by Jen Yates
Riding alone was too suspicious.
If only something would happen because it was very difficult acting as if all was right in her world when she felt as if she stood at the edge of a crumbling precipice with no one close enough to catch her when the ground beneath her feet began to crumble.
As every instinct told her it shortly would.
Even Mama, who didn't usually notice a lot of what went on around her, had been casting concerned looks her way all morning as if trying to decide what was different about her daughter this day.
They’d spent the morning indoors, but the warm afternoon had tempted them out into the garden. Verity and Rose and Mrs. Longfellow had joined them.
Rose was sketching Verity, who was working on a watercolor of the classical fountain against the weeping elm, with a crowd of hollyhocks before the brick wall a splash of brilliance amid the muted colors of the background.
Where would she put the butterfly—and which one would she choose to paint? Liberty couldn't keep her mind on the square of linen she was embroidering, but she was desperate to keep from churning about Levi.
Had he left any messages for her at the lightning tree? His dream of a stud had become reality. She’d heard Longie mention it to her mother.
Mrs. Longfellow was inordinately grateful Levi had been given the chance to work with Lord Wolfenden, and so proud he’d now added a breeding stud to the already flourishing livery stables.
She watched Verity’s brush dabbing at the canvas. Was she starting on the butterfly? Every painting she did had a butterfly somewhere, often quite tiny or camouflaged by flowers. It was a game she played with Papa, to see how long it took him to find her signature—and identify it.
Sherman stepped into the garden from Mama’s parlor and with a portentous clearing of his throat awaited Mama’s nod giving him permission to speak.
‘Lady Liberty, his Lordship requests you attend him in his study.’
Her stomach lurched as if the threatening precipice had suddenly broken away and fallen out beneath her feet. Her fingers curled convulsively inwards as if to grasp for safety—and found the point of her embroidery needle instead.
Jamming the bleeding digit into her mouth, her eyes locked on Sherman's expressionless countenance.
Just once, she wished she could read something in the butler's unemotional words. He could probably announce the house was on fire in a monotone that gave no indication of the direness of the situation.
Her mother’s gaze, wide and anxious, settled on her. Did Mama know what this was all about?
But when Liberty hesitated with a questioning look, Mama simply nodded towards the door.
‘Go on,’ she said gently. ‘Papa will explain everything.’
Laying her embroidery aside and pressing her thumb against the still bleeding finger, she followed Sherman’s stiff and unrelenting back into the house.
She was dying to ask why her father had sent for her and knew the man would disclaim any knowledge—when they all knew nothing happened in the house that escaped Sherman.
He knocked on the study door and announced her.
‘Lady Liberty, my lord.’
‘Thank you, Sherman.’
Her heart had taken flight in her chest, she’d left her stomach somewhere back on the crumbling precipice and if she didn’t draw breath very soon she was going to faint at her father’s feet.
Even that was unlikely to divert him if he’d already determined a course for her future.
She entered the room redolent of the essence of the big, dark man who’d fathered her. Large leather chairs, heavy oak desk and side tables, glass cases of butterfly specimens and tall shelves packed with large, leather-bound tomes portrayed the enigma of the man who sat behind the desk.
And like him, all was meticulously arranged and never changed.
In contrast, the far end of the large room was bright with the heavy drapes pulled back to allow the light to flow in through the tall casements. An easel was set up by the window with a delicate watercolor in progress waiting for the artist to continue.
Light and dark.
The two sides of Papa. Which persona was he wearing today?
She couldn't get a clue from his voice, but once she stood before him she knew this was not going to be a pleasant interview.
His deep blue eyes bored into her, and she was sure in that moment he could see where her heart clogged her throat, and how it jittered with painful hope and bitter resignation.
Sometimes Papa seemed totally unaware of anything around him but when he chose to focus he saw more than others did, which was generally uncomfortable for the subject of that focus.
She was the butterfly beneath his microscope.
‘You will put all thoughts of Levi Longfellow out of your head.’
He had not invited her to sit and she stood in the middle of the room facing him where he'd come to his feet behind the desk. Leaning his hands flat on the leather blotter, he glared at her beneath knotted brows and Liberty knew she hadn't a prayer of him listening to her.
‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
What else could she say? It was damned crystal clear.
She had to stay steady and upright despite feeling as if he’d mowed her down, as if she were a field of wheat and he the reaper wielding the scythe. With the rhythm of the harvest, he leant back, then swung again, cutting out any hope she’d still had standing.
‘I’ve not kept this family scandal-free all these years to have you undo it all in the throes of first baby love. I will never consent to such a mésalliance.’
‘What mésalliance, Papa?’
Because he hadn't specifically said and she had to know.
‘Young Longfellow has dared approach me with a request for your hand. If he's dared that, what else has he dared? If he's ruined you I'll see the man castrated. Has he been with you?’
‘B-been with me?’
Liberty felt heat creep into her cheeks. Papa was the last person she could have this discussion with.
Mercifully she didn't have to dig far to find indignation.
