Lily George (18 page)

“Enough.” He turned away from the mantelpiece, his hands clenched. “Lucy is a sight too good for this family if you ask me. She’s intelligent, witty and kind and has made her own way in this world. She helped me when I was at my lowest ebb. And I must mention the obvious—she’s a beautiful woman.” He paced the floor, the boards squeaking in protest. “Speak ill of her, and you might as well insult me.”

Mother’s mouth dropped open. “Where is your stammer? Do you lose it when you grow agitated?”

“S-sometimes. Yes.” As if that mattered at this particular moment.

“Well then, I say it’s too bad you don’t get furious all the time. Our family fortunes might improve.” Mother gave a sharp little laugh. “Now, then, I don’t doubt that Miss Williams is all the things you say she is. But that doesn’t change the simple fact that she doesn’t have money or a family name. We must have one or both, James. Surely as a practical man, you see the wisdom of this.”

A white-hot shaft of anger pierced through James, painful in its intensity. Talking and arguing with Mother would get him nowhere. She was as determined in her way as he was in his. This was futile. He must convince Lucy to marry him with or without his mother’s approval. In time, his mother might soften when she saw what a lovely person Lucy really was. But until then—

“I am determined, Mother. We shall never speak of this again.”

“Your mind is set, then?” Mother folded her hands in her lap with the same calm deliberation that a man might use when choosing his dueling pistols.

He nodded. She might as well know the truth. He’d never budge.

“Well, then. There’s nothing for this poor old woman to do but slink off to bed.” She rose and planted a kiss on his cheek and stalked out of the room. But something in the tilt of her head—the stiff carriage of her back—told him that the battle had just begun.

Mother would have been an excellent soldier. Even Wellington himself would find her formidable.

’Twas going to be a long fortnight.

Chapter Eighteen

T
hank the good Lord, a man could still attend his veterans’ group meetings without Mother or Mary by his side. James mounted the stone steps of the chapel two at a time, a spring almost in his step. He might even whistle. An hour or two away from Mother’s agitated company was like a furlough. Macready had been dancing attendance on Mary since the disastrous dinner party a week ago, and Mother was frothing at the mouth that Mary hadn’t attracted a more lucrative prospective husband. Getting away from her frustration was a tremendous relief.

And there was the chance to see Lucy today. He hadn’t seen her since she left with Macready after dinner that night. An urge to apologize, to soothe and to bolster her flagging confidence fought for primacy in his being. She must know what she meant to him, no matter how Mother behaved.

The door of the chapel banged open, and Lieutenant Cantrill stormed out, his face as dark as a thundercloud.

“What ho, L-Lieutenant?” James called. Perhaps something was amiss, and he could help.

“Rowland,” Cantrill acknowledged with a brief nod. Cantrill reached out and caught the lieutenant’s good arm.

“M-may I b-be of assistance?” By Jove, Cantrill looked ready for a fight. Even his arm was tensed as though he were prepared to strike a blow.

Cantrill hesitated a moment, as though weighing his words. “That cur Bradbury made an improper offer to my Sophie. And now she has fled. She’s gone home to Tansley.” He spat the words out as though they choked him. “When I lay hands on that...that deceitful wretch I will thrash him within an inch of his life.”

Well, that would be disastrous. Lord Bradbury was one of the wealthiest men in Bath—if not in all of England. His power was far-reaching, his influence extensive. Cantrill should confront him for his improper actions, of course, but in a less belligerent frame of mind. He must stall his friend until his temper was a little less...combative. “How d-did you find out? Are you certain it’s the t-truth?”

“Of course it’s true. Lucy Williams just told me everything.” Cantrill withdrew a leather pouch from his coat pocket, giving it a shake so it jingled. “She gave me this, too. Money. My dearest Sophie sold the bracelet that blackguard gave her to help fund a ministry for the women here in the veterans’ group.” He gave a long, shuddering sigh. “What a fool I am. I should never have listened to my brother. My family—they poisoned my mind against her.”

He could well relate to that. A wrench of pain seized his gut. If meddling mamas had their way, there would be no happy marriages in all of England. He nodded, looking Cantrill squarely in the eye. “If Lucy says it’s so, then you c-can be assured it’s the truth, no m-matter how sordid the circumstances sound. But you must g-gain some c-control over yourself. You c-can’t thrash a man like B-Bradbury. Have some sense.”

“I must be allowed to do something,” Cantrill muttered, his mouth twisted into a grimace. “It’s not right for him to get away with that.”

“C-confront him, certainly,” James agreed. “But leave physical violence out of the matter unless you want to end up in gaol. I work for the m-man. His influence in this city is p-profound.” If all else failed, he could interfere on his friend’s behalf, but he hoped it would not come to that.

Cantrill gave a long, shuddering sigh. “I will go and brazen this out now.”

