The Heir of Brownlie Manor Read online

  “I cannot fathom it,” she said, “and yet, the loving decision—the right decision—is to give my child a chance at a good life, and I can never offer that.” He heard her sniffle and could see enough movement to know she was pressing a handkerchief to her face. Following a passage of silence, she added stoutly, “Forgive me, sir, for running on with complaints. Truly, your kindness will never be forgotten. Whatever happens, Mr. Fitzbatten . . . Thomas . . . I will always remember your goodness and generosity.”

  Thomas let out a shallow gasp before he even recognized the reason for it. His heart quickened even before his mind recalled vividly the moment he’d been staring at that magnificent little butterfly, and his silent, urgent plea. Bring something good to me. The memory flashed so clearly into his mind that ignoring it was impossible. It was as if the finger of God had tapped him on the shoulder while a powerful voice echoing within himself whispered, Take notice of this moment.

  “Is something wrong?” Ruth asked him.

  “No,” he said, so overcome that he never could have begun to explain. He was still thinking about it, trying to convince himself that it meant nothing, when the carriage halted. Perhaps with the hope that he could figure out what he was feeling, he wanted to prolong their time together a little longer.

  Gib opened the carriage door, and Thomas stepped out while Gib said, “I will be glad to escort the lady to the inn while you make an appearance at the pub, sir. Both are within walking distance of here.”

  “Thank you, Gib,” Thomas said, “but I will escort her myself. I will meet you back here.”

  “Very good, sir,” Gib said, and Thomas reached his hand into the carriage to help Ruth step out. He felt her fingers slip into his, and a warmth rushed through him that seemed an echo of what he had felt moments ago. He felt drawn to her for reasons that made no sense. He felt responsible for her when he’d not even known of her existence earlier this evening. And he hadn’t even seen her face. As she stepped into the glow of a street lamp and pushed back the hood of her cloak, his mind quickly tallied her features. She was average. Average height, average build, average brown hair plaited and pinned up. She was pretty in an average kind of way; the type of woman to get lost in a crowd and never be noticed. She then turned to look at him, as if to assess him with the same kind of appraising gaze. And when he looked into her eyes he saw nothing average at all. If the eyes were indeed windows to the soul, then her soul surely had a depth and breadth he could never comprehend. But when she looked up at his face, those fascinating eyes widened as if in terror. She gasped aloud and stepped back from him as if she feared he might harm her.

  “What is it?” he asked, glad that Gib had gone off in the direction of the pub. “What’s wrong?”

  “Forgive me,” she said, one hand over her heart and one over her belly as if it might protect her unborn child. “It’s just that . . .” She didn’t seem to want to explain, but neither did she stop staring at him. “Forgive me,” she said again and looked down, laughing tensely to cover her embarrassment. “You just . . . look so much like someone I know. The resemblance is striking. It caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  Thomas could accept her explanation—most of it, anyway. Something about her reaction left him uneasy, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. Hoping to ease her discomfort, he told her in all honesty, “I met a man in France once who looked so much like my dead uncle that for a moment I thought he’d come back to haunt me. Given what a stodgy old thing he’d been, I was truly terrified.”

  His little story made her laugh, which eased the tension. “I’ve heard it said we all have someone in the world who is our double.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that too,” he said and offered his arm. “Let me see you safely to the inn, Miss Dawson, and your uncle will come for you in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” she said and put a hand over his arm. She appeared to be relaxed, but he distinctly felt her hand trembling.

  Chapter Two

  ARRANGED AND CONVENIENT

  By the time Thomas had escorted Ruth Dawson the short distance to the inn, he was feeling the very thing he’d been longing to feel ever since his return: purpose and meaning. Perhaps it was simply being able to help this woman and her child in a way that would spare them both from a life of misery. He told himself that’s all it was, while at the same time he felt so keenly aware of her that he had to focus on his breathing enough to remember to exhale.

  As they approached the door to the inn, she stopped walking and put a hand over her mouth.

  “Are you ill?” he asked, having heard that pregnancy could affect a woman adversely in many ways.

  “Truthfully . . . I just need a little something to eat. They serve meals here, do they not?”

  “They do, but . . . I thought they’d given you a good supper at the manor.”

  “Oh, they did,” she said. “Thank you. I just . . . perhaps if I could just get some bread to take to my room, I’ll be fine. There’s no need for concern.” She moved toward the door and away from him as if to imply that he’d done his duty in escorting her safely to her destination, but he opened the door and followed her in, which seemed to surprise her. He insisted that she sit down at one of the tables across the room from the few remaining customers. He arranged for her room and asked that some bread and cheese and milk be brought for the lady. He sat down across the table from her, which also seemed to surprise her, but when she looked at him he saw that hint of terror again. Whoever it was that he strongly resembled was not someone she liked; of that he was certain.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked in little more than a whisper before she glanced around the room as if someone might be watching. “Aren’t you afraid that someone will see you, that scandal will come from this?”

  “I have never cared what people think of me, Miss Dawson.”

