Where there is Love: The Colchester Sisters Page 7

  Jane shook her head, she had suffered disappointment enough without thinking of more things to turn her upside down.

  She would do better not to think at all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “It is kind of you to accompany me this evening, Richard,” Jane said when the two of them were comfortably installed in the drawing room of Mrs. Darlington. “I have been so looking forward to it, but Mama is so terribly busy with her charity work and Verity is not at all interested in poetry.”

  “I was happy to oblige, Jane. After all, you have looked a little glum these last days and I much prefer Jane Colchester to have a smile on her face,” Richard said and tried not to look at her too intently.

  She was dressed much more simply this evening, nowhere near as dramatically turned out as she had been at the Waldegrave’s ball. But this was the Jane he knew, the Jane he was in love with, so he did not feel the least bit short-changed.

  It was true to say that she had seemed to be a little low in spirits ever since the ball and not only had he been unable to get to the bottom of it, but Verity had not been able to shed any light on it either.

  In the end, they had simply speculated that she had been so keen to have the mystery romantic man be Charles that her disappointment had overtaken her.

  “I suppose I have been a little glum, Richard. But it is nice to be out, and I think I am a little improved.”

  “Were you very disappointed that Mr. Woolford was not your poet?” Richard said, unable to help himself.

  He realized that he was in a unique position. The Colchester women did not leave him out of anything and so it was very natural for him to hear every detail of Jane’s hopes and dreams in this world. But it also made it somehow more difficult for him to present himself as the answer to those hopes and dreams in a way which seemed at all credible.

  Richard began to wonder if he would simply have to remain in the shadows forever, an anonymous man sending her declarations of love that he could never give voice to.

  “No, I cannot say that I was very disappointed. Just a little, perhaps.”

  “Then what has made you so out of sorts?”

  “Oh, I do not know,” she said and seemed to be avoiding the question.

  Immediately, Richard began to wonder if she had somehow preferred Bryce. Was it his society that she was missing now that he had set his sights elsewhere? If she was not disappointed that Charles was not her poet, what else could account for her seeming low mood?

  And just because Charles was not the poet did not mean that Jane had not found him pleasing in every other respect. The man was handsome in a rather deadly way and Richard found himself privately scornful of him for that alone.

  “Well, perhaps an evening of glorious poetry readings will set you to rights, my dear.” Richard knew that he would have to leave the subject alone for a while.

  They managed to find an unoccupied couch and sat side-by-side in Mrs. Darlington’s drawing room drinking tea and listening with a rapt audience to a rather flamboyant young man who looked predictably windswept and artistic.

  He delivered his poetry with drama and flair, so much so that it was all Richard could do not to wince his way through it. Now and again he chanced a look sideways at Jane and noted how she sat somewhat impassively. For one who adored poetry, especially romantic poetry as she did, she did not look anywhere near as enchanted as he had expected her to look.

  When the young man had ended his enthusiastic performance, which Richard found truly exhausting, he turned to Jane.

  “I thought that was rather good,” he said, not wanting to tell her what he really thought of the young man with the wayward hair, booming voice, and tremendous opinion of his own poetry writing skills.

  “Did you?” Jane said whimsically.

  “Did you not?” Richard said, avoiding the question.

  “It was perfect,” Jane said and looked inappropriately morose.

  “Perfect,” Richard said, trying to reconcile her words with her demeanor.

  “Yes, perfect. But it was too perfect, Richard. It is not from the heart, it cannot be. This is not work from a young man to a young woman. This is not something that is meant to be read in private and taken to one’s heart.”

  “Is it not?” Richard said, feeling himself to be enormously out of his depth as he looked from Jane to the poet who was, even as they spoke, lapping up a good deal of appreciative attention from all the other ladies in the room.

  “That young man’s poetry was designed for an audience. And in the end, perhaps all love poetry is just that. I had thought all these years that it was the most wonderful thing, but I am quite turned away from it this evening. This poetry I have listened to in all its perfection was written with one purpose only; to be approved of by as many people as possible. But surely, love poetry is meant only for the approval of one person, the object of the poet’s desire.”

  “Oh dear, and I had thought that your visit here this evening would improve your mood,” Richard said, wondering what he ought to say next.

  But despite being stuck for words, he was not at all stuck for excitement. As appalling as his poetic attempt had been, Jane had liked it. She had taken his efforts and known that they were heartfelt. So much so that his own dreadful poem had ruined all other poetry for her. Whilst he did not relish the idea of snatching away any of Jane’s romantic ideals, he hoped that he had at least replaced this one with something even better.

  If only he could find the words to tell her there and then that he was the man who had set the words to paper. And as ill-fitting as those words were, they were as close as he could get to explaining his feelings for her in verse.

  But he was too embarrassed to own up to it. How could he tell her that the childish attempt had been his own? Perhaps the knowledge that it was her friend and neighbor who had written the poem would make her feel a little differently about it.

  No, Richard would simply have to wait and see. He would remain in the shadows for a little while longer until he could be sure of a better reception for the love he was all too willing to share.

