Chapter Three
That bright laugh still lingered in the back of Atticus’s mind even after two days of settling into his family’s temporary home in Bainbridge and being introduced to a few prominent neighbors in the area. It provided a strangely welcome distraction from the merciless churning in his stomach as he leaned against the carriage window, his parents happily chatting between themselves on the seat across.
Shadows from overhanging trees dappled the cobbled street, transforming from one shape to another faster than Atticus could track. Had he imagined that laugh? He’d certainly imagined stranger things when lost in thought, either his own or, preferably, that of a brilliant and creative writer.
His heavy brows furrowed. No, there had been a very real quality about the sound, yet he had been unable to identify it in the moment. Its origin still eluded him.
The laugh, looping in his mind, ceased abruptly.
“You remember Lord and Lady Eldmar, do you not, Atticus?” Mama asked, pale-blue eyes aglow.
Atticus scrambled to correct his posture, bumping the brim of his hat into the window. Not that Mama or Papa cared much about his manners or nervous habits when they were alone. He sometimes disappeared so wholly into his mind or his books that it could be quite jarring when the real world demanded his attention.
“I do, I think,” Atticus mumbled, grimacing as he searched for damage to his top hat. “They are the ones with a future duchess for a daughter, correct?”
“Indeed, and a son who married the daughter of a marquess!” Papa added, absentmindedly stroking his side-whiskers with one hand and nodding his approval.
Given the Wheadon family’s lavish wealth, not much raised his parents’ particular excitement, save for connections of the highest quality. They would be happy here in Bainbridge, where fine friendships were to be made around every corner. So it would be for Mama and Papa. For Atticus, the tale would be vastly different. It always was with him.
“I know I should not speak so hastily, and surely, now is not the right time to mention it, but Lady Eldmar did inform me when they called on us yesterday that they have two younger daughters, who came quite some time after the rest, as I understand it. Twins! Both are unmarried…”
Atticus stifled a groan and gave Mama a reluctantly encouraging smile.
The petite lady bounced in her seat, brown curls laced with gray swinging back and forth. “Oh, Atticus, surely one of them will catch your eye!”
“I promise to take that into consideration.” Atticus chuckled with a timid attempt at a smile. The hand resting upon his knee clenched into a fist, palm slick.
The carriage slowed to a stop. Atticus’s anxiety catapulted from the pit of his stomach to his throat, lodging behind his Adam’s apple. Mama clapped her hands in excitement, peering up at the grand building through her window.
“See that you do, son,” Papa added as he brushed away imaginary dust from his handsome coat. “Your younger sister was blessed to marry at twenty, and while we are overjoyed to have our first grandchild, Arabella’s son will not inherit and carry on the Wheadon name or fortune. Only your sons can do that.”
Atticus only had a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and breathe. A footman opened the carriage door at the steps of Huxley Manor, the home of Viscount and Viscountess Eldmar and the location of a welcome luncheon hosted in the Wheadons’ honor.
The last thing he needed when his nerves already quivered at the rapidly approaching afternoon full of strangers was to be reminded of the numerous great burdens on his shoulders—burdens he had never been sure he had the strength to carry. But with no brothers, each task fell solely to Atticus.
He was so discombobulated and the sun was so bright that he lost his footing on the way down from the carriage, nearly tripping again. His heart lurched in his chest…just like it had the day they had arrived, the day he had heard that distant laughter.
“Goodness, dear boy!” Mama gasped, grasping one of Atticus’s elbows to steady him. She shot an amused glance to her husband. “Your father and I will leave the subject alone now.” She chuckled. “We know how immersed you can become in your thoughts. But for this luncheon, try your best to stay present in the physical world. We must make an agreeable impression upon these people who are to be our society for who knows how long!”
Atticus forced a swallow, his throat painfully dry. “Of course I will do my best, Mama.” He lowered his head respectfully, looped his mother’s arm around his, and covered her hand where it rested in the crook of his arm.
The lady, nearly a head shorter than her oldest child, reached up and patted his cheek, thin with a prominent bone. “We know you will, darling Atticus. And one more thing: Do try to have fun.”
At this, Atticus could only nod. Fun? Making shallow conversation with a handful of people he had only just met in the past two days and being trotted about for an entire village of strangers to gawk at? That was the very opposite of Atticus’s idea of an enjoyable evening.
