A Heart Revealed Part 16

"Amber, you need not cover your feelings at what you have discovered."

Amber stopped beating the eggs, her stoic facade replaced by an expression of fatigue. She stared into the mottled yellow mixture and let out a long breath. "I do not mean to concern you by hiding my feelings," she said. "And I will not deny that I would like nothing more than for you to stay-but then I always feel that way."

Suzanne removed her bonnet and patted the wayward strands that had pulled away from her braided knot. "I shall stay. Mr. La.r.s.en will understand, and I shall simply fetch the gig later in the week."

Amber shook her head. "You did not let me complete my thoughts. I am also quite eager to receive whatever reports you may find about Constance Sterlington as well as to see that my letter to my parents is posted tomorrow morning." The woman's surname-discovered in yet another trunk-was proof that she was a relation to Amber herself: another Miss Sterlington sentenced to Yorkshire to hide a condition that was not to be tolerated. But Amber did not know what exact relation they shared as she had never heard her name in her life. It made her extremely uneasy to think of this woman's existence being hidden from her by purposeful action.

Suzanne frowned, then almost immediately brightened. "Come with me," she said, crossing to Amber and putting a hand on her arm. "Whoever she is, we know she was not about the town or I certainly would have heard about her before now. Use this discovery as reason to hide no longer. Not everyone will be so dismissive as those who sent you here."

The idea of leaving the cottage filled Amber with absolute terror and she shook her head. "As much as I thank you for such encouragement I cannot do it."

"You can if you shall make the decision for it," Suzanne said. "Mr. and Mrs. Clawson would welcome you fully and-"

"I will not go and insist you stop asking it of me!" Amber snapped, shocking them both with the strength of her words. They shared a look for a few moments, then Amber turned back to the eggs. "I'm sorry, Suzanne, forgive me," she said by way of apology, but she did not look up.

"I should not have insisted so strongly, Miss," Suzanne replied, her tone formal and submissive. They both worked in silence until there was a knock at the door. Suzanne bade Amber good-bye without meeting her eye, and Amber stayed hidden in the kitchen while Suzanne greeted Mr. La.r.s.en and followed him out of the cottage.

Amber went to her room and watched from the window as the carriage, with Sally tethered to the back, disappeared down the drive. It was rare for Amber to revert to her waspish ways, and she felt deep regret for having succ.u.mbed to it, yet glad it had stilled Suzanne's arguments. Suzanne could not possibly understand how much Amber both longed and feared for connection with people. The fear, of course, won out as she could not imagine that anyone could look past her defects. What good would it do to make acquaintances who would then avoid her? Fear her? Judge her?

When Amber returned to the kitchen, she finished mixing the cake and adjusted the coals before putting the pot amid them. Only when the dishes were rinsed and drying did she permit herself to return to the parlor. The contents of the trunks were still strewn about the room. She stirred the fire, added some coal, and turned her attention to the fourth trunk-the smallest one she had opened very last.

While the others were filled with different varieties of clothing, this one had been filled with sketchpads and correspondence and all manner of doc.u.ments. There was even a small crockery that held a kind of paint in a shade of light brown-face paints. Suzanne had suggested it was to remedy Constance Sterlington's missing eyebrows. Amber agreed that it was likely, but felt sick knowing someone else had suffered as she had.

Amber had glanced through the papers quickly last night but the emotion of the discovery had eventually sent her to bed with a headache that had lingered through the morning. She had not told Suzanne she was still so afflicted, of course, as she knew it would serve as another reason for Suzanne to stay at the cottage. Despite her dislike of being alone, Amber was glad to have the time to focus on the papers she hoped would put flesh on the bones of understanding Miss Constance Sterlington.

So engaged was she in her research of the prior occupant of Step Cottage that she burned the cake. And the soda bread she attempted for a light supper. Finally, she let the kitchen fire die out and brought a quilt from her bed so as to remain beside the fire in the parlor while she continued to read through the letters and journals that detailed the feelings of young Constance.

The girl had been presented to court at the age of sixteen and enjoyed the attention of many suitors for her first season but refused any number of proposals only to return for a second season the following year. According to her journals, she was simply too amused to trade the entertainment for matrimony. Amber's chest burned at the similarity to her own feelings.

