Chapter 4

Chapter Four

J ames stood in front of his guests, champagne glass in hand, as he gave the speech his mother and their guests expected. It amounted to welcoming everyone to Granville House and then lifting a glass to celebrate the birth of the Savior. Now that the obligatory speech was finished, he wished the orchestra would ready their instruments for the quadrille and proceed. Unfortunately, the musicians and his guests waited in anticipation for whom he would claim as his partner.

It was a deuced shame he couldn’t request his younger brother Harry and his wife, Margaret, to lead out. Harry had done so the last two years upon his request. But this year, his brother was not in residence. As host, it was his duty to do so. Therefore, he set the glass down on a table and asked his mother to join him for the first dance of the evening.

As they stood facing three other couples it was to his dismay that he noticed Eleanor and Montefeltro were part of the group with him. Right before the music began, his mother leaned toward him. “There are several women here this evening who would have gladly stood up with you.”

James took his mother’s hands as the first chord sounded. They stepped together and then proceeded to promenade forward. “You were the safest option. ”

“Indeed.”

“With whom would you have me dance, Mother?” James asked.

“Since you refuse to acknowledge your feelings for Eleanor, I would suggest Miss Hartwell. She seems quite agreeable.”

“Miss Dove is engaged, and I have no intention of forming an alliance with the duke.”

His mother laughed. “Miss Hartwell may be cousins with the Duke of Rothes, but that hardly means you will have constant association with him.”

James grimaced at his mother as he switched partners. To his great displeasure, he took hold of Eleanor’s hand to make a quick turn before switching back to his mother. Although they both wore gloves, the moment she placed her hand in his, his palm felt like little pins were jabbing into his skin pulling out every dormant feeling as his senses woke from a long sleep.

When he was once more with his mother, he softly spoke. “I do not wish to give rise to expectations.”

His mother’s lips twitched, which only enhanced his displeasure. She was laughing at him. “James, you do have the strangest way of thinking.” As they waited their turn to promenade forward once more, she leaned toward him. “You have a duty to your family and this community to find a wife. What would happen to Granville House if you passed from this life without an heir?”

“Harry will gladly take the mantle upon himself. He and Margaret will provide an heir. The estate will survive.”

His mother swatted his shoulder without any discretion, causing a few laughs from those nearby. “Stop teasing me. Harry is a good man, but he does not have your generosity. Nor would he dare take a stand against Rothes. Emerald Falls needs you.”

James quirked an eyebrow at his mother. “Then I will stick around as long as I am wanted.”

“What of a wife?”

“If one arrives, I shall post the banns and marry her.” As he said the words, his gaze drifted to Eleanor.

Eleanor was perfection. She was his match in every way that mattered. Intelligent. Wise. Generous. He had endless reasons for loving her, yet there were far too many angry words between them to simply put them aside and declare he still held a candle for her affections. Even more, it was painful to allow his mind to drift back to the moment everything had fallen apart. His temper was to blame. If his ancestry hadn’t been filled with generations of grumpy men, he might have had a chance at inheriting a softer countenance. But as it was, he’d never learned to control his temper. If only he had been the one under the mistletoe that fateful night, they might now be married. As it was, wishing to change the past rarely helped any situation.

When the music ended, James bowed to his mother and then led her to a chair. He turned on his heel, expecting to go off in search of another partner when he heard the tinkling of silverware against a champagne glass.

Mr. Dove stood in front of the orchestra, his glass in hand. “I would like to thank our host this evening for allowing my wife and I a moment to make an announcement.”

James turned to his mother, the question clearly written upon his face as he raised his eyebrows at her. When she had told him of the missive from Mrs. Dove, she had obviously left out important information.

“My daughter has come home to us after two years in London. She searched the ton in expectation of a match and found one in Lord Montefeltro. We could not be happier to have the count join our family.”

The applause echoed around James as Mr. Dove’s announcement replayed in his mind. Although he’d known about the engagement, there was something rather final in a public announcement. With the greatest of efforts, James put his hands together as he clapped alongside his guests. He would have to wish her joy at some point, but now was not the time. Instead of joining the well-wishers as they congregated forward, James turned toward the exit. He needed an escape.

He was nearly to the door when his mother caught up with him. “Do not spend the night regretting the past. Let it alone, James.”

If letting go of the past were so simple, he would have done so before that evening. Instead, he relived those awful last moments of their courtship every time he entered the conservatory.

It might be the nostalgia of the start of Christmastide, or perhaps it was the official announcement of her engagement, but he wanted to relive those moments, if only so he could remind himself of how dastardly stupid he had been to let Eleanor Dove walk out of his life.

James tried to give his mother a reassuring nod, but it came out as a forced smile and a jilted shake of the head. The announcement of her wedding should not have taken place at Granville House, no matter if the neighborhood already knew of the so-called happy news.

Not trusting himself to speak again, James made his way down the darkened hallway to the conservatory. The dome of glass high above his head was frozen and covered in snow, but the glass walls admitted enough moonlight that he didn’t need candles. The earthy smell of dirt from potted plants gave him a bit of comfort, even amidst the chill of standing near the windows, allowing him to breathe a little easier now that he was away from the crush of the party.

If he planned to spend the evening in this room, it would be more comfortable with a fire in the grate. He gathered a few logs of wood from the box near the door and then crouched down in front of the large fireplace to set the fire. Crumbling a bit of old newspaper, he walked out into the hall and found a candle to light a spill. Throwing it into the grate, he watched as the fire slowly came to life before him.

“I always knew you preferred the work of a common man to that of a gentleman. You have servants to do menial work for you. Whatever would convince you to set a fire on your own?” The sharp tone of the Duke of Rothes echoed through the conservatory, ruining every chance at the comfort and silence James had anticipated for the evening.

