Born of Persuasion (21 page)

Mr. Macy’s astonished gaze excluded everyone but me.

“Oh, nonsense,” Mrs. Windham said. “If anyone would know about such a thing, it would be me. I tell you, Lucy would have never allowed it. She forbade Julia to have any contact with the Auburn sons. Simply forbade it.”

I drew a deep breath, feeling gladder for Mrs. Windham’s babble than I ever thought possible. But it did not last long.

“Nonetheless—” Henry’s voice was grinding as knives being sharpened—“I’d like to hear Miss Elliston’s answer.”

Beneath the table, I fingered my napkin as I met his angry gaze. It was Henry’s own fault he was here to witness this. I had not asked him to come. “There is no betrothal,” I said evenly. “I scarcely even know Reverend Auburn.”

Henry stood and sliced me with his gaze. Though he was angrier than I’d ever seen him, he managed to keep his temper in check and gave Mr. Macy a stiff bow.

“Henry,” Elizabeth whispered.

He shook off her pleading touch, threw his napkin on the table, and stalked from the chamber.

Elizabeth’s skirts rustled as she prepared to follow. She managed to cast me an exasperated look as she stood.

“Elizabeth,” Mrs. Windham hissed loud enough for everyone to hear. “What will Lord and Lady Auburn say?”

Her face tight, Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her mother before leaving the room.

“Think of the impression you’re giving Mr. Macy!” Mrs. Windham paused to titter at Mr. Macy, then called out to her
daughter’s retreating form, “Elizabeth!” She placed her hands on the table and attempted to hoist herself, addressing us. “You must excuse us all a moment. I warrant Elizabeth detected something amiss with the dish and wishes to speak to the staff privately.”

Mr. Macy cast Mr. Greenham a look of displeasure over the rim of his wineglass.

“To be sure—” Mrs. Windham rocked as she made her second attempt to rise to her feet, looking at Mr. Macy—“it is just like Elizabeth too. A more fastidious wife one could never find. Within a month, she’d have any household so well-managed a husband would never experience even a hint of embarrassment.”

“What?” A malicious smile curved her ladyship’s mouth. “Shall you never visit?”

Mrs. Windham did not register the insult as she hastened toward the door. She paused at the threshold and addressed Lady Foxmore. “I can assure you, Elizabeth is not breaking Lord Auburn’s edict. When you speak to them of this matter, you must make certain they know that Elizabeth would never meet alone with Henry. That they have my personal word . . .” She trailed off as she shifted her gaze over the table.

Contempt registered on the face of every guest, except me. I felt myself color and pale in succession with embarrassment. Had she been my own mother, my mortification could not have been more complete. Mrs. Windham’s smile drained for a brief second as she sensed the censure, but then she brightened and waved her lacy handkerchief. “Eat, eat! Do not feel obligated to wait for us. No sense in allowing the food to grow cold!”

For a brief moment no one spoke as she pattered down the hall and, in what I believe she thought a subdued whisper, called for Elizabeth.

Rooke recovered first, leaning back in his chair and reaching into a nearby crystal bowl before popping an olive into his mouth. He grinned, looking toward Mr. Macy and Mr. Greenham, as if waiting for them to join him in his amusement.

Mr. Macy slowly wiped his mouth, folded his napkin, and set it on the table. “John,” he said in a quiet voice, rising, “a word in private, if you please.”

Mr. Greenham stiffened and drained his glass of wine while Lady Foxmore laughed outright. “I warned him!”

I bent my head, feeling overwhelmed with a keen sense of regret and humiliation. Rare was the occasion that someone of my status attended a dinner in this sphere, but the odds of someone like Mr. Macy paying attention to that person were even more astronomical. All I could think was that Mrs. Windham had spoiled a golden opportunity, one that would never come my way again.

A warm hand came to rest on my shoulder, and I raised my head to find Mr. Macy peering down at me with an encouraging smile. He gave me a slight squeeze before stepping away. Nothing more was necessary. My misery lifted and I found my breath.

