Lily George (20 page)

He picked up the table leg, scraping some of the sawdust off with his thumbnail. Gretna Green was out of the question. Wasn’t it? At least it held the allure of certain marriage. For propriety’s sake. Lucy couldn’t refuse to marry him if they were traveling for days on end. The corner of his mouth turned down in a rueful grin. It was all right to laugh about silly novels, but the heroes always managed to get what they wanted in the end. No one would stop them. What if life imitated literature, just this once?

That emerald and diamond ring in the jeweler’s window. He’d go there this afternoon and buy it. He’d rent a carriage—not just any carriage but a traveling carriage. He’d go to his lordship’s tomorrow and find a way to speak to Lucy alone. And when they were finally together, he’d tell her the truth. He’d have no one but her. If his words alone didn’t convince her, then the ring or the traveling coach might.

He began to whistle as he finished the table leg, but ’twas a false show of bravado. His problem lay in Lucy’s formidable character. A lesser woman might be swayed by jewels and carriages. His beloved, on the other hand, would not.

No, he would bring these things along. But it would be his words alone that would convince her. And for a fellow with a poor command of words, this was a seemingly insurmountable task.

He ceased his whistling and bowed his head, a prayer for strength flowing through him. He’d never make it through without some help from above. If only he could be certain his words would be enough to convince Lucy.

Chapter Twenty

N
ancy, the cheeky downstairs parlor maid, poked her head around Lucy’s door frame after a brief knock. “His lordship wishes to see you. The man is here about the library.” Her black eyes twinkled as she closed the door. She, like everyone else in the house today, must sense that something was afoot.

Lucy was a coward. She’d sat in her room all day long, avoiding the kitchens, the schoolroom and any place she might encounter the servants—particularly the library. The whole house was abuzz with news that the new library was finally ready. But today was much more than the celebration of a completed project for her. Today was the day that she and James must part ways forever.

She cast a glance in the mirror as she rose from the window seat. Her dress, a funeral black, suited her mood perfectly. Her face was drawn and pale, the freckles across the bridge of her nose standing out as though drawn on with a pencil. Her hair was twisted into a severe knot at the back of her neck. Her days of being pretty, or even being thought of as passably attractive, were now over. It was just as well. She was, after all, merely the governess.

How strange—nothing felt or sounded right as she quit her room and descended the staircase to the main corridors of the house. Her senses were muffled. The usual morning hubbub of his lordship’s home was muted, and the brilliant scarlet of the scattered rugs was, to her eyes, faded to pink. Her breath came in painful, rapid hitches. She must brazen this out as best as she could. Then, once it was over, she could regain the solitude of her room.

She opened the door latch to the library and strode in. Practicality and calm settled over her like a well-worn cloak. Lord Bradbury and James, who had been in conversation, glanced over at her and nodded as she came in. James stared at her, his emerald green gaze searing her skin, but she could not meet his eyes.

“Well, Miss Williams, I must say this is a splendid success.” His lordship waved his hand about the room, indicating the golden oak bookcases and the sky-blue silk curtains. “It’s the very opposite of how the room looked before, and so I shall be able to spend more time here in the future.”

“Thank you, sir,” she murmured. “But your praise belongs to Louisa and Ensign Rowland. I merely supervised some of the planning. Louisa and the Ensign chose the materials.”

“M-Miss Williams is too m-modest,” James interrupted. “She c-came up with the c-colors and selected the wood so the room would b-become b-brighter. She has g-good t-taste and excellent style.”

“Indeed.” His lordship nodded coolly, his hands clasped behind his back. “I would never have guessed it, but you have a lady’s touch. Encouraged, perhaps, by my own Louisa.” His lordship turned to Rowland. “I am very pleased with the room. Very pleased. I shall make sure that you are kept quite busy from now on. I’ve told all of my friends about your work.”

Of course, his lordship meant the “lady’s touch” as a compliment, but Lucy burned with shame and indignation at his surprise over her good taste. It was rather tiring to have people continue to harp on your lack of family or connections. After all, she’d never hidden her background from anyone. Had never struggled or schemed to rise above her station. And all his lordship did was widen the gulf between James and herself.

The door to the library banged open, and Louisa peeked around the corner. “Papa,” she cried, “I want to show you something in the parlor.”

“Can’t it wait, my dear? I was just looking over your handiwork.” Lord Bradbury raised one eyebrow as he surveyed his daughter.

“No. You must come now.” Louisa captured her father’s hands and pulled him toward the door.

“Ensign—just send the bill...” his lordship called as he followed Louisa. As Louisa turned to close the door behind her, she winked—actually winked—at James. Embarrassment welled in Lucy’s chest. Louisa was ever determined to remain the matchmaker, even when the circumstances were highly unfavorable to love.

