Chapter 29
Mr. Winwood turned to Thea, his grin brightening. “Ah, Miss Keats! Yes, I count myself quite lucky. When I arrived in Haverford, I hadn’t thought to find such a gem, and I am blessed whenever I can steal a moment or two with her.”
“How fortunate for you to have found a village with so many appealing people,” Thea replied pleasantly, looping her arm through Mina’s. “But you must excuse us. Miss Ashbrook and I have yet to offer our congratulations.”
Before he could reply or invite himself along, Thea steered Mina away, leaving Mr. Winwood bent in a bow as his smile faltered. They slipped back into the throng, weaving between clusters of well-wishers, the hum of voices rising and falling around them like the tide.
“You are a godsend,” sighed Mina. “I fear I owe my aunt a very large apology.”
“How so?”
Offering up a humorless chuckle, she shook her head.
“Papa believes Aunt Matilda is an excellent chaperone, but I have reason to believe that she spread rumors to prevent my dowry from eclipsing my cousins’, leaving me with only my charms to entice a gentleman.
However, I would rather be a spinster than be plagued by the likes of Mr. Winwood and Mr. Timothy Voss.
I haven’t the disposition to manage mercenary men, and Aunt Matilda spared me their attentions. ”
“You do not need a large dowry to attract a good man. Your charms are more than sufficient,” said Thea with a sharp nod. “You deserve better than—”
“Thea,” Mrs. Keats said, stepping neatly into their path with a gleam of purpose in her eyes. “I’ve been looking high and low for you. Come, there is someone you must speak to. You will never guess who has come for a visit.”
With far more eagerness than the dreary day deserved, Mama inserted herself between the pair and dragged them to the far side of the churchyard, chattering on about the mysterious person they must greet that very moment.
Thea’s stomach sank, for that particular brightness in her mother’s voice boded ill: it meant schemes were afoot, and whatever awaited her at the end of their determined march, Thea doubted it would be pleasant.
“Mr. Downey,” called Mama as she stopped them before the gentleman in question.
The gentleman turned at the sound of his name, his expression brightening into the sort of polite, startled smile of a man suddenly thrust into the center of attention.
Though he hadn’t altered much in his time away from Haverford, maturity had hardened the angles of his cheeks and jaw and lent a confidence to his gaze that the lad had lacked.
“Mrs. Keats, Miss Keats,” he said, his tone earnest if slightly bewildered. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“How good to see you!” replied Mama with far more effusion than was warranted. “Your mother told me that you had returned for a visit, and Thea and I simply could not wait another moment to welcome you back to the neighborhood.”
Thea managed a strained smile, her mortification blooming as her mother beamed up at him.
Patting her daughter’s arm in a manner that implied far more than it ought, Mama added, “Indeed, Thea was just saying how long it has been since we’ve had the pleasure. We do hope you will be staying for some time.”
“I do not believe you are acquainted with our cousin,” interjected Thea, motioning toward Mina, but the interruption did nothing to divert Mama from her task, for once the introductions were made, the lady delved back into the previous conversation with all the dogged determination of a terrier scenting a rat.
“Dear me, there is Mrs. Haggerty,” said Mama, stretching as though to peer over the crowd, though Thea knew full well she couldn’t see the lady. “I am desperate to introduce Mina to her. Do excuse us.”
And before either Mina or Thea knew what the lady was about, Mama steered her niece away, leaving her daughter to face Mr. Downey alone. Heat crept up Thea’s neck, and for a long moment, she could only stand there, her hands clasped before her, wishing herself anywhere else on earth.
Mr. Downey cleared his throat, shifting in place.
“Your mother is… very kind,” he ventured, the corner of his mouth twitching as though uncertain whether to smile.
“Yes,” Thea managed, her voice thin. “In her own way.”
The hum of conversation filled the silence that followed, and Mr. Downey glanced toward the departing figure of Mrs. Keats as though half-tempted to escape himself, then glanced back at Thea, his mouth opening for a long, silent moment before he closed it again.
Thea tried to summon some polite remark, but her mind remained stubbornly blank.
Deciding a direct approach was better than gaping at one another, she said, “I do apologize, Mr. Downey, if my mother made you uncomfortable.”
“That is her way,” replied the gentleman with a wry smile and a halting chuckle, his eyes gleaming as they met Thea’s. “She is as determined as I remember her. Though the last I heard, you and Mr. Frederick Voss were nigh on engaged.”
Could one expire from a blush? Thea knew that fevers were a dangerous thing, and her cheeks felt as hot as anything the mumps, measles, or pox could produce.
“I fear your gossip is out of date, sir.” Thea hadn’t the slightest notion how to navigate such an uncomfortable discussion, but she attempted to put him at ease with a smile. Unfortunately, it felt more like a wince.
And her cheeks were still blazing red.
“I didn’t realize… Truly? You and he have parted ways?” Brows shooting upward, Mr. Downey held up his hands in apology. “Not that I am happy to hear… I didn’t mean to imply… I only wished…”
“Mr. Downey, this is growing more agonizing by the moment. May we not simply ignore what has happened since my mother rushed us over here?” she asked, those words coming forth without thought, and it wasn’t until she spoke that she heard Frederick’s influence in them: it was just the sort of thing he would’ve said to set everyone at ease.
And the gentleman before her obliged, the strain in his expression easing as he tucked his hands behind him. “May I ask what you have been doing since I was here last?”
