by Robin Helm
The Colonel assured him that Margaret wasn’t one to hold a grudge. “She would make you regret your actions, definitely. However, she is forgiving, too. I was to collect her and the boys in an hour, but if you would go for me, I could finish my work here, and the boys will ramble about enough to afford you enough privacy as not to have them overhear.”
It smacked of blatant matchmaking. What was more, Conrad appreciated the opportunity. Even worse, he couldn’t hide it. “Thank you.”
“Have you given more thought to what you’ll do next?”
Truth be told, he had. “As much as I’d like to remain at home, find a house, settle down, I haven’t the income yet. With only a few hundred pounds a year, it wouldn’t be enough to support a family. So, I must sail again.”
“But you wish to take a wife?”
“When I am able to provide a good life for her, yes.”
“She could sail with you. Mrs. Croft—”
Conrad protested. “What Admiral and Mrs. Croft choose to do is their affair. I would not wish to risk my wife’s life onboard ship or in a foreign climate that might not agree with her.”
You speak very decidedly for one who claims never to have considered marriage in detail.
Before the Colonel could continue the conversation, Conrad excused himself. “If I’m to fetch your children and Miss Dashwood, I ought to attend a few things first.”
Brandon said nothing but his silence would have made the most proper English lady squirm. And I believe I’ll begin with prayer.
***
The sight of Mr. Thayer arriving when they’d been expecting the Colonel did unsettling things to Margaret’s stomach and unwise things to her tongue. Without thought of the boys, the moment he drew close enough, she called out, “Is the Colonel well?”
He pulled the gig up short and jumped down with ease that seemed incongruous for a Navy man. “Quite well. He was elbow deep in sums and ink blots, so I’ve come. Will I do as escort?”
“Of course…”
“May we race the gig, Aunt Margaret?” Christopher shushed a protesting John. “I’m sure we will win.”
Margaret allowed Mr. Thayer to help her into the gig before she answered the continued pleas. “Yes, yes. But if you fall and scrape yourselves to bits, I shall not feel sorry for you.”
As he grabbed his brother’s hand, Christopher assured her they would not fall. “I promise!”
She watched them go with disbelieving amusement. “Was I so confident at his age?”
“I cannot imagine you otherwise.”
It wasn’t the words he spoke. They were exactly what the Colonel would have said. The way he spoke them, though… “Perhaps…” Margaret gave herself a little shake. Her thoughts, if one could call such scrambled bits of unconnected ideas thoughts, bordered on the ridiculous.
“I had asked for advice, and Brandon suggested I ought to speak to you directly.”
“Me?” She turned to face him and turned away again as that distracting cleft tried to mesmerize her. I would never have noticed—or at least not been so unsettled by—it if Elinor had not made mention. It is too unkind. As a distraction for them both, she pointed at the boys tearing down the lane with the grace and finesse of an out of control goat rushing at nothing. “If you do not wish to endure the incessant gloating of two small boys, I suggest you move the gig at a moderate clip.”
A slight shake of the reins was all it took for the horse to move forward at a brisk clip. “I have a confession….”
I thought you needed advice. The more he “confessed,” the more amused she became. Eavesdropping is generally frowned upon…. Then he voiced concern for the fabrication of a baby that would not arrive in the usual allotted time. Imagine what Mama will think!
“When I pointed out that there would be no child, Brandon actually said, ‘Is there not?’ What do you think he meant by that? And, if I may ask—Brandon intimated that you would be willing to explain—why have you decided to deceive your mother this way?”
He would be disappointed. The reasons weren’t the sort that interested young men. Men enjoyed intrigue and danger. Marianne’s forthcoming confinement, non-existent though it may be, would not hold Mr. Thayer’s attention. Regardless, Margaret answered him. “My stepfather is of a nervous temperament. He sees danger where none exists. Our rumored highwaymen, my reputation because I am three and twenty and unmarried, Edward’s parish, the leak in the roof that was fixed five years ago and hasn’t leaked since.” She smiled at his disbelief. “But it could, you see. And that is the true concern.”