Yet it was the way of their world. It was a duty, even if some thrived in the execution of it, such as his parents. How Atticus had inherited none of their easy, pleasant, affable traits, he could not fathom. Even his dear sister, Arabella—now the eternally content Lady Hollington—though not as generally carefree as Mama and Papa, had been blessed with an outwardly affectionate character and the talent with which to wield it.
“Well, we should not keep our generous hosts waiting,” Papa announced, taking Mama’s free hand.
Atticus’s chest constricted as they made their way up the front steps and followed the butler past stately columns into the Reeve family’s beautiful home. Sweat beaded at his temples under dark, stubbornly disheveled hair. He could hardly take in the exquisite architecture and excellent artwork in the foyer and hallways for the thundering of his heart in his ears.
“Mr. and Mrs. Wheadon, and Mr. Atticus Wheadon,” the broad-chested butler bellowed into the drawing room. A hush fell over the hum of light chatter. Every eye turned to Atticus and his family, the guests of honor, the fascinating novelties in an otherwise quiet and unvarying country life.
After offering the customary bow, Atticus struggled to force his head to remain upright. The weight on his neck and shoulders, the grip crushing his chest, made it nearly impossible to breathe, let alone maintain the proper, gentlemanly posture of unpretentious pride.
“Welcome, welcome,” called Lady Eldmar, silken hands lifted upward as she floated across the drawing room toward the Wheadons, her smile glittering with hospitality. Tight ringlets, mostly gray with shadows of blonde, bounced in time with her measured steps.
The older adults attended to the standard warm greetings while Atticus lingered behind the barrier of his parents and nodded along at the appropriate times, only half-listening. From a trio of porcelain vases of varying heights in one corner to the potted fern in another to the nearly ceiling-to-floor portrait of some gallant, heroic colonel decorated in medals, Atticus’s panicked eyes darted about the drawing room. Allowing them to land upon any other guests would be accidentally inviting a conversation.
“Right this way. I shall introduce you to all our dearest friends.”
Atticus’s mind spun with the sheer number of people in the large room as Lord and Lady Eldmar made introductions.
“This is Mr. Abbott and Lady Ainsworth.”
“Ah, here are the Gardiners.”
“And Mr. and Mrs. Harrowsmith, our newest couple!”
What felt like dozens of faces and names blurred together despite Atticus’s best efforts to memorize them. The majority of his effort and energy always went to keeping his head bobbing up and down and his mouth mumbling superficial courtesies to appear as perfectly normal and friendly as possible.
Finally, after a torturous fifteen minutes of hearing the name of every resident and estate and how each was connected with the other, Atticus tasted his first breath of relief. Lady Eldmar concluded the introductions and captured Mama’s arm, dragging her off toward the other mothers, while Lord Eldmar brought Papa to admire the painting of the colonel.
More than happy to be left on his own, Atticus sidled away to the unlit fireplace on the far wall, nursing the cup of tea the viscountess had given him, though he could not recall when. He wedged himself in the deep recess created by the ornate, marble fireplace and the built-in shelving beside it. Still visible to the crowd yet unobtrusive, uninviting.
Atticus had only managed to down a few sips of lukewarm tea when he felt that distressing tingle, the raising of bumps on his skin that could mean only one thing: eyes were upon him. Daring a glance of his own over the rim of his cup, Atticus quickly surveyed the room.
His stomach hollowed. Several young ladies, all of whom—including the younger Reeve twin—he had met just moments ago watched him with curiously raised brows from the opposite corner. Atticus adjusted the angle of his stance, providing them with only a side view.
Surely, they only paid particular attention to him because he was meant to be the focus of the day, as much as he abhorred the very notion. As patient and understanding as she was, Mama never allowed her son to neglect the social responsibility required of those blessed with their advantages. A necessary evil, one Atticus did not begrudge her for. The future head of a family such as theirs could not waste away as a recluse. It was entirely his fault that he was not suited to be a true member of Society.
“Ah, Lady Ainsworth.”
The voice of the viscountess froze Atticus just as he’d summoned the courage to seek out a different hiding spot, one not in such direct view of the ladies. Lady Eldmar appeared on the other side of the fireplace, her back to Atticus. He pressed deeper into his nook, as uncomfortable as it was with his long, awkward limbs, just as Lady Eldmar beckoned to another guest.
“My lady?” asked Mr. Abbott’s sister-in-law, the frequent chaperone to his daughter since Mrs. Abbott’s passing, if Atticus recalled correctly. The younger woman, herself a widow, tilted her head to one side, long fingers absentmindedly tapping at her teacup.
