Where there is Love: The Colchester Sisters Page 6
“I think I am looking forward to this ball,” Verity said suddenly, drawing the attention of both Richard and Jane.
“Goodness, that is a revelation,” Jane said with a laugh.
“I think revelation is just the word,” Verity said cryptically and looked as satisfied as a puppeteer who was holding everybody’s strings.
Richard tried to soak up a little of Verity’s confidence in the matter but knew deep down that he would worry about the poem constantly until he heard Jane’s opinion of it in the end.
Chapter Eleven
“What is this?” Jane asked as she pulled the sealed letter from the packaging of her fabric later that afternoon. “I had thought the brown paper a little disarranged.” She turned the letter over in her hands and realized that it was addressed to her. “Goodness, it is for me.” She held it out in front of her for her mother and sister to see.
The Colchester women had been unpacking their fabric in the drawing room so as to make use of the best afternoon light.
“What is it?” Verity asked, coming closer as she set her own fabric parcels aside.
“Yes, open it, my dear.” Mrs. Colchester was becoming caught up in it all.
Jane, who had enjoyed her day thus far very well indeed, felt the familiar excitement as she gently broke the wax seal. It was just like the moment she had opened the box of Chelsea buns and her mind was already whirring with possibilities. Was there not something similar in The Romancing of Beatrice? Some note left in Beatrice’s things?
“Oh, it is like the hat box!” Jane cried out as she opened the letter to see what could only be a poem if the layout of the stanza was anything to go by.
“What hat box?” Mrs. Colchester looked at Verity who shrugged expansively.
“In the book. Beatrice receives a poem from Lord Pemberchook which he has hidden in a hat box,” Jane said breathlessly.
“My goodness,” Verity said and drew closer still. “And is it a poem?”
“It is.” Jane looked at her mother and sister with wide eyes.
“Read it, Jane.” Mrs. Colchester said. “Unless it is too personal, of course.” She added in a tone of voice that suggested she would be heartily disappointed not to hear the poem in full.”
“Very well.” Jane began and cleared her throat.
“My heart is full as day turns into night,
So great is my love, so great my plight.
I fear I will not live to see the day
When my beloved’s love is returned my way.
How am I to live with my dismay?”
“Good Lord!” Mrs. Colchester was the first to speak before she gave in to loud and unchecked laughter. “The poor fellow is no poet, is he? It does not read well at all!” She was red-faced with mirth as Jane scowled at her. “Forgive me, Jane, but who on earth rhymes day, way, and dismay? What do you think, Verity?” Mrs. Colchester turned to her youngest daughter for support.
“I cannot say. Really, I have read so little poetry that I am not qualified to comment. But it is rather nice, is it not?” she said with stuttering uncertainty, as if she could not quite believe what she had just heard.
“I think it is beautiful,” Jane said with quiet defiance. “It is the most beautiful poem I have ever read.”
“Are you sure?” Her mother said, biting her lip to keep from laughing again.
“It is not perfect, it is true,” Jane began.
“No, indeed.” Her mother gasped.
“But it’s imperfections make it perfect to me.” She felt teary-eyed with emotion. “Because whomever has written this has written it from his heart. And he has written it just for me. Imagine how hard it is for a man to write a poem if he has no experience of such things.”
“Of course, Jane,” Verity said brightly. “Surely it is the effort which has gone into the endeavor which counts the highest. This mystery man clearly will stick at nothing to win you over.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Mrs. Colchester had calmed down considerably, despite her pink cheeks and glassy, amused eyes.
“It is the effort, Verity,” Jane said firmly. “And it is clear to me now that Mr. Woolford has read The Romancing of Beatrice and he’s trying his very best to appeal to me. I just wish he would leave his card. It would make everything so much simpler, would it not?”
“But would that not make it less romantic, Jane?” Verity said. “After all, the idea of a mysterious man who admires you from afar is surely one of the most romantic notions possible.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Jane said, entirely surprised by the way her sister was engaging with it all. “Even though it can obviously only be one man.”
“How so?” Verity was clearly not convinced of Charles. “It could be anybody, could it not? Just because Amos declares that Mr. Woolford has a regard for you does not mean that there are no other gentlemen out in the world who feel the same. Really, there are so many possibilities.”
“Ah, but who else would know that I like Chelsea buns so well? We are back to the idea that Amos has not only told Mr. Woolford about my patisserie preferences, but also my fondness for The Romancing of Beatrice. Really, it all leads to Mr. Woolford,” Jane said and felt her heart beginning to swell at the idea of a man she could not even yet describe. “Oh, but I do hope he is handsome.”
“I suppose all will be revealed two nights from now,” Verity said. “Not only the question of Mr. Woolford’s handsomeness, but whether or not he is truly the bun-sender and determined poet.”
“I cannot think it will be anybody else,” Jane said and sat down on the couch still clutching the poem.
She unfolded it again and stared at the handwriting. It really was very elaborate and unlike any she recognized. It must surely be Mr. Woolford, for who else could it be?
“May I see it?” Mrs. Colchester joined her daughter on the couch and reached out her hand.
