A Heart Revealed (37 page)

Regardless, she would never allow such a connection to take root in her heart again, not as it had with Suzanne, Mr. Richards, or her own family. She would protect this heart Suzanne so admired, take comfort in purpose, and . . . she did not know what else. She did not want to live as Constance had, but it was safer, not only for her but for those who would be hurt by her.

“It is best,” she said out loud. Mr. Richards deserved a wife he could respect, admire, and desire. Amber could never be those things, and even Suzanne, the one person who had attempted to convince Amber she could be accepted, had seen the wisdom in the end.

Amber would never see Mr. Richards again, and she would soon leave this place, which had become a sanctuary, forever. How it broke her heart to know it.

Chapter 45

“Thank you, Nelson,” Amber said to her mother’s maid as Nelson put the last of three ostrich feathers into the folds of the expertly draped turban Lady Marchent had procured. It was the same soft green fabric as the dress Mama had chosen for Amber’s presentation tonight. The dress was meant not to draw attention—it was Darra’s ball—but it still complimented Amber’s eyes and figure.

The wig Amber had worn in London was considered but eventually dismissed by her mother who wanted no memory of that night’s display to accompany this evening. Amber was to attend the wedding ball, make polite if not shallow conversation with their connections, be part of a toast to Lord and Lady Sunther’s happiness, and then fade away secure in the knowledge that friends and family would no longer worry about her well-being. Perhaps she would be invited back to Hampton Grove for family events now and again, but never to draw attention back to her own self. Never that.

Amber fingered the pendant resting just below the hollow of her throat. The jewel had once felt like a trademark, and though it was as well-crafted and lovely as it had ever been, it felt strange and foreign now. Heavy. Cold. Everything felt that way.

“I need but paint on the brows and ye shall be ready,” Nelson said, sounding nervous.

“I can paint on the brows,” Amber assured her. The paint her mother had purchased was a finer quality than what Amber had from Constance’s trunk, and it more closely matched the true shade of Amber’s eyebrows—if she’d had them. “I have painted them on many times now and know just how it is done.”

After the brows, she painted a very thin line along the edge of her eyelids in order to give the shadow of lashes; it was the best she could do. If the attendees at the ball looked long enough they would see something awry, but Lady Marchent had asked her to give as few opportunities for scrutiny as possible and Amber agreed that would be best.

“Thank you, Nelson. You may go. The dancing has already begun, has it not?”

“It ’as, Miss. I ’eard the strains of music when I was comin’ up to ’elp ya.”

Lady Marchent had requested Amber show herself after the formal introductions of the other guests. While Amber could not say she was not wounded at being asked to come late, she did not mind so much. These last days at Hampton Grove had revealed to her that the company of her family was no longer something she craved.

The older boys were still away at school, and while William, the youngest, was still in the schoolroom at Hampton Grove, she suspected her mother was purposely keeping him apart from his eldest sister. It would be easier for him to forget about her entirely if they did not renew whatever affection might lie between them.

Darra had come to Amber’s room the first night of her return. They talked for hours of Darra’s wedding, and Amber had hoped for more time exactly like that, but it was not to be. Beginning the next day, Lady Marchent seemed determined to keep the girls apart and, but for family meals and a few promises of finding time to talk again, Amber had seen little of her sister.

At least they had resolved the difficulties between them. She would forever be grateful for the chance to be reconciled to her sister again and hoped that once they were removed to their separate futures that connection would continue.

Amber had seen her father only long enough to repeat the request she’d sent in the letter and receive his assurance that a man was looking for a location she could remove to. She had asked after Constance, and, without meeting her eyes, Lord Marchent had given a brief description of what she already knew—his younger sister became ill toward the end of her second season and was removed from London in hopes of a recovery that sadly never came about. After two years of convalescence, she removed to Yorkshire where she lived her life in isolation. She was not buried in the family plot because of the influenza, not her “other condition.”

Amber did not accept his explanation, but did not argue with it either. What was the purpose? He was determined to justify his family’s treatment of Constance just as surely as he justified his treatment of his own daughter. He was resolved that he had done the right thing and Amber would be unable to change his mind about it.

“It was her choice to go to Yorkshire, Amber. No one forced it upon her. She simply realized, as it seems you have, that causing discomfort to the people around her was a great source of her own discomfort. I believe she was quite happy in the cottage, so much that she chose not to come to the funerals of her own parents when they passed. It’s a shame you are not willing to stay there. It would be far simpler for you to return to Yorkshire than to arrange a new location.”

“I should like a more mild climate,” Amber said, inserting the reason she’d invented to explain herself.

Since there was no affection between her and her father, she hoped it meant she would not be too disappointed by the loss once she left the family estate again. He was working to secure her independence as a yearly income she could control and hoped to have all things in arrangement by the end of the month. She had chosen simply to be grateful for his assistance rather than hurt at his eagerness to dispose of her.

With her family so uncomfortable with her presence, and Darra frequently unavailable to talk, Amber had spent the majority of her time walking the grounds of Hampton Grove alone and enjoying the nostalgia of childhood memories. At times, she removed her bonnet and cap when she was assured she was alone. The weather was fine and the sound of birds and wind in the trees was a comfort. It had been many months since she had been outdoors, except for trips to the cottage stable, and she wondered why she had resisted it while she had been at the cottage.

The cottage.

Her head was as full of thoughts regarding Yorkshire as it was with thoughts of her current surroundings; she could not be free of them no matter what she did to distract herself. It seemed everything brought her thoughts back to the quaint house and Suzanne, whom she missed terribly.

Suzanne had not spoken of the letter she’d delivered to Mr. Richards and had not treated Amber any different upon her return from town that day. They had worked and lived side by side until Lady Marchent had arrived to take Amber back to Somerset.