Lady Eldmar shook her head, the emeralds in her hair twinkling. “No one has been able to locate Felicity,” she hissed through gritted teeth, keeping her voice low. “I hoped she would have had the sense to be discovered by now. Instead, I was forced to introduce Mercy alone and embarrass myself by making excuses for Felicity’s absence to our guests.” The lines across her forehead and surrounding her mouth deepened. “You have the unhappy task of trailing after these girls all over the country. Have you any notion where the ingrate might be hiding?”
“On the contrary, Lady Eldmar,” the dowager countess began with what sounded to Atticus like a strained chuckle. “I quite enjoy joining the young misses on their adventures. They are wonderful company.”
For the first time that evening, Atticus felt the ghost of a smile on his lips, though his ears still burned red to hear the viscountess’s unexpectedly severe criticism of her own child. At least Lady Ainsworth possessed the delicacy to check the other woman with a smile on her face and gentility in her voice.
“I swear,” Lady Eldmar continued in a huff before allowing her friend to answer her query, “Felicity might be three-and-twenty, but I have been tempted to consider the idea of employing another governess to mind her for several more years. At the very least, I will be tightening the leading strings around her. Eventually, she will spend far too much energy being miserable to make much of a fuss.”
A melancholy twinge struck Atticus square in the chest. His eyes dropped to the gleaming, hardwood floor, heat prickling his skin. He should not be hearing this. Surely, Miss Reeve’s misery would only increase if she knew that a stranger had overheard her mother speak of her so unkindly. Atticus frowned at his shoes. He had not yet met the elder Reeve twin, yet Atticus could hardly fathom that any child deserved such insults and treatment from a parent.
“Perhaps try the garden,” Lady Ainsworth offered after a long moment. “She often seeks fresh air when she feels overwhelmed.”
Atticus’s head snapped up. Yes, fresh air would be a delight.
“Overwhelmed?” Lady Eldmar barked under her breath. “What could possibly overwhelm the daughter of a viscount, of the most prominent family in Bainbridge?”
Resolve solidified inside Atticus. Miss Reeve had the right of it. Fresh air was just the thing, and surely, no one would miss him while they mingled prior to the meal. Everyone had already forgotten him, save for those young ladies.
As Lady Ainsworth led the exasperated viscountess to a pair of nearby chairs, Atticus made his escape, skirting the edge of the room and muttering excuses over his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, no one made any fuss over his temporary departure, thoroughly engaged in their own conversations.
The moment he slipped through the drawing room doors, blessed air filled Atticus’s lungs. His chest, broad despite his lean frame, expanded with the sweet aroma of solitude—that, and the evenly spaced display tables bearing bowls of citrus fruits lining the hallway.
“May I assist you, sir? Are you unwell?”
Atticus jolted at the quiet voice’s sudden intrusion, his eyes flying open. A perplexed maid, arms brimming with linens, watched Atticus from a respectful distance and curtseyed when their gazes met.
“P-Perfectly well, thank you. Might you point me in the direction of the gardens? If it is no trouble, of course.”
Following the maid’s instructions, Atticus wound his way through Lord and Lady Eldmar’s grand home until he finally emerged into the sunlight and summer breeze of the back terrace. He took the steps down onto the lawn two at a time, long legs carrying him quickly down the gravel path to the promise of private greenery in the distance.
With every step, with every songbird’s melody and every wispy cloud drifting across the blue sky, Atticus’s spirits lifted. Not by any great degree, yet he welcomed even minuscule improvements in the distress running rampant in his mind by whatever means he could achieve them.
Seeking comfort in the outdoors had never been Atticus’s preferred method. It was still the vastly superior choice to remaining in the drawing room or attempting to find familiarity in another’s library. Though Setherwell did indeed boast an expansive library, it did not yet possess the creature comforts of Atticus’s library at home, a fact he had already begun to remedy.
For once, all thoughts of books disappeared from Atticus’s mind as he came upon the gardens, enclosed by neat hedges with paths that led toward a pavilion in the center. Beyond the structure stretched rows upon rows of bushes in full bloom, some bearing flowers completely foreign to Atticus’s eye. The gardens of Huxley Manor were beautiful. Atticus sighed, a heavenly, floral scent drifting toward him on the wind, and offered a silent prayer of thanks for the opportunity to appreciate this place in solitude and peace.