James crossed the distance between them with one stride. “Lucy,” he murmured, “do you have an answer for me? Are we going to be wed?”

“I’m sorry, James, but I must say no.” The answer, long-practiced, fell from her lips like a stone. She kept her eyes down, tracing the pattern of the Aubusson rug to stay calm.

“I w-w-was afraid you’d s-s-say that.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her closer. His touch, warm and gentle, brought tears to her eyes. “I s-s-suppose this is d-due to some s-silly notion that m-my family d-d-doesn’t approve of you.”

What could she say? If she admitted the truth, she would be breaking her vow to his mother. So she fell silent, biting her lip. If only he would release her, she could stay strong. But his touch lulled her into a sense of protection, and she stayed put.

“You might as well know how I feel in the matter. I’ve asked you and begged you and put off announcing our marriage for weeks because you wanted my mother’s approval. But no one asked me what I want.” He kissed the top of her hairline. “And here it is: I want to marry you, Lucy Williams. In fact, I will marry none but you.”

Lucy gave a little sob at this admission—’twas a dear thing to hear. Something she’d remember forever. But they both had a duty to move beyond themselves. “A marriage built on selfishness would be no kind of union at all,” she whispered. “You owe your mother and sister a living. I owe my charges the best of my devoted care. Would you have us throw our obligations over to satisfy ourselves?”

“Yes.” His hold tightened on her shoulders. “Lucy—I love you. Do you love me?”

“That’s not the point,” she interjected. If she began confessing her love for him, all would be lost. “What we must decide is if we can hurt those who depend upon us out of the selfish desire to stay together.”

“My mother’s gotten to you,” he muttered, pulling her closer. “Tell me what she said at tea.”

“Nothing I didn’t already understand and feel for myself,” she replied defensively. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed away a bit, her breath coming more quickly. “James, I can’t marry you. I just can’t.”

“If you are refusing because my mother has some other woman picked out for me, then it won’t matter.” His voice was a low growl now, causing her heart to flutter wildly in her chest. “I’m not marrying anyone but you. No matter what any of my family says.” He fidgeted in his coat pocket and withdrew a ring. It sparkled in the light streaming in from the windows—prisms of rainbows scattered about the room, refracted from the emeralds and diamonds in the setting. “This is for you and no one else.”

“I can’t accept it.” She choked out the words. Pain seared through her as though a knife had been thrust into her midsection. She must go, or else she would break down entirely. She rushed past him toward the library door, but he grasped her arm, halting her progress.

“So you would condemn us both to a life without love merely to satisfy a few obligations?” His voice shook with anger, and her heart pounded at the sound. James’s temper was not something to trifle with, and he was growing more hurt and angry by the second.

“Please understand, James.” She pitched her voice so that it was low and pleading, trying desperately to placate him. “It’s not that I don’t love you. But if you married me as I am, with no family connections, no money—it could lead to bitterness and strife later on. Years later, you might regret marrying me, and then what could we do? ’Tis better to leave things as they are. Surely you know that what I am saying is true.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” His hand still about her wrist, he pulled her close enough to murmur in her ear, “I’ve a carriage outside. We can go anywhere we wish to go. Even,” he hesitated, his eyelashes tickling her cheek, “even Gretna Green.”

That was her breaking point. How easy it could be to just flee to the border with James and follow only her selfish desires. But she would hate herself for it for the rest of her life. His family would be miserable. His mother would likely take every opportunity to point out the disparity in their situations. James couldn’t see it now, but in time he would come to understand and even respect her decision. She wrenched free of his grasp and ran to the door.

“You’re not marrying me because I stammer,” he called after her. “I embarrass you.”

She stopped and turned around, willing herself to look him in the eye, but his expression—sick and broken—made her turn away. “That’s not true. I could never be embarrassed of you. Never.” She tugged open the door and fled down the hallway, up the stairs and to her room. She locked herself in and huddled on the bed, her knees drawn to her chest.

Hot tears trickled down her cheek, wetting her pillow.

Love was horrid.

Novels and poems lied about it.

She’d never, ever allow herself to fall in love with a man again.

* * *

After Lucy left the room, there was nothing to do but go as well. So James flung himself out of Lord Bradbury’s house and into the street, ignoring the carriage that waited so patiently on the curb. He needed to walk. He needed purpose, even if it was just putting one foot in front of the other. Otherwise, he would go mad.

