Nicholas nodded, pushing his sweat-drenched body from the pillows. Edwin might be an excellent valet, but his experiences in war were nonexistent. The bad dreams Nicholas found plaguing his nights were lived nightmares. Too many men had died. Too many pointless battles had been fought and lost—against the fever, not just against the French. Too many widows for whom he had failed to bring a scrap of comfort. Too many tears, which had only strengthened his resolve to never allow any woman to engage his heart, or he hers. That way only led to despair. A marriage of convenience would be his only option, if marry he must. He sighed. And as the newest earl, it seemed one day he must.
Edwin pushed open the curtains. Sunshine streamed into the bedchamber. “Might I suggest a bath before you head for services, m’lord?”
Services. Nicholas groaned, rubbing at his aching thigh as he disentangled himself from the sheets. “You remain as subtle as ever, Edwin.”
His valet grinned, and Nicholas stumbled to the freshly prepared bath, his spirits sinking as he lowered himself into the water. It did not matter how long he bathed, his guilty stains could never be washed away.
NICHOLAS HELD HIS head stiffly as he walked down the aisle of the village church, gritting his teeth as heads swiveled to mark his procession. No doubt every inch of his dress was being scrutinized, from the careless arrangement of his necktie to the fit of his superfine dark green coat. Not that anyone here would recognize Weston’s handiwork. He seated himself down the front in the carved-oak family pew, knowing the speculation would continue behind his back, while he sat beneath the reverend’s nose.
He nodded to Mr. Ellison and focused his attention on the rather pretty stained glass behind the wooden altar. Light shimmered gold and blue through the trio of round-topped windows. The central image depicted Jesus on a cross. To the left sat an open-armed Jesus surrounded by small children, while on the right the Good Samaritan cared for the beggar on the road. Pretty images, surrounded by carefully carved ancient stone, of long-ago, long-irrelevant tales. His gaze shifted to meet Mr. Ellison’s. His fingers tensed. Was that reproach in the reverend’s eyes? Could he see Nicholas’s unbelief?
A creaky wheeze was followed by sounds of a pipe organ filtering through the stone building. The piece was loud and forceful, as if the invisible organist demanded people’s attention.
He glanced across the aisle. Miss Ellison, wearing another shapeless plain gown and a simple silver cross, sat studying her prayer book as if her life depended on it.
His focus moved to the windows once more as he thought on the evening of two nights ago. Amidst the awful boredom of people nattering on about cattle and local issues he had absolutely no interest in, Miss Ellison had proved diverting. Her cool scrutiny of him had been most unnerving, almost like she could see straight through him. Her comments about his dandyism maligned his character thoroughly—although he supposed his manner had been a little overbearing. But when she’d played! She might possess the manners of a hoyden but she had the voice of an angel. Why even his mother, fastidious creature that she was, a self-styled expert of musicianship, would be astounded by this not-so-humble daughter of a country reverend.
The reverend cleared his throat, capturing Nicholas’s attention once more.
“Good morning, dear friends.” Mr. Ellison’s smile, full of warmth and candor, suggested he actually did consider these people his friends. “Let us pray.”
Nicholas bowed his head in compliance as the reverend seemed to chat to his god. Not that there was much point. He’d seen plenty of good men pray and still end up dead. What was the use? He paid scant attention, although the mellow voice was mildly soothing.
As the reverend led the congregation through the service, Nicholas’s thoughts continued to wander. Perhaps church attendance would be of some benefit. If he must live in such a close-knit community, it probably was important to be seen to do the right thing. He didn’t really mind the bowing and scraping that went along with his title. And it was oddly endearing to hear the locals esteem Uncle Robert so highly. Father could never understand why his elder brother did not prefer the glamour of London or his principal estate, Hawkesbury House, rather than this dull pocket of Gloucestershire. Perhaps the locals had something to do with his decision, after all.
After several hymns—to which he mouthed along—he noticed Miss Ellison rise and slip away. He frowned. Surely the reverend’s daughter was not permitted to abscond. Was she ill?
