The Lie and the Lady (45 page)

Leticia could only stare at Margaret. There was nothing like fisticuffs to energize a usually quite placid young lady.

“Sir Barty is here?” she asked, and Helen nodded. “I think I should speak with him. I owe him an explanation. Would you mind . . . ?”

“Not at all,” Helen replied, rising. “I'll go tell him. And . . . any decision you make, Leticia, I hope you know that at least this Helmsley lady will not judge you for it.”

And with that Helen left the room, the door quietly clicking closed behind her.

Leaving Leticia with Margaret.

“I . . . I likely owe you an explanation too,” she began, oddly unable to look up from her tea.

“Whatever for?” Margaret asked.

“Well . . . as you said, it would have made things a great deal clearer had I told you about Mr. Turner in the beginning. But I was so . . . surprised to see him, and then you told me you had an interest in him . . .”

“Oh, that,” Margaret said, her eyes going wide. “Yes, I suppose you do owe me an explanation for that.”

“I was flustered,” she replied. “That was really the only explanation that I had. But that your feelings were tangled up in my bad decisions is truly my greatest regret in all of this. If I could turn back time . . .”

“But you cannot,” Margaret said. “And it's just as well, I suppose. I've come to the conclusion that Mr. Turner is not at all for me.”

“He's . . . he's not?” Leticia asked weakly.

“No. I figured it out on the dance floor at the ball, and then it was cemented this morning in the churchyard. Indeed, my infatuation with him seems to have been nothing more than youthful fancy.”

“Youthful fancy?” Leticia replied, letting out a gasp of laughter. “You first told me you wished to marry him three weeks ago!”

“And I was much younger then. After all, there are flowers—beautiful, bright orange lilies—that blossom and die in the space of a week. Surely a love can live and die in three.”

“Yes,” Leticia mused. Or perhaps it can grow. Wakened from dormancy and brought to full life. “So you no longer care for Mr. Turner,” she summarized. “And just to be clear and concise, you do not care for Mr. Blackwell either?”

“Mr. Blackwell? God no!” Margaret cried. “Why on earth would you think such a thing?”

“Just . . . my own stupidity,” Leticia said, shaking her head.

Besides, with prison on Mr. Blackwell's horizon, he wouldn't be marrying anyone soon.

“Have you seen his gardens?” Margaret was saying, still stuck on the subject. “Barely a potted plant in evidence. So, I was thinking perhaps you should marry him instead.”

Leticia's eyes flew up.

“Mr. Blackwell?”

“No—Mr. Turner.”

Leticia froze.

“After all, he meets all of your criteria.”

“My criteria?” she replied, feeling a bit like a parrot.

“You told me people who intend to marry should have common goals and ideals. You and he have quite a bit in common.”

“We have nothing in common.” Leticia practically laughed.

“You have each other in common,” Margaret said. “Your shared past.”

“It's . . . we knew each other for a fortnight last summer, it's not enough.”

“I think it would depend on the weeks in question. I could not tell you what I was doing for two weeks last summer unless I consulted the records of my research. But I imagine you remember those two weeks exceptionally well.”

Leticia was silent. That fortnight, even with the specter of the Lie, was indelible in her mind. She knew every conversation, every glance by heart.

“But more importantly, you told me that a man that is worthy of me is someone who cares for me, who will wish to take care of me, and whom I wish to take care of in turn. I think perhaps Mr. Turner would do anything for you. He tried to protect you from Mr. Blackwell. And the way you tried to help him, I should think it's the same for you.”

Yes, he had tried to protect her, standing between her and Blackwell, even though she had resigned herself to Blackwell telling everyone the truth when she'd left Bluestone Manor the day before. And even though she told herself she did it for her own gain, the truth was, she'd done everything in her power to help Turner regain his mill, his position in Helmsley. However . . .

“We've had very different lives.”

“Doesn't mean you can't have the same one now. Two plants of different species will sometimes cross-pollinate to make something entirely new.” Margaret cocked her head to the side, serious. “What's expected of you isn't always what is right for you.”

She let the girl's words sink in. It had been second nature to resist this line of thought . . . the whispers in her mind that said she could be happy with John Turner, that she could give up the life of a countess and go back to living in a mill yard.

It's not as if being a countess had treated her very well anyway.

But there was still one consideration left.

“Margaret, I've made a promise to Sir Barty.”

“True. However, I find myself agreeing with my daughter.” Sir Barty's voice floated quietly through the room. They both turned to see him standing there, hesitating at the entrance to the sitting room. “Are you feeling better, m'd—my lady?”

“Much,” she replied. “Margaret, could you give us a moment?”

Margaret glanced from her father to Leticia, then quickly rose with her cup of tea, pausing only to scoop up a finger sandwich or two before exiting the room.

Where on earth to start?

“Thank you so much for taking care of me,” Leticia began.

“Of course,” he said, sitting next to her. “What kind of person would I be to have left you in the churchyard?”

“Yes, of course. But I meant before.” She took a deep breath and met his eyes, which were wide with surprise. “You took me in once when we met in Paris. I had nowhere to go, and no way to get there. But you brought me to Helmsley, made me welcome in your home. You protected me with your good name. And I . . . I have not been worthy of it.”

“How can that be?” he asked, fishing in his pocket and bringing out a handkerchief for her. “You knew Blackwell was no good. You brought Margaret out of her shell—I never thought I'd see my daughter dance at a ball. You . . . you're the finest thing I've seen since I lost my darling Hortense.” He took her hand in his. “But you're not mine, are you?”

