Chapter Seventeen
As David entered Mrs. Little’s bakery and teashop, he could not help but drink in Justina. He had tried not to attach much importance to this meeting with her, but now that he was in her presence, he admitted to himself something he had pretended was not the case.
He was in love with her.
Nothing could ever come of it, though. They might have an attraction to each other, but their lives were radically different.
It might even have been acceptable if she had been a young widow.
Widows within the ton had much more freedom than a woman who had never wed before.
He could wish all he wanted, but it would never change their circumstances.
He was determined to get through this meeting and then avoid her as much as possible in the future.
Putting a smile on his face, he crossed the bakery and took a seat opposite her. Glancing down, he saw a half-eaten scone in front of her.
“It looks like another raisin scone,” he said teasingly.
She returned his smile. “Well, I was with Lia, and she has a fondness for them.”
“Would you care for another one?”
“No, I was not able to finish this one.” She pushed the plate aside.
Mrs. Little emerged from the back. “Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Rochester. Might I get something for you?”
“I will take one of your raisin scones, Mrs. Little, along with a cup of tea. And a fresh cup for Lady Justina, if you would.”
“Right away, Mr. Rochester.”
Turning his attention again to Justina, he said, “I quite like your cousin. She is very friendly.”
“It has been a godsend, having Lia so close to Traywick Manor. Especially after Mama’s death. My sister and I were extremely close growing up. While I was thrilled when Verina wed Matthew, she did move far away from Cumberland.”
“Do you see her at the Season?” he asked.
“Yes. Going to town during those months means a great deal to me. Not only do I get to spend time with Verina, but I also see most all of my cousins on a daily basis.”
“I am assuming that you will go to the Season this coming spring.”
A look came into her eyes, one which he could not quite read. It was almost as if she hid something from him.
“Yes, Tray and I plan to attend. We went last spring, though we only stayed for a couple of weeks. Mama had recently passed, and I was in no mood to be around a large, boisterous group of people.” She smiled ruefully. “Even if that group is family. This year will be different.”
“Are you still grieving your mother’s passing?”
Just then, Mrs. Little appeared, setting down his scone and cups of tea for them both.
“Let me know if you will be needing anything else,” she said cheerfully, leaving them.
Once they were alone again, Justina said, “I think a part of me will always grieve for Mama. She was a very special lady. Not only was she a wonderful mother to Tray, Verina, and me, but she also was someone my cousins all turned to when they needed a sympathetic ear or sage advice. Her passing greatly affected the entire extended family.”
She paused, their gazes meeting. “But you know what it is like to lose a mother. Do you still feel overwhelmed by sadness at times?”
He nodded. “I suppose it might be different to lose a mother at a young age, as opposed to you having lost Lady Traywick only recently. Maman was my entire world when I was a boy. My closest friend.” He touched his hand to his heart. “I carry her with me every day.”
Slipping his hand into his inner coat pocket, he removed the miniature and handed it to Justina.
She gasped. “This is your mother? Oh, David, she is exquisite.”
He smiled proudly. “And she was as beautiful inside as she was outside.”
“What was her name?”
“Angelique Delacroix. She painted this miniature,” he added. “For my twelfth birthday. I lost her soon after.”
“Oh, my. She had a great talent.” She turned her gaze from the miniature to him. “Do you also paint portraits?”
“I wish that talent had been passed along to me. Alas, I have an appreciation for good art, but I was not gifted with any artistic ability. Maman did give me an ear for languages, however. She spoke to me in French when I was growing up, so I speak it like a native Parisian. She hired a nursery governess who spoke Spanish, and I also learned that language, as well. In all, I speak five languages and can write in Latin and Greek.”
“That must have made you very valuable as an officer,” she pointed out.
“It did.” He did not elaborate, thankful she did not press him on the topic.
She studied his mother’s portrait and then said, “You favor her a great deal. You have the same brilliant green eyes and black hair. But she does not have that unique white streak which runs through yours.”
He touched his right temple. “I rarely think about it.”
“Were you born with it? It is very unusual.”
He shook his head. “It is a souvenir from my war days. A bullet grazed my head, just above the tip of my ear. It bled profusely and hurt quite a bit, but I realize how lucky I truly was. When the bandages came off and my hair began growing back, it came in white. Not black.”
What he did not tell her was that this did not occur on the battlefield.
That he had been shot at during a daring escape, when a trap had been set for him.
It was only instinct which had saved him.
His gut told him something was off, and he fled a meeting he was supposed to attend in the nearby woods of the town he was working from.
He had been spotted—and shot at. Fortunately, a local doctor had patched him up.
It was one of a thousand things that he kept to himself.
He had not even told the story to Henry.
Justina handed the miniature back to him, and David slid it into the pocket next to his heart.
“I carry Maman with me wherever I go. You asked about grieving. Somehow, a part of me has never healed from her death. It is as if I have carried a hole in my heart all these years. On my last birthday, I turned five and twenty. I realized that this was the first year in which I have lived longer without her than with her. It was a sobering thought and hit me especially hard.”
She reached out and briefly placed her hand atop his before quickly removing it.
He longed to take her hand in his, but they were in a public place.
Two women sat at a table not far from them, and Mrs. Little was also bustling about.
As much as David yearned for her touch, he could not compromise Justina in such a way.
“Tell me of your shop,” she said, changing the subject. “How is business going?”
“Business is brisk. In fact, it is doing better than what Mr. Shaft had done this same time last year. I have closely studied the ledgers he kept of his sales over the years, which he generously left behind.”
