Chapter Six
Rose didn’t sleep at all but rather tossed and turned until the first pink light of dawn trickled in. She sat up and looked in the small looking glass above her toilette table. She looked pallid and hollow-eyed.
“A spectre instead of a bride,” she muttered, rising.
Footsteps passed her door—unfamiliar ones.
Bryce!
Only—there was a third noise that joined the soft, uneven footfalls.
Locke, with his cane.
Under her door slid a sheet of paper, folded and sealed as before.
My Dearest Miss Lycombe,
I shall not pity you if you will refrain from pitying me. I am on my way to speak to your father, and then to you directly.
With all sincerity, I may tell you that your willingness to accept my most unorthodox proposal has made me feel an emotion that I have all but forgotten—happiness.
Suitably Yours,
Edmund
“AH! MY DEAR EDMUND! I know you seldom accept hospitality, but you must at least allow us to give you breakfast. I’m sure your steward will not send your carriage or a fresh horse until the sun is well up.”
Locke smiled and stood in the damp, dewy grass beside his host, who was making notes in a small notebook with a nubbin of pencil. “I will be glad to stay to breakfast. What is it that you’re so busily writing?”
“My Rose and I have been trying to produce a crossbreed of her mother’s favorite tea rose with my own personal pink hybrid perpetual. We’re keeping count of the buds and looking for those telltale variations, or even some mottling in the color of the petals.” John Lycombe pulled a small pair of pince-nez spectacles from his nose and settled them back into the pocket of his faded green jacket. “The garden is a restful place for a perturbed spirit. But,” his host gave him a broad smile, “nothing a plate of eggs and sausages cannot cure.”
“Your daughter must be a very bright young woman. Is she much given to study of the sciences and the natural world?” Edmund asked, ignoring Lycombe’s ushering arm.
“In confidence, yes, but kindly do not tell others in the district of her enthusiasm for such things. Some of the local gentlemen seem to be of the misapprehension that a woman who reads is a woman who is deficient in feminine feelings and skills.”
Locke paused, recalling the pretty but fleeting form of Rose in her white nightgown with her beautiful plait of thick brown hair hanging down her back. “You know I rarely wag my tongue, John, nor would I care what others think of me or others. You know me well.”
“I do.” Lycombe put a fatherly arm across his shoulders. “It is my belief that you hide yourself away too much, old friend. Catherine would not wish it. You’ve mourned long enough.”
I used to mourn for Catherine. Then I mourned for all the plans I laid to rest with her and all the ways my life changed. I mourn for all the ways I have kept myself entombed—buried with a woman who I now know did not truly love me and an ease of mobility that I long assumed would be restored.
“I have been thinking of making a change, Lycombe. I am only thirty-five, and in fine health, besides this accursed leg of mine. I would procure a wife who matches my temperament, one preferring quiet society, study, and the countryside. I am even considering spending more time here than in Vienna and Berlin. For years, I have preferred a place where I could be a stranger, but just recently, I have found something that makes me long for the familiarity of home.”
“Good heavens! Do I take it that it is a young lady who has made you change your course so completely, Edmund?” Lycombe asked, clapping him soundly on the back.
Locke noticed that although his host kept his voice full of good cheer, his eyes held a hint of gravity.
Does he know my purpose and is regretting the moment he must rebuff me? Or is he sad that this matrimonial bent is catching?
As if fated, at that moment Captain Bryce threw open the drapes on the window of his room and slammed the window up so that no one in the house could have remained asleep.
Edmund knew he would have to hurry or miss his chance. He grabbed Lycombe’s arm and whispered in an urgent voice, “Lycombe, I am a man of property and well-off. I’m not as handsome and gallant as some, nor am I as young as some... But I have a feeling that I am preferential to the young lady in question. In fact, if you will give me leave to ask her, I assure you that I shall have her assent within the hour!”
“My dear fellow, why should you need my leave? Ask any woman in the county, in the country, in the world!”
“Because you have always shown fatherly kindness toward me, and you are indeed the father of the woman I would wed. May I have your consent to ask for Rose’s hand? If she will not give it wholeheartedly and willingly, I will never speak of it again.”
“But—but you have barely made her acquaintance!” Lycombe spluttered.
“Then she will only accept me if she believes I am a suitable companion.”
