Chapter Thirty-Three

Briggs

“Briggs, my boy!” cries Uncle Richard as his butler lets our party into his townhouse. “You look absolutely awful.”

My uncle invited August, Westley, and Sabrina to London for Aunt Phyliss’s fiftieth birthday celebration, and while this week’s events have left me bereft of any capability for merriment, I managed to gather my strength and tag along. For whatever reason, Mother declined the invitation, complaining of a persistent cough that would make her poor company. It doesn’t matter anyway.

Besides, if I’m going to propose to Sabrina Dixon, I might as well get it over with. Better to do it here, a place with no sentimental value, rather than at Mistlethrush.

“I’m fine, Uncle,” I assure him. “Just a bit under the weather.”

“Nothing that a trip to London can’t cure,” says Sabrina with a smile, latching herself to my arm. How her personality has blossomed over the course of a matter of weeks is baffling. The shy wallflower I met at the beginning of summer has stepped out of her shell into someone confident, forward, self-assured, and I can’t be sure if it’s my attention rather than my affection that inspires her.

“You couldn’t be more right, my dear,” says Uncle Richard. “Now get yourselves settled and ready for this evening. My dear Phyliss has invited far too many people, ordered an inordinate amount of food, and not nearly enough liquor.” With that, he pours himself a whisky and settles into his armchair near the fire, leaving the rest of us to freshen up for the evening.

I take the opportunity to disappear into my room, shut the door behind me, and escape from Sabrina’s constant commentary. The carriage ride was too bumpy, the horses’ snouts were too long to be from respectable breeding, she hadn’t brought the right feather for her hair for this evening’s birthday celebrations, my jokes were trying too hard. I have to admit, I liked her better when she said nothing at all.

I lean against the door, locking myself in. The silence of the room engulfs me, and when I close my eyes, I begin to sweat. My heart pounds incoherently in my chest, and my fingertips feel numb. I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs won’t allow it.

“Briggs?” comes Westley’s voice from the opposite side of the door.

I want to tell him to come in, that something’s happening, but my voice, along with my breath, is gone.

“Briggs, are you in there?”

I can’t answer him, but I stumble back to the nightstand. It slams against the wall as I pull desperately at my cravat.

“I’m coming in.”

He jiggles the doorknob, which is pointless because I locked it. I can hear his muffled voice telling someone to stand back, and on the count of three, he dislodges the door from the frame and immediately crosses the room to me, followed closely by Julian Browning.

“Sit down on the bed,” says Julian, his hand on my neck, guiding me to a seated position. “Put your head between your knees and take deep breaths.”

“What’s happening?” Westley asks. “What’s going on?”

“He’s panicking,” explains Julian.

“I thought only women did that.”

Julian scoffs. “Oh, please don’t tell me you actually believe that nonsense? That men can’t be anxious or upset?”

“Well, I’ve never seen a man like this,” says Westley, gesturing in my direction. “Look at him. I’m about to get the smelling salts.”

“How ridiculous. Your best friend is over here visibly suffering, and you’re busy emasculating him.”

“Not,” I manage to choke out, “helping.”

“Sorry, Briggs,” says Westley. I hear him pour a glass of water from the pitcher beside my bed. “Here, drink this. Slowly, now.”

I sit up and sip the drink carefully, allowing the cool water to trickle down my throat.

“There we are,” says Julian, sitting down on the bed beside me. “Feeling better?”

I nod. “I didn’t realize you were joining us.”

“A last-minute invitation from Mr. Parker.”

After two, then three deep breaths, I’m able to ask, “Is your cousin well?”

Julian clears his throat, shifting carefully. “Blythe is…well. As well as can be. She’s returned home to Awendown with Sir Anthony and Lady Rowley, and Amy of course. I think she’s happy that summer is over and she can get back to her routines.”

“And Sir Anthony is feeling better?”

Westley crosses his arms over his chest. “You were just about to die, Goswick, and now you’re making pleasantries. What’s going on?”

I rub my eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Attend your aunt’s birthday party?” Julian asks.

Shaking my head, I respond, “Marry Sabrina.”

Julian crosses one leg over the other. “Ah, I didn’t even realize that option was still on the table. Please, continue.”

“I don’t love her, Westley.”

Westley shrugs. “I know.”

“But I…” The words jumble in my throat, and I’m not able to get them out articulately. So I take another sip of water and stare at the gold-framed landscape across the room from me.