‘He has not.’
She was proud of the umbrage in her voice. Despite the shock of his question, her heart was singing.
Levi had asked to marry her.
‘You will abandon any foolish notions of the miller's son from your head, Liberty, do you hear? He is not for you. I will never consent to your marriage.’
***
Chapter 4.
If she thought her father watchful before, it was nothing to how he constrained her now. Liberty was ready to burst out of her stays with frustration and anger.
She had deferred to Papa's edict. She’d been everything demure and obedient, but nothing eased his relentless monitoring of her every move.
She'd even been calmly polite and entertaining of his fellow lepidopterist, Lord Earnslaw.
The man had taken pains to draw her out about her interests in all things Egyptian and her desire to sail the Nile in a genuine felucca. Apparently he’d been to Egypt many years before and he fascinated her with some of his memories. Chatting with him had not been onerous. Papa had watched with the most benign smile he'd ever bestowed upon her. So she knew she’d pleased him, but he still hadn't relaxed his vigilance in any way.
Letting the leather-bound copy of Canterbury Tales fall to the cushion of the window-seat, Liberty wrapped her arms around her knees and gazed out the library window and thought on Lord Earnslaw. The man was older than Papa but he’d probably been quite good looking in his youth.
Papa had allowed him to take her out driving in his curricle and Liberty had been grateful for the change in her routine and the chance to enjoy a jaunt about the countryside, even if her companion was old enough to be her grandfather. An interesting conversationalist, he’d talked of his estates and travels and questioned her about the places they passed. He’d been especially interested in the ancient ford below the old chapel ruin
s on St Anne's Hill and how the place had given its name to the village of Stannesford.
Papa seemed pleased when she’d admitted to enjoying her outing and the softening of his attitude had eased her own. But she still hadn't been able to leave a message for Levi at the tree or even check whether he’d left one for her. She was seriously considering asking his sister, Edith, to carry a letter though she knew it was unfair to implicate her. Edith’s dream was to one day be the cook presiding over the kitchen of a big house.
She'd taken every opportunity over the years of coming to the Hall with her mother to slip away to the nether regions of the house and shadow Lettie, the Stannesford Hall cook. Edith was currently Cook’s assistant, but she had ambitions and it would be unfair to ask her to risk her good standing by assisting Liberty to defy her father.
If found out it would be enough to get Edith dismissed without a reference.
The feeling of helplessness was a desperation in her blood.
‘Lady Liberty?’
How had Sherman found her? She'd thought herself well concealed in the draped window seat in the library. Doubtless the butler had discovered all their hiding places over the years.
‘What is it, Sherman?’
‘Lord Stannesford asks that you attend him in the study, my Lady.’
‘Please tell him you couldn't find me.’
‘I can't do that, my Lady. T’would be an untruth.’
Liberty sighed. Sherman, like Edith, answered to Papa.
‘Very well.’
Uncurling her legs from the seat, she brushed down her skirts. If she presented a tidy, demure aspect to her father, would it help?
A pity she found behaving as a proper lady exceedingly tedious. How she longed for the days when she and Levi had been able to sneak away and hide in their tree for hours at a time and no one knew where they were or what fantasy world they were inhabiting.
Levi. Even his name hurt.
***
‘You wanted to see me, Papa?’
He was writing something and didn't look up.
‘Have a seat, Liberty.’
Was this to be another dissertation on her deportment? She’d been everything polite and compliant to Lord Earnslaw, surely?
It took a minute for him to finish what he was writing and Liberty struggled against the plethora of questions hovering on her tongue.
Had Levi made another move? Another request for her hand?
Hope dared to pulse through her veins with every anxious beat of her heart.
At last her father put his papers aside, and fixed her with his unnervingly dark gaze.
Liberty looked back at him, scanning every line of his frown, every placement of his hands, every glint of light in his eyes.
As usual, he gave nothing away.
The moment felt alive with possibilities and yet she could not tell whether those possibilities were good or bad.
‘Your demeanor this past week has pleased me, daughter. It has also pleased Lord Earnslaw. He has made an offer for your hand, which I’ve accepted on your behalf.’
Her galloping brain stopped with the abruptness of a horse baulking at a jump, and when it started again she was the hapless rider flying through the air towards inevitable disaster.
Unimaginable horror.
Unbelievable devastation.
‘You—what?’
Her chin jerked up.
Obedience, compliance and any sort of demeanor was scoured from her mind as the meaning of his words ripped to the core of her being.
Her mouth came open as she scanned his severe countenance and the deep blue of his eyes. She’d always thought them his best feature, but at this moment the dark intransigence blazing across the desk at her, pinned her in place.
Then her mouth and limbs unfroze at once.
‘No.’
Leaping from her chair as if propelled, she turned for the door, escape her only instinct.
‘Yes. Sit.’
Obedience to her father was ingrained. Liberty dropped back into the chair. Her legs refused to keep her upright.
