An Unwelcome Suitor (Entangled Inheritance Book 4) Page 9

  “When he is my husband, I will be more grateful than ever for his sincerity and honesty,” Juliana said.

  My senses piqued. “Has he proposed?”

  “No, but I am certain he will once the month has passed. He assured me that it is entirely my choice, and he would not offer for my hand until I was fully aware of his character and we had become better acquainted. I told him I would not change my mind, but he insisted.”

  “Do you think you could ever love him?”

  Juliana seemed surprised by my question. Her skin paled and her posture grew stiff. “In time, perhaps. I—I do not have any expectations of it. I would hope that such feelings could exist between us, but it, well, it is complicated, isn’t it?” The whiteness of her cheeks gave way to a tinge of pink as she traced her finger over the edge of her embroidery.

  My discontent mounted. She was still thinking of Gilbert. I couldn’t abandon my efforts of sabotage yet. I lacked any new ideas, but I needed to be alone to revise my plan.

  I stood with a wobble. “I have no talent for sewing,” I declared. “And I hate it.” I tested my ankle with my weight, taking a careful step before deeming it sturdy. I turned around, eager to speak with my younger sister alone. “Martha, will you please help me up the stairs to my room?”

  She stood, following me out the door. As soon as we made it to the staircase, I took her arm, speaking in a whisper. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Martha blew out a puff of air to clear a curl from her forehead. “Nor do I. Juliana seems quite content with her decision. Perhaps we ought to resign ourselves to it.”

  I shook my head, leaning against Martha for balance as we ascended the steps. “I cannot abandon the effort just yet.” I lowered my voice to avoid being overheard by any nearby servants. “I have had little to do this last week but sit in my room. I have enlisted Isabel’s assistance in finding advertisements for positions. The town seamstress in Greenham is in need of staff.”

  Martha scowled. “I thought you hated sewing.”

  “I do.” I gave her a half-hearted smile. “You enjoy it, though. I thought it might be a suitable place for us to work if we choose to avoid Mr. Yeatman.”

  “You would spend your days sewing rather than see Juliana marry Dr. Pembroke? Are you certain she could not be happy with him?”

  I stopped at the top of the stairs, emotion rising in my throat. “She might pretend to be happy for our sake, but inside she is breaking. Her heart belongs to Gilbert. I will not have her do anything else for our sake, not if it comes at her expense.”

  Martha released my arm, the deep thought in her expression bringing her eyebrows together. “I do not think attacking Dr. Pembroke is an effective method of changing Juliana’s mind.” She frowned. “Juliana refuses to tell Dr. Pembroke about Gilbert because she is afraid he will abandon the courtship if he knows she is in love with another man. Do you think the opposite might be effective? If Juliana thought Dr. Pembroke to be in love with another woman…she might take pity on him. She might abandon the courtship herself. She knows how it feels to be separated from her true love, after all.”

  I tested the idea, letting it roll through my mind like a wave. Yes. That could work. “Juliana does hate to allow others to bear burdens. If she knew what a burden this marriage truly was to Dr. Pembroke…she might take pity on him.”

  But who could the lucky young lady be? I was well-acquainted with many of the ladies of the area, but the first to come to mind was Charity. Juliana had always advocated for the goodness of Charity’s character, and felt pity for the girl. If Juliana knew that she was standing in the way of Charity’s union with the man she loved, then her guilt would be too much to bear. Excitement wrapped around me like an embrace. This could work.

  I grabbed Martha’s shoulders. “You, my dear sister, are ingenious.”

  She smiled bashfully, too humble to fully accept my praise. “How shall we convince Juliana of his affection for another woman?”

  “That other woman must be Miss Oakley, as she already holds Juliana’s sympathies.” I paced the floor, disregarding the dull ache that shot up my ankle with each step. An idea struck me hard, making me stop. “A letter.”

  Martha scowled in confusion.

  “I will write a letter to Charity, as if I am Dr. Pembroke, expressing all the deepest emotions of his heart.” I tapped my lower lip.