Slowly, Westley takes his seat on the opposite side of me. “It’s the unfortunate truth that many men, and dare I say even more women, are forced to make sacrifices that often include marrying someone they hold no affection for.” He gives me a knowing look, and I feel certain he means more than just myself when he says those words. With a small sigh, he continues. “I know how important Mistlethrush is to you. And Sabrina is many things,” he adds softly, taking the glass out of my hand and setting it on the nightstand again. “If one of those things is the woman who can help you keep Mistlethrush, then so be it, Briggs.”

Mistlethrush, I think. The place where I feel most at ease.

I close my eyes, ushering in the image of Sabrina Dixon in the drawing rooms, hosting dinner parties and balls. But she can’t stay long when it’s Blythe’s figure who chases her away.

It’s always been Blythe when I think of home.

…

Within the span of two hours, Uncle Richard and Aunt Phyliss welcome more people into their home than I thought was physically possible. I stand on the outskirts of their largest drawing room, sipping my drink and watching the guests mingle and interact. Sabrina looks happy. She bought a new dress especially for the occasion, telling me that she wished to impress my family. She greets everyone as though she were to be mistress of this house rather than Mistlethrush, and it all comes so naturally to her.

I decide to make a mental list of her good qualities. She is pretty. In a conventional, sort of expected way, but still. Pretty. She is very presentable. Sharp-tongued when she wants to be. Though maybe a bit too sharp. She occasionally draws blood, but still. Not a total fool. Good. She is well connected, and she will never drag the Goswick name through the mud. Not the way my father did.

I finish my drink in one determined swallow and decide that this is it. I’ve made a decent enough list of all of her fine qualities, and I’ve had enough to drink that I can keep my more terrifying fears at bay until the morning, so now let’s do it. It’s now or never. Once more unto the breach.

“Mr. Goswick!”

I’m intercepted mid-stride by an attractive older woman who looks familiar, and she’s grinning at me and calling me by my name, so surely we’ve met. When my eyes focus, I recognize her. “Lady Tisdale,” I say, bowing. “I had no idea you would be here this evening.”

She beams in my direction. “I’m a close friend of your aunt Phyliss. We grew up together in Hampshire.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Where is your lovely friend I met on your last visit to London? Miss Rowley.” She brings her drink to her lips, waiting for my reply. My chest cinches, and from across the room, I see Julian watching me. He nods in encouragement.

“I’m afraid Miss Rowley has returned home to Awendown House.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” says Lady Tisdale. And I take note of her tone. I’m surprised by it, actually. She seems genuinely sorry—not just saying it because it’s the polite thing to do—and my muscles relax.

“It is,” I agree. “Her company is much missed.”

Lady Tisdale offers me a knowing smile and tilts her head to the side. “I was hoping to discuss her business with her. I have never been so impressed with a lady so young. Her poise and her wit. She is a rare beauty.”

Oh, God, please not now. I just drank half a bottle of wine to bolster my courage, and let me tell you, its fortitude is precarious. One more compliment about Blythe Rowley, and Lady Tisdale may very well undo me.

“She is,” I say with every ounce of composure I can manage. “I know of no other young lady who is her equal.”

Lady Tisdale’s eyes rove over my shoulder to where Sabrina smiles brightly with two other young ladies in conversation. “And don’t let yourself forget that,” she says.

I nod once, my face feeling flushed, and I have to escape her. I have to escape this feeling that Blythe is the only woman who should ever occupy my thoughts and feature in my dreams for the rest of my life. “Will you excuse me, my lady?” I ask with a bow. “There is pressing business I must attend to.”

“Of course,” she says graciously. “I wouldn’t keep you.”

“Thank you.” I place my empty glass on the tray of a passing footman and make my way across the room to Sabrina.

She still chats with the two ladies, but when I tell her there’s something rather important I’d like to ask her, she smiles knowingly, and for whatever reason, that makes my blood boil.

“I can’t imagine what is it you need to discuss with me that requires you to speak in private at such a festive event,” she says, loud enough for those close by to hear as I lead her through the drawing room and to the foyer, now empty of guests.

Several torches glow against the impending darkness of night, and while I know her expression will be more than visible even in this low lighting, I can’t bring myself to look at her. “Miss Dixon, if you would please follow me into my uncle’s study.”

“Of course,” she says as I close the door to the room halfway. “But a study is a place of business transactions. If you’re about to profess your undying love for me, this hardly seems the appropriate setting. Though I can’t pretend I didn’t have some semblance of an inkling, Goswick.”