Walking slowly down a row of rosebushes, grateful for the calm, steady pace of his own heartbeat and the easy flow of his breath, Atticus allowed his fingertips to trail across soft petals. Some were red, some white, others the palest blush while still more displayed vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Had he ever seen roses of such magnificent variety?
He had certainly not seen any rogue young ladies.
“So, you have finally found your footing.”
Atticus nearly jumped out of his skin. He clutched his chest and doubled over as if he had just seen a dreadful apparition.
There was nothing dreadful about the chestnut-brown eyes staring back at him from around the next rosebush, the faint lines at the corners betraying their owner’s mirth.
Curls bouncing, the presumed Miss Reeve hurried out from behind the bush, her pale-pink dress glittering and plump lips fighting a battle between an amused smile and a concerned frown. Gloved hands shot out and grasped Atticus’s arm, steadying him.
“Heavens! Is it too soon for me to beg your forgiveness for causing your heart to stop?”
The lady laughed. Atticus’s heart indeed stopped.
“It is you,” he whispered.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Atticus’s propriety shouted that this strange, young woman was still touching him, still holding on to him. The sheer awe at finding himself standing before the answer he had hardly been aware of seeking overwhelmed all other senses.
“It is I,” she answered, each syllable lifted by an airy giggle. Her eyes dropped to the insignificant stretch of gravel path separating his polished boots from the tips of her satin slippers, peeking out from under an embroidered hem. Her hands slipped back to her sides as well.
“I suppose now is as good a time as any,” she continued, “to beg your forgiveness for my previous transgression of covertly observing your arrival. My curiosity got the better of me, you see. I am Miss Felicity Reeve.”
Miss Reeve’s gaze flew back up to meet Atticus’s. His eyes widened at the healthy dose of pride he saw there. Such fearlessness was utterly foreign to him. He could not begin to imagine what a wonder this lady must have been to possess the skill of conveying confidence even within her remorse.
Atticus’s heart ceased its erratic hammering and settled into a dizzying buzz.
Yet it did not feel quite the same as when his incessant fears of the future overtook him or when he drowned in an ocean of conversation. He did not feel on the verge of imploding. Rather the opposite, in fact. If his heart fluttered any faster, he might drift off into the endless summer sky. What an odd sensation, and at such a peculiar time!
“Truly, I am sor—”
“No, please,” Atticus said in a rush, shaking his head. “One apology was unnecessary already. You have done nothing that warrants it. In fact, I welcome any and all heart stopping and covert observing you wish to do.”
As soon as the words stumbled from his lips, Atticus grimaced inwardly. Why did he always say such strange things when faced with even the simplest pressure?
Miss Reeve chuckled. “Are you not supposed to be inside for the luncheon, Mr.…?”
“Atticus Wheadon.” He quickly offered a stiff bow. “Now I must beg your forgiveness, Miss Reeve, for the terribly unfortunate nature of our first introduction.”
The young lady shrugged. “I found it more invigorating than unfortunate.”
Atticus’s eyes widened. A shrug before a stranger! Miss Reeve truly was a bold woman. Nor had anyone ever described Atticus or anything to do with him as “invigorating.”
When he lapsed into silence once more, a regrettable habit that often resulted in some embarrassment for him, Miss Reeve lifted a dark brow. “You are here for the luncheon, are you not?”
“Yes, yes, indeed.” Atticus nodded, thankful for Miss Reeve’s polite prompt. “It is just that I overheard her—well, this is a bit more…” Biting the inside of his cheek, Atticus slipped a finger under his collar and tugged, suddenly aware of just how bright and full the sun shone up above.
Miss Reeve’s open, spirited countenance transformed in less than the blink of an eye. Her narrow shoulders drooped, a scowl twisting delicate features into sharp, cold anger. Even the honey-blonde curls framing her face seemed to freeze.
“The viscountess.”
Atticus’s mouth pressed into a hard line. He lowered his gaze. Clearly, the feelings of animosity and resentment flowed passionately in both directions between Lady Eldmar and Miss Reeve.
“Your mother, yes. I thought someone ought to inform you that she is searching for you and she is…not pleased.”
Miss Reeve heaved an exasperated sigh and crossed her arms, still unconcerned with ladylike decorum. Once assured that she remained distracted enough with her own internal deliberations, Atticus allowed himself to admire the lady.
He had spent his entire life being as unobtrusive as possible to avoid attracting attention. Here Miss Reeve stood, his perfect opposite, someone so comfortable in herself that she did not hide any part, even when making the all-important first impression.
“I suppose I have delayed long enough if even the guest of honor seeks to drag me back,” she grumbled after a long moment.
