Born of Persuasion (8 page)

“Mama.” Elizabeth’s quiet voice interrupted them. Her tone was soft but her cheeks blazed. “What has Julia’s guardian said about this arrangement?”

“Oh, do not speak to me of that dreadful man!” Mrs. Windham twisted to view her daughter. “Why should he care if we secure Julia a husband? Why else would he send her here?
Even if he did protest, I am determined to fulfill my duty to poor Lucy.”

“But how do you think she will marry without her guardian’s approval? She’s not yet one-and-twenty.”

Mrs. Windham’s face grew purple as she gave Elizabeth a look that clearly demanded she remain quiet. “No one in this village cares about that. Do not bother me with your vexations. What objection can be raised if a merchant takes Julia on as his common-law wife?”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped as she sprang to her feet. “Do you not think he’ll feel it his duty to investigate the matter and press charges?”

Miss Pitts paled, but Mrs. Windham found her feet. “Of all the nonsense. Out! Both of you. You know nothing of these matters.”

She gave another tittering laugh over her shoulder as she gathered and then shoved us toward the door. A moment later, Elizabeth and I found ourselves in the hall, excommunicated.

“I can’t believe Mama!” Elizabeth kicked the door once. “Twenty pounds for Hugh Kellie, indeed! I wouldn’t sell him a sheep I intended to slaughter.”

With angry tears gathering in my eyes, I said nothing. I knew the deeper betrayal belonged to Mama. She abandoned me to these circumstances. At least Mrs. Windham was making an effort to secure my future, which was more than I could say of anyone else.

“What I’d like to know,” Elizabeth said as Mrs. Windham’s voice carried through the wood, words muffled, “is what on earth Edward thinks he’s doing! It’s been nearly a fortnight.” She perched her foot on the bottom step, but instead of going upstairs, she pressed her ear against the door and listened as the women inside continued their dialogue.

I retreated to the nearest chamber, a small room that held books and a desk where Mrs. Windham replied to
correspondences. With only the company of a stiff wind rattling the windows, I sank into the chair behind the desk and took stock of my situation. I wasn’t sure whom to direct my choler toward—Mama for forsaking me, Edward for taking orders, or Mrs. Windham for being the first to acknowledge my true status.

I drew my shawl tighter, wondering if things had always been this way and I was only now waking up to it.

During my childhood, on summer evenings here, Mrs. Windham often pushed back the furniture in the drawing room so Elizabeth and I could practice dancing. Those nights were amongst the best of my memories. As I sat in the cold office, I recalled how the open windows framed starry skies and laved the room with the scent of roses. Had I been encouraged, I might have become an accomplished dancer. With hands posed femininely in the air, my feet took on a grace of their own as they chasséd back and forth to Elizabeth. Our nightgowns were swirls of white as Mrs. Windham swung her arms in three-counts, baa-baaing a minuet.

But sometimes between the twirling ribbons and peals of giggles, I’d catch sight of Mama and wish I hadn’t. Her expression reminded me of Sarah’s the time she was forced to drown a sack of unwanted kittens. I’d stumble in my steps, confused by her reaction, but by the time I spun again, she’d be focused on her needlework.

Miss Pitts’s vulgar laugh pierced through the wall, drawing me back from my memories. I leaned against the chair and wondered what I had done that caused Mama to leave me to fend for myself. I rested my head against the wall and deliberated whether marriage to Edward was still an option. Whether I could allow the church to become my asylum after all.

FOUR LONG DAYS passed after Miss Pitts’s visit—raw, dreary days where cold air permeated every stitch of clothing and seeped into bones. Rain pounded the landscape, delaying the delivery of coal and wood so that Mrs. Windham sanctioned fire for our use only in the morning room, where Elizabeth and I bided our time, sewing with numb fingers.

Mrs. Windham scarcely seemed to notice the cold, as her mind was full of the possible matches her efforts might secure me. While she sewed, she conjectured aloud which Tom, Dick, or Harry from the village I might find agreeable. I endured without comment, choosing instead to ruminate on the requirements Edward might place upon me.

I felt fairly certain no vicar could wed William Elliston’s daughter unless she publicly repented and joined the church. But would Edward care if I truly believed? And if so, should I pretend? During those endless hours, I’d often rise and pace the room to stretch my aching muscles. Each time I passed the rain-beaded window, my gaze traced down the dirt path that led beyond Am Meer and into the spinney of birch trees lost in the
swirling haze. I’d wonder whether I’d ever truly be free again. In Scotland, would they allow me long solitary rambles? Or if I did manage to marry Edward, what sort of restrictions might he place upon me? The vicar in my village was notorious for making his wife and children spend two hours a day in Scripture reading and another hour in prayer.

Often, as I wrestled with these thoughts, I’d feel Elizabeth’s sympathetic gaze upon me. I hated that moment worst of all. In those pitying glances, I sensed her thoughts as easily as a gypsy detects a gullible client. It made little difference what Edward’s expectations for his wife were, for thus far, he’d kept his vow and stayed clear of me.

How things might have eventually concluded, I cannot say. In the end, I slipped through my circumstances in a way I could have never anticipated.

“Open!” A man beat his fist against Am Meer’s door, in the dead of night, then shouted, “Open, I say!”

I sat up in my bed, gasping as dogs’ frantic howls reverberated through the cottage. I made a movement to slip from my bed, but sheets entwined my legs.

“I said open up!” The man clanged on the door knocker.

