The Reluctant Bride Collection Page 52

  Only the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

  Only the cows lowing softly.

  Only Alice weeping and his father mourning and his brother dying.

  Pray for him.

  Comfort him.

  Hear his sins.

  Be a vicar, when he would rather be anything but.

  George picked up a little twig that lay on the grass, twisting it in fingers.

  He still had the twig Miss Twiggy had given him. A token of her esteem, and he’d felt so stupid for cherishing it.

  For thinking he’d loved her when she’d been lying about who she was.

  Just like he was lying about who he was. Lying still.

  A vicar, when he was anything but.

  “It isn’t the same,” he said to the twig.

  But. . .what kind of woman gave a man a twig as her favor?

  What kind of man would cherish a twig?

  And how would she have known?

  And he wondered for the first time just how many there had been. How many men had thought they’d found their future when they’d found her.

  He still thought of her, far too often.

  Still wished he could sit next to her. Here. And tell her about his brother and Alice. Tell her about his father.

  Talk with her and tell her all the horrible parts of himself and listen for her censure and then, never hear it.

  As if she already knew.

  I don’t know why I like you, she’d said. Sour, she’d described him.

  George smiled.

  He was sour. And he sourly missed her.

  She didn’t exist, and he still missed her.

  George went back to his knees and worked once more clearing around his mother’s grave.

  Loving mother, devoted wife.

  And then below that, hidden beneath the growth and neglect.

  Thy will be done.

  George stopped and stared, wondering why his father had added that. The man was not known for being humble, for meekly accepting what life handed him when he could just as easily play God himself.

  Except he hadn’t been able to save his wife. Hadn’t been able to heal his son.

  Only to work with what he was given.

  To somehow know what was a choice and what wasn’t.

  How was one supposed to know the difference? How was one supposed to know His will when there was never any answer?

  Only the birds and the cows and the wind.

  Only a long-buried mother. Only a brother he loved and hated.

  And a woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  George. . .didn’t pray, couldn’t pray, but he whispered, “I’m not a vicar. I can’t do it.”

  But, what else was there?

  Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns. . .

  George looked up.

  Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. . .

  George looked down.

  Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?

  George stood up.

  Matthew 6:26-30

  George sucked in a breath and heard nothing else.

  Alice and Lord St. Clair were inside Henry’s room when George climbed back up the stairs. They rose, as if to leave, and he stopped them with a raised hand.

  He stood at the foot of Henry’s bed and opened his Book of Common Prayer.

  And for the first and last time, he comforted his brother and prayed for his healing and heard his sins.

  For the first and last time, he prayed with his whole heart.

  For the first and last time, he was a vicar.

  He began, “Peace be to this house, and to all that dwell in it. . .”

  Honora stayed in York longer than a week.

  Three little girls had clung to her, crying and wailing, and Freddy’s little chin had wobbled while he’d tried not to, and Honora had given in.

  Her father wouldn’t have been surprised by her lack of resolve anyway, though she did refuse to eat meals with him again. And after the first night she went without dinner, a tray had been sent to her room each evening.

  There were many things she thought of her father, but he would not let her starve while she stayed under his roof. Would not throw her out if she wouldn’t leave herself, and somedays she wished he was universally hard. That she didn’t have to reconcile his care for her with his utter lack of respect.

  But she stayed, and she stayed away from him. She surrounded herself with her sisters, brushing hair and tying ribbons and listening non-stop because they never stopped talking. She played with her brother, glad that her father had finally got the son he wanted more than anything.

  Honora was allowed to take them out of the house as long as a maid and a footman accompanied them, and she knew her father hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that he would keep Chastity from making the same mistakes her mother had. That there would be no opportunity for sin to enter his household again.

  The maid and footmen sandwiched their little group today. Honora, Temperance, and Chastity had decided to take a walk atop the restored sections of the city wall– Honora wanted to see the new Victoria Bar entrance that had been opened in the wall since she’d left and the girls had both been promised a small birthday gift.

  The girls chatted happily and Honora pointed out sights that were somehow both intimately familiar and long forgotten, and she nearly missed the gentleman leaning against the wall inside one of the circular tower outcroppings.

  His hat sat squarely on top of his head and he read the newspaper as if he didn’t have a care in the world and Honora’s stomach filled with lead.

  She stopped pointing and talking, tilting her chin down to hide her face with her hat. She forced herself to keep pace with her sisters and not turn and run like she wanted to.

  They passed him, her sisters still laughing and giggling. One step, ten steps, fifteen. . .

  And then a voice behind her called out, “Oh, Miss Kempe? How do you do?”

  The girls stopped, turning to see who had called out, and Honora ground to a halt.

  He knew her name. Her real name.

  Honora turned slowly and faced George. She forced the dread from her voice before saying, “Why, Mr. St. Clair. You’ve found me.”

