But he kept reading, flicking forward a bit to find more emotional parts. He couldn’t help but feel drawn to the passages about his mother.
June 17, 1782
I can’t get her out of my mind. She arrived for tea—chaperoned by her sister—and I yearned to tell her sister to leave, so that I could whisper the aching of my heart to her in a more appropriate manner. How is it possible to feel such passion for someone? There’s so little we can say to one another when in the company of others. It’s as though there’s constantly a wall between us, one I wish to break down.
When I walked her to the door, her hand dropped in such a manner that it skidded across my thigh. I knew she knew what she was doing, and I also knew that her sister didn’t notice. I shivered—a full-body shiver that made me forget, for a moment, who I was. I nearly dropped to my knee in that moment to ask her for her hand in marriage.
Fear is a funny thing. I feel almost too frightened to ask, as I’m not terribly sure she wishes for the sort of life I’m embarking on. As a countess, she’ll be forced to have all eyes upon her, for the rest of her life. Our children will be the earl’s children. And we’ll be honoured across London. She told me recently that she never wanted the spotlight. That she could find just as much happiness tucked away in a tiny cottage, without all the chaos of having maids and cooks and an enormous house at her feet.
I felt the words like a punch. Were they a rejection of me?
But, of course, I whispered to her that I felt the same. It’s only that I have to uphold my father’s wishes for my life. I cannot rebuke what he left for me.
I never imagined that love would be this beautiful thing, this thing to seek out over all things. But when I envision myself with anyone else—the women who attempt to speak with me at various balls—I freeze up. I know only that this woman is the one I’m meant to marry. And I will make it so.
Ernest’s heart stirred. His father’s vision of romance was far different than he’d initially envisioned. His mother had died when Ernest had been quite young. His memories of his parents together were glossy ones, framed in a way that ached with nostalgia. He’d assumed his parents had had a sort of arranged marriage, like he and Grace.
This clearly wasn’t so. In fact, their love had had to be strong enough to boost his mother into the position of countess. Unlike Grace, she hadn’t taken a liking to the idea of power.
This seemed entirely similar to Diana’s opinion on the matter, as well.
In an entry from the end of that summer, Lord Bannerman detailed the account of finally asking Ernest’s mother to marry him. The page was oddly stained, as though Ernest’s father had actually fallen to tears whilst writing. He could hardly envision this.
I know only that we will be together, despite everything. When I had her on my arm at the recent ball, I felt the watchful eyes of all the most judgmental creatures of London. I know that they wish a far different reality for me. They wish me to be with women of higher status, with their own daughters or sisters. But I hope that my message is received: I think little of status and far more of love. This is my greatest strength and my greatest pitfall, perhaps. But I hope I never forget it.
Ernest dropped his head back. Slowly, he closed the diary and pressed it against his heart. It almost seemed that he’d found the diary due to some sort of invisible force, as though his father’s ghost had guided his hand.
The answer seemed so clear, now.
Again, he put his own pen to ink and began to write on his slip of paper.
When I envision my life far into the future—five years from now, ten, or, if God wills it, twenty—I see only Diana and I together. I see us bickering, perhaps, over the small things, and uniting in the big things, and sitting at one another’s bedside in sickness and in health. Those lost days when she was unconscious after the fire, perhaps I already saw these images, flashing behind my eyes. I knew that my position at her side was one I didn’t wish to give up. And when her eyes finally did open, she looked at me as though she’d already expected me to be there. As though I’d always been there.
Falling into familiarity with her was the easiest thing in the world. And yet, I rebuke it. Why? It’s becoming increasingly clear that what I was rebuking is precisely what my father grabbed at, without letting go.
The fire dipped low in the fireplace. The logs had long-since crumbled. It was normal that one of the maids come and check on him around this time, although Ernest hadn’t any real knowledge of what the hour was. After reading more and more of his father’s diary, he stood to his feet, nearly toppling with dizziness. He hadn’t used his legs in quite some time.
What would be the best manner in which to break the engagement?
This thought rang through him, almost alarming him. But with the wedding just weeks away, he knew he had to act quickly, so as not to cast himself as a horrific villain. These sorts of scandals certainly happened across London. But they ordinarily didn’t involve an earl, a man of his high station. “Love” matters were normally left to others who didn’t matter so much.
Ha. As if Ernest felt he mattered at all, in this moment.
