Born of Persuasion (13 page)

As Edward continued to hold me and breathe his warmth into my hair, I closed my eyes, taking in the feel of his arms, running my fingers over his back and broad shoulders before twining them in his hair. I cared not that the moment was fleeting, that my path was barred from Edward’s, and his from me.

“Juls.” His voice grew strained as he pushed me away. Obediently, I withdrew, but in doing so caught a clear glimpse of him.

During our youth, a peculiar look would sometimes cross Edward’s face and his body would stiffen. He’d grow resolute and would retreat to brood under a tree. Fear used to tingle through me that perhaps I’d upset or disappointed him.

That night, as I encountered the same expression, I learned my error.

Before he could veil his thoughts or mask his hunger, I saw his unbridled desire.

I leaned toward him, tilting my lips up to his.

No other invitation was needed. The boy who had always taken great pains to remain chaste with me lost his battle as a man.

He cupped my face with rough, calloused hands and kissed my forehead, cheeks, and eyes before finding my mouth.

I entwined my fingers in his curls as he drew me closer, pressing me tightly against him. Part of me marvelled at my own actions, while another part grew disquieted over his level of boldness. His mouth moved to my neck, both thrilling and alarming me. His hands quaked, as if I were made of delicate china and he was holding back his full strength. His hand slid down the curve of my waist, and his mouth to my collarbone.

All at once, common sense rose up and insisted I envision our future.

After indulging his desires, he’d blame me. Was I not the atheist? Would he not look back someday and remember me as the temptress? How well I could see him, standing behind a pulpit, relieving his conscience by condemning cottagers for their lust. This one act contained the means of securing Edward but at the cost of killing all love between us.

How, I thought next, could I be so rational and logical during a moment like this? It wasn’t right. Yet, I reasoned further, as he tightened a fistful of my hair between his fingers, would I find love in Scotland? Was it not better to be the wife of a guilt-ridden vicar than to be banished and alone?

“H-h-hello?”

Edward’s body stiffened, then slowly, noiselessly, he shifted in the direction of the voice.

A lantern bobbed near the edge of the spinney like a misguided faerie. In its light I recognized the Windhams’ lanky hall boy, squinting as he peered in our direction, doubtless seeing the white of my nightgown. He took two steps nearer the woods, but fear of will-o’-the-wisps must have kept him, for he hesitated. “Is a-anyone there?”

“Caleb.” Edward’s voice was iron as he rose, revealing himself fully in the light. “Go back to your cot. Turn your face to the wall, and do not hear or see anything. Am I clear?”

No one, not even Mama in her most obstinate mood, would have disobeyed an order given in that tone. The hall boy didn’t even nod, but set the lantern on the ground and plowed his way indoors.

Edward staggered to the nearest tree. Hand on hip, he pinched the bridge of his nose, his breathing strained. When he finally spoke, he scarcely sounded in control of himself. “Go back to bed now, Julia, lest I do something rash.”

My legs were ungainly and wet linen clung to my body and water dripped from the ends of my hair as I stood. Even in the
dark I could see bracken stained my nightgown. I hesitated, waiting for Edward to say something—anything.

His jaw firm, he kept his gaze fixed in the distance, as if determined not to see me in my soaked nightclothes.

“Edward,” I pleaded, not certain what I needed him to say, what I needed to hear.

“Now!” he shouted.

Tears clotting my throat, I turned and raced back to Am Meer. To my mind, he had narrowly escaped me and knew it. He would not again risk such an entrapment.

The cottage hall appeared dark upon my reentrance. The hall boy’s cot creaked as I plodded past. There was little doubt what the poor boy must have thought his vicar to be doing, and there I found a small morsel of comfort. Perhaps one mind might be set free tonight, if nothing else.

But once in my chambers, my legs gave way and I slid to the floor, where I covered my mouth, holding back tears of shame.

The last day of Mama’s life still presides over my thoughts. I have no memory of conversation, no recollection of the usual noises that would have filled the house—the clunk of shoes, the scrape of coal scuttles. Did I touch Mama that day? It frustrates me not to be able to recall. All I have are fleeting images, impressions at best, soft and blurred. Mama patting Sarah’s knobby shoulder at breakfast. Mama bent over her sewing, the afternoon sun catching golden strands of her hair as she whiled away the last hours of her life. Darkness closing in about her as she blew out the flickering candle before retiring for the night.

Since my arrival, my days at Am Meer had melded into a routine of needlework, reading, and the various other trifles that fill rainy days. Yet memories of Mama oppressed me. At odd hours and during small tasks, I wondered why she never confided the contents of those mysterious letters, or what had caused her
great fear. For I had not yet learned that some secrets destroy their percipients, and she no more would have told me what was happening behind the scenes than a general would reveal his battle plans to the infantry unit he planned to sacrifice.

Edward, on the other hand, was rather blunt about throwing me upon the altar.

The morning following our tryst in the woods, pale sunlight filtered through the house, lifting spirits, making it impossible not to hope that our shocking behavior from last night might end up for my betterment. Had I not felt it in the trembling of his body, the crushing weight of his kisses? Had he not been drawn back to me when I wept? Had he not gathered me tenderly toward him? Memories would haunt him, I knew, working in my favor.

