Wyndcross (The Families 0f Dorset Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  Kate thanked him in an uncertain voice as he passed her by. She had been certain that Clara was occupied in assisting Lady Crofte with preparations for the dinner. Had there been a misunderstanding leading Avery to prepare Rosebud for Kate?

  As she entered the stables, she saw neither Clara nor Rosebud. Two other horses stood between the rows of stalls. She stopped in her tracks. It was her own Cleopatra. She rushed forward with as much careful quickness as she could.

  “What is this?” she exclaimed, going to Cleopatra’s head. “Where in the world did you come from, girl?”

  She looked around the stables and could see no one. She had half a mind to go find Avery and ask him what—or who—in the world had brought her own mare to Wyndcross. But he was engaged in his duties, so she would have to await his return to find out if he could offer any information about the horse’s sudden and very welcome arrival.

  A shaky laugh erupted from her, and she wrapped her arm under Cleopatra’s neck, pulling the mare toward her in an embrace and stroking her face with her other hand. Half of the horse’s mane was tangled, a strange circumstance until Kate noticed the brush laying on the floor nearby. Avery must have been in the middle of brushing her when he was called to take Henry’s horse out.

  She picked up the brush and began brushing the tangled half of the mane. Cleopatra tossed her head, and Kate smiled.

  “I know. I have neglected you shamefully. But I am nearly rid of this nasty limp, and I shan’t let anything stop me from taking you on a ride tomorrow.”

  She heard a sound coming from the other side of the barn and peeped over Cleopatra’s neck.

  Lord Ashworth exited the tack room, the corners of his mouth tugging upward into a playful grin. “I don’t think ‘nasty’ is the proper description of your limp,” he said. “Endearing, perhaps.”

  Kate let out a sigh, wishing she could understand this man who frequented smuggling inns one day and charmed her the next. Only for a moment did she consider confronting him with her knowledge of his whereabouts in Weymouth. It was none of her business, and part of her was afraid to know the answer.

  “Endearing?” she said doubtfully. “I wish I could say the same of your eavesdropping habit. It seems that if I am ever in need of your presence, I have only to do something mortifying, and you are transported here on the instant.”

  “I hope for many more mortifying moments, then,” he said. “I’m afraid you must acquit me of eavesdropping this time, though. I happened to be in the tack room, no more. But I must ask you one thing.”

  “Which is?” Kate returned to the task of brushing the mare’s mane.

  “Do you always speak to your horse as you do to humans, or is it only when you have gone a long stretch of time away from one another?” His face was the picture of innocent curiosity.

  She turned toward him, dropping the brush to her side and tilting her head. “Do other people not talk to their horses?”

  He chuckled. “Not in the same manner as they do to other humans. Or if they do, they must do it in secret, outside the presence of eavesdroppers.”

  “How fortunate for them,” she said with a provoking arch to her brows.

  She brushed Cleopatra’s mane, head cocked to the side in thought. “Perhaps I am indeed alone in speaking to my horse,” she admitted, “but I have always considered Cleopatra to be my most loyal friend, and it is only natural that one should talk to one’s friends, is it not?”

  He considered her words. “Yes, I think I agree with you. However, I believe that, under normal circumstances among friends, it is more of a dialogue than a monologue. Having said that, I personally find your habits of humming and speaking to your horse to be refreshing. On par with your artistic talents, even.”

  His eyes teased her in the way that was so particularly his own.

  She held her head high. “I am a woman of many talents, my lord.”

  A genuine laugh shook him. “Not least of which is that singular capability to say what I least expect.”

  She couldn’t help but grin watching him laugh in her company. She found extraordinary pleasure in conversation with him. While it was clear that he enjoyed provoking her, he was also undeniably able to make her laugh, something she dearly loved to do.

  She shook her head, smiling and looking back down at Cleopatra’s mane which was nearly detangled. The knowledge that she would likely never see Lord Ashworth again once she returned to Fanny brought a lump to her throat and tempered her smile.

