“Oh, it is so hard,” Beatrice murmured.
“Impossible love?”
“Being young,” Beatrice answered without looking toward her inquisitor. “Being young and confused and giving your heart where there can never be a return of affection.”
“Are you speaking of them, now, Miss Copland, or yourself?”
“Of young people everywhere.” Her tone was hollow, even to her own ears.
Vaughan, clearly miffed by Lady Silvia’s blatant attempt to brush him off, stood casually, stretched, and moved over to the hearth. Verity Allen had finally settled down by the fire, sitting in an unladylike cross-legged pose as she roasted some chestnuts in a flat pan. It was oddly graceful though, her position, and she glowed with health and vitality. Vaughan joined her on the floor and teasingly pulled the pins from her untidy bun. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back in rich waves, and Vaughan threaded his fingers through it as Miss Allen gazed at him, her eyes full of longing.
Vaughan cast a glance over his shoulder, trying to catch Lady Silvia’s eye, it seemed, but the younger girl was engrossed in conversation with the reverend. And so the baron began a flirtation, laughing with Miss Allen over something, touching her cheek, her hand, her arm.
“Oh, I hope they know what they are about,” Beatrice said sadly, shaking her head.
“What do you mean?” Chappell said.
“Someone can so easily be hurt when games are played with hearts. Look at Miss Allen’s eyes,” Beatrice said. “They are glowing. She has never met anyone like Lord Vaughan before, and he is going to break her heart. I must do something . . . must stop this idiotic flirtation.” She started to rise, but Sir David put one hand on her arm.
“She would not thank you,” he said quietly. “It is her heart, and she is commander of it. You can alter the course of events, but you have no idea if this is the way they are meant to go or not. If you interfere, you may alter forever what was meant to happen, how these young people were meant to sort out their lives.”
Beatrice searched his eyes. The light blue held pain, she thought, and it cut her to the core. She could have prevented that old pain, she thought, could have done something about it. How different his life would have been if she had acted differently, been stronger, wiser!
Chappell felt her tremble under his hand. It was as if his speech had some resonance with her beyond the tableau they were viewing. Had he meant more by it? Beyond a deep belief that people must work out their own destinies, he did not think so. He was comfortable that his life had progressed as it was meant to, and he had no regrets. Well, no, that was not entirely true. There were things he would have done differently in his past, but whether those changes would have altered the course of his life, he was not so sure.
“Do not worry about the young people, Miss Copland. They have their lives ahead to work things out. They are all good people, and we must trust in their own wisdom.” He moved his hand down to cover hers, and stoked it, feeling the soft skin under his thumb. “In two days it is Christmas Eve day,” he said, changing the subject. “Promise me one waltz.”
“There will not be dancing, Sir David,” she said, rose blooming in her cheeks.
“I think there will be. I am sure there will be. Promise me.” His voice was husky and he cleared his throat.
Her eyes wide, she said, “I will.”
Chapter Fifteen
Listlessly, Lady Silvia listened as Beatrice consulted with Cook, listening to the woman’s complaints about the footmen’s rapacious appetites, and then planned the ritual stirring of the pudding for all the company. It was to be a real, old-fashioned Christmas, and the staff were fully in the spirit, even though it meant much more work for them than the usual quiet Christmas with only Beatrice and Lady Bournaud to attend to.
Beatrice joined the girl at the table. “It is, as you can see, up to Cook how she will do things, but close consultation with staff is necessary so there are no surprises.”
Lady Silvia murmured something in response, but continued to gaze absently out the high window, which, since the kitchen was in the basement, had a view only of bushes and dead grass.
“My lady,” Beatrice said.
No response.
“My lady!”
“Hmm?” The girl looked up, her brown eyes wide.
Beatrice sat down on a stool beside her and took the girl’s two small hands in hers. “Lady Silvia, do not take this amiss, but I cannot help but observe that you are distracted and unhappy.”
