A Foolish Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 1) Page 19

  But Mercy seemed to be avoiding his eye, keeping as much distance from him as possible. She was near enough, though, for him to see how her eyes were slightly swollen, the edges of her hairline wet, and the skin on her cheeks and neck mottled with patches of red and white, as if she had splashed water on her face before coming to his bedchamber to conceal the effects of crying.

  What could he possibly say? He wanted to comfort her, but he was the reason for her pain.

  She glanced over the tray, walked to the door, and slipped out, leaving Solomon blinking.

  He looked to the tray and swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for the bowl and bringing it under his nose so that the warm steam wafted upwards.

  Chicken broth. Not, as he had suspected, another of Miss Pawnce’s restoratives.

  His eyes moved next to the large plate where a leg of mutton lay, and to the tankard which he peered into. Ale, of course. Just what he had wished for. She had even thought to include a fruit tart for dessert.

  He took a long drink of the ale first, closing his eyes to savor the taste of something familiar.

  Bless Mercy.

  He stared at the liquid in his tankard. Mercy certainly wasn’t making it any easier for him to feel justified in his decision. He shut his eyes, remembering how she had knelt before him, so near he could smell her hair. So near he could also smell Aunt Priscilla’s musk on the dress Mercy had been obliged to borrow.

  She had been so willing to be his again.

  And yet he could not allow himself to venture back into the past. He was a different man now. He had made something of himself, and Mercy had not been willing to see him through that.

  What would happen the next time calamity struck? There were no guarantees in life, after all, and he needed someone who would be loyal to him, no matter what life brought.

  Why, then, did he feel as though he had just let happiness slip through his fingers?

  Mercy paused before entering the library. The door was slightly ajar, and she could see Miss Pickering, hunched over a paper and scribbling rapidly with a quill, while Viola’s animated voice sounded.

  Mercy stifled a sigh. In Miss Pickering, Viola had found a kindred spirit. A mutual admiration and appreciation had sprung up between the two of them. Viola could speak her romantic sentiments freely with Miss Pickering—and receive a response just as saturated with Shakespeare and Coleridge. And Miss Pickering saw in Viola a reservoir of inspiration—and an unabashed admirer of her work.

  It pained Mercy to pull Viola away from a place where she seemed to thrive so abundantly. But there was no avoiding it. They needed to return to Westwood and, for Mercy’s part, the sooner they left Chesterley House, the better.

  She pushed the door open. Miss Pickering continued to scribble—no doubt determined to record every last iota of inspiration—but Viola looked over.

  “I am sorry, Vi,” said Mercy, “but the time has come. The coach is being readied.”

  Viola looked to Miss Pickering, who dotted a last “i” and laid down her quill.

  “Miss Pickering,” Viola said, “it has been a great honor to stay in your home and to experience your genius firsthand.”

  Miss Pickering dipped her head formally. Her hair looked less frazzled now than it had since their arrival, plaited and wound into a bun. “You are most welcome, Miss Pawnce. Your spirit has rejuvenated mine and made possible this genius you speak of.” She motioned to the paper she had been writing upon. It lay atop a chaotic pile of inky foolscap. “Perhaps in the future we might work together on something more formally.”

  Viola’s eyes grew wide, and her hand flew to her bosom. She managed to contain her zeal, though, and executed a controlled but precariously deep curtsy. “I would be honored.”

  Mercy took Viola’s arm and curtsied to their hostess. “My very deep thanks to you, Miss Pickering, for saving us from what would have been a very unfortunate situation indeed without your help.”

  Miss Pickering stood and put a firm hand on Mercy’s arm. “You are a delight, my dear Mercy. And you must know that, after all I tried, it was you who inspired me. I am writing again!”

  Mercy let out a shaky laugh. “I can’t imagine how that could be the case.”

  Miss Pickering gestured with her head to Viola. “Miss Pawnce has recounted to me your history with my nephew, and I have heard from the servants how you have cared for him—a most inspiring display.”

