5
Arare day of sunshine and warmth allowed Cynthia to take a stroll in the Pennington garden with Michael. Her mother had arranged the meeting and though she could not be present herself, she’d convinced the viscount to invite Michael for a drink and the viscountess to invite Cynthia for tea. The older couple presently sat on a nearby bench, serving as chaperones.
“We could elope to Gretna Greene,” Michael suggested while Cynthia stopped to admire a lovely collection of pink peonies.
Their sweet perfume was among her favorites. “I would prefer to avoid such drastic measures if at all possible.”
“As would I,” Michael agreed, “but Papa is being impossible.”
Cynthia bit her lip. She wanted to tell Michael everything, including the secret she herself harbored, but to do so she’d have to betray her mother and risk Michael’s rejection. The prospect terrified her, but at least Mr. Dale’s lack of support gave her additional time to gather her courage.
She loved Michael to distraction and wished to marry him more than anything in the world, despite the obstacles in their path and the guilt she felt over not being totally honest. “Your father is a barrister and you a solicitor. Perhaps if you try presenting your case with logical arguments for support, he would be more obliging?”
Michael clasped her hand and gave it a squeeze. “As much as I hate confrontation, I do believe you may be correct.”
As they continued their stroll in silence, Cynthia tried to think of a way in which to broach the issue that tugged at her conscience. Her stomach turned itself inside out at the prospect of facing her greatest fear.
She could begin with, “I’ve something important to tell you…”
Or maybe, “Michael, you ought to know…”
But starting was the easy part. It was what came after that seemed so impossible for her to say.
Before she was ready, they’d circled the entire garden, returning to the Penningtons. She’d lost her chance, it seemed, and would have to find another. Hopefully sooner rather than later.
Exhaustion was becoming a state of normalcy for Wilhelmina. Each day she went to the bank, only to receive the same answer. Her account was still inaccessible to her. She’d spent money she could not afford to squander on a solicitor who’d petitioned the court on her behalf. The effort had been in vain and now she was worse off than before with fewer savings at the ready and bills piling up around her ears.
Although it was now mid-May, today had been damp and chilly. She shivered and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Rolling her neck, she stretched the aching muscles there, then dipped her quill in the ink-well once more and continued to write. Numbness had gradually conquered her heart and soul, which made the task of selling her London home so much simpler. After all, this was where she, George, and Cynthia had lived. Happiness had existed between these walls. She could still see George standing by the sideboard just over there, pouring himself a drink before he came to sit in his chair – the very same one she now filled. A sigh quivered against her breast. Sentimentality was a useless emotion. She’d already sold the pianoforte and the dining room furniture.
The nib of her quill scratched the paper on which she wrote.A sizeable house on a quiet street offers a rural feel with all the amenities of the City. She bit her lip and considered the phrasing. A knock on the door offered a welcome distraction.
Betsy entered. “I beg your pardon for the disturbance, but there’s a gentleman here to see you. Says his name is Mr. Dale.”
Wilhelmina stared at Betsy while her comment sank in. It had been two months since she’d quit his house, intent on helping Cynthia and Michael one way or another. Accordingly, she had defied his wishes and he was most likely here to pummel her for it with verbal abuse. Still, she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction without some recompense. Not after he’d kept her waiting for him for three hours.
“Tell him I’m busy. If he desires to wait, he is welcome to do so.”
“Very good.” Betsy paused on her way out the door. “Should I offer him refreshment?”
Wilhelmina had never been the vindictive sort, but the ease with which Mr. Dale had judged her and the fact that he was prepared to punish Cynthia for simply being her daughter did not make her charitable. “No.”
The door closed and Wilhelmina returned to her work. She finished writing her advertisement, then checked her ledgers. The money she’d made on the furniture she’d been able to sell would soon be gone. London was not a cheap place to live, but at least she had the farm. She’d go there as soon as she’d settled the last of her business here – the moment the house had been sold and the last of her bills paid off.
She glanced at the clock. It was almost exactly three hours since Mr. Dale had arrived. Time to go and see if he was still here. Pushing back her chair, she stood and stretched her back, then blew hot air into the palms of her hands in a futile attempt to chase off the chill in her bones. Hugging herself, she exited the study and approached the parlor. She paused for a moment to gather her wits, took a deep breath, and entered.
A critical gaze met hers. “Mrs. Lawson. I trust this is how you enact your revenge?”
“If you refer to making you wait for as long as you made me do, then I will admit I may have chosen to give you a taste of your own medicine. That being said, I was not enjoying a pleasant read or having a feast while you sat here. In truth, I was extremely busy.”
“So I gather,” he clipped, those dark eyes of his piercing every layer of fabric and skin. “In fact, it has come to my attention that you have been setting up clandestine meetings between my son and your daughter – aiding them in their continued romance even though you know I’m against it.”
“You are correct.” She would not deny her interference or insult him by lying. As much as his condemnation irked, he had good reason to feel as he did. After all, he did not know the truth, and while she had considered confiding it in him for Cynthia’s sake, she’d swiftly abandoned such a course.
Mr. Dale was a barrister. He fought to uphold the law with integrity. Revealing she and George had not only perjured themselves but paid other people to do so as well would not improve Mr. Dale’s opinion of her. In fact, she feared it might land her in prison while undoing everything she and George had worked so hard to accomplish. And then where would they be if the courts decided to render the divorce invalid on the basis of fraud? Would George be found guilty of bigamy? He might have gone to America, but that didn’t make him immune from criminal charges.
So rather than say anything more, she waited for Mr. Dale to respond.
He glanced at the fireplace. “Do you not care for warmth, Mrs. Lawson?”
