Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (13 page)

There was Lady Wyndham, of course. Reclusive as he had been in recent years, even he had heard the stories—never openly confirmed—of her being the political writer known as “Gadfly” some years before. Fiction seemed rather a far cry from political tracts, though.

Lady Hermiston? Wyndham’s aunt was a possibility. He remembered suspecting her before. Celia and Letty were intelligent enough, but he wondered if Celia had such powers of concentration. Letty was a better possibility, for the marchioness certainly moved in the most exalted circles.

Helen Rhys seemed most unlikely—she had never indicated any interest in literary matters—except as a means to an end, he thought ruefully. He frankly doubted Helen’s friend, Mrs. Sawyer, was bright enough to have created the characters and flow of prose that delighted so in Miss Bennet’s early work.

Annabelle? He finally let himself come to her. Please, God, not her. But he had to admit that many things clicked with her. Her ready wit, her knowledge of the literary scene—she was no mere bystander at the meetings of the Literary League. Even the name
Emma Bennet,
now that he considered it closely, would appeal to Annabelle and her love of Miss Austen’s work. Had the inimitable Jane Austen not used those very names with key characters? Against his will, he concluded that Annabelle was, indeed, a likely prospect.

The next day, he knew for sure.

His aunt had been right.

Annabelle Richardson’s thank-you note was written in the same script as that printer’s sample of Emma Bennet’s handwriting.

Thorne sat for some minutes, stunned. It was one thing to suspect, quite another to be hit on the head by the truth of one’s suspicions. Soon enough his shock became fury and the fury intensified to a white-hot level.

It was not enough that she had written that ridiculous piece—she had compounded her treachery with this elaborate hoax. She had been laughing at him for weeks! While he was falling in love with her, she was enjoying a great joke at his expense. That must have amused her mightily!

How could he have been so wrong about her? He had thought her so honest—and possessed of a generosity of spirit that was entirely natural. Instead, deceit and mean-spirited shallowness marked her character....

He congratulated himself on having learned the truth before he had made a
complete
fool of himself. Why, he had virtually given Luke permission to bring her into the family! Good God! Face it, Rolsbury, he sneered at himself, you came within a hair’s breadth of offering for her yourself. In his mind he again heard her say, “It cannot be.” Had she been laughing inwardly even then?

Hamlet was wrong. It was not
frailty
whose name was
woman,
but
deceit.

How
could
he have been so damned wrong about her? How
could
he have misinterpreted her response to his kisses so? She had not
appeared
to be an accomplished flirt. She seemed to be open, honest, and giving. Yet, there it was—Annabelle Richardson was Emma Bennet.

He gave the bellpull a harsh jerk. When Larkins, the butler, answered, he said, “Bring me a bottle of brandy.”

“Very good, my lord.” Larkins was obviously surprised at such a request at this hour of the day, but was too well trained to betray his emotion.

“And I am not to be disturbed—for anything!”

A few minutes later, Larkins returned with the bottle and a single glass on a tray.

For three days, the Earl of Rolsbury remained shrouded in an alcoholic fog, trying to shield himself from pain. However, Annabelle’s image kept intruding. Her golden brown hair, laughing brown eyes, and that delicate lilac scent—all assailed him when he least expected them.

He was vaguely aware that members of his staff were perplexed by his behavior. He even ignored important decisions on estate matters, refusing to see his steward. On the third day he sat in disheveled splendor in a chair in front of the fireplace in the library. He had spent the better part of each of the last two days in this same spot—brandy bottle at hand.

There was a knock on the door.

“Go away!” he shouted.

But the door opened and his aunt entered, carrying one of her dogs. “I have come to bid you farewell. I am returning to town.”

“Deserting a sinking ship, are you? Well, I cannot say I blame you.”

He struggled to rise, but it was obviously such an effort for him that she waved him back to his seat and quickly took the opposite chair.

“If I thought for even a moment that I could be of help to you, I would, of course, stay. But there are things in town I could be doing.”

“Have a good journey.”

She did not move. Her eyes expressed puzzlement and sympathy. “Thorne, I have never seen you like this. Can you not tell me—someone—what has put you in such a state?”

He knew she worried about him, but how could he possibly explain the degree of his humiliation? “Suffice it to say, I have suffered g-great disappointment,” he said in a mockingly dramatic tone, his words slurred only slightly by drink.