  “But . . . surely . . . you don’t want to be seen at an inn with . . . a woman like me.”

  “Like you?” he countered, perhaps wanting to test her true feelings on such matters.

  “You can’t be so naive, Mr. Fitzbatten. It only takes a glance to see from the way I’m dressed that I do not belong in the company of a gentleman. You have been so kind. I don’t want to cause further trouble for you. I assure you that I will be fine.”

  “Your manner of speaking is rather refined for a woman like you,” he finished with light sarcasm.

  “The lady I’ve been working for helped me with that so that I could get better positions.”

  “And you left that job?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Did this lady who employed you not care enough about you to help?”

  “She would have thrown me out. At least leaving on my own allowed me to leave with some dignity.”

  “And do you think that I would be like her? Like the people you worked for? Just because of my wealth? My name?” She said nothing, and he couldn’t help sounding mildly snide. “You can’t answer that because you would have to admit that you have assumed all people of my class are arrogant and selfish. Truthfully, I didn’t notice how you’re dressed, because I was looking at you. And again . . . I don’t care what anyone thinks, or what they say. It is your reputation and your safety that concern me. I will leave when I know that you are well and have all that you need. That’s what a gentleman does. It has nothing to do with social class.” She looked mildly stunned, and he couldn’t resist adding, “I can’t help wondering which social class begat the man who treated you so cruelly.”

  “Does it matter?” she asked with shame in her eyes.

  “Not to me, it doesn’t. Any man who treats any woman with such disrespect should be held responsible. And yet he walks away and you are left to suffer the consequences.”

  He saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes before she looked down abruptly to hide them.

  “Forgive me if I’m being insensi
tive,” he said.

  “What makes you think you’re being insensitive?” she asked with no hint of defensiveness, but she still wouldn’t look at him.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he admitted.

  “You weren’t insensitive,” she stated firmly, and he decided he liked her straightforward manner. “I just hate to think of my child being a distasteful consequence. It’s a child . . . a human being. And however ill-begotten it might be, it deserves a good chance at life.”

  “I agree,” he said, and she met his eyes briefly, then looked down again.

  “And thanks to you it will have that.”

  Thomas tried to think of an appropriate comment, but he couldn’t. He was thinking of the sacrifice she would be making to give her child a chance at a good life. What little money he was giving to aid her cause was nothing compared to what a woman must experience in giving up a child. He’d never thought too deeply on the matter before, but he was thinking of it now. Looking at this dear, sweet young woman, it was tempting to let his heart break on her behalf. She seemed to represent the very feelings he’d been struggling with. His anger and confusion over the injustices of the world. His inability to do anything about them. This opportunity to help her made him feel better about himself than he’d felt in a very long time, but it still felt so tiny and minuscule, so insignificant in contrast to what she yet had to face.

  A serving maid set the food Thomas had ordered on the table, and Ruth looked pleasantly surprised. “A little bread would have sufficed.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “I’m certain you have plenty to be concerned about without having to feel ill. If a little food will remedy that, so be it. I recommend taking what you don’t eat now to your room so that you’ll have something should you need it before breakfast is served.”

  “Your thoughtfulness is . . .”

  “What?” he asked, not certain if her hesitation was due to chewing the bread she’d just taken a bite of.

  After she had chewed and swallowed she said, “Surprising.”

  “And what if I told you it was for purely selfish reasons?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked with alarm, as if she feared he might expect something unsavory in return. After what she’d been through, he couldn’t blame her.

  “I mean that I’ve been . . . rather out of sorts since I’ve returned from the war. I have felt terribly useless. Doing this for you is the first thing I’ve done in a very long while that has actually seemed truly worthwhile. But in truth, all I’m giving up is a little money I won’t miss; therefore, it’s certainly no personal sacrifice.”

  Her eyes widened slightly, and from the glow of the lamp on the table, he believed them to be a dark hazel. Average in color, perhaps. But not at all in their expressiveness. “You are not just giving of your money, sir. You have personally escorted me here, provided me with a room for the night and food to eat, and you are sitting here with me for reasons I cannot begin to understand. I’m certain you could be having a far better time down the road at the pub . . . doing whatever it is men do at pubs.”

  “I think I far prefer the company here as opposed to a bunch of men drinking too much and laughing uproariously at ridiculous jokes. And yes, that would be a fair description of what men generally do at pubs.”

  “You are a rare breed, Mr. Fitzbatten,” she said and continued to eat while she seemed to be assessing him—or perhaps assessing him again now that they’d actually shared some honest conversation.

  “Am I?” he asked. “If by that you mean I’m different than most of the people of my class, I will take it as the highest compliment. I am very blessed to have wealth and privilege, but I do consider it a blessing. Beyond that I rather loathe the society I am supposed to fit into. I far prefer associating with . . . real people; people like your uncle. Hardworking, honest people who have no reason to put on airs and snub their noses at others.”

  Ruth nodded with her mouth full. The silence provoked him to say, “Forgive me for my vehemence. I’m likely talking far too much.”