“I do hope I am present,” Lady Foxmore said, as Mr. Macy and Mr. Greenham retreated, “when Thomas learns Henry is still disregarding his orders about meeting secretly with Elizabeth. ’Tis no wonder he fears that creature’s daughter becoming the next Lady Auburn.”

“Thomas Auburn?” Mr. Forrester gave her ladyship a dubious look, then indicated Henry’s empty chair. “Wait a moment, are you telling me that was Henry Auburn, as in
Lord Thomas Auburn’s
elder son?”

Lady Foxmore gave him an affirmative nod.

He pointed at me. “And the vicar discussed was his brother, Edward Auburn?”

Lady Foxmore arched her eyebrows, as if to indicate he was rather slow to only now catch up.

“I don’t know who you are, young lady—” Mr. Forrester gave me a sneering glance as he polished his knife with his napkin—“but I’ll thank you not to spread defamatory rumors
about the Auburns. I’ve met the young man in question and can say with conviction he’d never have anything or anyone connected to your father.” He looked at her ladyship. “And as for you, do not smear future MPs. I’ll have you know I have it on the best authority that Master Henry Auburn is planning to marry one Miss Abigail Morris and they will marry by the year’s end. Her father personally brought my attention to the fact three days ago. I congratulated the future bride myself.”

I gasped, feeling bright with shock at the succession of untruths he had just unleashed, but then anger took over. “That is a lie! You are a liar!”

Lady Foxmore laughed too hard to speak. With one hand she clutched her chest, and with the other she waved me to silence. “Cease,” she gasped between breaths. “Cease, child! You forget your manners, though I’m not certain you ever possessed any. Hold your tongue, for the Auburns keep me better informed of matters than you, apparently.”

Two footmen entered, struggling to carry a silver platter holding a roasted pig with an apple in its mouth. It was large enough to feed an assembly. They placed it at the head of the table for Mr. Macy to carve, exaggerating his absence.

“Remove it,” Lady Foxmore ordered, struggling from her chair. “I daresay this charade of a dinner has ended. Give it to the servants; surely they’ll be grateful.”

No one argued with her assessment. Mr. Forrester stood, wiping his hands over his jacket, eyeing the door Mr. Macy and Mr. Greenham had taken while he shuffled toward it.

The rap of her ladyship’s stick interrupted my observation. “You will come with me, Miss Elliston.”

I obeyed and was surprised to find that my legs felt weak as I lifted myself from my chair.

“This way,” Lady Foxmore said.

I followed her to a small door in the back of the room. It led to a narrow, twisting passage, which she deftly navigated.

“I imagine Chance is most anxious to speak with you. You are to remain here.” She tested a door, which opened to reveal a chamber with heavy beams. Stiff leather and horsehair chairs made it appear spartan. Firelight flickered on the swords displayed over one wall. A pair of archaic crossbows hung over the stone mantelpiece.

She stood a long moment, as if reliving a memory, then murmured, “He would leave this room untouched.” She hustled me into the room. “Take that seat there, child.”

I started to protest, but she held up a finger, ordering silence. “We have an agreement, Miss Elliston. Wait here. Touch nothing. I’ll send word where he can find you. You’ll be safe from discovery.”

Without another word she shut the door, and her walking stick tapped down the hall.

ALONE IN THE CHAMBER, I pressed the tips of my fingers against my brow, feeling sick for Elizabeth. No matter what Mr. Forrester had claimed, I could not, would not, believe that Henry was engaged to someone else. It wasn’t possible. The idea of either Henry or Elizabeth marrying another was positively revolting. I found myself wishing I had ignored her ladyship in the dining room and confronted Mr. Forrester on its impossibility.

Drawing a deep breath, I raised my gaze and viewed the swords flickering in the firelight. For the first time I finally understood why Henry and Elizabeth had furiously plotted to keep Edward and me together. Some things were just meant to be. Had to be.

I tucked a stray curl behind my ear, feeling the stark severity of the space, its dark corners pressing down upon me. Our foursome had been so real, so tangible. How was it possible that tonight I’d denied knowing Edward and then found out that Henry was engaged to another? I half fancied that hundreds
of miles away, Edward had looked up from his studies with an acute feeling of pain. For I’d felt the last cords of our relationship strain and snap, as surely as if they were physical.

