Born of Persuasion Page 3

  Mrs. Windham pulled a dish of cold fowl toward her. “Let it be stated now, I’ll tolerate no competition between you. Elizabeth, apologize.”

  Elizabeth gasped but before she could object, I clasped my hands over the table and leaned forward with a mock-expectant look. “Oh, fine.” Elizabeth set down her cup and pummelled her skirt with her fists. “Julia, I apologize.”

  “And I accept—” I patted the braids that looped over my ears and met in an intricate knot behind my head—“since you sent me a lady’s maid with a natural knack.”

  Elizabeth gave a half smile, though she did not look completely appeased. “Yes, well, I thought you’d like Nancy.”

  “Nancy?” Mrs. Windham stopped carving the fowl. “I should not have thought her that accomplished. When I agreed to allow her to dress you, I had no idea, though I supposed she could do no harm considering . . .” She paused to look over my dress, licking her fingers. Elizabeth nearly choked on her tea, but Mrs. Windham took no notice. “No indeed, I had not a suspicion. What a pleasant surprise. Julia, after we’ve fattened you up a bit, you’ll almost look lovely.”

  Elizabeth glared at her mother, then swung her gaze to me. “Julia, you mustn’t take offense. You—”

  “Offense?” Mrs. Windham dropped her fork and knife. “How obstinate you are being this morning to keep insulting Julia and then blaming me. I shall bear no further abuse at my table. Save your breath, Elizabeth, to cool your porridge.”

  I suppressed my giggles in my napkin while Elizabeth squinted her confusion at me.

  Later I intended to explain how difficult the months of near isolation had been. I was at Am Meer. Every detail was as I remembered it. Even Mrs. Windham’s babble was music. I now had only to see Edward to be assured that all would be well.

  Appetite awoke after months of slumber as I piled buttered eggs and leftover fowl onto my plate. I ate slices of plump, red tomatoes fried fresh from the garden, and then signalled for tea, taking delight in being properly served again.

  We ate in silence for several minutes before the doors swung open and Mrs. Windham’s manservant entered with a tray of mail. Elizabeth caught her mother’s attention as she pointed to the ivory envelope on top.

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Windham laid her utensils aside and picked up the missive, giving Elizabeth a worried glance. “Now what can she possibly want?”

  I felt myself pale as Mrs. Windham broke the seal and shook open the post. With discomfort I recalled the stark terror that filled Mama’s eyes each time the mail arrived.

  “What do you think this means?” Mrs. Windham refolded the letter and handed it to Elizabeth. “Lady Foxmore sends her regrets, but she shan’t come for tea on Tuesday.”

  “Thank heavens.” Elizabeth opened the note for herself.

  At first it was impossible for me to believe that I correctly understood them. Lady Foxmore was legendary—and the scandals involving her, even more so. Not that Mama allowed me to read those sections of the paper. But I had not needed to do so.

  Viscountess Foxmore was the primary landowner in Elizabeth’s district, and something of a sphinx—an ever-absent dowager who ruled her land from afar with strange whims and tempers. What genteel mothers didn’t allow daughters to read behind closed doors, merchants and fishwives discussed openly, gossip being their only means of waging war in retaliation.

  “Lady Foxmore,” I said, unable to hide my disbelief, “was going to come here for tea?”

  Elizabeth lifted her gaze from the letter with a glance communicating that the circumstances were far from comical.

  “But that’s impossible . . . ,” I argued, then trailed off seeing that Mrs. Windham’s face had pursed.

  “We’ve displeased her.” Her lips trembled as she turned to Elizabeth. “I told you she would think your remark flippant.”

  Elizabeth refolded the note. “She began our acquaintance displeased with us. So if she is angry, then I say good riddance.” Seeing my astonishment, she explained. “Two months ago, she arrived home, stating she was bored and needed a change of pace. It would have been better had she remained in Bath or London. Amongst her other unspeakable deeds, she widened her circle to include us. I fail to see how we amuse, unless she finds entertainment in dominating our very lives.”

  “What nonsense, my pet,” Mrs. Windham said in a whisper. “She has been most kind.”

