Chapter Six
Atticus’s eyes glazed over as he read his name and Miss Reeve’s next to each other, printed in solid, black letters. Permanent and unchangeable. Recorded in the newspaper, their engagement was now real.
His stomach churned. His heart beat erratically, sure to leave bruises on the interior of his ribcage.
The newspaper flew out of his frozen hand, snatched by Miss Reeve. She threw herself into the chair beside Atticus with a groan. Miss Mercy shook her head at her twin’s colorful antics, even though they were quite alone in Setherwell’s drawing room.
Door ajar, of course, while Mama and Papa took Lord and Lady Eldmar to admire the house and grounds—to leave the young folks to their happy plans, as Mama had said.
In the somber shadows of the library, Atticus, Miss Reeve, Miss Mercy, and Lady Eldmar had all agreed that no one else need learn the truth of the impetus behind their sudden betrothal. Not even Atticus’s parents. He had felt relieved and guilty in equal measure when Mama and Papa had proven so ecstatic about any match for their son that they had not stopped celebrating long enough to question its remarkable swiftness.
“It is official, then,” Miss Reeve grumbled into the tense silence. “We are…engaged.”
Miss Mercy cleared her throat and offered an apologetic smile to Atticus, trying, no doubt, to be mindful on her sister’s behalf not to offend the family that would soon be forever tied to theirs.
“Many young ladies would give much to be in your position,” she reminded her sister quietly.
Avoiding his gaze, Atticus’s future wife scoffed. “Then let them, and leave me alone.”
In fact, Miss Reeve’s eyes had not landed directly on Atticus since she and her family had arrived.
Miss Mercy’s cheeks colored. “That is quite enough, sister.”
To Atticus’s surprise, the other lady did shrink a little. She recovered quickly. Atticus would have thought he had imagined her embarrassment had he not already been observing her. Stubbornly fixing her frown, she turned her head sharply and glared out the window.
Just as Miss Mercy began to apologize again, Atticus held up one hand. “There is no need. Miss Reeve has every right to her feelings. It is quite an unexpected situation and I shall take no offense to anything she deems necessary to say about the matter.”
Miss Reeve turned again. For the first time since their arrival, Atticus’s intended looked at him. Her deep-brown eyes narrowed in what looked to be anger and determination as they observed each other for a long moment, lips trembling with fear.
Atticus’s frantic heart sputtered to a stop and plummeted to depths he had not thought possible. He was the cause of that pain and fear. He had done this to her.
The pieces had become clearer to Atticus after the night in the library. Had it truly only been two nights ago? For whatever reason, Miss Reeve did not wish to marry. Or she at least held extremely specific standards and ideals that had presented a challenge for her mother to match.
Atticus had forced this poor creature into a life she did not want. He would happily accept her insults. He deserved them.
“What an uncommon man,” Miss Reeve said under her breath, likely not intending for Atticus to hear.
But he had heard. There was no bite in her voice now. Instead, it sounded almost like…awe. A strange mixture of incredulity and longing seized him. Atticus had never been more sure that there was nothing about him to inspire anything resembling awe. But, for the first time in a long time, he wished there were.
“What an excellent tour, Mrs. Wheadon!” Lady Eldmar’s voice rang just outside the drawing room door.
Miss Reeve quickly fixed her posture and countenance and busied herself with the now-lukewarm tea her sister had prepared, which she had thus far ignored. She seemed to think better of increasing her mother’s ire since that fateful night.
“I do hope you have found everything to your satisfaction, my lady,” said Mama as both sets of parents entered. “Dearest Miss Reeve shall want for nothing here! I cannot tell you how eagerly I have been waiting to guide a new daughter as she puts into practice all of her excellent education in being mistress of a household.”
“She will benefit greatly from your wise counsel, I have no doubt,” the viscountess replied, her words dripping with purposeful sweetness. Lord Eldmar absentmindedly nodded his agreement as Papa led him to the sofa in the middle of the room, musing about an article in the morning’s paper.
Atticus had not thought anything particular about either Lord Eldmar or Lady Eldmar during their first meeting, prior to the disparaging remarks he’d heard at the welcome luncheon. That event had certainly changed the course of his opinion on one of them.
After the library, after witnessing her callous, opportunistic treatment of her daughter—where other mothers might have wept with heartbreak or even displayed a fit of anger—Atticus would never see or hear anything in Lady Eldmar’s behavior and speech but her self-serving singlemindedness. Even stumbling upon her youngest children involved in a ruinous situation had not altered the viscountess’s eagerness to achieve her goal.
