A Heart Revealed (27 page)

Under the guise of helping care for the horses, which he knew made the stable hands uncomfortable, he helped remove the harnesses and store the supplies, all the while asking about the roads—muddy, but passable—the wagon’s maneuvering—good, sturdy rig—the gig’s ability to navigate in the trail made by the wagon—slow, but certain—and, finally, the occupants of the cottage.

“The woman was a bit surprised to see us, I think,” said Mr. Sharp, the stable master. “Came to the door all flustered, then said she’d meet us at the stable. Couldn’t thank us enough once the horse was in the stall. Right nice woman.”

“Did you see anyone else at the cottage?” Thomas asked as he removed the bit from one of the horse’s mouths, then patted her neck while she moved her teeth back and forth, whinnying in contentment.

“No, sir,” Mr. Sharp said, shaking his head. “The housekeeper—Mrs. Miller—brought us some tea and soda bread.” He grinned. “Apologized for not having anything better, if you can believe it. Right nice woman. I see why the blacksmith is sweet on her.”

Thomas considered this as he returned the bridle to the tack wall. He’d thought Mr. Larsen was rather attentive to the woman, and knew the man had lost his wife some years ago. Would he know more about the occupant of the cottage? Would Mrs. Miller have confided in him?

“Oh, and Mrs. Miller wanted me to bring these back to the manor.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder at Mr. Sharp, who held out two letters. Thomas hurried to take them and felt his heart skip a beat when he saw his own name printed on the front of the first letter. The fluid feminine hand had to belong to Miss Sterlington, and he traced his fingers over the loops and curls of her penmanship. The second letter was addressed to Lord and Lady Fielding.

Not wanting to seem too eager, he put the letters in the inside pocket of his coat and continued helping Mr. Sharp care for the horses. Only when the horses had been led to their stalls, where grooms waited to brush them down, did he excuse himself. He made it through the back entrance of the house before he removed the letters, found his, and turned it over. The stamp was a simple fleur-de-lis, not a monogram.

He broke the wafer and unfolded the letter while his boots dripped onto the mat inside the door. It took concentration to keep from skimming the words too quickly so he slowed his mind and his eyes and read every word one at a time. When he finished, he took a breath and read the words again. As he did so, he felt some of the continued defenses he’d built around himself weaken, like the mud-and-stick dams he and his brothers used to build in the irrigation ditches when they were boys. Their dams could never withstand the rushing water for long and in time were washed away completely.

“Thomas?”

He looked up from his reading and dripping and thinking to see Lady Fielding standing a short distance away.

“Diane,” he said, trying to fold his letter inconspicuously with the one hand he’d dropped to his side.

She looked at it, then raised her eyebrows and looked back to his face, awaiting an explanation.

Rather than give it, Thomas reached into his coat for the other letter and handed it over. “This came from Step Cottage. We had the gig returned to Mrs. Chandler this morning.”

Lady Fielding took the letter, but looked at the one Thomas was trying to hide behind his back. “Two letters?”

“The other was addressed to me.”

She raised her eyebrows again. “I see you did not wait to open yours.”

Thomas would usually peruse correspondence in private, not in the servants’ area of the house. In his defense, he had been alone when he’d opened it.

Thomas had no explanation that Lady Fielding would find satisfactory, however, and so he simply shrugged, quickly folded up his letter, tucked it into his coat, and began removing his working boots. As he did so he heard her break the wafer of her letter.

Thomas was tugging on his second boot when Lady Fielding spoke again. “She might be gentle bred, but she is quite lacking in manners, if you ask me.”

“Pardon?” Thomas said as he straightened. His letter had been nothing but kindness and sincerity.

Lady Fielding held out her letter to him, and Thomas read the direct and specific language. It did not seem possible that the letters could have been written by the same person, the tone was so different. But the writing was the same. He could feel Lady Fielding watching him, awaiting his reply.

He looked up and returned the letter to her. “She
is
an eccentric,” he said by way of explanation. “Perhaps we should be glad she was well-mannered enough for her to have written at all.”