Constance spoke of balloon ascensions, b.a.l.l.s, and visits to Ascot, theaters, and parks that first season. It seemed her company was in high demand and her suitors were of high station befitting a Viscount's daughter. Constance was her father's sister, Amber's own aunt, and yet Amber had heard nothing of her before.

The journal entries became less effusive and less frequent during Constance's second season, until one emotional entry reported that she was being removed to Hampton Grove due to some illness affecting her hair. She was miserable to leave her friends and suitors but shared a greater fear that something was very wrong, something that would not be easily remedied. There was only one entry after that: three sentences explaining that her family had left for London-Amber calculated from the date that it would have been her third season-and Constance was to stay behind.

What shall become of me? How shall I get on?

Why must I be so afflicted?

There was nothing written after that, no mention of when she had come to Step Cottage or how her thoughts and expectations of her future had changed after her illness. If not for her trunks being in storage here, there would be no reason to suspect from the journals and letters that Constance had been here at all-no correspondence between her family, no record of her thoughts of life in Yorkshire.

As the coals cooled and the wind howled, Amber pulled the quilt up to her chin, sure that she could feel Constance's restless presence. Had Constance ever been reconciled to the life she'd once had? Had she returned to her family? It seemed that if she had left this place she would have taken her things with her. That they remained and no one had ever claimed them caused Amber great unease.

She was therefore eager for any account of Constance Suzanne might be able to gather from town. Amber hoped that Constance had left this place and continued her life elsewhere without the items she'd brought to the cottage. It did not explain why Amber had never heard her name spoken within her family, but perhaps there had been some additional reason that accounted for her situation. The caps found in the trunk made it impossible to hope that her loss of hair wasn't part of her reason for being here, but it did not mean that it was the only reason.

If Constance Sterlington had in fact recovered, however, regardless of other causes for her removal to Step Cottage, Amber could have hope that she would too. That she could be beautiful again. Confident again. A darling of the Polite World again. And yet even as she attempted to revive her hope, she feared that having gained such perspective on a way of life so different than the one she was raised to expect had changed her so that she would never find joy in the place she had once thought to be the only source of it. She could not imagine trusting people of her station when she knew how fickle their acceptance was, how superficial, how small. She could not imagine spending such time and attention on frivolous things and meaningless conversation.

She gathered the quilt around herself and blew out the candle; she did not need the light to see her way to her room. Once in her bedchamber, she lit the coal she'd put in the grate that afternoon and snuggled under layers of quilts as the flames licked and popped. As she closed her eyes, she said a silent prayer that Suzanne would return tomorrow with hope. She felt more in need of it than ever.

Chapter 37.

Suzanne returned late Monday afternoon, shivering and wet from rain that had picked up the last mile. Fortunately the weather didn't prevent her return as the storm had three weeks earlier or end in disaster as it had on Friday when the gig had slid off the road. Amber had her friend sit in front of the kitchen hearth with a cup of tea while she warmed their dinner and Suzanne began her account of Constance Sterlington.

"She pa.s.sed away before Mr. Clawson had taken over the parsonage. Two women of the congregation I spoke to knew of her, but had never met her. She did not go to town but instead employed an attendant and a manservant to transact her dealings. Both servants came with her when she arrived at the cottage and returned to London after her pa.s.sing. They did not travel to town much either, but kept to the cottage."

"Did you speak to Mr. Dariloo? Mr. Peters?"

"Mr. Peters claims to know only the barest facts about her even though I feel sure he managed the estate while she was here. Perhaps he would be more open to your inquiry than mine."

Amber had not considered that Mr. Peters would be less forthcoming with a maid and was embarra.s.sed to have put Suzanne in an uncomfortable situation by having her ask. "And Mr. Dariloo?"

Suzanne gave her a hesitant look over the rim of her cup. "Mr. Dariloo lived in this cottage before Miss Constance came. He was removed to his current residence to accommodate her."

"So he knew her."

Suzanne nodded. "He interacted with her several times, but not pleasantly. He referred to her as bitter and cross-very disparaging of lower cla.s.ses and critical of his efforts with the land. She would send him letters through her servants, often calling him to task for not accommodating her in one way or another, or demanding to look at ledgers for the land and then reprimanding him for bothering her with such information."

