Where there is Love: The Colchester Sisters Page 5

  “I should think you are glad of it, my dear,” Richard said brightly. “The man has the attention span of a bumblebee in a garden full of pollen.”

  “Oh, Richard,” Jane said and laughed heartily. “Thank goodness you are here.”

  “Thank goodness indeed,” Richard said and bowed. “So, who is your suspect now in the great Chelsea bun scandal of old Colington town?”

  “There is only one man it can be, surely,” Jane said and perked up a little. “It can only be Charles, can it not?”

  “Unless it is some mystery man,” Verity said with some determination. “After all, you have not even met Charles yet. And he has only seen you from afar. How on earth would he know that you like Chelsea buns better than anything?”

  “I daresay that Amos has told him. You know how Amos likes interfering in things,” Jane said with a laugh. “And I will soon be meeting Charles, will I not? Amos tells me that he is to be at Lord and Lady Waldegrave’s ball next week. I daresay that Amos has already promised him an introduction.”

  “Well, perhaps then you will be able to get to the bottom of it all, Jane,” Richard said and smiled. “There cannot be too many men in the county who would know enough to send you Chelsea buns.”

  “No indeed, Richard,” Jane said wistfully. “Although, it would be nice to have some other little things happen, would it not? Another romantic little act. Really, I cannot tell you how thrilled I was to receive the Chelsea buns and the little rose. The world felt lighter, more exciting, full of possibilities.” Jane closed her eyes and remembered the feeling, determined not to let go of it just yet.

  “Ah, now that is my Jane,” Verity said, clearly pleased that her sister’s mood had already picked up. “Drifting away on a cloud of pinkish romance.”

  “Can you think of anywhere better to be, my dear Verity?” Jane smiled at her sister, determined to ignore her teasing.

  “Do you want me to answer that truthfully?” Verity said, and Richard chuckled; the three of them were all in fine spirits once again.

  “Goodness, no,” Jane said.

  “In that case, no, I cannot think of anywhere else I would rather be than drifting along in a cloud of pinkish romance,” Verity said, and Jane was so amused that she clapped.

  “Bravo, Verity,” Jane said, to which Verity bowed as an actor might on stage.

  “Well, forget about the handsome and feckless Bryce, it seems we do not need him to have a good night,” Richard said, and Jane agreed wholeheartedly.

  Chapter Nine

  “I knew I would find you here.” Richard appeared on the woodland path in front of Verity and was pleased, in his own boyish way, when she jumped with surprise.

  “Richard, for heaven’s sake!” Verity said, holding the small nail clippers in a way which made him wonder if he ought to have done something quite so foolhardy.

  “What are you doing with those?” he said and smiled at her.

  “I am clipping some samples.”

  “Of course, you are,” Richard said with dry amusement.

  “My father has just bought me a beautiful little brass microscope, Richard. I am clipping a few leaves to compare them, that is all. I am just testing it out. And it was such a thoughtful gift that I want to make constant use of it.” And as she spoke, Richard thought he could see a most uncharacteristic little flash of emotion.

  “That really is a very thoughtful gift. Your father has clearly taken the time to give you something that truly reflects your character. That is what the best gifts do, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is always better to receive a gift that you actually want.” Verity dropped the scissors into a small basket along with an inordinate number of freshly clipped leaves. “So, you know what I am doing here, Richard. But what are you doing here so early?”

  “Looking for you, Verity,” he said and thrust his hands into the pockets of his breeches to keep them warm.

  Apparently, spring was still on its way. The sooner it made an appearance, the better Richard would like it.

  “Oh, to discuss plans?” Verity said with a little dash of excitement.

  She took a step closer to him, her face was so small and sweet beneath the large brown velvet bonnet that she looked like a child.

  “I hardly know, Verity. It is not going well so far, is it?”

  “Do you not think so?”

  “No.”

  “But Jane came to the understanding that it was not Bryce who sent the buns and she did so on her own. I think things are going very well.”

