AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He obviously didn’t notice. “We could be married in spring after Easter. A longer engagement would seem prudent, allowing time to prove yourself.”
Blink. Blink.“Prove myself?”
She would have appreciated it if he had displayed the least bit of embarrassment. But he did not. “Yes. To prove you’ve repented from your former life.”
Ah, there, the lightest tinge of pink at the tips of his ears. Thank goodness. Perhaps he was human after all. “You must know that the . . . events three years prior while you were in London are common knowledge among the parishioners. However, I’m confident that in due time you will demonstrate you’ve renounced the hedonistic lifestyle many in London’s society pursue. Dedication to serving the poor, tending the sick and suffering of our parish will prove to those around us your devotion to a simpler country life.”
She supposed it was fortunateoneof them was confident in the matter. She, however, was not.
“Shall I speak with your mother? It would be better to speak with your father, but I will write to him forthwith for his permission and blessing.”
All the air in the room stilled, as if each particle hung on her answer. Should she accept and resign herself to a dull life as a country curate’s wife? Or should she refuse, effectively losing what could be her only possible chance at marriage? At three-and-twenty, she edged closer and closer to being on the shelf.
She weighed her options carefully, neither palatable, but one decidedly more agreeable than the other. The one thing she swore she would never be was a spinster.
“That would be lovely, Mr. Netherborne.”
* * *
Edinburgh, Scotland, December 14th, 1826
Timothy Marbry finished packinghis valise, anxious to return home for Christmastide. He’d sent trunks with the bulk of his belongings ahead of him. It had been several months since he’d seen his family. He’d posted his letters—one to his parents and another to his sister Bea and her husband Laurence—a week prior, notifying them of his expected arrival. The families had decided to celebrate the holiday in London, no doubt to fuss over Bea’s first child who had been born that spring.
His studies to finish his medical training had progressed nicely, and he passed all his exams. Perhaps the family would have a double celebration.
Unlike most people who loved Christmas, Timothy dreaded the holiday. Oh, he’d loved it in his youth: the festive decorations of holly and ivy around the estate, the family gatherings, the wassailing.
Now it dredged up memories of pain and loss along with the oppressive guilt.
Still, he would put on a cheerful face for his family—his mother mainly—grit his teeth, and suffer through as any good soldier was commanded to do.
A heaviness settled on him like a great weight pressing upon his chest as he lifted the valise, tying it to the saddle, and mounted the horse. He’d have eight days to prepare himself, practicing his polite smile and devising pranks to play on his sister—nothing too startling. Perhaps a toad disguised as a gift.
Scratch that. Bea would most likely declare it a perfect gift and devise some form of experimentation to perform on the poor creature.
A smile tugged at his lips at the thought of Beatrix. Who would have predicted that his bluestocking sister and his best friend would have made the perfect couple? He’d expected Bea to remain single all her days, and he’d been more than willing to have her join his household when his father died and left him the title.
Timothy took care of his own.
And he loved Bea.
Contrary to the belief that his sister’s ability to make a love match would encourage hope for his own, Timothy had no such ideation. He’d witnessed too much in his one-and-thirty years to believe in fairy tales.
Convinced that couples like his sister and Laurence deluded themselves, believing physical attraction equated a deep, undying love, Timothy took a much more practical approach.
When it came time for him to marry, he would choose a wife using reason rather than emotion. He didn’t require much, but as the future Viscount Saxton, he would insist she be respectable and held in society’s high esteem.
Of course, physical attraction of some degree was important. He would be expected to produce an heir after all, and being attracted to one’s wife would further that goal. But he hoped to find a level-headed woman with whom he shared the same values and opinions.
But of all the criteria he demanded in a wife, passionate love was not among them. The passion of love—if the emotion existed at all—created turmoil, and Timothy wanted none of it. In his experience, passion only led to rash decisions, heartache, and guilt borne from deadly consequences. Not only was passion not required, it was to be avoided at all costs.
After an uneventful five days into his journey, he stopped for the night in Newark-On-Trent at a posting inn. Weary to the bone, he’d failed to heed the innkeeper’s comments about the weather.
“Must be a bad storm coming. My rheumatism has been bothering me all day,” the man said.
Timothy pulled out a packet of willow bark from his bag. “Steep two spoonfuls of this in some boiling water for a tea. Add honey to sweeten if you like, as it can be bitter. It should ease your discomfort.”
The man thanked him, albeit glancing suspiciously at the package of bark.
