Chapter 5
Five
Impossible.” Agnes’s tone was more abrasive than intended. But something was wrong. Very wrong.
Richard had promised to protect her. When she had agreed to marry him, he had told her that she would never have to rely on anyone else for the rest of her life, even when he was gone. He had promised her a life of independence and a home to call her own.
Those had been the terms when Edith introduced the idea to her six years ago. The marriage to her wealthy, titled brother had been Edith’s idea. In the face of her ailing health, she had feared to leave Agnes alone.
At twenty years of age, Agnes agreed to serve as Richard's companion and end the parade of title-hunting young ladies in exchange for a safe place to build her life. Over the years, their marriage evolved into something more—a deep friendship unlikely to ever be replicated.
When Richard first brought her here to Bootham after signing the register, he had held her by the hand, and they crossed the threshold together. “Agnes. You have nothing to fear. This is your home. You are safe here.”
He reached to place his other hand on her shoulder, but she flinched at the promise of his touch.
Her mind understood that he posed no danger, but her body still remembered.
He dropped his hand, giving her the space she needed.
But instead of pulling away, she gripped his shoulder in silent apology for the involuntary reaction he hadn’t deserved.
In the years that followed, they had spent countless hours and funds setting up her apothecary, the greenhouse, and the back gardens. They built it all together, and she carefully considered each change, envisioning herself growing old in this home long after her husband was gone from this world.
As word of her talent in herbalism spread through the neediest neighborhoods of the city and patrons began to visit en masse, Richard provided funds for her to maintain her equipment, tend to her gardens, and supplement her ingredients.
“My husband amended his will five years ago, Mr. Evans. Of that, I am sure.”
“Yes, you are correct. In fact, it was you who let me into the house to retrieve the amended will.”
Her shoulders relaxed. It would be all right.
This was a misunderstanding. Relief entangled with her surprise that Mr. Evans had remembered their first interaction so long ago.
She had only said a few words in his defense, and she didn’t think he had even seen her.
She wondered if he knew that she had stood at the attic window and watched him leave.
“And the amended will provides only what I just told you. While it is customary that you would have been allowed to reside in the dower house, it was generous for your husband to give you the property outright. You could make a nice life for yourself, and the current Lord Skelton has promised to provide for you.”
“Do you really think that is the same, Mr. Evans?” Rage replaced any peace that had remained in her body.
“I had expected to continue the life I have made for myself here. I gave up my youth to make a home with a man more than thirty years my senior, not to spend my life being dependent on one person to the next as they meet death.”
The walls of the parlor closed in until blackness overtook her sight.
Only the smallest glimmers of blurred light remained at the edges of her vision.
Every feeling of security that she had learned to believe in these last years was yanked away.
She was falling and did not know if anything would catch her, or if she would continue to plummet.
Mr. Evans’s voice cut through the shadows, returning her focus to the man sitting in front of her. His eyes met hers with concern. He reached toward her but pulled his hand back at the last second.
“I will summon your lady’s maid to help you to your bedchamber. You should rest, and I will return on Wednesday. I promise I will investigate the matter. I won’t overburden you now with details.”
He tugged on the bellpull and stood in the door to call Kitty.
Agnes couldn’t hear what he was saying, instead focusing on the disappointment that he had decided against reaching for her.
She longed for a physical, comforting touch, anything to help her stay focused in this moment rather than being submerged in the uncertainty.
It was moments like these when Richard’s absence seemed most crushing.
Harry sat in the train car waiting to depart for London. The ledger he had brought to pass the time remained closed on his lap. His vision blurred as he stared out the window at the platform.
Worry for Lady Skelton festered, growing from a small pinch at the back of his head to overwhelming dread.
There was no way to know if Skelton would follow his word and provide for her.
Judging on how the man had squandered his prior inheritance from his own father, Harry wagered he would not be able to, regardless of his intentions.
Lady Skelton had been promised so much by her late husband, but for some reason, those promises did not exist in writing.
The whole situation didn’t sit right with Harry, and he vowed to investigate the matter further.
But it wasn’t as if he could question the current Skelton, and what, accuse him of lying?
Blackmailing a dying man? He was still a gentleman, beloved in the ton.
Harry’s job as executor of the will was to adhere to the document in his possession, not to question the late Skelton’s dying wishes.
A woman covered by a black veil entered the open carriage, and his heart skipped a beat.
Upon a quick inspection of her figure, he determined it was not Lady Skelton.
When had he become so irrational? There was no reason that she would board this train to London.
But still, he could feel the residual letdown of his disillusionment.
The widow administered a brisk inspection of Harry before sitting down on the wooden bench adjacent to his.
With just one glance, she had determined he was no threat to her virtue.
That should bring him comfort, make him feel like a proper gentleman.
He most definitely did not want to make anyone, especially a woman traveling alone, feel uneasy.
But he wondered what made women so quick to dismiss him as capable of seduction.
Harry had inherited the same charisma as his brothers, passed down from Papa, but for some reason, his was broken when it came to women.
When he was a man of two-and-twenty, his brothers had tried to "fix" him by taking him to a tavern near the docks where the barmaids served more than drinks.
There, his brothers picked out a flirty, experienced woman and warned her not to expect many words from him.
The mechanics of the act were not a mystery to him, as he was well-read and his friends spoke freely to him.
He knew enough to complete the task. But afterwards, he returned to his bachelor rooms with a sick feeling deep in his gut.
The barmaid had been paid well, of course, and was appreciative of his gentle treatment of her.
Harry still felt like he had tarnished an act that was supposed to be different.
An act that was supposed to mean something.
Since then, Harry routinely shook his urges with his hand in the same manner one might apply tooth powder or shave for the day. It was something to be taken care of. There was little enjoyment in it.
Before the train departed, another woman joined the widow in the compartment, a companion of sorts. She, too, gave Harry a passing glance before sitting down. Just once, he wished he could stir excitement from a woman.
He often found himself feeling like Emmelina monodactyla, a common moth, just a plain russet-brown creature.
Would there ever be someone who saw him as a butterfly?
Women were awed by the sight of a colorful butterfly, incorporating the designs into their embroidery and decor, but moths were invisible. Just like him.
Being a hobby lepidopterist was not likely to win him popularity with women.
Honestly, it didn’t benefit his reputation among men either.
His brothers loved to tease him about his collection of moths, his journals of notes about the creatures, and his night hikes to observe the nocturnal species in their habitats.
But at least, it did make him a favorite uncle.
His nieces begged their parents to bring them to Harry’s home to watch the insects eclose from their cocoons.
Children understood the magic of nature, and Harry had never outgrown his own fascination with the creatures who underwent such a mysterious transformation.
Perhaps he did not need to feel like a butterfly.
Was there a woman who would love him as a moth?
The train moved, and Harry found himself rocking back and forth, unable to concentrate on the numbers on the page. He saw her shapes in those figures. Each time he reached a decimal point, he imagined Lady Skelton’s mole. Each six reminded him of the loose curls escaping from their ties.
Closing his eyes, he urged his mind—and his body—to be a gentleman and stop lusting after the widow. Instead, the darkness behind his lids allowed space for more wicked thoughts.
He was utterly wrecked.