Thea gave a strangled chuckle and let out a heavy sigh. “That is a complicated question, and I am quite flustered at present. I fear I need some time to compose myself before I attempt an answer.”
“From what I recall, you’ve never needed much time to compose yourself, Miss Keats,” he said, his smile growing a touch bolder. “You have a talent for appearing perfectly at ease, no matter how flustered everyone else might be. I’ve always admired that about you.”
Thea’s brows rose, and the flush that had only just begun to abate returned in force.
“Then my true talent is playacting, for I fear I am often discomposed.” Then, adding in a hurry (lest he decide to offer up another complimentary disagreement), she added, “But you must tell me about your work in Sheffield. I believe you’ve invested in steelworks. ”
At once, his face brightened, the awkwardness forgotten as he launched into a lively account of his ventures. “We’ve made remarkable progress with it—securing contracts with several London merchants. If the next quarter proves as profitable as the last…”
He trailed on, speaking with an ease that had been absent a moment before. Thea let him talk, her polite nods and soft murmurs of encouragement coming automatically as his voice filled the space between them, steady and bright, and she found herself oddly grateful for it.
It was easier this way—listening, smiling when appropriate, and letting the conversation settle into something harmless.
*
“I am surprised your brother chose not to attend,” said Mr. Curtis, glancing about the gathering as though he might spy the gentleman in question.
His tone mirrored so many others, who came up to ask “innocent” questions about the family and estate, affecting neighborly care whilst scrutinizing every aspect of Frederick’s response, searching for crumbs that exposed more of the Vosses’ business.
“Yes, he returned to Leeds. He was allowed a respite during our bereavement, but the time came for him to take up his duties once more.” Or rather, Timothy preferred fishing for a dowry in more varied waters.
Mr. Curtis nodded as though that were entirely expected, though the gentleman had asked the question in the first place. “Ah, yes. I suppose the engagement was so sudden that he couldn’t alter his travel plans.”
Mother gave a chilly smile. “With Mr. Godwin needing to return to his flock and my leaving Haverford, the speed cannot be helped.”
Frederick’s breath caught, and it took all his composure to keep from gaping.
Leaving? The noise of the crowd faded into a dull, distant hum as the word echoed, hollow and disbelieving.
The chill of the mist settled deeper in his bones, and he couldn’t say whether it was the weather or the revelation that sent a shudder down his spine.
“You are leaving Haverford?” asked Mrs. Curtis, slipping in beside her husband as though summoned from the ether.
“It is high time,” said Mother with a wan smile. “I have long wished to be nearer to my eldest daughters. Lucille has been begging me to stay with her for ages, and with Pippa so close, I would be able to see my grandchildren as often as I wish. And they both would welcome the assistance.”
Mother carried on, though Frederick scarcely comprehended her explanations.
Her tone, all light and composed, gave every indication that this plan was long-standing—something the family had known and accepted—yet this was the first he had heard of it, and each word fell like a slow, deliberate blow that only caused the great, yawning hole in his chest to deepen.
Frederick tried to school his features as his heart collapsed in on itself. Timothy gone. Phoebe soon to follow. And now the last tether to his family spoke blithely of leaving, abandoning him to the strangers sifting through the last of his family’s holdings.
This was for the best. His mother and Phoebe would be cared for. They would have roofs over their heads, warmth, and stability—all things he could no longer guarantee.
A strange stillness crept in, dulling the clamor in his chest, and his lungs expanded, taking in a deep breath that almost felt clean.
But the relief carried an edge. It hollowed out his chest as it settled there, leaving behind a curious lightness that was more an emptiness than a comfort.
His heart sank into that space as the rest of him went curiously numb.
“Such a great deal of change for one family,” said Mr. Curtis, his tone mild, though his eyes gleamed with quiet curiosity.
Mother’s smile did not falter. “Yes, that is life. Great stretches of nothing, and then everything happens all at once.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Curtis as her husband nodded beside her.
The conversation carried on, a careful dance of politeness and probing.
The pair’s voices rose and fell in smooth, measured tones, each remark crafted to draw out some new morsel of information, and his mother’s replies demonstrated her great skill at deflecting and avoiding, saying much without giving anything away.
In truth, he couldn’t blame Mr. and Mrs. Curtis.
Curiosity was a part of human nature. Though reporters claimed their profession spread information and knowledge, their newspapers often resorted to the very same speculation that filled this churchyard.
Misfortune drew attention the way warmth drew icy hands, and his family was merely the parish’s latest hearth.
And yet, not a one of them would say anything outright.
No, they spoke in vague terms, offering up condolences and sympathy while a polite barrier stood between them and honesty, and each careful word and meaningful pause pressed harder against his patience.
The whole thing felt like a performance so absurd that it might have been comical were it not so hollow.
They all knew. Every person gathered in this churchyard had heard of the Vosses’ troubles, and yet they tiptoed about it as though truth itself were indecent.
Would not a single person speak plainly?
But courtesy demanded that “troubles” be acknowledged in whispers and that sympathy be hidden in innuendo.
Frederick’s throat tightened, the muscles along his jaw drawing taut like piano wire.
To have everyone know and no one speak up.
To lose everything and pretend he hadn’t.
The absurdity of it all lodged in his chest, pressing against his ribs.
He longed for someone to speak plainly, but no one would—not when people cared more for appearances than truth.