The reverend’s mellow voice regained his attention as he announced the Bible readings and then preached a sermon, during which Nicholas could barely stifle yawns. A kind of mind-numbing stupor settled upon him. How much longer must he endure?
The reverend finally closed the Bible. “Let us pray.”
Nicholas bowed his head just in time.
Organ music woke him. His head jerked, and he glanced up to see Mr. Ellison’s gaze shift away, his puckered brow ease into smoothness.
He hoped to God he hadn’t snored! If he hadn’t, the congregation might merely think their new earl was—extremely—pious.
The intricate organ music continued, softer, gentler than before, contemplative rather than containing that earlier judgmental note. The congregation stood, the reverend closed the service, and the aisle soon thronged with congregants seeking his attention. He nodded, listened to their welcomes, all while his heart itched to leave. Miss Ellison flitted by—where had she gone during the service? He moved through the huddled villagers to shake the hand of the reverend, as seemed to be the custom here.
“Lord Hawkesbury, it’s good to see you here.” Mr. Ellison’s eyes twinkled. “I trust you will find next week’s sermon a trifle more interesting?”
His cheeks heated. “Forgive me. I must have stayed up too late last night.”
“I fear many a person here has needed forgiveness for that particular sin.”
His lips twitched. “You are generous.” He inclined his head and moved outside, blinking at the watery sunshine after the church’s dimness. Perhaps a long, hard ride this afternoon would help clear away this lethargy and help him feel more the thing.
“Excuse me, Lord Hawkesbury?”
He bit back a sigh, and turned as the squire engaged him in the usual trivialities, while Lady Milton and her daughter hovered nearby, their faces dimpling whenever he carelessly looked their way. He refused their offer for luncheon, made his excuses, and strode away to the shy smiles of young ladies of the congregation. With a nod to the blacksmith’s boy who held Midnight, he swung up and glanced back. He remained the object of nearly everyone’s attention.
Everyone, except Miss Ellison. Her attention remained on a stooped, white-haired woman leaning on a stick. The reverend’s daughter leaned closer, patted the elderly woman’s arm, and smiled.
His breath caught. With her hair gleaming in the sunshine, her face alight, she held a radiance he’d only ever seen in an Old Master’s painting in Venice—and certainly never witnessed in a London ballroom.
He frowned heavily, wheeled Midnight around, tapped the horse’s flanks, and cantered away.
“GILES!”
Nicholas scowled at the ledger on his desk as he waited for his butler to appear. What had Johnson been doing these past years? The figures suggested his bailiff had maintained the estate appropriately, but anyone could see the stables had not been properly addressed in years. It really required a full renovation, but where would he get the money for that? His brother’s careless ways had brought the estate within a whisker of bankruptcy; the rents from his tenant farmers barely covered the wages of his staff. His prize money from the Peninsular was nearly all accounted for, spent trying to ease the suffering of his wounded men, or worse but more importantly, provide for their widows. Prize money? He shook his head. Blood money.
Soft footfalls preceded his butler’s silver head. “M’lord?”
“Have you any idea where Johnson is today?’
“I believe he is in town.”
“Town?
Gloucester or Cheltenham?”
“Cheltenham, m’lord. I believe he said he will be back at nightfall.”
Nicholas pushed back in his chair, barely acknowledging his butler’s quiet departure. Nightfall was too long a wait. He gazed out the window. Clear skies beckoned. Nothing would be gained by poring over books right now; he’d only grow more frustrated. His ride Sunday afternoon had proved beneficial. Perhaps another ride would clear his head.
“Giles!”
The butler reappeared. “Yes, m’lord?”
“Tell McHendricks to saddle Midnight.”
“Very good, m’lord.”