  Mercy’s cheeks and ears burned, and she shot Viola a censuring glance.

  Viola shrugged her shoulders with a conscience-stricken look.

  Miss Pickering took Mercy’s hand in hers. “Life is too short to keep one’s feelings hidden within. We cannot expect those we love to know of our regard without communicating it clearly and regularly.”

  Tears rose to the surface, and Mercy cleared her throat, determined not to cry. “Thank you, Miss Pickering. But I have already done just that.”

  Viola’s head, which she had lowered guiltily, came up quickly, an arrested expression in her eyes.

  Miss Pickering squeezed her hand. “Then my nephew is not deserving of your love.”

  Mercy’s chin trembled. She could imagine no man more deserving of her love than Solomon Kennett.

  She pulled Viola along with her, anxious to leave Chesterley House before she succumbed to her emotions beyond recall.

  Solomon took another bite of mutton, chewing it slowly. It felt dry in his mouth, and he washed it down with a mouthful of ale. Sometime between his first ravenous forkful of food and now, he had begun to lose his appetite. His stomach must have shrunk considerably over the past two days.

  He had desperately needed the food before him. It was amazing what a stomach full of food could do for one’s energy and mood.

  But what he really needed now was a bath—and to leave this room so that it could be stripped of all the linens and cleaned more deeply than it ever had been before.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, relieved to feel how much sturdier he felt now that he’d had a meal. His legs were more wobbly than usual, but that was surely normal after having spent so much time in bed. He reached for the bell and gave it a tug.

  A servant appeared within minutes, and Solomon asked that a bath be prepared immediately and his bedding removed and replaced. He was grateful for his foresight in bringing along a change of clothing when he’d left Westwood and was sorely tempted to burn the ones he was wearing.

  He thought he would wish to sit a long time in the bath—he had even instructed for more hot water to be prepared and brought up after twenty minutes—but he was restless and anxious to get out.

  He couldn’t stop thinking of Mercy. Of how he had rejected her.

  Deep within, he felt the nagging twinge of inconsistency in his actions. He felt like a hypocrite.

  He dried off and dressed in his clean clothes, feeling like a new man physically. He wasn’t at his normal strength, of course, but the poison seemed to have run its course so that he no longer felt like he was teetering when he walked.

  But inside? He felt worse than ever. There had been more times than he cared to admit when he had wondered how it would feel to see Mercy’s face when she learned of his success—when she realized he had been entirely justified in everything he had promised to her.

  But there was not even a shred of pleasure or pride in rejecting Mercy’s love—not even a sense of being in the right.

  He just felt...wrong. Empty. Blue-devilled.

  He shook his head, as if that would help him shake off the feeling, and stepped into the corridor.

  “Mr. Kennett.” One of the servants stepped toward him, holding a folded paper between his hands. “I was instructed by Miss Pawnce to give this to you without delay.”

  Solomon took the paper in hand, noting how thick it felt. He knew a moment of misgiving. Had she written some poetry or perhaps a piece of fiction she wished for him to read? Some final advice as lengthy as it was unwanted?

&n
bsp; He thanked the servant and made his way to his bedchamber, unfolding the papers. The outermost paper was crisp and newly-folded. Within it sat another paper, folded and wrinkled, as though it had been opened a number of times—and perhaps even crumpled at one point. One of the edges was charred.

  He pulled out the crisp sheet and scanned its lines.

  Dear Mr. Kennett,

  I sincerely wish to apologize for the harm that has come to you at my hands. I hope you know that it was never my intention to cause you any pain. I also sincerely hope that the letter contained within will be a source of healing rather than of further pain. It is not my letter to give, and yet I cannot stand idly by, knowing that its contents might help you to better understand Mercy and the state of her heart. I hope she will forgive me, but even more, I hope that you will forgive her.

  All the best,

  Viola Pawnce

  He set Miss Pawnce’s letter on the bed, his heart beating quickly and his mind running a hundred miles an hour wondering what the other letter might be.

