Change out of your traveling clothes. Have a bath and a good meal. You can sleep here tonight, and I shall have Barrett arrange for you to return to London first thing tomorrow.”
The feel of his gaze on her face was heavy. She walked past the doorway in order to get away from him and to reach the bellpull to summon assistance. “The east guest chamber has a balcony that overlooks the sea. Perhaps the sea breezes can help you to repair your emotions more quickly. I find that it always seems to do the trick for me when I am out of sorts.”
His voice was soft when he spoke. Sad. Tired. Tempting her to believe him. “Have you not heard anything I’ve said, Maryann? I have professed my love quite boldly. And . . . that dance.” He paused and seemed lost for a moment. His voice lowered a degree. “Surely you felt what I felt when we danced that night. I have scarce been able to get it out of my mind.”
Pride or preservation, perhaps both, kept her from reacting to his admission. She wasn’t ready to let down her guard. It was one dance, one moment. They had had a hundred other moments where she’d longed for more from him than he would offer.
“We have managed an odd but honest friendship these months, Timothy, but our comfort with one another does not mean you love me, nor that you can change your expectations so quickly. Your words today are unfounded and, quite frankly, unfair after you have been so determined against everything I am.” She waved a hand in front of herself to indicate her figure, her face . . . everything.
Timothy’s expression slackened, and she thought maybe he finally understood. Movement in the doorway behind him caught her eye, and she focused on the butler holding a tray with fresh tea and the sandwich she’d ordered for Timothy.
She put her lady-of-the-manor smile in place. “Thank you, Barrett. Please escort Mr. Mayfield to the dining room with the tray so that he might enjoy his food while the east guest room is readied for him. He will be staying the night. I have work to attend to this afternoon and shall take a separate tray in the study when you’re able, please.”
Barrett looked between them. “Shall we set a place for Mr. Mayfield at supper, then?”
She hadn’t thought of that, but of course they would supper together. She would have to sit with him and behave as a hostess should. But Deborah would be there. Was it too late to invite Jam
es as well? Would he help dilute the tension or make it worse?
“Yes,” she said. “And please arrange for a hired carriage to take Mr. Mayfield back to London in the morning.”
She could tell that Timothy had more to say, but she would not allow him to say it. She stayed where she was until Barrett invited Timothy to follow him, and after a final look between them, Timothy followed.
Maryann inhaled slow and steady, and then exhaled slow and steady. She did not know how to even start thinking over what had just happened and so escaped to the study and the ledgers and work that would keep her mind off the man she wanted but did not dare believe wanted her.
Lucy put what felt like a dozen more pins into the twist at the back of Maryann’s head. “Are you not glad Mr. Mayfield has come?” she asked.
“No, Lucy, I am not.” Maryann had not confessed her feelings for Timothy to anyone but Deborah, and certainly not to her maid who bartered in information. She had avoided Timothy all afternoon, but her anxiety had grown by the minute as supper approached.
Lucy took a step back and nodded that she was finished. Maryann stood and smoothed the skirt of the yellow dress she’d chosen—the one Timothy had said he did not like. He was right in that it washed out the natural pink of her cheeks and rendered her hair a flat brown. But it was not as though her looks had ever dazzled him.
Maryann smiled at her maid. “Thank you, Lucy.”
She forced herself to take normal, steady steps toward the door, though her nervous energy made her want to . . . run. Out the door and to the beach if she could choose her destination. She had yet to reacquaint herself with the beach. She had too much to do at the house before she could indulge herself. Maybe if she’d made time for the waves she would not feel so tense now.
She heard the voices before she reached the parlor. Apparently Deborah was feeling well enough to come down. Thank goodness for that. Deborah had once wished for a match between Timothy and Maryann. Could Maryann find the words that could express to her sister how much she needed support against him now?
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