Born of Persuasion (5 page)

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.

“Elizabeth, 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 even, 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.

“Perhaps it was one of the Wilsons,” Mrs. Windham
suggested when silence filled the room. “The more I consider it, the more convinced I am it must have been them. For I am certain we stumbled upon Mr. Wilson and Henry quarrelling only last Tuesday. Did we not, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth merely gave her mother a flippant look.

“You must tell your parents it was the Wilsons.” Mrs. Windham took Edward’s arm and motioned him to the door. “Make certain they know I would never condone such behavior. No, indeed, even should he call in person, I would not open my door to Henry, but refuse him on the grounds of . . . your . . . parents’ . . .”

Head bent, I waited to hear Edward’s departing footsteps, but as Mrs. Windham’s babble died, I slowly drew my eyes upwards.

Edward stood regarding me, his fingers crushing the brim of his hat. The tendons in his neck stood out as he spoke. “Forgive the bold inquiry, Miss Elliston. You’re here. Why?”

Even had the thickness in my throat not forbidden speech, I should not have answered him. He had betrayed me, but that he should glower at me as if I were the traitor was unbearable. I returned his withering stare, then returned my focus to my sewing.

It was Mrs. Windham who finally filled the void. “Ah, I see you remember Miss Elliston. Did I neglect to mention her parents’ passing and that she was coming to visit?”

I grew cold and then hot in succession. Her words were salt to a raw wound, for it wouldn’t take him long to guess the reason why I’d come. But he seemed to scarcely note that I was now alone in the world.

“Yes, you did fail to mention it.” His tone became stern as he looked at Elizabeth. “As did your daughter. Did you likewise forget?”

“No.” Elizabeth sounded obstinate as she moved her gaze from her handiwork to him. “No. Henry forbade me to tell you.”

“Henry!” Mrs. Windham spun in her direction. “When did you last see Master Henry?”

Elizabeth shrugged, still silently challenging Edward with a sullen look.

For a moment, he only mashed his hat between his fingers. When he finally spoke, his vocal cords were strained. “I am late. My errands are urgent.” He kept his singular glare on Elizabeth. “Yet you and Henry would willfully conspire to cast extra burdens upon me?”

Elizabeth yanked her thread so hard, the fabric pulled.

Edward waited for comment, but when none came, he turned to me. He bowed his eyes, both guarded and apologetic. “I pray you will forgive my misguided brother. You have my word, I shall not disturb your visit by calling upon Am Meer again.”