Chapter Two
“Dearest Miss Reeve,I trust that my letter finds you only mildly surprised, given the events of last Season. If you are indeed reading these words, that means your curiosity has won out over your disdain for all things related to matrimony—which, unfortunately, dominates most of a woman’s life from the moment of her birth.
“On that, I shall not disagree with you. But by opening this letter, you show that deep within your heart, there lies hope, no matter how small. Even if you roll your eyes or scoff at the very notion—”
Clara paused and sucked in a deep breath through plump lips, all attention on Felicity as she caught herself in the middle of a gratuitous roll of the eyes. Growling under her breath, Felicity slammed her eyes shut and turned her back on her sister and their four friends, perched on iron chairs protected by the shade of the large, white pavilion nestled in the heart of Huxley Manor’s lavish gardens. Not one had yet touched their tea.
“Continue, Clara,” Lydia prodded, nodding to the youngest of their group and their best orator. The newly married lady returned her sharp, blue eyes to Felicity’s pacing form, thundering up and down the row of hedges leading to the pavilion.
Filling her rosy cheeks with air once more, Clara found her place in Lady Swan’s letter. “Even if you roll your eyes or scoff at the very notion, perhaps there is something inside you that longs to know if it might be possible. If you, Miss Felicity Reeve, might be worthy of embarking upon the most mysterious and thrilling adventure of all: love.
“Open yourself to more changes in your world and your heart. Perhaps you have lived in one cage so long, you now only see traps around every corner—and an unknown cage could always be worse than the old.
“If you open yourself to one thing, let it be this: A new arrival may offer a new perspective.
“Last but most certainly not least, never forget that you deserve to walk your own path of happiness, and the right gentleman will gladly walk it by your side as a partner, as a half that brings wholeness and shines the brighter for your presence.
“Your most loyal servant, Lady Swan.”
Clara’s voice faded on the warm breeze. The ladies in the pavilion looked at each other in awed silence. Felicity continued to kick up dust and bits of gravel with her walking boots as she stomped back and forth along the path, lavender skirts fluttering about her ankles.
All at once, the group burst into chatter, questions, speculation, and accusations flying through the air. Felicity clenched her teeth to drown out the noise, rather more familiar with being the cause of it than its victim.
Had summoning all their friends to inspect the letter really been the best idea? Of course Mercy had insisted. Lydia had done the same when she had received her letter. They were bound together by this mystery, this anonymous matchmaker who possessed uncanny, almost personal knowledge. Especially now that the mystery was no longer confined to just one Season, to just Lydia and her now-husband, Sebastian.
But why, why, why, Felicity thought to herself, each word punctuated by an irritated stomp, did it have to be her? Surely, given everything Lady Swan apparently knew, she would know that this was the last thing Felicity wanted.
It must have been a joke. A prank. That was what Lydia had originally thought, though in her situation, the letters had proven genuine. And if it was not a prank, if this Lady Swan truly thought she could find just the man to tempt Felicity, well, Felicity was no stranger to disappointing others.
“Wait a moment!” Isabel’s voice cut above the clamor. She stood in the center of the pavilion. The black curls peeking out from beneath her bonnet bounced as she looked from Clara and Lydia on one side to Mercy and quiet, wide-eyed Ellen on the other.
“We could be revealing valuable information, but no one will hear it because we are all speaking over each other,” she continued in her usual studious tone, index finger jabbed smartly into the air. “Speak one at a time, please. Now, the only vacant house I am aware of in the area is Setherwell Court, so perhaps this new arrival means to take it. Has anyone heard of any gentlemen or families coming in to let the place?”
“Well, one of the shopkeepers in the village mentioned to me the other day that a handsomely wealthy gentleman is looking to take a house,” Clara began, doll-like features aglow, complemented by a lovely, blush dress.
Felicity’s stomach twisted. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, fingers digging into the flesh of her arms. Surely, the mystery could not be solved already. Lady Swan had made it too easy last time, though they had found their own ways to overcomplicate matters.
“But,” the younger Gardiner sister continued, her ever-optimistic smile fading, “the gentleman, now out of mourning for his late wife, is looking for a house in Frampton, near where his grandson and new great-grandchild live.”
“Be sure that shopkeeper does not let our mother hear any such thing,” Mercy said through gritted teeth, crushing a napkin in her fist. “The viscountess might prove desperate enough to seriously consider marrying one of us off to a great-grandfather.”
A shudder rippled through the gathering of young ladies.