That she calls me by my surname so casually makes me wish to protest, but I hold my tongue. Soon enough, she’ll call me by my given name, and that will be even worse. “I think you know by now what I wish to ask you.”

She sits primly in my uncle’s stuffed armchair, her hands clasped in her lap, and her blue eyes large and waiting. “I do,” she replies. “And I understand that this question is born out of necessity, so please do not feel obligated to pretend to be in love with me.”

“What do you mean, necessity?” I take several coordinated steps closer, my hands gripped tightly behind my back.

She at least has the decency to blush at this, unable to meet my gaze. “Rumor has it you were once reckless and lost your family’s fortune, and now you must pick up the pieces.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she continues before I can utter a word.

“Lucky for you, my dowry is more than ample. And I do not require love in a match. I am willing to let you marry me.”

“You’ll let me marry you,” I repeat, as if by saying it out loud once more, I will be able to wrap my head around the meaning of the words. I let out a shaky breath.

“I knew what you wanted all summer. You even enlisted Miss Rowley to do your bidding, and at first, I was not at all interested, I’ll admit. But after you rescued me at the summer garden party—”

“From the sea?” I ask. “When you were caught in the current?”

She frowns and shakes her head. “No, no. At the ball, when no one would dance with me. I realized what you had that I required. So I’m willing to make the sacrifice, if that’s what it takes.”

“You think marrying me would be a sacrifice?”

She pulls at her slacking glove. “We must all make sacrifices. You, yourself, are making a sacrifice, and I wouldn’t expect you to pretend otherwise.”

“I cannot pretend to feel otherwise. You’re correct, Miss Dixon.”

And then the words all come together. Everything I’m feeling, everything I’ve hidden for the entire summer. I have been a dutiful son, a dutiful brother, and a dutiful landlord. I have stretched myself thin trying to find every which way to save my family, and to save my home, and to save my tenants. I have sacrificed my time, my sanity, and my good name, and now? I’ve reached the end.

I cannot sacrifice my heart.

“I can’t do this,” I say.

Sabrina’s brows pinch together. “I don’t understand.”

“We can not be wed, Miss Dixon.”

“I’m still confused.” She offers a forced giggle, then glances around the room, as though something in the corner might provide her clarity. “You have to.”

“I don’t, actually. I don’t have to do anything. Especially betray myself and my feelings. I have spent the entire summer in pursuit of you, as you so clearly saw. And I was determined to abide by my good sense, whatever amount I thought I had, rather than my heart. I have spent too much of the past four years of my life pursuing pleasure and revelry and thought you would be a prudent choice to change all of that.”

She gives me no hint that she understands, so I continue.

“But I cannot betray my feelings any longer.”

“Please tell me this is a joke,” says Sabrina, her eyes suddenly wide with what I can only imagine is desperation.

“I find nothing humorous in anything I’ve said.”

Sabrina lurches from her chair, grabbing my arm. “Please,” she says. “You can’t leave me like this. Everyone believes you are about to propose marriage to me, and if you don’t—”

“If I don’t…what?” I ask.

Her eyes well with tears, her mouth quivering. “Then I will be even more of a disgrace than I was when I first arrived at Mistlethrush.”

I don’t know what Sabrina means, but her entire body shakes before me, and I grasp both her arms and lead her back to her chair. “Miss Dixon, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, lowering her gently onto her seat, actually feeling a bit sorry for her all of a sudden. “How were you in any way a disgrace?”

She’s crying now, hiccupping little sobs as she attempts to piece together a sentence. “I was in love,” she says. “I was in love with a solicitor, and my father would not consent to the marriage.” She covers her eyes with her hands, tears flooding down her cheeks. “So we tried to elope. My father found out and stopped it before it could happen.”

I reach into my waistcoat and provide her with a handkerchief, which she accepts gratefully, blowing her nose and then trying to catch her breath.

“What happened then?” I ask, squatting down beside her and holding her hand.

“My father sent me away to stay with an aunt in Surrey, and I tried, Mr. Goswick. I tried so hard to forget him, but every time I closed my eyes, he was there. Do you have any idea how that feels? When you’re so desperate to forget a person, but everything reminds you of them?”

I smile gently. “Yes, I have some notion of the sensation.”

