“I was enamored with her right away, though only in the most superficial of ways since one cannot love a person deeply without getting to know them properly.”
“And you feel you have done so now? Gotten to know her?”
“I’ve met her for numerous walks in the park, on the less travelled paths where we wouldn’t be prone to curious gazes.” Michael suddenly smiled. “She and I can talk for hours about the most mundane of things without either of us getting bored.”
“These walks of yours,” James said while allowing his lips to curve with humor, “did they perchance take place during all of those errands you’ve run in recent weeks?” Each trip Michael had taken to the post office and the bank had taken hours. He’d also started seeing his friends a great deal more than usual, though James now wondered if he’d been gazing into this widow’s eyes instead of playing whist.
“Forgive me. I did not want to make a big thing of it until I knew for certain where I stood.”
“And where exactly is that, Michael?” James cautiously asked. The nervousness he’d experienced earlier bloomed to life once more.
“I’ve asked her to marry me and she has accepted. I’d like to have your blessing.”
Slowly, James set his glass on the low table in front of the sofa and propped his elbows on his thighs. He clasped his hands together and took a moment to adjust his mind to the shocking news his son had just delivered. There had been no word of warning, no indication Michael had formed an attachment. He’d done so in secret, behind James’s back.
James raised his gaze to Michael’s and forced himself to remain as calm and composed as he could while feeling as though the rug had been swept out from under his feet. “She must be a very special woman indeed to have captured your heart.”
“Oh yes. She is the most wonderful person in all the world.”
“And does this wonderful person have a name, or do you intend to leave me guessing?”
The air seemed to stretch tight between them. Michael’s gaze flickered. He suddenly got up and crossed to the fireplace. An unbearable length of silence passed while he stood there, staring into the dancing flames. A log snapped in the grate.
“Mrs. Cynthia Petersen.” Michael spoke to the fire, his back toward James.
“Hmm…” The name was oddly familiar, though it felt like an age since he’d heard it last. He searched his brain, rummaging through every meeting he’d had in recent years, every social gathering he had attended, each trial, and…
A memory stirred. He knit his brow in concentration. Every muscle and tendon strained. And then the lady to whom the name belonged became clear. He gritted his teeth and muttered a curse.
“She is Mr. Hewitt’s daughter, is she not?” he asked, just to be certain, deliberately avoiding all mention of her.
“Yes.”
One simple word. It dug its unrepentant claws into him and cackled with glee.
James took a deep breath and regarded his son. Although they’d occasionally had their differences, their disagreements had been brief. They’d never fallen out for long. But James feared that was about to change, because this time, Michael’s heart was involved. He was in love, and there was no way in hell James could allow him to marry the woman he pined for. The lady’s mother had wrecked any chance of that with her wanton behavior.
Pained by the knowledge that he was about to cause his son heartache, James stood and went to stand beside Michael. His hand settled heavily on Michael’s shoulder. The lad turned and met James’s gaze with anxious hope in his youthful eyes.
Hating himself for what he was forced to do and despising Mrs. Lawson for turning him into a villain, James crushed his son’s dream with two words. “I’m sorry.”
4
What a hellish day. Swiping away her tears, Wilhelmina dropped into one of the dusty rose armchairs that stood in her parlor. She’d said her goodbyes to George and Fiona two nights ago under the cover of darkness. They’d sailed for New York yesterday. Today she’d gone to the bank to collect the funds she would need for the coming week, only to discover her account had been frozen.
“What do you mean?” she’d asked the clerk.
“Apparently the courts are conducting some sort of investigation.” The clerk had retrieved a very official-looking letter which he’d handed to her. “It has to do with your…circumstances.”
Clearly. The court wanted to make sure the funds she had were hers to keep and that she did not owe money to her former husband. She and George thought they’d avoided such an outcome by ensuring her independence before the trial began nearly two years ago. Apparently, they had been wrong and she would now have to find other means by which to get by.
The realization hammered away at her already frail composure. George, her dearest friend and constant companion, was gone. She had no clue how to pay her expenses, and three of her acquaintances had crossed the street to avoid her as she walked home.
She’d barely managed to hold it together while she removed her bonnet and pelisse. Both items were hastily tossed onto the hallway table before Wilhelmina fled to the parlor so Betsy Faircloth, her maid of all work, would not see the state she was in. Heavens, she still wore her gloves.
Wilhelmina tugged at the butter-soft kidskin leather while heaving great gulps of air into her lungs. She’d not cried like this since her mother died. Her throat ached from it and her chest felt as though it were weighed down by lead.
Reaching into her skirt pocket, she retrieved a handkerchief and did her best to blot the tears. A good cry for the purpose of working through her emotions was one thing. Wallowing was quite another when there were chores to be done, money to be found, and bills to be paid. She could not afford to feel sorry for herself for more than five minutes. Least of all when Cynthia needed her to be strong for both their sakes.
A weary sigh crept through her. Her poor daughter, widowed at only one and twenty years of age. With a shake of her head, Wilhelmina stood and went to ring for some tea. Henry Petersen had been a reckless fool. He’d also been incredibly unlucky to have his curricle’s wheel snap off in the midst of a race. A fault in the wood had been to blame. Cynthia’s husband had broken his neck on impact a year and a half after the wedding.
“Here we are, ma’am,” Betsy said when she brought a tray some twenty minutes later.
“Thank you, Betsy.”
The tray was placed on a nearby table. Betsy picked up the teapot and started to pour. A knock at the front door caused her to pause. She glanced at Wilhelmina, then set the teapot aside. “I’ll just see who that is, shall I?”
Moments later, Cynthia burst into the parlor. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had an anxious look about them. She panted for breath as if she’d run all the way from her home in Berkley Square. “He said no. Oh God, Mama, can you believe it? The man is a monster.”
Wilhelmina blinked. She had no clue as to what her daughter might be referring. Clearly, she had been rendered insensible due to distress, which was no state at all to be in when trying to offer an explanation.
“I thought we agreed you would not come here,” Wilhelmina said as she rose to greet her. “It will not do your reputation an ounce of good.”