“I am sure Lady Swan does not intend on that,” offered Ellen, the shyest and sweetest of their group. She nervously cradled a gold inlay porcelain teacup in both petite hands, her gaze a warm, deep brown. “No doubt we will hear something of new residents any day now,” she finished with a cautiously hopeful smile.
Isabel hummed, frowned, and grasped a shallowly dimpled chin with lace-covered fingers. Just as her lips parted to deliver some futile theory or other, Felicity rounded on the pavilion.
“Do not bother wasting your time or breath,” she barked, chest heaving with her increasing frustration, eyes ablaze.
“But dear Felicity—”
“If it worked for Lydia—”
“—a blessing in disguise!”
“—have yet to consider—”
“I, for one, am not surprised by my sister’s reaction,” Mercy called over the rising racket. She shot Felicity a smile that conveyed both apology and commiseration before turning her gaze to the others. “Do you all truly expect Felicity to skip to the altar simply because Lady Swan says it must be so?”
Always the picture of perfect manners, Lydia pursed her lips as she neatly folded her napkin with practiced dexterity and placed it on the small table she shared with Clara. Leaning forward, she fixed Felicity with a pensive, blue stare. “Are you still so ardently opposed to marriage after everything you witnessed these past few months?”
Felicity suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, now entirely too conscious of her frequent reliance on the expression thanks to Lady Swan. Instead, she shook her head. The maddening energy that made her every limb itch with the need for movement required release in some form.
“Of course you must have had a change of heart, Felicity, haven’t you?” Clara sat up taller in her chair and clasped her hands together under her chin expectantly.
Heaving a sigh, Felicity rubbed at her temples. “I am thrilled for you, Lydia, I truly am. And I am hopeful for everyone else’s prospects. But none of that changes my knowledge that marriage would be nothing short of a prison for someone like me.”
“But—”
“I simply will not suffer any man to crush me into a meek, simpering wife whose only concern is maintaining the family’s appearances,” Felicity snapped. Shame tinged her cheeks when she saw Clara shrinking away from the harsh interruption. She quickly lowered her head in a silent apology.
“But…”
Every head turned to the source of that soft word. Poor Ellen, frightened even of her own shadow, stared squarely at Felicity. The older Gardiner sister’s countenance was so earnest that Felicity could not help allowing her stubborn resistance to deflate. Just a little, just for the member of their circle who held the tenderest spot in each of their hearts. She waved a limp hand through the air.
“But that is not what happened to Lydia and Sebastian,” Ellen continued, glancing across the pavilion to Lady Swan’s most recent success.
Felicity huffed and pouted, turning to face the nearest hedge. Her gloved fingers played over the sturdy, green leaves like pianoforte keys and her eyes traced warped shapes created by the hollows of neatly trimmed branches.
The feeling of so many fascinated eyes fixed so firmly in her direction for once did not suit her. Not when she could feel the unwanted tug of true emotion building in her throat. She knew her friends knew, but they did not understand—because Felicity had never allowed them to.
Their silence and expectation weighed on her narrow shoulders. She took a steadying inhale and pinched a leaf between forefinger and thumb, plucking it.
“The Harrowsmiths are the exception rather than the rule, based on my observations of my parents and older brothers and sisters. None of them love their spouses because none of them have anything in common. I know the only love my parents share is a love of ostentatious glamor and the finest connections their rank can buy.”
Felicity flicked the leaf away, following it with her eyes as it trailed to the grass below so as not to catch glimpses at her friends’ no doubt pitying expressions. Her hatred of the sharing of her intimate thoughts and pains came second only to her hatred of marriage.
“Indeed…” Isabel mumbled. Heat rippled up the back of Felicity’s exposed neck, aided by the powerful midday sun above, at the unnecessary melancholy in her friend’s tone. “Given that, I can see why you do not hold a high opinion of the supposed benefits of marriage when you have only seen the flaws that cannot be exposed until after it is too late.”
“I do not believe Lady Swan is advocating for poor matches made in haste with only material or social advantage in mind,” Lydia added slowly.
“She might be, if Lady Swan’s true identity is Mrs. Cullham, as you seem to think, Lydia,” Isabel said, wrinkling her nose. “That old gossip would throw any young lady at any single man, no matter how unsuitable, merely for her own entertainment. Still, Lady Swan or not, I am sure she already knows who is coming to Bainbridge. She has her ways of ensuring her ears are the first to hear, as old gossips do.”
“Impossible!” Clara cried, stomping one slippered foot. “Lady Swan writes with such thoughtfulness and kindness. Have any of you ever heard Mrs. Cullham say anything even remotely resembling thoughtful or kind to or about anyone?”