Lady Fielding nodded, but her scrutiny of Thomas was more intent than he liked. “Your letter was similarly abrupt?”

Thomas paused to construct as honest a reply as he dared to give. “It was perhaps a bit more gracious, but I suppose that is to be expected since it was I who put forth the idea to return Mrs. Miller.” The arrogance of his words made him cringe inwardly, and he knew Lady Fielding wouldn’t hesitate to remind him that the plan to return Mrs. Miller could never have been executed without the baron’s carriage and blessing. Thomas did not give her time to speak, however.

“I’m afraid I must attend to some business. If you’ll excuse me, Diane.”

She nodded, but he felt her eyes on his back as he stepped away. He was still wet and cold so once he reached his room, he changed into dry clothes and then spent far too much time at the fireside, reading and rereading the letter Miss Sterlington had sent him. That she had crafted this letter to him was more intriguing than ever in light of the letter she’d written to Albert and Diane. What did it mean? Did he dare to speculate?

Chapter 32

Amber,

I’m afraid the demands of the holiday kept me from responding to your letter sooner than this but perhaps it was a blessing as I had time to think over your apology and prepare my response.

While I hope your words are sincere, I am unsure you can fully understand how it felt to be treated as I was at your hand during our time in London. I cannot express the hurt and betrayal I felt, and yet I harbor my own guilt for what happened at Carlton House. Perhaps one day I shall be able to tell you the whole of it, but for now I can only admit to having been infected by the same selfishness and jealousy I believe inspired your own actions that night.

After your letter, I admitted the whole of it to Lord Sunther, and though I feared his disgust at my behavior, he has given me good counsel on the importance of forgiveness toward you.

I can say with confidence that I have no wish to be cruel to you, Amber, or press further infliction upon your circumstance. I am accepting of your apology, and I am trying very much to think only of the goodness we once had. I hope my honesty is understood and not taken poorly.

I am glad to hear you have become comfortable in Yorkshire. I have spoken with Mama about your request to attend the wedding, and she is concerned that your appearance at what shall be the event of the county would serve as a reminder of what happened at Carlton House. I have told her of the number of acquaintances who ask after you as well as suggesting that having you attend might resolve any concerns that have developed regarding your well-being. I also feel it would give credit to our family, as well as to Lord Sunther, to include you at such a happy event. Mama would like some time to consider my words.

Perhaps you could write her and promise to follow her direction in all matters of the wedding. Perhaps you could use it as a reason to return to Hampton Grove. Mama and Father shall be leaving for London in April; there would be time enough for you to procure the necessary arrangements to attend with them.

She mentioned you had not given her an update on the state of your hair, so perhaps include that as well for her peace of mind. I shall continue to encourage your attendance, though you know as well as I that if Mama is set against it, my opinion will not change her mind.

I wish you well, Amber, in body and spirit.

Sincerely,

Darra Elsinore Sterlington

Amber folded the letter carefully and put it in the slot reserved for her correspondence—five letters in all the months she had been at the cottage. Six, if she counted the one she’d thrown into the fire last September. Amber was relieved by Darra’s desire to forgive her, but unsettled about her mother’s reluctance to include Amber in their family again.

Darra had given her hope, however, and she would make sure to follow Darra’s advice and write another letter to Lady Marchent as soon as possible; Suzanne could post it the next time she went to town. Weather prevented frequent travel, but yesterday had arrived with blue skies and dry roads so Suzanne had made her trip, returning today with Darra’s letter.

Amber entered the kitchen where Suzanne was finishing a bowl of stew, shivering from the cold air outside.

“How were things in town?” Amber asked, gathering the ingredients for bread. Suzanne had brought back yeast with her and Amber was determined to use it properly this time.

“Very well,” Suzanne said, a lilt in her voice that caused Amber to look at her.

“
Very
well?” Amber repeated with suspicion.

Suzanne’s cheeks were still pink from the cold, but Amber felt sure they went a shade darker.

