Patience by Lisa Valdez

A WOMAN CALLED PATIENCE. A DESIRE THAT WOULD PUT HER NAME AND HER LOVE TO THE TEST.

Known for her exceptional beauty, Patience Emmalina Dare has been pursued by admirers ever since coming of age. But suitor after suitor fails to inspire her love or her desire. Certain she will never find a man who touches her deeply, she decides to forgo marriage in favor of pursuing her music. But just when Patience thinks she has her life well in hand, a passionate kiss with her enigmatic brother-in-law awakens a powerful need in her. How will she reconcile her desire for him and her desire for a life that’s her own and what will she do when he shows her a deep and hidden part of herself that she never knew existed?  

When the secret of his illegitimate birth pushes Matthew Morgan Hawkmore from his place in society, the darkly handsome half-brother of the Earl of Langley plots his resurrection and his revenge. Betrayed and abandoned by the women he believed loved him, he swears to never again be controlled by love. But despite his vow, he is unable to resist the beautiful Patience, whose strength and self-reliance hide a need that he is perfectly suited to fulfill. Can he have her without loving her? What will he give up to keep her? And will her passionate surrender be the one thing that can stop him from making a tragic mistake that could destroy them both

Good day, dear Readers! Mrs. Valdez is terribly busy click-click-clicking on that thing that seems to be strapped to her lap of late. So she has asked that I, Mathilda Dare (Aunt Matty), come here in her stead–which, of course, I am only too happy to do since the Swittley sisters did NOT invite me to accompany them on their tour through the Lake District. Not that I care, mind you, because they’ve really become quite tiresome of late now that their nephew is on the stage–of all places. Which brings me back to Mrs. Valdez, who has, thank goodness, not gone upon the stage. No, indeed. And contrary to rumor, she did not sell all her worldly goods and move to a cave in the Himalayas. She wasn’t blinded by a palm frond, nor crippled by the heel of a passing gentleman at the museum. And she most certainly wasn’t killed because she stored her picnic cutlery under her seat during a thunderstorm.

What? You don’t know what picnic I’m speaking of? Oh, that’s right, you haven’t read PATIENCE yet, have you? Dear me, but Mrs. Valdez certainly has taken a dreadfully long time with that book, hasn’t she. I’m completely fed up with her myself. Which is why I am so grateful to the wise, beautiful and tenacious Lady Sybil for wringing a little snippet of the book from Mrs. Valdez’ clenched fingers. Just between us, it was quite a scuffle. But Mrs. Valdez really must be taken in hand–I’m only glad that I was there to see it.

Well, I simply must be off. I hear my maid coming with the tea tray. I hope you enjoy the bit of PATIENCE that Lady Sybil was able to acquire for you, and at such great risk to herself, too. I tell you, the woman is a heroine. Joan of Arc would have envied her… Frannie! Where is my tea?

A LETTER OF LITTLE CONSCEQUENCE

My Dear Henrietta,

You simply can’t imagine all the scandalous goings-on! You’re missing everything! Of all the times for you to be in Italy! I tell you, my dear, there isn’t likely to be a grander entertainment than this in our lifetimes. And wait till you hear who is at the center of it all. I daresay, you shall never guess. For, until his engagement, he was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in England. Have you guessed? It is none other than the very man who you had once hoped to match with your daughter. Yes, Mr. Matthew Morgan Hawkmore!

Oh, Henrietta, where shall I begin? Let me just say that once you have heard what’s happened, you will be thankful that Mr. Hawkmore never took to your Amarantha. Had he, you would now be embroiled in a scandal from which you would never recover. Never, I tell you!

Are you ready, my dear? You should sit down if you aren’t already seated.

It turns out that the rich, handsome, charming and popular Mr. Hawkmore is a bastard! Yes! And to make matters ever so much worse, his father was a gardener! Yes, it’s really true! And the whole thing came to light in a most shocking and unseemly way.

You remember from my last letter that his brother, the Earl of Langley, had become engaged to a commoner by the name of Charlotte Lawrence? Well, it turns out that the chit’s mother was blackmailing the earl into marrying her daughter. The woman had in her possession some letters which revealed the truth of Mr. Hawkmore’s parentage. And the disgusting fact is that the letters were written by none other than Lucinda Hawkmore, herself. Though how a mother—a Lady—could write such letters, I’ll never know. One was actually printed, my dear, and spread all over London. I saw it myself in Lady Winston’s parlor, and it was perfectly awful. In it, the Countess gloated, and spoke of how it pleased her to see her little bastard in the Hawkmore linens. She even spoke of the possibility of him inheriting the earldom one day! Can you imagine?

