Chapter Eleven
Daphne was quite certain, were it not for the pair of kid leather gloves encasing her fingers, her nails would be worn into stubs, the skin surrounding them likely bleeding from her constant nibbling. As it was, the delicate stitching on the tip of her forefinger was perilously close to becoming unraveled from her efforts.
“Daphne,” Aunt Susan scolded from her seat on the garden bench, the tepid afternoon breeze ruffling the pages of her opened book. “A lady does not put her fingers in her mouth.”
Perhaps not. But one waiting on the outcome of a meeting that could determine the very course of not only her family’s future, but hers as well, most certainly did.
Daphne dipped her nose into the nearest red blossom and inhaled the delicate fragrance, doing her best to ignore the conflict that raged inside her. With the duke’s investment, there was no reason for her to remain in England. No reason to continue deepening her familiar relationships or for her to consider precisely what it was that she did or did not feel toward the duke.
Her aunt patted the cushion beside her. “Come sit beside me, dear. Thomas will no doubt send for you after things have been settled. All we can do until then is wait.”
Yes, wait. Just like she had all morning. And afternoon. Waiting for the sun to rise and people to wake. Waiting for her brother to convene with the duke. Waiting while two men discussed, debated, and did all manner of conversing without her in the room. No matter her intellect or insight into her family’s company. She was strongly encouraged to stay away from the proceedings and to engage herself in more feminine pursuits. Like quietly sipping tea while reading appropriate poetry (which she had, if one considered Lord Byron appropriate). But the injustice and unfairness of her plight had her up on her feet, pacing the length of the covered garden where her aunt sat quietly reading in the dappled sunlight.
Had Daphne’s feet not been traipsing over the weathered tile or her skirts swishing loudly against her legs, the garden would have been a site of peaceful serenity, filled with the heady perfume of red English roses and a colorful plethora of unfamiliar bouquets and flowers. The semi-enclosed area had clearly been designed to provide a place of respite and tranquil reflection, but to her it felt like a cage, a place set apart where she was forced to wait and sit while others took action.
“I’ve never been very good at waiting,” Daphne acknowledged, taking another turn.
Aunt Susan’s nose dipped, her eyes never leaving the crisp pages of her book. “I would advise you to return to your room and take a rest as your cousins have done, but I daresay you’d ignore the suggestion and simply resume pacing there. You are too much like your mother in that regard.”
Daphne paused to peer at her aunt. “My mother was prone to pacing?”
“No. Anxiety never plagued your mother, because she never allowed it. She went with her heart on all matters and was consequentially often considered defiant and quite rebellious. Elizabeth never did well following orders or advice.”
Daphne’s lips quirked. “I suppose I do resemble her in that regard.”
“And quite remarkably. Though I think at this moment you would do well to mimic your mother’s more insouciant qualities. Perhaps a walk through the gardens would help ease your nerves. I know, were I in your position, it would certainly help mine.” She took a sip of tea and replaced the china cup with a delicate clink onto its plate.
“But what of Thomas? Or His Grace? How will they know where to find me should I be wandering about the grounds?”
Aunt Susan shut her book and clasped her hands together. “His Grace and your brother have all manner of items to discuss, my dear. I would not be surprised if they did not seek you out until later this evening, most likely after dinner.”
“But that isn’t for hours,” Daphne exclaimed. “They’ve already been together for most of the day.”
“Some matters take longer than others, dear.”
Daphne stopped, her head tilting to the side. “But it’s simple numbers. Our profits clearly speak for themselves.”
Aunt Susan reopened the book and skimmed the pages. “Oh, they likely have lots of business to discuss, but I doubt it will have much to do with shipping and investing.”
“But what other kind of business is there?”
Her aunt glanced at her, surprised. “Why, that of the marital kind, my dear.”
It was as though a rifle had shot near Daphne, so loud was the ringing in her ears. “Marital?” Daphne whispered. “As in marriage?” Because surely there was some other definition or explanation of the word.
“Why yes, of course. Marriage is the most important business of all.”
“That it may well be, Aunt Susan,” Daphne sputtered, “but why in heavens would Thomas and His Grace be discussing the matter?”
“Why, to settle the terms of your dowry, I suppose.”
