A Foolish Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 1) Page 18

  She took in a trembling breath and turned around, dashing up the stairs with her heart alternately stopping and racing, not allowing herself to think about what she was doing. Both the stairs and the corridor floor flew under her feet, everything blurring around her.

  She grasped the doorknob to Solomon’s bedchamber and pushed, stopping abruptly in the doorway with a hand on the wooden frame.

  Solomon sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. He looked up, his face pulled and tired, and his brows drawn together. The only movement in the room seemed to be the rising and falling of Mercy’s chest as she tried to catch her breath.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Her gaze held his. There was so much to say. But where to start?

  Viola’s poetic suggestion to Mr. Coburn sounded in her ears.

  I know no ways to mince it in love than directly to say ‘I love you.’

  She inhaled shakily and put a steadying hand on her abdomen, feeling as though her heart might jump straight through her chest if she waited any longer. Either that, or her courage would fail her.

  “I love you.”

  The words came out on a breath, scattering through the bedchamber and hanging in the air, invisible and yet everywhere.

  Solomon blinked once and sat up straight, his mouth opening wordlessly.

  It was impossible to tell what he was thinking when he looked at her in such a way, but Mercy couldn’t stand the silence. And she couldn’t stay still, or her legs might give out on her entirely.

  She let her hand fall from the sturdy door frame and stepped into the room, letting out a shaky laugh. “I love you in a way Viola would approve of—both ardent and tender, both ludicrous and logical.”

  The barest hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth, emboldening her.

  “And though Viola’s elixir can take no credit for my love, perhaps it has given me the courage to make it known.” She came before him, lowering herself to a knee and raising her eyes to his. She smiled with trembling lips. “As the poem said, my eyes did set first upon you. But in truth, they have only ever been upon you.” She swallowed down the nerves rising in her throat and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I love you. I loved you then, and I love you still.”

  He studied her gaze for an eternity—or perhaps only a few, long seconds—then dropped to the hands in his lap.

  “Mercy, I…” He shook his head from side to side and exhaled. “I cannot.”

  Her heart stalled, and her limbs froze, holding her in place, even as the desire to flee built with each passing second.

  His head came up, and all his emotion seemed to gather in the deep lines of his forehead and the heavy sadness in his eyes. He was in pain.

  Mercy nodded quickly, pulling her body back, for her impulse was to wrap her arms around Solomon until the hurt went away.

  He worked his jaw for a moment, then shut his eyes. “I cannot trust you.”

  Mercy clutched at the fabric of her dress.

  Rejection. She had known it was a possibility—even a likelihood—when she had run up the stairs. And yet it stung in places she had forgotten existed; the same places that had stung when she had discovered Solomon’s departure for the West Indies. She had known even then that her decision could not be taken back.

  And yet, being near Solomon and being reminded of all the reasons she had wished to marry him, she had not been able to stifle her hope.

  She nodded again, wanting to say something, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Rising to her feet, she paused for a moment, fighting the impulse to run from the room. She wouldn’t make this about her and her pain. She had come for Solomon—to ensure he knew that she loved him.

  Was this how he had felt when she had rejected him? The thought amplified the aching within her—the regret at what she had done to him. And to what purpose?

  Her only consolation was that at least he knew she loved him. Even if he could not return her regard, surely it was something for him to know himself beloved after all this time by the woman who had once abandoned him.

  She could not have him back. But she wanted him to know that she understood why—that she didn’t blame him.

  She shut her eyes and inhaled. His head hung in his hands, just as it had when she entered. He had been through much since his arrival at Westwood, and even more since coming to Chesterley.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  He looked up at her, his face looking pulled and weary. He gave a pathetic smile. “Famished.”

  “No, no.” The voice sounded from behind Mercy. It was the doctor. “He mustn’t have anything until I have had the chance to examine him..”

  She moved to allow him to approach Solomon, and he directed a scolding glance at her.

  She gave an apologetic shrug of the shoulders to Solomon, and he grimaced in response.

  “I shall leave you, then.” Mercy closed the door behind her, forcing herself to inhale a deep, quivering breath. To her dismay, she found tears pooling in her eyes. The blurry view of her own bedchamber door oscillated before her through the tears, and she hurried toward it.

  Mercy only lay abed for a few minutes, allowing her tears to flow freely into the pillow. But she hadn’t the luxury of wallowing in her misery. Much as she had managed to convince herself that Solomon would never forgive her for what she had done to him, that stubborn bit of hope buried inside her was potent enough to make his rejection ache, not just in her heart, but in her bones, her head, her veins.

  She couldn’t bring herself to regret letting him know of her love, but the thought of remaining so near to him at Chesterley House, of interacting with him now that she had admitted her wishes both to him and to herself—it would be torture, besides having no purpose.

  Just as importantly, she doubted it was what he wished for—to be confronted with her constant presence. She had seen his pain at rejecting her. He hadn’t taken pleasure in it. And that knowledge only amplified her hurt, for it meant that there was a part of him somewhere that didn’t wish to reject her.

  But the pain was too deep.

  Well, she would have plenty of time to mourn later. For now, there were things to be done.