By noon, I paced the house, certain that Edward would call. After the previous evening, he’d have to. He wouldn’t be a gentleman otherwise. I occupied myself by imagining the secret looks we’d exchange while Mrs. Windham babbled. No doubt he’d be nervous, wondering how best to arrange a private moment with me—where I envisioned he’d fall to his knees, his voice contrite as he tried to explain what happened. And whenever I closed my eyes and relived the touch of his hands, the scratch of his cheek, the feel of his mouth on mine, it was impossible not to hope we’d find a way to renew the dangerous experiment.

I was unprepared, therefore, for the events that were set in motion during the early hours of that afternoon. Boots sounded in the hall, followed by a light rapping on the drawing room door.

“Come in,” I called out, feeling breathless over my luck. Both Mrs. Windham and Elizabeth had gone over the hill to check on a neighbor. Not wanting to risk missing Edward’s visit, I’d feigned a headache.

Full of anticipation, I watched the door open.

To my disappointment, Caleb, the hall boy, ducked into the
chamber, smelling of manure. Muck and straw clung to the bottom of his ragged trousers. His hair mussy and his face scarlet, he mumbled a few incoherent words and extended a sealed note.

To mask my bewilderment, I smiled. Pride lifted my chin as I took up the page, but my hands were ice. It boded ill. Never before had Edward sent me a note. He’d always come in person. With calmness I did not feel, I retook my seat and broke the seal.

I saw at once no gentleman had penned the letter, but a madman. The words were wild, scrawled in sporadic and uneven lines. Dried ink blotted the paper, revealing he’d not even tapped aside the extra ink before writing. Entire paragraphs were smudged and showed evidence that he’d carelessly rested his hand on the page.

Yet it was the words themselves that bore the strongest testimony of how deep Edward’s madness went.

J,

How heavy my heart is within me. My hand barely manages to hold the pen, my eyes to see the page. Yet write I must. Too long have I neglected my conscience. Too long have I served my tenderest affections in its stead. In weakness, I acted as no gentleman, no servant of God ought. I have shamed myself, disgraced you, and caused one of my little ones to stumble.

I am undone.

How shall I instruct others to abandon all for the Kingdom of God when I cannot? I delude myself with lies. Yet I will free myself as my sense of duty, my sense of right demands.

No more will I blind myself into believing that as a gentleman I cannot break troth with you. I have used my delusion to offer up a crippled lamb while withholding the pure and unblemished one. Did not Shechaniah put away his very children and wife? Abraham withheld not his own son. Shall I do less? Shall I, a teacher, do less?

What utter nonsense you must think I write. And nonsense I will write, though you are blind and deaf. For even as I scrawl the words that will forever rive us, I cannot withhold my soul from you. You, who once were my very heart.

Would that you could see me and understand. This action rips my soul in twain; it severs my right hand. Mere ink stained on parchment cannot express my agony. Yet I will not come in person.

Long have I known what I needed to do, and I will delay no longer. Julia, release me from our betrothal.

I beg you,

E

I read and reread the note, half numb with shock, half stinging with rejection. Every remembrance of last night now felt foolish and cockeyed. With a flush of shame, I wondered how I had deluded myself into thinking otherwise.

“He . . . he said to wait for your answer.” Caleb stared at his feet.

Harsh words, insulting words that my mother and father would have flung at each other, crossed my mind. I choked on them while smothering back angry tears. For a full minute, I remained silent, for it would not do for Edward to learn I’d crumbled at his rejection. When I could speak again, my words were hard and cold. “Tell him I shall give him whatever he desires.”

Goggle-eyed, Caleb stood riveted.

“Go!” I commanded, not realizing at the time how my words could be misconstrued, nor dreaming that someday they would be printed and reprinted in every paper in the land, further sullying my name.

As the hall boy hied from the room, I stormed to the hearth. Out of countenance, I shredded the note, then lit a match and watched it curl in the flames. Over and over I told myself I didn’t need or want him. But the sting remained.

As momentous an occasion as Edward’s first and presumably last direct letter to me was, it was the second letter, which arrived later that evening, that took precedence. After tea, a set of hooves filled the lane leading to Am Meer, followed by a banging on our door.

Elizabeth gave a gasp of annoyance. “Oh, what can that harridan want now?”

For once Mrs. Windham did not rebuke Elizabeth. Only it was not Lady Foxmore’s footman who darkened the entry. A moment later, the housekeeper tiptoed into the room and whispered in Mrs. Windham’s ear, handing her a brown packet tied with string.

Mrs. Windham peered at the name on the parcel, then stared at me. “Julia, what on earth? This just arrived for you, but upon my word, the sender had not the patience to send it post, but paid a horseman to deliver it.” She handed the packet to me, then waved away her housekeeper and said, “Hannah, go tell the man that the lady in question received the package. You saw it with your own eyes. Send him away now. Tip him if you must.”