  He unfolded it, and the wrinkled paper trembled in his hands. Even if Miss Pawnce hadn’t alerted him to its author, he would have recognized Mercy’s curvy script anywhere. He looked at the date on the letter—a year to the day after she had broken off their engagement. He himself had noted the day in Jamaica at the time, thinking how far he had come toward his dreams in some respects and yet how elusive they still seemed despite that.

  My sweet Solomon

  His heart lurched, and he shut his eyes for a moment. It had been so long since she had addressed him that way.

  I have only written this letter nine times on paper. This is the tenth attempt. Like its predecessors, it will likely meet its end in the fire grate beside me rather than making the long journey to Jamaica.

  While ten times is not so very many, I assure you that I have written it a hundred times in my head and a thousand times in my heart. And yet I am no nearer to finding the right words. Language is but a prison for a heart that feels as mine does.

  A year ago I stood under the willow tree with you, confident in a way that only naivety can produce—so certain that the happiness I craved was something I could create with the perfect ingredients in the right quantities and the correct order. And though my heart warned me—though I had the sliver of a doubt—I pressed on, convinced I was moving toward that happiness.

  I was wrong.

  And that realization has crept upon me slowly and relentlessly over the past twelvemonth.

  I was wrong about everything.

  I was wrong to think that kindred hearts like ours are common.

  I was wrong to think that happiness must look a certain way.

  I was wrong not to believe the very best of the only man I ever loved—the only man I shall ever love, I think.

  And you? My sweet Solomon.

  You were right about everything.

  I know nothing of your circumstances now. Are you happy in Jamaica? Do you find the work fulfilling? Do you wake to the sounds of the ocean? It is entirely possible—nay, even probable—that you are already happily married, just as you deserve to be.

  The only thing I know for certain is how presumptuous it would be to send this letter to you, as if mere words could erase what I did to you. To us.

  No. This letter will burn like the others, and if there is a God above, and if it is His will that you read this, may He carry the ashes of these words to your heart so that, at the very least, you will know that you are loved from thousands of miles away, even more than you were a year ago under the willow tree.

  I wish for you all the happiness that life can offer.

  Yours,

  Mercy Marcotte

  Solomon reread the letter three times. It wasn’t until he tasted his own tears that he realized he was crying.

  A firm rapping on the door brought his head up from the letter, and he hurriedly wiped at his eyes. Folding the letter in on itself and hoping beyond anything that it was Mercy on the other side of the door, he cleared his throat. “Come in.”

  It was Miss Lanaway. She wore the traveling dress and bonnet she had been wearing when he had come upon her and Mr. Coburn at Le Coq d’Or.

  “Are you leaving?” he asked. Did this mean Mercy would be leaving soon, as well? The thought filled him with anxiety and an urgency that made him want to bolt through the door.

  Miss Lanaway nodded. “I have only come to ensure that you have everything you need before we leave.”

  “We?” he asked.

  “Frederick and me.” She pulled at the seam of her glove. “Well, and one of your aunt’s maids, for Frederick positively insists upon keeping propriety.”

  “Cannot one of your cousins accompany you?” He hoped it wasn’t obvious that he was inquiring as to Mercy’s plans.

  “Oh,” she said with a frown. “Mercy and Viola have already left.”

  Solomon clutched the letter. Left already?

  “Mercy wished to leave immediately—I believe she hopes to speak with my father before Frederick and I arrive. I assumed that she and Vi had come to bid their farewells already.”

  Solomon mustered a smile and shook his head. “No, but I imagine everyone is very impatient to leave.” He certainly had been from the moment they arrived.

  Miss Lanaway smiled politely, but her hands were fiddling, and she seemed to be avoiding his eyes. “I had one other reason for coming to see you before we leave,” she said. “I hope you know that when we spoke earlier, I did so in anger.”