  Deborah needed to be convinced to return home if she didn’t wish for her father to descend upon them. If he was obliged to come find his daughter, there was little hope of a happy outcome for Deborah and Mr. Coburn.

  Pushing herself to the edge of the bed and then to a shaky stand, Mercy gave her head a moment to settle before picking up the mirror on the dressing table. She touched a finger to her swollen eyes, noting how red the surrounding skin was. She had no desire to discuss what had just happened, so she would do well to see that her appearance didn’t immediately raise questions.

  She walked to the basin on the table by the window and splashed water on her face, dabbing at her skin with the towel beside the basin. She felt unusually weak after crying—she could only imagine how Solomon must feel without having eaten anything substantial since lunch the day before. He hadn’t exhibited any symptoms of poisoning for many hours now, so, whatever the doctor said, it seemed cruel to keep him from eating.

  She bit her lip. She could try to catch the doctor before he left and inquire whether he had cleared Solomon to eat regular fare…but no. The man seemed overly strict and, if Solomon was to journey home soon—as Mercy hoped they would all be able to do—he needed to eat.

  Sometimes it was better to simply act than to ask permission.

  Making her way through the corridor toward the stairs, Mercy could hear the authoritative voice of the doctor in Solomon’s bedchamber. She picked up her pace, hurrying down the stairs and instructing the first servant she found to have a tray of food put together for Solomon, suggesting a few of the things she remembered him liking and asking that a bowl of broth be included—she would feel less culpable if she included something of which the doctor might approve.

  While the food was being prepared, Mercy steeled herself
to the prospect of a potentially miserable exchange with Deborah. But it did no good at all to put off such a conversation.

  Deborah was found to be in the morning room, smiling warmly up at Mr. Coburn, who sat beside her, his uninjured hand holding hers. Deborah looked to be in a complacent mood, a fact which relieved Mercy. She hadn’t the energy or patience to engage with Deborah at her most combative.

  Both Deborah and Mr. Coburn looked to Mercy at the sound of her entrance.

  “Mercy!” Deborah raised their clasped hands in the air. “We are reconciled to one another again! He still loves me—and has all along!”

  Her cousin’s words brought a lump to her throat, but she managed a smile. She didn’t wish to diminish Deborah’s happiness in any way, whatever her own woes. “I never doubted it for a second,” she said, trying to widen her smile so that her lips couldn’t quiver.

  She took in a deep breath and sat down in front of the enraptured couple. “And now that you can feel secure knowing that Mr. Coburn intends to marry you, Deb, I think we must return to the issue at hand. Do you intend to pursue an elopement?”

  Deborah and Mr. Coburn exchanged a glance, and Mr. Coburn spoke. “I have assured Deborah that I wish to marry her, whatever methods we must employ to bring that about.”

  Mercy’s heart dropped.

  “But,” Mr. Coburn continued, “we have agreed that an elopement should be saved for only the most dire necessity and that we are not yet there. If Deborah’s father requires it, and if it would mean marrying with his blessing, we are willing to wait a year or two while I convince him of my regard and my ability to care for Deborah.”

  Mercy let out a relieved laugh and reached for Deborah’s hand. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear that.”

  Deborah looked at her anxiously. “We can rely upon your support, then, as we speak with Father?”

  “Most assuredly,” Mercy said. “I believe he can be brought around to accept the match, even if he is not overjoyed at the prospect.”

  Deborah’s mouth twisted to the side, and she sighed. “It would have been easier to make the case for Frederick if Mr. Kennett were not in the picture.” She looked at Mercy with a pained expression. “If only you had married him two years ago!”

  Mercy tried to smile but instead had to bite both lips to prevent her emotion from escaping. “Yes, well, I have long known that was the grandest mistake of my life—”she smiled humorlessly—“but what is done is done, unfortunately.”

  Deborah shifted in her chair, suddenly looking sheepish. “I may have said something to Solomon.”

  Mercy met her cousin’s anxious expression with a puzzled one.

  “I shouldn’t have, I know, and I am very sorry! But you know how terrible I can be when I am crossed, and I had convinced myself that the troubles between Frederick and me were your fault.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mercy said, looking at Deborah warily. “What did you say?”

  Deborah looked up at Frederick.

  He inclined his head, urging her to go on and wrapping his arm more tightly around her as if to reassure her that he would not leave her.

  “I said that you were only paying him so much attention because of his fortune.” She hung her head. “It was terribly wrong of me, and I am very ashamed of myself.” She looked up timidly, as if terrified to see how Mercy was looking at her, then made as if to stand. “I shall go speak to him right now and tell him it was untrue.”

  Mercy shut her eyes and shook her head. “Thank you, Deb, but no. There is no need. I am sure the thought crossed Solomon’s mind long before you said anything. It is a natural assumption given our history.”

  Deborah leaned back into Frederick reluctantly. “But I must do something!” she said.

  “I have already told Solomon how I feel, Deb. But the damage was done long ago, and there is nothing you or I can say to change that.”

  Deborah’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Well,” she said bracingly, “if he cannot forgive you, then perhaps he doesn’t deserve you.”

