A Provision For Love (Entangled Inheritance Book 1) Read online

  I lifted a brow, sending Henry my darkest glare. “And the land? Is the property expansive?”

  “Goodness, yes. Our tenant farmers do well to keep the fields maintained. In fact, there are some picturesque ruins on our lands—an old abbey. I often walk the path at sunset. The perfect blend of pinks and oranges across the sky, the crumbling rocks of the old abbey, and the rooks—I do not believe greater beauty exists.”

  My shoulders tensed, and I winced. Mrs. Thorne painted a beautiful scene. Percival must have known of Henry’s inheritance. Why would he bestow Bridgestone on an already wealthy man, especially when he knew how much the place meant to me? And why, why did Henry persist in his desire for Bridgestone?

  Emotion clawed at the back of my throat.

  “Henry,” Mrs. Thorne said, gasping. “Honestly, I would have thought you would speak of your home with more admiration. For shame.”

  Henry rubbed a hand against his jawline. “I have only recently become reacquainted with Miss Linfield, and considering our current circumstance, I thought it best not to discuss such things.”

  “Why ever not?” I said, without regard for propriety. My chest throbbed. Anger and sadness raged within me, battling in an absurd battle; there was no chance for a victory, for I did not wish for either. “Perhaps because you have already been blessed with a home and still you seek to take mine?”

  Grandmother clinked her teacup to the table. “Ivy Estelle Linfield.”

  My gaze dropped, and my heart sputtered to a halt.

  “Goodness, I hope you will forgive her.” Grandmother cleared her throat. “I wish I could say she is not always so obstinate. However, I find she takes after me in more ways than I wish to admit.”

  “Not to worry,” Mrs. Thorne said.

  I dared a glance at Henry, who watched me with unnerving scrutiny. There was something about the way he looked at me, the line that appeared between his brows.

  He almost appeared…worried. Did he wonder at my irritation? Was he surprised to know I found his desire for Bridgestone, when he already possessed a lovely castle-turned-estate in Kent, despicable? My cheeks flushed with heat. How could he presume to exhibit concern for me, when the threat of his winning Bridgestone was the very cause of my worry? Never mind Grandmother or the list; Henry was the opponent.

  I flinched and reached for a tart. I ate in silence, only hearing bits and pieces of the rest of the discussion. I did not wish to hear of trifles—dresses and engagements, the state of Lady Birch’s carriage, the recent scandal of Sir Richmond.

  Henry’s world encompassed multiple properties. Why had Percival thought to leave Henry Bridgestone in the first place? And why did Henry not relent his claim?

  * * *

  Dearest Daughter,

  As per my familial duty, this letter signals my impending arrival in London. I shall be at your side soon, and we shall take to the Vauxhall Gardens. I have yet to find such beauty in all of London—other than you, my daughter.

  Additionally, I look forward to an introduction to Lord Egerton, and that devilish rascal, Henry.

  Your Father,

  Samuel Linfield

  Chapter 20

  Grandmother demanded I remain indoors while the rain pelted the covered back porch, but I resisted. Worse than catching a cold was the idea of being locked indoors.

  My hair was already giving way to the dampness. My curls had turned wiry, and my cheeks were covered in chilled condensation. I held the teacup near my face, allowing the steam to offer a hint of warmth.

  I did not move when I heard the back door open. Instead, I closed my eyes and pursed my lips. “I will be in soon enough, Grandmother.” When she did not respond, I blew out a puff of air. “Yes, I know well enough. You think I am head-strong, but even you admitted I take after you.”

  “I would never presume such a thing,” came the familiar deep voice.

  My shoulders caved forward, and my ribs, constricted by the boned-stay, threatened to collapse. “Henry.”

  He came nearer, though his steps were my only clue; I did not, could not, face him after our visit the previous day—not without lashing out at him.

  “Lady Barrington told me you refused to listen to reason. She hoped I might persuade you to come inside for tea. However, from your greeting, I imagine my efforts will fall futile.” His voice cracked against the last word, and he cleared his throat.