“I can see
that
much,” she said in mild disgust. “I strongly suspect this has something to do with Emma Bennet. Have you discovered who she is?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And . . . ? Are you—or are you not—going to share this information?”

He did not answer for a long while. Finally, with that same studied precision of one far gone in drink, he said, “Not just yet, I think. Need to c-contemplate the matter and decide on a course of action.”

“I see . . . Well, your powers of concentration would be greatly improved if you stopped muddying them with that.” She pointed to the bottle.

“Perhaps. But . . .” His voice trailed off. He could not bring himself to explain—even to Aunt Dorothy—that the amber fluid helped dull his pain, if only temporarily.

She rose and put a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back into his own chair. “I should like to help, my dear, but I have an idea this is a matter of the heart—and one you must resolve for yourself.”

He covered her hand with one of his own. “I shall survive. You must not fret about me. I always come about—eventually.”

She squeezed his shoulder and kissed his brow. “Right, dear. Boney did not keep you down, so some slip of a girl is unlikely to do so. Come, Sir Lancelot,” she called to the dog, which jumped down from the chair she had vacated.

Ridiculous name for a dog, Thorne thought. Only later did his aunt’s parting words sink in. What did
she
know of “some slip of a girl?”

 

 

Annabelle welcomed the return to Timberly, the primary seat of the Earl of Wyndham. Timberly had once been a glorious medieval castle complete with moat and crenelated wall and towers. The moat had long since been drained and the wall quarried for building stones for tenant cottages. However, the main house was still a marvelous structure that never failed to fascinate. The surrounding countryside afforded scenic riding trails.

She spent long hours in the saddle. Her rides served two purposes. She not only tried to sort out her feelings about Thorne, she also tried to resolve difficulties in the writing she was doing—difficulties that arose when images of the Earl of Rolsbury intruded too heavily for her to continue. After yet another hard ride one morning, she returned to the house, changed out of her habit into a muslin day dress, and made her appearance in the breakfast room. Harriet was alone there.

“The others have already finished?” Annabelle asked.

“Yes. Marcus had some business to attend to and Aunt Gertrude has gone into the village.”

Neither said anything as Annabelle made her selection from the sideboard and poured herself a cup of coffee from a china pot on the table. Harriet set her own cup back on its saucer.

“Are you ready yet to talk about whatever it is that is bothering you?”

Annabelle smiled ruefully. “I thought I had covered myself so well, too.”

“Not well enough to fool those who love you. What is it, Annabelle? Can I help?”

“Probably not. I have fairly done it, this time.”

“Are we discussing Emma Bennet again?” Harriet asked.

“And Thorne Wainwright.”

“What happened? Did you tell him ... ?”

“No. And that is the whole problem. How
can
I tell him at this point?” It was a cry of pure anguish.

“Oh, my dear girl.” Harriet rose and took the chair next to Annabelle. She put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulder. “You care for him so very much, do you?”

Annabelle sucked in a deep breath, stifling a sob. “Yes. Yes, I do. And it is so ... so ... impossible!”

“Are you quite sure of that?”

Annabelle nodded. “Perhaps if I had told him immediately. . . but it did not seem important then. And now . . . it is far too late.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Harriet sounded encouraging. “What if you wrote him a note explaining it all to him—”

“No! I cannot
write
it. I have behaved the coward enough. This is something I must tell him face-to-face.”

“You should have the opportunity to do so at the harvest festival in a few weeks. Rolsbury accepted our invitation, you know.”

A few days later, however, Harriet came into the drawing room waving a note. Annabelle caught a glimpse of the Rolsbury crest.

“Rolsbury is not coming to our harvest celebration,” Harriet announced.

A lead ingot settled in Annabelle’s innards. “Does he say why?”

“No, not really.”

“What about Luke?”

Harriet glanced at the note. “This says nothing of Luke, so I assume he, at least, will join us. Rolsbury writes that estate business requires his presence in Lincolnshire. This is addressed to Marcus and he ends by saying he looks forward to working with Marcus on parliamentary matters at a later date.”

“May I see it?”

Harriet handed her the note. She read it slowly. Then she reread it. Finally, she handed it back. “The tone is very formal.”

“Yes. I noticed that, too. He does ask that Marcus convey ‘regards to your family.’ ”

Annabelle could not hide her hurt at his not mentioning her or sending
her
a note of his intent to forego the hospitality at Timberly. She had looked forward to the prospect of seeing him, even knowing that telling him of Emma Bennet would be extremely difficult.