  Mr. Coburn nodded. “Deb is right, Miss Marcotte. She has told me a bit of your history with Mr. Kennett. He seems a fine, capable man, but if he cannot see past his pride to what is right in front of him, then”—he shrugged his shoulders—“he will have no one but himself to blame when he realizes his mistake.”

  Mercy gritted her teeth. Why could no one see that this was her fault, not Solomon’s. She had set them on a course from which there was no return.

  Deborah looked up at Frederick with admiration and bobbed her head to confirm his words. She lifted a hand to his cheek. “Frederick has forgiven me already for all of my folly over the past few days.”

  He smiled down at her, putting his hand over hers. “And you have forgiven me of mine.”

  Mercy stood, her heart hurting unbearably at what she was watching. “You are fortunate indeed in one another. I shall instruct the servants to make preparations so we may leave in a few hours.”

  Closing the door behind her upon the couple—a blatant violation of propriety she hadn’t the energy to care about at the moment—she rested her back against it and let her head thump softly on the wood.

  She needed to leave Chesterley House. Her nerves were fraying more and more, and her ability to keep a handle on her emotions slipped with each passing moment.

  “Miss Marcotte?” A maid stood before her, holding a tray of food and drink. “The footman you instructed to have this prepared was unsure whether it was to be taken directly to Mr. Kennett’s bedchamber or whether he would prefer to partake of it elsewhere.”

  Mercy hesitated. “Thank you,” she said after deliberating a moment. “I shall take it up to him myself.”

  The maid transferred the tray to Mercy’s hands, curtsied, and disappeared down the corridor.

  She stared at the contents for a moment. Perhaps she was a fool, but she wanted to deliver it to Solomon herself—she wanted him to know without a doubt that, much as she wished it weren’t so, she didn’t fault him for his decision. Her choice two years ago had consequences—if only she could have had then the experience she had now!

  She would be on her way back to Westwood Hall and, soon enough, on to her own home, where she would take time to grieve, just as she had done two years ago. And then she would move forward. For she had no other choice.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The doctor did not authorize Solomon to partake of mutton and ale. “You risk setting off yet another episode of vomiting, and that is something I cannot agree to.”

  Solomon wished the man would leave. He was certainly not equipped to deal with the type of pain that Solomon was now feeling.

  He dropped his head back onto his pillow as the doctor pressed his fingers to Solomon’s wrist, watching the ticking seconds of the pocketwatch in his other hand.

  He had been terribly close to pulling Mercy into his arms and erasing the past two years—taking them back to those days before everything had fallen apart.

  But the two years could not be erased. And her words had reminded him of that. How had she described her love for him? Both ludicrous and logical.

  Logical. It was that word that had sent his heart plunging. Just how much of this logic was connected to his change in fortune? And her decision to break their engagement two years ago—had that been guided by logic? A lack of love? Or both?

  Solomon might mock Viola for her romantic views on love and marriage, but he had to admit that there was something to them. If Mercy had forsaken her love for him once, did it not follow that the love simply had not been strong enough? He certainly didn’t wish for his wealth to be the determining factor in his marriage.

  Well, no. That wasn’t entirely true. He had intended to marry Deborah, knowing full well that his fortune was a main consideration. What he truly didn’t want was to marry Mercy for love when, for her, it was ultimately a marriage of convenience. Of course, practical considerations could not be ignored entirely, but had he not prom
ised her that he would ensure her comfort? Sworn that he would work to make back every penny his father had lost? He had been willing to postpone their marriage until he could ensure such things.

  But she had not been willing. For her, it had been too great a risk.

  And the knowledge still cut him to the quick, all this time later. What caused the most pain of all was the suspicion that his own heart wouldn’t be content with any woman but Mercy—with the one woman who had been able to let everything they had go.

  The doctor began putting his instruments back into his worn, leather bag. “I adjure you not to partake of anything stronger than clear broth—chicken or beef is fine—for another twenty-four hours. But I am satisfied that you are on your way to a full recovery. Slowly does it.”

  Solomon thanked him. A full recovery from the past few days seemed impossible. And apart from the havoc his time at Aunt Priscilla’s had wreaked upon his weary heart, he was skeptical whether he could physically survive another twenty-four hours subsisting only upon broth.

  When the doctor left, he lay staring at the bed canopy above him for twenty minutes. He doubted whether he could do anything but lie there, weak as he was. Nor had he the desire to do anything else, quite frankly.

  He might as well sleep, for at least sleep had the benefit of allowing his mind and heart to rest.

  A light knock sounded on the door, and Solomon considered pretending to be asleep. But the door opened a crack, and Mercy’s face appeared in the small gap.

  Solomon’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip at the sight of her. If she renewed her sentiments, he feared that he wouldn’t have the strength to resist a second time.

  She sent a nervous glance over her shoulder and slipped into the room, holding a tray with a steaming bowl, a large plate, and a tankard, all of which she set upon the bedside table.

  Solomon was bereft of speech. This woman he had just rejected was going out of her way to see to his needs. Should he be suspicious of such behavior? Was this some plot to regain his favor, as Miss Lanaway had suggested?