Page 29 of Mischief and Manors (Change of Heart #1)

CHAPTER 29

I held the upturned bouquet of white roses at my side, my feet dragging me toward my bedchamber. I was exhausted in every possible way. Thankfully, Mr. Baines had taken the news of my engagement well.

Much better than Owen had.

Our kiss replayed through my mind, and my emotions were still reeling. If he had meant to convince me that I loved him, he had done it. I had been right to be afraid of him, because now that we had kissed, I would never be the same. I would have to carry that memory with me, and I would have to think of Owen each time I kissed Mr. Frampton. The hollowness in my chest spread, until I felt like a mere shell, fragile and weak.

I sat down at my writing desk and buried my face in my hands. Writing a letter to Aunt Ruth was the last thing I wanted to do. I closed my eyes, trying to remember the details of Mr. Frampton’s face. There was nothing memorable or thrilling about the exercise, and it was followed by a wave of despair. Everything about him would become familiar over the course of my life, but to marry someone while they were still so unfamiliar…it was terrifying. It was unbelievable to think that just a few weeks before, it had been a dream come true.

Sudden anger coursed through my veins as I began my letter. I didn’t even want to call her my aunt. She was not my relation by blood, so I felt no qualms in dissolving that connection.

Mrs. Ruth Filbee,

Since you give me no choice but to wed Mr. Frampton, I give you no choice but to wait until after the first of August. The Kellaways have invited me to a ball, which I plan to attend. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the meaning of love, but I have learned it during my time here. I have learned what it means to fall in love. I have felt happiness again, even after you did all you could to deprive me of it.

Mr. Frampton is not my choice, and he does not have my heart, but he is a good man. Though I hardly know him, I already regard his character far higher than yours. You have done nothing but hurt and belittle my brothers and me for the past five years, so I should be grateful for an escape from your wicked influence and into the home of Mr. Frampton.

After I’m married, I hope to never see you again. If I must, let it only be in the pews at church on Sundays, where you might actually listen to my husband’s words and learn to apply them.

Annette

I finished writing, slamming the quill down on the table. I sealed it, addressed it, and glowered down at the letter with a surge of pride. It did my heart good to imagine Aunt Ruth tearing the seal, reading my words, and fuming until smoke escaped her ears.

If only I could actually send it.

Insulting Aunt Ruth would only anger her, and she could still choose to keep Peter and Charles from living with me at the parish. The best way to ensure their safety would be to quietly cooperate and hold my tongue.

I moved the letter aside with a sigh, preparing a new piece of foolscap. My taste of freedom was gone, and I couldn’t pretend otherwise.

Dear Aunt,

I must ask that you allow us to stay until after the first of August. The Kellaways have invited me to a ball, which they are eager for me to attend. After that, they have promised to provide a carriage to convey us back to Silton.

Sincerely,

Annette

I sealed it. I would take it to a footman later, but at the moment, I needed to relieve the Everards of my brothers. Discarding the bouquet of roses on my desk, I made my way to the library.

When I entered the room, I found Peter and Charles sitting at the table alone with a spinning top and a few children’s books. I looked both ways in confusion as I approached them. “Where are the Everards?”

Peter shrugged, spinning the wooden top. “Dr. Kellaway came for a while, and then they followed him outside. They told us to stay here.” His face slumped with disappointment.

I looked down at him, eyebrows drawn. “Dr. Kellaway was here?”

Peter and Charles both nodded.

Charles knelt in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. “Dr. Kellaway said that he loves us.”

“What?” My heart thudded.

Charles’s blue eyes gazed up into mine, not a hint of dishonesty there. “Uh huh.” He nodded. “First, he told us that we were the best boys in the whole world and that we need to be good gentlemens to you our whole lives. And then he told us that he loves us.”

My mind raced. I had seen the affection in Owen’s eyes when he watched them and interacted with them. I could see that my brothers adored him. But why the sudden sentiment?

Charles drummed his fingers on the table. “And then he said that he loves you too, Annette, very much. Then he looked sad.”

A breath caught in my throat.

“Do you love him too?” Charles asked with a scowl.

I swallowed, and tried to stop holding my breath. Both Peter and Charles looked up at me expectantly, clearly wondering the same thing I had wondered multiple times: how could anyone not love Owen?

“I do.”

Charles’s face lit up and he turned his gaze to Peter. “Let’s go tell him!”

“No!” I exclaimed in panic. “I mean—no. You mustn’t tell Owen that.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because he can’t know.”

“Why not?” Charles repeated, his voice a whine.

“Because he just cannot,” I affirmed, searching my mind for a new subject. For the first time in days, I was relieved to see Mrs. Everard burst through the door.

She looked entirely disheveled, and I reared back in surprise.