  If she were to encounter him in the future, it would likely be hand-in-hand with Clara. If, on the other hand, she pursued employment instead of marriage, life would take her into an entirely different circle, and Lord Ashworth would only be one of many people she would be unlikely to encounter.

  She was used to being apart from those she cared for, but she had never felt such bleakness as she did considering her future after leaving Wyndcross.

  “I believe you have successfully brushed that particular part of the mane,” Lord Ashworth said, a laugh in his voice.

  She looked down. In her abstraction, she had been brushing the same part of the mane over and over again. She smiled wryly at herself and pulled her hand back from the mane, watching her mare swat her tail at a fly.

  “Allow me,” he said, reaching for the brush in her hand.

  Their fingers touched briefly in the exchange, and Kate felt her heart beat erratically. It was a strange sensation. Had he felt it, too?

  She looked up at him.

  He was looking at her with searching eyes. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She wondered for the hundredth time what he was thinking and whether he could read her thoughts just by looking at her. His eyes moved to her lips, and she swallowed.

  He frowned suddenly, looking away toward Cleopatra and brushing her mane.

  Kate felt her cheeks burn. Surely, he had been able to perceive her thoughts and emotions with such a penetrating gaze. Her blush took on a more scarlet hue as she considered the possibility that his frown was a result of perceiving her regard for him.

  But why had he looked at her so intently?

  “Well, Miss Matcham, she is a beautiful mare,” he said, setting the brush on the stall. It did not escape her notice that he avoided returning the brush to her where they might risk direct contact again.

  He paused for a moment before giving the mare a final stroke and adding with a half-smile, “Welcome to Wyndcross, Cleopatra.” He turned to look at Kate. “How did I do? Am I supposed to listen for a response?”

  Kate smiled weakly. “You are a quick study, my lord.”

  Lord Ashworth moved over to the other horse, crouching down to check a spot on one of the horse’s front legs.

  The action reminded Kate that she was still in the dark as to how her horse had arrived at Wyndcross so suddenly. She stroked Cleopatra’s jaw, shaking her head.

  “I haven’t the slightest notion,” she said absently, “how she comes to be here. I am extremely grateful, but it is very perplexing. I can only assume that Fanny sent her from London, though Fanny is normally too—” she paused as if rethinking the word she had been about to say “—well, let us say that she is normally too scatterbrained to think of such things. But I admit to feeling surprised that she would send no accompanying note. Perhaps there is one inside.”

  Lord Ashworth looked up at her from his hunched position and opened his mouth only to then close it. He smiled wryly before standing up.

  “What is it?” Kate said.

  Lord Ashworth smiled and shook his head. “Nothing at all.” He set a foot in the stirrup and heaved himself over his horse. “Unfortunately, I must take my leave of you. I have some business to attend to before the dinner party begins.” He directed his horse toward Kate, leaning to pet Cleopatra a final time and saying, “Take good care of your mistress, my girl, or you will have to answer to me.” And with those words, he left the stables.

  What exactly would he do were Cleopatra to igno
re his endearing but ridiculous order?

  She took in a breath. It would be most prudent to ignore his words, to ignore that moment of intensity between them.

  It was easy to forget the divers barriers between them when she was in his presence, but her mind was all too ready to bring them to the forefront of her thoughts at the first opportunity.

  It was possible that Clara had feelings for both Mr. Bradbury and Lord Ashworth. Perhaps she felt herself torn between the two gentlemen. It certainly didn’t seem that way, particularly given Clara’s painfully obvious regard for Mr. Bradbury and, by contrast, her more theatrical behavior in the presence of Lord Ashworth.

  Lord Ashworth’s feelings on the matter were just as much of a mystery to Kate. But whatever their feelings, an agreement existed between them, and it would be wrong of Kate to do anything to sabotage that, even were she capable of it—something she heavily doubted.

  She had too often caught herself reliving conversations and situations in an attempt to understand just what Lord Ashworth thought and felt about her. It was as silly as it was fruitless to spend time thinking of such things.

