Page 7 of Pursued Beyond Treachery
A chill crept up his back. He’d have blamed it on the cold, but the roaring fire in the hearth chased away any that might seep in through the cracks around the window. No, the discomfort came from knowing Susannah’s purpose for going to London. Could she not wait a few more years to find a husband? She’d not yet reached her majority. Why rush? There were plenty of other experiences to have in life.
He should know. At six and twenty he’d had seven more years to explore the sights and sounds of life. She could perhaps take a tour of the continent as he had.
“That is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. If finances did not keep her home, her sex most definitely would. Young women could not gallivant about like men could. Plus, the war with Bonaparte had ruined a good deal of travel for everyone. Sad, really. Susannah would have loved Italy and Spain.
Setting down his flat edge brush, he reached for one with a fine tip. He’d not painted enough curls. Perhaps a few small ones settled about the back or her neck would fix it? Slowly he painted another curl with chestnut brown, then layered it with the darker yellow. The latter color brightened his thoughts.
It reminded him of the flowers Susannah had picked one Sunday after services when she’d been eleven and so full of life. He’d studied her as she’d skipped from one group of cowslipto another until she’d gathered a bouquet full. Her cheerfulness had been contagious, and he’d actually smiled. A rarity that day.
When she’d finished, she presented him with them. Her little offering had done more to heal his hurting heart than any of the empty words of condolences from the rest of the parishioners.
That had been his first Sunday back from Harrow after word had come of his parents’ death. And even though he’d had two weeks to adjust to being an orphan, it had felt like the first day. Up until then, he’d been able to pretend they were still waiting for him at Gimly Hall. But a whole night in the gigantic pile of stones he called home had brought reality crashing down on him. They would never return. Instead, they lay in the cold sepulcher where his ancestors had been buried for decades.
Guilt at not being home when they’d both fallen ill mixed with the logic that, if he’d been home, he may have also died. In the end logic won out, as it always did.
As it really should now, but somehow his hands kept painting Susannah’s familiar features. The same chin, the same jaw. Only now she’d grown from a compassionate young girl to a vibrant and intelligent woman. Like a flower in the bud, she’d bloomed into the most incredible rose he’d ever seen, one who took his breath away by merely glancing his way. Perhaps his words had also fled with the air that should have filled his lungs, because it had become increasingly difficult to speak with her.
And yet she’d not been put out as others of his acquaintance had when words simply would not flow from his mouth.
Long buried memories from his first days at Harrow fought their way to the surface.
“Spit it out, stupid.”
“What a freak.”
“Look, it's Addlepate Newhurst. Careful not to fa-fa-fall.”
The last had been said before the upper-class boy had tripped him. Johnathan shook his head to dislodge the bad memory.That was the day he’d decided it was better to remain silent than to speak before he had complete control over his tongue—a battle he still fought to this day.
And while other women had become frustrated with his lack of conversation, Susannah had reverted to speaking for him, reading his thoughts and forming them into the words when he could not. Lud, he loved that about her.
Of course, there really wasn’t anything he didn’t love about Miss Susannah Wayland. Well, almost everything. If only she did not view him as the equivalent of an older brother.
Chapter 2
Susannah’s fingers ran over the black and ivory keys with such speed that perspiration beaded on her forehead. Moisture pooled in her eyes but she gritted her teeth and pushed it back, refusing to let emotion take control.
“It is not a race, you know,” Lady Stanford said from the doorway of the music room at Havencrest.
Startled, Susannah's fingers came to a crashing halt. Usually the Stanfords left her alone to pour her feelings into their piano, something she appreciated.
Lady Stanford crossed the room to stand by her. “Is not that piece played at a slower tempo?’
Reaching beyond the pain that still lingered at the surface, Susannah managed to find a smile. “Perhaps it was a little rushed, but Beethoven’s work is meant to be played with some speed.”
“True.”
Her Ladyship’s blue eyes studied her far too closely and Susannah redirected her gaze to the piano keys. Slowly sheplayed a Scotch ballad from memory, allowing her fingers to float along the keys at an acceptable pace.
The gentle lull of the song did not lend an escape to the turbulent feelings rushing about inside her, but there was no need to worry Lady Stanford with her problems.
Scooting onto the bench next to her, Her Ladyship asked, “Are you excited to go to London?”
A true smile pulled at Susannah’s lips. “I am indeed. Tell me, do they really have a lion at the Tower of London?”
“Yes, and a bear or two.”
“I should like to see a bear. Can they really stand on their hind legs like people?”
