A Little Thing Called Love (5 page)

Chapter Seven

T
HE RIDE HOME
in the hired conveyance was tense.

Jenny’s sisters were not certain what was wrong, but they sat cowed, as did their mother, who had a worried air.

The colonel’s back was straight. A clenched fist rested on his knee.

There would be a reckoning . . . however, Jenny was not afraid. She had done nothing of which to be ashamed. She also wondered about what would have set her father so completely against Fyclan Morris.

When they arrived home, Jenny started up the stairs with her mother and sisters, but her father stopped her. “Let us speak in the sitting room. Join us, Isabel,” he said to her mother.

He shut the door behind the women after they entered the room. Her mother chose to sit in a side chair, but Jenny stood in the middle of the room, braced for whatever her father had for her.

The set of his mouth grim, her father said, “Fyclan Morris is a scoundrel. He has tried to ruin me with lies and innuendo. I would not have you give countenance to anything the man says.”

“What is the bad blood between you, Father?”

“Jealousy. Morris is not a military man. He doesn’t understand the workings of the military mind. Because he wanted to impress his superiors in the East India Company, he did all he could to undercut me. I will not have him use my daughter against me.”

“I would not allow him to do so, Father.”

He nodded his satisfaction. He seemed pleased, so she dared to ask questions.

“Will you not tell me, sir, exactly his offenses against you?”

Her father reared back as if she had slapped him. “This is not a matter for discussion. You have a role in this family, missy, and that is to do what your mother and I wish of you. We have all made considerable sacrifices for your benefit.”

“And I appreciate them,” Jenny answered. “Although I understand you expect something in return.”

“Expect something?” A dangerous note crept into his tone, but Jenny wasn’t afraid. Resentment was brewing a hot bile inside her.

“You expect me to marry for a title and money,” she pointed out.

“As does every other parent presenting a daughter for marriage,” the colonel answered.

“I think not. Their families have resources. We are
done up
, and if I don’t marry for money, you’ll be in prison and mother and my sisters shamed.”

The words had poured out of her. Unwise words. But she could not stop herself. “Mr. Morris won’t ruin you, Father. You are doing a fine job yourself—­”

The slap of his hand stopped her.

For a long moment, the ugly sound lingered in the air. Her skin stung where he had hit her. Hot tears came to her eyes but not out of fear or pain, but anger.

Jenny knew he was within his rights. He was male. He had all the power. He could beat her if he so desired.

What did surprise her was how the core of resentment inside her held firm. She clenched her hands at her side.

Her mother had jumped to her feet in alarm but made no move to come to Jenny’s aid.

“You will have nothing to do with Morris,” her father ordered in the silence. “If he comes sniffing around, you will tell me.”

She gripped her fists tighter, her nails digging into her palms. “Yes . . . Father,” she said, adding the last because she’d learned he expected it. He had returned from India after years of not even writing and commanded immediate obedience. He’d ruined her family, she realized. Before, when they’d lived in their modest home in Lansdown, they’d had no expectations and had been content. Then he had taken over their lives with his plan to sell Jenny off into marriage. She was nothing to him. None of them meant anything to him.

If she’d had doubts about Fyclan Morris before, they evaporated.

“Your mother said you believe Stowe won’t come up to scratch. You are wrong. You women think we men have nothing to do with our time except moon over you. Someone writes a few poems to the lobe of your ear, and you imagine you have power. Well, you don’t, daughter. You do what
I
say. Stowe is going to make an offer. The Duke of Gillingham is as well. Ha! See, you didn’t know that.”

He pointed his long finger at her nose in triumph. “You claim all I do is gamble. You are wrong. I was in the gaming room working for you. Gillingham expressed interest in you to me tonight. You see, I know men. There is a competition going on among them for you, and I am playing it.” He tapped the side of her head with two fingers. “Don’t think, Jenny. It doesn’t suit you. Smile, dance, and say what I want you to say.”

And if I don’t?

She didn’t utter the words. They would provoke him further.

He glared as if pretending to read her mind, but he couldn’t. Her face was a mask.

“Very well,” he said, taking her quietness for obedience. “Go to your room. Tomorrow, you will have callers. I know this. Be prepared to charm them.”

Jenny went to her room, wanting to grind her teeth over the injustice of her life. She had once been close to her sisters. However, their father’s ambitions had altered them. They reacted as if everything of value to them would be taken, and for Serena especially, that was correct. She blamed Jenny that Squire Paulson had become set against her.