“Surely, you exaggerate.”
“I assure you I do not. I can also assure you that his little fears and worries are mild compared to some in his family.”
There, Mr. Thayer laughed. “I almost believed you!”
“You should. There’s a distant cousin somewhere in Surrey who Mr. Berridge prays for often. The poor man sees a cold or consumption in any draught.”
“What he would say if he knew how sailors often work soaked to the skin in freezing water for hours at a time…”
She nearly placed her hand on his arm in her haste to beg him never to tell Mr. Berridge about that. Instead, she folded her hands together and gazed out at the boys whose steps had grown slow enough to almost be called a walk. “I would not wish to distress him. He spends enough time in prayer for things that are of no true concern.”
That changed everything. The entire tone of the conversation shifted as Mr. Thayer said, “You are very careful of him, aren’t you?”
“We do what we can. It is why Mama is here and why Marianne has concocted this scheme. She wishes me to remain for my full visit, and this will keep Mama here.” Before she realized what she’d done, Margaret added, “Mr. Berridge’s nerves are why I spend so much time with my sisters. If I am not married, I should at least be visiting the sick and other spinsterly things, but I am not a comfort to invalids and others who suffer, so why would I plague them with my presence?”
“I doubt that is true.” Mr. Thayer seemed to realize he’d spoken aloud. “I imagined you to be one who values veracity.”
They passed the boys, and at his raised eyebrows, she shook her head. “Keep going. They’ll catch up at least once before we reach Delaford.” A glance over her shoulder showed her correct. “As for the deception, it does bother me. After consideration, I decided that I may injure my stepfather by feeding his fears or by shrouding the truth. I choose to show love for a man who has shown me nothing but love and kindness by shielding him from things that would disturb the felicity of his life.”
They rode for half a mile before the boys finally called out, pleading for them to stop. Margaret held out her arms for John to join her while Mr. Thayer hoisted Christopher into the gig. “You almost did it, boys!” she crowed. “In another few months, we would have to urge Marigold to move faster.”
“We’ll practice running, won’t we John?”
But John had already fallen asleep in Margaret’s arms.
***
The picture of Margaret Dashwood—Miss Dashwood, that is—holding her sleeping nephew proved to be Conrad Thayer’s undoing. He’d resisted attraction, nurtured annoyance, and clung to the idea of her dissembling. However, with the full picture of her motives laid bare, and the health and vitality that shone in her face after an afternoon with the boys, with the sun glowing on the brim of her bonnet and a few curls corkscrewing down her cheeks, all resistance fled.
Would she wait for a man to make his fortune? Especially one who could not ask her to do as much? Would she be allowed to refuse if the right suitor came along in the interim? Another glance at her caught her looking at him. He looked back and held her gaze. She doesn’t look away. Can she read my thoughts?
Conrad broke eye contact first. Pulling up to the door gave a credible reason for it. However, as Christopher ran to tell his father about their visit, Conrad came around the carriage and took sleeping John from her. He couldn’t help her muc
h, but he did hold out his hand at an awkward angle. She took it. “Thank you, Mr. Thayer.”
A nod—did he do it or just consider it? The way she moved as if to hurry inside prompted him to blurt out, “You walk before breakfast I think.”
“Yes….”
“Might I join you?”
“After a night of little sleep, waiting for intruders who refuse to oblige and return?” Miss Dashwood offered the one smile he wanted most—the one she seemed to reserve for him alone. “I would think sleep more important than exercise.”
As he followed her up the steps to where Roberts held the door open, Conrad considered the best response and settled on, “But good company is always more important than mere sleep.”
What she might have said, he never learned. Colonel Brandon appeared to take his son, and Miss Dashwood led the way to the nursery. His disappointment lingered through dinner and a game of cards afterward. However, and much to his mortification, his heart turned head over heels in unsteady and awkward somersaults when she rose to go to bed and made a point of saying she planned to walk the gardens at seven o’clock. “It’s such a refreshing, peaceful time of day.”
