Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

Miles sat across from his mother in the small drawing room of his home. She made an effort to visit him once a month, and he rode to the rectory at least that often to have Sunday dinner with his family. Since he had just seen his mother at Rivenwood, he had not expected her to visit so soon. The timing allowed him to tell her his plans for the near future.

"Here I thought I was coming to congratulate you on your team's win yesterday, and now you are telling me I am to say goodbye? You cannot mean to leave so soon. I thought ..." His mother blinked away her surprise and leaned over to pour him more tea.

"You thought what?"

"Oh, it hardly matters now." Her voice faded only to grow excited again. "But what about your friends? You have a wedding to attend."

His mother was very pretty and looked far younger than she was. She didn't have his dimples, but she had given him her dark, curly hair. He had always been close to her. Maybe it was the natural consequence after the death of a parent. The oldest child and the remaining parent had to rely on each other. Even after Mama remarried, their bond had not lessened. Still, she had no idea the suffocating hurt he was feeling. He had kept this part of himself from her all these years, and he intended to keep it that way.

He shrugged and smiled as if leaving Brookeside for a time was a natural, regular thing for him to do. "I will write a letter of congratulations," he finally said. "Mr. Bentley and Miss Fielding will not even notice my absence. They will be far too absorbed in celebrating. No one will mind if I am gone for a few months."

His mother studied him for a moment before lowering her shoulders in resignation. "I suppose my already very busy husband can step in while you are away." She gave him an exaggerated sigh.

"I had hoped it would be the case. I have a letter I wrote to him this morning. Will you take it to him?"

"You know I will." She brought her teacup to her lips and took a small sip. "Just promise me one thing."

He nodded, running his thumbs over the smooth porcelain of his cup.

"Have a good chat with your friends before you leave and tell them what is on your mind."

Her wisdom was to be respected. She could see there was more to the conversation than he was letting on. He would do his best to reassure her. "Easily done, Mama. I plan to meet a few of my friends this afternoon in fact." Not the women ... and especially not Jemma. The men had made him agree to meet them after his picnic with Mrs. Fortescue. They had said they wanted to commiserate with him—no one had predicted she would make the highest bid—but he wondered if they really wanted to laugh at every ridiculous part of his experience.

But as soon as he finished chatting with his friends, he would be gone. He didn't plan to say goodbye to anyone else. He glanced at his undrunk tea, unable to find his appetite or even rally his thirst. He just needed time to sort himself out. He would write another book to purge his heart and return after a few months with his feelings in check. It wasn't a solid plan but a desperate one.

y

Jemma tucked Miles's book into her reticule, not wanting to be far from it. Last night, her world had shifted again, but this morning, with the sun streaming through the window, she felt hopeful. After thanking Lord and Lady Felcroft again, as well as Tom and Cassandra, for caring for her so well, she joined Mrs. Manning and Lisette in the carriage home.

Lisette had not made a formal announcement about her engagement yet. Mr. Bentley had said they wanted a few days to talk among themselves before sharing the news with everyone. Jemma wondered if they did not speak of it out of courtesy to her—to give her time to make a plan before everyone bombarded her with their sympathies and questions. Jemma would not allow such silliness to persist, but for this morning, she let it be. Indeed, there was a great deal to think about.

Once in her room, she collapsed on her bed. The short trip hadn't tired her, but her head still throbbed. And more than this, she was lost in her thoughts.

"Pardon me, miss," a maid said from the door.

Jemma sat up. "What is it?"

"A stack of letters has collected for you in the past few days. Mr. Manning kept it until you were well enough to sort through it. Would you like me to bring it to you now?"

Mail? For her? Most of her correspondence usually came from the Rebels when they were apart. Who could be writing to her? Maybe it was an answer from the magazine! Just the distraction she needed. "I can take it now. Thank you."

Instead of handing her a few letters, the maid returned with an entire sack.

"All of those are for me?"

The maid nodded.

Jemma directed her to the small writing desk. The maid poured the contents onto her desk.

"What in the world?" Jemma picked up the first one and studied her name across the front. "That will be all, thank you."

The maid left her alone with her gigantic pile of mysterious letters. Jemma's curiosity could wait no longer. She took her file and sliced open the first seal. Bank notes fell out. She touched the money—not a small sum—before directing her attention back to the letter. She could hardly believe it. The money was for the Greek refugees!

Letter after letter, the money piled up.

And several mentioned why.

In response to Mr. Miles Jackson and his efforts to support the tragedy in Chios Island, we send this money to the care of Miss Jemma Fielding, as requested.

She was not usually so emotional, but once again, she was crying. The Greek people were going to receive thousands of pounds of relief money. Even a pragmatic person could see how incredibly touching this gift was.

"Miles, you deserve someone far better." She sank back in her chair and covered her mouth with her hand. She did not know how long she stayed there, staring in awe at the unfolded papers.

A knock sounded, and the maid was back with another letter in her hand. "This just arrived for you, miss."

How many people did Miles know? And they all must love him tremendously to respond with such generosity.

She accepted the letter and returned to her desk. When she unfolded this one, however, the contents were not what she'd expected. Folded inside was a single news sheet—the gossip column. Someone had taken the time to circle the most humorous and outrageous tidbits, nothing scurrilous or vulgar or even life-changing in the gossip but just a few humorous lines to make her smile—just as she liked.

Lord Greene blackballed thirteen times from being admitted to Brooks Gentleman's club, only for his friends to discover he had sabotaged himself because he preferred his own company best.

She laughed and read another.

Lord Bergren found dead in his house. Deceased for more than six months, and yet his wife never knew it. She was still spoon feeding him broth and porridge every morning.

"No ... it cannot be true!" Jemma shook her head and read another.

The honorable Bartholomew Wimple discovered to be named after the family dog.

She giggled and set down the paper, saving the rest to read later. She was too overwhelmed with this burning glow in her chest. Miles had sent her the paper. No one else knew her better. The money for the charity, the poems, the auction—he had done it all for her. Even now he was probably assisting Mrs. Fortescue into her chair so they could have a picnic together.

How she loved him.

Why had she forced him from her life? He not only belonged in it, but he was also what made it worth living. She had to fix things between them.

"Oh, Jemma!" She chewed on her thumbnail. What should she do? Or maybe she should be asking what Mr. Romantic would do. Surely something in his lessons could help her. Or something he had not taught her but had demonstrated ...

If he was willing to humiliate himself on her behalf, well, so was she. She might regret it later, but she had an idea worthy of the next gossip column. All in the name of love, of course.

After this, no one would mistake how she felt about Miles Jackson—including him. Which was exactly what she wanted. It was time for the vicar to take a wife. If all went well, Mr. Romantic would no longer claim the title of most eligible bachelor but would have the title of most doting husband.

If it didn't work, Jemma would likely be thrown out of Brookeside. As a Rebel, she always liked high stakes. As a woman in pursuit of a man, she utterly feared them. She went to her closet and pulled out Grandmother's lace shawl and draped it around her shoulders. She went to the window and glanced up at the white, full clouds.

"Wish me luck, Grandmother. It isn't about my promise to you anymore." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat to finish. "Even so, I would like you to witness my greatest effort yet."