A Heart Revealed (31 page)

The thought ushered in another one that left Amber feeling unsteady on her feet and in her mind. Constance had
died
here, which meant she had never recovered. She had never returned to society or her family. Amber sat on the kitchen stool beside Suzanne and stared at the stone floor.

“I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such things,” Suzanne said, regret laced through her words.

“It is alright,” Amber said as her own future spread out before her with a brittle detail she wished she could deny. If she did not get well, she would not return to her family. They had not brought Constance back into their fold; they had not even spoken her name. Like Constance, Amber was to be forgotten until some further ailment took her life and sent her to the cemetery in Northallerton too.

“Amber.”

She looked at Suzanne and tried to blink back the tears she had not realized were forming. Without lashes to contain them, there was no barrier preventing the tears from streaming down Amber’s cheeks. Her stomach felt hollow.

“You are not Constance,” Suzanne said. “You do not have to take her same course.”

“I am already on her same course. Constance had a season in London—two of them. She was sent here as I have been and was not accepted back to the family, even for burial. How can I expect anything different except to live and die as she did?”

“Perhaps knowing of her fate can help you avoid it.”

“How?” Amber said, wiping at her eyes. “Nothing has stemmed the loss of my hair and none of it is growing back. If it were simply a wish and a will that would repair me, I would not be here even now.”

“It is not your lack of hair keeping you to the cottage.”

Amber blinked, confused as she regarded Suzanne’s determined expression. “I don’t understand your meaning. Of course it is my lack of hair.”

Suzanne shook her head. “It is your lack of
confidence
. It is your fear of being turned away that keeps you here—not your ailment.”

Amber felt anger rising in response to Suzanne’s reprimand and looked past her. The memory of the faces at Carlton House when she’d sat at the bottom of the stairs without her head covering filled her chest with a heat burning of pure fear. It was something Suzanne could not understand any more than Amber could adequately explain it.

“I think I shall retire for the night,” Amber said, unable to abide the discussion any longer. “I mixed the gravy from Saturday night with some potatoes. It’s warming in the pot on the coals. There are a few biscuits left in the tin as well.”

“Stay and eat with me,” Suzanne said.

“I’m afraid I have already eaten my share of biscuits in my anxiousness for your report. I am not hungry.”

Suzanne stood from the table, but did not move. “I am sorry to have upset you, Amber.”

Amber looked at her cautiously, pulled between staying with her friend and running for the solitude of her room. “I know you mean well, but you cannot know my position,” she said, though her honesty made her nervous as she did not want it to sound like a set down. “I cannot risk rejection, Suzanne. I know that may be difficult to understand but . . .” She paused a moment to gather her thoughts. “Already I have lost my family and my society—if not for you I should be entirely alone. To ask for consideration of the people here in Yorkshire would risk further rejection. I cannot endure such a thing again.”

Suzanne regarded her for several moments. “I understand, Amber, and would have you remember one additional thing. I know all of what you have become and have not rejected you.”

Amber looked up at her, struck by what she’d said even as doubt and fear lingered in her mind.

Suzanne continued. “No one can expect approval from every other person in the world—even the young woman you were in London did not expect such a thing—but I believe all of us can expect those few who matter to us to see past our limitations.

“My sister has had a twist in her back all her life which leaves her walking with an awkwardness that appears painful, though she assures us it is not. She married a good man who saw past her physicality, and they have three children, one of whom is of simple mind and yet loved as wholly as his brother and sister. I would have hoped your family would be the first to accept you regardless of this circumstance, but even if they should not, I do not believe everyone would be so dismissive. In fact, I am certain they would not. Mr. Richards, for example, has been courteous and kind from the start. I believe he has an interest in knowing you better and that his request to borrow a book is an excuse to be close to you.”

“He is curious,” Amber said dismissively.

“And what if it is more than that? What if he is the very kind of man who has seen your goodness already and would therefore accept the whole of you?”

“How could I possibly know that he would accept me?” Amber asked, a plea in her voice. “And how could I survive it if he did not? If so a kind man as Mr. Richards cannot accept me, what hope would I have for others to do what he could not?”

Suzanne frowned but Amber continued before Suzanne could pose another argument. “While I am humbled by your family’s difficulties and even envious of such acceptance, I could not expect to be included in
your
class and have never seen such acceptance reflected in the people of my station—simple-minded children are given to others to raise. I dare not think how a girl child born with a twisted back would be received. How can I
know
who within my society might accept me and who would not? Without knowing I would be safe, I could never take such a risk.”

Suzanne frowned and turned away. “For that I have no answer,” she said softly, regretfully. “I only believe that there are people in every society who would prefer the heart you have grown, to the beauty you left behind to find it.”

Chapter 38

It was fortunate for Thomas’s peace of mind that the weather had warmed enough to keep him working in the fields every spare hour until Tuesday morning and his planned visit to Step Cottage. He rode out to his property only long enough to plan the day with his bailiff before returning to Peakview and updating his ledger. Though he had attempted to distract himself from thoughts of the mistress of Step Cottage, he had been unable to cast them from his mind completely, no matter how many fence posts he set and ditches he cleared.

The day was cold so once he was in the saddle he turned up his collar and pulled his hat down low. He kicked Farthing into a run, which fairly froze his face but would make the trip to the cottage faster. When he slowed down to turn onto the road that led to the cottage directly, he adjusted his scarf and had the thought enter his mind that he was being drawn here for a reason. He shivered for a reason other than temperature.