However, Jenny wondered if the good and sensible squire wasn’t more concerned over his son’s marrying into the family of a notable gambler than his claims of needing a dowry. The squire had held no doubts about a match between Serena and Evan in the months of their courtship before the colonel had returned.

Their mother, too, had changed. There had been a time when she’d made the decisions. Now, she behaved as a mouse, nodding as the colonel issued dictates.

He would marry Jenny off as quickly as he could . . . to anyone but Fyclan Morris.

Mandy was waiting to help Jenny undress. The maid had picked up the mood in the house. She was not her usual talkative self, and that was fine with Jenny. She climbed into bed, but she lay awake for a long time, reliving those precious moments of conversation with Mr. Morris.

And that kiss—­

What a perfect kiss. She had told him the truth about herself, and he hadn’t backed away. Instead, he had wrapped her in his arms and for the space of a few moments, she had felt precious and protected. They hadn’t shared just any kiss. Fyclan’s kiss had been a pledge, a promise.

It would also be the last kiss she’d ever have from him. Her father was not a man to cross. He meant what he’d said. He would see her a spinster before letting her be with Fyclan.

As for Sir David’s journal, she would have to see how she could maneuver her father into letting her return it. Perhaps her mother would help. At the same time, Jenny never wanted to let go of the book. It would be her one, and probably last, connection to the first man she’d met whom she could love.

Had she thought her heart weak before?

Nothing in her life compared to the feeling of loss she suffered now.

When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed, something she rarely did. She found herself walking through an important house. She could tell by its size and the furnishings. They were rich and stately. There was an inviting fire in the hearth of the sitting room.

Entering the room, Jenny noticed the portrait over the mantel. It was she—­no, the picture
wasn’t
of her. The woman had black hair, yet her features were reminiscent of Jenny’s.

In the dream, Jenny stepped back and the thought went through her that this was her daughter. Her lovely daughter dressed as if she was a duchess.
A child of her own
—­

The realization startled her awake.

Jenny sat up. She was in her room. She looked around in the darkness and let the tears fall, tears for a daughter she would never have.

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON,
Alice opened Jenny’s door without knocking. “A messenger is here with a package for you.”

Jenny and Mandy had been strategizing over how to refashion the cream dress for a ball that night. “Is it flowers?” If so, Lorry could just put them in the sitting room so that whoever sent them could see that his gift was appreciated when he called.

“If you wish to know, find out for yourself,” her sister said crossly. “The messenger is still cooling his heels downstairs. Won’t leave until he gives you his package.” She left.

Curious, Jenny went downstairs. The colonel was still at home. He had just been finishing his breakfast. He was wigless but dressed for the day. He stood in the hallway, suspiciously frowning at the tall man by the door, whom Jenny recognized immediately.
Childs.

The manservant held a package. Upon seeing her, he bowed. “Miss Tarleton, your neighbor, my mistress, sent these for your enjoyment.”

But as Jenny knew, there was no neighbor lady. These books had to be from Mr. Morris.

She broke open the string and unwrapped the paper. There were three books. One fiction, one a study of flora in Wales, and another was the account of Sir David’s first trip to India.

The colonel snorted his opinion. “Books.” But he didn’t take them away from her. She had no doubt he could, but for whatever blessing, he hadn’t.

“I’m to come here and pick up what you’ve read every day, Miss,” Childs said as if quoting a script. “My mistress appreciates that you admire her library.”

Jenny was tempted to cry “Hosanna” at such a generous offer. How clever of Mr. Morris to choose this way to retrieve the book she’d borrowed yesterday. Keeping her features carefully schooled, she turned to the colonel. “Father, may I give Mrs. Rockwell’s book to her servant?”

“The one I took yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

He debated for a moment, then, with a world-­weary sigh, went upstairs. A few minutes later, Lorry, who also acted as his valet, came down with the book.

Jenny was thankful her father was in his room. She handed the journal to Childs. “Tell Mrs. Rockwell that I deeply appreciate her sending me these books.”

“I shall return on the morrow for any you don’t wish to read or have finished,” Childs answered, his face impassive.

“Thank you,” she said, and he took his leave.

She carried her precious books up the stairs. The colonel was in the hallway, both wig and jacket on. Her mother was there as well.

Seeing Jenny’s hand stroke the cover of one of the books as she came up the stairs, he turned disgruntled. “I don’t know if your schedule will give you time to read.”

