28. Chapter 28 Bradford
Bradford drank his tea, one arm braced alongside his study window.
The mid-morning light slanted through the window, across his face, and into his eyes.
Though he was required to squint to watch the progress of the gardeners in their relentless assault on the far shrubbery, he felt none of the sun’s warmth.
It was a wonderful comparison to his life these days—the light of daily life shone upon him, but he did not feel its glow. If Bradford thought that he’d once pined after Miss Lily Preston, he realized he’d never known the meaning of the word until now.
He performed the requirements of his day jerkily, a sense of honor and duty the hands that pulled his marionette strings.
He thought of Lily always. Once he’d heard a laugh in the village that sounded much like hers—he’d taken off running, rounded the corner, and ended up startling a group of washer women.
Bradford scoured every copy of the Post that arrived.
It was the one instruction he’d left with the household staff in London on his whirlwind out the door—to collect and send him copies.
Each week, Bradford received a tightly tied bundle, and he could hardly breathe until he’d read through the lot.
Lily was not married yet, at least—not according to the papers.
There had been six such bundles; six weeks had passed since Bradford had left London. Doubt constantly nibbled at the edges of his focus. Had he done the right thing? What if he’d been wrong to leave as he had? What if Lily could have loved him, despite what he’d done all those years ago?
His resolve not to go to her was a tensioned, fraying string.
Several times, he caught himself yanking on his riding boots before he realized what he was doing.
Each time, he kicked them off again, telling himself that he’d done the right thing.
It was wrong of him to have coerced her into a relationship, no matter how unintentionally he’d done so.
Bradford wanted her to know that he’d meant it when he said he would never betray her secret to anyone.
Lily deserved to have clarity in order to make her decisions, and the best clarity Bradford could offer her was to leave.
How could she know what she truly wanted when his presence was an unspoken threat hanging over her?
Besides, Bradford reminded himself for perhaps the thousandth time, if Lily truly wanted him there, she would have written to him. If she did, he swore to himself that he would return to her immediately and tell her everything. It was the only consolation he could offer his own battered heart.
A knock at the door had him turning; Mrs. Clark stood in the open doorway. “The post has come, my lord.”
He turned back to the window. “Thank you, Mrs. Clark. Please leave it on the desk.”
Bradford didn’t turn back around until he heard her faint footsteps retreat down the hall.
Truth be told, every time the post was announced, his heart acted much like one of Mr. Belfour’s hounds—jumping and running.
He needed a moment to calm himself. It was a ridiculous response to have toward yield reports and requests for routine maintenance.
Bradford sighed and took his seat. The bundle was small, obviously not containing the newspapers he expected to arrive today or tomorrow.
He sliced the twine from the packet of letters and they slid across the polished desk.
A sliver of familiar blue made his breath catch in his throat, sent him pawing through the stack until he found it.
She’d finally written. There was no mistaking that familiar wax seal.
It was a relief of lilies, with the letter L cleverly worked into the flowers.
He clasped the letter and stared at it for a few moments, terrified at what the letter might contain.
Bradford didn’t doubt that the entirety of his future rested upon the lines within.
He frowned suddenly. In his haste and high emotion, he hadn’t noticed that the letter wasn’t even addressed to him.
It was addressed to Rebecca, like all the other letters Lily had sent before.
It staggered him—the idea that perhaps Lily would never write to him, that perhaps she only meant to keep up the correspondence with his daughter.
But surely Lily had to know that Bradford would read them first. Perhaps there would be some hint, one single line in the letter that might tell him what he wanted to know.
Bradford felt like a cold beggar looking through a window at a scene of warmth and light he’d never be part of.
His hand shook as he jerked his knife through the wax seal.
Strangely, the letter was dated just three days after he’d left London.
Dearest Rebecca,
It is with great joy that I tell you that I intend to be married. The wedding will occur either at the end of this Season or sometime after, depending upon my betrothed’s preference.
Spots appeared in Bradford’s vision. He stopped reading long enough for his seized lungs to gasp some air. It had happened so soon? Mere days after he’d left?
There had been a war within Bradford as he left London, and ever since.
Part of him was certain that Lily felt something for him.
But then, perhaps that small, doubting voice in his mind had been right all along.
Maybe she’d faked that moment in the park, made Bradford believe she cared in order to protect her sisters.
He took a deep breath. If that were the case, then he’d made the right decision. Bradford would much rather she make a true attachment to someone else than to fake one with him. He grimly straightened his back and continued to read.
I am certain you will like him very much, indeed. In fact, I would not be surprised if he were your favorite person in the whole world.
Bradford scowled. Of all the nerve! Though he’d invited Lily to visit after she was wed, Bradford certainly hadn’t extended the invitation to her new husband. Bradford never wanted to meet the fellow, and his daughter certainly wouldn’t.
It is a funny story how we met—one that I will share with you when you’re older. As you like specific dates attached to commitments, I promise to tell you the truth of it on your eighteenth birthday, and not a moment sooner. I know you will hold me to it, as you have an excellent memory.
Still, I don’t think it at all inappropriate for me to describe him to you in the meantime. He is taller than I am, with broad shoulders. I find him very handsome?—
Here, Bradford’s hand spasmed, crinkling the parchment and blurring the words before his eyes momentarily. Rage coursed through him, so hot and pure he had to set the letter down, lest he bellow incoherently and tear it to shreds before he finished.
It was but moments before furious curiosity had him snatching up the missive again.
—even though he has a naturally serious mien.
His nose is possibly his most interesting feature.
It has a slight bump in the ridge, as if it were once broken.
Based on recent experience, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’d been punched in the face by a young lady whom he’d left behind in London just as she’d gained the courage to admit her great affection for him.
Bradford reared back and read the previous lines twice before continuing. His heart pounded and something lodged in his throat, threatening to cut off his air entirely. He thought it might be hope.
Or perhaps he sneezed while he was carving those tiny pieces of furniture and struck himself in the face with his stupid little hammer.
Or even more feasibly, perhaps his ego was so large, his mind too full of itself—because he always thinks he knows what’s best for everybody—that the sheer pressure of his own hubris somehow broke his nose from within.
I don’t know; I’ll have to ask him if I ever see him again.
On those lines, the pen had been pressed very hard to the parchment. Bradford hardly cared that the insults were half-legible and barely made sense. He was grinning now, so hard it pulled at the skin of his cheeks and made him realize how long it had been since he’d truly smiled at all.
Sir Vernon says it would be best if I threw him over for one of the dozen suitors who call on me every day.
Bradford’s grin slid from his face as quickly as it had arrived.
As they are all handsome, kind, wealthy, and doting, it would certainly make sense for me to do so. Especially considering that my intended has abandoned me. I confess Sir Vernon’s advice sounds more and more sound as each day passes.
I console myself with the fact that—one way or another—I’ll be engaged by the Season’s end.
Sincerely,
Miss Lily Preston
Bradford frowned at the date at the top of the letter, flipped it over and examined the address and post marks.
Why, it had been mailed well over a month ago!
Though Lily had addressed the letter properly, somehow the missive had found its way to Berwick-upon-Tweed, a distance of nearly seventy miles away.
Judging by the shadow of a different shade of wax pressed to the address, Lily’s letter had probably been stuck to another letter’s wax seal for the second part of the journey.
The notes and postage calculations showed it had lingered in Berwick-upon-Tweed for some time and only been rerouted three days ago.
Regardless of the reasons, the result was the same. Lily had declared herself as clearly as a young lady was able, and she’d received no reply when she reasonably could have expected one several times over within the timeframe. The end of the Season was only perhaps a week away.
Bradford sprang from his desk and strode out into the hall.