A Perfect Weakness Page 7

  “Thank you for the ride. And thank you for taking care of William during his last days. You have a kind and soothing manner. I know now his passing was peaceful.” He touched the brim of his hat, mounted his horse, and rode toward the Hall.

  Penelope managed to turn on the wide lane easily enough and make her way back to the road and continue on her way. Her heart took much longer to sort out.

  John rode until he could not help but look back. The cart shrunk as it continued down the road and the weak sun caught her golden head. His fingers still tingled while his heart pounded against his chest and his common sense. He urged Fortis into an easy walk.

  He should have stuck to his resolution of waiting to ask her about William. If he had thought her beautiful before, she was twice so now he had discovered how easy she was to talk to. Not that she would have seen their conversation that way, with its tense moments and long pauses. But whatever she thought of their exchange, for his part he’d come a mere hair’s breadth away from telling her … well, telling her everything. What a disaster that would have been.

  Or perhaps not.

  His tale would keep her far away from him. She seemed trustworthy. His secret would remain safe with her if he asked it of her. But then, there was the other possibility.

  What if Miss Howard chose to show him compassion instead? Maybe even forgiveness. What then? The weight on his heart shifted a fraction. Just as quickly, memory moved it back and somehow made it twice as heavy.

  Compassion? Forgiveness? Never. He wasn’t worthy of either and never would be. God himself couldn’t forgive him. How could Miss Howard?

  He must keep her at arm’s length. He would find out from Thomas when she did her visits and keep to the Hall those days to avoid any chance meetings. And when they did happen to meet, he would curb his natural inclination to praise when praise was due. He hadn’t failed to notice the flush in her cheeks when he’d done so yesterday.

  Despite his better judgment, he nudged Fortis into a light trot. The sooner he got back to the Hall and the sanctuary of the library, the better. There he just might be able to purge her from his thoughts.

  CHAPTER 9

  The gray which edged the sky earlier covered it as Penelope concluded her visits. She called on Mr. Fletcher again to see how he was getting on, but he was not at home. His neighbor told her he went to the cottage hospital. But of course he did. If only she had sent a note to say she was coming. It was no short walk to the hospital from his home. She could have taken him to visit his son, Peter. The neighbor promised her to go fetch him, which set her heart at ease. But then he asked after the new lord, a subject she had been trying to avoid all day in vain. Her visits should have taken her thoughts away from Lord Turner. But with his arrival and the calls he made yesterday, it was “Lord Turner—what a nice new lord of the Hall,” and “My! But the new baron is handsome.” How was she supposed to put him from her mind amidst all their praise?

  She rounded a corner in the lane as she guided her cart toward Fairview. Yesterday she was “admirable.” Today, “kind and soothing.” What had happened to her iron resolve from this morning? Melted by the warmth of praise and a fleeting squeeze of her fingers. And then to be further dissolved by the strong suspicion her uncle had somehow planned them to be together. How apple-red her cheeks must be at this moment. Had Uncle William known just how much she would be drawn to him? What a foolish question. Of course he had. He hadn’t been blind to her behavior all those years ago. Not as she had been. That thought alone cooled her considerably.

  At least she could look forward to teatime. She’d invited the school mistress for the new girls’ school, a Miss Clara Bromley, over this afternoon. With any luck, she would not be interested in the new lord of Ashford Hall as she was not from the general area but from Bristol. Then again, that fact might make the opposite true.

  Penelope made it back to Fairview just as the sky opened up in a light but steady rain. It grew harder as she and Fanny, their maid- of-all-work, were laying out everything in the parlor. Would Miss Bromley come at all? She had no conveyance, so it was entirely possible the wet would keep her at home. But at the agreed-upon time there was a knock at Fairview’s door.

  “Miss Bromley,” Penelope said as Fanny led the school mistress in. “I thought the rain would keep you away.”

  “It wasn’t raining when I left. I thought I could beat it.”