“And what of the books themselves?”
“I have sold some. Since I have nothing to compare it to yet, I hope I will continue to sell more. Of course, I realize this is a small community, and people watch their coin carefully. What I am most pleased about, however, is the number of people who have become members of the lending library.”
“Then we should get down to business,” Justina said, taking a sip of her tea.
He swallowed, thinking their time together already drew to an end, so he better make the most of it. Study her as they spoke. Memorize every emotion which flitted across her lovely face.
“I think making Sense and Sensibility the first book in the monthly discussions is a brilliant idea,” she praised.
“The story offers so much to readers. “Love. Heartbreak. Betrayal. It touches on themes of honor. Social standing. Gender discrimination. I especially enjoyed the idea put forth of secrets being kept and promises about those secrets. How that affected the lives of several of the characters.”
For the next half-hour, they discussed what they would like to bring to the forefront when others gathered to talk over the novel.
Though he had read and enjoyed the book, Justina truly understood it to a depth he found astounding.
As they spoke of various character arcs and twists and turns in the plot, he realized she would be a natural in leading this discussion.
“I will write up everything we have touched upon today,” she told him. “That way, you will also have a copy of the things to guide the discussion and would be able to lead it if unforeseen circumstances kept me from attending that day.”
He frowned. “I hope that will not be the case, Justina. You have a far greater understanding of the story and its characters than I do.”
“I only hope everyone will appreciate Sense and Sensibility as much as I did. Have you spoken to Mr. Winkler regarding the date of the discussion?”
“I have done so,” he assured her. “It will take place on the first Saturday of the new year at three o’clock.
That way, people who have come into the village to do their shopping would already be here.
And shopkeepers who wish to participate would be able to close their shops and head to the inn for the discussion.
I asked Mr. Winkler about reserving tables at the inn every other month.
I think it is a bit too ambitious to ask members to come once a month, especially since I will only have limited copies of the books we decide to discuss.
Meeting every other month will give more people time to read the selection. ”
“So, your next discussion would be held in March. Have you chosen the book for the group?”
“Not yet. I need to do so, however, so that I can announce it on that Saturday.”
“If I were you, I would decide all six books to be read each year and post that list in the lending library. That way, if someone finishes the current selection, they might move ahead to the upcoming book. Or if a reader is waiting for a certain book, they could actually read ahead. That would help dwindle the queue for future books.”
“You are full of good ideas, Justina. Sometimes, I believe you should be the one running this bookshop and not me.”
She chuckled. “No, I am more than happy with occupying myself with my art.”
“Have you started on any new pieces?”
“I have,” she said.
When she did not elaborate, he hid his disappointment. As their time drew to an end, he sensed her pulling away. Then she surprised him.
“I want to thank you for believing in me,” she said softly. “Not simply because you took my work to town and helped arrange for it to be displayed and sold to others. I am referring to you encouraging me to step forward and claim ownership of my art.”
“You should be celebrated, not hiding in the shadows behind J Fulton. You must prepare yourself, however, to lose some sales. Despite your obvious talent, there will be an inherent prejudice on the part of some—if not many—buyers.”
“But the ones who do choose to purchase my landscapes will be those who truly appreciate what I have brought to life on canvas. Knowing that a painting goes to a good home is more than enough for me.”
“Henry will be one of your most vocal advocates,” he shared. “He is going to purchase at least two of your paintings, one for Norwood, and one to be displayed in the ducal townhouse in London. That way, when his family entertains, he will be able to show it to others.”
“He has not mentioned that to me yet. That is most generous of Lord Marbury.”
“Henry is a most generous man, as is his father.”
He hesitated, not wishing to speak about this, but knowing it would be best for her.
“I believe you should make your come-out this spring, Justina. Not only would it give you the opportunity to mix in Polite Society, but it would also help others put your name and face together. Henry is more than willing to speak up about your artistic talent. Others will become curious about you and wish to get to know you. Attending social affairs and becoming known by others will only benefit you over time. And you know you will have the support of your family regarding your art.”
She grew thoughtful. “I will take your advice under consideration, Mr. Rochester.”
He noted her return to addressing him formally and understood she was trying to once more put distance between them.
“If you do decide to go ahead and make your debut, Elinor will be thrilled.”
“I do like Lady Elinor so much. It would be nice to have someone to go through the Season with. A friend whom I could trust and turn to.”
Taking a final sip of her tea, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. For a moment, all he could think of was his mouth on hers. Of the taste of her, which he yearned for every day.
“My carriage should have arrived by now,” she said, rising.
He followed suit. “Thank you for meeting with me this afternoon, my lady. I think those who choose to read Sense and Sensibility will enjoy the discussion you lead of the novel. Be thinking about what the other recommendations should be. Stop by the bookshop if you have an idea. I might be able to order additional copies if we can decide upon the next selections.”
They said their goodbyes to Mrs. Little, and David escorted her from the tearoom. Lord Traywick’s carriage awaited her outside, and a footman opened the door for her. David was the one to hand her up, however, wanting that last bit of contact between them.
“Give my regards to Lord Traywick.”
“I will do so. Goodbye, Mr. Rochester.”
He stepped away from the vehicle, and the footman closed the door, climbing onto the back again.
Justina gave him a wave, and the carriage drove past him.
He had already locked up his shop and turned to head home.
Each step of the way, he told himself he must get over her.
That she belonged to others and not him.
But David knew the love he had for Justina would remain with him until his dying day.