Tears welled in the pansy-brown depths, and the girl shook her head. “It is nothing, really, Miss Copland. You have been so kind, and I . . . and I know I haven’t been attending, but . . . but . . .” She burst into tears.
Beatrice followed her instincts for once and pulled the girl into her arms, rocking her. “There, there,” she said, patting her back. The weeping, instead of subsiding, changed to heaving, gasping sobs. Beatrice gave the startled scullery maid a look that told the child to leave, and the kitchen, for the moment, was empty. “What is it, Silvia? What is wrong?” She pushed the girl away, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbing at the girl’s eyes.
“I did not know love would hurt! I have always thought that it would be so simple. I would f-find the gentleman who most appealed to me, and he would like me and want to marry me.”
“But that is not so?”
“N-no! Mr. Rowland keeps trying to hand me over to Lord Vaughan, as if I am some distasteful gift that he wishes to foist off on someone else. And Lord Vaughan is so horrible and talks of nothing but boxing and hunting and g-guns! And then he will try to talk about p-poetry and fashion and gossip, and I don’t care for any of that, but he will not leave me alone and Mr. Rowland will not rescue me!” She said it all in one long stream with only sniffs and sobs punctuating her speech.
Beatrice patted her back and shook her head. What could she tell the girl? That her first experience with love would not be profitable, but that she must lift up her chin and go on? Hollow words when one was young and in love. “Be patient, Lady Silvia.”
“You do not understand—”
“But I do! I know that is the hardest thing to do, but you must be patient. You have . . . let us be blunt. You have fallen in love with Mr. Rowland?”
She nodded and sniffed, dabbing at her nose with the wisp of cloth.
“He is a good man. Does he care for you?”
“I don’t know. I thought he did. Sometimes when he looks at me . . . but . . . oh, I do not know!”
What could she say? It had been pointed out to Beatrice that Mr. Rowland’s prospects were not sufficient that the earl, Lady Silvia’s father, would never consent to a marriage between them. “Have you given your heart prematurely, my dear?” Beatrice asked, as gently as she could.
Her smooth brow furrowing, the girl stared down at her hands and pulled at the cloth. “I did not think I was. I thought I was in control and that I would be guided by his behavior, but then when I wasn’t looking my heart floated away like a bubble, and now he h-holds it.” Lady Silvia, cupping her hands to illustrate, stared down at them as one tear dripped off the tip of her nose. “And I had meant to be so sensible!”
It was a simple, heart-rending wail of despair. “Love has a way of taking all of your good sense and tossing it out the window,” Beatrice said sadly. “Courage, Lady Silvia. Courage. I cannot think that you have lost your heart to no end, but you must be prepared to be patient.”
“Do you think there is a chance?”
“There is always a chance.” Beatrice was torn at that moment, between destroying every shred of hope the girl had in what looked like a difficult situation, or shoring up her faint hope in the knowledge that life could and sometimes did work out for the best for the patient. “You must be calm and accept what destiny has in store for you. Be strong. After all, if you win the day and you and Mr. Rowland marry, you must be strong to be a wife to a reverend. They work long hours, you know, something like a doctor
, for they are ever at the parish’s disposal. So you must learn to be calm, and to believe that everything that happens has a purpose.”
Good advice, Beatrice thought. Was she so unwise as to give advice she could not follow herself?
• • •
“Rowland, I would have words with you!” Lord Vaughan strode up the nave to the crossing in the old church, where Rowland knelt at the altar.
Rowland stood. He had been lost in contemplation, and Vaughan’s loud voice echoed profanely in the sacred interior. “I would have you remember where you are, my lord,” he said sternly. The baron was his superior in the outside world, but in this holy place all men were equal.
Vaughan, looking stricken, said, “I am sorry, Rowland. You are right, of course.” His expression troubled still, the man nodded and turned, waiting at the door.
