Chapter Two
July 3, 1819
Berkshire County, England
Mr. Oliver Mattingly, the American ambassador to England, leaned back against the worn upholstered bench of the traveling coach. It must have been an age since the vehicle had been updated, for a broken spring drilled into his right shoulder blade while another dug into his left thigh. It made for a highly uncomfortable experience, yet his passage was conducted in peace, for he’d been the only passenger going that way. Because of that, he’d promised the driver a few extra dollars—pounds, he supposed he should be thinking of instead while here—to make up for the bother. Further, the driver had then explained the coach belonged to the Marquess of Grantmore—who was hosting his visit—and there would be no further coin needed.
He was on his way to an estate in Somerset, which would require more than a few more days of travel, but for now, the Berkshire countryside he moved through was bucolic enough, and the summer sun wasn’t as nearly as intense as it would be from his home in northern Virginia in America during this time of year. For the moment, he was content, and anxious to spend the next two months as the guest of the marquess. He was one of the English gentlemen Oliver had often spoken with each time he visited London when Parliament was in session.
But this trip had come up in the dead summer, where apparently the affluent in London fled to their country estates for the relatively cleaner air and for leisure activities. As it had sounded like good fun, Oliver had agreed. He looked forward to enjoying the food and traditions of his English friends, as well as the opportunity to study their lifestyles and try to puzzle out the hierarchy of their social structure.
As he glanced out the window, he pushed his wire-rimmed spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose. Terribly near-sighted without the spectacles, he could literally not see past the end of his nose, which had made the early part of his life quite miserable for himself but comical to his peers. Now they were a part of him, a definition perhaps; he thought wearing them made him that much more distinguished, which helped in his ambassadorial duties. It was much better than growing hideous mutton chop sideburns to help him seem older than his then twenty-seven years when he’d began his tenure.
However, wearing spectacles didn’t win him any female admirers, even if he’d been blessed with looking younger than his age. Perhaps that was part of his problem and one of the reasons he remained unmatched and hadn’t much experience with women. Though he’d indulged in kissing over the years, for whatever reason, those kisses hadn’t translated into the actual bedding of those women. In many ways, he felt the act of intercourse was all too sacred to be treated without regard and respect. To his perhaps antiquated way of thinking, when a man took a woman to bed, he needed to have deep feelings for her and wished to spend his future with her.
If being alone was a curse to that testament, so be it. There were other things to fill his time with. Eventually, he would find the right woman.
Because it was one of the things that made him unique, Oliver put a hand into an interior pocket of his jacket and then withdrew a folded handkerchief. As the coach swayed upon the oftentimes rutted road, he carefully peeled back the layers of much-used linen. At the heart of the fabric, a ring rested. The ring itself was done in gold, but the stone was a ruby of deep, clear red and shaped into a heart. Sunlight winked off it and made the gemstone fairly glow. It was the only thing of value he had in his life and had been passed down through a few generations until it came to land in his possession.
He was the last of his line, the last of the Mattinglys, for his relatives didn’t seem to have been granted long life or even good fortune, which is why the ring had been given to him when his father had died several years back. To Oliver’s way of thinking, that ring meant that love would always triumph, that love would always win. The last woman to wear the bauble had been his mother, but she’d expired ages ago in childbirth when he was a boy of ten.
And now it’s mine.
The ring would either go with him to the grave or it would grace the finger of his wife. There was no other option. With a faint grin, he carefully folded the handkerchief about the bauble, and then once more tucked it away into his pocket. Even at the age of thirty-seven, he had faith that he would fall in love. Every man in his family had, and what was more, it had always been a love at first sight that had burned bright and deep.
It was merely a matter of finding that one special woman.
As the coach rumbled past a flock of sheep, he grinned. There were a great many sheep here in England. With a gloved hand, he tapped on the book with its red linen cover that reposed on the bench beside him. The Lady of the Lake was what he’d chosen for his reading this day. A narrative poem by Sir Walter Scott, it involved three men vying for the affections of a woman in Scotland. The romance of it played to his heartstrings. But he’d packed many other books in his trunks. One of his favorites rested, even now, in the valise at his feet. A History of New York, by American author Washington Irving, who was a master of the short story, was an especial favorite. All of his characters were unforgettable and made the reader think. That spoke to his intelligence.
Reading was how he enjoyed spending his leisure, and perhaps there would be time enough to do that during his holiday. However, he did enjoy a rousing set of pall mall every now and again. He also hoped the marquess would travel about England to show him the sights, for Oliver wasn’t due back at his office in London until the first of November.
As soon as he reached for his book, a sickening snap and crunch of wood rent the air. When the coach lurched drunkenly to the left, he, his valise, and the book slid sharply in that same, directly. Everything slammed against the side of the vehicle, and the door popped open from the sudden halt of momentum.
From outside the coach, the driver’s curses floated to his ears. The second driver answered the first and then seconds later, he appeared in the open doorway.
“Looks like we’ve broken an axle, Mr. Mattingly.” He whipped off his slouch-style cap and wiped at his sweating forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Won’t go any further today, I’m afraid.”
Oliver frowned. “What does this mean?”
“Without a replacement part, we’re done for. The journey won’t continue. Breaks like that are a nasty business, and the damned road’s too rutted from recent rains.”
“How interesting.” He cast about at his feet for his errant hat. “Well, then, I can’t very well sit here, can I?”
“I wouldn’t advise it.” The driver extended a hand and assisted Oliver from the leaning vehicle. After that, he handed him the valise as well as the book, which Oliver tucked into the bag. “Looks like we’re out in the middle of nowhere, but there’s a manor house about three miles from here to the northwest. Ettesmere Park, and I believe the Earl of Ettesmere is in residence this time of year.”
“I suppose it’s a good a place as any to regroup.” Then he frowned. “What of my luggage?”
The driver shared a glance with his fellow and shrugged. “Once you reach the park, have them send a cart out this way to retrieve the luggage and us. We could wait a fool’s age out here and still never see anyone.”
“That sounds reasonable.” The change in plans, though, didn’t sit well in his belly. The marquess would wonder what had happened to him after a while. With a glance at the badly leaning coach whose wheel had fallen off and lay on the road next to it, he sighed. “I’d best get on with it, then.”
Hoping he was pointed in the correct direction, Oliver set out on the new adventure with both trepidation riding his spine and curiosity filling his chest. One often read about such things in novels, journeys that changed the course of one’s existence, but rarely did they ever happen in real life. Perhaps this was a good sign that his holiday would prove amazing.
Two hours later, because he kept stopping to admire blooms and plants that weren’t native to his home in Virginia, Oliver came upon lane that branched off the man road. Another meadow filled with colorful wildflowers flanked it. In the midst of the sea of color, as if she’d been painted there, was a young girl of perhaps eleven or twelve. Her blonde hair shone in the sun and hung in a braid down her back. The child hadn’t worn a hat or gloves, but her dress in a bright blue was quite striking against the field. She held a bouquet of flowers in one hand while she plucked more with another.
“Excuse me, miss.” Oliver shaded his eyes with his free hand. “I believe I am lost.”
The girl glanced at him with a soft smile. “Then how do you expect I know where you are if you don’t?”