An Inconvenient Engagement Read online

  He knelt and took her hand. “Therefore, my dear Miss Denham, please say you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

  Eliza stood frozen in shock! Asked to be this man’s wife? She started to reply then paused a moment. Such an event would certainly make her uncle happy. She would no longer need to think of eventually finding employment as a governess and would have, at least, a moral and responsible husband.

  Who would seek to quash every independent thought and action she might have!

  It was impossible.

  “Mr. Waddell, I thank you for the compliment of your proposals, but it is out of my power to accept them. I fear you overrate my compliance, and I am not eager to share your vision for my character and behavior, as you put it.”

  His brows contracted. “Am I to understand you refuse me?”

  “Yes.” She withdrew her hand.

  “Refuse me? You choose to reject my attentions?”

  “Yes.” Her shoulders squared.

  He looked askance at her, then slowly stood. Clearing his throat, he seemed to cast about for his next words. “Well then, perhaps it is for the best. Your character may be too hardened to be molded by a husband’s loving hands. I pity you, Miss Denham, for your future looks appallingly bleak.” With that he replaced his hat, bowed ever so slightly, and stepped from the room and from the house.

  Eliza stood for a moment before letting her breath out in one loud sigh and collapsing onto the settee. It promptly slipped to one side off its broken leg and dumped her unceremoniously onto the floor. Bessie came running and helped her up.

  “Are you all right, Miss?”

  “Ow. I fear I will have a bruise on my hip. But otherwise, I am well. I suppose you heard Mr. Waddell’s addresses.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Aye, Miss.”

  “Do you think I was wrong?”

  She hesitated. “It isn’t my place. We all want to see you happily settled.”

  “I know. But not with him, Bessie. He would strangle the life out of me.”

  “Perhaps, Miss. Shall I bring you some tea?”

  Eliza smiled wanly. “Yes, Bessie. That would be lovely.”

  Alice stood up; her cloak pulled close about her. She had been sitting in one of the little-used outbuildings of the farm for some time, thinking. Daunton had refused to see her and would not respond to any of her letters. She had long given up on his glib promises, and with it had given up on any respectable future for herself. She started walking, not knowing where she was going, not knowing what to do. The path went on, her feet following it by rote. She slowed as she walked near Little Cottage. She could see it through the leaves of the trees and bushes. Perhaps Eliza…

  But no. She could not bring herself to expose herself to her cousin. She bowed her head and continued on. A little while later her feet, stopped of their own accord and she looked up. When she saw where she had ended up, her eyes filled with tears as she stood there, staring at the skeletal face of the stone walls of the abandoned cottage.

  How fitting, she thought, that this is my lot.

  She brushed past and made her way around the cottage to the front which faced out over the fields and the moor beyond. Roughly she pushed forward, over the stile and into the fields, heading straight for the moor bordered by the river Tenney. A small bridge took one from the path at end of the field over the river and toward the moor. She stood a while on the bridge, looking down at the gray waters as a snowflake or two drifted by. Then she took off her cloak and laid it on the stone railing. She climbed up onto the wall and swung her legs over, head lifted high.

  Eliza sat in the parlor, going over the events of the morning for over an hour. Bessie had brought her a blanket, and she sat snuggled in her usual chair beside the little fire. She was about to sip her tea when a knock came at the door.

  She waved Bessie off and answered the door herself, half afraid it was Mr. Waddell coming back to scold her even more thoroughly for daring to refuse him. But it was not. Instead, Jamie stood there, and he looked distressed.

  “Jamie! Come in!”

  “Thank you, Eliza, but I can’t. I am here to ask after Alice. Is she here?”

  “Alice? No…I have not seen her. Why?”

  “She left early this morning saying she wanted to go into town. But no one has seen her, and we don’t think she ever made it to town. In short – we don’t know where she is!”

  “I don’t know where she could be…”

  “Nor I…but I must keep looking. If you see her…”

  “I will keep her here and send word!”

  “Thank you.” He was off toward the village. The sky was darknening, threateningly, plunging the village into early twilight. It was not a night to be missing. The Stanton Post rumbled by, and she was grateful her uncle would be home within the half hour.

  Alice missing! Several disjointed facts came together, and she stopped in horror at the thought that had come to her. Grabbing her shawl, she ran outside and down the lane. She was out of breath by the time she stood in front of the cottage looking up at its empty eyes. She made her way carefully inside. “Alice! Alice, are you here?”

  There was no answer, save the wind picking up and moaning through the open windows and doors. Even in the old parlor by the fireplace and couch, the lantern and blanket were gone. She went back to the front, looking out across the field and saw something moving.

  In a flash she was out and struggling across the uneven ground of the field toward the colorful flapping. As she neared, the fluttering resolved into the red cotton velvet of a cloak – Alice’s cloak. She stood on the bridge, hand on the cloak and looked around. Perhaps she had dropped it – and it had blown here. Where would it have blown from? Out on the moor? She headed into the wind to climb the slope and see if she could see her cousin from its height.