  “Are you certain you know how to properly write such things?” Martha’s cheeks had colored at the suggestion.

  “All it requires is a touch of imagination.”

  Martha’s fingers twitched nervously at her skirts. “You do not plan to send the letter to Charity, do you?”

  “Of course not. I will write the letter today. After you act as chaperone for the ride tomorrow morning, you must go to Juliana with the letter and tell her you witnessed it falling from Dr. Pembroke’s pocket.”

  “She wouldn’t dare read the contents of such a personal document.”

  “Then if it comes to it, we shall read it aloud to her.”

  The dishonesty of the situation caught up to me, and I swallowed. Guilt rose in my chest, but I pushed it away. A lie to save a beloved sister’s future happiness was pardonable. Wasn’t it? No one would be hurt by this arrangement. Charity would never have to know about the fake letter.

  Martha still looked hesitant, but she eventually nodded. “Very well. If you are confident.”

  “I am.” In truth, I was only half as confident as I sounded. I hadn’t the slightest idea of how to write a convincing love letter. And writing it as if I were a man? What things did men notice about women? What things made them fall in love? I would need to begin working right away if I planned to have the letter finished in time, and drafted well enough to convince Juliana of its authenticity.

  I went to my room and gathered a stack of foolscap and a pencil. I would pen the final letter neatly with my quill, but I suspected it would take a great deal of practice to get it right.

  I sneaked out to the gardens with my paper, hoping the beauty of the stone structures and flowers would inspire me. I had always fancied myself imaginative, but my pencil had been hovering for several minutes without any success. How could I convey emotions of love on a page? I had never been in love before.

  My parents had been in love. My heart stung at the thought of them, as it did when any memory found its way to the surface. I held onto the sting, letting it spread through my chest. This was the good kind of pain. If I didn’t feel it now, the burning, enduring grief of losing them, then that would have meant that I never felt the love of my parents, never experienced life with them in it. I closed my eyes and pictured their faces, letting the light afternoon breeze tousle my hair and cool my skin.

  How had I known they loved each other? What gave it away?

  There were the smiles Papa had only for Mother. They didn’t compare with any other smile, as if he had saved them just for her. A gift. There was the way Mother laughed her sides to stitches at the sight of Papa’s hair in the morning, sticking straight up away from his head, and the way he watched her as she laughed, as if he wished to bottle the sound and keep it forever. He had said as much one evening at dinner—he had said that if he discovered a way to bottle her laughter and sell it, he would be the richest man in the entire county, because there was not a soul that would not adore the sound.

  I allowed my grief to course through my body for a few more moments, keeping my eyes closed for fear of losing the vivid images of my parents in my mind.

  If Juliana had truly found a love like theirs with Gilbert, then how could she ever willingly abandon it? I doubted I would have the strength or resolve of Juliana if I ever fell in love. Although I didn’t understand the complexities of love, I knew that nothing in the world compared to it. Nothing held more power or influence. Love healed weaknesses and filled hearts. Without it, life would be very empty indeed.

  I clung to the images of my parents for a second longer before opening my eyes and writ
ing down the feelings in my heart in a list to incorporate into the letter later. The silence of the garden enveloped me in peace, an occasional birdsong interrupting my thoughts as I scribbled down my ideas.

  I looked at my paper, discouragement bringing me to cover it with my elbow with a sigh. Men did not think this deeply about love, did they? I couldn’t imagine Dr. Pembroke ever caring as deeply for a woman as my father cared for my mother, or as Gilbert cared for Juliana. He was either stoic and serious, or relentlessly teasing. He was too many things to be anything but confusing. But if there was one thing he could not be, it was romantic.

  Did it really matter if the letter was authentic? There was so much I still did not know about Dr. Pembroke, so I couldn’t possibly write an accurate letter depicting his thoughts. He did not even love Charity! This was all fake.

  I stood from my place on the stone bench, making my way to the path that led to town. A long vigorous walk would help my thoughts. My ankle ached for the first several minutes, but the movement eventually warmed it up, alleviating the pain and my limping gait.