  “But Verity, she now thinks that the buns were sent to her by Charles.”

  “Yes, but that will not last. As soon as she meets him, she will find a way to discover it.”

  “But what if she does not? What if she finds Charles so pleasing that she no longer cares about the buns?”

  “All right, all right. I think it is time for us to recreate another little scene from The Romancing of Beatrice,” she laughed when he pulled a face. “I did say that it would be necessary, Richard.”

  “I know. But which little scene should we choose? I have struggled and struggled and am only halfway through the book.”

  “Then you have not read the passage with the poem,” Verity said and squinted at him. “Where Lord Pemberchook hides a poem in the box of a hat Beatrice has just purchased.”

  “No, I am not so advanced.” He raised his eyebrows. “Well, what do I need to do?”

  “You must find a way to put a handwritten poem into my sister’s shopping. That should be simple enough, we are going to look at fabric tomorrow and we very rarely leave empty-handed. Unfortunately, that gives you a very limited time to write out the poem.”

  “It will not take me long to copy something out,” Richard said and shrugged. “But which should I choose? Something by Byron, perhaps? Or is that a little too intense, for he is somewhat scandalous at times, is he not?”

  “No, not something by Byron.”

  “Then who?”

  “Richard, you must write the poem yourself. That is what Lord Pemberchook did. It must be your own work, something you have come up with on your own.”

  “Really?” Richard’s mouth fell open.

  How on earth was he, Richard Wade, to write a poem of any kind?

  “In the book, Lord Pemberchook writes a poem himself. It need not be long, for the one in the book is not. But it was his own work, and that is the point. He hides it in the hatbox and Beatrice finds it later when she is at home unpacking her shopping. She sits down and reads the poem and it is lovely, or at least Beatrice thinks it is. The only thing is, it is signed. Your own poem must not be signed at all.” Verity shook her head vehemently. “We must continue to create the illusion of a mysterious stranger who is in love with her. Believe me, that will appeal to my sister more than anything in that silly book in the end. But for now, we must stick to the book, we must make every action recognizable. We must be guided by Beatrice.”

  “Verity, how am I to write a poem?”

  “I have no idea.” Verity shrugged. “I have never attempted such a thing and cannot imagine that I ever shall. But surely you have a volume of such poems somewhere in your father’s house? Perhaps just read one or two of them to get you into the spirit of the thing and then, well, have a go, I suppose.”

  “Have a go?” Richard said with wide eyes and an incredulous tone. “Verity, you expect me to manage in one afternoon something which real poets labor over for weeks, months, even years?”

  “It does not have to be perfect,” Verity said encouragingly.

  “My dear, I think I can guarantee you that it will not be perfect.” Richard laughed. “Oh, Verity, how on earth am I to do this? How am I to appeal to Jane’s romantic nature when I am as I am? Even if I do manage it, how am I to maintain it year upon year?”

  “You will not need to maintain anything, Richard. Once Jane realizes how well you suit one another, how much she really feels about you, I daresay real romance will take the place of thi
s contrived nightmare of a book. But my sister has no experience of anything other than that perfect little world which exists in the sort of novels she reads. She will always be a romantic, she will always believe in love. But do you not see, that is the thing that you can give her, Richard. Love. Real, honest love. True love.”

  “Yes, of course,” he smiled gratefully and truly was grateful.

  Grateful that Verity’s curious brand of common sense somehow worked well with real love and romance. Perhaps that was where real happiness lay, when all the nonsense was cut through and pared down to what was important. Perhaps the younger woman that they had always found so amusing in her bluntness knew more about it all than any of them.

  “So, I will leave the poem writing to you, Richard. But I can help you somewhat with the practical side of things. We shall be going out late morning to the fabric merchant and will likely be in there for some little time. Our custom is usually to have an early afternoon tea at Mrs. Deary’s tearoom. Now, if you could only manage to intercept us when we come out of the fabric merchant, then you have a fair chance of being able to slide the poem in amongst Jane’s purchases.”

