0800720903 (R) (36 page)

“There, there, dear, you are home.”

She regained her wits enough to motion behind her. “The coachman—my trunk—”

Her father pushed himself away from her gently, giving her to her mother’s arms. “I’ll see to him.”

“Come, dear, what is this?” Her mother steered her toward an armchair by the fire. “Why didn’t you write us to let us know you were coming home?”

She lifted a tear-streaked face to her mother. “I didn’t know until yesterday—last night.” She fumbled for a handkerchief in the pocket of her pelisse.

Her father came back into the parlor, closing the door softly behind him. “There, the coach is off to the public house, and you are safely home.” He rubbed his hands, approaching them. “Well, I see you are in one piece, the Lord be praised, so physical harm has not precipitated your return. I don’t think Lady Beasinger would have turned you out of her house.” His gray eyes twinkled down at her. “So, I surmise it is a matter of the heart that has brought you home.”

She clutched the handkerchief to her lips. “I—it is worse . . .”

He lifted a dark brown eyebrow. Her father was still a handsome man at fifty, though his lean cheeks were craggy and there were laugh lines between his nose and mouth and at the corners of his eyes. “Worse? Mary, I think this calls for strong tea.”

Her mother rose from where she had been bending over Jessamine. “Of course. The water is simmering nicely here on the hob,” she said with a smile to Jessamine. “I shall just prepare a fresh pot.”

“It’s not necessary.” Her parents only employed a couple of servants, villagers who went home in the evenings, so they were used to fending for themselves a good part of the time.

“Nonsense,” her father said. “We can all use some refreshment while you compose yourself to tell us what calamity has befallen you. My throat is parched from an hour’s reading.” He picked up
the book from the small table by his chair. “Frances Burney’s last novel,
The Wanderer
. I was going to mail it to you once we finished. I think as a woman you will find it of particular interest.”

As if realizing he was forgetting the matter at hand, he cleared his throat. “Yes, well, let us have our tea and find out what brings you to our doorstep at this hour of the night.”

Her father’s commonplaces had given her time to dry her eyes. She recognized how he put so many parishioners at ease with his chatty, absentminded manner. But she knew he was neither. All the while he would be observing the person who’d come to him in trouble while seeming to be distracted by trivial things.

She blew her nose a final time and straightened in her chair, receiving the cup of hot tea from her mother. “Thank you. I am thirsty,” she admitted.

She set it down on the lace doily on the table at her side to let it cool a bit. When her parents were settled in their chairs, drawn up close to her, she folded her hands on her lap and looked at each in turn, knowing she had to be fully candid with them. She felt their love encompassing her and knew even if what she had to say was tenfold worse than it was, they would still regard her with the warm, sympathetic, concerned look in their eyes.

“I have been very foolish,” she began in a low tone. Her throat tightened.

“We have all been so at one time or another in our lives,” her father said quietly as her mother murmured agreement.

Jessamine moistened her lips. “I allowed myself to be flattered by a . . . young gentleman—someone who appeared to be a gentleman.” At the intake of breath on her mother’s part, she knew she must get through this quickly before they conjectured the worst.

She kneaded her hands as she began to tell them about meeting Mr. St. Leger. She didn’t pause except to draw long breaths, until she came to leaving the ball. She looked at each parent in anguish.
Her mother clutched her hands to the shawl around her shoulders, her father looked serene, but his eyes watched her keenly.

Unlike Mr. Marfleet, who dressed in regular clothes, her father wore a narrow white clerical collar. She quickly averted her thoughts from Mr. Marfleet, the way she had all day each time he intruded into them.

Her narrative ended, and by this time her handkerchief was damp. “I don’t remember anything else . . . except when I awoke and found myself in a strange place . . . weighed down by someone atop me.”

At another gasp from her mother, she hurried on. “I was fully clothed, but he was trying to kiss me—” She gulped in some air. “I came to my senses enough to try to push him away, but he only laughed and continued teasing me as if . . . as if what he was doing was a normal . . . thing.”

“What happened, dear?” her father asked.