“Of course.” Jane handed her mother the poem. “As long as you do not laugh again, Mama.”
“I promise,” Mrs. Colchester nodded solemnly, although her eyes spoke volumes of a promise she was not entirely sure she could keep. “This handwriting.”
“What about it?”
“Who on earth is taught to write like this?”
“It is very beautiful,” Jane said, noting every extra swirl and swoop as she peered over her mother’s shoulder.
“So beautiful it is almost illegible. I wonder that you were able to read it so clearly, my dear.” Mrs. Colchester went on. “But I cannot help but wonder if the young man in question is trying to disguise his handwriting.”
“Disguise it?”
“Yes, for this is a little overdone to be the man’s commonplace effort, is it not?”
“But why on earth would he need to disguise it?”
“Perhaps so that you do not recognize the handwriting, Jane.”
“But, Mama, I have never seen Mr. Woolford’s handwriting before. Why would he need to disguise it?”
“Perhaps it is not Mr. Woolford,” Verity added as she continued to stand at the table and open her own parcels of fabric.
“Why are you so determined that it is not Charles, Verity?” Jane looked across the room to where her sister stood.
“I am not, I just think that there are other possibilities. A mystery man.”
“Goodness me, you and your mystery man.” Jane chuckled. “I am beginning to think that you are more fanciful and romantic than I.”
“I hardly think such a thing is possible, my dear,” Verity grinned at her. “I am just being reasonable and rational. There are more men on this earth than Mr. Charles Woolford. But perhaps you can satisfy yourself by finding out properly when you meet him at Lord and Lady Waldegrave’s ball.”
“And how do you suppose I manage that?”
“The same way you did with Chelsea buns. You introduce a little bit of it and see if he recognizes it at all. Perhaps quote a line or two of the poem…”
“If you can bear to,” Mrs. Colchest
er interrupted.
“You might see some recognition on his face or he might look entirely dumbfounded. Either way, Jane, you will have your answer,” Verity said and let go of her parcels so that she might stand with her hands on her hips.
“Of course,” Jane said and nodded. “What would I do without my sensible little sister?”
“I cannot begin to imagine.” Verity shook her head and smiled before turning her attention back upon the fabric.
“I really am looking forward to the Waldegrave’s ball,” Jane said with feeling. “And I must make the greatest effort with my appearance.”
“You always look beautiful, my dear,” Mrs. Colchester said, redeeming herself with a heartfelt compliment. “Here, no doubt you will want to read it time and time again,” she said, handing the folded poem back to her daughter.
And Jane knew that her mother was right; she was so unutterably thrilled about the poem that she would most certainly read it over and over again. She would trace every word with the tip of her finger and clutch it to her heart. Surely, whoever had written it for her, whoever had penned those clumsy, adorable words, felt more than a simple regard for her. This was love, surely.
Chapter Twelve
Jane really had gone to great lengths with her appearance for the Waldegrave’s ball. Her short-sleeved gown was in a rich indigo color, providing a wonderful warmth and depth against her pale skin. Her long white gloves were pristine, and her maid had curled her hair into thick waves, some of which fell from the pins holding the rest, grazing her shoulders and framing her face.
Her hair was gleaming, twinkling under the light of the chandeliers, and she once again wore the love heart locket on the delicate silver chain. Perhaps one day the locket would be filled just as she had hoped, a cameo of herself, and one of Charles.
“That must be him,” Verity whispered, and both Jane and Richard looked at once. “There, across the room, the ashen-haired man that Amos is talking to.”
“Oh yes, I see,” Jane said and studied the man as best she could, hoping all the while that he would not turn around and catch her at it. “I have seen him before,” she said brightly.
“Yes, I believe I have seen him too, although I had no idea who he was,” Richard said a little flatly.
“So, what do you think of him?” Verity said cautiously.
“He is very handsome, is he not?” She turned to them both.
“Yes, indeed he is,” Verity said as if she did not really believe it.
But he was a handsome man. Jane looked at him again, his impressive height, his hair that was neither brown nor blonde, his well-cut attire. He stood straight-backed and confident and Jane thought he cut a very romantic figure indeed.
“It must be him, Amos is bringing him over,” Richard said. “Perhaps Verity and I ought to leave you to it.”
“Oh no, do not leave me,” Jane said a little desperately.
“Perhaps if we just stood with my father. He is only a few feet away, see?” Richard went on teasingly and Jane scowled at him.
“No, you must stay here, both of you. If the conversation runs dry, I shall need your help.”
“If the conversation runs dry, that man is no poet,” Richard said and chuckled.
“Oh yes, you must not forget to quiz him on the matter,” Verity said in a hushed whisper before the man himself appeared in front of them all.
Amos made the introductions, leaving Jane until last.
“And finally, this is my sister, Jane, Charles.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Colchester,” he said and bowed extraordinarily deeply.
Jane was certain that she heard the faintest groan of derision from Richard and made a mental note to chastise him for it later.
“And it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Woolford,” Jane said and smiled demurely as she graciously inclined her head.