  The poor thing was soaked. “No need to apologize. I’m so glad you’re here. Fanny, help her out of her cloak and bonnet and take them to dry in the kitchen”

  Before long, Penelope had her settled in front of the fire. They had met a few days prior, and she seemed even younger now than she did then. She couldn’t be more than nineteen. “How are you getting on?”

  “Tolerably.” Her small, soft voice grew smaller still as she went on. “As I was going to bed last night, I heard a terrible sound—like a woman screaming.”

  “That was only a fox.” Penelope handed her a cup of tea. “Just a vixen looking for food for her cubs. They sometimes call like that.”

  “Oh.” Her cheeks pinked as she examined her cup. “That is a relief. You must think me terribly foolish. I’ve only ever lived in Bristol.”

  “Not at all. It’s quite understandable.” She was no stranger to that sensation. Hadn’t all the foreign noises in London frightened her when she first went there? “You said your situation was only tolerable just now. Is there something I can do to help?”

  Miss Bromley took a long moment to answer. “If I may be honest, Miss Howard, this is the first time I’ve been away from home.” She paused. “I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m spoiled, but there are aspects of this situation which are new to me.”

  “Such as?” The girl had such a tortured expression. “Please, you may feel free to tell me anything.”

  She set her tea to the side. “I’ve never had to get along on my own before. My family is—was—well off.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I was sent away to help earn money for our family. I’m not used to being without my maid.”

  She touched the low caramel bun at the nape of her neck. Her family’s downfall must have been a recent event.

  “You mean you did that yourself? It’s very good and most suitable for a schoolmistress. As for some of the more practical aspects, I think we can get a woman from the workhouse to help you.”

  “Oh, but I could not pay her.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The school is being funded by an annuity. I’m sure it is generous enough to hire a maid-of-all-work. I will speak to Mr. Gregory.” If some poor soul could escape the workhouse to serve Clara Bromley, all the better.

  “Thank you so very much, Miss Howard.”

  “You are most welcome.” She took a sip. “And you must come to dinner here once a week. My brother and I would love to hear how you and your pupils are doing.”

  “Your brother is the estate agent for Ashford Hall, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is he like?”

  Hoofbeats sounded outside, and Penelope rose. “Come see for yourself.”

  Just because she didn’t care for her uncle’s matchmaking didn’t mean she shouldn’t have a try at it. Clara Bromley was the sort of person Thomas needed. And what a display her brother unwittingly made as he rode up and dismounted. The rain had eased considerably; in fact, he must have come from very close by indeed as there was hardly a speck of mud on him. What would Miss Bromley say about him? She remained still as Thomas strode to the door and out of their view.

  “He’s very handsome.” She raised a hand to her mouth. “Do forgive me. That was too forward.”

  “Not at all,” Penelope said as she guided her back to their seats by the fire. “Especially as you are quite right.”

  Thomas entered the parlor a moment later and pulled up short when he caught sight of their guest. Penelope hid a satisfied smile by taking a sip of tea.

  “Who do we have here?” he asked.

/>   “This is Clara Bromley. She’s to be the mistress of the new girls’ school.”

  “Miss Bromley.” He took a seat with them. “A pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Howard.” Her soft voice strengthened as she spoke. A good sign.

  “But I do apologize. I don’t recall hearing about a girls’ school,” he said.

  “Of course you do,” Penelope replied. “Uncle left an annuity for its establishment. He left the responsibility for it all with Mr. Gregory.”

  “Ah yes, of course.” While he spoke to Penelope, he kept his gaze fixed on Miss Bromley. He was as charming as Penelope had seen him in quite a long time. He hadn’t been like this since before his trip to London so many years ago.

  In a short while, he and Miss Bromley laughed as if they were old friends. Perhaps it was time to make him shine a little more in her eyes.

  “Thomas’ talents are not only in business and organization,” Penelope remarked. “He is an artist.”

