by Martha Keyes
“Excuse me…” a polite voice said, once again startling her so that the quill stroke jerked across the page.
Her head snapped up. A gentleman stood at the end of the wall she leaned against, looking at her with apologetic eyes, a piece of paper in his hand, and the hint of a suppressed smile.
William.
Their eyes locked, her expression a mixture of surprise, consternation, and embarrassment; his a mixture of sympathy, curiosity, and humor. As she noted the suppressed smile and hint of humor in his eyes, her cheeks grew hot.
How must she look? A grown woman, sitting in a jungle of grass, in the act of writing a letter using the same treacherous ink well that had just splattered her with its black contents. It was absurd. A look down at her ink-covered dress and hands only confirmed the picture in her head.
Her eyes moved to the paper in his hand, and she recognized her letter to Fanny, covered, like herself, in blotches of black ink. She must have forgotten it in her haste to hide.
“You,” she said.
His mouth twitched. “Me. As I was passing by, I noticed this paper escaping and assumed that the owner must be nearby, seeing as the man whom I presume to be your groom was...erm...resting his eyes not far off.”
Kate glanced toward Avery who was fast asleep, head bobbing on his chest. “Thank you, sir,” she said stiffly, standing and brushing off her dress.
Feeling an explanation was called for, she said, “I’m sure my appearance must be extraordinary. You’ll have to forgive me, as I was startled in the middle of writing the letter you hold in your hand by the sudden, deafening—" she emphasized the word "—approach of what I can only presume to be you and your horse.” What business could he possibly have in such a secluded, abandoned place?
His mouth twitched. “Indeed, you’ll have to excuse my half-witted horse. His training has been sadly lacking. I am still working with him on the art of the silent canter so as not to frighten any ladies catching up on their correspondence behind abandoned abbeys.”
Only a spasm at the side of his mouth and a slight twinkle in his eyes belied the gravity of his words. The way his eyes twinkled was as irresistible as it was familiar.
Unable to deny the ridiculousness of her accusatory tone, a smile tugged at the corners of Kate’s lips, but, still resenting the situation she found herself in, she quickly forced it into what seemed to her a proper expression of stern dignity.
He hadn’t missed the twitch, though, and continued on. “I only came to return this so that—” he looked down at the letter splattered generously in ink “—the recipient might not be deprived of the beautiful piece of art—or did you say it was a letter? —you have created.”
She made a move to snatch the letter from his hand, but he pulled it away. “Perhaps,” she snapped, indicating both him and his horse with her head, “you should both add your signatures to the end, as I can no longer claim responsibility for the entirety of its contents.”
“It’s only fair, I think,” agreed the gentleman, nodding his head in agreement and inspecting the letter. He looked at her thoughtfully again. “However, between the letter and your person, I admit to wondering whether any ink remains?”
She let out an unwilling laugh, relenting to the sense of the ridiculous building inside her.
“You may well wonder,” she said, rubbing at a large ink stain on her habit. “I suppose I should be thanking you for rescuing my letter, though I doubt it is worth keeping.”
He had been making as if to hand her the letter but withdrew it once again.
“Doubt it is worth keeping?” he said incredulously. “When I’ve just told you it’s a work of art? I find you offensive, madam.” He held out the letter to inspect it again. “I am convinced it is every bit as good—indeed better than—most of what I saw the last time I was at the British Museum in London. Allow me to buy it from you. I feel sure it will sell for hundreds of pounds in a few years’ time and you will live to regret your disdain of it.”
He held the paper behind him with one hand, as if to make clear that he had no intention of returning such a valuable piece to one who did not appreciate it.
Kate shook her head, laughing softly. “My only real regret for this day must be that I was found in such an unlikely place, covered in ink. Not, as you state, for discounting the value of that,” she said, indicating the paper in his hand.