To distract myself, I stood and paced in front of the fireplace, wondering if this chamber was always so oppressive. Even in daylight, little sun would come through the narrow windows, which had scarcely enough width to peer out. It wasn’t difficult to envision this room was a prison of sorts during Henry VIII’s time.

I deserved such a soulless room, I thought, viewing the ancient weapons. By allowing Lady Foxmore to bring me here, I’d been no wiser than the flighty young Catherine Howard, who’d followed Lady Rochford’s leading. Like her, had I stepped too far outside the perimeters of society? I’d abandoned mourning, and I now waited to meet alone with a gentleman at night.

I frowned, rubbing the chill from my arms. Yet at the same time, I was nothing like the beheaded queen. I was not wed. Let me find refuge from the north, from my humble circumstances, and see if I’d be so foolish as to betray the savior-king who’d offered it.

I crouched before the fire and stretched my hands over the flame. My eyes drifted over the mass of antique weapons above me, catching sight of an axe, pockmarked with rust and iron pockets. I studied its splayed and flattened head. An execution axe.

“I die a queen, but I would rather have died the wife of Culpeper.”

Catherine Howard’s last words drifted through my mind. Daft, Mama had called her, after I’d read the account of her execution. At the time, I thought Mama the most unromantic soul in England, for I fancied I understood the queen’s sentiments. Culpeper had been her Edward, worth dying for.

The fire popped and hissed beneath my fingers and I withdrew my hands from the warmth. But what was love compared to survival? Despite Catherine’s love of Culpeper, had she
chosen survival, the orphaned girl might have lived out her days wrapped in fur and jewels—queen of England.

I jabbed the fire, causing the fiery log to crumble. No. I was no Catherine Howard. I wouldn’t die for love either.

Placing my hand over my neck, I gave the axe one last disdaining look, for it was impossible not to feel it had claimed more than one life. It appeared ancient, so antiquated it possibly could have been the same instrument used for—

“Enough,” I whispered, rubbing my heavy eyes.

Determined to think no more upon executions, I rested my head on my folded arms and soaked in the warmth of the fire. My life seemed unstable in that moment, as ready to crumble as the log beneath the fire’s flame. If Mama could abandon me, if men as genuine as Edward and Henry could be proven false, then what was constant?

I lowered myself to the floor and leaned against the davenport, wondering how Elizabeth and I missed the clues that Henry and Edward would shrink back.

During my long absence, there was one memory in particular I was wont to reflect upon when I wanted reassurance. I’d recall as many details as I could about the Midsummer Night’s Eve when Mama and Mrs. Windham attended a dinner, never suspecting their daughters had agreed to a tryst in the woods. The air had been crisp; Elizabeth and I stuffed our beds, then hand in hand raced into the night for adventure.

When we arrived at the edge of the woods, Henry jested that we were tempting Robin Goodfellow to flirt with our fates, and that if we weren’t careful, we’d fall in love with the wrong person. Edward’s skeptical look caused Henry and Elizabeth to shriek with laughter. Thereafter, to befool Puck, Henry picked fistfuls of sleeping bluebells, which he thrust in my hands, and Elizabeth wove Edward a crown of twigs, denoting her newfound love for him.

By the time we arrived at our destination, their gaiety had
dressed us in sticks, ferns, leaves, and wildflowers. Edward gave me a private glance and our minds were one. We had not fooled Puck, but rather he’d ushered us into his courts with welcome and overseen that we were bedecked as one of his folks. A rare honor indeed.

As sparks from our small fire floated into the night and blended into the starry canopy, Edward bowed and extended his hand. I nimbly curtsied.

A sound, like that of stone scraping against stone, caused us both to pause. The fire expired and the forest became black. Edward paled, backing away.

I already knew what was happening, for I had dreamed it a hundred times. Tears thickened my throat as I heard the crackle of flames. I turned, crying, expecting to see Mama across the vast pit. Only this time she had managed to cross the expanse. Her maggot-eaten face, still wrapped in her gauzy shroud, hovered before mine. She held out her hands, wailing in agony.