  For Lord Ashworth to look so far below himself as to pursue a woman in Kate’s position would be seen as a dereliction of duty by many. And even entertaining the possibility that he would do so was nothing short of ridiculous and presumptuous on her part.

  Her energy was much better spent deciding on a practical course for her future.

  The excitement she had felt upon seeing Cleopatra was dampened significantly. She would likely have to sell the horse should she choose to support herself by employment.

  A half-smile appeared on her face as she considered what a shame Lord Ashworth would think it if she could no longer speak to Cleopatra.

  What would Simon think of her unusual habits? He was one of her closest friends, but he wasn’t aware of her heedless humming, her conversation with animals, or the extent of her clumsiness. And even if he were aware, he would likely find it all nonsensical, childish, or unfathomable rather than amusing or endearing.

  She had much to think on, and she spent the entirety of her toilette vacillating between her two options.

  From the way Lindley furrowed her brows and made muted but disgruntled noises during her toilette, Kate knew she wasn’t looking her best. She was not vain enough, however, to assume that her appearance would be a matter of importance to the host of strangers she would be meeting, and so she sighed softly at her reflection in the mirror and turned to leave her room.

  20

  “On your face, your lordship?” The valet stood in front of William, shoe blacking in one hand, a cloth in the other, and a blank stare on his face.

  William’s mouth twitched. “Yes, Spires. On my face.” He waited a moment, but Spires seemed glued to the spot. He chuckled, reaching for the blacking and cloth, and turned toward the mirror.

  He stared intently at his reflection for a moment, took in a quick breath, and dipped the cloth in the blacking. He wiped the cloth broadly across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and under his eyes which were narrowed in concentration. The smell of brandy and lemon—two of the many ingredients in Spires’ blacking recipe—assailed his nose.

  He ran the cloth through the blacking again and shot a quick glance at the reflection of Spires who seemed both horrified and on the verge of tears.

  “Really, Spires,” he said with amusement. “Surely you see the necessity. Brass buttons, white cravats, and gleaming Hessians hardly lend themselves to smuggling. Besides, I happen to know that you have a dozen of these blacking cases below stairs. A low supply cannot possibly be the cause of your misery.”

  “Will you also require that, my lord?” Spires looked down at the chair nearby. A large and ratty cloak lay over the chair back.

  William chuckled. “I’m afraid so. I know the thought of my poor shoulders concealed under such an object must offend you.”

  “Deeply, my lord.” He eyed the cloak again with misgiving. “It pains me to see you thus. To witness you involved in something so far beneath you.”

  William said nothing, continuing to rub the blacking on his cheeks. When his face was covered to his satisfaction, he put a hand out for the cloak.

  Spires gingerly draped the cloak over his master’s form, his mouth turned down in disgust, his hands held out from his body as if the article might be covered with plague.

  When he saw the pair of boots his master requested him to bring over, Spires let out something between a whine and a groan.

  William smiled appreciatively. He picked up a tattered and muddied boot and inspected it with admiration. “They are a sight, are they not? I think they bring the ensemble together nicely. Complete to a shade, as they say.”

  Spires closed his eyes in acute distress.

  William let out a loud laugh. “Go, Spires. I’ve provoked you to the point of making you unwell. Go, then. I will finish up.”

  Spires looked torn between the urgent need to distance himself from the repugnant clothing he found himself surrounded by and the desire to fulfill his duties as a valet. A dismissive nod from Lord Ashworth tipped the scale, though, and he bowed and left the room with a look of gratitude.

  William smiled wryly and shook his head as the door closed behind his valet. He placed a tricorne hat firmly on his head, turning toward the mirror, staring at his reflection with a critical eye.

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Spires reappeared, recoiling slightly at the sight before him.

  A lopsided grin appeared on his master’s face. “I thought I told you to go!”

  Spires took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if in a divine plea for restraint. “I only come to inform you that Lady Purbeck and Lady Anne await you below stairs.”

  William’s brows shot up, and he grabbed for the pocket watch lying on the nearby table. “Good heavens, I had no idea the hour was so advanced. I shall need your help dressing after all. Tell my mother and sister that they will have to go without me.”