  My gaze caught on a man in the distance. I shielded my face from the sun, recognizing Gilbert, apparently walking back from town with a basket on his arm.

  I waved both my hands, picking up speed. He noticed me, offering a smile and wave in return.

  “Mr. Robins, how do you do?” I greeted as I approached.

  His face was cleaner than I had ever seen it, although his hair and clothes were still in slight disarray. He was quite handsome, and his smile made him even more so. I tried not to think of Dr. Pembroke’s smile. It had the very same effect on his features.

  “I am quite well, Miss Elizabeth.” Gilbert offered a friendly nod. “What are you doing out here all alone?” He eyed the foolscap in my hand.

  “I am searching for inspiration, and I believe I have found it.” I held the papers against me so he could not see the things I had written. “Would you allow me to ask you a question or two?”

  He shifted the basket to his elbow. “What are these questions about?”

  Drat. I had set myself up for an awkward request. I spun yet another lie. “I am writing a script, you see, as I aspire to have my plays performed in London one day. Two of my characters are quite in love. I am trying to create the monologue for one character, a man, who is declaring his feelings for a woman, but the problem I am having is that I do not know what a man in love might wish to say to her.”

  Gilbert laughed under his breath. “I do not know if I can help you with that.”

  “Would it make you more comfortable if I simply allowed you to write your thoughts instead?” I hesitated. “Are you—do you know how to write?” I realized how impertinent my question was the moment it escaped. By Gilbert’s upbringing, it would be reasonable to assume he was not fully educated, but the intelligence in his countenance and manner of speech gave me pause.

  He seemed to guess at my hesitation, giving me a forgiving smile. “My mother taught me. She was the daughter of a baron, you know.”

  “Was she?” I tried to hide my surprise. Was that why Mrs. Robins had been so accepting of Juliana? Had she too been willing to give up a life of wealth and respect for the man she loved? “She must have loved your father very much,” I said.

  “She did, indeed.” It was as if I could see the broken pieces of Gilbert’s heart in his face.

  I handed him my pencil and a fresh sheet of paper. “Please, make your best attempt. Write as if you are writing to the woman you love.”

  He took it, staring at the blank page with dread. “That is a lot to ask of me, considering that I cannot have her.” His voice was quiet, broken, much like Juliana’s had been since the reading of the will.

  This was precisely the sort of emotion I needed the letter to contain if I were to convince Juliana that Luke was pining for another, a woman that he believed he could never have.

  My heart thudded with sympathy as I watched Gilbert staring down at the paper in silence. I wanted to tell him how much Juliana loved him, but I stopped myself. What was that worth if they couldn’t marry? It would only hurt him more to be reminded. But this letter could change everything. “You do not have to do it,” I said. “I understand if it is too much to ask. Surely I can…fabricate something. I thought you might understand what my character is feeling.”

  He shook his head softly, setting his basket on the grass before sitting down beside it. “No, I will do it.” He didn’t say another word before placing the pencil to the paper, propped against his knee. I waited patiently as he wrote. There were several long pauses as he seemed to collect his thoughts before stringing out another paragraph, and another. After several minutes, he stood and handed the paper to me. “I hope this will help.”

  His face was sullen, as if writing that letter had exhausted every drop of energy from inside him. My determination to succeed grew as I watched him, sweet Gilbert, blushing with embarrassment, as if to try to mask the pain he was feeling.

  I was fairly certain I held Gilbert’s heart on that sheet of foolscap.

  I folded it gently, afraid to even speak. I wanted to assure him that I would find a way to change Juliana’s mind, but I couldn’t find the words. That was a promise I could not make. I did not want to give him false hope.