Rowland turned back to the altar, made obeisance, calmed himself, and then left the church with Vaughan, who looked chastened, he was happy to see. Outside, the early promise of the day before Christmas Eve had changed, and a sharp wind sliced up the moor from the valley, tossing the bare limbs of the tree and whistling around the ancient stone foundation of the chapel. For Rowland, who last remembered the chateau in summer, it seemed desolate, as dreary as his heart, which was the very subject he had been praying on. He had come north with peace in his soul, but now it was tormented with earthly desires and he needed to regain that serenity once more if he was to believe that he was fit to serve in the church. The tribulations of physical life should not disturb him the way they had, but there it was. He was full of agitation.
“Now, what is it that concerns you, Vaughan?”
They walked up the damp path from the chapel toward the house, but Vaughan’s earlier impetuosity had abated. He frowned down at his feet and then looked at the man at his side. “We must talk. About Lady Silvia.”
“I cannot think that we have anything to discuss about her ladyship.”
“But we do,” Vaughan said, stopping and forcing Rowland to stop to talk.
Rowland turned and looked at the baron, examining him with a dispassionate eye. Vaughan was the very type of fellow who tormented him and made his life a living hell in school. He was athletic and thoughtless and vigorous, but without any real viciousness at his core, unlike some of the boys whose torture Rowland had suffered. But he was not good enough for an angel like Lady Silvia. Not half good enough. And if they were social equals . . . but, he thought, calming the worldly urges of competition and envy that spurred his anger toward the other man, they never would be social equals.
That knowledge was what made him, in his better moments, guide Lady Silvia toward the baron. The two should have a chance to see if there could be anything between them. Vaughan was, after all, at his core a good man, better by far than many Rowland had known. And it was not as if he himself had any hope of winning the lady’s hand. “No. We do not have anything to talk about concerning Lady Silvia. She is her own woman and will live her life for herself.”
“Have done with that, Rowland,” Vaughan said, planting his fists on his hips. “She is a girl, a marriageable, pretty little chit, but just a female. The business of her life is to marry, and marry well. She would make me an admirable wife, and I happen to be in the market right now for just such a commodity. Do not let her silly infatuation, this churchish, idiotic softness, make her pass up an eligible offer.”
Rowland gritted his teeth together. “It seems I was wrong about you, Vaughan.”
The baron nodded, with a quirked half grin. “Good.”
“No, not good. I had been thinking that there was nothing too amiss about you, that you were, at the very least, good-hearted, but now I see that you are a doltish, superior, smug, churlish example of male idiocy, not worth Lady Silvia’s tiniest finger!” He whirled on his heel and started toward the house.
As he strode toward the doorway, he heard Vaughan’s words floating behind him, “Do not think this is over, Rowland, because it is not. If you will not discourage the chit, I will be forced to point out to her what life as your wife would be.”
Rowland stopped and slowly turned. “Do not be so presumptuous, Lord Vaughan, or you will only embarrass her and humiliate yourself. I know my place, and I know my future. Lady Silvia, unfortunately, will not be part of either.”
• • •
She had been coming to find him, to test her new resolution of strength and calm, as Miss Copland had advised. Frozen in her spot, within hearing range but out of sight, she had heard his ringing words, that she would never be a part of his life, nor his future. Tears would start, but she swallowed them back and stood, immobile, waiting for both men to go away. What had preceded Mr. Rowland’s speech she could only guess, but it was as final a blow to her hopes and cherished wishes as any could ever be.
Lady Silvia had, at nineteen, just lost the first love of her life. Quivering, feeling sure that her actual, physical heart was shattering into pieces, she walked aimlessly, lost in contemplation.
What would she do now? She had thought falling in love was a happy thing, full of sweet and tender moments, whispered confidences, gentle kisses. Instead it had been a time of uncertainty, doubt, and soul searching, punctuated by moments of delirious happiness when she and Mr. Rowland could walk and talk, and kiss. She would always have that to remember. It was the moment when she had first been sure.