Her husband followed closely behind her with a wary expression. He started in the direction of the table, but the moment Mrs. Everard saw me, she shuffled forward with surprising speed. Her eyes pooled with tears as she wrapped her arms around me.

“Oh, Annette. I am so very sorry. I fear I have ruined everything for you.” She weeped into my shoulder before looking at my face again. Tears puddled in the wrinkles beneath her eyes. “I was only trying to help Owen see sense and make your engagement real, but I fear I have made matters far worse.”

I gripped her arms softly, scowling. “What do you mean?”

“Owen left me with this letter. He said to give to you when you came to retrieve your brothers. I asked him what ever was the matter, and he said that you are engaged to Mr. Baines. I said, ‘surely that cannot be so,’ but he insisted that you had told him yourself.” She sniffed. “He left the house immediately after, and I doubt he will return.”

I shook my head, but Mrs. Everard was too distraught to notice. I grabbed her shoulders. “I am not engaged to Mr. Baines!”

She gasped. “I knew it!”

“But…I am engaged to someone else.”

Her brow creased. “Who?”

“Mr. Frampton.”

“Who the devil is Mr. Frampton?” Her eyes were wild with dismay.

I stepped back with a groan, putting a hand to my forehead. “He is a man from Silton who my aunt—” I stopped myself. “My aunt is aquainted with him. As am I. I have accepted his proposal and will be returning home to marry him after the ball at Willowbourne. But please, do not tell anyone else yet.”

“That is nonsense.” She glared at me. “Owen is in love with you.”

The words were a sharp blow to my heart. People needed to stop saying that.

Mrs. Everard handed me a letter. “Read this, and then you must tell me what it says.”

I glanced behind her at Peter and Charles, who watched our interaction with wide eyes. They were not as oblivious as I had hoped.

Mr. Everard watched me from his place at the table as I broke the seal on Owen’s letter. My hands were unsteady as I unfolded it. I kept my expression firm, determined not to reveal my feelings to any of my spectators.

Dear Annette,

It is now clear that my presence here has become a burden to your plans and decisions, and for that I am sincerely sorry. Had I known you were engaged, I would not have behaved the way I did this morning. From the first day you arrived, I have had no wish but for a better life for you and your brothers. If you have found that life with Mr. Baines, then I will not breathe another word in any attempt to dissuade you from it. If I were to remain in your presence, I’m afraid I would. To see you each day, to be near you, but to have no hope for you, would be torment. I no longer trust myself to behave as I ought around you, and after having fought so dearly for your good opinion, I wouldn’t dare lose it. I hope I haven’t already.

I have departed to Willowbourne to help my uncle prepare for the ball. Despite all that has happened, I hope you will still attend. I plan it for you, and only for you.

There is no one who deserves happiness more than you, Annette, my charming, beautiful friend. It has been an honor to know you, and I will keep you, as well as your brothers, in my heart always. I hope I have done something to help them, but if not, I still enjoyed every moment with the three of you.

With all my heart,

Owen

Mrs. Everard tried to read over my shoulder, but I slapped the letter flat against my chest. I felt my heartbeat through it.

How could I allow him to continue believing it was Mr. Baines I planned to marry? But in Owen’s mind, who else could it have been? I had told him the engagement was recent, but I hadn’t told him the arrangement had been made by post. Mr. Baines was who I had spent the garden party with, and Owen could have assumed that he had called on me during the days he was away at Willowbourne the first time. He would have no reason to know that Mr. Frampton existed, or that I had come to Kellaway Manor with an unanswered proposal.

Owen had only been home one night, and he was already running away again. After what had happened between us, it was better for me to not see him every day. Still, my grief grew with every passing second. The romantic nature of his words didn’t fail to escape my notice. They set my heart racing.

“Well?” Mrs. Everard exclaimed.

“He went to Willowbourne again.” I swallowed. “His uncle requires help preparing for the ball.”

Mrs. Everard sighed with frustration. “We should all be invited to Willowbourne to help. I have never understood why my son-in-law is so against socializing with the rest of the family.” She turned her gaze on me. “What else did he say?”

I folded the letter with a shake of my head that I knew would infuriate her. “I’m afraid it’s personal.”

Her jaw slackened, and I feared she might drop to her knees and beg at any moment. But I refused to give her another reason to meddle, no matter how she resented me for it. What few matters of my life I could control, I would seize with both hands. This letter from Owen was mine . The words were too special, and painful, and perfect to share with anyone. I would keep it forever.

“Thank you for delivering this, Mrs. Everard.” My voice shook.

She pursed her lips with a curt nod. “But I must know the truth about one thing this very moment, Annette.” She eyed me carefully. “Are you in love with Owen?”

The question took me off guard. A nervous sensation swooped through my stomach, dismantling the walls around my heart. I felt raw and vulnerable, and a shiver came over my body. I crossed my arms, meeting Mrs. Everard’s gaze. “I know very little of love. The only love afforded to me is a love for my brothers. I do not expect or dream of anything else. If I am to care for them properly, there is not space enough in my heart for anyone but them.”