  I shook my head, wanting to declare that none of this was possible. Yet despite my disbelief, all that came out was, “Are the rumors true?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to the servant before she whispered, “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she cooks and eats infants for breakfast.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth, fie!” Mrs. Windham flew to her feet, knocking the table, and then shooed the maid from the room. Once the door slammed shut, she sank into her chair, gasping for breath. “How can you say such things? Imagine what she should do if she learned we spoke ill of her over breakfast? She would never again receive us. And we might never see Mr. Macy again, our poor Mr. Macy, or his friend Mr. Greenham—”

  Mrs. Windham stopped midsentence and turned toward me, mouth agape. “Good heaven and earth! Why have I not thought of this before? Elizabeth, do you suppose our Mr. Greenham might take interest in Julia? What a useful match that would make.” She clasped her hands together, her former agitation draining at the thought of a potential match. “His income exceeds that of nearly all our acquaintances.”

  I gave Elizabeth a warning shake of my head, not to encourage her mother even in jest. I wanted nothing to interfere with my plans.

  Elizabeth rubbed her brow. “Mama, please collect yourself. A second ago Lady Foxmore was never speaking to us again, and now you’re planning matches with her acquaintances.”

  “Hush, I need to think.” Mrs. Windham held up a hand. “Just consider the advantages Julia should have if Mr. Greenham took pity on her.”

  Elizabeth opened and closed her mouth twice before managing, “Oh, nonsense. He’s far too reserved to even notice her. We’ve dined twice with him, and I’m still not convinced he knows we exist.”

  Mrs. Windham positioned her hands near her ears, as if about to cover them. “Be so good as to remain quiet, love. Now that Edward’s out of the question, I must do something. Lucy would expect it.”

  The dining room dimmed as my fork clanked to my plate. Edward’s out of the question. I stared at Elizabeth, demanding explanation.

  To my horror, Elizabeth only winced. “Mama, please! Now is not the time to speak of this.”

  “Why ever hadn’t I thought of Mr. Greenham before?” Mrs. Windham spoke more to herself than to us. “We could have spent the last month dropping helpful hints to him. Yes, the more I think upon it, he is the very thing!”

  I scarcely heard her. I tried to remember the last time Elizabeth had managed to wedge a bit of information involving Edward into a letter. Knowing Mama would also read the posts, she’d taken great care to give hints only I understood—a scarlet oak leaf, an odd phrase that could only have come from Edward’s mouth. After Mama’s death, very little had been forwarded by my guardian; therefore months had gone by without news.

  Mrs. Windham rapped the table with her knife as she blathered about the merits of a match with Mr. Greenham. I willed Elizabeth to look at me, but she kept her gaze on her plate of eggs.

  At Mrs. Windham’s insistence, I followed her from the breakfast chamber to the sitting room. I’d become her pet project, and she wasn’t willing to relinquish my company while the idea of finding me a match was still fresh.

  Though it was still morning, the room sat dark. Elizabeth gave a long sigh as Mrs. Windham opened her sewing basket and then indicated for me to choose something to hem from the assortment of linens.

  I lifted out a sheet. One thing was certain: Mrs. Windham intended to have an audience as she sewed. It might be hours before Elizabeth and I escaped; therefore I did my best to check my emotions as I sank into the nearest seat.

  “Eliza
beth, pull aside the draperies. See if more light can be gained.” Mrs. Windham settled into her chair.

  Sidestepping me, Elizabeth crossed the room and pulled the heavy drapes further apart. Meager light seeped through the room. Outdoors, murky clouds now roiled in the sky.

  For a minute, Mrs. Windham squinted, trying to see her embroidery hoop. Against my great hope, her fingers located the needle lodged beneath her work and picked up where she left off. Elizabeth likewise sighed with disappointment as she settled into the window seat.

  My fingers moved of their own volition against the sound of Mrs. Windham’s babbling voice. While she spoke of fulfilling her duty to my poor mother, my needle coursed through the linen in my hands, working from left to right. My mind, however, was like wool being carded. Hundreds of tiny teeth pulled my thoughts in various directions.