  “Oh goodness, it looks as if Mrs. Darlington is bringing the poet over for your approval,” Richard said humorously. “I do hope you are not going to tell him what you truly think of him.”

  “Oh, Richard,” Jane said and laughed for the first time in days. “I shall not, but you must not make me laugh.”

  “I will do my best to behave.”

  “Mrs. Darlington, what a wonderful evening,” Jane said, smiling brightly, every bit the perfect guest.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “My dear Jane, you do seem very quiet,” Verity said some days later when the two of them were attending an afternoon buffet at the home of Mrs. Imelda Stornoway. “It is not Bryce, is it?”

  “No, not at all,” Jane said, realizing that she had not been at all affected when she had seen the handsome young nephew of Lady Miller for the first time since he had turned his back on her in favor of a fairer maiden. “I am not at all concerned that he is here, my dear. You must not worry.”

  “I cannot help but worry, I am your sister,” Verity said and squeezed her hand. “Perhaps I should run up and get a plate of pastries for you.”

  “Very well, if you do not mind,” Jane said, relishing the idea of a few moments completely alone with her thoughts.

  If only she could share her mood with her sister. But, how could she? What on earth would she say? How would she begin to tell her sister that she had suffered a most dreadful dream and that it had upended her for many days since?

  It really was a silly dream after all, and yet it had had such a dreadful effect on her.

  On the night of Lord and Lady Waldegrave’s ball, Jane had climbed into bed with every expectation that she would dream a little of the handsome Charles Woolford. Perhaps her little wants would come to the fore and her dream would change reality, would make Charles her handsome poet after all.

  But she had not dreamed of Cha
rles. And she had most certainly not dreamed of Bryce. Instead, and quite out of the blue, she had dreamed only of Richard. Her dear friend, her dearest neighbor.

  And in that dream, she had first been walking down the aisle in the little church in Colington. Everything had been so pretty, with little poses of cornflowers tied to the end of every pew as if to line her route to the altar. But she had not walked all the way to the altar, she had simply turned in and sat with her family in the pew they ordinarily occupied.

  Turning her attention to the altar, she had stared at the back of the man she recognized as well as she recognized her own reflection in the mirror. It was Richard Wade, her Richard. And he was waiting there nervously, facing front for the most part but occasionally turning his head to look over his shoulder.

  It was then that Jane realized Richard was waiting there for his bride to appear. He was to be married there and then and Jane was not his bride but rather one of a large crowd of celebrants. When Richard turned again, Jane attempted to catch his eye but could not. She watched as his smile broadened and his eyes filled with love and she turned to see a very vague looking figure hidden behind an intricate white veil walking down the aisle on the arm of her father.

  Unable for some reason to bear it, Jane had managed to shake herself awake. She had realized immediately that it was a mixture of all sorts of things which had led to the dream.

  Her own disappointment in Charles, her marginally hurt pride when Bryce had favored another, and the conversation with her brother and sister on the way back from the Waldegrave’s ball. They had noticed how well Richard had been admired while she had been largely committed to her own conversation with Charles.

  But even though she could explain it away, Jane had been unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling ever since. She wondered if that was how she would truly feel when the time came for her dearest friend to marry. And she wondered further why it was that it mattered so very much.

  Yet, every time she tried to think of it, something else came along to draw her attention. Verity seemed to talk non-stop of the so-called mystery man who had sent her Chelsea buns and penned the lovely poem.

  And even though the idea was truly romantic to her, even though she had come to fall in love a little with the man she did not know, the dream had seemed to ruin everything.

  Verity returned with a small plate laden with pastries, none of which Jane even attempted to eat. When the evening drew to a sedate close, nobody was more pleased than Jane. All she wanted to do was go home and pick through her confused feelings.

  “Well, shall we bid farewell to our hostess?” Verity said gently at the end of the evening.

  “Oh yes, let us,” Jane said with a sigh and rose to her feet so that they might seek out Mrs. Stornoway.

  But when they made their way out into the hallway to retrieve their cloaks and bonnets, none other than Bryce stood there as if lying in wait. He already held Jane’s cloak and she narrowed her gaze, wondering what on earth he was doing.

  “Whilst I have not had the pleasure of your company this evening, my dear lady, at least allow me this much,” he said, and with a flourish, he wrapped her cloak about her shoulders and gently tied the ribbons at her throat with nimble fingers.

  Jane recognized the line in its entirety. It was one that Mr. Dalrymple had used upon Beatrice very early on in the book. He had noticed her at an event and had spent the entire time wishing himself to be in her company. But when Mr. Dalrymple had seen her making ready to leave, he knew that his only chance to be with her on that day would be to help her on with her cloak.

  So, Bryce had finally decided to read the book.

  “How kind, him,” Jane said a little frostily and was curiously satisfied to see that he was somewhat taken aback by her cool demeanor. “Good evening, Sir,” she said and inclined her head before reaching for her sister’s hand, beginning to lead her away to the open front door before poor Verity had even got her cloak about her shoulders.

  “Forgive me, Verity,” Jane said when they reached their carriage.