For once, her mother spoke up. “If our daughter finds pleasure in reading, then it is good.”

He muttered something and went on his way.

Jenny hurried to the privacy of her room because she had noticed something inside one of the books, something she’d hoped no one else in the hallway had caught a glimpse of—­a letter.

She now slipped it from the pages. The envelope was heavy. There was no name on the outside, but the wax seal was fresh. She broke it, knowing before she saw his name penned at the end of the letter that it was from Fyclan . . .

Chapter Eight

Dear Miss Tarleton,

Please pardon this unusual method of calling upon you. Obviously, my suit for your hand is not acceptable to your father. Furthermore, you have a number of eligible, wealthy, titled gentlemen vying for your hand.

The word “vying” made Jenny smile.

I understand your father’s concerns. If my daughter had gained the interest of some of the most important men in London, I, too, would frown upon an Irishman like myself. However, I want to assure you that my intentions are true. Our paths were meant to cross. I wish to marry you, to cherish you, and to build a life with you.

Before you accuse me of making such a claim without knowing you, understand that is the purpose of this letter. I fear that an officer of the East India Company, a relative nobody until he is fortunate or canny enough to receive a directorship, would make a poor showing among your suitors.

But here, in the privacy of the written word, sharing a passion we both share, namely books, perhaps you will allow me to know you better. Perhaps you will even come to know me.

You are more than just a lovely woman, Miss Tarleton. You have imagination, a quality I value.

I hope in time, you will see in me value as well.

If it is your wish to continue correspondence, place your letter in one of the books. Childs will come daily with packages from Sir David’s library for you. Place your letter in one of them, and he will return it to me.

I have one more request. Please,
believe
.

I’ve spent the night thinking about your doctor and his verdict on your heart. I don’t disagree with what he says. He should know better than I. However, my experiences in life have taught me that there is very little we truly know about the workings of mind and body. I know you are destined for a wonderful life. I believe you have a great heart. Our children will be beautiful.

He then wrote about a funny scene he’d witnessed that morning as he’d walked to work. A cart overloaded with chickens headed for market or as he’d written, “headed for their beheadings,” had lost a wheel and fallen over on its side right in front of Westminster Hall. Several of the cages holding the chickens had broken, and the birds had raced madly for freedom until they caught sight of an orange girl selling her fruit on the corner and decided they wished to break their fasts and had attacked.
Ferocious chickens,
he declared.

Jenny couldn’t help but smile at the word pictures he created out of the chaos. She could imagine how those hurrying importantly around Westminster would appreciate chickens on the loose.

She smoothed the foolscap around his bold signature, “Fyclan,” imagining him dipping his nib in ink and penning this story for her. A silly story. Not one of importance . . . but she was charmed.

His sense that she would prefer books to a hundred dozen roses was correct.

She reread the letter, four or five times. She tucked it back into the book, walked around the room, then backed away.

A knock on the door interrupted her. Mandy’s awed voice said, “Miss Jenny, Lord Stowe and His Grace, the Duke of Gillingham have come calling. They appeared at the same time. The duke has flowers.”

Good. Their appearance saved her from making a rash decision. Her father would be furious if he found the letter, and who knew what he would do if he discovered she’d replied?

But when she joined her mother and her noble suitors, she couldn’t take her mind off the scene with chickens racing through the streets. Lord Stowe thought her amusement was in response to some witticism of his, something she hadn’t even heard.

That night, she attended the ball with her family. Another suitor threw his hand in the fray. The Earl of Dumberton was even older than the duke or Stowe and from one of the oldest families in England. He pronounced himself smitten by her beauty, and she could almost see the gentlemen present in the room planning the wagers they would place in Brooks’s betting book. The stakes were now higher than ever. Three noble, wealthy gentleman were paying her court . . . what more could any woman ask?

And she knew the answer.

When Jenny returned home, she did write a letter to Mr. Morris. She could not stop herself.

She even dared to sign herself
Jenny
.

Her letter was not particularly interesting. She thanked him for the books and wrote about the ball . . . but it was a start.

Childs arrived the next day as promised with another package for her. The colonel was not at home this time. Jenny had a book with her letter in it ready to be returned. She was very pleased to see that Fyclan had kindly written to her again.

In the sanctuary of her bedroom, she pored over every word. He wrote in this letter about his adventures in India and how he hoped soon to be named a director with the Company. He was presenting his prospects to her. The thought gladdened her soul.