  Too little information had been provided. Now that Edward’s out of the question. Whatever had that meant? Much as I longed to ask, I knew I could not endure hearing my dreams crushed by Mrs. Windham’s tongue. It should be Elizabeth or no one. Yet my mind demanded occupation.

  The thought of an accident befalling Edward made my hands quake, but I’d no sooner given vent to that fear before mother wit would rise and demand that I acknowledge the possibility that Edward wished himself liberated.

  He had been young when he pledged his hand to me. During my long absence he’d been at university cavorting with friends, larking about the city of London, and doubtlessly mingling with the best of society. Did he regret his troth?

  The very idea he might regret our betrothal was loathsome to me, but not in the way one might expect it. From a young age, I’d been singled out and pecked upon for being different. Unlike those in my parish with their simpleminded beliefs, I kept no faith in a God who sought out the broken pieces of humanity and rejoiced over each shard collected.

  My feet had been established upon reason, upon intellect. My father wasn’t a believer in fairy tales but amongst those who’d embraced the Enlightenment. The one gift he’d given me.

  Yet even that morsel came at a high price.

  Though my father’s writings were celebrated elsewhere, the vicar in our parish had vowed to drive away the evil from his flock. Thus, Mama and I suffered more than my father. When we walked to our village, parishioners jeered us. Merchants’ bills were always higher than the quality of goods received. No one outside my father’s circle received us, and Mama refused to allow me to mingle with those within it.

  Even as I sat and sewed that day, pressured with the knowledge that I would soon find myself in Scotland, I vowed to myself that I would not tolerate pity—even Edward’s.

  For what seemed like hours, Mrs. Windham prattled about every possible match in the neighborhood, always ending with reasons why Mr. Greenham was far superior, and why I must not consider whichever young man she’d spent the previous half hour discussing.

  Each time I rethreaded my needle, I felt as though I might explode with a scream. The room grew unbearable. I needed to learn what happened to Edward or be left in solitude to think. Had I been home, I would have grabbed my shawl and stepped out into the bracing air. There, with the numbing winds serving as ointment for my mood, I would have been able to wrestle with the notion that my plans had already failed.

  I glanced at the window, wondering what would happen if I asked to be excused, but flecks of rain spattered against the glass.

  From her seat in the window nook, Elizabeth likewise glanced out the window. “Mama, since the light is gone, do you think—?”

  A solid rap on the door checked her tongue.

  Nancy poked her head into the room. She gave me a sidelong glance, as if surprised to find I did, indeed, belong to the upper class, before curtsying to Mrs. Windham. “I begs your pardon, ma’am, only th’ vicar is here.”

  I groaned, lifting my sewing closer to my face. Had I believed in God, I would have chosen that moment to curse him and die. Undoubtedly, somewhere during the course of his visit, the vicar would learn I was the daughter of the famed atheist William Elliston. They always did somehow. Too often had members of that race belittled me by asking baited questions, as if defeating me were one and the same as defeating my father.

  Firm footsteps in the hall informed me the brute was already nearing the door. There was no escape. Mrs. Windham rose to greet the newcomer, and being obliged, I likewise stood but kept my sewing in my hands. My only recourse was to be unapproachable. I would sew, ignoring all conversation, making no eye contact, giving unintelligible mumbles to all polite niceties. In short, I would be as prickly as a burred chestnut.

  “My dear boy!” Mrs. Windham rushed toward the widening door. “Come in, come in. What on earth are you doing walking about in weather such as this?”

  Silence met her greeting.

  Even with eyes downcast, I felt the intense gaze of the vicar upon me. My mouth turned to cotton wool. Was I so soon discovered? No, I decided, my morning had been trying enough. I would not look. Let this clergyman learn from the beginning I’d have nothing to do with him.

  Elizabeth’s hand fluttered to my shoulder in support. With a hollow, guilty-sounding voice, she greeted him for both of us. “Reverend Auburn.”

  I startled as the name rattled through my brain like a familiar word whose meaning refuses to be grasped. Inwardly, I knew what my mind still declined. My spirit sank to the dust as I lifted my head to greet the man I’d not seen since the night of our betrothal.

  EDWARD’S HAZEL EYES MET MINE. What I once expected our reunion would be, I no longer recall, but this I know: that day utterly destroyed my childish illusions.

