Page 41 of The Marquess’s Masked Archer

At two o’clock, Sylvie presented herself for an afternoon of what could only be described as her mother losing all sense. Twenty or so gentlemen milled around the Bryce parlor, casting frequent glances Sylvie’s way. No doubt Mother had led them to believe Sylvie was choosing a husband from among them, because most had come bearing flowers or trinkets. It made her skin crawl. Mr. Kinsey smiled at her from across the room, but even that sympathetic gesture didn’t do a thing to lift her spirits. She wasn’t ready to consider anyone else, not so soon after discovering that Miles didn’t return her affection.

At least Mother had the grace to ensure that Matilda was at Sylvie’s side for the dreadful proceedings. Sylvie pressed her shoulder against her friend’s, drawing comfort from her as they sat side by side on a settee with three gentlemen in chairs across from them, including Mr. Greene. Sylvie twisted her head at an odd angle that allowed her to block her lips from the men while whispering to Matilda. “What am I going to do? I don’t want to be in the same room with most of these men, much less marry one of them.”

Matilda lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Pretend to consider them while putting your mother off as long as possible? That’s what you’ve always done, and it worked this long.”

Sylvie swallowed hard. “She’s different this summer. More intense and much more focused on getting me married than ever before. She’s not going to let me delay this any longer. I don’t know how I’m going to sneak out to my shows anymore either.”

Matilda aimed a polite but unemotional smile at one of the men, who watched them with far too much interest. Then she raised her hand to shield her lips, clearly unconcerned if they found her behavior rude. “You only have two more weeks of shows, anyway, don’t you? Have you saved enough money this summer to stand up to your mother once and for all?”

The meager stack of cash hidden deep under Sylvie’s mattress flashed in her mind. She shook her head, and Matilda’s face fell. “Well, you can’t consider most of these fellows for a lifetime companion. I’m not sure what your mother was thinking. She could do much better.”

Sylvie might agree, but Mother hadn’t given her much choice in the matter. Hoping to calm the rising panic tightening her chest, Sylvie excused herself from the settee, leaving Matilda to entertain the trio of gentlemen while she caught her breath for a moment. Slipping out of the parlor, Sylvie crossed the hall with light steps and darted through the open door of her father’s study. Dropping back against the dark wood wall out of view of the hall, she let out a long, slow breath.

She wanted to pray. There had been times over the summer when she’d felt God might care about more than just gaining her obedience. She’d begun to think He might want to fulfill her dreams, even if she wasn’t perfect. Had she gotten it wrong? Had God left her in this mess because she went behind her mother’s back? Was her work at Cedar Point too close to deception, even though she’d tried not to lie?

“Miss Bryce, are you well? It bothers me how often you’re distressed when we’re together.”

Startled, Sylvie whipped around to see Mr. Kinsey leaning on the doorframe. He cut a dashing figure, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, a bemused smirk quirking his lips. She felt a responding half smile forming, despite the terrible day. “I’m fine, Mr. Kinsey. Only a bit overwhelmed with the…ah…zeal of our guests today.”

Stepping into the room and joining Sylvie in leaning against the wall, Mr. Kinsey arched an eyebrow. “You aren’t swept off your feet by their zeal? Shocking, really.”

His droll tone made Sylvie’s smile grow. She actually felt a slight spark of joy for the first time all week. “I shouldn’t stay here long. I’m the unfortunate star of this show, and my mother will notice if I’m gone more than a moment.”

Mr. Kinsey straightened. “Of course. But allow me to go distract her. Then you can breathe freely a little longer.”

Without waiting for her answer, Mr. Kinsey disappeared through the open door, gifting Sylvie with another few minutes of blessed peace. How kind and thoughtful he’d turned out to be. If it weren’t for Miles…

But Miles was there, no matter how hard she tried to dislodge him. He was stuck in Sylvie’s mind and heart in a way she’d probably never be free from. Even if he might have abandoned her without explanation, she longed for him to be the one who appeared in the doorway and teased her about the roomful of suitors. Tears began to rise again, and Sylvie’s throat constricted, making it difficult to draw a full breath.