He chuckled, and she found that she liked the sound of his laughter. “The combination of an ink-covered lady of quality, writing letters in the ruins of an old abbey is quite charming, I assure you, and not something to be regretted in the least. I concede that the mishap with the ink is somewhat unusual, but I believe that is well-compensated for by your delightful humming.”
Kate mentally flogged herself for the habit. It was one that her mother, Miss Monaghan, and Fanny had all tried to rid her of with no success at all. It was not something she did consciously, though, so how could she be expected to curb the habit?
The sense of embarrassment which had begun to dissipate returned in full force, and she felt pride and resentment flare up again. “And do you make a habit of sneaking up and eavesdropping, sir?” she asked, hoping to put him in his place.
“Naturally,” he said with no trace of a smile.
She laughed again, caught off guard by his nonsensical response.
He smiled at her laugh, as if he took pleasure in bringing her down from her high ropes.
“And, so that I may know who to attribute the work of art to when I inevitably sell it for personal profit in few years,” he said matter of factly, “may I know the name of the artist? Erm...or the author?”
Kate crossed her arms. “So, you didn’t discover my name after all?”
“Or,” he offered with the quirk of an eyebrow, “I am testing you to see whether you will be truthful.”
She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “In that event, you would be deserving of dishonesty. Why should I tell you my name when you refused to tell me yours?”
“But I didn’t refuse,” he argued. “I told you my given name.”
“Yes,” she said sarcastically, “what a clue!”
He pulled out his quizzing glass to inspect the letter. “I suppose I may simply look at the signature at the bottom for your name.” He attempted to make out the signature, rotating the paper from side to side. “‘All my love, Kite.’” His brow furrowed playfully. “No, I’m sure that can’t be right.” He looked up at her with feigned interest. “Or is your name truly Kite?”
She wrested the letter from his hand.
“Alas,” he chuckled. “Even the signature fell victim to the ink.”
It was obvious that he was enjoying himself immensely.
“If you must know,” Kate said, “my name is Catherine Matcham.”
“But I already did know,” he said with a half-smile. “I recognized your aunt, Lady Hammond, and it was easy enough from there to discover your name.”
“How resourceful of you,” Kate said sarcastically. “However, I am still in the dark about your identity.”
He considered her, his arms crossed, and his mouth twisted to the side. “Shall I make you discover it on your own?” He shook his head. “No, it would be far too easy now. William Ashworth is my name.”
The name struck a chord somewhere in the recesses of Kate’s memory; too deep in the recesses to be helpful.
“What brings you to Dorset, Miss Matcham?” he said.
“A visit to old friends. I am staying at Wyndcross Manor.”
His smile flickered, and his brows knitted together. “Staying with the Croftes?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, confused by his strange reaction.
“Ah,” he said with something like a grimace.
A cloud obstructed the sun, casting shadow on the landscape and drawing Kate’s attention to the sky. The sun had moved west, and she realized with surprise and then guilt that she had lost track of time.
It was past midday. Cl
ara and Henry might well have arrived home. Avery should be helping in the stables with their return, and here she was, depriving her hosts of their groom. She didn’t want to leave, but surely prolonging a conversation with a gentleman while her chaperone slept was every bit as improper as a solo ride in the park.
She began hurriedly gathering her belongings, saying, “Oh dear. I fear that I lost track of the time. I must return to the manor. Allow me to thank you again for your help in rescuing my sad letter.” She held it up gingerly with two fingers, blew on it in hopes of drying any remaining wet ink, and placed it in her basket.
“It was my pleasure, Miss Matcham. Perhaps we shall meet again?” He raised his brows and wore a half-smile.
“Yes, perhaps so,” she said in distraction, fitting the last items in the basket.
Having all her belongings in hand, she smiled at him with a little nod of her head and walked briskly through the tall grass toward Avery who had begun to stir, having woken himself with a particularly loud snore.
“Good morning,” she said, using a low-hanging branch to help her onto her horse.
He yawned. “Sorry, Miss. I dozed off.” He rubbed his eyes and sat up, using the tree to help himself to a standing position.
