“I disagree entirely.” He frowned, and my heart crumbled, hopeless and brooding.
But I had to speak the words. I had to cut the last tie that connected us. “I must cancel our bargain, Peter.”
“What?” He reared back. “Why?”
“My life is more complicated than what you know. I do not think you would be dancing with me under the stars if you knew the whole of it.” Of Mr. Pendleton, of Lord Gray, of our pending homelessness and poverty.
“I do not understand.” Peter shook his head, his voice breaking. “I know you. I have told you more about myself than I’ve divulged to anyone else. You must give me a better explanation, a better reason than that if you wish to dismiss me so easily.”
Easily? This was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I steeled my resolve. This was for the best. For everyone. “We’ve only known each other a fortnight. You do not know me—not really. Anything you have to say is not based on rational thinking.” I thought of my parents, of the choice they made after one night. I took a step back.
Peter stepped forward, focused, pleading. “I assure you I have thought of everything—”
“I shall have to beg your forgiveness.” I wiped away a tear, clearing my throat. “At present, I cannot offer more of an explanation. I think in time you will see I have made the right choice.”
I grabbed the lantern and Peter’s gift from the step and walked alone into the house.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’d trained my heart against pain too well. Too easily it retreated to its cage, like an animal too beaten down to stand. I slept in the next morning, having no good reason to wake.
When I entered the drawing room, Mr. Gregory approached Lady Demsworth, bowing. “Sir Ronald and the men are anxiously awaiting your arrival in order to begin the competition, my lady.”
What competition? Had I missed something?
“Of course. Now that Amelia is here, we shall depart directly. Inform Miss Turnball, if you would, please, Mr. Gregory.” Lady Demsworth turned to me. “It appears Ronald cannot wait another moment. Shall we?”
“Forgive me, I must have missed an explanation—”
“Of course you did, what with your mind on other things,” Lady Demsworth said as she led me out onto the veranda. “The men have organized a fishing competition. The biggest fish wins a prize.”
“Oh. That sounds . . . diverting.” What sort of prize were they competing for? And would Peter be there?
Beatrice and I accompanied Lady Demsworth to the pond, which was as serene and beautiful as I remembered it being, to find Mrs. Turnball, Clara, and Georgiana already there. A small group of chairs had been placed a short distance away from the men.
Poles in hand, the men looked serious, having each secured a spot along with a servant to assist them with their tackle. Peter stood near the pond, and I leaned back in my chair, watching him. Waiting. But he would not meet my gaze. It seemed that even our friendship was ruined. I tried to tell myself I did not mind, that the distance between us was all for the best.
“Welcome, ladies.” Sir Ronald waved. “I have decided that the biggest catch will win tickets to a symphony at the concert hall this evening with the lady of his choice. The competition will last two hours. After which, the largest fish will be weighed, a winner declared, and then Cook will prepare a delicious feast for us all.”
“Huzzah!” Lieutenant Rawles cheered, nearly dropping his pole.
Peter wiped his brow with a handkerchief, looking rather worn already. He was fiercely competitive, but was he a good fisherman? I’d yet to see him fail at anything.
“On my count,” Sir Ronald called. “Three. Two. One!”
At the mark, the poles were cast, zipping through the air like invisible arms reaching out for prey. The men were silent, eyes focused on tiny ripples in the water.
“Where did they get their poles?” I asked behind a gloved hand.
“Sir Ronald bought them from a tradesman,” Clara replied. “They are bamboo rods imported from India, but the gamekeeper made the line and flies himself.”
“That is impressive.” Try as I might to remain impartial, my eyes flicked to Peter. Though he stood far enough away I could not determine his expression, the tenseness in his shoulders and curve in his back told me he awaited a bite. Could he want the prize as greatly as Mr. Bratten or Sir Ronald did?
“Mr. Bratten’s creel is a bit presumptuous, is it not?” Georgiana snickered at the rather large and bulky basket hanging from the man’s side.
“He had it custom-made,” Beatrice said, biting her lip. “He picked it up at the market last week, when we all went to town together. I pray he catches at least one fish.”
“Oh, look!” Clara pointed in the distance. “Lieutenant Rawles’s line is jolting!”
“He’s got one.” Lady Demsworth lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the piercing sun.
A flopping tail broke the surface of the shiny water. Lieutenant Rawles’s man hurried forward with a net, scooping up the fish after the lieutenant had reeled it in close enough. The fish was large, but not as meaty as some I’d seen with Clara. There were certainly bigger fish to be caught.
Beatrice jumped from her chair in applause when Mr. Bratten proved as much a few minutes later, followed by Sir Ronald, and then Peter. I clapped with the ladies as Peter reeled in what seemed to be the largest fish yet. I watched for his reaction, but Peter seemed despondent as his man rolled the fish inside his creel. It was as though the sport held no real competition. Or perhaps winning meant nothing to him.
Leaning back in my chair, I sipped a glass of lemonade brought to me by a servant girl. The sun beat like fire upon us, despite our constant fanning.
“Where were you this morning?” I leaned toward Clara, decidedly avoiding watching Peter as he reeled in another fish.
“Out.” She smirked.
“With Sir Ronald?”
“Of course. Until Georgiana found us in the gardens with that brother of hers,” Clara responded from behind her fan. “We spent the morning together, the four of us. I’d almost forgotten how distasteful it is to have Mr. Wood’s opinions thrust upon me.”
Had Peter already reverted to his scheming? “That is most unfortunate. Though I think by now Sir Ronald knows his own mind.”
“I should hope. But Georgiana can be very convincing. I worry she has more than one ace left to play.”
“Did I hear my name?” Georgiana asked, a false sweetness to her voice as she stared pointedly at Clara.
“From me? What would I have to say about you, Miss Wood?” Clara matched Georgiana’s tone so well I hardly recognized her voice. It was unlike Clara to be confrontational and rude.