Daphne was quite certain Edward had not proposed—at least not to her. And while she greatly respected, esteemed, and yes, even desired the man, there had been no discussion of marriage at their last meeting. No admission of romantic feelings. No inclination whatsoever that the man had any intention of asking her to be his bride.
She could not deny that Edward had proven himself to be encouraging and insightful, attuned to the needs of others and generous with both time and money. Nor could she hide the way her body reacted to his touch, the way her heart pounded and her knees weakened at the slightest hint of his embrace. But he existed in a world separate from hers, where tradition, status, and blood reigned, and where Daphne held no place. Their lives were too different, too dissimilar for them to be joined in anything other than a relationship based on business and finance. Her life was in Boston and his was here, in England. To even consider the idea that Edward was seeking permission for her hand was utterly ridiculous.
Daphne resumed her pacing. “What of Lady Isabella? Has she not already been selected by the duchess as His Grace’s future wife?”
“The duchess may parade and flounce whomever she wishes in front of His Grace, but it does not require any degree of intelligence to see that he has already made his decision.”
“Did His Grace speak with you on such matters? Did he make his intentions known?”
Her aunt gave a knowing smile. “No, though one does not need words to convey emotions. I may be an older woman, Daphne, but I am not blind. I see the way the duke looks at you.”
And just how the devil did the man look at her to set her aunt’s mind to marriage, and her brother’s to scheming? Had she missed some hidden signal or lustful gaze?
Daphne crossed her arms in front of her. “The eyes see what the heart wants, Aunt Susan. And that may not necessarily be the truth.”
“Perhaps, though I believe only time will tell.”
“Mother, there you are!”
Daphne turned to see Sarah standing near the entrance to the enclosure.
Her cousin strode toward them, her hands clasped in front of her. “I simply cannot rest and thought a walk through the gardens might help clear my mind. Would you care to join me, cousin? I hear the paths at Thornhaven are quite lovely.”
And indeed they were, especially when accompanied by the duke.
“I would enjoy one very much, but Thomas—”
“Thomas,” her aunt interrupted, “will likely be awhile.” Her relative reopened her book and resumed reading its pages. “Take your time and enjoy the sunshine, dear, what little bits of it are poking through, anyway. Heaven only knows how long it will last before the rains return.”
“But His Grace,” Daphne persisted. “What if he should come looking for me?”
Aunt Susan sighed. “In the rare occurrence that either His Grace or Thomas should come seeking after you, I’ll let them know of your whereabouts. Now, go, child. Talk a walk. Pick flowers. See if you can find any unusual ones we might use for an arrangement. And stay together.”
…
What seemed like two hours and several miles later, Daphne questioned whether following her aunt’s request had been the wisest decision. The problem lay not in conversation or company, as she thoroughly enjoyed her cousin’s quick wit and clever humor, but rather in their task and the distraction it had provided. That they had paid little attention to time and distance in their search for the perfect bouquet, which now resembled a grand floral arrangement fit for even Thornhaven’s foyer, was only beginning to be apparent.
Daphne glanced up at the shrouded sun and its low position in the horizon. “Perhaps we should return. I believe time has escaped us and it is far later than we first believed.”
Sarah swiped a buzzing fly from her face. “Is it?” She followed Daphne’s gaze toward the lingering sun and sighed. “Mother will have a fit when she discovers how long we’ve been out.”
“We are hardly to blame. It was her suggestion after all, was it not?”
Her cousin smiled and sniffed the outrageous assortment of flowers they had gathered. “Yes, well, please remind her of that when she sets about giving us a scolding for damp shoes and muddied hems.”
Daphne let out a giggle, an action she found easy to do in her cousin’s company.
“This way, then.” She motioned toward the muddied road still wet from the early morning rains.
“How long do you think it will take to return to Thornhaven?”
Her cousin glanced in the direction of the house and then up at the cloudy sky. “I’d say a good solid hour of walking. If we hurry, we should arrive with plenty of time to ready for dinner and present this.” She waved the bouquet, their proud accomplishment of an afternoon spent in the fields.
Daphne trudged through the sodden grass toward the road, her feet slipping over the moist earth. “As much as I would like to believe in your enthusiasm, Sarah, I haven’t much confidence in that estimate given the current condition of my shoes.” Wearing her favorite pair of leather slippers had seemed a good idea in the gardens. They had not, however, transitioned well into the muddy country fields. The thin leather had long soaked through with water, and the soles had worn down from constant tromping. It was a wonder the things still held together at all.