  He folded his paper and took a step forward and Honora took an involuntary step back. She murmured to the footman, “Take the girls ahead. I’ll only be a minute.”

  When the footman hesitated, she said with a guileless smile, “I won’t stray from your view.”

  The footman began herding the girls forward and George pulled his hat from his head, sketching a slight bow.

  “You look well,” he said.

  “And you.”

  She looked behind her, making sure her party was out of earshot, then dropped her smile.

  “Are you here alone or should I look for Mr. Moffat as well?”

  George replaced his hat and motioned for her to continue on her journey. She hesitated, looking over the side of the wall, and he said, “Don’t worry. It’s too short of a fall for there to be much use in chucking you over.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, then turned and began walking toward her sisters very slowly.

  He joined her, saying, “Last I heard, Mr. Moffat was in Bath. He journeyed there from Edinburgh.”

  Honora forgot to breathe.

  “He’d made friends with a haberdasher. Are you all right, Miss Kempe? You look pale.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Fine.”

  “Hm. How many were there?”

  She didn’t answer, her heart beating too loud for her to think of anything clever, and George tilted his head.

  “Fellows you’ve jilted,” he clarified, as if she didn’t know what he was asking. And when she still couldn’t answer, he frowned. “That many?”
<
br />   “Why are you here? To see that I am punished for my crimes? I stole nothing from you.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “We were engaged for but one day. No one knew.”

  “I knew,” he said and Honora closed her eyes briefly.

  George said, “I wanted to find you. The real you.” He looked at the little party ahead of them. “This was not what I was expecting. The daughter of a dean? Well-off and well-cared for. No need for your charades, at all.”

  Need. Honora supposed she could have stayed and died living under her father’s roof. It’s what she should have done.

  But every day, she’d watched her baby grow older and everyday she’d been able to breathe less and less.

  Even now, she looked at Chastity and the rage built inside her breast. Rage at the way the world was. Rage that she couldn’t do anything to change it.

  Only rage at it, and hurt, and make those who would never have to suffer like she had, pay.

  She said, “No need. Only a choice I made. How did you find me?”

  “Would you believe that as soon as I wondered where you’d run off to, I thought of York? Realized that you’d spoken of York with longing in your voice and then it was but a short jump to conclude you might come here. Though if you had not been here. . .I don’t know where I would have headed next. Perhaps to Bath like Mr. Moffat; forced to work backwards to find out from whence you came.”

  “It was very clever of you, Mr. St. Clair. I applaud you.”

  He smiled at her tone. “Yes, you sound quite appreciative. Are those your sisters?”

  Honora whirled toward him, stepping in front of him and stopping them both.

  She didn’t know what she would have said. If she would have begged to keep her sisters, her family, safe.

  She’d never thought, never, that anyone could have followed her trail back to York.

  Never thought that if she’d been caught, anyone else would pay except for her.

  But before she could say anything, George asked softly, “Was it a hard choice?”

  “No. I hated. It wasn’t hard at all.”

  “Did you hate me?”

  She didn’t answer and he pulled his hand from his pocket. Held a twig up for her to see.

  Her twig?

  “It’s a strange token,” he said. “And I’m still wondering, Miss Kempe. Why I liked you. If you liked me.”

  He looked at the twig and she looked at him. He said, “I’m still wondering if any of it was real.”

  “Would you even believe me if I said yes?”

  “Perhaps.” He put the twig back in his pocket. “But I’ve not been eating consistently since I left my father’s house and I am hungry.”

  She snorted, then looked down quickly. “And you hate.”

  He said softly, “Perhaps.”

  He started walking again, forcing her out of his path. “But mostly, I’m just confused.”

  Honora didn’t follow him. She watched his back walk slowly away, looked at her sisters as they tried to get glimpses of Honora’s mysterious gentleman.

  Run. Run.

  George turned and he murmured, “Honora.”

  Her real name.

  He held out his hand to her and Honora said, “You know nothing about me.”

  He smiled. “It’s not nothing. But it’s not enough. I don’t think I will ever know enough about you.”

  Nine

  Honora took him home and fed him in her father’s garden. An impromptu picnic and Chastity had whispered loudly, “Is this your troll, Honora?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d better go find a parasol,” the little girl had said matter-of-factly and run inside.

  George raised an eyebrow and Honora raised one in return. “It seemed a fitting description.”

  Fanny clapped her hands, sending her remaining children to search for a very specific flower in the organized beds. They ran around, searching and laughing, out of earshot but never out of sight.

  George bit into his bread and butter, closing his eyes in near ecstasy.

  Honora watched him. “You really have been hungry.”

  “My father has disowned me. I can only hope it is temporary.”

  “And took away your living, too?”

  George shook his head. “That’s why he’s disowned me. I’ve given up my living.”

  Honora looked away. She’d never stayed to see what happened after her broken engagements. Had never wondered how they’d fared with family and friends.