"And her hair? Did he know of her condition?"

"He did not say that anything ailed her, rather he believed she'd chosen to live away from society for her own particular reasons, but then seemed very disagreeable to life here. He felt she was a bit . . . touched."

Miss Constance was not touched. She, like Amber, had been exiled. She had lost her future and prospective happiness and had not had someone such as Suzanne to direct her toward purpose and contentment. It was not difficult for Amber to imagine her first night at the cottage being followed with hundreds just like it if not for Suzanne. How would such anger and resentment not fester and canker a person?

"How long did she live here?" Amber asked.

"Eight years," Suzanne said. "She came in aught one and died of influenza in aught nine though she was not quite thirty years of age at the time. She is buried in Northallerton. Mr. Dariloo said he could direct us to the grave."

"Her grave is here?" The Sterlington family had a burial plot outside of Hampton Grove that had been established when the grand house was built. Six generations of Sterlingtons had been buried there, including her father's brother who was killed in France. They had seen to it that his remains were returned and properly interred with the family-but not Constance's? Was losing her hair enough to cut Constance off from her family even in death?

The thought ushered in another one that left Amber feeling unsteady on her feet and in her mind. Constance had died here, which meant she had never recovered. She had never returned to society or her family. Amber sat on the kitchen stool beside Suzanne and stared at the stone floor.

"I'm sorry to have been the bearer of such things," Suzanne said, regret laced through her words.

"It is alright," Amber said as her own future spread out before her with a brittle detail she wished she could deny. If she did not get well, she would not return to her family. They had not brought Constance back into their fold; they had not even spoken her name. Like Constance, Amber was to be forgotten until some further ailment took her life and sent her to the cemetery in Northallerton too.

"Amber."

She looked at Suzanne and tried to blink back the tears she had not realized were forming. Without lashes to contain them, there was no barrier preventing the tears from streaming down Amber's cheeks. Her stomach felt hollow.

"You are not Constance," Suzanne said. "You do not have to take her same course."

"I am already on her same course. Constance had a season in London-two of them. She was sent here as I have been and was not accepted back to the family, even for burial. How can I expect anything different except to live and die as she did?"

"Perhaps knowing of her fate can help you avoid it."

"How?" Amber said, wiping at her eyes. "Nothing has stemmed the loss of my hair and none of it is growing back. If it were simply a wish and a will that would repair me, I would not be here even now."

"It is not your lack of hair keeping you to the cottage."

Amber blinked, confused as she regarded Suzanne's determined expression. "I don't understand your meaning. Of course it is my lack of hair."

Suzanne shook her head. "It is your lack of confidence. It is your fear of being turned away that keeps you here-not your ailment."

Amber felt anger rising in response to Suzanne's reprimand and looked past her. The memory of the faces at Carlton House when she'd sat at the bottom of the stairs without her head covering filled her chest with a heat burning of pure fear. It was something Suzanne could not understand any more than Amber could adequately explain it.

"I think I shall retire for the night," Amber said, unable to abide the discussion any longer. "I mixed the gravy from Sat.u.r.day night with some potatoes. It's warming in the pot on the coals. There are a few biscuits left in the tin as well."

"Stay and eat with me," Suzanne said.

"I'm afraid I have already eaten my share of biscuits in my anxiousness for your report. I am not hungry."

Suzanne stood from the table, but did not move. "I am sorry to have upset you, Amber."

Amber looked at her cautiously, pulled between staying with her friend and running for the solitude of her room. "I know you mean well, but you cannot know my position," she said, though her honesty made her nervous as she did not want it to sound like a set down. "I cannot risk rejection, Suzanne. I know that may be difficult to understand but . . ." She paused a moment to gather her thoughts. "Already I have lost my family and my society-if not for you I should be entirely alone. To ask for consideration of the people here in Yorkshire would risk further rejection. I cannot endure such a thing again."

Suzanne regarded her for several moments. "I understand, Amber, and would have you remember one additional thing. I know all of what you have become and have not rejected you."

Amber looked up at her, struck by what she'd said even as doubt and fear lingered in her mind.