  “Very good, your lordship. I shall return in a moment,” said Spires, bowing and closing the door behind him.

  William snatched up the damp towel and began hurriedly wiping the blacking off his face.

  21

  Sir Richard and Lady Crofte were already welcoming guests in the drawing room when Kate entered. Sir Richard gave her a warm smile upon seeing her enter. Lady Crofte’s smile, however, looked more like a grimace.

  Clara looked characteristically charming in a dress of white crepe. She was engaged in conversation with a middle-aged couple who stood next to Mr. Bradbury—his parents, no doubt.

  Kate smiled at Clara, noting her rosier-than-usual cheeks and how she looked to Mr. Bradbury as she responded to a comment, as if for affirmation.

  The guests came in steadily, and Kate did her best to balance amiability and proper reserve as she met and conversed with them. It was with relief that she noticed Lady Anne walk through the door, accompanied by, Kate assumed, her mother and father. It did not escape Kate’s notice that Lord Ashworth did not make one of their party. She ignored the vexatious feeling of disappointment she felt and went to greet Lady Anne.

  Lady Anne noticed Kate right away and extended a hand toward her, smiling and linking her arm into Kate’s. “You are walking without a limp.”

  Kate laughed. “I have given my ankle no say in the matter this evening. How horrid it would be to be remembered as the woman with the limp. I will pay for it all tomorrow, no doubt.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of Lady Anne’s mother summoning her to exchange greetings with Lady Crofte. Kate made as if to move away, but Lady Anne kept their arms cuffed together.

  Lady Anne greeted the Croftes with her customary kindness before turning to her mother and father.

  “Father, Mama, I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to Miss Matcham yet.”

  Kate looked at the woman who was the mother of Lord Ashworth. Like her children, she was tall. The way sh
e held herself and the kind lines of her face reminded Kate more of Lady Anne than of Lord Ashworth, though. Her eyes, remarkably like those of her son, scanned Kate. It was not an unkind exercise, but rather one of curiosity.

  Lord Purbeck glanced at her disinterestedly before resuming his slow surveyal of the crowd.

  The Countess smiled at Kate and opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Lady Crofte.

  “Ah yes, Miss Matcham is a guest of ours here at Wyndcross. But perhaps you remember her! She is the daughter of Jane Matcham. Or I should perhaps say Jane Dimmock, for she has remarried.” She leaned in toward Lady Purbeck and said in undertones loud enough that Kate and the others were able to hear her, “You may not have seen her in some years. I’m afraid she has strayed from the company we keep.”

  Lady Purbeck’s eyebrows lifted, and Lady Anne blinked slowly. Lord Purbeck considered Kate with a touch of contempt.

  Kate’s cheeks burned, but she returned Lord Purbeck’s gaze.

  Lady Crofte looked around at Lady Anne and the Purbecks. “But what is this?” she asked, scanning the crowd. “Is Lord Ashworth not joining us this evening?”

  “I wish I could give you an answer,” said Lady Purbeck. “I believe he planned to come, but we were obliged to leave without him.”

  Kate smiled to counteract the sensation of her heart sinking.

  Lady Crofte frowned slightly and remarked how much they would miss him. She was tapped on the shoulder by Clara and obliged to excuse herself to greet another guest.

  Lady Purbeck turned back to Kate, taking Kate’s hands within her own. “Miss Matcham, it is such a pleasure to meet you.”

  How kind her eyes were. She felt relieved that Lady Crofte’s remarks hadn’t given Lady Purbeck a distaste for Kate’s presence.

  “Anne speaks so highly of you,” Lady Purbeck said. “I have been anxious to make your acquaintance.”

  Kate’s cheeks blushed in modest embarrassment. “As you know, my lady, your daughter is one of those wonderful people who, the kinder she is to someone, the better she thinks of them. And she has been crushingly kind to me. So, I’m afraid you must take what you have heard of me with a grain of salt. A very large grain.”