Half an hour later, he was in the saddle, surveying the land. The barley seemed plumper now, the past days of sunshine doing much to ripen the harvest. He’d never really noticed the crops or their stewards before. He’d never expected to need to care. But watching clouds wisp through the sky, the ground swell with promise, the rhythms of the countryside, a kind of peace washed over him. Here, at least, men were not treated as cannon fodder, and one could be certain to rise as the sun. Farming may be dull, hard, monotonous work, possessing little of the danger inherent with a soldier’s lot, but somehow, it gave one an appreciation for life.
He pressed Midnight over the rise to where two men worked with several horses in a furrowed field. As he pulled up, the men stopped, acknowledging him with a touch of their foreheads.
“G’mornin’, me lord.”
“Good morning.” As they watched him expectantly, he scrambled for something to say. “And what are you doing in this field?”
“We be plowing in for turnips.”
He glanced at the long wooden contraption behind the horses. “Where are the plough’s wheels?”
“The soil be mostly clay and heavy, and wheels get stuck. The long mold-board and skeith and share be far better to break down heavy soil.”
He nodded like he knew of what they spoke. “And your yield?”
“That be dependent on the good Lord above.”
“Er, yes. Of course.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, me lord, but has Johnson spoken to yer yet?”
“I’ve scarcely seen Johnson since I arrived.”
The men glanced at each other.
“I’m here now. What was it about?”
“We be wondering if the lower field could be extended a mite to make more room for planting.”
The broad-faced one nodded and began explaining the benefits of this plan.
“It sounds reasonable. What did Johnson say?”
The pair exchanged glances again. “That be the trouble, me lord. He don’t favor us with any answer.”
Nicholas flicked the reins impatiently. “Well, I’ll speak to him about it soon.”
“Thank ye, me lord.” The men touched their foreheads once more as he rode away.
He glanced at his dirt-crusted gloves. Despite Edwin’s fastidious standards, he at least had sense enough not to make a fuss, unlike his previous valet in London. Nicholas frowned. Amidst the mail this morning had been another missive from his mother. Apparently London missed him. His lip curled in disdain. Missed his money, most likely. Mother also reported that Clara had asked after him, most particularly. Mother herself would visit him but was creating a rose garden with a water fountain on Hawkesbury House’s south lawn, which must be ready for her guests in two weeks’ time, and the gardeners were simply hopeless …
His mouth drew to one side. How would Mother cope when he brought back a wife, and she was forced to move to the Dower House? She loved Hawkesbury House, with its score of bedrooms, lavish reception rooms, and extensive grounds—that apparently needed constant remodeling. She would not take to a new countess easily unless she could control her as she did the grounds, hence her preference for Clara DeLancey, the daughter of Viscount Winpoole. His lips set in a thin line. He would be hanged to see that occur.
He moved onto the road and cantered toward St. Hampton Heath. Fresh air brought a smile to his lips and further ease to his heart. Something that felt like joy welled within. Here, at least, he could be himself: free of expectations, control, and cursed responsibility.
He rounded the corner. Up ahead, he noticed a slight figure holding a basket, trailed by a yappy beagle. A quick glance over the shoulder and the person moved to the extreme edge of the road. He slowed and drew even. Yes. He’d recognize that contempt anywhere.
“Good day, Miss Ellison.”
“My lord.” She continued walking, eyes fixed firmly ahead, hands grasping the basket as the dog began to bark.
Midnight whinnied in protest, his hooves dancing across the stones.
Miss Ellison shied further away and scooped up the beagle.
Nicholas shrugged mentally, casting another glance at her before giving Midnight his head and cantering away. Just before he reached the bend in the road he glanced back.
He pulled Midnight to a sharp stop and scanned the countryside.
Miss Ellison had disappeared.
Lavinia sank into the oak’s shade next to her basket. She forced herself to breathe slowly to calm her racing heartbeat. The horse had not bolted, nor reared, nor any other thing from her nightmares. The earl did appear at least to have his horse under control, which should be expected from one of Wellington’s most decorated cavalry officers.
She pulled her pencils and sketchbook from the basket, the action helping calm her nerves. She started to sketch the scene: Mickey sniffing at the base of the untrimmed hawthorns nestled with pink-and-white flowers, the tussocks of coarse grass, the young oak in the corner seeded from the large tree beneath which she sheltered. Her own private hideaway.
