Page 42 of An Engagement with the Enemy

Did she know if James preferred the city to the country? She’d never asked him. But her attention belonged to Mr. Holly at present, and she needed to keep it there.

“Perhaps for some. But I was born north of London, in a village that likely isn’t on any of the better-known maps.” His expression turned thoughtful, and they paused beside the fountain at the center of the formal garden. “I don’t plan to return to either the small village or London. A friend of mine in York has offered to lease me an office in that town, instead.”

“Really?” Jessica’s interest perked. “Have you been to York?” She had, when she was a small child, spent a Christmas there with her uncle’s family. They had arrived on Christmas Eve and stayed through Twelfth Night.

“Many times, during boyhood. I spent holidays from school there, with the same friend who offered me the lease.” For the first time, Mr. Holly’s smile appeared more natural. Comfortable, even. “I find its size suits my idea of convenient living. There are entertainments, a variety of merchants and warehouses, but not so much as to overwhelm a man. You must have visited. It cannot be more than twenty miles from here.”

“It is eighteen miles, by the best route,” she said, her voice soft. “A few hours’ journey in good weather.” She had wanted to visit again. Surely, if she journeyed there with her father, or even Catherine, their presence would be enough to keep those uncomfortable fits at bay. Sometimes, all she needed was a hand to hold to still the beating of her heart, or a soft reminder to take a breath.

Still, her father had deemed it too risky.

Funny, because now he spoke of marrying her off to someone who would likely take her far from their leased estate. Wouldn’t it be better for her to attempt such a journey, and such an environment, before risking everything in marrying a man who might demand more than she was capable of doing?

Her heart raced ahead with her thoughts.

She needed to speak to her father. At once. Show him the fallacy of his plan to wed her to someone without knowing if her condition would allow travel.

“Miss Westcote?” Mr. Holly’s voice drew her back to their conversation.

“I beg your pardon, sir. What were you saying? About York?”

His expression remained pleasant, though she caught a hint of disappointment in his eyes. Merely a flicker. “Perhaps I am more fatigued than I thought. Let us return to the house. A rest before dinner is likely what I need.”

She ought to have felt guilty, she knew, neglecting a guest’s conversation as she had. Jessica didn’t, though. Because she had to speak to Catherine and Lady Retford. They would know precisely how best to approach her father about a possible visit to York. As they were the only two besides her father, and governesses no longer living nearby, who knew her difficulty, they were the in the best position to advise her.

After passing Mr. Holly to the care of a footman, Jessica withdrew to her favorite drawing room. There, she settled at the desk and wrote her note to Catherine, her excitement such that her penmanship nearly suffered for it. After folding and sealing the missive, she gave it to a servant and promised herself patience while she waited for a response.

Bessie delivered the response that evening, when she arrived in Jessica’s room to prepare her for dinner. Written in Catherine’s familiar hand, Jessica read the note with eagerness that soon faded to disappointment.

My Dear Jessica,

I understand your desire to test yourself, to prove that you can manage whatever life might throw at you. I admire your courage in even considering such a journey. But I must ask you to think about the risks. Traveling to a place like York, especially under circumstances that might provoke a fit, could be very dangerous for you without proper support and preparation. You know I would do anything to help you, but I fear that this plan might cause you more harm than good.

You will be disappointed in me. Please know, I want you to succeed. But you must go about your test with caution. Perhaps there’s another way to approach this. The fair begins in two days’ time. You can practice coping with your illness there, among both strangers and familiar neighbors. It will be challenging but not so potentially overwhelming as a journey to York. We must consider your well-being above all else, even your understandable desire to prove yourself.

I have consulted with my mother, and she agrees. Let us first see how you manage the crowds of the fair. Then we can discuss the possibility of visiting York.

Yours, etc.,

Catherine

Jessica dropped the letter on her dressing table, her stomach churning and her heart falling. Catherine didn’t believe her capable of leaving their village. And perhaps her friend was right.

She twisted her fingers in her lap while Bessie arranged her hair, then took in a deep breath and tried to make her fingers remain still. She stared at them, hard.

Ladies didn’t fidget. Her first unsympathetic governess taught her that lesson, rapping Jessica’s knuckles with a ruler every time her fingers reached for ribbons to tangle between them, or when she twirled the coral beads on her bracelet or fiddled with her gloves.

Other governesses had told her to lock her fingers together in her lap or hide them beneath a table if the impulse persisted, and turn a bracelet or ring round and round. Better to let her hands release some of the built-up energy inside her body than to grow sick. And better her hands and fingers than tapping her heels or toes, which produced noise that made others glance about to see where the tap or rattle came from.

The subtle movements were only symptoms of the greater illness Jessica could not cure. The hysterics. The weakness of character. The reason her father kept her close and among people and places she knew well. Even the familiar could try her from time to time, but not like those years spent preparing for a London Season that never came.

“Are you all right, miss?” Bessie asked, her voice soft. One of her hands left Jessica’s hair to rest softly on her shoulder. She met Jessica’s eyes in the mirror, concern in her own. “Per’aps we’d better loosen a few of the pins.”

Bessie knew. Though they’d never spoken in plain terms, Bessie had witnessed the trembling, the exhaustion, following an episode. And she’d seen the care Jessica took to wear a beaded bracelet she could twist, or a fringed shawl that allowed her to twist the silken strands when she needed a distraction.

And she’d listened when Jessica had once told her, two years or more in the past, “At times the constant brush of fabrics, the pull of my hair, the noise of so many, overwhelms my senses.”

Bessie had found creative ways to arrange Jessica’s hair that didn’t require so many pins. She’d chosen softer fabrics, lighter in weight or feel, for crowded events. And even those little things had done much to ease Jessica’s agitation.