Page 73 of The Reckless Love of an Heir
Love…
Alethea had read out many of the letters Henry had written to her. They had been factual accounts of things he’d done with friends. They never contained words expressing emotions, never the words ‘I love you’.
She left her paintbrush un-rinsed on the side, and the painting half complete, and took the letter to her room, where she put it in a drawer out of sight.
She would not write back. It would be utter folly to begin an exchange which could lead them to nothing other than more pain.
Ever since this foolishness had begun, her heart had gone out with a sense of pity to her sister, because she had taken what Alethea wanted – now it reached out to Henry. He sounded as though he hurt as much as she did.
Life was cruel. If only her father and his had not made their stupid agreement.
When she retired to bed later the letter whispered to her. Before she blew out her candle, she got up and re-read it. Then she fell asleep with it in her hand.
In the morning, she watched herself in the mirror as a maid helped her dress. The letter was back in hiding – just like her feelings.
But it had made her realise she could no more stay here than she’d been able to stay in London. Henry would return and their paths would cross again and again. And what then? She would be cut down with embarrassment, longing and guilt for the rest of her life.
Her only option was to find a teaching position in a school, or to become a governess.
After breakfast she wrote to her father and proposed the idea that she might find a position. It was better she did so with his consent.
Then after luncheon another letter arrived from London, from Alethea.
Dearest Susan,
I miss you so. I have no one to share my confidences with and Henry is being his usual distracting self. He dances with me but he never sends me flowers now and he has become melancholy. I call him miserable to his face. He merely gives me annoying pretend smiles. I told him I shall choose the Earl of Stourton. He said he did not care.
I think he has changed, but he wrote to me yesterday and asked if I would ride out with him today because we needed to talk. If it is to propose after his behaviour the last few nights I am of a mind to refuse him. It is what he deserves. But in truth I still favour him over Lord Stourton. I shall write more tomorrow before I post this, and tell you what Henry has said.
Susan looked up from the page and glanced out of the window into the distance, to the woodland on the border of her father’s land.
That woodland would one day be Henry’s.
A sharp blade pierced through her heart. She took a breath and looked back down. She had to learn to face her guilt, she would not estrange herself from her sister, or her sister’s words, because of her love for Henry. She could not lose her sister as well as him.
It is the next afternoon but I cannot tell you what Henry has said. He cried off. But I will allow him that it was for a good reason, poor William has a fever and Uncle Robert was busy so Henry drove his mother to Eton. They are to bring William home to recover. Of course Henry was not at the ball last night either and so I danced with Lord Stourton, and do not tell Mama, for she was not counting, we danced thrice. I may well come to favour him over Henry yet!
My blessings, dearest sister, I hope you feel better now you are home.
Alethea
Susan’s heart became a dead weight in her chest as she dropped the letter. She looked through the window. It was a cool middling day, the sky was grey and the branches and leaves on the trees were being tossed about on a breeze. Even so, she wished to be outside – to feel nature. She needed a greater distraction from thought.
She went upstairs with the intention of fetching her cloak and going for a walk, but when she reached her room and looked out of the window the open grass meadows beckoned her. She turned and pulled the cord to ring for a maid, andwhen the maid arrived she asked for help to dress in her riding habit.
She did not send word to the stables, but walked there, her legs kicking out the skirt of her habit as she hurried.
‘Where is my mare? Where is Copper?’ she asked as she walked into the stable yard.
‘In her stall, miss.’ One of the grooms pointed across the yard. Copper’s chestnut head appeared over the lower gate of a stall in the far corner. There was one wonderful thing about being the daughter of a horse breeder: she had a fabulous horse. Papa had given Copper to her three years ago, and Susan was the only one who rode her, beyond the grooms.
Susan walked up to the stall and petted her. Copper was all sleek, muscular lines. She was beautiful.
Like Henry, Susan’s heart whispered.
‘Shall I ready her for you, miss?’
‘Yes, please.’
