Journeys Read online

  She decided to take a safe conversational path. “Like everything else I have seen here tonight, the gardens exceed my expectations. The Wickfords have put on a spectacle to be spoken of long after the last guest has departed this evening.”

  “Yes, I would agree that they spared very little expense. And they have created a pleasant place of solitude, indeed. But this garden did not bloom with a single orchid until your appearance here tonight.”

  Dorothea stared at the pathway ahead, the compliment making her feel shy.

  They approached a bench. “Would you care to take a seat?” Stratford offered.

  “Yes.” She nodded and seated herself. At first the bench felt chilly, but the warmth of their bodies soon brought it to a level of comfort.

  He sat beside her. “I am halfway surprised Lunenburg has not chased us out here in a jealous rage by now.”

  Lunenburg. She would have been just as happy not to hear his name. He had pursued her more than once over the course of the evening, but she had managed to avoid all but the most superficial conversation with him.

  She managed a chuckle. “I think he knows by now that my interest in him is limited to how he will appear in his portrait.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, he has tried—” She stopped herself. “I beg your pardon. I should never have said anything so vain.”

  “I would not consider your statement vain if it indeed reflects the truth. And I do believe it does.”

  “It does.” Dorothea looked at a nearby corner and noticed a statue of Venus.

  Stratford followed her gaze. “The mythical goddess of love.”

  She studied the statue of the robe-clad ancient beauty. “Apparently Lady Lydia is quite the romantic. Or perhaps her husband is.”

  “And you? Are you fond of romantic notions?”

  She felt a smile kiss her lips. “I have been accused of having my head in the clouds. All that reading of silly love stories, you know.”

  “You have mentioned that. I find your hobby quite charming.” He looked to the moon that broke through a clouded sky. “Just past a new moon.”

  Dorothea looked upward to see the thinnest of thin crescents in the sky. “Yes. How pretty.”

  “I will let you in on a secret. Despite all the fuss made over a full moon, I think a crescent moon is equally romantic.”

  She looked into his face. “As do I. Perhaps because it offers such an intriguing shape—and less light.” Then, realizing she had made a comment that could be construed as a flirtation, she returned her attention to the moon.

  “All the better for stolen kisses?” he whispered in her ear.

  His warm breath against her skin sent her whirling into yet another fantasyland. She wondered if he would take the opportunity to illustrate his observation. Her heart beat with longing, and she knew many women would allow their beaux to kiss them whether the moon was full or new, but she was not one of those women. She hesitated, not wanting to resist but knowing that she must.

  He glanced her way. His expression told her that his own yearning matched—or even exceeded—her own. He hesitated, then seemed to think better of it. He turned his face to the moon.

  Initial disappointment was soon overcome by relief. He had just proven beyond a doubt that he was a gentleman, one who was willing to wait for physical longings to be expressed. She realized at that moment that she had tempted him by agreeing to walk alone with him in the gardens, even though others were milling around, as well. And then she had had the nerve not to turn away her face when he mentioned a kiss.

  Father, forgive me. Tempting the man I love was not my purpose.

  “We must go back inside,” she said, determined to put her prayer into quick action.

  “Are you cold?”

  She rose from her spot on the bench. “No. No indeed. It is just that—”

  He stood beside her. “You love me. And you know I am tempted by you.”

  “I—I—”

  He took her in a gentle way by the forearms and peered into her eyes. “I do not mind saying it. I love you. I have loved you since that first moment I saw you hovering in the Syms’s foyer, looking quite afraid and anxious.”

  “So you felt sorry for me?”

  “No. I was too busy wondering how I could learn who you were to feel any pity. After all, you were wearing a fine traveling suit. You did not appear to be in any want—although I could envision you being the envy of every other woman in the parish.”

  “If I am envied by anyone, it is because I am privileged to spend time with the most sought-after man from here to London.” Though her remark could have been construed as coy, she meant what she said.

  “Do you mean Lunenburg?”

  She let out an impatient noise. “You love to exasperate me, do you not?”

  “Perhaps I am afraid that if I do not vex you, I might do something more dangerous.”

  “Then I had best keep the topic on the other man.” She tapped him on the shoulder with the tip of her fan. “Perhaps to eager investors and to a few silly women he appears to be desirable. And I suppose if I were to be fair in my assessment, I would have to admit he does possess a few good qualities—a knack for telling a story, a degree of charm—”

  Stratford cleared his throat. His dark eyebrows rose in a mocking way.

  She gave him a crooked smile. “But you possess all those things in even more abundance.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Do I? Maybe I am blinded by love.” Her tone fell to softness.

  “If you are, I pray you will remain blind to my faults all the days of your life.”

  “And may you be just as unenlightened as to mine.”

  He took her chin in his hand. She looked deeply into his eyes that glistened in the moonlight. “My dear, you are flawless.”

  A familiar voice interrupted. “There you are, Brunswick!”

  The sudden intrusion made Dorothea startle.