Suzanne continued. "No one can expect approval from every other person in the world-even the young woman you were in London did not expect such a thing-but I believe all of us can expect those few who matter to us to see past our limitations.

"My sister has had a twist in her back all her life which leaves her walking with an awkwardness that appears painful, though she a.s.sures us it is not. She married a good man who saw past her physicality, and they have three children, one of whom is of simple mind and yet loved as wholly as his brother and sister. I would have hoped your family would be the first to accept you regardless of this circ.u.mstance, but even if they should not, I do not believe everyone would be so dismissive. In fact, I am certain they would not. Mr. Richards, for example, has been courteous and kind from the start. I believe he has an interest in knowing you better and that his request to borrow a book is an excuse to be close to you."

"He is curious," Amber said dismissively.

"And what if it is more than that? What if he is the very kind of man who has seen your goodness already and would therefore accept the whole of you?"

"How could I possibly know that he would accept me?" Amber asked, a plea in her voice. "And how could I survive it if he did not? If so a kind man as Mr. Richards cannot accept me, what hope would I have for others to do what he could not?"

Suzanne frowned but Amber continued before Suzanne could pose another argument. "While I am humbled by your family's difficulties and even envious of such acceptance, I could not expect to be included in your cla.s.s and have never seen such acceptance reflected in the people of my station-simple-minded children are given to others to raise. I dare not think how a girl child born with a twisted back would be received. How can I know who within my society might accept me and who would not? Without knowing I would be safe, I could never take such a risk."

Suzanne frowned and turned away. "For that I have no answer," she said softly, regretfully. "I only believe that there are people in every society who would prefer the heart you have grown, to the beauty you left behind to find it."

Chapter 38.

It was fortunate for Thomas's peace of mind that the weather had warmed enough to keep him working in the fields every spare hour until Tuesday morning and his planned visit to Step Cottage. He rode out to his property only long enough to plan the day with his bailiff before returning to Peakview and updating his ledger. Though he had attempted to distract himself from thoughts of the mistress of Step Cottage, he had been unable to cast them from his mind completely, no matter how many fence posts he set and ditches he cleared.

The day was cold so once he was in the saddle he turned up his collar and pulled his hat down low. He kicked Farthing into a run, which fairly froze his face but would make the trip to the cottage faster. When he slowed down to turn onto the road that led to the cottage directly, he adjusted his scarf and had the thought enter his mind that he was being drawn here for a reason. He shivered for a reason other than temperature.

He believed in G.o.d's hand directing the lives of people, and Thomas had felt such promptings and positioning in his life before. He could not discount the possibility of it happening again. True, Miss Sterlington had flaws, but he found himself doubting that those flaws were as prominent as they once were. The traits that seemed more important to him now were her graciousness regarding his helping Mrs. Miller return to the cottage, her humility in caring for herself, and her willingness to let him peruse the library and organize the records. To say nothing of the invigoration he felt that was exactly as it had been in London. She was different now. She was changed, and those changes increased his interest more than ever. It was frightening, and yet he was here all the same. Curious. Eager. Drawn.

Mrs. Miller let him in, and he removed his coat and hat while surveying the area in hopes of catching a glimpse of Miss Sterlington. In a cottage this size, she could certainly not be far but it seemed as though she was once again in hiding.

In the parlor there was quite an array of trunks, but Mrs. Miller led him to the library where a set of candles had been lit, presumably to offset the gray skies outside the single window. The fire warmed the room quite comfortably. "I shall bring in a tea tray straight away."

"I told your mistress in my letter that I am not in need of such attention," Thomas said, just as he had the time before.

"It is the wish of my mistress that you should be most comfortable, and the tray is already prepared." The woman bowed out of the room and disappeared. She had been gone only moments before Thomas heard the creak of the floorboards and knew that Miss Sterlington had returned to her place on stairs, just as she had for his prior visit to the library.

How easy it would be to move quickly to the bottom of those stairs and see her there before she could escape. It was a deliciously tempting thought that brought a grin to his face, and yet he did not do it. Instead he turned his attention to the library and perused the bookshelves while awaiting the maid to return with tea. He had come for the book of Donne's poetry, but realized that some of the books had been moved, rearranged. Had Miss Sterlington organized the books?