Her eyes met his. He no longer looked serene. His eyebrows had drawn together, forming a line between them, his gaze razor sharp.

“There was a pounding on the door, and the next thing I knew, Mr. Marfleet and Captain Forrester burst into the room. Mr. Marfleet began to fight Mr. St. Leger. Then Captain Forrester came to me and helped me up and asked me if I was hurt.”

Her mother sat back, visibly calmer. Before she could speak, her father said, “Thank the good Lord for these gentlemen. Who, pray, are they?”

Relieved now that the worst was over, she took a sip of tea, debating how to describe the two gentlemen. She would have no trouble telling them about the captain, but she feared what they might think when she described her acquaintance with Mr. Marfleet.

She was finished with love. First had been her unrequited love for Rees Phillips, and then she’d been flattered by the attentions of a handsome but unscrupulous rake. The last thing she wanted was for her parents to get false ideas in their heads about Mr. Marfleet.

“They must be more than a pair of gentlemen you’ve danced a few dances with if they rode out to this inn to rescue you,” her father said.

She swallowed, glancing briefly at her father before looking as quickly away. “They are very worthy gentlemen. Megan made Captain Forrester’s acquaintance only a week or so ago through her new sister-in-law, Céline Phillips, Rees’s wife.”

She paused, then resumed before her parents would think it was painful for her to mention Rees’s name or that of his bride. “Captain Forrester is an old acquaintance of Rees’s from his days in the navy. I don’t recall him—I was too young, but perhaps you might have met him.”

Her gaze went from her mother to her father, and she was thankful that her tone sounded normal, as if she were only inquiring something about an old neighbor of theirs.

Her mother narrowed her eyes behind her spectacles then shook her head. Her father looked thoughtful, rubbing a forefinger over his chin. “As I recall, Rees brought home some sailor friends on occasion for brief visits, but I don’t remember any individuals. It was quite some time ago.”

“Yes. Well, Captain Forrester has come home for good. He is retiring from the navy now that the war is over. He seems a most worthy gentleman.” She hesitated, unsure whether to add the rest, then decided to go ahead. “He seems quite taken with Megan—and she with him.”

“How lovely,” her mother said, bringing her hands together.

Glad to lighten part of her mother’s load from all she’d told her this evening, Jessamine plowed on. “Yes, I am happy for her.”

“And Mr. Marfleet? Does he have an eye on Megan too?” her father asked in that tone of dry wit she recognized so well.

She rubbed the palms of her hands over her skirt. “He is a . . . a vicar,” she answered carefully, “recently returned from a couple of years as a missionary in India.”

“Indeed?”

She risked a look at her father, and to her dismay but not surprise, he looked more interested than he had when she had mentioned Megan and Captain Forrester. “Yes. He . . . he would likely still be there but for the fact that he contracted a fever and almost died. I don’t believe he will return. His family needs him home.” She briefly described his family.

When she finished telling them about Mr. Marfleet, her mother’s eyes were wide. “Son of a baronet? That is an exalted knight to your rescue.”

“I am more thankful for the perseverance he showed in seeking you. I should like to thank him personally,” her father said.

Jessamine’s heart sank. If her father were to write Mr. Marfleet, he might construe it as an attempt on her part to rekindle their friendship.

“I should say so!” her mother exclaimed. “We must express our gratitude.”

“I’m sure he does not expect any communication from us,” Jessamine began, rubbing her arms in growing agitation.

“If he is the kind of man he appears from your narrative, then I don’t imagine he does expect any thanks. But that is no reason not to convey it.”

“I have no address for him,” she told her father in a low voice.

“Did you have an opportunity to see him before you left London—to thank him?” her mother asked.

She flushed and looked at her handkerchief. “No. He and Captain Forrester were to call today . . . to see how I fared. It was very late when they brought me home—that is, to Mrs. Phillips’s.”

Now came the most difficult part of all.

“When I finally woke up, it was just before dawn. My mind finally felt clear and when . . . when I remembered everything I had done, I couldn’t face anyone, much less these two gentlemen.” She brought the handkerchief up to her mouth. “I was so ashamed.”