Now he was not coming. And he had offered the flimsiest of excuses. But
why?

 

 

Timberly’s harvest celebration continued as planned, including a house party, a three-day market fair, and a grand ball. It was an annual affair that dated back to the Middle Ages. Annabelle had always loved this most important of holidays, for it brought the entire Jeffries family together. The Earl of Wyndham’s younger brother and sister customarily returned to Timberly then, along with their ever-growing families.

This gathering always made Annabelle feel that she really belonged—that she was very much a treasured member of the clan. For a young girl devoid of family, this acceptance had been an important turning point in her life. Now, she had a distinct feeling that she was on the threshold of another such turning point, but she knew she could not pass through that portal quite yet.

Luke arrived and his cheerful enthusiasm did much to lift Annabelle’s spirits. He conveyed his brother’s regrets again, and expressed his own happiness at being at Timberly.

He joined Annabelle on her morning rides. One day they had paused to rest at a scenic spot. They dismounted and sat on a huge flat boulder. The groom who satisfied Society’s dictates of propriety watched over the horses as they cropped grass nearby.

“I see why you love this place so,” he told her. “It has vistas rivaling those at Rolsbury.”

“Yes. I suppose it does.” She recalled the abbey there as seen from the cliff and the man who had shared that special view with her. “Th-Thorne is well, I assume?”

“Oh, yes. Working very hard, though. Wouldn’t even take a break to go fishing in Scotland with me—and he loves to fish. Taught me himself.”

“I did not know that about him.” She said this casually, making conversation, but in truth she hoarded every scrap of information about Thorne that Luke gave out.

“Come to think of it,” Luke went on, “he’s been out of sorts.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, I don’t. I went off yachting—mostly in the Channel—and when I came back, he was like a bear with a sore paw. Almost like he was after Waterloo.”

“But he has come around, has he not?” she asked.

“Some. He is involved in so many projects, though, it quite makes a sane person’s head spin.”

“What sorts of projects?”

“Well, let me see.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “There’s an irrigation project—if it works on Rolsbury, he will expand it to other properties. Then there’s the one involving breeding sheep for better wool. He is building two schools that I know of.”

“Schools?”

“Yes. Day schools. One in the village for villagers’ and farmers’ children. And another over near Holston-Weir—that’s where the Rolsbury Knitting Mills are located.”

“I see.” Once again she realized how very wrong she had once been about the Earl of Rolsbury. “Schools for workers’ children? That is not likely to go over well in certain circles.”

“No. It doesn’t. I believe Thorne has had some strong letters. Lord Teasdale called personally—very irate, he was—to complain about it. He told Thorne that he and other mill owners see such things as schools and improved housing and medical care for workers to be merely a foolish waste of money.”

“How does Thorne react to such criticism?”

Luke shrugged. “He just says it is the right thing to do.”

“Hmm.” She sat quietly for a time, thinking of the attitudes of other landowners and mill owners. “Luke, I have long meant to ask you about something . . .”

He looked at her, swishing his riding crop back and forth against the toes of his boots. “Ask away.”

“Thorne told me once there was—an ‘unpleasant history,’ I think he said—between him and Lord Beelson.”

“He told you
that?”
Luke was clearly surprised.

She nodded. “And I wondered about it—but I would not intrude on his—or your—privacy. . . .”

Luke scratched his head. “He told me something similar, but I have no idea what it is. Must be something that happened when I first went away to school.”

“Oh. Well . . . I was merely curious.”

As they prepared to return to the stables, Luke added, “Thorne is not usually one to carry a grudge, though.”

Annabelle found this heartening. Maybe after she told him the truth of Emma Bennet, he would at least continue to be courteous.

 

 

Annabelle threw herself into her writing during the waning months of the year. She had long since received Mr. Murray’s enthusiastic approval of her project. It was by far her most ambitious undertaking to date.

Her heroine, Portia, was a talented artist from a prominent family. Portia’s pencil drawings were as important and as expressive as the paintings later made from them. Because Society not only frowned on women bringing attention to themselves, but also had a general tendency to denigrate the works of women, the artist hid her identity. She was further motivated to work in a cloak of anonymity to protect her family from public censure that might carry over to them. The hero was Nathan, a proud man whom the artist admired. However, one of her drawings, intended as a working sketch for a painting and which seemed to depict him in an unfavorable light, was inadvertently published in a newspaper and misunderstood by both Society and the gentleman himself.