  I dipped my chin. “Yes.”

  Henry stepped in front of me, making it impossible to ignore him. He grinned, but there was something about the pull of his lips—as if he wished to persuade me into better spirits. His dark eyes moved up and down my facial features with alarming attention. “Are you well?”

  I shivered and pulled my shawl tighter. When he looked at me like that, I was certain he could see clear through to my soul. “As well as can be expected.”

  Henry shifted his weight, waiting for some time before speaking again. “May I join you, Ivy?”

  “I assumed you would wish for another review.”

  He took the seat beside me, forcing his unwavering gaze. “Perhaps, but I would like to speak of Mayberry Hall. I know my mother’s words upset you.”

  My neck stiffened, and I gritted my teeth. Anger banged against my throat with each pulse of my heart. How could he be so blind? “She did nothing but tell the truth, Henry. I am not upset with her. It is you that has me—” I clamped my lips together.

  Refinement was more than manners. Miss Worthington had spent the last two years teaching about decorum. A true lady learned to bridle her emotions, her every response. For two years, I had succeeded at the task, becoming less and less prone to any feeling at all. Yet, the pain of late had melted my resolve. Henry had weakened my senses until I became nothing more than a pool of contempt and conflict. Why did he affect me so severely?

  He reached across the small table and touched my arm. “Ivy, I know what you must be thinking—”

  “Do you?” The pink fabric of my new gown paled against my burning skin. A wave of heat climbed my throat, and I wriggled from his touch. I spewed hateful words before my reasoning could take hold. “How could you even allow Percival to consider you as heir, when you were so clearly favored with a medieval castle in Kent? How could you? How…particularly when you know what Bridgestone means to me…Why do you not relent all claim? Why, when you know how I must suffer, do you persist in declaring sentimentality of the place?”

  Henry took in a slow breath. He poured himself a cup of tea, mixing in a drop of sugar. The muscles along his jaw rose. “Then you believe me unfeeling?”

  I folded my arms.

  “Ivy, Mayberry Hall is lovely. I have lived there my whole life, excepting for my time at Bridgestone. I have no complaints. My lot in life was secured long ago. Being the only male heir on both sides of the family has had its advantages. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

  Tears collected on my lower lashes. “Then you admit that Bridgestone is just another coin in the purse?”

  He shook his head. “No. As difficult as it may be for you to believe, you are not the only person that loved Percival.”

  I swallowed hard. “But he was my grandfather—”

  “And like a father to me.” Henry’s eyes flickered to mine. “Just as he shared secrets with you, he held his own with me.”

  My breath hitched. Henry and Percival held secrets? I shook my head. “What are you saying?”

  He reached toward me but stopped midair. “Your garden—that is not Percival’s only gift. He also built me a sanctuary of sorts.”

  I lifted a brow, doubting every word.

  “A hidden room where I was free to study any subject I wished—a room hidden from even the staff at Bridgestone.” Henry’s voice grew softer. “The left tower. Percival constructed a loft in the top for me that overlooked the entire property, and he was always adding new books on the subjects I enjoyed.”

  “What kind of subjects?” My throat was tight, but my shoulders began to relax. br />
  He shrugged. “I wanted to study medicine once upon a time, and as you know, a profession is for a working man. My mother is adamant that I remain idle like the rest of society.”

  “Oh.” I had never considered the limitations placed on a man, especially one of high society. Still, Henry’s lists of life were sure to be shorter and less complicated than mine. “And you refrained from becoming a doctor to please her?”

  The wrinkles near his eyes deepened. “I love my mother, I respect her, and I believe it is my duty to honor her. She does not ask much of me, which makes the things she does ask difficult to deny.”

  Conceding anything, even a misplaced assumption, proved challenging for me. Yet, my heart softened, making anger near impossible despite my stubborn wishes. Henry’s love for Bridgestone, or more accurately Percival, made as much sense as my own. Bridgestone was more Percival than a place, and more about love than any memories.