Ernest remained awake the entire night. At one point, he did force himself to lay back in bed. But he found himself tossing and turning, his pillow flattening beneath him. The moon burned its light through his bedroom window, splashing across the bedspread. He wondered what it would be like to sleep next to a wife—to find her slumbering beside him throughout these sleepless nights.
He knew that if Grace was there, she would be irked, would demand that he stop stirring around and allow her to sleep.
Yet if Diana was there, she might offer him a joke, rub his back. She might tell him a story to distract him from his rushing thoughts.
She might tell him how much she loved him, how she had always loved him.
What could he possibly want in this world, if not this?
When dawn struck, it felt almost revolutionary. Ernest was overwhelmed with an urgency, knowing that today was the day that he had to go to Grace’s home and declare that their engagement was finished. He imagined her breaking into tears, telling him that he’d wronged her. He imagined her demanding, “What on Earth will we tell our families? Our friends? And think of your father, Ernest. This was what he wanted throughout our entire lives!”
Ernest tried to prepare what he might say in return. As he scrubbed his face with water from a basin, he mumbled, “You know we were never a proper fit, Grace. You and I… we were two sides of very different coins. Even when we were children, we kept each other at a distance, knowing there was nothing really to say.”
Would she agree with this? Certainly, it was the truth. She couldn’t argue with the truth.
But she could scream and howl and fight him on this. After all, he was, in essence, ruining her entire plan for her life.
Ernest stomped to the kitchen. His body felt strange, as though he couldn’t fully control his motions. When he appeared in the doorway, Rose was already seated at the breakfast table, a cup of tea in front of her. Her eyelashes flashed up toward him. She gave him only a half-grin, as though she wasn’t entirely pleased to see him.
“Hello,” Ernest said. He couldn’t help but think that his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Rose called him out on it immediately, as was her custom.
“What is it?” she asked. Her eyebrows lifted high on her forehead. “You look like you haven’t gotten a lick of sleep in years.”
Ernest sighed, stumbling into his chair. “I haven’t.”
“All this constant worrying is going to dig you a very early grave, Ernest,” Rose cautioned. “You’ll become like one of those old women who waits for bad things to happen. Who look out the window, watching for carriage accidents, just so they can tell their friends about it.”
Ernest gave a sad laugh. “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”
“Oh? You don’t? Well, I’m sure those old ladies never imagined themselve
s going quite so loony, do you? And then, suddenly…”
A few of the maids appeared with platters of eggs, toast, potatoes, pats of butter. They pressed the plates into the centre of the table, then one poured Ernest a cup of tea. Ernest watched their easy formation, grateful for them. Their eyes glowed with the certainty of their actions. They’d done this countless times, and would continue to do so without question.
He almost wished for that kind of ease.
“Tell me, Brother,” Rose finally said. “What has gotten into you? Why are you brimming with such… nervous energy? Have you developed some sort of drug problem I should be worried about? I’m only 15, you know. I can’t very well take care of you yet.”
Ernest stuffed his fork into his eggs, allowing a circle of yellow yolk to pool around the plate. It was oddly beautiful to him.
He knew he needed to tell Rose what he was planning to do. If he couldn’t even drum up the words to explain it to his younger sister, how would he sit in front of Grace and actually say what he needed to say?
Suddenly, Rose dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter. She blinked at him. “I should tell you that I went to Diana’s yesterday,” she said.
Ernest held his fork aloft. “You did?”
“Yes. I did.” She cleared her throat, acting all the more the lady she was becoming. “Because I know what sort of thing I have to do in this world. I know that one cannot just idly sit by and watch things occur around them,” Rose continued. “I could feel the heaviness of her heart, and I knew that someone needed to do something about it. So, I went there. And Ernest, I’ve never seen anyone so hopelessly broken-hearted. It was like—”
Ernest gaped at her. He hadn’t imagined that when Rose had disappeared the day before, she’d done so to visit Diana. Of course, Rose had a mind of her own and didn’t allow anyone to dictate her actions.
Ha. How different from himself.
But before Rose could really drive into what Ernest felt would be a worthwhile scolding, there was a rap at the doorway. He spun round to see the butler, holding onto a cream-colored envelope. He peered down at Ernest, his eyebrows stitched together with curiosity.
“You’ve just received a message, my lord,” the butler informed him.
Ernest gestured toward the back of the house. “Yes, thank you. Please leave it for me in my study. I’ll attend to it after breakfast.”
