The highwaymans letter, p.25
The Highwayman's Letter, page 25
In any case, she had no desire to marry a highwayman or a letter carrier—or at least, if such desires did exist within her, they would not be paid any heed. She would rule herself as her necklace urged her to do. After all, a strong, capable woman did not marry a man who had made a fool of her—and who might well end his days hanging at Newgate.
If Joanna married such a man, it was anyone’s guess who Frances would take it into her head to marry. The thought alone made her shudder.
She was a woman of sense, and the sensible arrangement was the one she had been working toward since arriving in Bath: marriage to Sir Leonard. His mother was the one obstacle standing in the way of that. Joanna’s attempts to win over Lady Elkins invariably seemed to end in her saying and doing things with the opposite effect.
Perhaps it was time for a different approach. If she claimed to be a woman of sense, and if she wanted her heart to believe it played second fiddle to that sense, it stood to reason that a more direct method was worth attempting. Enough trying to appeal to Lady Elkins’ heart—Joanna wasn’t even certain she possessed one. It was time to be more direct.
Thus it was that Joanna found herself asking Sir Leonard to fetch her a glass of the waters so she could have a moment of privacy with Lady Elkins.
Lady Elkins seemed to sense something was different, for she watched Joanna warily as her son walked away. “I thought you disliked the waters.”
“Oh, I do. They are repulsive,” Joanna said sunnily. “But I have been wishing for a private word with you.”
“Have you?” She stared at Joanna with a hint of misgiving in her eyes.
“Yes. Will you walk with me, my lady?” She put out an arm, and Lady Elkins took it, eyes fixed on her as though the gesture might be a trap of some sort.
They began a stroll around the room, and Joanna filled her lungs and straightened her shoulders. “We seem to have been dancing around the topic of a match between your son and myself for some time now, my lady, and I thought it behooved us to speak more frankly for a moment—to be plain with one another, if you will.”
This direct approach seemed to take Lady Elkins off her guard, which satisfied Joanna deeply. Her future mother-in-law should know that Joanna was not a woman to tiptoe around important issues.
Joanna continued. “I have sensed on more than one occasion—let us say rather on most occasions—that you are not entirely in favor of such a match. Would you agree with this?”
Lady Elkins stumbled and stuttered out a few unintelligible words.
“Mmhmm,” Joanna said sympathetically. “Is there something in particular about me which you find unsuitable as a wife for your son?”
“Miss Carmichael,” she said in the voice of a woman unfairly accosted, “I do not . . . that is, I cannot understand why you would say such a thing.” She glanced around them as though afraid someone might be listening.
“Oh! I am mistaken, then?” This direct attack was giving Joanna far too much pleasure.
Lady Elkins still seemed to be struggling to find words.
“Please be plain with me, my lady,” Joanna said, pulling their arms apart and facing her. “Your son deserves to be in control of his own fortune, as I am certain you will agree, and if you cannot approve of a match between the two of us, it is only fair he know that now so he may pursue other avenues.” She fixed her gaze on Lady Elkins intently. “Do you intend to oppose a match between us?”
Lady Elkins glanced around again, but when her gaze came back to Joanna, there was animosity there. “Miss Carmichael, I am well aware that the man I found you”—she sputtered slightly—“cavorting with at the masquerade was not Mr. Rumbold, for his mother confirmed to me that he stayed abed all evening.”
Joanna lifted her brows, feigning interest.
“If I discover that there is any stain on your reputation,” Lady Elkins said, “I will not hesitate to ensure it is known by all of Bath—and London besides.”
“There is no stain to discover,” Joanna said coldly. No one would ever know of her association with the Paladin. “Do you agree Sir Leonard should be the one to make a decision that affects no one more than himself? He is well-past the age at which most men take their own affairs in hand, after all.”
“Leonard values my advice,” she said defensively.
“I would never contradict you on that point,” Joanna said. “The question, though, is whether you will allow him to make the decision of whom to marry, or if you do not trust him to do so.”
Her lips pinched together in displeasure. “I am sure I would never oppose anything my son truly wished for.”
Joanna raised her brows. She had the impression Lady Elkins’ only concern was what she herself wished for. “Very well, then,” Joanna said. “I will hold you to that, my lady.”
Sir Leonard approached with a glass in hand, and Joanna smiled at him. “Thank you kindly, Sir Leonard.” She set the glass of repugnant water to her lips and, eyes on Lady Elkins, drank the entire cup. The whites of the woman’s eyes were visible when Joanna had finished.
She smiled despite the mineral aftertaste of the water she hated so much. “Sir Leonard, what do you say to a walk to the abbey?”
“By all means,” he said.
Joanna took his offered arm and fixed her gaze on Lady Elkins again. “I believe my mother was wishing to speak with you, my lady. We will return shortly—in time for your son to accompany you home.”
They walked to the abbey together, after letting him speak for a few minutes about the state of his beehive, she stopped and turned toward him on the threshold of the north transept.
“Sir Leonard,” she said, “I must ask you something.”
He blinked. “Of course.”
With a glance at the few others in the abbey at this hour, Joanna stepped out of the path and into the transept, where he followed her.