  Percival had a way of knowing what a person needed; he was a gardener of souls. For me, he knew I needed my own spot of beauty, a place of solitude. For Henry, Percival had granted him permission and a place to learn.

  My lips trembled. “How did he do it?”

  Henry quirked a brow. “Pardon?”

  “Percival.” I stood from the table and walked to the edge of the roofline, watching the wall of water. I felt tempted to step from the covering’s protection. “How did he endear himself to so many people—and so profoundly? Grandmother scarcely breathes without him. I cannot imagine another man capable of loving such a cranky woman. And me—Percival treated me as his own granddaughter. We spent countless hours in the gardens, in my garden. He gave me something no one else ever had been able to—freedom.”

  “Freedom?” Henry asked, standing.

  A lump formed in my throat. I gasped for breath, holding my side. Love battled grief…or did it? Perhaps they were one and the same. “Yes, freedom. In that garden, I could be and do whatever I wished. I had no governess or tutor to reprimand me. Not even Grandmother came to the garden. My lists of rules were nonexistent, and I was able to simply exist in the beauty of that space.”

  Henry moved directly beside me and clasped his hand over mine. “Percival had a gift of knowing how to love. I considered Bridgestone all that is left of him, but maybe I am wrong…maybe we are both wrong.”

  His touch broke through my efforts, and tears leaked from both eyes at surprising speed. My chest heaved, and sobs cracked against my words. “I do not want to lose that part of him, Henry. I do not want to lose any part of him.”

  At my admission, Henry turned to face me. His lashes tangled together. Concern radiated from the warmth of his gaze and the line between his brows. “Ivy, what makes you so sure you will lose any part of him?”

  I wriggled my shoulders, and a shiver ran down my back. “My mother. She was sick for so long, and then she died three years ago. I struggle to recall her smile and voice. The memories seem to have died with her. Death leaves no room for preservation.”

  “That is not true.”

  His challenge halted my tears. I pulled my hand away. “You should know, Henry. Your father died six years ago. Can you say that he survives in your mind?”

  “Yes. My father lives on in many ways. His legacy at Mayberry Hall continues to persist. Even his portrait remains above the mantle in the study. And his laugh, his eyes and nose—they remain with me, quite literally.” Henry gestured to his face and offered a soft smile.

  I crossed my arms. “You have an advantage. I do not share Percival’s blood. I take no nose or set of eyes with me wherever I go.”

  Henry lifted a finger. “But you share his love of gardening, you treasure his love. Are those not more characteristic of a man than eyes and nose and laughter?”

  A gentle smile broke apart my lips. I did not know what caught me more off guard—the way Henry did not hesitate to challenge my ideas, or the truth of his words in that moment.

  “There it is.”

  My eyes lifted to his face towering above mine, and my heart clamored in response.

  ‘Brown’ did not begin to describe his eyes. There were flecks of gold and splinters of green. Paired with his dark lashes and thick brows, Henry’s gaze was altogether alarming, arresting, and frightfully appealing.

  He pushed a hand through his hair and cleared his throat. “I hope your smile signifies your forgiveness…?”

  My cheeks flushed with heat, and I looked back at the wall of rain. “Yes, if you will forgive me.”

  “Always.” His expression remained serious. “I shall take my leave then.”

  “You are not to badger me with a review then?” Disappointment sunk into my heart. I did not wish him to leave. Not yet.

  “Not today.” He bowed.

  My mouth went dry, and my goodbye came out as a mere whisper.

  Chapter 21

  Starch and cinnamon.

  There was no other scent that provided greater comfort, greater security. The mixture of smells was much like its source—half rigid but overwhelmingly delightful, for starch and cinnamon remained the aroma of Samuel Linfield.

  I closed my eyes, pressing my cheek to his lapel. “Oh, Father. I thought you would never arrive.”