No. There had been enough crying. Sylvie straightened her spine and swiped her sleeve across her eyes. She would march back into that parlor and put on the best show of her life. She’d pretend she was the archer again, with a mask and hood of polite enjoyment instead of green velvet. She would do what her mother expected until she could free herself.

It was time to return her focus to her own very real future, not a fictional one Miles had caused her to dream about before leaving her alone.

Miles stared at his mother’s ashy complexion with worry worming its way around in his stomach. He’d been back at Woodhouse for three days, and his mother had hardly roused from sleep during the hours he’d spent at her side. The village doctor—a man barely older than Miles who was new to the area—had visited that morning and assured Miles that she was doing better and that recovery would happen with time. It was difficult not to fret, however, when she looked so ill.

Miles rose from a polished chair upholstered with fabric embroidered by ladies from the village and made his way outside for a bit of fresh air. The familiarity of the sprawling estate comforted him. The lawns were trimmed, the gardens tended, and the fields Miles had examined so far were bursting with wheat that neared readiness for the August harvest.

As he strolled the grounds, he considered his childhood home with new, adult eyes. Woodhouse itself was a solid fixture in the middle of the property, boxy in the way old manor houses tended to be, with heavy columns and traditional architecture. Miles couldn’t help noticing that the exterior of the house needed some repair, though. It was evident Mr. Brown was doing his job as steward as well as one man could, despite his age. What would happen when he decided to retire? Or when his health no longer allowed him to manage the property?

Mother had made it clear over the years that she missed Miles’s presence and hoped he would return home someday. Miles had always assumed it was more out of wanting him there than necessity, but perhaps he’d been wrong. As capable as Mother and Mr. Brown were, the future of the estate weighed on Miles’s shoulders. It was his responsibility, even if he’d chosen to walk away from it. If people were willing to accept him back, would God expect him to give up his own dreams so he could run the estate?

The idea of not returning to Sylvie was unthinkable. At the very least, he couldn’t leave her waiting after all he’d expressed in the letter he posted before leaving New York. A quick mental calculation reminded him that there was very little chance a response from her would have reached him yet. She would certainly have something to say about the revelation that he was her secret admirer. He could be patient for a few more days until a response arrived. But Miles couldn’t help worrying that maybe she hadn’t been glad to find out it was him. Perhaps she wanted it to be one of the other gentlemen, after all.

Walking along the edge of the wide creek that cut through the fields while begging God to give him patience and peace until he needed to make decisions, Miles found Mr. Brown inspecting the steep bank. Nearby, a horse hitched to a wagon lifted its head to inspect Miles lazily. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. Is there anything amiss here?”

Mr. Brown waved at the incline with a frown. “Just the bank crumbling in a bit. I’m deciding the best way to shore it up. The village children like to jump in from here, and we don’t want anyone slipping and getting injured.”

“Ah.” Miles endeavored to come up with anything he could add to the issue, but Mr. Brown had already turned back to his work. Miles watched, the truth that he knew nothing about running the estate starting a dull ache deep inside. He had a deep well of knowledge about insects and how diseases spread, but no experience in managing everyday, practical issues such as this.

The urge to try one more time, to offer something useful, didn’t wane. Stepping a little closer, Miles craned his neck to see better. “Do you need help? I could hand you supplies or help hold things in place.”

Straightening, Mr. Brown gave Miles his full attention. “Oh, you needn’t worry about this, my lord. It’s a small spot. All it will take is a few rocks and a little digging.”

But at the same time, Mr. Brown rubbed one hand over his chin, looking from Miles to the pile of large rocks on the bank. Taking the hint that the steward felt ill at ease with asking for help, Miles slid off his linen jacket. Laying it over the wagon seat, he reached for the shovel on top of the rocks. “I’m capable of digging, if nothing else. Show me what to do.”

An hour and one heavy coating of mud on his clothing later, Miles returned to Woodhouse with a bounce in his step. He’d succeeded in helping Mr. Brown reinforce the eroding bank, and the satisfaction of completing a new task had lifted his spirits. Perhaps he could learn to run the estate if it came down to it. He didn’t want to give up his research, but if duty called…well, God might have a good plan in place for him, after all.

Miles no sooner entered the house after brushing off as much mud as he could than the housekeeper rushed to meet him. “Oh, my lord, it’s your mother. She woke and is asking to see you.”