As if summoned by Atticus’s uncharacteristically critical thoughts, Miss Reeve’s mother approached the trio seated by the window. Her gaze never left the eldest twin, not even when the younger rose from her seat and hurried away.
“You should be entertaining your intended, Felicity,” she snipped quietly as a dainty hand landed upon her target’s shoulder, the picture of motherly pride.
“Yes, Mother,” Miss Reeve said through gritted teeth.
Just as quickly as she’d arrived, the viscountess disappeared, striding toward Mama and Miss Mercy by the fireplace, where they admired a small, pearl-inlaid table.
Atticus did the only thing he could conceive of to appease his future mother-in-law. He leaned over the arm of his chair toward Miss Reeve. The lady’s eyes widened in a silent question. She did not attempt to retreat from the sudden intimacy.
“You need not respond. We may simply pretend to converse,” Atticus whispered. This close, his eyes were in danger of spending too much time on the subtle curves of her pink mouth.
“Perhaps I might recount the book I have most recently finished reading,” he suggested, “and perhaps you might nod along or make some thoughtful sound. You need not truly listen if you do not wish. Just so your mother does not find further reason to punish you.”
Miss Reeve narrowed her eyes at Atticus and made no reply. He bit the inside of his cheek. Had he said too much? Taken too many liberties? She would soon be Atticus’s bride, but that did not mean they knew anything more about each other than they had two days ago. He had not earned the right to speak to her as if he knew anything about her life or its challenges.
“Why are you being so kind to me?”
That was not the reply Atticus had been expecting. The corners of his mouth pulled into a confused frown.
“Why should I not be kind to you?”
Clearly, that had not been the answer Miss Reeve had expected, either. Her narrowed eyes flashed surprise for the briefest of moments before returning to a scowl.
“Because I have shown you nothing but disdain since the moment we were discovered—when I am the one at fault, no less. At least in the past, my misdeeds only harmed me.”
Curls that looked as soft as down caught the midday sunlight as Miss Reeve turned away once more. They brushed against her cheek, drawing Atticus’s notice to the dusting of pink there.
The realization struck him hard in the chest. Miss Reeve held herself to blame for Atticus’s equally unwanted change in his comfortable life. The brick of guilt that had occupied the depths of his stomach these past two days grew heavier by a hundredfold. That his future wife should feel any blame for these unfortunate circumstances was a tragedy all its own.
Atticus bowed his head. He could no longer bear to look at her. Why had he not more firmly insisted that she leave the library immediately? Why had he not left himself at her first refusal?
Against his wishes, Atticus’s mind brought forth the already hazy memories of that night. It had all happened too quickly for any of it to imprint details. Only one had mattered that night. That he would do the gentlemanly thing and marry Miss Reeve for her protection. It was the least he could do after causing such a mess.
And no matter what Miss Reeve thought, Atticus was the true cause. If he could have simply maintained control of himself and his emotions in the ballroom, Miss Reeve would have had no need to follow him to this great misfortune.
Yet, no matter how often Atticus dwelled in the despair of those moments, he could not help recalling Miss Reeve’s tenderness. After a lifetime of pitying whispers behind his back and disinterested replies to his attempted conversations, it had been too tempting to accept kindness from a stranger.
His cowardice had cost him his beloved future of solitude and her the independent dreams of a wild heart.
Could he not at least now muster a modicum of bravery to address the woman who would be his life partner? The silence had gone on too long. He could never tell when the right time had arrived to break it. The right time hardly mattered now.
“I assure you that your disdain and any resulting actions are entirely justified in my eyes,” he began without lifting his head. “I understand very well that I am the last man any young lady would willingly—”
“It is not you.”
Atticus jolted, his head flying up.
“At least, you are not the sole cause of my disinclination toward this union,” she hurried, her gaze fixed on some distant point. “As you might have gathered, I am disinclined toward marriage as a whole.”
“May I know your reasoning?” Atticus asked quietly. The more he learned of his future bride, the easier it would be for him to avoid saying or doing anything that might increase her regret.
Miss Reeve’s mouth tugged to one side. “I am sure you can see by now why my nature renders me unsuitable for the stifling standards of a wife. And why the viscountess seized the opportunity to force me into marriage. I value my freedom too greatly to welcome anyone who openly seeks to deprive me of it. That is why I had planned to live with Mercy or one of our friends when they eventually married. We all promised we would take each other should the need arise. I know I will only ever be free in a house where I have the love and understanding of a true friend.”