  Stratford also gave a little jump. He turned and glared at the figure approaching them through the shadows. “Lunenburg.”

  The name brought Dorothea down from the soft pedestal on which Stratford had just set her. Her spirit descended back to the cold, hard ground. The disruption of their interlude made her realize that her stomach had felt as though it were flitting in circles, and her head suffered a degree of lightness. If flying without wings were possible, Dorothea could have picked herself up and journeyed through the sky, up to the moon—until her feet hit the cold ground. She looked at Hans, but her mental focus remained on Stratford.

  “Do come back out of this chill,” Hans implored. “The games are commencing in the drawing room.”

  “Games. Yes.” Stratford’s voice fell flat.

  Dorothea noticed that the others who had been nearby in the garden were returning to the house. She and Stratford had no choice. Considering she had been an instant away from kissing Stratford, perhaps the interruption had been for the best.

  “Oh, how fun!” She surprised herself by the degree of enthusiasm she managed, as if Hans hadn’t interrupted the most intriguing, fascinating, thrilling, exhilarating, astounding, lovely conversation of her life. She tugged on Stratford’s sleeve. “Do let us go.”

  Hans sent Stratford a triumphant smile that suggested that he was pleased with his timing. She wished he would go on ahead of them so at least she could enjoy walking arm in arm with Stratford for a moment, but he kept pace with them, chattering and gossiping all the while. Dorothea didn’t offer any enchanting observations in return. She noticed Stratford remained reticent, as well.

  As the next hour evaporated into eternity during heated contests, Dorothea claimed not a victory that night. Stratford seemed to be off his game, as well. She didn’t wonder as to why he seemed distracted.

  ❧

  Stratford tried not to sulk as he lost game after game. Lunenburg was in fine form and relished every victory. Stratford felt certain Lunenburg’s greatest success was spurred by the t
riumph of interrupting his conversation with Dorothea. Stratford had been so close to kissing her lips—lips he had dreamed about ever since the night he first saw her.

  Maybe the Lord had used Lunenburg to keep him from acting less than a gentleman to the woman he loved. After all, he had not proposed marriage. At least not yet.

  He couldn’t concentrate well on charades, for his mind was elsewhere. On the beautiful vision sitting near him. Dorothea.

  Heavenly Father, I thank Thee in all humility that she really does love me—and not because of a sense of gratitude. And I thank Thee for letting her heart not belong to Lunenburg. Thou art aware, Lord, that I would never want any woman who harbored feelings of love for another man. I thank Thee for Thy mercy.

  Yet as he made halfhearted guesses in response to the frantic motions of his teammates, Stratford felt a tugging at his heart. He fought the tugging, but as soon as he did, his conscience pulled the mental rope with more vigor than he could stand. Like it or not, he had been sent a revelation. He had to tell Dorothea the truth.

  As soon as he could gracefully break away from the games, Stratford made his way across the room to her. A thinning crowd made his movements more obvious than they had been earlier in the evening. Still, he had to tell her. He had to catch her before Luke summoned his family to depart the festivities.

  Dorothea must have been watching him, for she didn’t hesitate to turn his way and make her excuses to the women as soon as he stood by her side.

  “I must tell you something before I leave the party,” he whispered.

  She surveyed the room. “But the people. Someone will overhear.”

  “Then let us escape to the garden.”

  She hesitated. “Should we risk going back outdoors?”

  “Do not be afraid. I will not allow my lips to venture anywhere near yours.”

  Even though I want nothing more.

  She blushed a most becoming shade of pink. “But surely someone will notice. People will talk.”

  “Then let them if they are that jealous of us. I shall not keep you long.”

  She sent him a tempting smile, one whose promise he wished he could fulfill. Instead, once they were in the garden, he made sure to remain near the light. Surely being in the open would help him keep his word that there would be no display of his yearning for her.

  She seemed to understand his meaning. “Whatever you have to tell me must be important.”

  “It is.” He kept his voice brisk on purpose.

  She clutched his forearm. “Whatever you have done or have not done, whatever secret you hold to your past, does not matter to me now. And it never will.”

  “So you think I am some sort of criminal?” He chuckled in spite of himself.

  “Intriguing, yes. A criminal, no.” Relief filled her voice all the same.

  He took her hands in his. Her soft fingers had absorbed some of the chill. He was glad he had made a gesture that would warm them. “What I have to tell you is not criminal, although I confess I have been keeping a secret from you, one that I wish to reveal before we carry on any further than we have on this night.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth dropped open in the slight manner of one who was surprised.

  “The secret concerns you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. How could he tell her? What words would be right? He searched his mind, but nothing sounded precise. Not the way he wanted it to sound. How could he tell her that he had been deceiving her all this time? Yet he had to let her know. The Holy Spirit would not want it to be any other way. He sent up a silent prayer for help.

  “Go on,” she prodded. “You can tell me anything.”