  The wind gusted up, pulling her shawl backward, and she snatched too hard at it, pulling the muscles of her shoulder, stoking the fires of her anxiety even more. “Alice!” she called into the wind. “Alice!” She turned around, trying to see in all directions at once. She charged on, down the slope and on up the next rise moving deeper into the moor.

  Dragging in a deep breath, she forced herself to stop, adjusted her shawl securely around her shoulders, and noticed for the first time that the wind had picked up…and was cold. It gusted sharply, tiny pricks of ice against her face, and she looked upward. The sky had darkened as she had walked, caught up in her worry. Storm clouds filled the sky and lumbered thickly overhead. She had wandered over the gentle rises and dips and gone too far into the moor to see the bridge, or any semblance of civilization.

  She did not know where she was.

  Nothing looked familiar…no landmarks. Alarm clutched at her chest, and her breath started to come quickly. Desperately she spun, searching the horizon for something…anything. Was that a trail of smoke from a chimney? No…just endless rolling heather and grass quickly giving way to a flurry of white.

  Stay put or try to find her way home? Shelter in a hollow or stand on a hill to be more visible to any would-be rescuers? A swirling gust spun about her, filled with flakes of white. The snow pattered against her exposed skin, kisses of ice that grew into fingers or fear reaching down to her gut. Lost on the moor in a snowstorm.

  Bessie kept lookout at the front window, watching for some sign of Eliza’s return. She could see the wind picking up, feel the sudden chill in the air pushing through the gap around the parlor window, and knew a storm was coming. She went out into the drive path just as the first flakes fluttered and spun their way earthward. Her own ample shawl was pulled tight about her shoulders as she stared up and down the lane. From her right, she saw the weary form of Alastair Enger coming home after being dropped by the post in town. He waved, and she waved back frantically. He picked up pace and within minutes was home.

  “Bessie, what are you doing out here?”

  “It’s Miss Eliza, Sir. She is not home!”

  “Wh
at?” He began looking anxiously about.

  Hoofbeats echoed in the distance, snatched away with rising gusts of wind and snow. Suddenly, Sir William pulled up beside them.

  “Mr. Enger, Mrs. Beams? You should be indoors the storm is coming fast.”

  “Aye, Sir, but Miss Eliza is not back yet…and we are worried.”

  “Miss Denham is out in this?” He spun the horse, looking in every direction from the little manor house even as a snowflake laden gust swirled between them. His brows drew close and his mouth narrowed to a grim line. “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know…she was…upset. Young Jamie came by, but I don’t know what he said.”

  “The Wetherby girl is missing – I heard it at the pub.”

  “Alice?!” Alastair seemed confused. The wind suddenly whipped up and lashed at his coat.

  “She must have gone to look for her…”

  “I thought I saw her go down the lane...”

  “I will check.” He spurred his horse toward the lane. When he reached the cottage, he reined him in and called, “Miss Denham?! Eliza!” He spun the horse to look in all directions. A tiny flutter of color caught his eye from far across the fields.

  “Not the moor!” He spurred Samson in the direction of the moor path. And they sailed over the stone wall. He charged across the fields, the tiny flutter finally resolving into a large mound of cloth. Panic clutched at him at the sight. He stared into the wind, thinking the same thing that Eliza had thought. Once on the bridge he spun his horse, calling in every direction. Then, he spurred him onward onto the moor into the thickening snowstorm.

  The snow was coming down hard now. Large wet flakes that melted against her face and began to soak through her shawl. The wind all but froze it again, and her cheeks were starting to burn from the cold. She alternated between huddling down to ride out the storm and staying upright to be more visible if anyone came looking. She ultimately chose to continue walking, any direction just to keep moving and visible for as long as possible. She called out, feeling her voice and breath snatched away. The icy snow stung, and she called out again as her foot came down wrong and wrenched to one side. Pain caused her to scream as she collapsed. Cold, cold, cold as the wind spun snow up under her flapping skirt. She pulled it down, trying to keep her skin covered completely as she pulled her ankle and foot free, crying in pain. Tears and ice stung her eyes and cheeks as she huddled under her thin shawl.

  Were those hoofbeats? She called out desperately and tried to stand, only to collapse again. She was shivering now and so cold. She called out again, screaming against the wind.

  Suddenly, a wall of black rose to one side and she was engulfed in a swirl of blissful warmth. “Miss Denham, are you hurt?” Sir William’s voice sounded harsh in her ear. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel the reassuring hardness of his chest through the warm wool.

  “My ankle...” she said against the swaddling of his coat. She was wrapped even more tightly in it and lifted onto the back of the horse. Cold wind scratched at her face, and she fought to balance herself on the low pommel and withers of the horse. He swung up behind her and encircled her securely with his arms. Then he urged the horse onward and muttered a prayer.

  The world sped by, disconcerting to one sitting sideways. She gave up struggling for balance and gave herself over to the crushing strength of his arms.

  He felt her relax against him, and a strange mix of exhilaration and fear coursed through him. His shirt was whipped against him, dampened now with snow and sweat. It clung to him where it was wet, almost freezing against his muscular frame. He held her tight and let Samson have his head. The horse would know where to go.