Lycombe stared, mouth dropping open. “Captain Bryce—”
“Has he asked her? Does she love him?” Edmund’s voice was sharp, and his features were hard. “Does he love her?”
His old friend frowned. “I do not suppose he does, Edmund. Can you claim that you love her?”
Love. A word as painful as the daily reminder of his fall from his horse and his larger, darker fall from Catherine’s grace. “I can say that I am already filled with admiration for her and could not esteem her higher than I already do based on such a short acquaintance. Thus, I am sure my esteem and affection will only grow. What’s more, I am willing to give myself wholeheartedly to the work of trying to make her happy and in earnestly attempting to love her—as much as a man like myself can claim to love.”
With a slow shake of his head, Lycombe sighed. “That is a very great deal, and little do you remember it. You are out of practice—but I daresay I would rather have a son-in-law who has practiced as little as you than one who has practiced as much as the dashing officer within. Fine, Locke. You may ask Rose presently, but I will not have you pressuring the girl. That is the same offer that I made to Bryce, although his fortunes are not so great as yours,” Lycombe’s voice became reflective, “nor does he have a title, and his career may place him in harm’s way. As you well know, the pain of losing a spouse is one of the deepest cuts the mortal soul can withstand. I have always said the loss must be unfathomable. I cannot imagine such a fate befalling my Rose.”
“Do not hold his position against him, John,” Locke said with a scowl, “ Catherine had no job at all except to be my wife and look after Cadfael—and yet she caught pneumonia and died within a month, even with every comfort and protection.”
I could do nothing. And she blamed me.
Yet, I blamed her, for walking until all hours in the cold and damp, secretly stealing away to be with her flock of admirers while I sat and nursed my pain.
Recalling Catherine’s disappointed looks that soon turned to sneers of resentment, Edmund forced out an admission, “Though I manage to get around fairly well, it is no secret that some consider me infirm, even an invalid when compared to such a hearty specimen as Bryce. Everyone in the district knows. I’m sure Rose must know, but if she does not, I shall disclose the facts of the matter. She’ll have no reason to claim I misrepresented my suit.”
Locke paused. Catherine had said as much. She’d become engaged to a young baron in perfect health, ready to enjoy the passions of being young and in love. She spent much of their married life, short as it was, urging him to keep his promises, as if he could will his weakness away.
“My dear fellow, you are too harsh! Invalid? Fie! You use a walking stick, as do many men, often for show and nothing more. No one would know you had a limp or even a hint of a lingering weakness—especially when sitting down.”
“Ah, but a wife would know. Rose would see me at my worst. In the cold and damp of winter, the bones in my bad leg give me no peace. I’m an old man, sitting by the fire with his papers and books.” Sweat popped out on his brow and in his palms, sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the warm June morning. What foolishness had overtaken him last night? Rose really would see him at his worst.
She might have certain expectations.
I doubt I could bear it if she should call me “clumsy.”
“My daughter, if I may boast, has a fine patient nature and is compassionate to a fault. Many is the time, much to her mother’s dismay, she has rescued a nest of mice or spent ages digging worms for a bird with a broken wing. Bear up, old son. If you fear she’ll reject you because of something you cannot help, then you do not know her well enough to ask for her hand.”
Edmund gave a single firm nod. “Then, I will seek her out at once.”
Lycombe smiled. “Godspeed, dear fellow.”
ROSE IGNORED THE PUZZLEDlooks from the cook, who was doubtless confused as to why one of the young ladies of the house should take refuge in her kitchen.
“Miss Rose. You’ll get scalded or ruin your pretty frock with hot grease. Your mother will have something to say about that!”
“I’m only avoiding... a certain conversation. Has Greer said whether Sir Edmund has asked for his morning tea? Has father?”
“They was out talking by the roses, miss, when I went to get the eggs. Awful early risers for gentlemen, I must say.”
“He talked to Father?”
“He was.”
“What were they talking about?” Rose pressed a hand to her middle, willing down the struggling creature that seemed to be lodged there.
“I don’t know, miss. I was busy with the eggs. Captain Bryce hasn’t asked for his tea, but he’s up. Heard him banging about. Must think he’s supposed to wake up the enlisted men!” Mrs. Babbage gave a roll of her eyes.