“You must p-promise me not t-to use violence to settle the matter.” James laid a restraining hand on Cantrill’s arm. ’Twas odd to be holding back a superior officer; in the army, he would never have attempted to do so. But now, in civilian life, he gained an authority that the uniform never leant him.

“I give my word.” Cantrill clenched his jaw as though wishing he could bite the words back. He flung off James’s hold and tore down the rest of the steps, fury evident in every line of his body.

James turned and continued his progress up the steps. He must find Lucy. She was, in all likelihood, quite shaken from her encounter with Cantrill.

The church was abuzz with activity. Men stood shoulder to shoulder and hailed James in hearty voices as he entered the narthex. “If ye’re looking for Miss Williams, she’s in the back with the young’uns,” a grizzled veteran said, jerking his thumb over one shoulder. “She’s right patient with them, despite their high spirits.”

The corner of James’s mouth quirked. Everyone knew that he and Lucy spent far too much time together. He’d have to marry her. If not, he had a sneaking suspicion that the veterans’ group would have his hide for leading her a pretty dance.

And there she was. She sat on the stone floor—two children nestled in her lap and a group of half a dozen urchins kneeling on the floor in a half circle around her. She was bestowing upon them her loveliest smile, a smile that lit her eyes with an amber glow. He caught his breath, watching her as she told the children a story, her lilting voice carrying over the din from the men gathered at the front of the church.

As he drew near, she looked up and caught his gaze. A pretty pink flush stole over her cheeks and she finished her tale rather abruptly as he came to stand beside her. He took her hand, and as the children tumbled from her lap, he helped her to rise. Her hand, so small within his, was cold. He chafed the top of her hand with his thumb.

“I just saw C-Cantrill,” he murmured into her ear as he drew her to her feet. “That was a brave thing you d-did. Most women would have merely sent round a note or some such.”

“I thought the direct approach was best.” She withdrew her hand from his, keeping her eyes cast down. “I did it rather more quickly than Sophie wanted, but I wanted the lieutenant to know as soon as possible.”

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered. If only he could recapture her hands again, just for a moment. He’d been deprived of her for only a week, but it felt like an eternity.

“Hush.” She took a step backward, the rosiness in her cheeks deepening. “You shouldn’t speak so.”

“We’re engaged,” he responded, closing the distance between them with a single step. “If I weren’t t-to speak t-to you in this fashion, something would b-be sorely amiss.”

“We’re not engaged—not formally,” she admitted, and placed her hands on his chest in a warning gesture. “And we are in church. I would ask you to remember where you are and what you are about.”

“When may we b-be formally engaged?” His voice held an urgent note. “You’ve m-m-met my family. When m-may we announce it?”

“Your mother sent around a note to invite me to tea tomorrow.” She removed her hands from his person and folded them across her chest. “I don’t feel it’s right to say anything until after I’ve met with her.”

“Very well.” He looked at her from under his brows. “You are very stubborn, Miss Williams. Has anyone ever t-told you that?”

She shrugged, the ghost of a smile crossing her pretty lips. “I’m not being stubborn. Merely wise and prudent.” She leaned over, looking past him, and nodded. “Macready? How are you this morning?”

Oh, blast. He’d only had Lucy to himself for a few moments. Why couldn’t Macready make himself scarce? He turned to face his brother in arms, warning writ plain on his face. “Macready.”

“Miss Williams, Rowland.” Macready nodded to each in turn. “I hate to interrupt, but—could I speak to you in private, Rowland?”

Lucy gathered her books into her leather satchel and scooped it into her arms. “Of course, Lieutenant. I was just leaving.” She curtsied and brushed past them, and as she passed, he touched her silken sleeve.

“T-tomorrow,” he murmured.

She kept her head bent down but nodded—the gesture so slight that if he’d blinked, he would have missed it.

After she was out of earshot, Macready turned to James. “Are you going to marry her?”

“If she’ll have me.” Whether or not his mother liked her was no longer an impediment. Mother asked her to tea, didn’t she? So that boded well.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Macready pulled him over to the side of the pew, glancing back over his shoulder. “Sit, won’t you?”

“What’s this all about?” ’Twas thoroughly annoying to have Macready interrupt his few precious moments with Lucy and then this nonsense about looking over his shoulder and making sure no one overhead—he was behaving like an inept robber in a farce. But Macready looked so serious that worry started to gnaw. What could this be about? Was his friend ill, or in some sort of trouble?

Macready leaned up against the wall, staring down at James with an inscrutable expression on his face. “I love your sister. And I am asking your permission to seek her hand in marriage.”

The coiled tension within James broke. He laughed—the first time he’d really laughed in a fortnight. “You l-love M-Mary?”

Macready’s face grew pale, and his eyes darkened. “It’s not funny. Cease with your laughter.”

“No, no.” James shook his head. He’d seen the glow in Mary’s eyes at dinner that night. She, no doubt, returned Macready’s feelings tenfold. “I’m just so relieved. Mary is a g-good girl and will make you a fine wife. I should love to call you b-brother-in-law.”