He believed in God’s hand directing the lives of people, and Thomas had felt such promptings and positioning in his life before. He could not discount the possibility of it happening again. True, Miss Sterlington had flaws, but he found himself doubting that those flaws were as prominent as they once were. The traits that seemed more important to him now were her graciousness regarding his helping Mrs. Miller return to the cottage, her humility in caring for herself, and her willingness to let him peruse the library and organize the records. To say nothing of the invigoration he felt that was exactly as it had been in London. She was different now. She was changed, and those changes increased his interest more than ever. It was frightening, and yet he was here all the same. Curious. Eager. Drawn.

Mrs. Miller let him in, and he removed his coat and hat while surveying the area in hopes of catching a glimpse of Miss Sterlington. In a cottage this size, she could certainly not be far but it seemed as though she was once again in hiding.

In the parlor there was quite an array of trunks, but Mrs. Miller led him to the library where a set of candles had been lit, presumably to offset the gray skies outside the single window. The fire warmed the room quite comfortably. “I shall bring in a tea tray straight away.”

“I told your mistress in my letter that I am not in need of such attention,” Thomas said, just as he had the time before.

“It is the wish of my mistress that you should be most comfortable, and the tray is already prepared.” The woman bowed out of the room and disappeared. She had been gone only moments before Thomas heard the creak of the floorboards and knew that Miss Sterlington had returned to her place on stairs, just as she had for his prior visit to the library.

How easy it would be to move quickly to the bottom of those stairs and see her there before she could escape. It was a deliciously tempting thought that brought a grin to his face, and yet he did not do it. Instead he turned his attention to the library and perused the bookshelves while awaiting the maid to return with tea. He had come for the book of Donne’s poetry, but realized that some of the books had been moved, rearranged. Had Miss Sterlington organized the books?

He had not been exaggerating when he’d said in his letter that the library at the cottage held an impressive collection of literature in English, French, and Latin. The book of poetry he was looking for was not where he’d found it before, and so he took his time perusing the shelves and becoming familiar with the entire collection. It did not take long to find the slim volume he recognized between two other books. He had only just removed it when the maid returned and placed the tea service on the small table beside the settee.

“Thank you, Mrs. Miller,” he said as she added cream and one spoonful of sugar to his tea. She’d obviously remembered how he liked his tea from his last visit. There was only one cup on the tray but he pretended not to notice. “Will your mistress be joining me?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Mrs. Miller said as she set the pot back on the tray. “She is not one for company.”

“And yet she goes to such pains to be welcoming,” he pointed out.

“Yes, sir,” she said with a slight incline of her head. She met his eyes with an expression he did not fully understand, though he had the strangest sense that she wished she could tell him more. He kept his own expression open and inviting, but Mrs. Miller turned to move out of the room and left him to his own company. His eyes moved in the direction of the place where he believed Miss Sterlington sat upon the stairs and he wondered if she felt the least bit tempted to accept his invitation.

He sat in the leather chair that creaked slightly beneath his weight and when he moved to set down Donne’s book of poetry, he noticed a book on the end table. He knew Shakespeare’s
Richard II
well from his days at Oxford where he had first pursued the study of playwrights and literature before turning his full attention to agriculture.

He opened the pages to the bookmark, a slip of rose-colored fabric embroidered with flowers. He set the book, page-side down, upon his leg then rubbed the fabric between his fingers, sipped his tea, and contemplated the woman on the stairs.

Chapter 39

Amber leaned her head against the wall and listened to every footfall as Mr. Richards crossed to the bookshelves and back, every page he turned, and every chink of the cup and saucer as he enjoyed the tea and lemon cake she’d baked that morning. Suzanne had brought four lemons from town the day before, and Amber was quite pleased with the resulting confection. She hoped Mr. Richards would also be pleased, and was glad that there hadn’t been time to cancel his visit, as she’d told Suzanne she would like to do. After learning of Constance and considering more deeply her own circumstance, Amber felt more lost than ever. Mr. Richards’s visit seemed a silly thing to allow—what did she hope to gain from it? And yet when Suzanne had insisted they could not cancel, Amber had not argued much. She
did
want him to come, she simply feared she shouldn’t. That he was here, however, was quite lovely. The house felt different with him in it, and she allowed herself to push away the heartache of the last few days. She closed her eyes and instead of wallowing in her self-pity, she imagined she
had
accepted his invitation to join him for tea.

She fantasized that she wore her blue-striped day dress and sat on the settee while he sat beside her in the chair with the table between them. He would cross one foot over his knee and hold his saucer in one hand while they talked of the weather and the coming spring. How she wished she knew his face so that she could add it to her daydream. She did not let that take her out of the fantasy, however. In light of these past days, she was content to be lost in this ideal, just for a moment.

Perhaps he would share a humorous story regarding his last hunting trip, and she would tell him of . . . of what? Of how to perfectly flavor a chicken stew? Or how long to let the coals cool before putting a pan of bread upon them?

She opened her eyes and allowed the daydream to slip away. Reality was a heavy thing. She listened to the creak of the very chair she had imagined him sitting in as part of her daydream and smiled sadly. He was so very close to her, and yet in ways that truly mattered, he could not be further away.