Chapter 21 #2
She hadn’t heard from him in several weeks.
At first, it had almost been a relief. The guilt of allowing him to continue his pursuit while she pined for Miles had torn at her conscience.
But as time went on, she worried she might have hurt the author, anyway.
She had never been able to bring herself to answer any of his letters, despite the address provided.
Had he finally grown tired of waiting for her response and given up?
But now it seemed he’d decided to try a different tactic. Had he contacted her mother to try to reach her? Or had Mother learned about the letters and uncovered his identity herself?
An hour later, the guests had arrived and had all been greeted, but Sylvie was no closer to figuring out the answer.
After extricating herself from an endless, one-sided conversation with Mr. Green, Sylvie made a beeline for the more remote parts of the garden.
She and Matilda had a particular spot where they often met during events at Sylvie’s house, and she hoped her friend would be there.
Instead, the bench beneath the canopy of a secluded willow tree was empty. Still, Matilda might make her way there soon enough. And if not, at least Sylvie could think in peace.
That hope was soon shattered, however. The wispy branches parted, revealing a tall, masculine frame shadowed by the daylight behind him. Sylvie rose, startled and preparing to get herself out of another unwelcome conversation as soon as possible.
But Mr. Kinsey’s kind voice stopped her in her tracks.
“No need to flee, Miss Bryce. I don’t intend to keep you long.
I needed to tell you…well, I believe you’d be interested in…
” He trailed off, looking frustrated as he paced closer.
Then he drew a deep breath and turned his gaze toward her. “The very essence of romance is—”
“—uncertainty,” Sylvie finished the quote with him. She’d memorized it back when she received that first letter. She searched his face, looking for any sign that he knew what they meant to her.
His lips parted, as if he held his breath waiting for her to react. A slight nod showed that he did understand. Sylvie’s heart pitched in her chest when he came to a stop a mere foot in front of her. “Miss Bryce, all I want is an opportunity to show you that we could make a good pair.”
Then he held out his hand, waiting as if to give her time to make a monumental decision.
With her pulse thundering in her ears, Sylvie swallowed hard.
That sounded very like what her secret admirer had claimed to want.
Miles had also said similar words to her.
He’d been at her side as a friend, trying to prove himself as more than that.
But Sylvie had been so set on defying her mother that she hadn’t let herself be open to the fact that a wonderful man wanted to court her.
She’d run him all the way back to England with her foolishness.
Oh, Lord, what do I do?
Mr. Kinsey was kind and intelligent. Her mother approved of him, which used to be something that she would consider a detriment.
But perhaps Mother had been right, and Sylvie should keep an open mind.
She’d told Sylvie the man who had been writing the letters might reveal himself, and here was Mr. Kinsey, a man Sylvie had suspected all along, asking her for a chance.
Her heart ached for Miles, but there was nothing she could do about his abrupt departure and lack of communication. What would it hurt to open herself up to other possibilities, ones that were less likely to cause her more of this kind of heartache?
Despite the confusion threatening to overcome her, Sylvie placed her hand in his and allowed Mr. Kinsey to escort her to the bench.
Miles would never have expected to enjoy being back in England, but his time at the estate could only be described as pleasant.
Once his mother’s health began to improve and he didn’t worry about her so much, Miles spent more time outside, refreshing his knowledge of the workings of the estate and reacquainting himself with his home. And it had been wonderful.
He enjoyed the experience so much that he found himself considering his mother’s request to return permanently.
Of course, if he decided on that course of action, he would return to Ohio for a time, to fulfill his obligations to Ohio State by completing the work he’d agreed to do at the laboratory.
But the longer he was home without a reply from Sylvie, the more Miles wondered if he would need the distraction of returning to the estate, need an escape from all the corners of Put-In-Bay and Cedar Point that would remind him of her.
He’d begun steeling his heart against the possibility that his complicated plans had misfired and ended up pushing Sylvie away rather than convincing her he was the right choice.
If he contemplated it too long, Miles would end up in an agonized mess on the floor.
He’d already spent too many sleepless nights wishing he’d done everything differently.
So once Mother began recovering, he made every effort to keep busy.
On his second Tuesday there, Miles decided it was time to visit the village again.
If he was going to think about taking over the responsibilities for the estate, that would include the concerns of the citizens of Wentworth.
Plus, he could check for any letters at the post office while he was there. Just in case.
He headed north on the road into the village, walking rather than bothering the young groom to get the carriage.
He appreciated the opportunity to take in as many details as possible regarding the condition of the area.
When he neared the first small house on the outskirts of the village, a woman and several children were outside, working together to tend to a garden in front of the house.
He waved and called out, “Good afternoon.”
The woman straightened with a smile, but it faded as soon as she took a good look at him. She gathered her children and rushed them into the cottage with several wary backward glances at Miles.
His heart plummeted. But he attempted to convince himself that it must be something other than the reputation he’d had in the village before.
He was different now, a grown man instead of a gangly youth.
Surely, most people in the village wouldn’t know him by sight or repute.
Perhaps the woman was late for something and had to hurry her children along.
It couldn’t have anything specific to do with Miles.
But as he made his way into town, it became more and more evident that he was lying to himself.
Time and again, people stopped what they were doing to stare at him, or whisper to those they were with while eyeing him with suspicion.
He entered the general store, which also housed the post office, only to find that it emptied before he’d gone more than a few paces past the counter.
Still, he had to try to make amends, though he’d done nothing wrong in the first place.
Selecting a lovely porcelain vase his mother might enjoy, Miles approached the counter and addressed the merchant, who stood with his arms crossed.
“Good afternoon. I’d like to purchase this, please.
And if you could also give me any post for Woodhouse, I’ll take it with me and save your carrier the trip. ”
The portly, bald man gave Miles a hard stare.
But Miles didn’t back down. Finally, the merchant hmphed and lumbered into the back room, presumably to get the post. He returned before too long and tossed a stack of several letters on the counter, then quoted a significant price for the vase in a gruff voice.
Miles drew back. “That’s rather a lot for a vase, isn’t it? Not that your products aren’t valuable, but that seems a bit high.”
The man’s expression turned even colder somehow. “If you don’t like it, you can leave. I don’t need the money of a murderer.”
The words hit Miles with force, as if they’d been accompanied by an actual slap to his cheek. Swallowing hard, he grabbed the letters and vase, dropping a pile of coins from his pocket onto the counter. “You can have it, anyway.”
Then he marched out of the store and back through town, holding his head high but refusing to look at anyone.
It all felt far too similar to the last few times he’d visited the village before leaving to attend Cornell.
The whispers and stares wouldn’t leave him alone, no matter how hard he fought to ignore them.
By the time he reached the estate, Miles had broken into a jog that left him breathless, as much from the tight clench in his chest as the physical exertion.
How could he have imagined it would be as easy as simply walking back into Wentworth for all to be forgotten?
He might have hated the way people treated him in America when they discovered he was nobility, but that wasn’t anywhere near as awful as the angry judgment emanating from the villagers in Wentworth.
Miles passed the rest of the afternoon wandering around the fields.
His mother and Mr. Brown would need help as the years went on.
But he wasn’t wanted by anyone in England outside of the family’s estate.
Could he live the rest of his life knowing what they all thought of him, what they said behind his back?
Would time dim the memory of the accusations for them if he proved his worthiness through consistent good behavior?
But it might take years—decades, even—to regain their trust. Or he might never.
People tended to hold onto opinions they had formulated, whether those ideas were reasonable or not.