The butler remained in the doorway. He shifted his weight a bit, seeming unsure how to proceed. Ernest turned his attention back to the butler. His emotions were so volatile, he questioned how to tell the butler what to do without blaring at him with anger.
“Again, I really don’t have the time to look over it right now,” Ernest stated firmly. His voice rose a bit. “If you’ll excuse us. We’re in the midst of a very important conversation.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ernest. Just take the letter,” Rose snapped.
“It’s urgent, my lord,” the butler added, as if to bolster Rose’s argument.
Ernest’s hands drew into fists. Slowly, he bowed his head and muttered, “Very well, then. If it will please everyone else…”
The butler trounced forward and placed the envelope to the side of Ernest’s plate. Ernest blinked at it, recognizing the formal handwriting as none other than Grace’s. On the front of the envelope, she’d written, “Lord Ernest Bannerman,” and nothing else.
“Quite curious,” Ernest remarked. “She’d informed me just the other day that she was planning to come over this afternoon to go over wedding preparations once more.”
“I’m sure you were looking forward to that,” Rose said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
Ernest’s stomach bubbled with nerves. He tucked his finger into the edge of the envelope and tore, cracking the seal. The paper within was thick, formal, the sort of paper you used for wedding invitations or announcements of births or deaths. Slowly, he snuck out the piece of paper and unfolded it, finding a rather short, yet gorgeously handwritten letter.
His eyes scanned the page quickly. As they did, he felt his stomach grow tighter, and he forgot to breathe. Before he knew what had happened, Rose whirled around the table, drawing her hand over his shoulder.
“Ernest! Ernest. You’re turning bright red. What is it? What’s going on?”
Slowly, Ernest felt a smile pull between his cheeks. He shook his head, swimming in exhaustion. Rose tried to nab the letter out of his hand, yet he tugged it back. He beamed at her.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she demanded.
“Always so nosy,” Ernest admonished, clucking his tongue.
Rose’s hands snapped into fists. She looked like she might beat him silly. “Ernest! I swear. If you don’t tell me what’s in that letter…”
Ernest cleared his throat. His head felt dizzy and wild. Was he actually dreaming?
“My dearest Ernest,” he read. “I’m writing to you from the depths of despair.”
“Oh! It’s from Diana?” wondered Rose.
“Not so fast, Rosie,” Ernest said. He grinned wider. “I’ll begin again. My dearest Ernest. I’m writing to you from the depths of despair…
“For I know what I must do to you could destroy you.
“You see, Ernest. I’ve found something within me. Something bigger than the love you and I shared. For many years, I thought you were the answer. My father upheld your father above all men—and I knew the day would soon come when I would call you husband. It was written in the stars.
“But, Ernest, I’m asking you to be strong as you read what I’m going to tell you. I know instinctively that it’s far better, far stronger for me to come to you, to tell you this in person. But, darling, I don’t know if I am as brave as you are. I cannot face you and tell you what I’ve only just learned myself.
“It came as quite a shock to me, when I met the Duke of Coventry. I hadn’t imagined that anyone could manipulate my feelings toward you. And yet, there was such electricity between he and I. I cannot resist him.
“Already, the duke and I are making plans to marry. (Don’t worry. I will not be recycling any of our plans. The duke has his own ways, as he comes from incredible status further north. In fact, I imagine that I have a great deal of learning to do upon my arrival. The land we will rule together will be quite extraordinary.)
“Darling Ernest, I do hope you won’t be heartbroken. Or, if you are, I pray that it’s short-term. I pray that soon, you’ll be able to arise and hardly think of me at all. Perhaps, a long time from now, we will approach one another at one ball or another, and be able to arrive at some sort of friendship. I do hope, for our fathers’ sake, that this can be so.
“But, until then, Ernest, be well. Care for yourself. You were so wretchedly sad in the wake of your father’s death. I worried you wouldn’t be up to being any sort of husband, anyway.
“Yours—if not in marriage, then in friendship—forever,
“Lady Grace Bragg.”
Ernest finished reading. It was only when he actually took the syllables on his own tongue that he fully realized just what this meant. He blinked up toward his sister, who wore a similar, strange expression.
Finally, she spoke.
“I didn’t think she’d actually have the courage to do something like this. The gall!”
For whatever reason—perhaps out of shock—Rose laughed. She drew her hands across her belly and knocked her chin forward, falling into deeper and deeper chuckles. Ernest joined her, although he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he found this funny.
A Seductive Lady Rescued From Flames (Historical Regency Romance) Page 24