Atticus’s eyes widened. “No, Miss Reeve, not at all.” He held up both hands, palms forward, pleading with the lady. “I would never dare seek to drag you anywhere. I doubt you would go, in any case. I only sought to inform.”
“You doubt it, do you?” Miss Reeve laughed quietly, her icy expression thawing.
Before the panic of unintentionally causing offense could rise in Atticus again, she continued. “Well, there is nothing for it but to meet our fates up there.”
Remembering his manners, Atticus offered his arm to the lady. Warmth simmered inside him at the feeling of her touch on his person once more. It was familiar and full of life, two things he could not possibly claim to know about Miss Reeve after speaking for a few minutes.
Atticus did his best to ignore the feeling as they slowly made their way back through the gardens, past the pavilion and trimmed hedges, and into the house. Miss Reeve offered no conversation, her gaze hard and withdrawn, eyes narrowed as they stared straight ahead.
For some reason, despite Atticus’s eternal preference for silence and solitude, the anger and frustration wafting off the woman beside him stirred his heart. Without fully realizing what he was doing, Atticus stopped halfway up the stairs.
“Why do you not wish to participate in the luncheon?”
Miss Reeve, a foot already raised, paused on the step above Atticus. Her sour expression gave way to confusion. Embarrassment scorched every inch of Atticus’s skin. He quickly lowered his eyes, now nearly level with Miss Reeve’s.
“F-Forgive me for such an impertinent question,” he stammered. “We are hardly more than strangers. I have no right—”
That laugh again. It was not as light, carefree this time. Bitterness underscored the sound. Atticus dared to look up. Miss Reeve offered a forlorn smile that somehow resembled more of a frown.
“I was not expecting a stranger to care.” With a sharp exhale, the lady turned her face away and jutted her chin into the air. “Most of the strangers I meet are only concerned with the bland review of me Lady Eldmar provides, accomplishments and dowries and all that. But once they catch a glimpse of something that cannot be abridged in a few superficial sentences… Of course, you need not know any of this.”
Words failed Atticus. He had not been expecting such truth, nor could he fathom what it must be like to live with such feelings—to so clearly desire love and acceptance, only to be met with criticism and rejection. Despite meeting Lord and Lady Eldmar only yesterday and meeting their youngest children not fifteen minutes prior, Atticus felt he had come to know enough of their familial relationships—not entirely willingly—to be confident in his assumption.
“A shame, indeed,” was all he could manage to whisper, nodding his head in understanding.
Though Atticus had always known men and women were born to carry different pressures, he had never truly heard any member of the opposite sex share Miss Reeve’s unflattering opinions on the obligations with which she was raised. His sister’s only complaint had been that she could not dance more than two sets with the dashing Baron Hollington until they married. As much as Atticus dreaded the weight of his future, to hear Miss Reeve touch upon her struggles afforded him a greater appreciation for his fate.
Miss Reeve’s soft cheekbones colored a subtle, lovely pink as she turned on her heel and continued up the stairs. Atticus waited for her to ascend a few steps before following.
He did not know how he knew that Miss Reeve required some distance to collect herself. Perhaps, because he was so familiar with the sensation himself, he could now identify it in others. Yet Atticus did not understand why she looked over her shoulder at him every few seconds, as if reassuring herself that he was there. Nor did he understand why he should have developed such an impression.
Before Atticus could untangle it all, they reached the landing. The sound of muffled conversation drifted down the hall. Inviting to most, perilous to Atticus.
“I fear we are both quite trapped now.” Miss Reeve groaned. She glanced at Atticus from the corner of her eye. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” Atticus answered, offering his arm once more.
Side by side, they marched toward the drawing room and whatever agony awaited them.
“You wait here. Just a few minutes should do,” Miss Reeve announced as they paused before the doors. She pulled away and turned to face Atticus, wearing a half-smile. “And when my poor, harried mother introduces us, do feel free to feign your surprise at my beauty.”
Atticus swallowed. “O-Of course.”
Her smile widened. “I am only joking. Though I suppose you must have already met Mercy, in which case my countenance would hardly surprise you. Now, wish me luck.”
“Best of luck, Miss Reeve,” Atticus mumbled as the young lady faced the doors, stiffened her shoulders, and lifted her chin.
She slipped into the drawing room, leaving Atticus to wonder how the visage of one identical twin could already fade to the back of his mind while the other had commanded all his attention from the moment their eyes had met.