by Mary Balogh
And shared a bed.
And felt a knee-weakening desire.
She was going to miss him dreadfully when they had arrived at her cottage and he had resumed his travels. But she would think of that when the time came.
Tramp greeted her as if he had been shut up all alone for at least a week in his perfectly comfortable stall.
They talked about the weather and the scenery. They talked about books—she had read a good many during the five years of her husband’s illness, and he had read a fair number during the years of his convalescence and since. They talked more about their families and the homes where they had grown up, about their growing years, the friends they had had, the games they had played, the dreams they had dreamed. They talked about music, though neither claimed any proficiency on a musical instrument.
They carefully avoided any situation or topic that might ignite the attraction they undoubtedly felt for each other.
Sometimes they talked nonsense and laughed like silly children. It felt ridiculously good. Sometimes they bickered, though even those flare-ups usually ended in nonsense and laughter.
They talked with fellow travelers at inns where they stayed and at places of interest they visited. Ben began to think that perhaps he would enjoy traveling after all. He was sure he would have lingered in southeast Wales longer if he had been alone. He was fascinated by the new industries that were springing up—coal mines and associated shipping concerns and metalworks. He would have loved to make a few detours—into the Rhondda and Swansea Valleys, for example, to see the industries at work. Perhaps he would come back one day and add chapters to his book that were not concerned purely with pictorial beauty. But not yet. After he had seen Samantha settled, he would want to put as much distance as possible between himself and her.
“I have been thinking,” he said the morning they left Swansea behind and proceeded toward West Wales, “that after you have taken up residence in your cottage I will take the route up the west coast of Wales rather than return the way we have come. I will see Aberystwyth and Harlech and Mount Snowdon, and then travel along the north coast.”
Her dark eyes—those lovely, expressive eyes, which seemed to have come more fully alive since they left County Durham—looked steadily back into his own. She was wearing pale spring green today and looked young and wholesome and pretty. And desirable, though he tried to ignore that thought.
He was very glad they had not become lovers that night. It was going to be a lonely enough feeling, driving off on his own, without the added complication of having indulged in an affair with her.
Or would he regret not having reached for pleasure when it had surely been offered?
“There is sure to be some lovely scenery on that route,” she said, half averting her face to gaze out of the window. “There already has been, has there not? Being in sight of the sea so much of the time smites me here.” She tapped the outer edge of one curled fist against her stomach. “Or perhaps it is Wales itself that is affecting me. It really does feel like a different country even though most people speak English. But, oh, the accent, Ben. It is like music.”
“Penderris is by the sea,” he said. “Did I tell you that? It is at the top of a high cliff in Cornwall.”
“With yellow sands, as there are everywhere here?” she asked.
“Yes. Sands far below the towering cliffs. I can only look down on the beach when I am there. But it is a beautiful sight.”
“You do not swim, then?”
“I did once upon a time,” he told her. “Like a fish. Or an eel. Especially in forbidden waters. The deep side of the lake at Kenelston was always infinitely more inviting than the river side, where the water was no deeper than waist high even to a boy. How could one even pretend to be a self-respecting fish there? But I have digressed.”
She turned her face toward him while the dog snuffled in his sleep on the seat opposite and moved his chin to a more comfortable position. He saw in her face an awareness of the fact that their journey together was coming to an end.
“When we arrive in Tenby,” he said, “there are going to have to be a few changes.”
Mr. Rhys, the solicitor who was looking after her cottage, had his chambers there. Since she did not have the key to the house or even know exactly where it was, they were going to have to find him. And then everything would change. Either the cottage could be lived in or it could not. They must discover the answer to that question first and proceed from there. But there was no point yet in wondering what their next step would be if it turned out that it could not.
She raised her eyebrows. “You sound like an officer about to issue orders to your men. What are they, sir?”
“When we arrive there,” he said, “you are going to have to revert to being the widowed Mrs. McKay, and I am going to have to be Major Sir Benedict Harper, friend of the late Captain Matthew McKay, escorting you as a result of that deathbed promise I made him. But you must have a maid, you know, to add some semblance of propriety to our having traveled so far together.”
Her eyebrows stayed elevated while he frowned in thought. “She accompanied you as far as Tenby,” he said, “but flatly refused to go one step farther from England or even to stay there. You will have been forced to send her on her way back to England by stage the very day we call upon your solicitor. You will need an instant replacement, of course, even before you move into your cottage. And you are going to need one or two other servants, I daresay—a housekeeper, a cook, or perhaps someone who can serve in both capacities, especially if the cottage is small. Perhaps a handyman. A companion.”
“You do not need to concern yourself with those details, Major Harper,” she said, her back to the window now as she gazed steadily at him. “I shall manage. And I daresay Mr. Rhys will be willing to advise me.”
He smiled apologetically. “I will worry.”
“Why?” she asked him. “Because I am a woman?”
“Because everything here will be new and strange to you,” he said. “Because you will be alone.”
“And because I am a woman.”