The night before their parting, Suzanne admitted that Mr. Larsen had declared himself to her the week before. She had not said that without her mistress she had no reason to refuse him any longer, but Amber understood it all the same. Amber wished her dear friend happiness and the next day bid her a tearful good-bye on the cottage steps. Suzanne, who rarely showed emotion, had been crying into her apron when the coach pulled away.

It was only her mother’s frigid disapproval that dried Amber’s own tears. The woman was only a servant, Lady Marchent had said. Why waste tears on one such as that?

Knowing that Suzanne would be happy with her blacksmith made it easier for Amber to mitigate her regret at disappointing her. It was not so easy to think of Mr. Richards, however, whose memory brought so much conflict to her heart and mind.

Amber had tried to read
Hamlet
upon her arrival at Hampton Grove, but Shakespeare’s words now sounded with his voice in her head. The sound of hoofbeats made her think of him arriving at the cottage, her morning chocolate was the same color as his hair, and her own solitude reminded her of what it felt like to be in his company. She had only known the enjoyment of his presence a handful of hours, and yet every hour without him she felt as though she was missing something. Something she could never have. Something she could never forget.

Each time the sadness seeped inside her, she tried to think only of that kiss, the feel of his heartbeat beneath her hand, the scruff of his face against her own, the way he smelled of wood smoke and leather and tasted of tea. It was a bittersweet remembrance to be sure, but she hoped that in time the ache in her chest, the question of “what might have been,” would fade and leave only the sweetness behind. She hoped it with her whole battered, bruised, and broken heart.

“Enough of this,” she said before taking a deep breath and looking at her reflection in the mirror. She must be mindful of the moment at hand—Darra’s wedding ball. The gown and turban drew upon the color of her eyes and complimented her skin, browned from the time she had spent in the Somerset sun. She would look wild to the rest of society but to her mind she had not looked this beautiful for many months. The brows she’d painted on looked very much like her true eyebrows once had, her figure was as well defined—though not so prominently displayed—and she was grateful for the chance to feel as much an equal with the other women here as she could ever hope to.

Yet her optimism could not protect her entirely from the discomfort she knew awaited her. There would be whispers regarding her appearance after so long an absence, a few braver guests would ask after her health, and everyone would comment when she was out of range how changed she was, how she was a shadow of the woman she’d been in London. What a pity. What a shame. Amber knew precisely how they would look at her and talk of her because she had been one of them only a year ago, eager to put herself above someone else, quick to find another’s flaws.

But perhaps a few generous young men would ask her to dance—how she longed for a dance. Never mind that she would wish it were Mr. Richards’s hands she held through the steps, wish it were Mr. Richards’s arms around her, and wish it were Mr. Richards’s compliments she folded into her heart to pull out and read over on future nights.

An unexpected memory of her last ball came to mind, but instead of shrinking from it she remembered the man who had given her his coat. She could only assume the coat was still in London, where she had left it in the wardrobe. Remembering him reminded her that there
was
kindness amid the
ton
—not everyone was cruel. She would take Suzanne’s counsel and look for those of her society who would not dismiss her for being imperfect. No, she would never be one of
ton
again and they would never know the extent of her deformity, but perhaps for one night—this night—she could expect better of people. The man with the coat was to be a reminder of the possibility.

“You shall find joy in this night,” she said to her reflection, lifting her chin in her most regal expression. “Your sister is marrying her prince, and you are allowed to celebrate with her. Every happy memory is that much more light you will take with you. Be glad for it.”

It was one thing to give herself such direction, but quite another to enter the ballroom and feel the glances turn toward her and hear the whispers rise out of the surprised guests. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to slip back to her room and beg off the evening, but she knew her role and lifted her chin as she made her way to her parents. They welcomed her with a kiss on the cheek and a press of her hands. Only she could see the wariness in their eyes, but it served to raise her determination to be exactly who they wanted her to be tonight. She would give them no reason to regret allowing her to attend. If she played her part well she hoped to be allowed as a guest for the wedding to be held in a few weeks’ time in Suffolk.

“Amber?”

She turned with a polite smile toward her Aunt Janice, her mother’s youngest sister. Janice had married a vicar and though no one spoke of it being a disappointment—he was clergy, after all—it was understood she had not made her parents proud. Amber had once thought her softheaded and plain, but perhaps for the first time, Amber noted her kindness and sincerity rather than her lack of fashion and position.

“Aunt,” she said, leaning forward to press cheeks with the woman so unlike Lady Marchent. “How are you?”

“I am very well,” she said. “How are you? I hear you have been recovering from an unfortunate reaction to, what was it, a hair rinse?”

“It was nothing some country air could not remedy,” Amber said, more sincere than either of her listening parents would believe. The country had healed her, in a sense. However, there was more healing that would need to take place now. Realizing that she had a safe companion for a time, Amber looped her arm through that of her aunt’s and turned in the direction of the refreshments on the other side of the room. “Would you accompany me for a drink and tell me of my cousins?”

Being with Aunt Janice helped increase Amber’s confidence as they encountered family and friends. Amber was careful not to engage any one guest too long; she could feel them looking at her and realizing that something was not right in her face. She would turn away when their confusion appeared, wave at someone on the other side of the room, or begin a topic of conversation.

In time her aunt became engaged with some other distant relation, however, and Amber felt herself panic as she stood alone on the edge of the dance floor. While a few gentlemen had approached her in greeting, they had kept a polite distance and, in truth, she had not tried over much to engage them. She was increasingly nervous about having so much attention from any one of them. She was not the Amber Sterlington she’d been before, and under a gentlemen’s gaze she felt more aware of what she was not. Perhaps she would not dance after all tonight. Perhaps, just as leaving Yorkshire, that was for the best.