Atticus’s battered heart sank even lower. “I understand. I am so terribly, terribly sorry for all of this.”
A featherlight touch graced Atticus’s arm. It was gone so quickly, he wondered if he’d merely imagined it until Miss Reeve spoke.
“You have done nothing that necessitates an apology,” she said, still looking away and blushing. “You are just as trapped as I am, after all. I cannot imagine this is how you thought you would be induced to make an offer, if you ever wished to do so at all.” Miss Reeve paused, wrinkling her nose as she took a deep inhale, readying herself to continue.
“Perpetually unmarried gentlemen are merely called ‘confirmed bachelors,’ while unwed women are branded ‘spinsters.’ What an odious word, ‘spinster’! As if it is meant to be insulting, a mark of tragic failure.”
The more Miss Reeve spoke on the absurdity of the different rules governing men and women, the more passionate she became. Atticus’s own self-pity retreated to the back of his mind as he listened, finding himself nodding along in genuine agreement.
She conveyed her ideas in the spontaneous flow of speech even more eloquently than Atticus could have managed in an hour of rigorous thought. How often had others commented that he spent more time in his library and study than most other young men did in gambling halls? Why should anyone else care if he spent weeks on end without any human contact? Why should anyone care if anyone else, whether male or female, had found marriage unsuitable for their desires?
To hear Miss Reeve speak of her own grievances brought a strange balm to his soul. Though he would not have chosen such strong words as Miss Reeve, she was correct. Atticus was also contending with an extremely altered future he had never wanted.
As much as he longed to commiserate with someone who finally understood him—at least the misunderstood part of him—Atticus knew this was not his time. Even more so as an heir, he would never find himself in a position to depend upon another for his survival. Though it would indeed be a crushing shame to be the one to fail his line’s generations of success, no one truly had the power to compel Atticus to marry and produce yet another heir. Not even to prevent scandal—it would not be his reputation that suffered if he refused to marry Miss Reeve. While she could never again hope to show her face before the world, Society would hardly bat an eye at a man’s seeming escapades. In fact, other gentlemen—the fashionable ones, so completely different from Atticus—might be amused by it, might more readily accept him into their circle.
Miss Reeve felt her vexation to a greater, deeper, more painful degree than Atticus could ever truly appreciate as a man whose birthright was freedom.
Besides, since when had Atticus developed an interest in sharing his feelings? He structured every day of his life around the one activity that allowed him to escape his own racing thoughts and panicked heartbeats for the musings and adventures of another. But Miss Reeve did not need to know any of that.
“Goodness, is that the time?” Lord Eldmar remarked from somewhere toward the middle of the room. Atticus barely heard their conversation beforehand.
“We need not be in such a rush, my lord,” replied the viscountess, glancing to the newly engaged couple by the window.
Those words, Atticus did catch. For the first time, he found himself hoping she was right. Strange how petrified he had been of this meeting in the morning, yet now he wished to listen to Miss Reeve’s words and hear more of the feathery peaks and lush valleys in her voice.
“I am afraid we must go,” the viscount insisted as he set his cup on the low table. “We are to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Dailey tonight, and I promised Mr. Dailey that I would examine the rare shotgun he most recently acquired for his collection.”
Atticus felt as though someone had landed a firm blow to his gut as they said their farewells and he watched Miss Reeve retreat behind her parents and sister, head bowed and expression defeated.
When their footsteps retreated down the hall, Mama heaved a sigh of relief and settled onto the sofa beside her husband.
“I cannot believe our Atticus is marrying into such a respectable family, and just think of all the desirable connections! See, dear son? I always told you that those who do not seek love always seem to know the instant they find it. I thought I sensed something between you from the very beginning, I swear!”
Atticus felt as though his mouth had been melded shut. He could only nod, hoping his parents were too distracted by their own raptures and exaggerated memories to prod him for a sensible response. Keeping their secret would not be his downfall. The several new layers of guilt—including lying to his parents—that had been heaped upon his shoulders might be. But he would rather crumble under their weight than expose his wife to criticism.
“Miss Reeve is sharp-witted with a spirited manner,” Papa added with a beaming smile. “She will do wonders to enliven you, Atticus.”
“She already does.”
The words slipped out easily. Perhaps because they were true.
“He truly is in love!” Mama cooed, fanning herself with one hand.
“Did you see how downtrodden poor Miss Reeve looked as they left? That is the look of a girl in love if I ever saw one,” said Papa.