He did not contradict her. But it was not just that. It was something he did, organizing people and events, managing them. Or, rather, it was something he had done when he was an officer. It was something he enjoyed, something he missed, though he might, of course, have taken over the running of his own estate three years ago or any time since then.
“This feels like goodbye,” she said softly.
“I believe you will be happy in this part of the world,” he said. “You already seem to have a certain sense of belonging.”
“I do.” Yet there seemed to be a sadness in her eyes.
This feels like goodbye.
Yes, she would settle here, provided the cottage was habitable. She would surely have some neighbors and would make friends, and after a decent time she would meet a worthy Welshman and marry and have children. She would be happy. And she would be free forever of the pernicious influence of Heathmoor and the rest of her in-laws.
And he would never know about any of it.
It would not matter, though. He would soon forget about her, as she would forget about him.
It just seemed at this moment that he never could.
14
They reached Tenby early one afternoon on a cool, blustery day with white clouds scudding across a blue sky. It was a pretty, hilly town built above high cliffs, with views of the sea from a number of the front streets. They took rooms at a hotel at the top of the town and proceeded downhill to the chambers of Rhys and Llywellyn, their coachman having inquired about the direction while they were securing their rooms.
Mr. Llywellyn was not in, they were told, but Mr. Rhys would be pleased to see them if they cared to wait for a few minutes until he was free.
Samantha felt as fearful as if she had just stepped into the rooms of a tooth drawer. Much—perhaps the whole of the rest of her life—depended upon what happened in the next little while. If the cottag
e was not a viable home, then she did not know what she would do. If it was, then Ben would very soon be leaving.
She had tried not to think of that, and so of course she had been able to think of little else. She would miss him. Well, of course she would. But that simple realization did not begin to account for the deep pit of emptiness she sensed would be awaiting her when she watched his carriage drive away without her—forever.
She doubted she would see him again.
It was a gloomy thought to add to the dreariness of the fact that she was wearing her blacks again after swearing she never would. She was not wearing the veil over her face, however.
Mr. Rhys, a short, neatly dressed, white-haired man, who looked as if he surely ought to have retired years ago, came out of his room no longer than three minutes after they had sat down, his face wreathed in smiles. He extended his right hand to Samantha.
“Mrs. McKay?” he said. “Well, this is a welcome surprise. And Major Sir Benedict Harper? How do you do, sir?”
He shook them both heartily by the hand and ushered them into his office after instructing his clerk to bring in a pot of tea. He directed them to two chairs and took his place behind a large desk in a chair slightly higher than theirs, Samantha noticed with some amusement.
“I cannot say you resemble Miss Bevan, your great-aunt, Mrs. McKay,” he said to Samantha. “I believe, however, that you do have a bit of the look of Miss Gwynneth Bevan, her niece, your mother. She was just a girl when I saw her last, but she showed promise of being a great beauty. I am delighted you have come in person. Miss Bevan’s cottage, now yours, of course, has been unoccupied for a number of years, and I have been wondering lately if you had any new instructions for me. It is a year since I last heard from the Reverend Saul, your brother, who wrote as usual on your behalf. I would have been writing again soon, but this is so much better.”
Samantha frowned. John had been conducting business with Mr. Rhys on her behalf? He had certainly not sent on any letter but that one not long after their father’s death. Had he taken her silence on that occasion as permission to run her affairs for her?
“Is the cottage habitable, Mr. Rhys?” She felt as if she had been holding her breath ever since she arrived here.
“There may be a little bit of dust,” he said. “I have cleaners going in only once a month. I sent workers in a few months ago to deal with some damp in the pantry, but it was nothing serious. The garden is not as pretty as Miss Bevan always kept it. The flowers have been neglected, but I have made sure the grass is cut a few times each year. You may find the furniture a bit old-fashioned, but it is solid enough and of the best quality and it has been protected with covers. The inside probably needs a coat of paint, and the mats may be getting close to being threadbare. But I daresay I could get a decent price for it just as it is if you wish to sell it.”
“Oh, but I wish to live there,” she told him.
He beamed and rubbed his hands together. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “Houses were made to be lived in, I always say, preferably by their longtime owners. There is still some of the rent money left in the account here. I have taken from it only what has been needed to keep up the house. And the rest of the money is intact.”
“The rest of the money?” Samantha looked inquiringly at him.
“Miss Bevan was not in possession of a vast fortune,” Mr. Rhys explained in his lovely precise Welsh accent. “But she was left a very tidy sum when old Mr. Bevan, her father, passed on. She did not spend much of it—she lived frugally all her life and always said she was contented as she was. And Mrs. Saul, your mother, never withdrew any of it. It has been sitting in an account here for many years now, gathering a nice bit of interest.”
There was money as well as a habitable cottage? Why had she never known about this? Who had known? Papa? John?
She did not ask how much money there was. Neither did she ask any details about the cottage. She did not suppose either was of any significant size. But she did feel foolish for not knowing and wondered if the fault was her own. She had never asked—but her mother had talked so disparagingly about the property that she had made it seem like nothing at all.