“Hold your horses,” the manservant, Harry, shouted as he passed my door. His feet slurred over the floor and I envisioned him buttoning trousers. “I’m coming, I’m coming, you filthy bog trotter.”

Recovering from my shock, I rose and pulled on my wrapper, unable to fathom what was happening, for no catastrophe could merit waking us in such a manner. Am Meer was too far from the village to be disturbed over a fire, and the Windhams had no family close enough for it to be a death announcement. Hearing Mrs. Windham’s voice at the end of the hall, I procured a light and proceeded to her.

She stood at the entrance, reading a missive by candlelight. A single, brown braid threaded with silver hung from beneath her nightcap. Her bare toes with thick, yellow nails protruded from beneath her nightgown. Elizabeth clung to her arm, reading over her shoulder. The coming years melted as I gauged how altered Elizabeth should appear twenty years hence.

Elizabeth looked up first, her face ghostly. “Oh, Julia.”

I eyed the note, fear tingling through me. “I’ve been ordered to Scotland, haven’t I?”

“Scotland?” Mrs. Windham looked over her note, her puffy eyes squinted.

“Worse.” Elizabeth left her mother to link her arm with mine. “Her ladyship has ordered us to attend dinner with her on Thursday. She desires . . . to meet you.”

I clutched my wrap tighter. Even in the murkiness, I recognized the distinct ivory stationery. “Lady Foxmore sent you a note at two o’clock in the morning?”

“Like as not, she has indigestion and wishes us to suffer alongside her,” Elizabeth whispered, causing Harry to choke on laughter.

Mrs. Windham looked over the page at her manservant and hall boy, both swallowing back grins. Her eyes narrowed as she waved Elizabeth and me back down the hall.

“All right, all right. Back to bed, everyone. Nothing to make such a fuss over.”

But when we turned the corner, she grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and hissed, “You must never forget how terrible servants’ gossip is. Imagine what her ladyship would think if she heard.”

“As if Harry would repeat anything.”

Mrs. Windham released her and addressed me. “Do not trouble yourself over meeting Lady Foxmore. Put the thought from your mind and go finish your slumber, like a good girl.”

At my bedchamber, Mrs. Windham left us and returned to her own room, still reading the note.

“This is the fifth time,” Elizabeth whispered, “that her ladyship has seen fit to send a message in the dead of night. One would gather we’d imposed the acquaintance on her and this is our punishment. I’m convinced she instructs her footman to wake the entire household. Don’t you dare start giggling. There’s nothing humorous about it.”

“What did the note say?” I asked, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.

“It was dreadful. First, she berated Mama for not seeking her counsel before allowing you to live here.” Mirth crept into Elizabeth’s voice despite herself. “She wrote that she is uncertain as to whether Mama is adequate for the task, and she shall determine on Thursday whether she approves of the scheme.”

I covered my mouth to restrain my laughter.

“You haven’t heard the worst yet,” Elizabeth chided. “The dinner is at Auburn Manor.”

Aghast, I looked anew at Elizabeth, then sank in a chair situated at the desk. “Why there?”

“Because she’s the most horrid woman alive. Worse than even Miss Pitts. It’s her own brand of tormenting Mama. She’s perfectly aware that Lord and Lady Auburn found one of my love letters to Henry and no longer receive us.”

I stared at her, horrified. “She can’t order us there, then.”

“She can do whatever she wants. Wait until you meet her. I’d sooner endure a caning.”

“Well, I’m not going.” I crossed my arms. “I won’t attend. She can’t force
me
.”

Elizabeth straightened, unfolding her feet. “Mama will go into hysterics if you refuse.”

“It’s Edward’s house, Elizabeth!”

She sagged against the bed. “That is exactly why you must go. Think of it—in her beastliness, she’s provided you a chance to speak with Edward.”

I shook my head, feeling the heaviness of my rag curls. The
idea of reuniting with Edward before peerage, before his parents, was unthinkable. “I thought he no longer dined with the gentry.”

“He’d come if you wrote and asked him to.” Elizabeth’s voice became urgent as she knelt before me.

“You think I would act so desperate!” I cried too loudly.

“Girls!” Mrs. Windham’s voice carried from her bedchamber.

“Well,” Elizabeth whispered, rising, “something has to be done to change these circumstances.”

I sat in silence as the cold embraced me. All week I’d clung to the desperate hope that Edward would call upon Am Meer and miraculously things would somehow fit together again.

The balm of such a fantasy was that Edward would beg, and be granted, my forgiveness. But that I should be the one to plead . . .

I crumpled my nightgown in my fist. It was vinegar on a wound.

“Och,”
I recalled Sarah, my nursemaid, saying at her departure, her gnarled hands wiping tears from my cheeks,
“I pray yer’ll find some manner of happiness, child.”

At the time, my confidence in Edward was such that I’d looked her in the eye, trying to communicate that I had a plan, I’d be fine. Her mouth remained tight, however, as my solicitor moved forward to separate us.

I schooled my thoughts away from that unhappy event and returned to the matter at hand. Better Edward than some farmer. If it took begging, then I’d beg.

At the writing desk, I lifted a sheet of stationery, which Mrs. Windham generously supplied. It took several drafts, for my first attempts were steeped with hurt and bitterness. But by the time the pearly light of dawn flushed the room, I had composed a letter which I felt confident would move Edward to compassion—if any part of him that I’d known still existed.

I delivered the note to Elizabeth, still abed, requesting that
she find a way to put it into Edward’s hand, then returned to my bedchamber to attempt to catch an hour of sleep.