She took in a deep breath. “I shall be more forward than I am accustomed to being, Sir Leonard, but it is only because I wish for both of us to be quite comfortable and clear with what happens in the future. Please understand that there is no need to protect my feelings or reputation. Can I trust you to be entirely honest with me?”
He nodded quickly, a hint of alarm in his eyes.
“Very good.” She took a breath. “Is it your wish that we be married?”
His mouth opened, but no sound came out as he stumbled and stuttered over his words.
She took his hands in hers and looked him in the eye. “You can be candid, Sir Leonard. Forget for a moment what your mother or anyone else wishes for you. Disregard whatever you think my own expectations are. What do you desire?”
“I . . .” He faltered again, his brow furrowing. Had this man ever considered what he wished for before Joanna had asked? Or was he a ship guided entirely by the rudder that was his mother?
“Perhaps if I make plain what I envision,” she said, “it will be easier for you to tell me how well it corresponds with your own plans and hopes.”
He nodded.
She took a moment, searching his face. There was a great deal to be gained from this match for the both of them, and she held to that knowledge as she spoke. “I have few expectations from marriage, Sir Leonard. Though I am confident that neither of us is under the impression that a marriage between us would be a love match, mutual respect is of utmost importance to me. I would not be an exacting wife, but I would be a supportive one, eager to see you pursue those things that you find of interest—your bees, of course—while hoping you would accord me the same privilege.”
The mention of bees seemed to shift something in him, and his head wagged up and down enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, Miss Carmichael. Of course.”
Aware of the two women passing by the transept in their promenade around the abbey, Joanna gave a slow nod. “Your mother has assured me she will not oppose a match between us if it is what both of us wish for. Are you certain it is what you wish for?” She waited a moment, watching him carefully. “If it is not, you can be assured that I will find a way to manage everything in a way for which your mother cannot fault you.”
He shook his head. “I do wish for it.”
Joanna straightened, holding his gaze, feeling the momentousness of this moment. “Well, then.” She put out a hand for him, inviting a kiss upon it as he had done on their first meeting. He took her hand in his, however, and shook it, bringing a smile to her face. “I believe we now find ourselves betrothed, Sir Leonard.”
The occurrence seemed to be a matter of less importance to him than pursuing her comments about his bees, but Joanna was satisfied, for she believed what she had said to Lady Elkins: Sir Leonard deserved to have control of his fortune, to be able to expand his beehive if he so chose, to spend a portion of inheritance sailing to and from the West Indies if it brought him joy and elevated his mind.
In short, her heart had learned a valuable lesson today. She knew it had, for she could feel it thrashing around inside her, urging her to search for any sign of Mr. Sinclair on the walk home, wondering whether she would ever feel as alive as she had the night of the masquerade, whispering to her that she was selling her heart for a mess of pottage.
But Joanna was wise enough to recognize exactly what was happening, for the foe never fights harder than just before it knows it will be vanquished.
Chapter Thirty-One
Reggie handed the letter to the woman behind the counter at Sally Lunn’s Tea Room, plastered a civil smile on his face and turned to leave. Since returning from the Carmichael townhouse three nights ago, he had been operating out of habit. Aunt Mary and Uncle Ernest had only asked him once what plagued him, but since their question had been met with a denial that anything was wrong—an answer so implausible as to be insulting—they had not repeated the experience. Aunt Mary had settled for watching him with concern whenever she was near. Uncle Ernest, on the other hand, had finally insisted this morning that he go out on deliveries.
So, here he was—the last delivery of an interminable day. He threaded his way through the tables, hardly noticing the smell of warm brioche buns that normally intoxicated him and made his belly grumble with hunger.
“. . . Sandford and Lady Elkins have both given their blessing to the match.”
Reggie stilled with his hand on the door handle.
“Well, I never thought to see the day! Lady Elkins guards that poor boy’s fortune like a mother bird guards her nest.”
“That poor boy is hardly a boy! He must be at least thirty years old.”
“Three-and-thirty, I believe. But he might as well be a boy for the way his father left things tied up. Shameful.”
The first woman clucked her tongue. “I heard that it was Miss Carmichael who offered for his hand, you know—it happened in the abbey. Mrs. Mourton passed by as it was all occurring.”
Reggie’s heart—an organ he had thought destroyed beyond recognition—gave a nauseating thud as it dropped into the pit of his stomach. He hurriedly pushed open the door, afraid to hear more.
It was two minutes back to the post office, and Reggie bumped into three people on the way, excusing himself in a sort of dazed trance.
She was betrothed. It was done. Each day since he had last seen Joanna, a small part of him had hoped he would go to the post office and find a letter for him in the undelivered post box. Hope was such a cruel thing.
He had vacillated between taking to the roads and burning the Paladin clothing. There seemed little purpose to anything anymore. In his more morbid moments, an ending at the gallows seemed less horrible than ever before. It was the affixed punishment for the crimes he had committed, after all. Highwaymen were to be made an example of, and, be he ever so liked by the public at large, Reggie had as little honor as the most rugged highway ruffian.