  She hurriedly wrapped Verity’s cloak around her shoulders and tied the ribbons at the throat just as Bryce had done for her.

  “Jane, Jane, you are strangling me,” Verity said with a shrill laugh. “No, no, I will put my bonnet on myself, thank you,” she said and looked at her sister with amused disbelief as the driver jumped down and opened the carriage door before helping them both inside.

  “Goodness, what was that all about?” Verity continued the conversation the moment the horses began to draw the carriage away. “Why on earth was Bryce so determined to put you into your cloak?”

  “It is a very simple scene from the beginning of The Romancing of Beatrice. So simple that I had almost forgotten it.”

  “But were you not pleased? Surely, Bryce has gone out of his way to read the book now so that he might appeal to you.” Verity peered at her quizzically.

  “And it felt as contrived as it ought to have felt, did it not? No doubt the very beautiful young lady at the sugar banquet was not as interested in him as he had first hoped and so he seeks to impress the second prize with nothing more than a cursory read of the first few pages of the book. No, it did not feel romantic at all. It felt very false.”

  “I suppose that is the nature of copying.”

  “No, not entirely,” Jane said, a little relieved that she found herself still to have enough heart to defend romance in general. “After all, the mystery man, whilst he has clearly read the book, has done things in his own way. Really, if Bryce had sent me a treat, he would have sent me a sugared heart just exactly as Beatrice received. He would not have gone out of his way to find something I actually liked. And I cannot imagine that Bryce would have bothered to write me a poem.”

  “I think I am beginning to understand the business of romance a little at last,” Verity said warmly. “It is more about what comes from the heart in the end, is it not?”

  “It is entirely what comes from the heart, my dear sister.”

  And as they continued on through the night, Jane wondered exactly what it was that was truly in her own heart.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Ah, the very man. Richard, for goodness sake, come in and sit down,” Amos said, greeting their neighbor with not only warmth but a little relief.

  “Now, here was I hoping to simply coincide with afternoon tea. But it appears I have walked into something else entirely,” Richard said and looked quizzically at them all before taking a seat on the couch a proper distance from Jane.

  “Jane is in a terrible mood, my dear Richard,” Amos went on.

  “I am not in a terrible mood, Amos,” Jane said, a little defensively although she knew herself to be very low spirited indeed. “I am just done with it all.”

  “Done with what?” Richard asked and looked at her, his face seeming almost distractingly handsome to her at that moment.

  “I am afraid I have been the bearer of bad news this morning, Richard, and I realize now that I am to blame for not putting it in better terms, saying the thing more gently,” Amos said and looked truly sorry.

  “Oh, Amos, really, it is not you,” Jane said, not wanting her brother to suffer for a single moment. “I would much rather you had told me than not. And in any case, I am not so very upset about it.”

  “Upset about what?” Richard said and turned in his seat to look at her.

  “Oh, apparently Charles has finally started to read The Romancing of Beatrice. And furthermore, it seems that it has provided him with a good deal of assistance in his wooing of Miss Emily Maitland,” Jane said in a flat tone.

  The fact was, she was not at all jealous. But she was so out of sorts that she could not begin to explain her feelings to her family, not even to Richard. She did not want Charles particularly, perhaps no more than she had really wanted Bryce. But she was annoyed with them nonetheless for the way they had treated the book and her own little ideas about romance. It was nothing more than a lever to th
em and something about it all had squashed her spirit just a little.

  “Oh dear, I am sorry,” Richard said and reached out to pat her hand.

  “I am not sorry about it, Richard.” She turned to look at him, those tiny flecks of gold in his hazel eyes barely visible in daylight but still there for her to enjoy. “It is not the man himself I mourn but rather everybody’s dreadfully cynical attitudes.”

  “Cynical?” Verity said as if she feared she was the one at fault.

  “Not you, my dear. Whilst you are not romantic, you are never cynical. You are kind-hearted and the most wonderful of sisters,” Jane smiled warmly. “And I am not talking about any of you here. I am talking about these men and the way they have used The Romancing of Beatrice to their advantage. It is only to get what they want, to have their own way. And they have copied it dreadfully, so obviously,” she said a little angrily.

  “Except the mystery man, perhaps,” Verity said in a hopeful little voice.

  “I must admit, he has done very well. But I am still a little soured by it all now. If I am honest, I wish I had never begun to read the book after all.”

  “But why? You have gained so much enjoyment from it, Jane,” Richard said, and she realized then that whilst he had stopped patting her hand, he had not removed his entirely.

  Instead he had let his large, warm hand rest lightly on top of hers as it lay between them on the couch, and she could hardly believe how much it affected her.

  “It is not the same for me anymore.”

  “But just think of it this way, my dear,” Richard began with the start of an amused smile. “If you did not really and truly want Charles, then you should be pleased that he has used Beatrice’s book to appeal to another. After all, if he had played out some elaborate little performance for you, you would have felt obliged. Look on the bright side, Jane, Beatrice has helped you to avoid him.” He shrugged, and Jane could not help but laugh.