Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 31
The light had decreased the further they moved away from the open doors. “Women who have turned me away.”
He winked, telling her he played off her responses. The man was an expert at drawing her in, only to say something shocking, leaving her with the impression he jested but no real confirmation.
She ducked her head to hide her embarrassment at losing their conversation to her own musings. “That’s good to hear.”
They fell into silence as they descended the steps and continued walking. The night air, infused with the smell of flowers and citrus, washed over her. She could not think of a better feeling. They continued in a companionable quiet, both lost in their own thoughts.
Ruby was silent as they walked into the garden.
Harold was hesitant to intrude on her thoughts. Her face was at peace, not a hint of nervousness. It also gave him a chance to take her in: the tilt of her chin, her sureness of foot, and the hint of lines about her eyes and mouth. He knew them to be from laughing; how he wished he could see her smile and her eyes brighten at something he said or did.
But she always seemed guarded in his presence.
At present, however, he was content to walk beside her. No bickering, no snide remarks, and no cryptic words. They were only two people, walking amongst the fragrant flowers of an immense garden haven. He searched for something witty to say—anything to draw her attention, vanquish her troubles, and bring a smile to her lips.
As they continued down the path, he watched her touch flowers as she passed them, her fingertips grazing their petals, careful not to disturb them as she admired their silken texture. She stopped alongside a vibrant thicket of blue Canterbury bells, their blooms particularly bright. It was as if they’d spent their life within a hothouse, only to be brought outside for this special evening.
The shade matched Ruby’s cream and blue evening gown—and also the pocket square currently nestled in his own jacket pocket. He’d thought the square a gift from Brock, but now knew it was Vi’s attempt at subtle matchmaking.
He wondered if Ruby had noticed. He would ask, but feared her anxiousness would return and ruin the moment.
She leaned in ever so slightly to smell the blossoms, then continued down the path.
They rounded a bend and before them stood a clear, placid pond, with nary a ripple on its surface. The moon, high in the night sky, cast a glow upon the water that illuminated a small boat tied loosely to the dock.
Finally, Ruby looked up and when her eyes locked on the sight, she smiled.
“Do you remember the pond at the Haversham estate?” she asked.
“How could I forget,” Harold said, keeping his voice low. “Brock and I played pirates every chance we got.”
“Yes, I recall.” She turned a serious face to him. “I was forbidden to play because I was a girl and you both said women at sea were unlucky and would sink your ship.”
He would have laughed if her look was not so stern. “It’s true—ask any sailor.”
She returned her gaze to the water before them. “You know I watched you boys still.”
“I did not.”
“Oh, yes. I hid within the shrubs bordering the small lake and watched you and Brock play—sometimes for hours.”
Her words shocked him. “Why?”
“What else did I have to do?” Her smile returned. “I would imagine setting sail with you both on an adventure to the New World or India, leave England behind for a life of the unknown.” Her voice held a sadness that did not match her smile. If the lighting were better, he wondered if he’d see that her smile did not reach her eyes, either.
Harold looked to the small boat, judging its buoyancy. “It is not too late.”
“Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
“Sail with me,” he said as he took her hand. “We can leave now, if only for a few short minutes.”
“I don’t know…”
“Allow yourself to forget the here and now—to be just Ruby, the girl I remember, and Harold—childhood friends.”
Her eyes held skepticism when they met his. “I do wish life was that simple.”
“It can be. Is it so hard to let go of the things one cannot change?”
“I could ask you the same question.” Instead of turning back toward the house as he expected, she took his proffered hand and continued to the dock.
“Maybe it is unfeasible to permanently forget one’s life, but…” He smiled as he assisted her into the small boat. “…we can both agree to a short time together, without the questions and concerns of our daily existence. Could we do that?”
He held his breath as he awaited her reply.
“I think that is quite possible.”
He stepped in the boat behind her, helping her into the seat at the front of the craft. Then he took his place facing her at the bow of their small vessel. He reached out and untied the line keeping the boat at dock, then took the oars in hand.
“Where to, my lady?”
“Well, my lord,” she countered. “I would enjoy a trip to Paris… Perhaps see the latest fashions or visit the Louvre.”
“And what if I do not seek a turn about fashionable Paris, but a sojourn in the wilds of Africa?”
“Africa? Who would enjoy the dreadful heat of the desert?” she asked. “I do believe we are not suitably attired for such a journey.”
“But we are for Paris?”
She turned a serious look to him. “I do believe you are correct.”
With the oar, Harold pushed away from the dock. As he started to row, waves rippled, disturbing the serenity of the water. In the distance he could hear the strains of a waltz and the laughter of the many men and women in attendance, but on the lake, it was only the two of them.
“May I interest you in a peaceful row about a pond in the middle of a garden, just out of sight of a very busy ballroom?”
“That would be lovely, Harold.”