When he inevitably shook off such moroseness, though, he swore to himself to do better and be better, to never disgrace his father’s name again, to be the man who, in another life, might have been worthy of Joanna Carmichael, for he knew her too well to blame her for her father’s sins.
When he went into his room that night to dress for bed, he stopped short on the threshold. The trunk was open, and Aunt Mary sat on his bed. On her lap was the bag containing the Paladin clothing.
Reggie stood motionless, searching his aunt’s face, trying to gauge what she was feeling as fear, guilt, and shame coursed through him. Her expression was one of deep sympathy rather than anger, though, as she put a hand next to her and patted the bed in invitation.
Reggie gave a sigh and went to sit beside her.
She set a hand on his knee and squeezed it, and Reggie found the column of his throat tightening.
“How did you . . .?” He left the question unfinished.
She smiled sadly. “I have suspected for a while now, but it was not until I came to darn one of your shirts earlier this evening that I noticed the bag in the trunk. Once I looked inside, I knew.”
He nodded, and the guilt of all he had done, the danger he had put her and Uncle Ernest in with his careless and vengeful decisions washed over him anew. “I am sorry, Aunt.” The words were a mere breath.
She took her hand from his knee and wrapped her arm around him, pulling him closer to her. “My sweet Reginald. The only thing that upsets me is that you do not feel you can speak with us or confide in us. It hurts us to see you in such pain—and to have to guess at what is causing it. Will you not confide in your old aunt? I was once young and in love, too, you know.”
He looked over at her with a small laugh that threatened to become a cry. How she had guessed that it was love tormenting him, he didn’t know. He kissed her capped head. Then, he leaned his head on her shoulder, for he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye, and he told her; he told her of his crimes, of his victories, of his hopes and dreams dashed to pieces, and all the while, her head rested on his and her arm remained wrapped around his back.
“Now, she is to be married.” He sighed. “And I . . .” He picked up the bag from her lap. “I am what she said I am. A scoundrel, a rogue, a criminal, a knave.”
She shook her head. “I do not know this young woman, my dear, but I know you, and you are none of those things. If she cannot see that, she is a fool, and she does not deserve to know your heart.”
Reggie shut his eyes. “She deserves the very best, Aunt. She is nothing like her father, just as I am nothing like mine.” Joseph Sinclair had been jovial, forgiving; Reggie had let his father’s misfortune darken his soul and drive him to do things no decent person would do.
Aunt Mary took her arm from his back and reached to his hair, brushing a bit of it from his forehead. “You judge yourself with the same harshness with which you judge others. Perhaps more mercy is merited all around. Your father never wished for you to be consumed by anger for what happened. He forgave Lord Sandford. Perhaps it is time you did, too.” She pulled a paper from her side. It was old, dirty, and wrinkled, and the wax seal broken. “If I had known how deep was your pain and anger, I would have given you this long ago. We only kept it from you to honor your father’s wishes that everything be put behind us.” She held the paper so that he could take it. “He sent this to your father in gaol. It was too late by then, and it came to us, along with the few belongings your father had with him when he died.”
Reggie accepted the letter from her, frowning as he read the direction inscribed on the front. It was the house Reggie’s father had inhabited, but the words had been crossed out and redirected to the gaol by the letter carrier. He opened the soft, worn paper and read:
My dear Sinclair,
I write to you from Birchley, where I have been much occupied with the funeral and putting Frederick’s affairs in order—they were left in an abysmal state, just as I suspected, and smoothing things over with his numerous creditors has been a significant challenge. Thankfully, I have managed to reassure the better part of them and persuade them to grant leniency. All this in addition to the formalities associated with the transfer of the barony.
It was not until this morning that I received news of what has been taking place since I left Bath last month. Mr. Clarke broke his journey here last night and informed me that my abrupt calling in of the loan and subsequent departure created a sort of panic. Is he correctly informed? Please tell me frankly what state affairs now stand in for the bank. I apologize if my rash actions have caused you inconvenience or harm. Matters here will require my attention for some time to come, but I hope to return to Bath by Michaelmas, at which point I am at your disposal, should you need me.
Your servant,
Sandford
Reggie stared at the elegant handwriting, his stomach filling with unease and nausea. For years, he had imagined Lord Sandford’s actions to have been taken with full knowledge of how they had affected his father. This was not the letter, though, of a man who understood what he had done.
He swallowed, shaking his head and giving the letter back to Aunt Mary. “It changes nothing. He need never have taken his money out of the bank. He had all the privilege and credit of a peer—he stood in no real danger from his brother’s creditors. See here how he says he managed to stave them off without payment. My father had no such privilege. He had his good name and reputation, and Lord Sandford destroyed it when he took his loan and business away.”
Aunt Mary took the letter and folded it again carefully. “Certainly, his actions were ill-judged, but they were the actions of a man who had just lost a brother—one newly become a baron. Must the blame all be his? It was not the debt to him that put your father in gaol, my dear. It was a hundred other debts.”
“Which he could not pay because of Lord Sandford.”
Aunt Mary gave a nod, sliding her finger along the bottom edge of the letter distractedly. “Likely, the men all feared for their families—feared they might lose everything they had worked for.”