She had not imagined him an adventurer, yet he had fought the Marathas. He didn’t speak of war. Instead, he talked of the animals he’d seen with such vivid descriptions she could almost feel the hot breath of the tiger he’d once confronted or smell the monkeys. They had stolen his shaving kit:
They wanted the glass in it and spent hours in the trees not far from my window gazing at their perfect reflections.

Jenny had to write him back. She had no choice. She was full of questions.

And thus it began and grew.

Meanwhile, the very public race for her hand was on. She no longer cared. She didn’t even worry about gambling debts or her sisters’ prospects. She smiled and nodded at the appropriate time for suitors or when she went out into society—­but
herself
she saved for her letters.

Of course, all was not perfect. Her father’s creditors were starting to come around. His questions about marriage offers became strained. He took to staying at home in the afternoons so that he could be present for her callers.

In turn, the gentlemen, even the duke, were not pleased with his presence and the amount of her father’s gambling debts. Jenny had overheard a reference to them more than once.

Serena had taken to acting as if she were in mourning. She was certain Evan had forgotten her. She worried that he was in Lansdown, planning to wed his cousin.

And Alice was surly. She rambled incessantly about her husband’s need to purchase a promotion so that his brilliance would be recognized.

Their mother spent most of her day in her room.

Jenny became three ­people. For her family, she tried to appear smiling and flirtatious with her suitors. However, with the gentlemen, she was distant and a bit solemn. She discovered that men did not appreciate cold aloofness—­any more than they did her father’s blustery confidence.

Only with Fyclan was she true to herself.

Her letters moved beyond social niceties. She found herself writing about her family’s disappointments and the changes in them since her father had returned home. All were secrets she should not share with an outsider. However, she had come to trust Fyclan.

He answered with sensitivity and wisdom. He assured her everything would be all right. She hoarded his letters, hid them carefully in a ripped seam in her mattress, rereading them whenever she felt low.

I don’t care what other ­people believe,
she wrote.
It is your goodwill I consider
.
You have become the sun to the shadows in my day.

He wrote back.
Then know that my admiration and respect for you have only grown stronger with each passing moment. If I am the sun, then you are the moon. I am not good at flowery language. Let me state my case clearly—­I cannot imagine my life without you.

Jenny stared at his last sentence. She felt the same. Others wooed her with flowers and wealth. Fyclan courted her with words and honest emotion.

She dreamed of the portrait room almost every night. Each time, the dream was more vivid, more real. She began wondering if Mr. Higley might have been wrong. After all, her skin was smooth and cream-­colored, not the blue of her birth or early childhood. Perhaps she had outgrown any malady. She even felt strong. Was the dream not a sign that she might have children?

Hope is a fragile thing, but she discovered it can quickly grow into conviction. And she found she wanted to believe, desperately so. Her arms ached to hold a child of her own making. Her soul yearned to trust that she could have a full and complete life.

Nor did she wish to marry an old man, not when another held her heart.

Soon, she lulled herself into trusting that all would work in her favor. It must. She was in love with Fyclan Morris, and didn’t ­people belong with those they loved? Isn’t that what the poets lauded? Didn’t their letters to each other prove love in its highest form?

She prayed it was true.

However, in spite her hopes for a miracle, she found herself completely unprepared when there was a knock on the front door moments after her family finished an early supper. They would be going out for another rout, another opportunity to lure in Stowe or the others. Jenny was heartily tired of the game.

She was on the stairs, ready to go to her room before leaving, when Lorry opened the door. She glanced back in curiosity and was startled to see Fyclan standing there.

For a second, she feared she would collapse. He appeared extraordinarily handsome in a jacket of deepest blue velvet and white evening breeches. His black hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. He held his hat under his arm.

She took a step down the stairs toward him while her father charged forth.

“How dare you place yourself on my doorstep, Morris.” He would have slammed the door in Fyclan’s face except the Irishman raised a rock-­hard arm to stop him.

“You need to hear me out.”

“I need nothing from you.”

“Tarleton, I’m not here to fight.” He offered a leather packet that he had been carrying. “These are your gambling vowels.” He referred to the slips of paper her father had signed acknowledging his debts.

“What are you doing with them?” The colonel’s knuckles tuned white as his hand tightened its grip on the door.

“Giving them to you.”

“
Why?
”

“May I come in to discuss this?”

“
No.
State your purpose and begone.

Fyclan’s gaze slid to meet Jenny’s. “I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Before her father could speak, Jenny said, “
Yes
. Yes, yes, and yes.”