Atticus’s heart stuttered. In love? Love had never entered into his consideration. He was under no illusions, but he was also not affected by them. Not usually.
No woman in the world would choose him to build a life with, not once they saw the perpetually fretful and almost insultingly reserved fool behind the wealth. Nor had he ever intended to tempt anyone to do so, let alone force them. Certainly not one as vibrant and confident as Miss Reeve. She was his opposite down to the last detail.
As Mama and Papa congratulated each other on, now, two excellent matches and the imminent continuation of the Wheadon line, a plan formulated in Atticus’s mind.
He could not bring himself to dim such a wonderful light.
*
Atticus had waitedtwo torturously anxious days for the first opportunity to align his plans with Lady Eldmar’s robust diary of engagements. In that time, he’d considered simply charging up the front steps of Huxley Manor and demanding the first available audience. Until he remembered, palms slick with sweat, that he never charged anywhere or demanded anything.
This whirlwind of a disaster had indeed put increasingly strange ideas into Atticus’s mind. With only three weeks for the banns to be read, each day that passed was precious. More than half of their first week had already passed in a disorienting blur.
“Mr. Atticus Wheadon,” the butler announced into the impeccably furnished sitting room.
“G-Good afternoon, my lady,” Atticus stuttered around the lump in his throat, bowing his head.
As a testament to the viscountess’s excellent breeding, she offered the young man a soothing smile and nod of acknowledgment, waving an arm toward a cluster of chairs in the center of the room. “Please do be seated, Mr. Wheadon.”
Atticus obeyed, fighting to keep the tremble in his hands under control as Lady Eldmar passed him a cup of tea. The fine china slid against his slick skin, warm liquid sloshing. Ignoring his hostess’s gasp, Atticus just managed to right the cup and avoid spilling tea all over himself.
His pulse quickened. This was a terrible idea. How could he possibly think that he could stand against a woman with as much cunning and influence as Lady Eldmar?
“What brings my soon-to-be son to Huxley for a private visit?” asked the viscountess as she prepared her own cup.
A vision of Miss Reeve’s crestfallen face rushed to the front of Atticus’s mind. This was not a terrible idea. It was necessary. A minuscule flicker of courage sparked in Atticus’s chest.
“First, since I have not yet had the opportunity or clarity of mind to do so, I would like to thank your ladyship for managing the situation so elegantly. And of course for forgiving and accepting one as undeserving as myself.”
The rehearsed speech was finished entirely too soon. In these two days since his last meeting with Miss Reeve, that was all Atticus had been able to muster. Now he sat across from Lady Eldmar’s pleased, proud smile without any clue as to what he should say next.
She exhaled a satisfied sigh as she sipped her tea. “Indeed, most mothers would not have been as understanding. But, as is my way, I saw a practical benefit to this match that would serve all our needs—even if some of you do not think as much yet. But you are so agreeable that I am sure neither you nor Felicity will find much reason to complain once you are settled and this drama is behind us.”
The woman spoke so nonchalantly, as if the concerns of the two in the middle of this dire situation came second to the concerns of their families. That would not do. Not for Miss Reeve. Atticus’s cup clattered as he hastily returned it to its saucer on the side table.
“I beg you, my lady, allow us to end this rash engagement.” He pressed his hands together, praying with all his might. “I have seen how undesirable it is to my betrothed and I cannot bear the thought of sentencing her to a lifetime of misery. I shall take full responsibility for whatever reason Miss Reeve chooses to share for breaking the engagement. Please do not contradict her by exposing the truth. It would lead to her ruin, even if I took all the blame upon myself. She truly is blameless, my lady. Nothing untoward occurred or would have occurred.”
Panic rose up through Atticus’s stomach, into his chest, seizing his heart as he made his spontaneous speech. With every word, Lady Eldmar’s eyes tightened around the corners, her lips pressed together. By the time he’d finished, her indignant gaze had Atticus quaking internally.
Silence filled the sitting room for a painfully long breath. Yet Atticus felt no temptation to rescind any part of his plea, not when this would likely be his only opportunity to save Miss Reeve from this miserable state of affairs.
In fact, this could not have happened to a worse pair. Two people disinclined to marry, one for fear of being forever caged and the other for fear of practically everything else. How could any such union truly serve their needs?
Taking a long inhale, Lady Eldmar delicately set her teacup aside, never removing her eyes from Atticus.
“I am afraid I cannot allow that to happen. Part of the blame lies with me, surely.” She paused, fighting a frown.