The whole blackmail scheme was revealed in The Times. Though no names were mentioned, everyone knows exactly who was being referred to. Oh, and it turns out that the revelation of the truth was very fortunate for the Earl of Langley. Who knew, but it seems that he really is in love with a commoner—only it isn’t Charlotte Lawrence. It’s some widow from Lincolnshire! A Mrs. Passion Elizabeth Reddington (have you ever heard such an outrageous name?). Apparently he is head-over-heels for her, and is to marry her within the next fortnight. Some have the idea that she’s a distant relation of this Charlotte Lawrence, but I don’t have that on any authority. Anyway, it’s all too romantic, and everyone is just dying to meet her.

But as for Mr. Hawkmore—well, the Lady Rosalind has broken with him. And her father, Lord Benchley, is in an absolute fury. He believes Mr. Hawkmore knew of his true parentage all along. Which might be true because apparently the late Earl knew the baby wasn’t his own. And if he knew, Lord Benchley says that surely Mr. Hawkmore learned the truth as well at some point. This, of course, would make him not only a bastard, but a liar and a fraud as well.

God knows what the truth really is. Right now, opinions do seem to be split on the matter. Some agree with Benchley, some are uncertain, but everyone is striking Mr. Hawkmore from their guest lists, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

If you come home now, Henrietta, you won’t miss whatever is to come—for, surely, there is more to come. Who is this bride of the earl’s? Does she have any family? Will the Lady Rosalind get engaged again? If so, to whom? And perhaps most interesting of all, what will become of Mr. Matthew Morgan Hawkmore?

Yours,

Augusta

CHAPTER ONE – PATIENCE, A PRELUDE

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair, thou hast doves’ eyes. Song of Solomon 1:15

June 30, 1851

Wiltshire, England ~ Hawkmore House, County Seat of the Earl and Countess of Langley

Moonlight, soft and pearlescent, filtered through the windows that lined one side of the long portrait gallery. Rectangles of illumination fell upon the carpet and crept up the opposing wall, revealing a path of alternating light and darkness that traversed the entire length of the gallery.

Patience Emmalina Dare paused just inside the broad entrance. A tentative stillness filled the space—as if, only a moment before, something or someone had stirred the air with some small movement. As if the inhabitants of the ornate, gilded frames might have just ceased their whispered conversations, and were merely waiting for her to pass before they resumed.

Patience strolled slowly forward. Long ago, when she had suffered so many sleepless nights, she had made friends with the dark. It didn’t frighten her. Indeed, for some reason, the long room of light and shadow beckoned her. It was as if some sort of magic were at work.

Her silk dressing gown swished softly as she meandered her way through the gallery. She stopped here and there to study the faces of the Hawkmores, to whom she was now related by marriage. Such an old and noble family.

Patience sighed. In one day, she had gone from simple vicar’s daughter to sister of the Countess of Langley. Her new status would, no doubt, bring a whole new horde of annoying suitors down upon her. She wanted none of it. Her decision to remain unmarried had been made long ago.

And yet…

She twisted one of her long curls around her finger as she crossed to a window.

Earlier that day, as she had watched her sister pledge her troth to the Earl, she had seen the beautiful, transcendent love in their eyes and a tremor of doubt had shaken her resolve.

Leaning her forehead on the glass, she stared down at the well manicured side garden. She had passed through it that morning as she had escorted her sister to the chapel.

What perfect happiness Passion and Mark seemed to have found. Patience sighed and her breath briefly clouded the window. She would never have what they had—romantic love, the comforting sacrament of marriage, or the miraculous joy of motherhood.

Instead, she would have her cello. And the freedom and independence that came with having to rely upon no one for her happiness. She would continue to teach music at the church school. She would care for her father in his declining years, and she would be a doting aunt. It was a trade she had felt comfortable with—until today.

Today, she’d watched her sister find joy.

A sudden vision of dark, intense eyes floated through her mind.

And today, Matthew Morgan Hawkmore had watched her.

A warm thrill coursed through her as she moved away from the window and continued through the gallery. Was her handsome brother-in-law the real reason for her sleeplessness?

Her body tensed with an answering rush of desire.