“Clara, watch your tongue!” came Ellen’s inevitable response.
A few moments later, Felicity’s companions had once again devolved into overlapping discussion of encouragements and theories—none of which involved the writer herself. Apparently, as far as the girls were concerned, now that Lady Swan’s methods had been proven, there was no longer any need to discern her identity as well.
The sound of their mingling voices, normally so welcome, grated against her nerves like silverware against china, building into a nearly unbearable thumping pressure between her ears. Felicity lowered her head and grabbed a fistful of shrubbery.
She did not like this feeling of everyone caring so much about her. About her future. She would rather they care about her foolish behavior or unrefined manners. Felicity stretched her neck from side to side, eager for relief.
Lord and Lady Eldmar certainly had not cared about anything Felicity and Mercy did or did not do until last year, when local gossips had taken up the virtuous cause of speculating that the viscountess was failing her youngest daughters by not putting forth more effort into marrying them off.
If there was one thing their mother could not abide, it was a less-than-sparkling reputation to match those of her equally brilliant friends. Thus had begun Lady Eldmar’s crazed mission to throw the twins at as many eligible men as possible during the Season.
Felicity’s tensed muscles began to ache and tremble with the effort of remaining still, containing her simmering exasperation and resentment. Now, thanks to Lady Swan poking about in Felicity’s business, even her friends—who had always understood and accepted her—sought to take charge of her life.
“Here, I know just the thing!” Isabel once again threw her full voice across the pavilion. “Why don’t we read the letter again from the start and examine it, line by—”
Enough!
The last thread of sanity clinging for dear life finally snapped. Felicity’s eyes flew open, chest heaving, sweat beading at the nape of her neck. Digging her heels into the gravel, she spun sharply and marched.
“Wait!”
“I told you not to—”
“Felicity, please!”
“No, no, friends. I am sorry, but I believe my sister requires some time and privacy.”
“Oh, dear…”
The voices of Felicity’s companions faded quickly, whisked away by a stiff, summer gust. Her field of vision narrowed to the end of the hedge row straight ahead and the expanse of cornflower-blue sky beyond, skirts snapping around her legs with the briskness of her pace.
Felicity fought to keep every breath measured, to keep her walking boots firmly on the earth, as she stormed across the imposing shadow of the home that had polished generations of Reeves and through the stunning gardens personally curated by the current viscountess herself.
Her footsteps hastened into a half-run the moment her eyes caught sight of that familiar break in the thin copse. In truth, it was more of an impression between the trees. That dreadful, suffocating lump growing in her chest urged Felicity forward. The delusional promise thudded with every pained heartbeat that as soon as she left Huxley Manor and its inhabitants and guests behind, she could breathe once more. She would be free.
Branches snagged at Felicity’s dress as she pushed in, leaves whispering across the exposed skin of her upper arms and neck. A moment and a nearly twisted ankle later, she burst through the other side onto a cobbled street. Felicity glanced up and down the small, shaded path that served her home as well as Isabel’s to the left and to her right, the only unoccupied estate in Bainbridge.
Turning, she broke into a full run—at least as full as her ladylike walking boots and layers of pale-purple skirts would allow. Her poor bonnet fluttered against the strong wind flying into Felicity’s face. She did not care if the blasted thing should be carried off amongst the stars. She had a dozen more just like it, and another dozen even finer. Besides, Felicity had always found bonnets to be cumbersome at best and a bane at worst during the times one longed to feel the sun warming one’s hair and the fresh air on one’s cheeks.
She continued to run, arms pumping, a smile forcing its way onto her lips. This moment of freedom felt too good for her to be wrong. Felicity would prove to herself that it was Lady Swan who was incorrect. Whatever triumphs the matchmaker had claimed in the past, Felicity was determined not to number among them in the future.
No one knew Felicity better than herself. No one was coming to sweep her off her feet.
If they tried, she would simply continue running.
At the curve in the path up ahead, obscured by the overhanging trees lining the street, Felicity’s wondrously burning lungs squeezed shut. Her eyes widened. She skidded to a halt as an exceedingly handsome, silver-painted, dark-wood coach turned down the drive of Setherwell Court, a smaller cart bearing luggage behind it.
“Impossible,” Felicity half-whispered, half-wheezed. One hand pressed against her hammering heart, the other covering her open mouth.
Could Lady Swan predict the future? Or perhaps she had merely heard the rumors and thought to apply her knowledge to the entertaining activity of sending young ladies on quests for their roles in fabled love stories.