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” her mother said. “You did right to come home. You’ll be safe here. I worried so having you in London. Such a wicked city.”

Jessamine looked at her father again, awaiting his verdict.

“Much as I am glad you have come back, I cannot help but think you did so precipitously. It was more as if you were running away than that you were returning home to your family.”

The mantel clock ticked as Jessamine found herself unable to look away from her father’s knowing eyes. “Yes, sir,” she whispered before dropping her gaze. “I just couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in their eyes. They were both such upstanding gentlemen. I had done wrong to . . . to flirt with Mr. St. Leger.”

“You are not a young lady to flirt. Did London society go so quickly to your head, my dear?” her father asked gently.

She shook her head, still looking down.

“Carl . . .” her mother began in a remonstrative tone.

“No, it’s all right, Mama. Papa has a right to ask me, as do you.” She spoke slowly, her gaze meeting theirs. “I flirted with Mr. St. Leger because . . .” Her voice threatened to break once more. “I wanted to know that I was attractive to a gentleman. I was so hurt . . . and angry at Rees.”

Amidst her mother’s protest, she bowed her head once more into her damp handkerchief. “I wanted to prove I could be like Céline—Rees’s wife—the kind of woman that men give up everything for.”

“And what did you discover?” her father asked gently.

She studied the pattern on her gown, unable to meet her father’s gaze. Her thoughts went to Mr. Marfleet, a worthy man whose regard she had spurned in an effort to prove something so foolish. “That I have no wish to be the kind of woman I thought Céline was. She has had her own burdens to bear.” Jessamine inhaled deeply. “I have no wish to be anyone but who the Lord fashioned me to be.”

“Then I would say your time in London has been of value,” her father said.

She stared into the fire, glad for the peace and quiet that reigned in their sitting room. The old Jessamine would never have wished to be anyone but herself. Or, was the person she’d become in London the real Jessamine? Selfish, vindictive, caring only about her hurt and pride?

Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her parents allowed her to cry silently, her mother approaching and hugging her, as she murmured endearments.

When she felt spent, her father said, “Let us pray for you, Jessamine, and then perhaps you should go up to your room and get some sleep. Things always appear better in the morning.”

He approached her chair and laid a hand on her shoulder. He gave her a soft smile, but there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. She knew he had forgiven her, and her load felt lightened. But her own sadness and disappointment in herself was not alleviated.

He took a hand in his and her mother took her other one. They bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Her father’s prayer was one of comfort. It was as if he knew exactly what she needed and was confident the Lord would provide it for her.

He asked the Lord to heal her wound and wash away her shame and guilt and show her that her sins and disgrace were taken away by the shame Jesus bore on the cross.

Then his prayer turned to Mr. Marfleet and Captain Forrester. Her father asked for a blessing upon them for all they’d done for her. He ended with, “Whatever sentiments compelled Mr. Marfleet not to rest until he had found my daughter, I pray, Lord, that You will restore them to him if they have been shaken by my daughter’s disgrace. Prove him and what is in his heart so that he may be able to forgive Jessamine’s conduct, her errors—as well as the perfidy of the man who took advantage of her naiveté and innocence.”

With a final squeeze of her hand, her father ended his prayer and then opened his eyes and smiled down at her. “Don’t forget, God’s grace is sufficient for you.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Now, off to bed with you.”

She obeyed him, hugging and kissing her parents good night. She felt much lighter in her spirit as she walked up the stairs to her old room, but the sadness remained.

Her disappointment in herself was a burden she would have to carry. Time would ease it, but in the meantime, she must live with the person she had proved herself to be.

Lancelot and his sister arrived at Kendicott Park several hours after departing London. They had hardly spoken on the journey, each one preoccupied by their own thoughts.

The sky had already deepened to an inky hue although the western horizon still showed a band of lighter blue where the sun had recently set.

Tired and dusty, Lancelot turned to help Delawney descend the carriage. Together, they hurried up the wide, shallow steps of their ancestral home.

The door was opened immediately by a footman, who greeted them, then held the door open wide for them.