  “I’m not in the least surprised.” She raised her chin an inch. “He has that look about him.”

  “A look?” Thomas leaned forward in his seat. “What kind of a look is that?”

  “The look of pure genius, Mr. Howard. It’s in your eyes.” Roses sprang to her cheeks. “I’m sure God has blessed you with a great deal of talent.”

  “Thank you.” Sincerity warmed his voice. “Now I only wish He would bless me with a little more time.”

  The clock on the mantel struck the hour, and Miss Bromley rose. “I should be getting back before it gets dark.”

  “Are you sure?” The rain had started again, and Penelope couldn’t send her back out into it. “It would be no trouble for you to stay for dinner.”

  “But it will be dark by then, and I don’t think the rain will end soon,” Thomas replied. “I could drive her back. We have that little trap in the stables.”

  Penelope hesitated. Yes, the business in London had been many years ago, and Thomas had changed since then. But he clearly had a regard for Clara, and it would not do for either of them to be exposed to gossip. “Why not have young Alfred take her instead? You’ve been riding all day, and I’m sure you’re tired.”

  Only she noticed the way he stiffened beside her and the razor- thin tightness in his voice as he spoke. “I’m not quite as tired as all that.”

  “I wouldn’t want to feel responsible for tiring you out, Mr. Howard.” Miss Bromley’s voice and eyes softened. “A true artist needs his rest.”

  The tension eased. Somewhat. “Perhaps you’re right, Miss Bromley.”

  Penelope did allow him to see their guest to the door unaccompanied. That he disappeared into the study not to emerge until dinner did not surprise her in the least. He was silent through the first portion of their evening meal.

  Enough was enough. “It was not because I do not trust you.”

  The sound of fork and knife against plate was the only reply. His face was rock hard and his movements equally stiff. How could he be angrier now than before?

  “Thomas?”

  “I was under the impression our father was dead and buried,” he replied.

  Penelope laid down her utensils. She may not have sounded like Papa this time, but she had acted like him. But in the end, she stood by her actions. “I did not want either of you exposed to gossip.”

  More silence. But it was easier this time. Eventually, he raised his head. “Perhaps you were right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I wasn’t thinking.” They both resumed eating. After a few moments, he motioned toward her hand. “You didn’t overdo it with your wrist today, did you?”

  “I’m afraid I might have.” It still needed to be re-wrapped. She should have waited another day before driving. Perhaps if the rain held, she would find some activity around Fairview tomorrow.

  “Hmm. Well, I know you’ll rise to the challenge.”

  There it was again. She was his tough old girl. His confidence was gratifying, but, “Thomas, what if I had done worse than sprain my wrist?”

  “You didn’t.”

  “But I could have. Doesn’t that concern you?” She paused. “It used to.”

  “When we were children, yes. We’re not little anymore, Pen. We’re all grown up now.” He pushed aside his empty plate and leaned forward. “I would never want anything to happen to you. I’m your brother, aren’t I?”

  “Of course.” What else could she say to that? It simply wasn’t his way to praise. Not in the way she needed.

  But it did seem to be someone else’s.

  She pushed the thought away, but Thomas brought him back to mind as they moved to the study. “So how do the tenants like Lord Turner?”

  “They are very pleased with him.” She took up some mending from a chair in front of the fire while her brother began to sort through correspondence on his desk. “Though they would like to see him married. Most of them are for Isabella Abbott.”

  “Yes, they were quite taken with that idea. I heard in the village today Sir James and his sister are planning a ball to welcome the new master of Ashford Hall.”

  “Hmmm. I hope they won’t be too disappointed when their efforts come to nothing.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You have to admit, he didn’t seem too keen on the subject the other day.”