Astonishment gave way to curiosity. Waiting until the luggage cart passed under the grand, stone archway, Felicity seized the first opportunity to duck behind the tall, spiral-shaped hedges that lined the drive and followed along. As she crouched behind the nearest hedge possible, a most undignified position, Felicity prayed they had simply taken a wrong turn or were passing through and thought to have a glance at an available house.
She hissed when the driver pulled through the loop at the foot of the front steps and slowed the horses to a stop. Even from this distance, Felicity noted the beautiful dress of the older couple that stepped down from the carriage.
The more she saw, the deeper Felicity’s heart sank. A butler, who had apparently been sent ahead, hurried down the steps and familiarly greeted the lady and gentleman, who must be his master and mistress. So they were prepared to stay.
A muscle twitched in Felicity’s jaw. Even worse, everything in their possession and every aspect of their air indicated nothing short of a splendid fortune. They must have had one, if they sought to take Setherwell Court, often said to be the finest property in Bainbridge after the Reeve family’s.
The man and woman followed their butler up the steps, he with a puffed chest of admiration and she with a sparkling smile of satisfaction. The carriage door opened again, foiling Felicity’s feeble hopes that instead of a tempting bachelor, Bainbridge had gained nothing more than another mature couple with children already settled.
A hunched figure squeezed into the modest doorframe. The gentleman’s face was obscured by a book, one long leg reaching for the ground, bypassing the single step.
Bells of alarm trumpeted in Felicity’s mind. Her eyes felt as though they would pop from her head with her desperation—mingled with a not-insignificant portion of horror—to see more of this particular stranger.
He took one step out of the carriage. With her eyes as fixed on him as they were, it was impossible for Felicity not to witness the man’s other foot catch on the carriage interior.
“Gah!”
He stumbled, his clearly fascinating book dropping to the gravel in a little cloud of dust, revealing a young profile with a slightly hooked nose and a mouth given to panicked muttering. The stranger removed his top hat and tucked it under his arm as he collected his book. With hasty care, the gentleman brushed the debris from the front and back covers and brought it closer to his face, examining its every detail.
The older couple paused at the top of the stairs, glancing over their shoulders. Unconcerned by the bumbling fellow down below, they disappeared into the shadowy foyer.
The younger man still stood in profile as his chest filled and deflated quickly in what appeared to be a good-natured chuckle. He shook his head. Dark-brown hair, still tousled from the hat, fell in thick, straight pieces across his eyes. Too far for Felicity to make out their color. An irrelevant detail, in any case.
Before she could identify the strangely airy feeling in her chest, a quiet laugh spilled from Felicity’s lips. In all of a minute or two, she had surmised that this must be a frequent occurrence for the gentleman. The couple, most likely his parents, had been completely unperturbed. He, once assured of his book’s safety, had been merely amused.
What an absurd idea! Who on Earth could love reading so much, they refused to lift their nose from the pages long enough to guarantee their safe exit from a carriage?
Surely not. Surely, Lady Swan did not think this scholarly type would suit Felicity. A shiver shot down Felicity’s spine at the thought. She shook her head to banish the absurd notion and returned her gaze to the house.
The man had turned. He was staring in her direction.
Heart shooting into her throat, Felicity yanked herself behind the full coverage of the spiral hedge, back pressed against neatly trimmed leaves. His sweeping gaze had nearly caught her.
What had caught her was the unexpected full view of his countenance. She had not thought he would be that handsome.
Or was it that thoughtfully curious expression, all furrowed brows and pouting frown, as he searched for whatever or whoever had made the sound—as he searched for her—that had somehow blinded Felicity?
She gave herself a single, sharp nod. Only a trick of the light could leave her so breathless. That, and the exhilaration of nearly giving herself away.
“One more glance,” Felicity whispered to herself around the thudding heart still stuck in her throat. “Prove to yourself that it was an illusion.”
With a deep inhale, Felicity turned. She dared not poke so much as a toe out from the hedge this time. Instead, ducking this way and that, Felicity found enough of a window through the sculpted branches to peer through.
Felicity’s heart drifted down to its rightful location. The man trotted up the front steps, his back to Felicity. She let out her breath in a long, slow exhale as he disappeared from view.
Alas, she had missed her chance to prove to herself that…that what? That Lady Swan’s words were nothing more than a fanciful story?
Felicity clenched her fists at her sides. She had nothing to prove to anyone. They would all see in time and eventually surrender. Even that mysterious Lady Swan.
Felicity Reeve did not believe in romantic love. More importantly, Felicity Reeve did not lose.