“Mine as well,” Sarah said, glancing down at her soiled slippers.
Daphne gave a careless wave of her hand. “It seems we now have a fitting excuse to go into town and buy another pair of shoes together.” She lifted her skirt ever so slightly, raising her foot over a patch of mud—and straight into an ankle-deep hole. With a grunt, she fell to the ground, her hands plunging into a puddle of murky water.
“Are you all right?” Sarah cried. A colorful array of blossoms fell from her hands as she hunched beside Daphne.
A searing pain shot upward through her leg. Stars burst behind her eyes. And for one sickening moment, she thought her breakfast might reemerge onto the grass.
No she wasn’t all right. She was the very opposite of all right.
Her cousin’s trembling fingers wrapped around Daphne’s leg. “Can you move your foot?”
Not without unleashing a string of curses. But she didn’t want to further worry her cousin. The girl was already a mess, her eyes wide with panic. Daphne slid back and onto her knees and winced. “I might be able to lift it out if you help me up.”
Sarah took Daphne’s arm and placed it on her narrow shoulder.
With a heave, a push, and an unladylike grunt, she righted herself with the assistance of her cousin. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me until your foot is out of that hole and we are back at Thornhaven exaggerating the details of your injury and laughing about our woes.”
Daphne would have smiled were she not thinking of how to ease her throbbing foot out of the hole and onto firmer ground. Bracing herself for the agony the small movement promised, she jerked her foot free, the action near blinding her with pain.
“Are you able to put any pressure on it?”
“No,” Daphne yelped. “It hurts like the very devil.”
Her cousin glanced up at the darkening sky and back to the road. “Then you’ll have to lean on me while we walk to the house.”
But after two stumbling attempts, it was quite clear Daphne was not walking anywhere.
Sarah set her down on a dry spot of grass and began pacing. “It seems our options are limited.
“Options? I see only one. I’ll wait here while you fetch Thomas.”
“But I can’t leave you. It looks as if it might rain.”
Of course it did. And why wouldn’t it? Rain seemed as much a part of English weather as tyranny was to the king. With the luck she was having, it only seemed fitting to have a gloomy forecast added to her list of grievances. “I don’t see as how we have much of a choice. No one else knows of our location. Aunt Susan likely thinks we are still in the gardens or the area surrounding it. Not even I realized how far we’ve strayed from Thornhaven until now. Go, before the rain starts. And please tell Thomas to make haste.”
“Are you certain?” Sarah asked, wringing her hands. “Perhaps I could find a stick for you to lean on or fashion some sort of rig to pull you—”
“I am positively certain,” Daphne said. “Now go.” She shooed her cousin with her hands.
But as her relation’s small frame disappeared from view and the first raindrops began to fall, Daphne had to admit that her certainty was not very certain at all.
…
“What do you mean she’s not here?” Edward asked, struggling to keep the fear out of his voice.
“I mean, Your Grace, she is not on the grounds. No one has seen her for the past few hours.”
“No one?” Edward repeated, staring at his butler. “Have you inquired after her chaperone, Lady Amhurst?”
“Yes of course,” the elderly man assured. “She said Miss Farrington and her cousin, Lady Sarah, went looking for flowers.”
“And?” Edward pressed.
“We were not able to locate her in any of the gardens, Your Grace.”
“It isn’t like my sister to wander when business is being discussed,” Farrington interjected. “Especially when she considers the business to be of a personal nature.” He paced the length of the sideboard, his shoulders raised, his stiff posture and agitated stance conveying his worry.
“Do you believe her to be in harm’s way?” Edward inquired, pulling on his cuffs.
“I had to near force her to sit with Aunt Susan while I met with you.” Farrington stared past Edward’s butler to the closed set of doors. “I half expected her to be standing in the hall in complete defiance of my wishes. Now”—the American let out a ragged breath—“I wonder if Burnham wasn’t making good on some threat or score.”
Fear sunk its icy tendrils down Edward’s limbs, paralyzing him with images of Miss Farrington at the hands of Burnham’s unidentified cohort. “Are all of the guests accounted for?”
His butler nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Lord Satterfield, Lord Westbrook, and Lord Colwyn are just now coming in from an afternoon of riding.”
“Tell William to saddle two horses and bring them to the front. Mr. Farrington and I will be waiting.”