Chapter Twelve
5 October 1822
O ver the next week, Lora and Rockford delved into the preparations for the upcoming events with unwavering dedication. Each day brought them closer, their shared goals fostering a growing affection.
At the Sommer Art Gallery, they meticulously reviewed several pieces of artwork for the auction. Eventually, a captivating piece, Wivenhoe Park at Dusk by John Constable, was selected. Crispin Montgomery, director of Devonshire and Sommer Art Galleries, proposed hosting the auction at the stunning Sommer Castle and graciously offered to speak to the mayor to make the necessary arrangements.
During their visits to the gallery, Lora found herself stealing glances at Rockford, admiring how his eyes lit up with passion when discussing art. Their fingers brushed as they pointed out details in the paintings, sending shivers down her spine.
Their quest for the perfect music led them to audition three quartets and a small ensemble, ensuring the gala would have the correct music. During one audition, as the music swelled, Rockford extended his hand to Lora, leading her in an impromptu dance. They twirled gracefully, their laughter blending with the notes of the violin, their connection deepening with every step.
Hours were spent with Harriet and Mrs. Turner, Rockford’s diligent housekeeper, to finalize the menus for the auction and the gala. The planning sessions were filled with lively discussions, laughter, and the occasional stolen glance.
One afternoon, as they sampled various dishes, Rockford playfully lifted a spoonful of delicate custard toward Lora. She arched a brow but leaned in, allowing him to feed her. The smooth, sweet flavor melted on her tongue, but it was the warmth in his gaze that truly lingered.
“You approve?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.
Lora swallowed, savoring both the dessert and the moment. “It’s lovely,” she said, tilting her head. “Though I suspect you’re enjoying this more than I am.”
Rockford smirked. “Perhaps. But can you blame me?”
Their eyes locked, the playfulness between them giving way to something deeper, an unspoken understanding, a moment suspended in time.
As the days passed, their collaboration evolved into a seamless partnership, setting the stage for what promised to be an unforgettable series of events. Every meeting, every shared smile, and every touch brought them closer, building a foundation of trust and affection that neither could ignore.
Rockford’s remorse grew alongside his feelings for Lora, his heart torn between his duty and his desire for her. He was terrified of the moment she would discover the truth—either by his own confession or through a cruel twist of fate. The thought of telling her himself paralyzed him with guilt and dread. How could he explain his actions without destroying the trust and affection they had built?
The fear of her finding out on her own was even more suffocating. Every day he worried that someone would expose his deceit, that Hastings’ machinations would come to light, or that Lora would stumble upon the truth accidentally. His fears kept him in a constant state of tension, each moment with her tainted by the looming shadow of his secret.
Yet, he couldn’t resist drawing her closer, memorizing the feel of her in his arms, the sound of her laughter, the light in her eyes.
*
Two days later, Lora’s drawing room was abuzz with polite conversation. The scent of fresh scones and bergamot tea lingered in the air, mingling with the soft hum of laughter. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a gentle warmth that wrapped around the gathering like a familiar embrace.
Rockford watched Lora as she poured tea, her movements graceful, effortless. Every so often, her eyes flicked toward him, a shared glance, a silent understanding. A warmth settled in his chest, a quiet contentment that had woven itself into his days without him realizing it. It was no longer something fleeting, something to be enjoyed in passing, it had become familiar, something he could count on.
Barrington sat at ease, engaged in light conversation with Mrs. Bainbridge, their exchanges filled with easy familiarity. The afternoon carried the kind of unspoken harmony that required no words, only the simple pleasure of good company.
Barrington leaned toward Rockford. “I received word this morning that the highwayman struck again this morning.”
Rockford tensed. Barrington placed a calming hand on his arm.
“The pouch was taken. A few miles south, the pouch was found with the documents untouched but the purse gone. This is not the first time this courier has been accosted by the highwayman. He is certain it is the same man. I find it interesting that he’s becoming a petty thief.”
The butler stepped forward. “Mr. Hastings.”
The moment fractured, not abruptly, but with an almost imperceptible shift. Lora’s hand hesitated just slightly as she poured, a flicker of something too quick to name before she composed herself.
“Mr. Hastings, please join us for tea.” Her voice remained poised, her smile practiced.
The warmth in the room dampened, as if a draft had slipped through an open door. Hastings entered, his presence drawing unseen lines between them. His gaze locked briefly with Rockford’s before he inclined his head in greeting.
“Thank you, Lady Lora.”