“Yes, I know, Avery,” she said, with a laugh in her voice. “It is no matter. Let us be on our way. I have stayed longer than I intended, and I’m afraid that we shall arrive after Clara and Henry. I don’t know the way from here, so you will have to lead.”
Still wiping the sleep from his eyes, Avery mounted his horse and obediently led the way.
Kate heard the hoofbeats of William’s horse and turned to see him galloping up the hill at full speed. Her eyes lingered as he disappeared over its crest, and she suppressed a sigh.
Avery led the way toward Wyndcross, leaving Kate to her thoughts. Her cheeks grew hot just thinking on having been found in such a situation. And though she had blamed Mr. Ashworth, she was at fault. But instead of handling the situation with a delicacy meant to mitigate the embarrassing position she found herself in, he had joked her into a better humor in spite of herself.
She didn’t know whether to be grateful or upset. Had he ridden on, she would have been spared the mortification. And yet the thought of foregoing the entire episode made her sorry. She had enjoyed the sparring. And now she knew his name.
She wondered what Clara would think of the unlikely encounter. Though Mr. Ashworth knew Kate’s business in Dorset, in her haste to leave, she had not had the chance to discover what brought him there. She knew nothing but his name. Much against her will, she was attracted to him and his sense of humor. He seemed to know the Croftes, so perhaps Clara could answer her growing list of questions.
He had asked whether they would see each other again somehow. She had doubted it, but she now recognized that, despite the unlikelihood, she wished it. It was a strange and novel feeling. Aside from Simon, she was, at best, apathetic toward all the gentlemen of her acquaintance.
She recognized, though, how ridiculous it was to feel anything at all about someone she had only spoken with for a few short minutes and danced with one time. She gave herself a mental shake for being so simple.
Their arrival back at the courtyard of Wyndcross took her by surprise. As Kate had feared, the carriage was already back at the stables, and one of the stable hands, on seeing Avery, called to him urgently. He walked quickly over to the boy where they stood in discussion.
Kate dismounted and, feeling no desire to keep her hosts waiting or wondering about her any longer, looped Rosebud’s reins around a branch on the nearest bush for Avery or the stable hand to take care of.
Still wrapped up in thought, she entered the manor, heading for the morning room in hopes of finding Clara. Clara’s voice sounded from within, and Kate opened the door to glance in.
The conversation within immediately halted.
There were multiple people in the room, and all of their heads were turned toward the door to see who could be entering. To her disbelief and chagrin, Kate saw not only Lady Crofte, Henry, and Clara, but Mr. Ashworth himself as well.
Mr. Ashworth, smiling at her in recognition, looked to be enjoying a joke, which immediately reminded her of that important reality which she had forgotten in her distraction of thought: she was still covered in ink.
“Forgive me, I did not know you had visitors,” said Kate, ducking her head back out and closing the door behind her, hoping that her peek in had been brief enough that no one had noticed the state of her.
“Kate!” she heard Clara call.
Holding the doorknob behind her back, Kate closed her eyes, shook her head, and chuckled quietly at herself for being so mindless. She took a moment to compose herself, opened the door again, and stepped into the doorway. Already suppressing laughter due to her own heedless entrance while covered in black splotches, she was nearly put over the edge by the looks on the faces of the Croftes. Mr. Ashworth seemed to be enjoying the situation immensely, a fact that did not escape her notice.
“What happened?” Clara couldn’t have looked more surprised if Rosebud had pranced into the morning room.
“I am afraid,” Kate said, directing a quelling look at Mr. Ashworth, who was clearly trying his best not to laugh aloud, “that I mistakenly believed that letter-writing could be safely carried out in the great outdoors. I had an unfortunate accident, though, as you can see, and will not make the attempt a second time.”
It was really too bad of him to sit there and laugh at her like that when, if it hadn’t been for him she wouldn’t have found herself in such an embarrassing situation.