He had not been exaggerating when he'd said in his letter that the library at the cottage held an impressive collection of literature in English, French, and Latin. The book of poetry he was looking for was not where he'd found it before, and so he took his time perusing the shelves and becoming familiar with the entire collection. It did not take long to find the slim volume he recognized between two other books. He had only just removed it when the maid returned and placed the tea service on the small table beside the settee.

"Thank you, Mrs. Miller," he said as she added cream and one spoonful of sugar to his tea. She'd obviously remembered how he liked his tea from his last visit. There was only one cup on the tray but he pretended not to notice. "Will your mistress be joining me?" he asked.

"No, sir," Mrs. Miller said as she set the pot back on the tray. "She is not one for company."

"And yet she goes to such pains to be welcoming," he pointed out.

"Yes, sir," she said with a slight incline of her head. She met his eyes with an expression he did not fully understand, though he had the strangest sense that she wished she could tell him more. He kept his own expression open and inviting, but Mrs. Miller turned to move out of the room and left him to his own company. His eyes moved in the direction of the place where he believed Miss Sterlington sat upon the stairs and he wondered if she felt the least bit tempted to accept his invitation.

He sat in the leather chair that creaked slightly beneath his weight and when he moved to set down Donne's book of poetry, he noticed a book on the end table. He knew Shakespeare's Richard II well from his days at Oxford where he had first pursued the study of playwrights and literature before turning his full attention to agriculture.

He opened the pages to the bookmark, a slip of rose-colored fabric embroidered with flowers. He set the book, page-side down, upon his leg then rubbed the fabric between his fingers, sipped his tea, and contemplated the woman on the stairs.

Chapter 39.

Amber leaned her head against the wall and listened to every footfall as Mr. Richards crossed to the bookshelves and back, every page he turned, and every c.h.i.n.k of the cup and saucer as he enjoyed the tea and lemon cake she'd baked that morning. Suzanne had brought four lemons from town the day before, and Amber was quite pleased with the resulting confection. She hoped Mr. Richards would also be pleased, and was glad that there hadn't been time to cancel his visit, as she'd told Suzanne she would like to do. After learning of Constance and considering more deeply her own circ.u.mstance, Amber felt more lost than ever. Mr. Richards's visit seemed a silly thing to allow-what did she hope to gain from it? And yet when Suzanne had insisted they could not cancel, Amber had not argued much. She did want him to come, she simply feared she shouldn't. That he was here, however, was quite lovely. The house felt different with him in it, and she allowed herself to push away the heartache of the last few days. She closed her eyes and instead of wallowing in her self-pity, she imagined she had accepted his invitation to join him for tea.

She fantasized that she wore her blue-striped day dress and sat on the settee while he sat beside her in the chair with the table between them. He would cross one foot over his knee and hold his saucer in one hand while they talked of the weather and the coming spring. How she wished she knew his face so that she could add it to her daydream. She did not let that take her out of the fantasy, however. In light of these past days, she was content to be lost in this ideal, just for a moment.

Perhaps he would share a humorous story regarding his last hunting trip, and she would tell him of . . . of what? Of how to perfectly flavor a chicken stew? Or how long to let the coals cool before putting a pan of bread upon them?

She opened her eyes and allowed the daydream to slip away. Reality was a heavy thing. She listened to the creak of the very chair she had imagined him sitting in as part of her daydream and smiled sadly. He was so very close to her, and yet in ways that truly mattered, he could not be further away.

Eventually, Amber heard the turning of pages and suspected he was looking through the book he'd come to borrow. Then a rumbling sound came from the library. It took her a moment to realize it was his voice, quiet as though not wanting to be overheard. Amber held her breath to better hear what he was saying, then rose carefully and came down a few more steps until she could decipher his words. She realized quickly that he was not simply talking to himself, rather he was reading.

Before the discovery of the trunk contents had distracted her, she had finished the first act of Richard II and left the book out so as begin act two upon her return to the material. It seemed he was reading where she had left off. He had beautiful oration, and his words left her feeling both chilled and warmed in the same moment. She leaned her head against the wall that separated them and closed her eyes, allowing his voice to move through her.

"With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder: Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world . . ."