Page 51 of A Mismatch Made in London

Jeremy had not stepped in right away. He watched from a distance as they spoke to each other. But when he saw that Miss Moore’s eyes were swimming with tears and Gotthurst was still talking to her, he could no longer stop himself. He strode over, placed himself between them, and told him, “There is no need to unburden yourself to Miss Moore. Better to leave her alone than make her cry in front of all these people.”

Gotthurst had a pained look on his face, but he reluctantly nodded. “I am sorry. I hope she knows that.”

“She does. But it will only upset her to keep telling her.”

Gotthurst said, “Very well.”

He hoped he had done the right thing in sparing her the rest of that conversation in public at a ball. He’d seen how quickly the tears came to her eyes ever since Gotthurst had thrown her over.

She could have blamed him, since he was the one who had instigated Shelley’s and Gotthurst’s attentions to them. But she had not breathed a word of anger or recrimination, and that made him feel even more guilty and remorseful.

Now she was being preyed upon by that Harper fellow. Well, even though he would be hiring a companion for them, he would be sure and keep watch over Amelia. Her aunt, Mrs. Kendall, may not have been very attentive, but Jeremy would not allow Harper to harm her. Although Amelia Moore was very innocent, she was also clever. She would see through him before she would allow him any liberties with her. He could only hope she wouldn’t marry him.

Juliet and I both loved Mrs. Wilson. She was funny and wise, personable and friendly.

“When can you start?” Juliet asked.

“Now, if you like,” she said. “I’m alone in my house after my daughter got married and moved to Brierfield. My husband passed away nearly fifteen years ago, God rest his soul.”

So we sent for Mrs. Wilson’s trunks and settled her into one of the bedrooms. Jeremy looked pleased, no doubt because now he wouldn’t have to go with us everywhere we went.

So that is how Mrs. Wilson and not Jeremy Beaumont happened to be there when Mr. Colin Harper and Mr. Shelley arrived at the same moment.

Mr. Harper challenged everyone to a lively discussion about our favorite things about Vauxhall Gardens. Even Mrs. Wilson joined in, saying, “The concerts are my favorite. I love a good concert.”

It had been perhaps too soon since Juliet’s scrape with Mr. Fairweather, but I could almost see her set aside her aversion just before she declared that her favorite thing was the colored lanterns. “Thousands of them. They make the place so lovely.”

“Miss Moore?” Mr. Harper said. “You have not said what your favorite thing is.”

“I have only visited twice. I enjoyed everything, the concert, the lanterns, the grottoes, the architecture, but I think my favorite might have been the waterfalls and cascades. They remind me of home, even though there are no waterfalls so grand at home.”

“Did you see the fireworks?” Mr. Harper asked. “We must go one evening when they are scheduled to have fireworks.”

When the conversation changed and Mrs. Wilson was talking with Juliet and Mr. Shelley, Mr. Harper said in a soft voice, “I should very much like to be there when you see the fireworks, to see them shining in your eyes.”

Perhaps if I had known him longer, his words would have been romantic, but instead they felt too forward. But was that because of what Jeremy had said, his vague talk of rumors andgambling? Perhaps I should demand that Jeremy Beaumont tell me exactly what he had seen and heard, then I could ask Mr. Harper to give his side of the story. Did Mr. Harper not deserve to defend himself?

The conversation went on, until Mr. Shelley and Mr. Harper both declared they should be going. “Perhaps we could all take a walk tomorrow,” Mr. Harper said. “Mrs. Wilson? Would you be able to walk with us to the park? Is it not too far?”

“Indeed, I am a great walker,” Mrs. Wilson declared. “I enjoy a good walk. It keeps both the mind and the body young.”

“I agree.” Mr. Harper turned his charming smile on Mrs. Wilson. “You are very wise.”

“I don’t know about very wise,” Mrs. Wilson said, “but I am fifty years old—twice as old as any of you, I daresay—and I’ve seen a few things, to be sure.”

“Nearly,” Mr. Harper said, “for I am soon to be seven-and-twenty.”

“Then you may have come to the age where you realize you don’t know everything.”

Mr. Harper let out a short laugh. “Yes, I must say, I do get humbled on occasion. But I hope I learn from my mistakes.”

It was an interesting thing to say. Was he acknowledging that the rumors were true? Or was I being too suspicious? Either way, he was at least admitting that he tried to learn from his mistakes. What more could anyone do? None of us was perfect.

We agreed on a time in the morning to go for our walk, and the two gentlemen left.

The next morning, Jeremy joined us for our walk.

I had not gathered the courage yet to ask him what he had seen and heard about Mr. Harper. Perhaps it was better to form my own opinions.