“Almost a year after Papa died, I returned to London for my mother’s wedding to Mr. Parker’s father, and I tried to find him, but his office was closed, the windows boarded up, and I was too ashamed to ask anyone I knew about him. Soon after, we moved to Brompton Place, and I thought I could start over, the rumors of my shame over the failed elopement to a solicitor left far behind in London. But enough people, like Sir Simon, knew about it, and I was suddenly a social pariah. At balls, no one would speak or dance with me, as though I committed murder rather than try to marry the man I loved. So I started saying I would never marry, but I think that was all a ruse, even for myself. It was easier to protect myself that way. If I said that I did not wish to marry, then perhaps no one would wonder why no gentleman ever courted me.”

My brows pinch together at this, and I stroke the top of her hand with my thumb. All this time, Sabrina was nursing a broken heart—not only for the loss of the man she loved, but for the loss of her reputation. Anger coils deep within me for her, for the fact that she’s been punished for the simple act of falling in love.

“But when you danced with me at the summer garden party, a gentleman of a noble family? I thought perhaps fitting in might make me forget about my broken heart.” She sniffs pitifully.

Quietly I ask, “And did it?”

Sabrina blinks at me with her wide blue eyes. “No.” She lets out a sound that is both a laugh and a cry. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Goswick. I know you’re in love with Miss Rowley. And she is clearly besotted with you. I should not have been so heinous to either of you; I confess perhaps I was a bit jealous of your happiness.” Looking up from her lap, Sabrina presses her lips together and takes a deep breath. “Perhaps you can find the happily-ever-after with her I could not with my Mr. Lambert.”

“Your Mr.…” My mind falters for a moment, scrambling to put the pieces together. “Did you say Mr. Lambert?”

Sabrina nods, sniffing into my handkerchief once more.

“And he was a solicitor?”

“Yes, he was.” Finally, she looks up, frowning in confusion. “Why?”

Standing, I run my hand through my hair. “Mr. Sebastian Lambert?”

Sabrina jolts from her chair. “You know him?” she asks, digging her fingernails into my arm.

I grin down at her. “Not only do I know him, Miss Dixon, but I consider him one of my closest friends. Will you allow me to reacquaint the two of you?”

Her tears come again, more forcefully now, and she wraps her arms around my neck. “Oh, Mr. Goswick. You cannot be serious,” she cries into my shoulder. “I-I’d be so grateful.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Dixon.”

After a few minutes, I leave her in the study to gather herself, and I slip out a side door that leads to a small garden in the back of my uncle’s house. My heart is racing, but my shoulders feel lighter than they have in months.

I suck in breath after breath of cold night air. And then I laugh. I laugh hysterically, actually, bending at the waist and gripping my knees. The weight is finally off my shoulders, and while I cannot make things right with Blythe, I at least don’t have to dread the prospect of being married to Sabrina Dixon until death do us part. I know I might lose Mistlethrush, and it will break me to leave behind all the hardworking people there, but at least their next landlord will take better care of them than I will be able to. At least in losing Mistlethrush, I’ll maintain my self-respect.

It’s the most euphoric I’ve felt this week. This entire summer…other than when I was kissing Blythe.

In the shadows of the garden, someone clears their throat to alert me to their presence.

“Oh,” I say, my laughter dwindling, but I know the inane grin on my face is still present. Lady Tisdale stands beside the stone bench she only just occupied. “I didn’t see you there, my lady. I apologize.”

“No, please don’t,” she says. “I was getting some fresh air, and I didn’t want to interrupt your obvious merriment.” She walks toward the door but pauses, staring at the handle within her grasp. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I promise,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine. “But as I stepped outside, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Miss Dixon. And while it might not be my place to say, I am relieved that you will both find happiness, even if it is not together.”

I smile and nod, clasping my hands behind my back and joining her at the door. “I am, too, my lady.”

She touches my arm. “It is a shame that so often society requires us to sacrifice our happiness for the sake of propriety, don’t you think?”

“I agree,” I say, though I don’t want to let on just how strongly I agree. I hardly know the woman. I think.

She takes a deep breath. “You are becoming a good man, Briggs Goswick. I know your father would be proud.”

I open the door for her and watch as she makes her way back to the drawing room with the rest of the guests, and I wonder if it’s her. I wonder if she’s the woman my father was in love with for so long. It’s a strange sensation to put a face to someone I’ve only imagined, someone who was, at all times, wicked, and to realize she’s so decidedly not.

I shake the thought from my mind and rejoin my friends.