Mrs. Everard gave me a disapproving look. She didn’t understand the situation—not at all.

Before she could berate me, I crossed the room and sat in one of the armchairs near the table. With a huffed breath, she brushed a curl from her forehead and marched out the door.

She was clearly vexed. But I hadn’t lied to her. I did know very little of love, and I was obligated by my promise to my parents to not allow anything to distract me from my brothers. How could I love them properly if I allowed Owen to continue stealing my heart?

I had been struggling with guilt ever since Charles had locked himself in that chest, and I had nearly lost him. My feelings for Owen had clouded my focus. Even if I hated Aunt Ruth for taking away my choice, Mr. Frampton was still the safest one.

It was a good thing that Owen was gone.

“Mr. Everard, will you tell us a story?” Peter asked, breaking the tense silence of the room.

Mr. Everard glanced up at Peter’s request, adjusting his spectacles on his nose with a smile. “Gladly.”

I slumped in relief, grateful to have a change of subject. Mr. Everard was a man of few words, except when he was telling stories. Each story I had heard him tell my brothers seemed to have been invented spontaneously according to his mood and creativity.

Today, he had a somber, thoughtful look in his eyes as he glanced in my direction. He was silent for a long moment.

“Please, don’t mind me.” I folded my hands in my lap, tucking Owen’s letter out of sight under them.

Mr. Everard gave a soft smile before turning his attention back to my brothers. He leaned forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together. Then he began, his voice smooth, easy to listen to.

“There once was a young lady who carried with her a vessel full of water everywhere she went. She treasured this vessel, and cared for it deeply. It had been scratched and worn over her life, and so the water within was what she so attentively nurtured. Never had she let a single drop of that precious water spill. In all her daily activities she held this vessel tightly against her, concealed beneath her thick cloak, so none could see it or touch it, or, what she feared most—steal it.”

Mr. Everard paused deliberately, looking between my brothers and me, lingering longer on my face, as if he could see my thoughts displayed there.

“She often visited the stream from which she had collected the water. It was the only stream she had ever known and this young woman found contentment in walking along its banks with her scarred vessel full of its treasured water. Never did she dream of other streams or other waters.

“Then one day, when this young lady ventured to the stream, she was astonished to find another stream running directly beside it. Unable to help herself, she walked along its banks too. As days passed, she grew attached to this stream and wished her vessel could give place for some of its water. But she knew her vessel was full, and still she infinitely valued the water from the first stream and knew it must not be replaced.”

I felt my throat clench with emotion, feeling the truth behind this story nestle in my heart and remain, as if it intended to make a home there.

“But as days turned into weeks, the young woman’s longing for the new stream began to create fresh scars on her vessel, and soon, she feared, it would break and she would lose every drop of precious water within. So, if only to soothe the ache she felt, she dipped her hand into the new stream and scooped its water into her brimming vessel. Expecting the water would not fit, and overflow onto the rocks, the young woman was amazed to find that the water did not. Instead, the water entered the vessel and remained although it had appeared full. Unsure, the young woman took another scoop of water and poured it into her vessel. It too remained.

“Delighted, this young lady deposited scoop after scoop of water from the stream into her vessel and remarkably, she never spilled a drop from the first stream as she went. Her vessel, it seemed, could not become full. And as she poured water in, she saw the scratches fade from her vessel, and was filled with happiness like she had never before known. She had discovered a brilliant truth: that the water from both streams was infinite, and her vessel could contain it all.”

Mr. Everard paused, finishing his story on a softer tone. “So later in her life, as more streams appeared beside the two she now knew so well, she didn’t hesitate to take water from each, for she now knew she did not have to lose a single drop to gain many.”

When he finished speaking, the room fell into a silence too important to break. How had he known exactly what would tug at my heart more than anything else? The answer was simple. He was Owen’s grandfather.

I thought of the time I climbed that tree ten years ago. I had allowed myself to climb so high, not realizing that I would have to come down eventually. Not realizing that the boy who stood below was too weak to catch me—that I would have to come down alone.

Since arriving here, I had been climbing and climbing that same cursed tree. And now, much like before, I was falling, but it hurt much worse this time. And there was no one waiting to catch me at the bottom. Hope worked that way. It coaxed and encouraged people to climb, never caring to warn them of the fall that was coming.

My heart ached. Perhaps Mr. Everard should have told a story about a young lady who had made a terrible mistake by coming to a beautiful manor in Hampshire. The company and picturesque scenery had stolen her identity, turning her into a happy, giggling girl who climbed waterfalls, admired pink roses, and dreamed of true love and romance. She had lost sight of who she truly was—a girl who knew her purpose and honored it. A girl who couldn’t afford to dream.