And she was sure. She stopped in her perambulation. He was the one, and she would be good for him; she knew it! He was inclined to seriousness, if not melancholy, and he needed a wife who would keep him connected to the everyday, to people and life, for he was studious and deep, while she was far more practical than was consistent with her elevated station in life. No matter how hard she had tried, she had never been good at the giggling, silly gossip and frivolity that the girls around her fed upon. And yet she was not intellectual; she was far too pragmatic for that. She was just what he needed, and she would not give up her dream without a fight. She nodded once. There had to be a way.
She looked up and realized that of all places, she had wandered to the stable. The big doors were open; she had heard that morning Lady Bournaud order a footman to go to Squire Fellows to gather Mrs. Stoure’s things, as she would be spending Christmas day with them, so that explained where the big, formal carriage was.
But she could hear a voice, and it was a feminine voice. Curious, she stepped carefully into the stable, but she need not have worried about her elegant half-boots, for the stable floor was pristine, as clean as any ballroom. She moved forward and the crooning tone became understandable words as she came closer.
“Yes, you’re a good lad, aren’t you? Vaughan don’t know how to treat you right, does he? Acts like you’re just another beast, but you’re much more than that. You’re a clever lad, and a beauty. Doesn’t have a brain in his head, your master, does he?”
Silvia peeked around the corner of the stable to find Verity, dressed in that ugly brown stuff gown of hers, brushing a big chestnut stallion. The animal quivered all over and nuzzled Verity affectionately, snuffling and snorting as she fed him a lump of sugar.
“If only the gentlemen were that easy to tame,” Silvia said.
Verity, calm and unruffled in the presence of horses where she was not with humans, looked up and smiled. “Prefer horses, really. They smell better most of the time.”
Silvia wrinkled her nose. She moved tentatively into the stable. “I have generally been nervous around horses. They are so big, and I am so small.”
“Nothing to be nervous about. Important to calm yourself in their presence, you see, for they are very sensitive creatures; sense your nerves, makes ’em jumpy. Worse than any green girl at her first London ball, and Lord knows I have seen plenty of them. Come here.”
Edging forward, Silvia watched Verity, noticing a side to the girl that she had not seen in the two weeks they had spent in the same household. Here, in the stable, Verity was absolutely at home, calm, collected, in her elemen
t. She pulled off Silvia’s glove and placed a lump of sugar in her palm, then took her wrist, pulling her closer to the stallion.
Silvia tugged at her hand, but Verity said, “No, hush. Calm, remember? Hold your hand out flat, now.”
Doing as she was told, Silvia flattened her hand out, palm up, and the stallion snuffled, and then daintily took the sugar. It tickled, and she stifled a giggle. It was not so bad, really, she thought, as Verity released her from her iron grip. The girl was awfully strong.
And yet . . . Looking her over curiously, Silvia noted how beautiful Miss Allen was. She had a pointed chin, perfect skin, even, white teeth, and her eyes were an unusual, lustrous blue-green, like top quality jade. It would have been impossible not to notice that she was completely and utterly fascinated by and infatuated with Lord Vaughan, but the man treated her like a boy, cuffing her familiarly. The night before he had used her callously, trying to get Silvia’s attention by caressing Verity’s hair and face. It was unthinkingly cruel, especially given the way Verity clearly felt about him. But the dolt didn’t know it. He had likely not intended to be cruel.
And yet, she was perfect for him. Silvia, watching Verity finish her brushing, was taken with an idea. Vaughan was clearly on the hunt for a wife. Verity Allen was of impeccable family background, a relation to Lady Bournaud herself. But Vaughan would never see her as a potential wife while she smelled of the stable and acted like a twelve-year-old boy with a bad case of hero worship whenever she was near him.
“Miss Allen,” she started.
“Oh, please don’t call me that. I am so tired of it. Just call me Verity, will you?”
The beseeching look in the young woman’s eyes was irresistible, and even though it was unthinkable on such a short acquaintance, Silvia, warmed by the pleading expression, said, “Verity. And you must call me Silvia.”
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