  She looked up to meet his gaze, wetting her lips nervously, then looking down at her gloves again. “I spoke rashly because I was angry at Mercy and Frederick. I didn’t want to believe that Frederick had stopped loving me for any fault of my own, so I blamed Mercy. I know her too well to truly believe she is only concerned with money, and I hope—well, I imagine you know her well enough never to have believed such a thing of her anyway.” Miss Lanaway shrugged. “If money were all she cared about, she would have accepted Lord Nichols’ proposal.”

  Solomon stilled. “Lord Nichols’ proposal?” The words croaked out, and he cleared his throat. He thought there were no more threads to unravel in the case he had built against Mercy Marcotte over the past two years, and yet somehow Miss Lanaway had found another.

  “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “Just a few months after you left. I can tell you that her parents were anything but thrilled when they discovered she meant to turn him down.”

  Aunt Priscilla appeared in the doorway, looking refreshed and surprisingly peaceful, and Miss Lanaway noted her presence with a smile before turning back to Solomon.

  “In any case,” Miss Lanaway said, “I believe the carriage awaits Frederick and me, so I mustn’t linger too long. I hope, though, that you may forgive me for any inconvenience I have caused. It was very thoughtless and selfish of me, but I hope you can understand how terribly desperate I was.”

  Solomon nodded absently, and Miss Lanaway curtsied and left.

  Aunt Priscilla stepped into the room. There was a glow about her, and her frazzled energy had been replaced by a confidence and steadiness that Solomon wondered at.

  “Now that I have broken free of the chains with which my mind and creativity were bound,” she said placidly, “I have had a moment to reflect upon your situation, nephew, and I have come to a conclusion.” She smiled at him. “You are a fool.”

  He blinked as though she had thrown something in his face. “I am sorry to hear your low opinion of me, Aunt. May I ask how you reached such a conclusion?”

  She inclined her head. “If you require explication, certainly. I offer only one word: mercy.”

  Solomon opened his mouth to reply, but Aunt Priscilla’s hand demanded his continued silence, and he sat back obediently. Apparently she had more than one word to offer.

  “‘The quality of mercy is not strained,’” she quoted. “‘It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven / Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: / It blesset
h him that gives and him that takes.’”

  Her smile widened for a moment, but it was a condemning sort of smile. “I trust your powers of cognition are strong enough to take my meaning,” she said.

  “I believe so.” Solomon said, cowed.

  “Then I trust you will not take it amiss if I tell you that the lack of mercy you have extended to the person of that name is truly distressing. She has made every effort to see to your well-being here at Chesterley, subjecting herself, from what I understand, to being vomited upon, and even going so far as to sleep on the floor beside your bed, according to my maids. And yet you cannot summon even an ounce of forgiveness for the dearest, most—”

  Solomon raised a hand and stood.

  Aunt Priscilla reared back in offense. “And here you refuse to even listen to your conduct being called into question.”

  Solomon smiled, taking a fresh cravat from the bench at the foot of the bed, and tying it around his neck hurriedly.

  “Nay,” he said. “Acquit me, Aunt. I agree with all your words.” He finished the simple knot and turned to her. “But words can only take one so far. It is action that is called for, is it not?”

  Aunt Priscilla gave a satisfied nod. “Indeed. ‘Suit the word to the action, the action to the word.’”

  Solomon shrugged on his coat and walked over to her, setting his hands atop her shoulders. She and Viola were truly kindred spirits. “I like the new version of you, Aunt Priscilla.” He pulled her into a hearty embrace. When they pulled apart, his brows went up as he noted the tears in his aunt’s eyes. “The new, sentimental version.” He let out a gush of air. “And now I must away.”

  She sniffled once and urged him through the door with the sweep of a hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The carriage ride was long and slow compared to the quick pace they had kept on their journey to catch Solomon, Deborah, and Mr. Coburn. Mercy felt weary and too laden with emotion to face the prospect of Viola’s questions and advice, so she spent the first stage of the journey to Westwood leaning her head against the cushioned side of the coach and shutting her eyes to feign sleep she was far from achieving.