She’d dropped the imagined ‘my lord,’ and that made him happy. He was only Harold, or Mr. Jakeston. A title was not in his future, nor did he envy those who held them.
The quiet of the night was only broken by the gentle slap of the oars as Harold deftly rowed them to the far side of the pond and away from any prying eyes of the ton who might also be strolling about the lush garden.
He searched for a safe topic of conversation—one without questions or accusations. He couldn’t ask how she was enjoying London, nor if she planned to retire to her parents’ home come the Christmas holiday.
“How are you enjoying your work with the Foldger’s Foundling House?” There was no more neutral of a subject, and Harold truly wanted to know how Vi’s home was doing after all the children had relocated from London to the country.
A spark lit her eyes. “Oh, the children are adapting splendidly. They’re learning to ride. The girls to sit a proper side saddle and the boys to hunt. The kitchen is fairly large, so Mrs. Hutton has taken to giving lessons to all who are interested in the art of meal preparation.”
“Do you and Lady Haversham plan to travel there anytime soon?” He hoped his question was subtle. He found he was very interested in her future plan, and hoped they included her continued presence in London.
“Most definitely before the winter weather becomes too harsh,” Ruby replied. “We must outfit all the children with suitable clothes for the cold season.”
“Ah, so you enjoy your responsibilities there?”
“Very much so, yes.”
“I have heard Brock has many plans for renovating the house, as well.”
“Vi would like to help not only children with maladies, but also unwanted street children. To do that, Lord Haversham has commissioned the addition of a dormitory building that will enable Mrs. Hutton to care for another thirty children.” As she spoke, Ruby let the passing water caress her fingertips, much as she’d lightly touched the flowers.
He tore his eyes from the sight and refocused on their conversation. “Mrs. Hutton is truly a saint.”
“That she is. I cannot think of a more worthy calling for a woman of her stature.”
“And you?”
“And me, what?” She sat a bit straighter at the question.
“What is your calling?” Harold was unsure if talk of their future was also unacceptable for this time ‘at sea.’
A pensive look crossed her face and he wondered—not for the first time—what secrets she held; what troubled her so.
“I fear I am much like our little boat here.”
“How so?” He paused his paddling to better hear every word.
“I am adrift, with little direction, dependent on those around me. Much like our direction can be altered by a simple breeze, so can my course be changed by a few words.”
It was more insight into her life then she’d thus far shared, yet the words only confused him. Her life, compared to his own, seemed trouble-free and without responsibilities or commitments. She could live wherever she deemed agreeable, attend social functions with no reservations, and commit herself to any cause she found fulfilling. He sensed there was more to her world than he was privy to, but he was at a loss as to how he might show her he could be trusted with her struggles.
“I am here to talk if you need someone to confide in.”
“That is very kind of you.” She looked to the far shore they’d paddled from. With the gesture, he knew their moment was gone and the real world had invaded once again.
“Shall we return, my captain?”
She laughed, and the light mood returned. “I believe we have no other choice. The evening grows late and I expect Vi and Lord Haversham will notice our disappearance before long.”
Harold didn’t relish relinquishing her to the crowded ballroom. As he maneuvered them back across the water to the dock, he watched her faraway expression return and tried once more to pull her from her own troubles. “May I take you for a ride in Hyde Park tomorrow?”
“That would be lovely, but—”
He’d known there would be some reason she would enlist to call off.
“—Vi and I have a busy shopping excursion planned.”
“I do understand,” Harold said. The bow tapped the dock. “We have arrived. I do hope you enjoyed your time at sea.”
Ruby stood on unsteady feet. “We were neither besieged by pirates nor taken down by merfolk, so I believe our voyage was most agreeable.”
They made their way back to the ballroom much as they had when they’d left, yet, now Ruby clutched Harold’s offered arm and he noticed her subtle glances in his direction.
Harold suppressed his smile and hoped they could possibly turn a new corner. He was shocked to realize he hadn’t thought about her suspicious behavior and secretive activities since they’d descended the steps into the garden.
He was optimistic that their breakthrough would last past this evening and into the coming days.
Chapter 9
Harold held the newly arrived letter—or should he say letters—clutched in his hand. He wanted to flip a table or put his fist through a wall, but that would accomplish nothing but damaging something that wasn’t his to destroy. Violent outbursts solved nothing, and only compounded the preexisting issues. Every time his father had scolded, beaten, or berated his children, it had changed nothing. They couldn’t live up to his impossible moral standards, and Harold and his brothers certainly never respected the vicar for his aggressive displays. The amount of times the good vicar had thrown his supper plate against a wall had not improved their mother’s cooking skills.
Parsons, Brock’s valet, had just delivered the morning’s post to his room. Today, Harold had received three letters from his father, each demanding his attendance in the country. Yesterday, one letter had arrived; two notes the day before that.
He couldn’t help but think his father would have ample time to complete all of his duties—things he claimed he needed Harold’s assistance to do—if he spent more time attending to them and less penning threats to his son.