Mr. Woolford really did have very lovely hair, much lovelier on closer inspection. It was very thick and there was a little wave to it that she found most appealing. And although he was wearing the attire most commonly worn by young men at a society ball, the black breeches and tailcoat, the cream waistcoat, the white shirt and immaculate stockings and shoes, still she thought he wore it very well indeed.
Jane was pleased that the rest of her party had struck up a conversation of their own, not straying from her side, but giving her a little privacy, or at least as much as one could be afforded in a crowded ballroom.
“Your brother talks of you often, Jane.” Charles had the most handsome of smiles. “He thinks a good deal of his sisters.”
“Yes, and his sisters think highly of him. He is a very fine brother and we are very fortunate to have him. My friends and acquaintances make me realize that not all brothers treat their sisters so well.”
“He seems ready to hold onto you all forever,” Charles went on. “I thought I was going to have to get down on bended knee to finally secure an introduction to you.”
“Indeed?” Jane said and could feel her cheeks reddening.
Surely, this was her romantic young man? Her clumsy, wonderful poet. The man who had read the book and gone out of his way to find out which treats she liked the best. He had undoubtedly sent her the Chelsea buns and she knew in her heart he was her poet.
“Your brother is very proud of you all and your accomplishments. He tells me that you are a great reader.”
“Indeed, I am a great reader, Mr. Woolford, but perhaps I do not read the things I ought to read for the most part.”
“How so?”
“I can tend towards the romantic and I am always largely drawn to romantic novels. Even poetry at times,” she said and studied his face closely for any reaction. Seeing none, she continued. “I was reading a poem just recently; now, how did it go?” she said and made a pretense of screwing her face up in thought. “Oh yes, I think I remember a line or two.” She took a deep breath and braced herself a little.
“My heart is full as day turns into night,
So great is my love, so great my plight.”
She began tentatively and studied his face for any hint of recognition. Seeing none, Jane knew that she must go on.
“I fear I will not live to see the day
When my beloved’s love is returned my way.
How am I to live with my dismay?”
“Oh, dear,” Charles said and grimaced.
“You do not like the poem, Mr. Woolford?”
“I cannot say that I do. Although you must have a big heart, my dear, to give such a dreadful little verse your attention.” He laughed, and Jane felt her disappointment riding high.
“I rather liked it. It is imperfect and yet very sweet.”
“I am afraid I will have to take your word for it, Jane. I do not read a great deal of poetry myself. In fact, I do not read any at all.” He laughed again. “But I believe that everybody is reading that little novel about the woman called Beatrice. Your brother tells me that you yourself have been very taken with it.”
“I have, Mr. Woolford. Tell me, have you read any of it yourself?”
“No, I have not. Although perhaps I ought to, Jane.” He smiled at her although his handsomeness no longer seemed to affect her as it had done just moments before. “I do not want to be left behind, after all.”
“No, indeed you do not.”
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, and Jane even danced one set with Charles. But she danced two with Richard, at his insistence, and one with her brother also. It was clear that Richard had perceived her low spirits, even though she had hidden it so well from everybody else.
What a wonderful man he was, what a fine friend.
“So, were you pleased with Charles?” Amos asked when he, Verity, and Jane sat in the carriage on the way home.
“He was very pleasant, Amos, I liked him,” Jane said without much enthusiasm.
“Is he your poet?” Verity asked eagerly.
“No, he is not my poet.”
“But I am left wondering who it was who opened his heart to such a degree,” Jane said a little distantly.
“I believe you are beginning to fall in love with your mystery man, sister,” Verity said and looked uncommonly excited.
“Perhaps I am, Verity. But it is a little more confusing than I had thought in the beginning.”
“All this business of Beatrice and her antics, you mean?” Amos said good-naturedly.
“Yes.”
“Well then, pity poor Richard, my dear.” Amos laughed. “He was clearly the toast of the ladies this evening and I am bound to say that none of them made a mystery of their affections. Perhaps it is, in the end, more confusing to have more suitors than fewer.”
“Richard?” Jane said and realized that she had not paid her friend much attention all evening.
“Yes, I daresay he is topping a few mothers’ lists.”
“Mothers’ lists, Amos?”
“Jane, my dear woman, have you not noticed that the Baron’s son is not a little boy anymore? He is more than six feet, well-dressed, and unquestionably popular with the ladies. He does not make much of it, it is true, but their admiration for him is clear.”
“Yes, it is rather,” Verity said airily. “He has become quite a handsome man and we all know what a fine character he has.”
“Yes, the finest,” Jane said and felt that curious pang, the same pang she had felt when Bella had continually gazed at her friend.
Jane had a sense then that everything was changing, and she suddenly realized she was not at all pleased by it. She had only considered her own world and her own wants, and as Amos had rightly pointed out, she had still thought of her old friend as a boy.
But when she surveyed him as the man he was, handsome, intelligent, kind, and amusing, she saw him with the eyes of the county. And she could only wonder then how she would feel to have to give him up one day. For when Richard finally married, what wife would want his old friend around, especially when that friend was a young woman?