‘You will be a countess and a very wealthy one at that. He has been extremely generous in his settlements. You could not have done better if you'd gone to London.’
Satisfaction beamed across the desk at her. Had she ever thought this man cared for her?
Repudiation burned to her core.
‘I will not do it.’
Now she understood the nameless dread lodged in her stomach since the day Papa had told her of Levi's proposal.
Elbows clenched into her sides, she pressed her hands to her belly in an effort to suppress the understanding threatening to steal her reason.
She should have known he'd leave nothing to chance.
Married, coerced into saying vows to another, she'd not break them with Levi.
Her father knew her too well.
Her only hope was to refuse to make those vows.
Finally, the true horror registered on her consciousness.
Lord Earnslaw—old enough to be her grandfather.
He might have been a handsome man once, but his skin was wrinkled, his tall body slightly bent and rather gaunt.
And he wore spectacles.
He was older than papa.
She knew enough about the intimacy between a husband and wife to have her belly clenching in instinctive denial.
The idea of Lord Earnslaw performing an act she'd been craving with Levi, coursed shudders of revulsion through her body.
And if they had children she didn't even know what color hair they would have. For what little hair Lord Earnslaw had was almost completely white.
‘It is done,’ Henry said coldly. ‘You will be Lady Earnslaw. A countess. As is fitting.’
The churning ball in her belly seared through her heart and scorched up her throat, burning restraint and moderation, reasoning and consideration from the deepest corners of her psyche.
There was only reaction left.
Absolute denial. She came to her feet again.
‘I'll not agree. You cannot make me. Nothing you could say would ever make me consent to marry that—that—old man. It's disgusting. He's disgusting. How can you do this to me? You just don't care. You've never cared about anyone but Mama. You’re—you're not a father, you're a b-beast.’
The moment the word was spoken she knew she’d gone too far. Cold shivers doused the scorching heat of her temper and she collapsed back in her chair.
His tone when he spoke was colder, harsher than she’d ever heard him. Papa often appeared unfeeling, emotionally uninvolved and he rarely allowed himself the luxury of indulging his temper.
She might just have pushed him beyond that restraint.
‘You are not being given a choice, Liberty. You have a week to think about your situation and come to terms with it. As your father, I know what is best for your future and a one-time-miller-come-horse-breeder is not it. I’ll not allow you to sully the honor of Stannesford by pursuing your infatuation for a common laborer. Accept or you will be locked in your room. That's all.’
His brows came together across his forehead, glowering like black obsidian bars.
Lord Henry Davencourt at his intransigent best—or worst. There would be no reasoning with him.
Fist jammed in her mouth to prevent the sobs threatening to erupt noisily, Liberty rushed from the study, brushing aside the startled Sherman as she blundered down the staircase and into the Great Hall. The instinct to run, anywhere, propelled her through the conservatory at the back of the house.
She didn't stop until she reached the shelter of the Grecian gazebo in the privacy of the shrubbery on the west lawn.
Far enough from the house surely that no one would hear as her heart shattered, splintered into a thousand pieces that could never be repaired.
Sinking to her knees on the leaf-strewn floor, she buried her head in her arms and gave in to the helpless grief. It felt as if someone had died.
As if
she had died.
Oh God. Levi.
His name was a desperate silent scream to the universe.
She so longed to talk with him, see him, touch him.
***
Curling in a ball and raging against the world, and specifically against Papa, was not going to change anything, Liberty chided herself.
As the first wild rush of tears abated she slipped back upstairs, washed her face and tidied her hair before going down to Mama’s parlor.
Surely her mother would understand? Make Papa listen?
But nothing could make her approach the matter with any degree of decorum. The veneer of proper behavior had disintegrated along with her heart.
‘Did you know about this, Mama?’
The words flew from her lips the moment she entered the room. Her mother’s mysterious pale green eyes lifted from the book on her lap and settled on Liberty with concern.
‘Know about what, dear?’
Liberty stopped just inside the door, the familiar frustration welling in her chest. Mama had to know, for she and papa discussed everything. She was stalling.
Frustration segued into desperation.
Mama was very practiced at appearing vague and unaware of much that went on around her, when in fact she knew more than most people even dreamt was possible to know.
‘That Lord Earnslaw has offered for me and Papa has accepted—without even asking me. And—and he won’t listen to me. I love Levi and he loves me. How can Papa expect me to agree to marry that—that disgusting old man?’
Mama peered at her over the tops of the eyeglasses she wore for reading.
‘I thought you quite enjoyed Lord Earnslaw’s company, dear?’
Panic beat like a drum in her belly and she took an uncertain step into the room.
How could her mother remain so calm, as if she lived in a bubble and nothing could reach her?
Did she not understand her daughter’s pain? Could she not see it?
‘I was not aware I was entertaining a possible suitor. Why would I not be polite to the man? That doesn’t mean I want to marry him. He’s—he’s older than Papa.’
Her voice rose on every word, ending in a wail of accusation. She clamped her mouth shut and wrapped her arms tightly across her stomach.