Leticia gave him a watery smile. “No. I'm afraid not. You see, last night, Mr. Turner and I . . . we . . .”

Pink grew on his cheeks as the clock ticked on the mantel, echoing in the silence as he understood.

“That's all right, m'dear, you don't have to elaborate.”

She nodded gratefully as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“However, I have to say that the offer to . . . take care of you is still open, if your young man doesn't come up to scratch. But I doubt that is what you wish.”

She gave him a watery smile. “I'd rather not disgrace you in that way.”

“Even if I decide I don't mind?”

She nodded sadly. “Even then.”

“Then that's the way it is,” he said with a sigh.

They sat together for a still moment, his hand holding hers. But letting each other go.

“Do you know . . . I don't know what to do now,” Sir Barty said at last, staring sadly out the window. “I thought I had a solution. I thought I had a path again.”

Leticia's heart broke for the man—so kind, so generous . . . generous in a way that had nothing to do with money. He was everything she'd thought she wanted.

But unfortunately, he was not what she needed.

“Perhaps . . .” she ventured with a spark of realization, “you should ask Helen.”

“Helen?”

“I've found her counsel very wise over the past few weeks. She's become a good friend to me, and has always been a good friend to you.” She patted his hand. “Helen will know exactly what to do.”

Sir Barty considered her words, then his eyes brightened with the idea. “I'm still ahead in our game of cribbage.” A slow smile of glee came over his features. “She'll be itching for a chance to even the score.”

He rose to his feet, his back straighter than it had been since they first met, his need for his cane almost minimal. Then he turned.

“But what about you, m'dear? What will happen to you?”

Leticia smiled up at her would-be husband. Her eyes were heavy with teardrops, but her vision was completely clear.

“For once, Sir Barty, I know exactly where I should be.”

“WHERE THE HELL
are you taking me?” Turner called after Rhys as they crossed the mill yard.

“Where do you think?” Rhys replied. “I promised your mother that I would take you home.”

“Dammit, man, my mother does not run my life.”

“All evidence to the contrary.”

Even with Sir Barty's instructions, it had taken the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon for the constable—who did have the power to issue warrants and make arrests—to sort out what had occurred. Only after testimony from Dr. Gray, Mr. Jenkins, and the assorted ladies of Helmsley, who vouched for him against Blackwell's repeated accusations of assault, did he declare Turner was free to go.

He could only hope that he was not too late.

“This is a waste of time. I need to go into town, not out of it.”

“Whatever for?” Rhys asked as they walked past the house and toward the mill itself.

“To hire a carriage.”

“Oh really?” echoed a voice from high above. “Whatever for?”

They looked up. And Turner's heart leapt to his throat upon seeing Leticia—his Letty—standing on the balcony of the windmill.

He'd been so certain she would have gone. That when she awoke after her admittedly less than graceful swoon, she would have made good on her intention to leave town. That she would not want to face the scandal that loomed.

That least of all, she would not want to face him.

“Hello, John,” she said, smiling down at them, her hand shading her eyes from the midafternoon sun. “Hello, Dr. Gray.”

“My lady,” Dr. Gray said with a nod. “I trust your head is feeling better?”

“Quite,” she replied.

“What are you doing here?” Turner blurted out.

“Don't you know? This is where I am supposed to be.”

His heart, already lodged in his throat, began to thrum like a hummingbird's. “Yes,” he declared, a smile spreading across his features. “Yes it is.”

And with that, he burst through the door of the mill and bounded up the spiral staircase three steps at a time, his speed veritably setting the sails to spinning.

He reached the landing. And saw her.

She was standing against the sun, a halo of light around her, her dress—the same lace and silk that she had worn when she came to him the night before—dancing lightly around her ankles in the breeze.

“You're here,” he breathed. He kept himself at an arm's length—he was afraid to touch her. Afraid she wasn't real . . . and his skin itching to find out if she was.

“I am.”

“I thought you would have left. Gone . . . to find a new place.”

She cocked her head to one side. “I don't think I have anywhere left to go.”

“Because now word will spread,” he stated flatly.

“No, because I've looked everywhere else for my home, so I should think that I'd know it when I found it.”

Now he let himself touch her. One hand lifted to gently caress a piece of hair that had fallen behind her ear. For a woman who worked so hard to present herself perfectly, was it any wonder he was fascinated by the imperfections?

“Oh, you think you've found your home, have you?”

She leaned into him, whispering as her mouth met his. “I know it.”

Turner felt the world fall away beneath him. It was as if his feet lifted off the balcony, floating on the air. His body sparked to life, his arms wrapping around her body, holding her close, as close as two people ever were and ever would be.

He'd never been so happy. Never knew he was capable of it.

Except . . .

“I'm sorry,” he said, breaking free from her arms. “About what happened at the church.”

“You are?” she asked, confused. “I'm not.”

“I should have stopped Blackwell from saying anything about you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Hell, I shouldn't have confronted him.”

“Stop it,” she said, stepping forward and placing her hand on his chest. “I knew he would tell the world. By not caring, it relieved him of the only weapon he had over me. Over us.”

“There is going to be controversy,” Turner warned. “You will face a great deal of scrutiny. The countess and the miller? We all will.”

“You once said that if we stood together, weathering the storm would be easier.” She smiled at him. “Besides, I think there will be a great deal of controversy from all corners of Helmsley for a little while. With any luck, ours will get lost in the scuffle.”