  Thomas waved his hand. “He’d been dodging the same sort of question all morning. I probably shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  Penelope directed her attention to Fanny’s torn apron. Perhaps that had accounted for his cross behavior. But what about his indifferent attitude toward the estate? His leg and the fact he had been out all morning and part of the afternoon could account for that. But he hadn’t acted tired at first, and what about his curious behavior earlier today?

  What did it matter, and why should she care? Let him meet and marry Miss Abbott if he fancied her. It would solve a great many problems. She slowed her stitches. It would. No matter what her foolish heart believed.

  “Blast!”

  “What is it?”

  “I have to go into Somerset tomorrow.” Thomas folded up a letter and snapped it back down on his desk. “I hope this rain doesn’t hold.”

  “I’m sure Lord Turner would lend you a carriage. Is there some sort of problem with the new bailiff?”

  “Who? Oh, no.” He drew a slow breath and looked down at the letter. “A problem with a tenant.” He drew his sketchbook over to rest in front of him. “And I was going to paint something I sketched this afternoon.”

  She rose and laid a hand on his back. “I’m so sorry. Is there any way it could wait?”

  “No, the matter is quite pressing.” The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. “I better get to bed. I’ll need to leave early.”

  “Do you think you’ll be home for dinner?” she asked as he tidied his desk.

  “I don’t know, but just to be sure, don’t count on me.” His voice was tight as he finished and headed for the door.

  Apparently, tomorrow was to have been a lighter day for him. It had been so long since he’d been able to escape into the attic studio Mama had insisted on creating. Papa had only agreed to please her. It was spacious and well lit, and Thomas would refine his craft for hours on end. But then Mama died. Papa said it was time Thomas learned a real profession. Thomas left for London and, instead of proving their father wrong, fell into the wrong crowd. Papa had been forced to ask Uncle William to intervene and clean up his mistakes. In the end, Thomas returned and learned the job well, but Papa never allowed him to pick up brush or pencil again. And he never let him forget why.

  After Papa’s death, how many months had it taken for Thomas to realize he was free to create again? Too many. His new work was lacking and didn’t have the charm or the emotion it once had. And he knew it. And as lime will slowly eat away at a hide, so anger and resentment ate at Thomas. Would he ever forgive Papa?

  Forgiveness is a process. She knew tha
t better than anyone. It had taken a long time to forgive Papa’s reaction to her mistakes. But that reaction had been warranted. The whole situation had been, in part, her fault. Papa had wanted to ensure she would never make that mistake again. His reaction had been disappointing but not unforgivable. No one was so far gone that they did not deserve either her forgiveness or—more importantly—God’s.

  She prayed her brother would one day come to see that.

  CHAPTER 10

  John had no business going anywhere near a church. Devils don’t belong in sanctuaries. How ironic this particular devil had to attend to be a good example to his staff and the community. So here he was, parishioners parting like the Red Sea as he made his way down the aisle of St. Andrew’s at the close of services. And all the bows and curtsies. As a doctor, he was used to a title. But he was just a man, a very flawed, very cursed man.

  He made it to the door. Outside at last? No. Mr. Gregory stood between him and fresh air. He smiled upon seeing John and gave him a deep nod. “Lord Turner, thank you for coming. I hope you enjoyed today’s sermon.”

  “Yes. It was quite eloquent.”

  “I hope you will forgive me if I teach frequently from the first book of Saint John. It’s a favorite.”

  “I am more than happy to leave those kinds of decisions in your hands, Mr. Gregory.”

  Why had he agreed? Hearing more sermons based on 1 John 1:9? “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” He would choke on false hope. Some acts were beyond redemption. Even Christ Himself had spoken of sin that could never be forgiven.

  A gentleman approached, followed by two other women. He had graying hair and a mustache, and while the younger woman was fashionably dressed, she wore an expression of displeasure at everything she saw. The other woman was much older, wore gray and a similar countenance. And the cane she held—was it a walking stick or a scepter?

  Mr. Gregory greeted them. “Sir James, Mrs. Baines, Miss Abbott.”