“You wouldn’t believe what happened at the last charity auction,” Mrs. Bainbridge began with a twinkle in her eye. “Lord Grantham accidentally bid on a painting of a cow, thinking it was a renowned landscape! He was too embarrassed to retract his bid, and now he’s the proud owner of ‘Bessie in the Field.’”
The room erupted in polite laughter, with Harriet adding, “Ah, poor Lord Grantham! I heard he’s planning to donate it to the art auction, where he hopes it will be admired from a distance.”
As the laughter faded, Rockford leaned slightly toward Hastings, his voice measured and polite. “Hastings, I was hoping we could discuss the recent developments at the clinic. I believe there are some matters we need to address.”
Hastings met his gaze with a hint of defiance. “Of course, Rockford. What seems to be the issue?”
Rockford spoke calmly, but his words held a hint of concern. “I’ve received reports of unorthodox methods being used to secure funding. I appreciate the ambition, but we must ensure our actions uphold the clinic’s integrity and reputation. The trust of the community and the long-term success of our efforts depend on it.”
Hastings’ expression hardened, but he maintained his composure. “I assure you, my actions are in the clinic’s best interest. Sometimes, decisive measures are necessary for success.”
“At what cost?” Rockford’s voice was soft but firm. “Integrity is the foundation of our work. Without it, everything we’ve built could fall apart and lose the community’s trust.”
Hastings leaned in slightly, a knowing glint in his eye. “You should know, Rockford, that sometimes a little risk is necessary. After all, we both have left things behind in London that we’d rather forget.”
Rockford met his gaze steadily, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “It’s interesting you have time for tea, Hastings. One would think you’d be more occupied dealing with your… financial troubles.”
Hastings’ expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of unease crossing his features. He recovered quickly, but the seed of doubt had been planted, and Rockford knew he had struck a nerve.
*
Later that evening, across town, Hastings brooded in his modest rooms in the Stonefield Inn. Though better than his London accommodations, they were a far cry from the opulence he craved, it was rather a stark reminder of his current…limitations. He glanced at the faded wallpaper. It bore the marks of time and countless previous occupants. The single window offered a view of the winding road leading into town. Its only saving grace was his glimpse over the rooftops of the sea on the horizon.
The room had a faint scent of beeswax and linseed oil hinting at the innkeeper’s pride in maintaining a clean establishment. Yet, despite the room’s adequacy, it fell short of the luxury he longed for. Hastings yearned for polished mahogany furniture, silk drapes, and a grand view from a manor’s lofty window. He wanted the intricate tapestries that whispered tales of nobility and the warmth of a fireplace glowing with ornate ironwork. His rooms were sufficient for now, but it was a reminder that the lifestyle he craved was beyond his reach.
He insisted on a semblance of order and purpose in the space. Copies of Adam Smith’s, ‘The Wealth of Nations’ and David Ricardo’s, ‘Principles of Political Economy and Taxation,’ were on one corner of the desk. An orderly pile of his correspondence was alongside.
His gaze drifted out the window, where he caught a glimpse of a carriage. As it turned onto the road, he saw an elegant family crest on the door. It set his mind wandering.
The room seemed to fade away as memories of the small room he shared with his family came to mind. “You can rise above this,” his father said as his mother brought dinner to the table. “You’re smart. With determination and hard work, you can achieve anything.”
His mind wandered from the family table to a friendly tavern and the day he found that hard work wasn’t enough to achieve anything, much less success. He saw himself with a pint of ale at a remote tavern. It ached to remember that day. It had been an utter failure. But he would never forget it. His latest job had ended abruptly after he was caught tampering with the company’s petty cash box, skimming off small amounts over time. The employer’s stern words still rang in his ears.
He stared into the golden liquid. He had been on the edge of success, or so he thought. He took a gulp. He was worth more than the pittance he was being paid. Every coin he took had been a small correction, a way of balancing the scales. He worked harder than anyone else, and if the company couldn’t see his value, then he would just have to take it for himself.
“It’s not stealing,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s taking what I’m owed.”
The man next to him chuckled, a knowing look in his eyes. “It sounds like you’ve been through quite a bit. Sometimes, frustrations can lead to unexpected paths.”
Hastings stiffened, caught off guard by the stranger’s words. “What do you mean by that?”
The man shrugged nonchalantly. “Look around you. Do you think everyone here got to where they are by always following the rules? The world isn’t so clear-cut. Those who can see a way to get what they want and understand how to navigate the grey areas are those who really get ahead.”
Hastings hesitated, the man’s words so opposite of his father’s. Yet, a part of him couldn’t deny the truth in what he said. “You think I should just…take liberties?”