Rose smiled as she ventured to the door that waited at the short, squat set of stone steps. Pushing it open to let out some of the overwhelming heat of frying sausages and boiling eggs, Rose could see the garden—and see Locke moving through it. His elbows were pumping, and his hair, rather a silvery sandy color despite his young age, was glinting in the sun.
He didn’t look very pleased. Locke had fine, narrow features, rather like the faces of saints in one of the father’s books from Florence. Right now, those features were tight and pinched in a grimace, whether from pain in his leg, the sun in his eyes, or a rejection, Rose didn’t know.
But I can hardly find out hiding in corners.
Rose flew through the door and into the sunlight.
Edmund stopped short when she banged abruptly into the garden and trotted into his path. “Ah. Miss Lycombe.”
“Good morning, sir.” Rose curtsied and smothered a gasp of horror. Why had she not thought more about her toilette this morning? Her hair was barely pinned, and she was wearing a faded lawn dress that was fine for the presence of family, but not for company.
“Miss Lycombe, will you... Would you care to show me the rose you are cultivating with your father?”
Rose forgot her worry with a sudden surge of joy. “Father told you?”
Locke’s face relaxed and mirrored hers, a small smile shared between them. “He did. He praised your contribution to his efforts. I’d like to see it again before I leave.”
“Oh. You’re leaving?”
“I hope to have much to do in the next few weeks.” Locke hesitated and then held out his elbow.
Rose tentatively slid one hand to his arm and let out a miserable squeak. A lady should wear gloves when walking out with a suitor—not that they were out, they were in her own garden, and no one knew he was a suitor.
“Did you and Father speak of much else besides the crossbred rose?”
“It was a very beneficial conversation. Miss Lycombe...” Locke stopped and leaned heavily on his stick.
At first, Rose thought he was having some sudden difficulty with the rather uneven terrain that took them off the main garden path. Then, she realized Edmund was pivoting to face her.
“It’s surely silly for a man to fear speaking the words he penned in the dark of night?”
Rose’s face and stomach fell. “No, sir. It is perfectly fine to reflect on matters and change one’s mind.”
To her surprise, Locke reached out and took her fingers in his own, pressing just the tips into his grasp as if he wanted to hold onto her but knew he mustn’t.
Yet.
“I have not changed my mind. I fear you may have had the good sense to change yours. I am a relative stranger. I have a weak leg that will never mend. Furthermore, I fear I shall not prove very cheerful company—but I would try most dutifully to make your life as my wife a happy and contented one. I was sincere when I said we were suited, Miss Lycombe. Perhaps a quiet life in the country with a devoted husband is all that you wish for?” Locke dropped her hands and pulled his fist back to his side, fingers curled tight. “I know you have other, far more exciting prospects.”
Rose dragged in a long breath, feeling as if her heart had just grown too big for its frame. Her voice was uneven and raspy as she declared, “I think the world around us is all the excitement an observant person need wish for. I would strive to make you happy, Sir Edmund, and to be all the wife that you could wish for, though I am sure I do not hope to cloud your late wife’s memory.”
It happened so swiftly that Rose had no time to protest or make a sound. Edmund’s hand was suddenly under her chin, lifting her face so that their eyes locked. His touch sent firebolts through her skin. No one had ever touched her like that, and nor should anyone—except for her husband.
And this is him. This will be the man I marry.
The world swam in a sweet, hazy way as she let herself lean toward him.
“My late wife’s memory is a sad one, Rose. When I talk to you, I have more pleasure in our conversation with every passing syllable.” He was peering at her with a strange intensity. Incredulous. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Nor did she. Everyone said Sir Edmund Locke was bad-tempered and unsociable, bitter and withdrawn.
“You simply need the right sort of society, Edmund.” The name tumbled off her tongue and felt right, like a fledgling stumbling from the nest and then spreading its wings to soar.
“Yes. A suitable woman. A wife.” His head was close to hers. Far too close.
“Am I?” Rose felt his breath against her skin, and the warm flares inside of her turned into a warm sea, washing over her as she saw him smile, truly smile.
It transformed his face, taking away years of sadness and bringing life back into his eyes. “Dear Miss Lycombe. Rose. Are you what?”
“A wife. That is, yours. In the future?”
“You are, Rose. Wholly, suitably mine.”