Only with his eyes did he attempt to inform her that he would be out there. Waiting.
CHAPTER NINE
The sun still shone high in the western sky when Conr—Mr. Thayer, that is—appeared from behind the thicket. Though she scolded herself for her mental familiarity, Margaret decided that perhaps she might be forgiven. After all, they’d enjoyed more than a week of such morning jaunts about Delaford’s grounds since that afternoon in the carriage.
As he neared, she continued strolling along the edge of the pond, still uncertain if she should share her surprising information. All the subterfuge and secrecy and now this! Perhaps with careful delicacy he might understand what she didn’t say….
“Miss Dashwood. We meet again.” Mr. Thayer offered his arm. “Do you come in defense of Coleridge or Bowles?”
“You assume that I do not know anything but Coleridge’s Rime. But I do. I am fond of more than the albatross about your poetical neck. I also enjoy an ode of his.”
They turned toward the house once they’d strolled the perimeter of the pond. Mr. Thayer poked the fire of their conversation. “I would then guess at ‘Dejection’?”
“You would guess correctly.”
“And your favorite Bowles sonnet?”
She couldn’t repress the smile that formed. “I would have to say the ninth.”
“And I,” he countered, “would have guessed the fourteenth.”
Try as she might, Margaret could not remember it. “Which is that one?”
“‘On a Distant View of England.’ I thought, though, that as the last…” Mr. Thayer wasn’t given to excessive smiles, but when he did, it felt as if one had been granted a gift. The smile slowly became a frown. “What is the ninth?”
“‘O Poverty!’” Margaret began, “‘though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mein, of every charm bereft…’”
That produced laughter like nothing she’d ever heard from him. “You have singular tastes. Do you not have compassion on the poor?”
“I do. While we’ve never truly been poor, I do know what it is to be in severely reduced circumstances and while I was but a girl, I recall with perfect clarity how it plagued Elinor and Mama.”
“Not Mrs. Brandon, though?”
It would not do to admit that Marianne’s thoughts were consumed by an unworthy young man at the time. “She has never been of a practical turn of mind.” This was her opening. “And that has often shown itself in the strange ways. For example,” she added when he might have spoken. If she did not continue, he would certainly direct the conversation away from where she needed it. “Her recent scheme to keep Mama at Delaford has been an unlikely success.”
“One likely to injure, I fear.”
“So, I would have thought as well.” Margaret paused in the middle of the lawn. “And yet, this morning she is abed with Mama tending her. I overheard the Colonel promise to call the doctor out to confirm Marianne’s and Mama’s suspicions.”
The man only blinked. Margaret smiled. He blinked again—and yet again. “Do you mean to say…?”
“I say nothing but that I pray Mama is not called on to remain some months now. Mr. Berridge would never survive, and I would be remiss if I did not return home to care for him.”
If Margaret translated the change in Mr. Thayer’s expression correctly, he would not want to see her go. A warming began in her belly, a most welcome and unwelcome one. Startled, she began a brisk walk back to the house.
“Miss Dashwood?”
Margaret didn’t respond. If anything, she lengthened her stride and increased her speed. Footsteps drew close and not even at a run. Insufferable men with their long limbs and free strides.
“Have I caused offense, Miss Dashwood?”
“No.”
“Have—?”
Why she couldn’t bear to hear him, Margaret couldn’t say. She only knew she needed distance and needed it now. “I am well. Please excuse me.” With that, she broke into a run that sent her flying up the steps to the door, inside, and up the stairs to her room. Once there, she shut it with excessive firmness and sagged against it. “Could I be more ridiculous?” she whispered.
***
After the previous morning’s abrupt end to their walk, Conrad didn’t know what to expect as he journeyed out just before seven o’clock. They’d enjoyed exactly ten days of morning walks and discussions of their respective literary preferences. Ten delightful days, if he were honest with himself. As he’d expected, they held similar preferences regarding authors and their works. However, Margaret—that is, Miss Dashwood—had a particular affinity for travel books, memoirs in particular.