“Call it what you will,” the man replied with a smirk. “But sometimes, a little audacity and cleverness can go a long way.”
Hastings looked at him, intrigued. The idea of bending the rules to his advantage rather than being constrained by them appealed to him. Perhaps success, indeed, required a touch of audacity and cunning. Hastings found the idea both enticing and unsettling. “I’m not sure I understand.”
The man chuckled again, clapping Hastings on the shoulder. “There’s a fellow I know, a man of integrity.” The man wrote a name and address on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. “He’s helped many find their path. Show him your potential, and he might offer you the opportunity you need.”
Hastings took the paper, the words swimming before his eyes as the importance of the moment settled on him. This chance meeting in a dimly lit tavern with this stranger felt like a turning point. A departure from the path his father had expected him to follow.
“Follow his instructions,” the stranger pointed at the paper. “I wish I had.”
“Thanks,” Hastings said, slipping the paper into his pocket. “I appreciate it.”
“Sometimes, all we need is a little push in the right direction.”
“Will I see you again?”
“No, my friend.” He stood and put a coin down on the table. “I’m off to France to fight for… Well, to fight.” The man raised his glass in a toast. “To the journey ahead.” Then he slipped into the night.
Hastings watched him leave. He couldn’t help but wonder what this new direction would bring. He found himself available at the moment with nothing to lose.
To the journey ahead. Hastings took those words to heart, dreaming of a future where he had everything he wanted.
He was fortunate, indeed. The next day, Hastings found himself outside a stately home. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door, ready to embrace whatever opportunity awaited him. The door swung open, revealing a tall man with a stern yet welcoming expression. His imposing frame was softened by a neatly trimmed beard and a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes. His attire was refined and casual, hinting at a man of means who valued substance over show.
“Mr. Thompson, I presume?” Hastings asked.
“Indeed,” the man replied.
Over the course of three short months, Hastings came to deeply respect and trust the man. He understood what the stranger had meant when he said he should have followed Mr. Thompson’s advice. So, Hastings listened and learned, valuing his guide and advisor’s wisdom.
“Charles, you have the potential to do great things,” Mr. Thompson had said. “But remember, true success requires integrity. Never lose sight of who you are.”
“Another young man is joining us today,” Mr. Thompson continued, “His father, may he rest in peace, was a good friend of mine. He’s in the drawing room.”
Together, they entered the drawing room.
Reid, Viscount Lonsdale, stood tall with an air of confidence that came from a lifetime of privilege. His presence was commanding, not because of his physical appearance but because of his grace and integrity. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, seemed always to be observing and understanding those around him. He was the kind of man who listened intently, spoke thoughtfully, and made those around him feel valued.
The two men quickly formed a strong bond, their camaraderie rooted in mutual respect. Hastings adhered strictly to the rules, determined to prove his worth through hard work and dedication.
Their friendship shifted when Hastings and Lonsdale found themselves competing for a prestigious scholarship. It had been a bright summer morning when the announcement was made.
Hastings stood among the other candidates, his heart pounding in his chest. When Lonsdale’s name was called, a wave of frustration and bitterness crashed over him. He forced himself to shake Reid’s hand. ‘ You gave it your best. Don’t lose hope. ’ But inwardly, Hastings seethed. He believed that bending the rules could have secured him the scholarship.
“I know you are disappointed.” Mr. Thompson said gently, his face etched with concern. “But integrity matters. True success isn’t just measured by what you achieve, but by how you achieve it. The choices you make define who you are.”
Hastings listened, his expression neutral, but nothing could dull his resentment. Reid’s triumph was a stinging reminder of everything Hastings had been denied. That day, he made a decision, he would never let integrity stand in the way of ambition again.
Now, sitting in his rented room, Hastings reflected on that vow. The world didn’t favor those who played fair, it rewarded those willing to seize what they wanted. And so, he had embraced ambition, no matter the cost.
He returned his attention to the documents before him. The clinic was his means to an end, a carefully crafted stepping stone to elevate his standing. It wasn’t about proving he was as good as the others. It was about surpassing them and securing the influence he craved. Manipulation, deceit, and bribes were merely tools in his arsenal.
But Lora’s words from their last encounter echoed in his mind. She had spoken of integrity, trust, and the value of honorable actions. Her conviction had struck a chord, one he had long buried beneath layers of his ambition.
His hand slammed onto the desk, scattering papers to the floor. He couldn’t afford to waver now, not with success so close. Sentiment was a luxury for those who had nothing to lose, and Hastings intended to take it all.