“After my older children have all married so well and blessed me with numerous grandchildren, I became too lax with my two late surprises. Now I must take an active hand in the marriage mart once again, lest this gossip regarding their lack of matches begins to truly threaten me. Besides, they must marry eventually. Felicity has spent far too long feigning ignorance of that crucial fact. Whatever she seems to think, there are no other choices, not really. How can she truly believe that she will be allowed to live in another’s household, under their shadow? Besides, when Mercy and the other Bainbridge ladies she trails after are all mistresses of their own homes, they will have neither the time nor the interest to coddle Felicity. Why continue to delay the inevitable?”
Atticus looked down at his hands resting atop his knees to prevent the viscountess from witnessing his darkening expression. So it had never been about her innocent daughter’s reputation. Only her own. The injustice of it knotted Atticus’s stomach. Lady Eldmar was willing to paint a beautiful picture over Miss Reeve’s broken dreams merely to remain in the good graces of her friendly rivals.
His hands closed into fists. Mama and Papa had always been eager to see him settled, yet Atticus knew they would only ever force him on a march to the altar if it meant saving a young lady from ruin and her family from shame—the precise situation Atticus had unwittingly contrived.
Whether it originated from his upbringing or his own ideals, everything inside Atticus found Lady Eldmar’s attitude to be foreign and distasteful.
That whisper of courage tugged at Atticus once more. He raised his eyes to meet Lady Eldmar’s. Even if Miss Reeve would never admit it, she deserved someone to champion her against her mother’s selfish desires. If Atticus must be that champion, then so be it.
He was a gentleman, after all. He must be. Even a coward like him could rise to the occasion when a lady’s happiness was at stake.
“Please, my lady. I know this marriage will bring the utmost misery to Miss Reeve. Please reconsider for your child’s sake.”
Annoyance flashed through Lady Eldmar’s eyes. She shook her head, patience clearly thinning. “Felicity is only opposed to marriage because she does not know any better. The girl thinks she is headstrong and daring, but really, she is merely afraid of the unfamiliar.”
That struck a chord of understanding in Atticus’s heart as he watched his laughable plan collapse before his eyes. Perhaps one day, be it a week from now or ten years from now, he and Miss Reeve could explore their surprising similarities and come to a comfortable companionship.
“Simply put, Felicity does not know her own mind,” Lady Eldmar finished.
For reasons he could not understand, Atticus bristled. “Miss Reeve knows her own mind exceedingly well. Better than most, in fact.”
The viscountess’s faint brows arched up. The silence surrounding them threatened to crush Atticus with mortification until he began scrambling through an apology.
Lady Eldmar stood so abruptly that Atticus could feel the gust her movement created. She stared down her narrow nose at Atticus.
“It appears that neither my daughter nor my future son-in-law know what is best for them. Such a shame. You both should consider yourselves blessed to have my guidance,” she snipped before curtly excusing herself.
Alone in Lady Eldmar’s sitting room, Atticus sat for a few moments longer, his face aflame. The woman had well and truly put him in his place.
Atticus had been defeated. He had done his best and he had always known it would most likely not be enough. It never really was. It had been foolish to allow even the sliver of hope that this time might be any different.
Yet the expected outcome still stung far more than Atticus would have thought. Though he had not told Miss Reeve of this plan, Atticus still pictured her disappointment at his failure. It had been his mistake to imagine her relief in the event that he revealed his unlikely success.
After some time, Atticus could not begin to guess how long, the surge of humiliation subsided to a nagging echo. When he felt enough strength return to his unwieldy legs, he forced himself to his feet. Instead of carrying him to the door, they carried him to the narrow window on the opposite wall.
Immediately, his gaze landed upon the sculpture garden some distance away. Miss Reeve strolled amongst the statues. Her loyal Bainbridge friends, Miss Mercy the only one absent, flanked her sides. Strange how even from this distance, he could differentiate them at a glance by the sprightly walk that could only belong to the firstborn twin. Despite the weight of his own disappointment rounding his shoulders, Atticus could not help the smile tugging at his lips as Miss Reeve mimicked carved poses to her companions’ delight and applause.
If he had succeeded in his mission, Atticus would have never again seen Miss Reeve’s charmingly fearless smile. His family would have quit Bainbridge and returned to their own home in Sussex the moment Papa’s renovations were completed…without her. For some strange reason, the guilty thought ached.
Though not as much as the realization that Miss Reeve would never feel that carefree and happy with the man who had stolen her future.