  “Right, I shall have some little story in mind. Perhaps I shall bump into you on my way to deliver something to my father’s attorney. That would explain my presence adequately, would it not?”

  “Yes, I think that would do very well. But you will have to be very clever about it, you must not make it obvious at all.”

  “I will give it some thought between now and tomorrow, Verity.”

  “Well, I wish you the very best of luck.”

  “If I am to turn poet, my dear, I shall most certainly need it,” Richard said and chuckled.

  As he walked away, hurrying home to set about the arduous task of writing a love poem, Richard felt a little more optimistic. If he could at least write something passable, was he not in with a good chance of appealing to her? And if she tried to quiz Charles on the whole thing, surely it would be obvious to her that he was not her mystery suitor.

  As soon as he began to whistle a jaunty little tune, Richard knew that he was more than equal to the task, even if he knew so very little about poetry. And if he had to spend all day reading it and trying to write some, Jane was worth it. If this was the only way he could prove his love for her, then he would do it.

  Chapter Ten

  “Oh, here is Richard!” Jane said brightly as the sisters came out of the fabric shop.

  Richard had been hiding out in Colington for so long that he had seen them go into the shop more than an hour earlier. He had spent the time torn between going over and over his plan and wondering what on earth it was that women found to do in fabric shops that kept them there for so long.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he smiled and bowed. “What a treat this is. Where are you off to?”

  “We are just going to leave our fabric in the carriage before we go for an early afternoon tea. Will you not join us, Richard? We are going to Mrs. Deary’s.”

  “Please,” Richard smiled, pleased that Jane was glad to see him. “I just must run this into my father’s attorney first,” he said and waved the sealed poem he clutched in his hand.

  Jane nodded, and he felt a little thrill at the idea that he was actually showing her the poem he had written for her. It gave him a strange little sense of satisfaction and he wondered if he might not be just a little romantic after all.

  “Oh yes, of course,” Jane said, standing back to let the shop assistant get to the carriage with the armload of wrapped parcels of fabric. “Thank you, just on the seat would be lovely. There will be only my sister and me so there is plenty of room.” She turned her attention on the shop assistant and Richard took the opportunity to look at Verity.

  He raised his eyebrows and his shoulders a little, trying to indicate that he did not know which of the parcels were Verity’s and which were Jane’s.

  Verity, with her customary presence of mind, raised her hand a little to indicate that Jane’s parcels were on the top. Richard nodded and smiled; they worked rather well together.

  The shop assistant closed the door of the carriage and bowed at the ladies before returning indoors.

  “Well, shall we order for you, Richard?” Jane asked, as she took Verity’s arm and made ready to leave.

  “Please,” he smiled. “Just some tea and bread and butter for me. Do not pay, I will see to the bill when I arrive.”

  “Very well,” Jane smiled, and he was struck at that moment by her beauty.

  She was wearing a dark green gown with a matching velvet Spencer jacket and small buckskin gloves. Her bonnet was also dark green, and her skin looked creamy white against it. He could see the softness of her dark hair, its gentle waves peeping out from beneath the brim of the bonnet. And her eyes, those wonderful bright green eyes, stood out clearly and surveyed him with warmth. Oh yes, Richard was most definitely in love.

  He stood for a moment and watched them leave, getting ready to make a performance of walking across to the attorney’s office in case Jane should turn and look back. And now it was time for him to put his plan into action.

  “I say, driver, the shop assistant has not closed the door properly,” Richard called up to the driver, already reaching for the handle. “Not to worry, my dear fellow, I shall put it right, you stay where you are,” he smiled at the man who nodded appreciatively.

  Richard opened the door and hurriedly tucked the sealed poem into one of the folds of the brown paper that Jane’s fabric had been wrapped in. The whole thing was rather fraught, for the package had been tightly and neatly done and he knew he had limited time before he excited the driver’s curiosity.