  They raced over the moor, into the icy swirl of the growing storm. His skin burned with cold, his body shivering against the wind, and still Samson ran on, laboring now as he, too, began to succumb to the cold. Then a shadow to his right – the farmhouse! Samson had brought them home.

  Gravel and snow crunched beneath his hooves as they pulled up to the arched door. A man shot out and took control of Samson as William jumped free and pulled her into his arms. She could feel his chest hard and muscled, and icy cold from snow and wind. He carried her up the stairs and into the house.

  Warmth and silence assaulted her as the door swung shut behind them. “Careful, she is injured.” He said as warm hands reached for her. She was laid onto a couch.

  “I am fine…it is just my ankle.” Her voice shook.

  Someone had draped a coat over William’s shoulders as he knelt beside her and reached for her leg. A muffled cry burst from her as his fingers found the strained ligaments and swelling. His touch retreated. “It is not broken, but badly sprained,” he told her, his voice rough and choking from sheer cold. “This needs attention -- Haddely!”

  A tall, stiff form appeared beside him. “Sir.” She set a tray down on the table and Eliza heard the sounds of tea being poured. She breathed deeply and was better able to take stock of her surroundings. A cup of tea was put into her slightly shaky hands, and a man, butler by the look of him, splashed a few golden drops from an ornate decanter into her cup. She held the cup with numbed hands and sipped, very aware that Sir William was still kneeling beside her and watching her every move with the keen stare of a hawk. She took another sip and swallowed against the bit of heat from the brandy coursing through her.

  “Thank you, Sir William.” His eyes softened, and the deep crease between them smoothed somewhat.

  “My honor,” he said roughly.

  Invisible hands set a tray of bandages on the low table. With an expert manner, Haddely removed her stocking and tended her swollen ankle. Using the scissors hanging from her chatelaine, she cut the wrapping and secured it with a deftly tied knot. Eliza finished the tea, handed the cup off, and made to stand.

  “Don’t be daft!” William stopped her. Then he leaned down and lifted her easily and hefted her slightly to adjust her position. It was so tempting to lean her head against that solid shoulder, and she struggled for a moment before giving in. Let him think what he would. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought his grip tightened the moment her head rested against him.

  A bustle of opening doors in front of them, and then she was laid ever so gently on a bed. There was a swell of hushed whispers, then quiet as the room cleared of everyone but Mrs. Haddely and Sir William. He went over to put another piece of coal on the fire and stir it to new life, then returned.

  “Mrs. Haddely will see to you, now. Haddely?!”

  “Of course, Sir William.” She glanced pointedly at the door, and he left with a single backward look.

  Miss Haddely gently helped her free of her wet clothing and into an overlarge and old-fashioned nightdress. It was heavenly - soft and warm and dry. Her fingers and feet ached as they warmed from near freezing, and she felt a strange mixture of emotions reverberating through her chest. Exhaustion suddenly pulled at her and she fell back against the pillows into the waiting arms of dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunshine peered through the curtains as they were slowly drawn open. Eliza sat up, startled awake by the unfamiliar surroundings. The maid spun around. “Begging your pardon, Miss. I have tea ready. We didn’t know if you would want eggs or just toast.”

  “Eggs and toast…yes. Tea...thank you.” The maid bobbed and left after pushing the tray closer. She pushed her hands through her hair, only to find it a tangled cloud about her. Gingerly, she pushed herself to a sitting position and lifted the teacup to sip the hot, sweet liquid. Minutes later and a covered plate of eggs and a rack of toast was set beside her. She was famished and ate it all.

  The maid returned, bringing her clothes now washed, dried and ironed. “Begging your pardon, Miss, but Miss Haddely says you needn’t get dressed for lunch. But Sir William is here to see you.” She removed the tray and was about to leave when there was a knock. A low muttering, then the maid came back, saying, “Sir William.”

  “Oh!” Sh
e sat up and brushed her hair back with her fingers. Just in time for Sir William to step hesitantly in and peer around the door as the maid stepped out. He breathed a sigh of relief to see her sitting up and to see the empty plates being carried out. She was well; she had an appetite. He stepped over to the bed and could not help smiling down at her. He reached for a chair and drew it close before sitting down on it.

  She looked tiny and so young in that enormous nightgown which he suspected to belong to Haddely by the size and style of it. Her hair was a tangled mess that was somehow endearing. And she sat amidst a disorganized array of covers and pillows. He was sobered, though, by the heavy circles under her eyes and the paleness of her cheeks.

  “How are you?”

  “Well, thank you. And because of you. But my uncle will be so worried…I need to go home…my ankle is much better.”

  “Just how do you plan to get home? There are drifts three feet deep on the ground!”

  “I can walk with a stick…”

  “Injured? Alone? Walk?” he all but sputtered in disbelief. “You will stay until the road is clear.”

  “But they will be worried! I must get home!”

  “I sent word as soon as the weather cleared. One of my men took our heavy horse and offered to trek into town and let your Uncle know you are here. I expect him to return soon.”