  “Not at all,” she said and kept eating. He was rather amazed at how much a woman so small could eat, especially since she’d had a large supper not so many hours ago. But he supposed that must be the way of pregnancy. “I’m enjoying your company,” she said. “May I say that I didn’t expect to?”

  “You may say anything you like.”

  “Then I will also say that this is the first time I haven’t felt completely alone for weeks now. I don’t know why you’re so easy to talk to, but you are.”

  Thomas felt taken aback all over again. The sensations he’d felt earlier in the carriage rushed over him again as she admitted to sharing his own feelings of being completely alone. She wasn’t talking about the absence of any people around her; it was rather the feeling of being unable to speak openly of emotions, a dilemma that left a person standing in a crowded room and feeling completely isolated. He wanted to explain all of that verbally but reminded himself they had only known each other for about an hour—even if it didn’t feel that way.

  Instead he asked, “How long has it been?”

  “About a month now,” she said, shame clouding her countenance again, “since I realized I was pregnant. And that was the same week he unexpectedly left his job at the same manor where I was working . . . with rumors about his reason for leaving being another woman.”

  “I’m so very sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I was not apologizing; rather expressing . . . my sorrow on your behalf.”

  “And why should you feel sorrow on my behalf?” she asked and quickly wiped a hand over both cheeks before he even realized that tears were falling. “We are practically strangers.”

  “Practically,” he repeated. “And yet I do . . . feel sorrow.”

  Silence fell while she stopped eating quite so voraciously but continued to pick at the bread and cheese in front of her. Reason told him he should leave now. She was surely tired and needed her rest. There was no logical reason for him to linger. He could insist on escorting her to the door of her room to know that she was safe, and beyond that the situation was simply none of his business. Giving her money had not given him any rights or privileges in regard to her personal life. But he felt as if he’d turned to stone—a statue with its gaze permanently fixed on her. He couldn’t look away, and he couldn’t brush off the overwhelming sense he had that this was not chance or coincidence. Her needing help and his ability to give it felt to him like fate or destiny somehow. But he didn’t believe that fate or destiny existed as some kind of abstract force in the universe. If they did exist, they were simply words used to explain the hand of God in people’s lives when no other explanation was possible. Thomas had many times sought to question his belief in God when he’d been assaulted by the horrors of the world. But he’d never been able to let go of something deep within his spirit that intrinsically knew He existed, even if he couldn’t begin to comprehend. And now, his gaze fixed like stone upon Ruth Dawson, contemplating her plight, his belief in God felt renewed and strengthened. This was no coincidence, and he knew it with all his soul. But what could that possibly mean? He had given her uncle the money to send her away until she gave birth to her baby. He considered it a possibility that he could find her in a year when this was behind her. He knew her uncle well; he would always know where to find her. Wouldn’t he? But that solution felt so out of his control, so subject to chance. And wrong somehow.

  While Thomas sat like carved marble and Ruth randomly picked at the bread and cheese, putting little pieces into her mouth and looking everywhere but at him, he silently uttered a prayer. He wanted to know what God would have him do with this moment of divine destiny. He felt himself at a crossroads. He could let her go, or . . .

  Before his next thought could fully articulate itself in his mind, he heard himself asking, “Do you wan
t to give away your baby, Ruth?”

  She looked astonished, then upset, but he still couldn’t regret asking it. He needed to know how she would respond to such a question.

  “No, sir,” she said and made no effort this time to wipe away the tears that oozed from her eyes in great abundance. “However wrong the existence of this baby might be, it is growing inside of me. It is a part of me. I will do whatever I can to give it the best possible chance at a good life, and for your help in that I am grateful. But I would never choose to give away my baby.”

  Thomas considered that while he handed her a clean handkerchief from his pocket, since her own handkerchief already looked well used.

  “Thank you,” she said and dabbed at her tears. “Forgive me . . . for getting so upset.”

  “No apology necessary,” he said. “I asked a question; I appreciate an honest answer.”

  “I’m feeling very tired.” She gathered the remaining bread and cheese into a napkin and folded it into a little bundle before she stood and he did the same. Looking down at the table, she picked up the key to her room, then looked back up at him. “Thank you . . . for everything. I will never forget what you’ve done for me.”

  “It’s been a pleasure,” Thomas said, and she moved toward the stairs. He didn’t want to let her go, but now even the idea of walking her to her room felt awkward and unnecessary. He felt almost panicked to let her out of his sight and blurted, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Ruth turned back, surprised. “You will?”

  Thomas stepped closer so they wouldn’t be overheard, even though no one was nearby. “I want to discuss with your uncle the best possible options for your care, and see what I can do to help see you settled.” Knowing he needed to leave, he repeated, “I’ll see you in the morning,” and hurried out of the inn and down the street, wondering why it felt literally painful to leave her behind. Had he gone mad? Had he lost his mind since suppertime? Or had his madness been slowly coming on? He thought about how he had poured himself a drink earlier this evening in the library, and he felt like a different man entirely.