Chapter 19 #2
“That is because he is controlling.”
“Perhaps,” Alethea said gently, “or perhaps he cannot bear the thought of losing you.”
Temperance looked away toward the lake, her throat tightening.
“I cannot allow myself to believe that,” she whispered.
“Why not?” Charity asked.
“Because if I believe it and I am wrong, I will humiliate myself beyond repair.”
Her friends were silent for a moment. Then Alethea sat beside her on the bench and took her hand.
“My dear,” she said softly, “you are speaking as though silence protects you. It does not. If anything, it only guarantees your unhappiness.”
Temperance swallowed.
“What would you have me do?” she asked. “March up to him and say, ‘Good afternoon, Your Grace, I am in love with you while you arrange my marriage to another’? That sounds absurd.”
“When you say it like that, yes, a little,” Charity laughed. “But perhaps it doesn’t have to be so dramatic, and there is a possibility that your feelings are returned.”
Temperance huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. “I don’t think I have a chance.”
“But you must do something,” Charity said. “Because if you marry one of these men while loving him, you will be miserable.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“And if he loves you too,” Alethea added, “then every day you say nothing is a day you both suffer for no reason.”
Temperance stared down at their joined hands.
“I do not know if I am brave enough.”
“Oh, come on. You are the bravest person I know,” Alethea squeezed her fingers. “You survived far worse things than confessing your heart.”
Temperance’s eyes stung unexpectedly.
“I hate this,” she admitted. “I hate that after everything, after fighting for every scrap of freedom, I have given someone the power to hurt me.”
“That is what love is,” Charity smiled sadly.
Temperance let out a long breath.
“And what if he does not feel the same?”
“Then,” Charity said firmly, “you survive it. And then you choose a life that is truly yours. But at least you will know.”
Alethea nodded. “Not knowing is its own kind of prison.”
“There is a ball next week,” she said. “Elias intends to speak to me there.”
“And Harper?” Charity asked.
“I don’t know,” Temperance replied. “You know, I am quite tired of this conversation already. We should walk back, please.”
The path widened again as it curved toward the eastern section of the park. Nothing in the environment that something was amiss, so when the man appeared, Temperance was caught entirely off guard.
She did not see him coming.
He was perhaps forty, standing to the side of the path with two companions, looking at her.
He stepped forward as they passed.
“Miss Hosmer,” he said.
She stopped.
“I don’t believe we have been introduced,” she said, in her neutral voice.
“Whitfield,” he said. “Sir Robert Whitfield. I have been meaning to make your acquaintance for some time as I hear you are actively seeking a match this season.”
“I am enjoying the season,” she said. “As most people are.”
She exchanged a confused look with her friends, but they did not seem to know what was going on either.
“Of course,” he said, with a smile that had nothing warm behind it. “Though I think we can dispense with the social pleasantries, Miss Hosmer, and speak plainly to each other. I have been observing your progress and I think you have rather more optimism about it than the situation warrants.”
Something cold moved through her, and she realized that whoever this was might not have the best of intentions for her.
“Have you?” she said.
“The men who have shown interest in you,” he said, pleasantly as though they had known each other for a long time, “will become less interested as they come to know you better. That is simply how it is. Your mother’s reputation alone is a significant liability. Add to that your background…”
He looked at Charity and Alethea as though he expected them to nod in agreement, but they only glared in his direction in response.
“A poor child raised in a nunnery because her own father did not want her. These are not small things to overlook and the men who are currently willing to overlook them are, I think, doing so under a misapprehension about what they will actually be getting.”
Charity had gone very still beside her. Alethea’s hand had moved to her arm, briefly, the lightest touch, there and gone.
Temperance looked at Whitfield, willing herself not to break in the face of this unwarranted harsh criticism.
“I think I understand you very well, Sir Robert. If you will excuse us.”
She said it clearly, and began to continue walking. But he stopped her again.
“I am prepared to make you an offer.”
She turned around to look at him.
“Despite the considerable social cost. I think you are sensible enough to understand that an offer like mine, in your circumstances, is not something to be dismissed. You ought to marry me and that might be the best decision that you can make.”
“If you came here to insult me, sir, then you have wasted your time.”
“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I came to offer honesty. Once the current gentlemen calling on you lose their taste for novelty, you may find yourself without options.”
Alethea took a step forward.
“That is enough.”
But he was not finished.
“I am merely saying,” he went on, “that a woman in your position cannot afford to be proud. You would do well to accept an offer while anyone is willing to make one.”
She had endured whispers, but this felt even worse. Now people were emboldened to say such things to her face, and it was too much to bear.
She stopped walking, but didn’t turn around. But someone else seemed to have beat her to the scene.
“Whitfield.”