That morning, as they had stood across from each other, siblings, each of them, to the bride and groom, there had been a moment when he had captured her in his unwavering gaze. Dark and demanding, his eyes had touched her and held her as tenaciously as the firm grip of a hand. Unable to move or look away, she had submitted to his determined regard as he had seemed to delve into her heart—searching for…what?

Then, as she’d stood powerless to hide herself, he’d blinked. And in the blink of his eye, he’d suddenly seemed to have some certain knowledge of her.

The experience had completely unnerved her. Yet, it had also left her flushed and warm, as if he’d truly touched her.

Patience paused before a portrait of two boys. The moonlight washed away color, but she recognized the deep, soulful eyes of the younger boy. They were like dove’s eyes, calm and soft, yet dark and knowing.

She smoothed her hand over her fluttering stomach. Of course, Matthew couldn’t possibly know her. No man had ever really known her. Her heart slowed. No man ever would.

And yet, she couldn’t assuage the feeling that he had, for a moment, looked inside her heart. What had he seen there? What was the inexplicable bond she felt when she looked into his beautiful eyes—as if some important and inescapable connection existed between them?

A small pulse beat once between her legs. She closed her eyes with a gasp of consternation. And why did she feel such tenacious desire for him?

She looked again at the portrait. He hadn’t attended the wedding luncheon, so she’d had no opportunity to speak with him. In fact, other than a stiff introduction, they’d never conversed—a point that was conspicuous in its oddity.

She leaned closer to the painting, but found no answers in the silent face of the young Matthew depicted there. A small sigh escaped her. She didn’t like not knowing the reasons for things. But as she reached out and made a tiny adjustment to straighten the frame, she acknowledged that God did not owe her any explanations. If her path was to cross with Matthew’s, then God would make it so.

Clasping her hands loosely behind her back, Patience moved on. She glanced up at two life-sized portraits, one of a man and one of a woman. She recognized the woman as Lucinda Hawkmore, Mark and Matthew’s mother. The other must be the late Earl of Langley. Patience frowned. Though handsome, his face was creased with sorrow. How terribly exhausted and defeated he looked.

A narrow table separated the two portraits, as if to keep them apart. Patience stepped forward as she noticed a paper lying on the marble top. Picking it up, she lifted it to Athena’s bright light.

June 20, 1851

Mr. Hawkmore,

Patience paused for a moment. She shouldn’t read a letter not meant for her. It was wrong. Yet, even as she acknowledged the thought, she found her eyes rushing to the next line.

I resent the necessity for this letter. But as you refuse to accept my father’s word regarding the dissolution of our engagement, I find myself in the unpleasant position of having to write to you myself. Please accept all that I shall say as my true and sincere sentiments.

It should be obvious to you that we will not suit. The shocking revelation of your parentage, the publication of your mother’s disgusting letter in which she revels over your illegitimate birth, and the scandal which accompanied its disclosure, have made a match between us utterly impossible. It should also be obvious to you that I could never, ever, marry the son of a gardener.

Now, while I did, at one time, feel some measure of appreciation for you, I assure you I no longer harbor any such feelings. Indeed, upon reflection, I believe you will come to realize that you always cared more for me than I for you. So, perhaps your disgrace is a blessing in disguise, as it has saved me—and you—from a marriage that would have proven unsatisfactory in time.

Finally, as my father has already told you, we find your protests of innocence in this matter to be completely unbelievable. Were you a man of honor and nobility you would admit your deceit, but clearly your ill breeding disallows such honesty.

Mr. Hawkmore, I demand you do not write to me again, or attempt to visit. My father has already informed you that neither you nor your missives will be permitted past our threshold. Do not embarrass me with further attempts.

Sincerely,

Rosalind Benchley

Post Script ~ Your mother would do well to stay in Austria where I hear tell that she has fled. Perhaps you should join her there.

Patience’s chest felt tight as she lowered Rosalind Benchley’s missive. It was an awful, ugly letter—a disgusting letter. She blinked back the sting in her eyes. A letter that reminded her too much of the one she had received long ago.

“Now that you’ve had a look, I’ll take that.”

Patience whirled and stared into the shadows that hung heavy between the windows on the opposite wall. The moonlight blinded her, so she stepped slowly into the shadows herself. Only then, did the whiteness of a shirt and the dark silhouette of a man appear. He was sitting on the dim shape of a couch set against the wall.

Patience’s blood rushed and sudden warmth touched the nerves just beneath her skin. She hadn’t expected that God would direct their paths quite so quickly.

“Hello, Matthew.”

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