  Gone was the youth who wore his wealth like a second skin. Gone was the boy who’d laughed with joy as he pledged me his troth beneath our ancient oak. In his place stood a man I knew not. No comradery flickered over his countenance. No happy greeting issued forth.

  He regarded me with the telltale sternness that marked all vicars. His single-breasted black cassock pleated and flared at his waist like a skirt before falling to his mud-encrusted feet. A faded, silk-fringed cincture wrapped his torso, hiding three of the thirty-nine pewter buttons symbolizing the thirty-nine articles of religion—all of which I vehemently rejected.

  My mouth trembled, but not from fighting tears. I desired to throw my sheet on the floor, to stomp on it, and to scream my accusation that he was worse than Judas Iscariot. I longed to fly at him and beat his chest, demanding he say to my face that Mama was in everlasting torment, to make him say that I likewise was destined for the flames of hell.

  Elizabeth’s hand gripped my arm and gave it a squeeze, restraining me.

  “Do come in, Reverend Auburn.” Mrs. Windham pulled his sleeve. “Sit by me and tell me the neighborhood happenings. It’s been ages since your last visit.”

  At first, I did not believe he’d heard her, or even felt the tug on his arm. His gaze stayed fixed on me.

  “Girls, for heaven’s sake, sit.” Mrs. Windham motioned us down. “Your gawking is making me nervous.”

  I fell to my seat, feeling so jarred that the chair felt as if it were floating. My fingers shook as I leaned over my sewing to help collect myself. A vicar? My precious Edward? One of those pompous, strutting swindlers! As I searched for my needle, I pricked my finger and drew blood, but I felt no pain. I was too angry.

  This was the man who once swore he would never force church upon me? This was the same boy who grew so full of choler at the church’s mistreatment of my family that he’d smashed a branch against a tree, unable to hear more? Once more I desired to rise and decry him as the worst of traitors, to pelt him with every last object in the sewing basket.

  Instead, I shot him an accusatory glance and found his steady stare fixed on me.

  Avoiding eye contact, I shifted my glare to his shoes, where worn leather peeked from beneath his cassock’s ragged hem. This was no sudden change. Clearly, he’d made the decision to join the church shortly after our betrothal, days eve
n, for he’d been on the verge of returning to school when we parted. He would have needed time to study, pass his tests, and then serve long enough for his outdoor lay to become ragged.

  I drew an armful of the sheet toward my chest, as if it could shield me from the ache growing there. Tears welled like floodwaters threatening to lap over the side of a dam. In another moment, I knew I’d break and be swept away in the torrent.

  “Will you take tea?” Mrs. Windham tugged on his arm again. “Edward?”

  With a jerk of his head, he looked at her. “No.” He blinked rapidly, touching his forehead with his fingertips. “I meant, no thank you. I shall stay no longer than necessary to return the five pounds Henry borrowed.”

  From the window seat behind me, Elizabeth gave a sharp hiss.

  Mrs. Windham’s brow furrowed. “Five pounds?”

  “The money,” Edward prompted, turning scarlet as he tucked his curled hat beneath one arm and reached inside a purse affixed to his cassock, “I believe he borrowed last Sunday. After church? Was it not urgent it be repaid by today?”

  “Last Sunday! Good heavens, Edward. Are you accusing us of breaking your parents’ edict?” Mrs. Windham’s baby face pouted. “You know I would not. We have had no contact with Master Henry in months. I swear it.”

  Disbelief lit Edward’s eyes but was soon followed by a jut of his chin that made his face look constructed of granite. His eyes shifted to Elizabeth, who breathed heavily as she worked over her sewing.

  “I assure you—” Mrs. Windham wrung her hands, following his gaze—“Elizabeth has not seen Master Henry either. On my troth, she spent the entire of last Sunday by my side.”

  Shifting his weight, Edward gave me a sidelong glance. Severity tightened his features yet further. His gaze travelled over my face and dress, where he lingered the longest over the patch on my elbow.

  My fingers lost the needle, obliging me to search my skirts. Tears blurred my eyes, but I forced aside the pain. I would never allow myself to feel anything again.