Macready’s shoulders, which had risen defensively, settled back into position. “Thank the good Lord above. I thought for a moment you found the idea too ridiculous to even entertain. I am, after all, penniless and wounded. Hardly much of a man.”

“W-well, I know you. You’re a g-g-good fellow. I know you’ll p-p-provide for M-Mary.” He hesitated briefly. ’Twas odd to be asking these questions of Macready but so tradition dictated. He’d nearly died that night at Waterloo. So his character was, in some ways, quite apparent to James. No further character references would be necessary. On the other hand, one’s sister had to have food and clothing and shelter—the necessities. “I s-s-suppose I should ask h-how.”

“My father wants me to return to Essex and help manage the estate. My elder brother, Samuel, will take over, but I can help manage the tenants. We’d have our own little home and a small living. It’s not much, but it would be enough.” Macready looked down at the floor, as though fascinated by its surface. “I was planning on leaving Bath soon anyway. My wounds have healed enough that I can begin working again. And seeing your progress with Felton, I was inspired to work. Then, when Mary came, I knew the necessity of it.”

James nodded and rose, extending his hand. “Well then, my good fellow, I look forward to calling you ‘brother’ soon.”

Macready clasped his hand warmly. “There’s just one thing,” he added. “Your mother. I am sure she will object to me, as penniless as I am.”

“I won’t d-deny that Mother has some rather high-flown plans for Mary, but my sister has no d-dowry and few connections. Our name is respectable but not illustrious. The likelihood of her finding a spectacular match is highly unlikely.” James shrugged. “B-besides, I’d rather she m-m-marry for love. She d-deserves happiness.”

“I shall spend the rest of my life trying to make her happy,” Macready said gallantly. “And what of you? When will you marry your love? Sooner rather than later, I hope.”

“The s-s-sooner the b-better. If I have m-my way, Lucy and I will share in each other’s h-happiness b-b-before long,” he admitted.

“Good. I was afraid that your mother would interfere there, as well. She didn’t seem very enamored of Lucy at dinner the other evening.”

“My mother thinks she is a lot more influential than she is,” James replied with an uneasy laugh. Macready’s conversation was not adding to his feelings of certainty. He’d put a stop to it now. “I’ll marry Lucy. Even if we have to elope to Gretna Green.”

* * *

Lucy smoothed her lavender skirts with a nervous gesture. This gown, like the buttercup-yellow one she’d worn to dinner, had been part of Sophie’s wardrobe, left behind when she fled Bath. The rest of the gowns were in the satchel she’d brought with her. Perhaps if she arrived with a peace offering of several pretty gowns for Mary, Charlotte Rowland would look more kindly on her.

She let herself in the gate and permitted herself a moment’s luxury of looking at James’s home one more time. How peaceful it was and how lovely. Not imposing like Lord Bradbury’s residence but snug and comfortable as a home should be. This was a home meant for a family. A home that asked only to be lived in. The kind of home that she’d dreamed about in the orphanage. Just a place of her own—to be with people she loved.

She knocked on the door, and Mrs. Peyton answered. “Oh, bless you. What on earth have you got there?” She took the satchel from Lucy’s shoulder and beckoned her in. “Come in, come in. Mrs. Rowland is waiting for you in the parlor.” The housekeeper smiled kindly. “I made cinnamon scones, my specialty. I hope you like them.”

Lucy nodded, her heart warming to Mrs. Peyton. What a good find she was. James was certainly lucky to have her.

Mrs. Peyton led the way to the parlor and opened the door with a flourish. Charlotte Rowland sat near the empty hearth, a small table laid before her. Lucy’s nose wrinkled appreciatively at the scent of those scones. Goodness, she was hungry. She had been so nervous she hadn’t been able to eat all day. But now that she was actually going through with the meeting, and now that she could smell those delicious scones, her head swirled. She sought a chair near the table before her knees gave out.

Charlotte waited to speak until Mrs. Peyton had retreated, closing the door behind her with a gentle click. “How good of you to spend some time with me, Miss Williams.” Her voice was so quiet, so well bred. Why, just from her tone, you could tell that she came from a cultured, cosseted background. “Here, have some tea. You look rather peaked.”

“Thank you.” Lucy accepted the steaming teacup gratefully. “It smells wonderful. But please, call me Lucy. I feel like I know you so well already. Your son has always spoken so highly of you.” It was a little white lie, but still—one had an obligation to be socially polite.

There was a brief knock at the door, and Mrs. Peyton bustled back in. “I forgot to leave your satchel, Miss Williams. Here you go.” She laid the leather bag on a nearby settee and bowed back out of the room.

“What did you bring?” Charlotte arched an elegant eyebrow in surprise.

“A friend of mine is a modiste here in Bath, and she left me several gowns when she moved away,” Lucy explained. “But as a governess, I have very few occasions to wear pretty clothes and bright colors. I thought Mary might like them.”