“I saw Mr. Larsen at the mercantile, and he assisted me to the gig with my purchases and asked after my next trip to town.”

Amber abandoned her ingredients and sat across the table from Suzanne. “Did he now?” she said with a smile. “You must tell me the whole of it, then.”

Suzanne did not hesitate and told Amber of every expression and movement Mr. Larsen had made during their time together. Amber was careful to be excited and positive even though the continuing attention of Mr. Larsen filled her with fearful anticipation. He was a widower with three small children. Amber was sure he was attempting to court Suzanne but had not yet said as much out loud.

When Suzanne finished her account, she updated Amber on the other matters she’d attended to in town, including delivering apple cakes to both Mr. Peters and Mr. Dariloo.

“Mr. Peters seemed rather surprised by it, but grateful. The Dariloos, however, were quite taken with the kindness and asked that I relay their most sincere thanks. He will be coming next week to see about any repairs we might need. I promised we would make a list for him.”

Amber smiled. “I am glad they were pleased, though a cake now and again does not account for much.”

“What did your sister say in her letter?” Suzanne asked, changing the topic while scraping out the final bite of stew from the wooden bowl. “Shall you attend your sister’s wedding?”

Amber looked past Suzanne to the window while offering a soft smile and a shrug. “My mother is still deciding, but Darra did encourage my attendance so there is cause to hope. She suggested that perhaps I should return to Hampton Grove permanently at that time.” Amber did not mention Darra’s suggestion that Amber could then go on to London. She did not think she would ever go to that city again.

“Is it your wish to return to your family’s estate?” Suzanne asked.

Amber shrugged again. “I do not know. When I think of the comfort of the place, being part of my family again, and planning for my future once more I feel eager for it. But I cannot believe it will ever be as it once was, or at least how I thought it was. I found happiness with my family because they loved me, and although I am hopeful that Darra still does, she will be making a life for herself as Lady Sunther in Suffolk and . . .” She paused for a breath. “I have not told them the truth regarding my hair. Should they know of it, I fear they would reject me again. By saying nothing I have led them to believe I am healing.”

Suzanne glanced at Amber’s head, covered in three knit caps. Amber no longer bothered with the lace caps, but needed the knit ones to stay as warm as possible. She had lost all of her hair, including that fine layer that covered her body. She did not even have eyelashes any more.

The few times she dared look at her reflection she noted how deformed she looked without the familiar facial landmarks of lashes, brows, and hairline. Her forehead was enormous, and her eyes looked wide and stark against her face. She supposed there was some artistic merit to the curves of her face and the shape of her head, but not enough to lift her in anyone’s opinion she was sure.

“When last they saw me, I could hide my condition with a cap, but I can do that no longer. Without brows and lashes, I am unable to even pretend to look as a woman should, which makes me wonder if I ought to attend the wedding at all.”

“Could you not use paints for your eyebrows?” Suzanne asked.

“The only women I know of who paint their faces are of dubious character.”

“But you are not.”

“If I paint my face, I shall be assumed to be.”

Suzanne paused before she spoke. “I am not sure you need to make such attempts. This is your family. Perhaps they deserve another chance to accept you as you are.”

Amber shook her head at the suggestion of presenting herself as she was. The idea filled her with fear and dread and doubt. “They shall accept me only in as much as I can play the part assigned to me. I know you cannot understand it, but it is the truth. My only chance to attend the wedding is to look as normal as I can—perhaps with another wig, perhaps with paints as you suggested, if I could make them look right. To go as I truly am is not an option.”

“But, Miss—”

“I shall make the bread later,” Amber cut in. “I feel in need of a rest, as I am sure you do after your journey.”

She did not look back as she hurried from the kitchen, up the stairs, and to her room. She lit the fire she had laid that morning and curled up in the willow chair beside the hearth with a quilt. She attempted to compose in her head a letter for her mother that would entreat her consideration without revealing the fullness of Amber’s condition. She did not like that she might have to trick her mother in order to get her support, but was she willing to tell the truth and risk spending the rest of her life in this stone house?