He’d need to ask William if he too received never-ending letters of complaint.
Alas, his father more often than not made zero sense.
The idiocy of the suggestion that the good vicar could not handle the repairs needed was unfathomable. His father had a number of strong, willing parishioners eager to help him, if only he would call on them.
Brock informed him that funds had been allotted to the family church for much-needed renovations now that the Haversham stables were completely remodeled. But there was no rush, as materials had yet to be ordered from the local mill.
No—Harold would not fall prey to his manipulative behavior. He would not run home. He would not bend under his father’s thumb. He would not let another dictate his life.
Not yet, at least.
One day he would have to return home and take over the responsibilities his father had relegated to him. He’d do his utmost to continue on in the family vicarage, serving Brock and his growing family, as his father and grandfather had before him. He would not shirk his duties forever.
But today was not that day.
And if the business venture William had proposed was successful, then a new course for his future may very well be possible. It was imperative that they start immediately.
Harold balled the thin papers in his hands as he paced his room.
He needed more time. Before he resigned himself to a life of mundane routine, he needed to live. To experience all the world had to offer. Would it make his future more tolerable? He didn’t know. But he did know his father had never traveled further than a few hours’ horseback ride from their home in all his life. He’d never sampled the delights of London, the relaxation of Bath, or the thrill of crossing the Scottish border into a foreign country. Harold had barely accomplished the first and knew London held so much more for him than he’d seen thus far.
The vicar had been happy to marry Harold’s mother, the daughter of a neighboring farmer, while Harold dreamed of so much more for himself.
Harold stopped his pacing and dropped into the chair situated before the window in his room. The sun shone bright, sitting high in the sky. The sight usually lifted his spirits and filled him with hope for the day, but since his arrival in London he’d felt oddly unfulfilled. His encounters with Ruby were the only thing that made him feel useful, alive. Now, with William’s plan, he hoped to again instill a sense of purpose to his daily life.
A knock sounded at his door. Not waiting for his permission to enter, Brock pushed the door wide and strolled into the room.
“Go ahead and walk in like you own the place,” Harold muttered, trying to shake his gloomy mood.
“Did you forget I do own the place?”
“And what if I had been indecent?”
“I would have called everyone within shouting distance to come take in the sight,” Brock jested. “But they would only get a peek. I like to keep you for myself.” He followed the statement with a wink and sat in the chair opposite Harold, stretching out his booted feet and crossing them at his ankles.
They sat in silence, Brock’s eyes on him, but Harold refused to shift his gaze from the window.
“You are killing me,” Brock finally said. “What has you in such a sour mood?”
Harold held up his hand, the letters still wrapped tightly in his fist.
“Ah. I heard you’ve been receiving quite a few letters from home. I hoped they were from a lady friend, and not the indomitable Vicar Jakeston,” Brock said. “But from your expression and mood recently, they must be from the latter.”
Harold grudgingly looked to his friend. “Latest word is that my father’s workload has never been weightier, while his strength continues to wane.”
Brock was silent a moment. He appeared vexed. “There’s no reason your father’s burden should be any heavier than it has been in years past. If anything, it should be lighter—I’ve been quite attentive to his needs. The last I saw him, he had his shirtsleeves rolled and a crew of able-bodied parishioners working alongside him. But I understand if you feel you must retire to the country to attend his demands.”
Harold laughed, startling himself at the madness of the sound. “Oh no, my father will not get his clutches on me that easily.”
“But if he needs help—”
“He does not. And what’s more, you know he does not—you’ve made your point.”
“We could ride there at any time to check on your family,” Brock persisted, more serious now. “If you are concerned, we would be back by sundown, assuming all is well.”
“You know he will not let me return to London once he has me home. If you think otherwise, you are as foolish as everyone says.”
“Who says I am foolish?” Brock asked.
“That’s what you take from that?”
“Of course. I care little for your family drama, but if someone speaks ill of me, I am very interested.”
Harold knew it was all meant to be jest. Before Brock’s disappearance and then after his return last year, he’d been very involved in Harold’s life. They shared everything, including their family struggles. There was not another being who knew Harold’s struggles as Brock did. There was not another person with whom he could share all he was, all he wanted, and all the demons that held him back.
“You do not have to take over the vicarage.” Brock’s tone remained uncharacteristically serious. “I can find another vicar to serve my family. The place is fairly obsolete, anyways, for I am rarely about the estate.” Since Brock had found Lady Haversham, he’d let his own demons go in favor of love and peace.
Harold didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to jump at the chance to wipe his hands of the responsibilities he’d never wanted. He sat a little taller, the weight of expectation lifted from his shoulders, but with that came the daunting question of ‘what then?’ The vicarage had been a burden, but it had also provided security—the knowledge that some semblance of stability was in his future, just waiting for him to accept his role. Without it, he must forge his own path, find his own way in the world.
And that scared the hell out of him.