  “All right. I shall.” He took in a breath, held both of her hands even more tightly, and hoped that her fingers that had grown warm within his grasp would fortify him. He looked down at her hands, so soft and trusting, enveloped in his stronger ones. He wanted to shield her from all harm. Yes, that was it. “Ever since I saw you that first night, I have wanted to protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “From the world. From Baron von Lunenburg in particular.” Knowing that Lunenburg was really Clayton Forsythe, Stratford prided himself on his ability not to trip over his assumed name.

  Her grip on his hands loosened, though she didn’t let go. “From Hans? Why would you want to protect me from him? It is no mystery that the two of you are not the best of friends, but I have told you all about how he called in a favor with a judge so that the huge gambling debts I inherited from Father would be forgiven.”

  “Yes, you told me your story.”

  “Then you will understand why I will never forget how he helped me when I needed someone most—when no one else, not even Helen, would or could.”

  “He came to your assistance, yes. But for a price.”

  “No. That is not true.” Her eyes took on a pleading light.

  So she persisted in her innocence. He wanted nothing more than to tell her about how Lunenburg had boasted to him that his favor had just bought himself a mistress—Dorothea. Yet when he looked into her eyes, he could see the hurt that already plagued her soul, and he couldn’t tell her about Hans’s sordid plans. Even if he did, he sensed she might not believe him. And no one—not Luke and certainly not Lunenburg—would be willing to confirm his story.

  Stratford struggled to find the right words. “Dorothea.” He squeezed her hands. “Your bills were settled but not in the manner you thought.”

  “He. . .he did not keep his word? He did not write to the judge?”

  “I am sure he would have kept his word to you,” Stratford forced himself to admit. “But he did not have to call in his favor after all. I am the one who paid your father’s debts.”

  She let go of his hands. “You—you what?”

  “I paid them.”

  “You? You paid those awful men who robbed my father?” She took a step back away from him.

  Stratford tried to contain his shock. His confession wasn’t going well at all. Instead of being filled with a sense of thankfulness, she seemed furious with him. Now he wished for the gratitude he had once so feared!

  “I cannot say I condone gambling or that I harbor a great degree of sympathy or compassion for the proprietors of gaming establishments. But as Christians, can we justify not paying our debts?”

  “Of course we should pay our debts. If they are honest ones.”

  “I understand what you are trying to say,” he hastened to admit. “Believe me, Dorothea, I have struggled with this. Words are inadequate to explain how much and how long this has troubled me. But in fact, there are no provisions or exceptions in the Bible regarding whatever we owe. As far as I can see, all debts are to be paid in full.”

  She looked at the flat stone in front of her feet.

  Taking compassion upon what had to be her embarrassment, Stratford sought to comfort her. “During my struggle, I found comfort in a certain passage and put it to memory. Jesus told us in the Gospel of St. Matthew, ‘But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.’”

  “I congratulate you on your excellent memorization and perhaps even application of that particular passage of scripture.” Her tone held anything but praise. “But St. Matthew also wrote that Jesus said that we should love our neighbor as ourselves. And if you had taken that scripture to heart, you would have shown me enough Christian love to trust me with such vital information about my own life.”

  “I battled with that, truly I did. But I never wanted you to love me out of gratitude alone. Such an emotion can easily be confused with love.”

  “Especially by a weak-minded woman such as myself?” Her voice registered not anger but hurt.

  Mortification at her response str
uck his heart. “I would never say such. I cannot believe you could harbor such a notion after all the conversations we have shared over these past months.”

  “You are so high-minded that you cannot even bring yourself to think of me as a weak-minded woman?”

  “No. No, I tell you.”

  “So you say. But based on your actions, I find your protests hard to swallow. Can you really believe that I am so feeble in both mind and will that I would accept a suitor on the basis of gratitude alone?”

  “No. I do not.”

  “If only I could believe you. Good evening, Lord Brunswick.” She turned and started to walk back toward the house.

  He picked up his steps to join her. “But that is not the entire story. I have much more to say. If only you will listen—”

  She failed to turn but rather increased her pace. “Good evening, Lord Brunswick.”

  “Please, I—”

  His entreaties fell on her back. He stopped himself as he saw that chasing her was of no use. Stratford had paid a dear price indeed for his confession. He had lost her forever.

  Ten

  As he went home that evening, Stratford could hardly believe the turn of events. How could the happiest night of his life so suddenly turn into the bitterest? How could one confession take Dorothea so near a kiss to fleeing in the opposite direction?

  Cringing as he recalled the dispute, Stratford wondered how he would ever see her on friendly terms again. He remembered the hurt and disappointment he saw on her face. He remembered how she had spun on her heel and flown back into the house. He had searched the thin crowd for her, but she had disappeared. No doubt she had convinced Helen and Luke to take her home without delay. How much of his confession had she revealed to them? Did they think him a fool—or worse?

  What did it matter? He didn’t care what anyone thought of him except for Dorothea. Granted, fear of her continued ire had discouraged him from making an assertive effort to regain her favor. He took comfort in the fact that she had spoken no more than a few courtesies to anyone present.