To that end, and if anything proved the silly, likely-fruitless condition of his heart, Conrad had begun writing down a collection of memories in story form that he might share with her. The great storm that had nearly destroyed their ship, the monkey who had stolen their captain’s hat, the Javanese girl who had run away from a cruel owner and hidden on their ship. He’d left out how they’d been forced to put her ashore again, of course.
Perhaps I’ll not include that one until I know her better. A glance around him showed no sign of Miss Dashwood anywhere. If I am afforded that opportunity.
She was not by the pond nor heading off to the rise—not when the sun fought to peek through thunderclouds. A small folly had been planned for one side of the park, but as construction had not begun, Conrad concluded she would not seek shelter from rain there.
Did she not come because of the weather… or because of me?
In the end, only one place remained. Without much hope, he turned to seek out the shelter of the yew arbor. It would not protect from a true downpour, but the thick growth would provide some protection from a light rain for a short while.
He first saw the blue and white striped skirt before Miss Dashwood herself came into view. She rose. “I thought you might not come.”
The story of the monkey burned in his pocket. Why had he brought it with him? Did he truly think he could resist giving it to her? “I had something for you—just a memory I thought you might enjoy.”
“A memory?” Anyone listening might think her a simpleton if they only heard the question. However, look into those clear, bright eyes and one would see depth and understanding there. “For me?”
Once having revealed his folly, Conrad was left to produce the papers. Miss Dashwood unfolded them and began reading. Did she know she’d begun walking away from the arbor? Was it a calculated move to ensure they were not left alone, or an absentminded action of a distracted young lady?
Time might be his only hope for an answer. Conrad waited.
And then it came. A smile. He knew that one. It was the delighted expression she showed but rarely and always without reserve. “I think I like this monkey. Why did you name him Jocko?”
; “That is the native word for monkey. It sounded similar to Jack and jocular, which amused us.” To Conrad’s disgust, he couldn’t resist adding, “I wish you could have seen the cheeky little thing.”
“I’ve always hoped to visit the Indies and see the animals and the exotic flowers. I would not like some of the fauna, however.” She shuddered. “Mrs. Croft once mentioned spiders the size of my hands!”
“And mine.” Her surreptitious looks at his hands prompted him to raise one with fingers splayed. “Snakes as long as me and as thick as my arm. Mosquitoes the size of dragonflies.”
She grew quiet. Only after they’d rounded the corner to the gardens did Miss Dashwood speak again. “You will not wish to return, I presume?”
“Wish to… no.” A more perfect opportunity to hint at his plans for his life Conrad couldn’t have asked for. He seized it as if someone had shouted, carpe diem! “My preference would be to find a house and establish myself somewhere. Alas, my income is not sufficient to provide as comfortable of a living as I would wish for a family.”
If she did not take his meaning, there might be nothing he could do without declaring himself. That he would not do.
“I shall pray that when you return to your ship that you will be afforded the safest of opportunities to accumulate prize money then. A man should not feel compelled to risk his life to acquire the necessary comforts to live out the rest of that life.”
“And yet,” Conrad countered, “is that not what every man does every day? The farmer risks being trampled into the ground by a spooked horse or oxen. The soldier risks life and limb to the battlefield. Even gentlemen are at risk of death by a wayward shot of a highwayman….”
At that, she laughed. “I concede to your superior wisdom and experience.” When he would have raised an eyebrow, she added, “This time. Do not suppose me to be one to make a habit of such.”
Only then, and with those words, did Conrad relax. Whatever her offense of the previous day, she had gotten over it. Perhaps some other reason had sent her fleeing into the house as she had. As much as he wished to tell her how pleased he was that she’d returned, he was not ready to risk a repeat performance. Instead, he walked in silence until they drew close to the house. “I enjoy our morning walks, Miss Dashwood. I don’t believe I’ve thanked you for your company. I thank you now.”