This triangular patch of land, shielded on three sides by large hedges, had remained untouched, indeed unvisited—save for herself—for years. She and Mickey had explored every corner, knew every stone, every flower. The gap in the hedge might prove more of a squeeze than ten years ago but she refused to relinquish the peace this haven provided.
The violet-blue flowers of the meadow clary defied her endeavors to capture their curling form, so she abandoned the attempt and moved to study the plant more closely. Salvia pratensis. The cemetery held pockets of salvia sown on the graves, hinting of salvation as they had for hundreds of years.
Mickey scampered off to the far corner so she placed her drawing materials away and lay down, looking up at the heavens. No doubt Lady Milton would have another fit if she could see Lavinia now. She smiled. A slight breeze tousled curls across her face as her thoughts ranged wide and free as the clouds above: the delicate beauty of salvia, Eliza Hardy and the plight of other tenant families, their children who needed education. Music. Art. Church. The earl.
She frowned. Like Mickey, she seemed to possess hackles that arose every time she saw the earl, which was somewhat odd. She had never felt anything but affection for his uncle. But then, the fourth earl had been nothing but kindness, whereas this new earl seemed to look down his thin nose at them all.
Papa had pleaded with Patience and herself not to judge, but the old resentment refused to be quenched. The village whispers of fourteen years ago resurfaced: how could he demand a doctor to attend his brother and that man, while ignoring her mother? Only a heartless person could do such a thing—or as Aunt Patience believed, a nobleman convinced of his family’s self-importance.
The sun slipped behind a cloud. Shivers rippled her body until she shifted into the warmth. The oak’s wide, strong branches might offer protection from the sun, but the shadows of her heart were not so easily removed. She sighed. It probably didn’t help to continually remember his wrongs. He probably couldn’t help possessing a crooked eyebrow that gave him a mocking look. How many times had she implored Sophy to not judge a book from its outward appearance? But here she was, judging a man for the very same. Someone she should at least try to get along with, seeing as he needed to help Eliza’s family before another winter set in.
A golden leaf drifted from above, twirling, like music in the air
. She picked it from her hair, and stretched out, placing her hands beneath her head. “Lord, please help the earl do good here.”
She stared up at the sky as the hush of oak leaves rustled and sang, while doubt and apprehension continued nibbling at the edges of her soul.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER ANOTHER FITFUL night followed by a long morning discussing estate affairs with Johnson, which left him with a hazy impression that he’d been neatly circumvented, Nicholas set out again to clear his head and realign his thoughts. Nothing induced calmness like riding. Midnight cantered down a rough track along the western end of the lake, then through the woodlands that still sported the odd bluebell.
Perhaps some aspects of country life were not completely abhorrent. The countryside was rather pretty, although good company remained pretty sparse. He slowed Midnight to a trot. He hadn’t always been such a recluse. Indeed, London would laugh at the suggestion. But war had hardened him, scarring him inside and out. London might enjoy his company but nobody truly knew his heart, save Thornton. Perhaps he should write his old captain and invite him for a visit. His company would be acceptable.
Midnight wheeled out onto the road leading to the village. Nicholas spurred him on, down the hill, past the narrow corner, until he noticed that slight figure coming toward him, basket in hand, dog at her feet. An oddly touching, increasingly familiar scene. He slowed. For some reason the girl’s stern aversion only made him desire her approval. Whether motivated by guilt or mere challenge, he didn’t know, but one day he would make her smile at him.
“Good day, Miss Ellison.”
She glanced up. “Lord Hawkesbury.”
The dog began its usual tiresome racket. “Can’t that thing stop its infernal barking?”
Her eyes narrowed. She turned and with a low command, the dog quieted.
Midnight snorted. She stepped farther away. Surely she didn’t dislike him that much.
“Is something wrong?”
The Elusive Miss Ellison Page 3