  I held the letter against me, not wanting to embarrass him by reading it right there in front of him. That letter was my best chance at sabotaging the courtship. Dr. Pembroke was not entitled to Brookhaven, though he wanted it desperately. He seemed to have enough of a living without it. It was greed—sheer greed—that bolstered his desire for the estate. I had no qualms in ruining his chances for it. He would not marry Juliana. He couldn’t. I could hardly imagine a life with Dr. Pembroke as my guardian, my brother-in-law. I grimaced at the idea of attaching the word brother to my relationship with him. It felt entirely wrong. Despite all odds, perhaps he could be a friend, but a brother? My thoughts traveled to his piercing grey eyes and rare smile for just long enough for me to deserve a thorough self-scolding.

  Returning my thoughts to Gilbert, I smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Robins. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

  He scuffed his boot across the grass, tipping a forced smile. His eyes were still heavy with heartbreak. “It was an honor.”

  I bid him good day and watched as he continued his walk down the path behind me. When he was out of sight, I unfolded the letter. It was not as long as I had expected. I held it out in front of me as I continued walking, reading the words from the beginning. My heart skipped when I read the first line.

  It was addressed to Juliana.

  How could it not have been? Any words Gilbert expressed about love could only have been for her.

  My eyes traveled down the page, and I had to stop walking. My breath suspended in my throat, emotion climbing up to replace it. The beauty of Gilbert’s words sent shivers over my spine. The breeze seemed to intensify as it rustled over the paper and my hair, as if the wind itself believed the depth of Gilbert’s love, the enduring quality of it, and wanted to add its understanding to mine. I held tight to the corners of the paper. Tears pricked at my eyes, falling slowly down my cheeks.

  Poor Gilbert. Poor Juliana. Never had my heart ached so much for the plight of someone else as it did in that moment. I could not fail. But how could I use the words on that page? They were too important, too special. I would have to draft a letter of my own, altering the ideas to fit the situation I was fabricating between Dr. Pembroke and Charity.

  I sat down beside a tree along the path, wiping the tears from my cheeks before withdrawing a new sheet of foolscap. I took a deep, steadying breath. With Gilbert’s letter as my guide, I began my work.

  An hour later, I read it over for what must have been the tenth time, making minor adjustments. I would have Martha read it over before I penned it neatly at home. Overall, I was satisfied with the finished product.

  My ankle wobbled when I stood. I stretched my legs and back
, moving my hand in a circle to loosen my wrist, sore from the extensive writing.

  Taking the largest strides I was able, I made my way back to Brookhaven.

  Chapter 11

  Martha tipped her head over my penciled letter, reading silently. I chewed the nail of my index finger, sitting on my bed with my legs tucked under me. Candlelight flickered through my bedchamber, illuminating the roundness of Martha’s face.

  “What do you think?” I asked when she lowered the paper to her lap.

  She pursed her lips. “I think it will do quite nicely.”

  “Does it sound like something Dr. Pembroke might write?”

  Martha shrugged. “I do not know his character well enough to make that assessment.”

  I suspected I knew him better than Martha or Juliana, and that was not nearly well enough to guess how he might express his feelings to a woman. I gulped, rubbing my palms over my nightdress. “Juliana will not know enough to judge that.” I picked the letter up by one corner and read it over one last time before crossing the room to my desk, bringing the candle with me. I readied my quill and a fresh sheet of foolscap. How could I disguise my hand? Juliana would easily recognize my penmanship with one glance. I turned halfway around to face Martha. “What do you suppose Dr. Pembroke’s writing looks like?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. Has Juliana seen his writing?”

  “I do not believe so.” I drummed my fingers on the desk. “As a physician, he is a man of precision and neatness, so perhaps his writing would reflect that. But his hair is not always neat. It often falls over his brow or ears or curls at the base of his neck. Slightly tousled hair is in fashion, though, so it could be by design, further affirming his precision.” I took out a second paper and practiced writing his name, making the lines heavy and even. “As sharp as his eyes are, I could only assume he writes without error. He seems as though he misses nothing.” My mind traveled back to the mystery in his gaze, the way he had looked at me the last time we had spoken. What had that meant? It had been soft and warm, frustrated and certain, all at once. It made me wonder if his writing would appear softer and smoother than I had first suspected. “Dr. Pembroke is a contradiction.”