He directed his steps toward Felton’s shop. He could not go home. If he did, he might wring his mother’s neck. He was not a violent man, but so help him—she was responsible for his misery. And for Lucy’s, too. Her expression, as she turned to face him that last time, would be burned into his mind for all eternity. How pale she was, her enormous eyes ringed with dark smudges. His beloved Lucy, sick and wounded. And no matter what he’d said, no matter what arrows he flung her way, she’d dodged them expertly, determined not to let him talk her into a marriage she believed he would someday regret. She valued his future peace of mind more than her own happiness. What could he do with a woman like that?

He jostled past street vendors, servants, lords and ladies alike who thronged the sidewalk in the morning. He had to get to his workshop. There, he knew what he was doing. There, he reigned supreme. At home and elsewhere, he had no idea what he was doing with his life.

When he, at length, reached Felton’s shop, he let himself in through the back door. That meant passing the Assembly Rooms. It meant a quick glance up at the window he’d spied Lucy sitting in, so many nights before. He crushed the grief that welled within him and opened the back door. He could avoid the workmen this way. Anyone who saw him at this moment would know, just by looking at him, that something was amiss.

In his workroom, he took out a large length of oak and several pegs. Then, methodically, he began smashing each peg into the solid wood beam. The sound of each blow of the hammer ricocheted off the walls of the room with a satisfying crash. He pounded and pounded until blisters formed on his palms. Then he cast the hammer aside and buried his face in his hands, too exhausted to do anything but close his eyes.

A knock sounded on the door, and Felton let himself in. “I take it your meeting with Lord Bradbury did not go very well? What more did the man want? You did a splendid job.”

“It w-w-wasn’t his l-lordship,” James mumbled, scrubbing his face with his sweaty palms.

“Well, there must be something amiss. Did one of the workmen do a poor job?” Felton pulled a stepstool over to the workbench and sat down.

“N-no. They all d-d-did quite w-well.” He breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. “N-nothing with the job w-went wrong.”

“Then, by Jove man, why did you come here in such a state? I thought at first a madman had come in and started shooting up the place, your hammer blows were so loud.” Felton rested his arms on the table, his grizzled visage open and expectant.

He hated to talk about the matter. It was a private thing between him and Lucy, no matter how angry and frustrated he became. So he merely shook his head, and with trembling fingers, swept the splinters of oak off the bench.

“I imagine it had something to do with the Honorable Miss Louisa Bradbury’s visit the other day.” Felton steepled his hands beneath his chin. “She seemed to have a great deal weighing on her mind.”

James’s head snapped up. “You’re w-worse than a g-gossiping old b-biddy,” he snarled. Felton would simply not drop the matter and leave him in peace.

“That was a mighty fine piece of oak you destroyed,” Felton responded coolly. “Worth about twenty pounds. Now, you can tell me why you ruined it, or I shall wheedle the truth out of you. Either way. Admit the truth or let me pester you.” His voice softened. “You’re like a son to me, Rowland. I hate to see you like this.”

James stilled, grasping the workbench. He didn’t remember his father. It had always been Mother directing and dictating his life. What if he talked to a man about this matter? A man who was old enough to be his father? It could relieve some of the anxiety and the pressure. At worst, he would reveal himself as a coward and a blackguard to Felton. At best, Felton’s sympathy could help restore his spirit. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’m in l-love with Lucy W-W-Williams, the g-governess to Lord B-B-Bradbury’s daughters,” he began, and spilled the whole sordid tale. Felton sat back, his expression unchanging, until James finally reached the end of his story and fell silent.

“So the lady will not change her mind until your mother changes hers,” he surmised, his arms crossed over his chest. “Thus, it remains your duty to change the minds of both women.”

“I d-don’t care about M-Mother,” James spat. “I would have m-married Lucy t-t-today, despite M-Mother’s objections. It’s Lucy’s mind I must change. But she is so d-d-determined—how c-c-can I?”

Felton shrugged. “You’ve made tremendous strides since you first came to me. Do you remember what you were? You shrank within yourself. You stammered. No—it wasn’t merely a stammer. You could hardly speak two words together. Do you remember?”

James nodded, his mouth twisting ruefully at the memory. “I l-lived with M-Macready, and I had no p-purpose in life. That all changed b-b-because of L-Lucy. Without her, I would not be the m-man I am today. She is the one who t-t-transformed me. Without her, I am n-nothing.”

Felton nodded. “And so it usually is. With a good woman behind you—a woman like the ‘virtuous wife’ described in Proverbs, 31—you can do anything. My own wife, Anna, was like that. She passed away six years ago.” His eyes misted over, and he rubbed at them with a fierce gesture. “She encouraged me to do my utmost. I did, and this shop is a testament not just to her faith but her faith in me.” He glanced at James, his gaze piercing in its intensity. “If you feel this way about her, you cannot let her slip away.”