Samantha was pleased, though, to know that there was a bit of money as well as the house. She had not been left penniless when Matthew died, but neither was she any more than comfortably situated. A few pounds more would be very welcome, especially if the cottage needed new rugs and a fresh coat of paint. She exchanged a look with Ben, and he smiled.
But all this meant, of course, that he would have no further reason to stay with her. For which fact he would surely be very thankful. She was really not his responsibility, after all.
The cottage was only a few miles along the coast, Mr. Rhys explained after the clerk had brought in the tea and a plate of sweet biscuits. It was close to the village of Fisherman’s Bridge though separated from it by sand dunes, which hid the cottage from view. The beach in front of it had always been considered part of the property and was never used by anyone except the inhabitants of the cottage. He would not advise Mrs. McKay to go there today or even tomorrow. He would like to have the cottage cleaned up for her first and the grass cut and some coal and basic necessities of food brought in.
Ben told him the mythical story of his friend, the late Captain McKay, and of Samantha’s maid leaving on the stage bound for England just that morning.
“A pity, that,” Mr. Rhys said. “And you will be staying in Tenby for the next couple of nights, will you? At a hotel? That puts Mrs. McKay in a bit of an awkward position, doesn’t it, even if she does have you for company and protection, Major. A lady needs her maid as well as a gentleman to lend her countenance. Let me see what I can do about finding a new maid. It should not be too difficult even at such short notice. The opportunities for good positions do not arise every day around here, especially for girls.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rhys,” Ben said. “That would set my mind at ease. I was deeply concerned, as you may imagine, when that wretched maid insisted that she would not stand for one more day of moving away from England rather than toward it.”
He made a convincing liar, Samantha thought. And what did he mean by that would set my mind at ease?
“Wales is often seen as a wild, heathen outpost,” Mr. Rhys said with one of his broad smiles. “And sometimes we Welsh are content to keep it that way. Though the southwest here is often referred to as little England. You will not find many people hereabouts who speak and understand nothing but Welsh.”
“But it is a lovely, musical language,” Samantha protested, “and I intend to learn it.”
“Splendid.” Mr. Rhys beamed at each of them in turn and rubbed his hands together again.
They took their leave as soon as they had finished drinking their tea.
“It is habitable, Ben,” Samantha said as they were being driven slowly up a steep hill on the way back to their hotel. “I feel quite dizzy with the knowledge. Though I expect it is very tiny. I wonder what a tidy sum amounts to. Do you suppose I am vastly wealthy?”
“Probably not,” he said. “But maybe it will be enough to buy you plenty of coal for your fires during the winters. They are supposed to be milder here than in other parts of the country, but if my experience of Cornwall is anything to judge by, they can be mighty damp and cheerless. And windy.”
It was windy here today.
“I suppose that is the penalty of living close to the sea,” she said. “Oh, Ben, Mr. Rhys is so … respectable, is he not?”
“Of course,” he said. “What did you expect? A wild heathen? He is as old as the hills too.”
“He knew my great-aunt,” she said.
“You know nothing about her but her name?” he asked. “Are you curious about her, Samantha? And about the rest of your heritage?”
“My mother almost never talked about her life here,” she told him. “I think she was unhappy. Or perhaps just restless. She ran away to London when she was seventeen and never
came back. Perhaps she intended to tell me more when I was older, but she died very suddenly when I was only twelve.”
She had not answered his question about whether she was curious or not, though. She was a bit afraid to be curious, actually. She was afraid of what she might discover. Her mother had been abandoned by her parents, Samantha’s grandparents. That at least she knew. She doubted she wanted to know the details.
Her great-aunt had owned her own cottage, though. That meant something at least. She had obviously not been penniless. Neither had her father, Samantha’s great-grandfather, if he had left her a tidy sum, whatever that might be. But where had her money come from before that to purchase a cottage? She had apparently never been married. She had had enough money to live upon without the sum her father left her. She had been able to leave most or all of that to her niece, Samantha’s mother, in addition to the cottage.
Samantha had always thought of her Welsh relatives as impoverished. Yet even a little bit of thought would have made her realize that her great-aunt could not have been penniless and that her money must have come from somewhere.
“Oh,” she said with a sigh, “perhaps I am just a little bit curious, after all.”
But they had arrived outside their hotel.
“Shall we rest for what remains of today and explore tomorrow?” Ben suggested. “Or would you—”
She interrupted him. “You are going to go to your room to lie down for a while,” she told him. “I can always tell when you are in pain. You smile too much.”
“I shall have to frown ferociously,” he said, suiting action to words, “in order to convince you that I am hale and hearty.”
He did not argue, though, about withdrawing to his room.
The day after tomorrow, Samantha thought as she closed the door to her own room, she was going to be moving into her own home. Her new life would begin in earnest. And Ben would start on his way up the west coast of Wales and the rest of his life.