“I see. How peculiar,” said Lady Crofte, striving for an understanding tone, though her face betrayed her confusion and vicarious embarrassment. “Well, no matter, I am sure that we can all forgive your current state long enough for a brief introduction.”
Should she inform the company that she and Mr. Ashworth had already met—twice? It was true that they still lacked a formal introduction.
She found the task of explaining the situation too daunting and settled for a polite smile at him. It was all quite ridiculous, and it was apparent that he, too, found no small humor in the thought of being introduced to someone he had been speaking with not thirty minutes before.
Lady Crofte continued. “Lord Ashworth, this is Miss Kate Matcham. She used to live at Coombe Park—I’m sure you know it—and is visiting Clara.” She turned to Kate. “Lord Ashworth is a friend of Henry’s, and his parents, Earl and Lady Purbeck are friends of Sir Richard’s and mine. Lord Ashworth has come to discuss the Cosgroves’ invitation for the picnic on Saturday.”
Kate’s smile had dimmed considerably on hearing the words “Lord Ashworth” and “Earl and Lady Purbeck.” Her mind flashed back to the teasing conversation between Clara and Henry about Clara’s love interest and “her earl-in-waiting.”
Kate looked at Clara, who was looking back and forth between Lord Ashworth and Kate with a baffled and curious expression, as if she recognized that something had been passing between them that she did not understand.
Kate looked back at Lord Ashworth. He was bowing to her as part of their introduction. Remembering her duty amidst an inexplicable sinking feeling in her stomach, she quickly curtsied.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Matcham,” he said with a wide smile. “I feel sure there is an entertaining story behind those black spots.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “I was telling the Croftes that my sister Anne has proposed that we set out for the Cosgroves as a group, and I thought I would come and suggest the idea to you all. What do you say?”
“I think it a splendid plan. Don’t you?” interjected Clara, looking at Kate.
“It sounds very agreeable,” Kate agreed hesitantly. She had noticed Clara’s interest in her reaction and had no wish to give rise to any jealousy. “I think, though, that I shan’t join in this time. Surely the household has need of the horses. I imagine the transportation of food for the picnic will requ
ire the use of a couple at least. I shall be quite happy to spend my time here.”
Feeling that some further excuse was necessary, she added, “What’s more, I have not yet paid my uncle a visit at Coombe Park, and I would not wish to be remiss.”
She had no intention whatsoever of visiting her uncle, and the thought of doing so made her swallow uncomfortably. He had cast her father off upon his marriage to her mother, and there had been no contact between their families since Kate’s family removed from Coombe Park years ago.
Lord Ashworth’s brows drew together, and he looked at her as if trying to comprehend why she had declined the invitation with such feeble excuses. “I assure you we would be happy to supply you with a horse for the day, Miss Matcham.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr.—" she corrected herself “—Lord Ashworth, but I would not wish to put anyone to any trouble, and I do owe a duty to my uncle.”
“If you refuse to use one of the Croftes’ horses, how do you plan to arrive at Coombe Park?” pointed out Lord Ashworth.
Kate hadn’t considered that hole in her plan, and she wished she could kick him for exposing it, but she promptly responded, “I shall walk, of course.”
“Fiddlesticks,” cried Lady Crofte. “We have already been over this, my dear. My mare will be all too happy for a ride. And I’m sure, Miss Matcham, that your uncle will be perfectly happy to receive you any other day. I am persuaded you will enjoy the expedition immensely.” She glanced at her son and then back at Kate. “Henry, you know, is very knowledgeable about the county and will be happy to act as a sort of guide.”
Kate looked at Henry, who was regarding his mother as though she should perhaps be transported to Bedlam.
Lord Ashworth, on the other hand, looked at Henry with great interest and a smile trembling upon his lips. “Have you become an expert on Dorset since I saw you last, then? I seem to remember ending up in the Millwards’ vegetable garden the last time you tried to guide us somewhere.”