  “Dearest goose,” he said, embracing me with both of his lanky arms.

  Warmth blossomed in my chest. With gladness, and still tucked beneath his arm, I welcomed my father into the drawing room. Even his strange monikers acted as a blanket over my anxious soul. I took both of his hands in mine, smiling amidst the emotion collecting at the back of my throat. “How was your journey? I hope the carriage did not rattle you too severely.”

  His gray eyes looked almost brown in the draped room. He pressed his lips against my forehead, though the movement was abrupt. Physical displays were not his preferred demonstration of affection. “Nothing worth recounting.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling; my father endeavored to imitate my version of affection, if only to reach me. His stiff attempts meant more to me than anything else. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you have come. Will you stay long?”

  “I foresee at least a fortnight, perhaps more if there is something to…” He adjusted his spectacles, and his dark brows twitched as they did each time he struggled to express himself. “Perhaps longer—that is, if there is reason enough.”

  “You mean if I am to marry.” I did not pose it as a question, for I knew well enough his tone; his words were coated in suggestion, even if he was too nervous to speak the words aloud.

  He dipped his pointed chin, and his brows twitched once more. “Yes, that is what I am getting at. From your letters, I gather the marquess is taken with you.”

  I brushed my fingers against his arm, and I startled. “You still have your frock-coat on. Here, let me help—”

  “Ivy.” My father’s thin lips hinted at humor. He pulled my hand away. “Mr. Elliot will assist me after our greeting. You mustn’t fret over me. Now, tell me—have you decided to accept the marquesses offer?”

  “Decided?” I fiddled with my hands. What was there to decide? If Henry approved of Lord Egerton, Bridgestone would be mine.

  My heart sank.

  I winced. Why did I struggle to imagine marrying Lord Egerton? He had shown me only kindness, only the greatest consideration. He met most every piece of Grandmother’s rules, at least from what I had observed. His Grecian-godlike appearance should have only furthered my anticipation. A union with such a man was more than most could hope for. Sluggish tea-sipping did not make for misery.

  Bridgestone—I had thought most any sacrifice worth winning it. What had changed? Or, had anything changed? I crossed my arms and exhaled. I would not let Percival’s estate slip away simply because of nerves.

  “Ivy?” My father stared down at me beneath furrowed brows. “Is there something wrong with Lord Egerton?”

  “No. My mind—I seem to have gotten lost in my thoughts. I have decided, Father. I will accept the m
arquess, should he offer.”

  But even as I said the words, emptiness became me. Was not life more than lists? What if love could not be quantified or qualified by a series of characteristics and lessons on morality—particularly those penned by a grieving and idealizing widow? And, perhaps even more pressing, why did I have such a sudden urge to understand love?

  Henry’s features flashed across my mind. I closed my eyes and shook my head. He was already considering another lady, one of whom he refused to divulge. Accepting Lord Egerton was the most rational choice before me.

  My father unbuttoned the front of his frock-coat. “Now, let us speak more after I settle in.”

  “Yes,” I said, falling to the bench at the pianoforte, but my fingers hovered over the keys, refusing to glide across the notes. Something my father said sat heavy on my mind. Settle in—I needed to settle into the notion of marriage to Lord Egerton.

  I swallowed hard. My life was about to change and all for Bridgestone.

  * * *

  Grandmother’s gray mobcap, though dull and dark, seemed cheery in comparison to her expression—her narrowed eyes and deep scowl lines running across her wrinkled skin. She shook her hand toward the butler. “Elliot, this silverware is fogged. Alert the housekeeper.”

  He retrieved the utensils. “Yes, Lady Barrington. I shall bring you fresh ones straight away.”

  Breakfast proved a tense affair. Never had silverware been in worse disarray nor the bacon so burnt nor the clouds so dark and heavy. I nibbled on my toast, afraid to utter a single word. In moments like this, my grandmother was liable to fight with anyone about nearly everything.