  She’d never cared.

  George said, “And since you ask. . .”

  He waited and she didn’t and he said, “I gave it up because I was living a lie. And I am tired of lies at the moment.”

  He met her eyes over another bite of bread. “I came for the truth, Miss Kempe.”

  “The truth won’t make you feel any better. Mr. Moffat wasn’t the first, though I’d hoped you’d be the last.”

  “And I’d already known all of that. How many were there?”

  “Counting you?”

  “I would prefer if you didn’t.”

  She smiled at him. Then stopped.

  She said softly, “Mr. Moffat was the sixth.”

  He looked at the large garden, the house behind her. “But. . .why?”

  Honora sniffed and shifted in her seat and folded her arms. And then she told him the truth.

  “Because the six does not include the one who came before them all. The one who preyed on a lonely girl and stole her honor. A married man who’d lied about who he was and left her with child, left her alone to suffer in shame. You know what he stole from me when he took my honor? My life.”

  Honora watched the children running around and didn’t look at him. There was no middle ground in their world. An unmarried woman was either a virgin or a whore. And she didn’t want to watch him realize which one she was.

  She whispered, “No matter what I took from those six men, I never took their life. I couldn’t have; not like mine was taken from me.”

  George asked softly, “Did you love him?”

  “If I say yes, does it change anything?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I didn’t. I was young and stupid. I was lonely and alone. . . I thought I was alone, at least.”

  A bird twittered in the branches above their heads and she said softly, “Does it change anything if I wish I had loved him? If I wish there had been a good reason for having to give up my child?”

  George sighed, putting his bread down and pushing his plate away.

  “What happened?” he asked with dread in his voice, because if anyone had a worse life than a fallen woman, it was the child of a fallen woman.

  And Honora knew she was lucky. Lucky to know that her child was well-cared for. Lucky to know anything at all about her child. Lucky to feel the pain sear into her soul again and again.

  Honora watched three of her siblings try to find a flower Honora suspected did not exist. In a garden that used to be hers, with a family she did not belong in.

  “My father sacrificed his immortal soul, threatened his earthly comfort, and gave her his name. He lied. Do you know what it does to a man of God to have to lie every day? To never be able to confess his sin without destroying what he loves? He saved us both with his lies. And I will hate him and love him for it until I die.”

  The tears prickled and Honora said through them, “My stepmother took my baby as her own. Loved mine when hers wasn’t even a year old. Do you know what it does to you when the woman who replaces your mother is selfless and kind and you hate her?” The tears were still swimming when she looked back at him. “Swindling half a dozen men doesn’t even sting.”

  “I think that it must have hurt you, no matter what you say.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself that I am a good woman, George? A good woman would have stayed here, under her father’s roof. Become a spinster and hidden her shame. Watched her child grow. Reveled in each stab as her da
ughter called someone else mother.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I wanted. I wanted more than the scraps a husband-less woman is allotted. I wanted freedom. I wanted to forget. And I wanted to hurt.” She clasped her hands in her lap, careful not to squeeze them. Careful to be relaxed. “I wanted a life.”

  “Did you find one?”

  She had. With him. She’d found a place where she belonged.

  She didn’t answer and George said softly, “Honora.”

  Her name, again. And every cold part of her warmed.

  She closed her eyes, tightening them. Tightening every muscle to keep from throwing herself at him and begging his forgiveness. Begging him to love her when she was Honora and not Letitia.

  “Honora,” he said again, and when she opened her eyes, George was looking behind her.

  At a dark-haired little girl peeking out from behind a hedge, her face stricken and her tears flowing and her hands clutching a parasol tightly to her chest.

  Chastity was her mother’s daughter.

  Honora could see the accusation in the reverend’s eyes and she couldn’t deny it.

  The little girl had been listening to what she shouldn’t, been where she shouldn’t, and now knew what she shouldn’t.

  Honora had jumped to her feet when she’d seen Chastity hiding behind the hedge and the little girl had started running toward Fanny. Toward her mother, and then she’d just stopped, as if she’d suddenly realized what the words she’d heard meant.

  George had murmured, “I’ll go,” and Honora hadn’t even glanced at him. Had only locked eyes with Fanny, as if they had both been dreading this moment.

  And then the nanny had been called for and Chastity had been shepherded into the library before she could speak, before she could ask, and now she stood, alone in the middle of the room as if she didn’t know any of them.

  Charles motioned Chastity to him and she pinched her lips together. “You’re not my papa?”

  He shook his head. “I am Honora’s father. I am your grandfather.”

  Chastity’s shoulders relaxed and she went to lean against his legs. He was still hers, even if his position was one removed from what she’d thought it was.

  But now, with someone to lean against, she could stare holes into the woman who’d borne her. She could more easily ignore the woman who’d raised her.