  But he managed and finally began to breathe again as he closed the door of the carriage firmly and called up to the driver that all was now well. Without waiting for a response, Richard turned and walked away, playing out the little piece of theatre as he crossed the street to the attorney’s office, hoping all the while that the attorney would not see him and call him in for ten minutes worth of conversation which would take two hours.

  However, it seemed the day was to be a lucky one and, by the time he reached the door of the attorney’s office, there was no longer any sign of Jane and Verity on the street. They had made their way into Mrs. Deary’s tearoom and he could safely turn around and follow them now.

  “Goodness, that was quick,” Jane said, untying the satin ribbons of her bonnet. “We have not even ordered yet.”

  “Fortunately, I was able to hand the letter to the attorney’s clerk. He did not see me, so I was kept safe from an entire afternoon’s conversation.”

  “Richard, really!” Jane said and laughed. “You do exaggerate.”

  “I think it is all part of my charm.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  When Mrs. Deary came to take their order, Richard ordered cakes and tea for the ladies and bread-and-butter for himself. Everything seemed to happen very quickly and no sooner had they settled themselves down comfortably than their food and tea arrived.

  “So, is all this fabric-buying for Lord and Lady Waldegrave’s ball?” he asked, determined to involve himself in some normal conversation.

  “No, the ball is only two days away,” Jane said with a laugh. “How is a gown to be made in two days?”

  “Quite so.” Richard agreed.

  “No, we are just having gowns made up for later use. Papa said that we might spend a little on ourselves and we naturally jumped at the chance.” Verity laughed but raised one eyebrow at him in question.

  “Mr. Colchester is a fine man.” Richard said and nodded, aiming his nod towards Verity by way of response to her unspoken question.

  “He is.” Jane lifted the teapot and began to pour.

  “Oh, is the Colchester house filled with excitement about the possibility of being introduced to the unquestionably romantic Mr. Charles Woolford?” Richard said, hoping that Charles was anything but.

  “There is nothing to say that I will
be introduced to him yet,” Jane said cautiously. “But I rather think that we shall be introduced. After all, Amos is to be there, and he is becoming a great friend of Mr. Woolford.”

  “And he is a handsome fellow, I presume?” Richard went on, noting quietly how he had been unable to find out much about the man despite a little effort on his part.

  “I have never seen him, so I cannot say,” Jane said with a hint of excitement that made Richard’s shoulders sag just a little. “Although I might have seen him, and I might recognize him when I am finally introduced. I must have been in some place at the same time as Mr. Woolford for him to declare that he has any regard for me at all. And Amos says that he is a handsome man, although I daresay a man’s opinion on the subject is not always to be trusted.”

  “Well, we can but hope for the best,” Richard said, feeling strangely little less jubilant than he had but five minutes ago.

  He had managed the whole thing very well and she would undoubtedly find his love poem in amongst her purchases later that day. But what she would she think of his crude attempt at crafting a masterpiece? Would she laugh and think it ridiculous? Or would she think it is so awful that she would never entertain the idea of the mystery man from that moment onward?

  As he sat there, Richard tried to remember snippets of what he had written. But every line he remembered sounded so much worse in his head now than it had done at the time of writing. Why had he not paid greater attention to such things when he had been in school? Why had he not made the study of romance his overriding hobby in the years since he had first realized his growing attraction for the most determinedly romantic young lady in all of Hertfordshire?

  There was nothing for it, of course, but to wait it out. And he would have to wait, for he was certain that he would not see either Jane or Verity in the days between that moment and the ball at Lord and Lady Waldegrave’s country mansion.

  He would have no clue as to how Jane had received his poem for good or ill. He would simply be left to wonder about it until he set eyes on her in Lord Waldegrave’s ballroom. He was not even to travel with the sisters on this occasion, attending the affair with his father who would be returned from his visit to the Midlands by then.