James didn’t turn to look at the duke. He already knew what he would see: A frail man of his same age sitting in a Bath chair with a cane in hand ready to hit anyone who displeased him. “The party is in the ballroom, Rothes. You should be quite comfortable in there.”

“I prefer the conservatory for now. The air is laced with self-loathing. You are aware that I bask in delight over the discomfort of others.”

“Far too well.” James stoked the fire with a poker before deciding he’d done a decent job and there was nothing left to do but allow the logs to burn.

“Then you will not mind if I take pleasure in your misfortune. It was quite enjoyable to see the tightening of every muscle as Mr. Dove announced his daughter’s engagement. You must regret the decision you made to end your courtship.”

James sat in one of the chairs near the fire. “What is it to you?”

“I have simply never seen anguish written so visibly upon your features. One would think you could offer up the same feelings for other sins you have committed.”

James allowed an audible sigh to escape before he finally turned toward the duke. “I am no more responsible for your injuries than you are, Your Grace.”

“You said that with such conviction. Now let me hear you say it as though you believe every word. For last I heard, from your own mouth, you still do not remember the events of that morning,”

“It was seventeen years ago, Rothes. You know I have no memory of that day.”

“Yet I have a clear recollection, Bailey.” Rothes slammed his cane on the chair, causing his valet to push him forward near the fire. “You put me in this chair.”

James shook his head, wishing he had chosen a room on the upper floors as his hideaway for the night. The duke could not have easily followed him to the second or third floors. “What do you want? After all this time and the constant reminders of the wrong I supposedly committed against you, what do you want from me?”

“I want to watch as you suffer.”

“Is that all?” James lay his head against the plush cushions of his armchair. He closed his eyes and crossed one leg over the other. “Then you may stay as long as you like. But do shut up. I prefer silence when I suffer a setback.”

By the following morning, James was of two minds. He wanted to leave Emerald Falls for the foreseeable future, at least until Eleanor had married her Italian count and left for the Continent. The other option, the more desirable of the two, was to declare his unending love and rekindle their affections. He was in agony over the effect of her touch during the quadrille.

Therefore, James needed advice. His mother would encourage him toward matrimony. She loved Eleanor and would do anything to have her as a daughter, even if that meant they would have to end her engagement to Montefeltro. Harry would agree with anything their mother said, and his wife would support him in whatever he chose. But Harry wasn’t there for him to consult. He and his wife were away, expecting to live their first years of marriage in France.

Sitting at the desk in his den, James held his quill as ink dripped, blotting the parchment. His friends would know how to proceed. These were people who had known him since their days at Eton. The bond they’d forged meant they could speak their minds without worry of offense. He knew there would be at least one of them with decent advice, if not all.

My Esteemed Friend,

I trust this letter finds you and your family in the best of health and spirits. I pen these lines with the heaviest of hearts and deepest befuddlement. This is the greatest request I have ever made of you, my dear friend. In an effort of openness, I request you answer with the sincerity of our long friendship, knowing I will accept all you have to say with the spirit in which it was intended: that of offering your solicited advice.

This emotional upheaval with which I struggle is regarding Miss Eleanor Dove, a lady who was once my greatest source of happiness and has now brought me to the depths of sorrow. Eleanor has returned to Emerald Falls, lovelier than before, and I find my feelings are unchanged.

I need not remind you of the fateful night two years previously when she received her mistletoe kiss. It was an unfortunate situation. One I wish had never occurred. We might have been happy, if not for that evening. Youth and na?vety on her part. And, well, you know my issue well enough. If I had long ago learned to bridle my temper, our courtship need not have ended.

Circumstances have brought her back to Emerald Falls, and in my heart, I know losing her was a mistake from which I shall never recover. But now, I have learned she is to be a contessa upon her marriage to an Italian count. I wish to stand in her way, yet if she has so easily forgotten the love we once shared, is it wrong of me to declare my intentions?

It is with this question I turn to you, my dearest friend, whose wisdom and discernment I have always esteemed. Should I indeed pursue a renewed understanding with Miss Eleanor Dove, or should I resign myself to the memories of what might have been and seek love elsewhere?

The man I have sent with this letter will wait for your response.

I remain, as ever, your faithful and devoted friend,

James A. Bailey

James copied the letter three times, blots of ink staining each page. There was nothing for it. Although he wanted their advice, he hesitated in sharing such bold intentions, which had resulted in an exaggerated lack of connection in his letters. If his mother were to see his missives, she would scold him on his penmanship. It was best he finish the job without delay. Instead of examining the words overlong, he threw a dusting of sand over each and then folded the letters, sealing them with green wax and his crest, then writing their names upon the parchment. Mr. Daniel Kaye, Mr. Alfred Deane, and Mr. Robert Cratchit.

Then, in an unprecedented move, he engaged three footmen in the task to deliver the letters providing his fastest horses for their use. One to London, one to Kettering, and one to Hamstead. Each had been given the assignment to not return until they had a response in hand.

The heaviness upon his mind lessened by a small measure. His friends would not forsake him in his hour of need. They would rally around him, offer their best advice, and then he would make the greatest decision of his life. He would either get down on both knees and beg Eleanor’s forgiveness, simultaneously destroying her chances at a marriage to Montefeltro, or he would allow her to leave his life forever.

With those two choices looming above him, he set out for the Taylor farm. Even with his soul in the greatest of turmoil, his duty could not be forgotten. The windows needed repairing, and he had only a few hours of free time as he was required to attend Boxing Day events at Dove Hall. His role this day would be to assist the ladies in the delivery of charity baskets.