by James, Syrie
“I suppose that’s true, but—”
“It was one thing to see him the day of the performance,” Madeleine interrupted. “That was brief and in a room full of people. But to live at Trevelyan Manor again for three entire weeks? To see him every day? No. No. That would be too difficult.”
“It might be.” Alexandra took Madeleine’s hand in hers and looked her in the eye. “On the other hand, this could be your chance to see how you really feel about Lord Saunders. And for him to discover how he feels about you.”
“He feels nothing, believe me,” Madeleine insisted. “I’m just another in a long line of women he has kissed.”
“I don’t believe that. I don’t care what other ladies say about him, Maddie. I’ve known Charles longer than you, and I think him a good, decent man. He kissed you and then profusely apologized, which means it wasn’t some meaningless act; his emotions were invested. I think he might have feelings for you that he hasn’t allowed himself to examine. If you spend more time together, you might well discover that your attraction to each other is unfounded, and has no future in it. If that’s the case, it would help clear your mind to see what Lord Oakley means to you, and allow him to move forward with his plans to marry Sophie without qualms.”
Madeleine took that in. She swallowed hard. “What if the reverse proves true? What if I discover that I do have feelings for him, but they aren’t returned?”
“Whatever happens, isn’t it better to know the truth than to hide from it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Madeleine blew out a long sigh, then shook her head again. “It feels wrong for me to go to Trevelyan Manor under such circumstances. It isn’t fair to Sophie.”
“Sophie is far from home and needs a friend,” Alexandra insisted. “If the man she expects to marry doesn’t love her, she deserves to know the truth.” Alexandra paused, then added resolutely, “Maddie: if you don’t go there now and find out where your heart lies, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been.”
Chapter Fifteen
By six o’clock that evening, Madeleine was once again ensconced in the same bedroom at Trevelyan Manor which she had formerly occupied, where she was immediately made to feel at home and welcome.
Two vases of cheerful yellow roses adorned the dresser and end table. A stack of writing paper, pens, and a brand-new bottle of ink awaited on the desktop, which she decided could only have come from Woodson. Madeleine wondered if he’d guessed she was writing a book, or if the supplies were just meant for writing letters. Either way, it was a thoughtful and insightful gesture.
Being here still didn’t sit well with Madeleine, though. She felt as if she’d returned to the scene of a crime and wished she hadn’t let her sister talk her into it. But she was here now, and had to make the best of it.
She would make up for it, Madeleine determined, by being the best friend to Sophie she could possibly be. And, she determined, she wouldn’t seek out Lord Saunders’s company. With any luck, based on the amount of time he seemed to spend away from home, she’d see him only rarely. If she happened to run into him, she’d make sure it was a brief encounter, and that only casual conversation ensued between them.
There would definitely be no more kissing.
Madeleine had arrived this time with more baggage than on her first visit, bringing some of her favorite day dresses from the trunks her mother had sent down from London. As she unpacked, a knock came at the door. She opened it to find Sophie seated in a wheelchair pushed by Nancy, a maid.
“Maddie!” Sophie cried as the maid wheeled her into the room. Sophie sported a cast on her right hand that went to the elbow, and her right ankle, peeking out from beneath her summer gown, was encased in an unwieldy-looking bandage. Even so, she looked pretty as a picture and seemed to be in good spirits. “They told me you had come! I could not wait another minute to see you. I am so happy you are here.”
She wouldn’t be so happy if she knew about the kiss. Madeleine managed a smile. “I’m glad to be here,” she answered sincerely, “but so sorry you have injured yourself so grievously.”
“It is not nearly so bad as it could have been. My horse lost her footing in rocky terrain. By some miracle my head hit a patch of grass. Had I banged my head on a rock, Dr. Hancock says I would have suffered a far graver concussion, and might have even died.”
“Oh!” Madeleine winced. “You were indeed lucky.”
“I was. And I know I should not complain. But this cast is itchy. The thought that I cannot walk or write for three entire weeks is tormenting. I cried all day yesterday. When your note arrived this morning, I was cheered up immensely.”
Lady Trevelyan greeted Madeleine with grace at dinner, murmuring under her breath, “I am so grateful to you for coming. I know it will make all the difference to Sophie. She is herself again already.”
Madeleine was sorry to hear that Lord Trevelyan was still unwell and unable to join them at the table. Lord Saunders was away for a couple of days, “visiting his friend Leonard in Truro.” Although relieved to discover that she wouldn’t have to face him for a while longer, at the same time, Madeleine felt a pang of disappointment at his absence, and found herself wondering, yet again, where his secret workshop really was.
The conversation at dinner centered mainly on Sophie’s accident and her depiction of her cousin’s heroic actions in helping her home to safety.
“I cannot imagine what would have happened had Charles not been with me.” Sophie smiled in between sips of soup, which she accomplished slowly and carefully, holding her spoon in her left hand. “Charles was so kind and gentle. He carried me all the way back to the house.”
An image flashed into Madeleine’s mind of Sophie, her arms wrapped around Lord Saunders’s neck, her face nuzzled gratefully against his cheek as he carried her through the woods to safety. Madeleine’s stomach prickled with an uncomfortable sensation. Was it envy?
Don’t be a ninny. Lord Saunders could carry Sophie in his arms all he liked. No matter what Alexandra might say, Madeleine was certain that Saunders and Sophie were to be married. You should reserve such thoughts for Lord Oakley.
It occurred to Madeleine that she hadn’t thought about Lord Oakley in quite some time.
She closed her eyes, trying to envision Lord Oakley sweeping her off her feet and carrying her across the lawn at Hatfield Park. Oakley was so refined and proper, and his mannerisms so cautious and tentative, Madeleine suspected that—were he ever to attempt such a thing—it would be an awkward affair, and he would probably drop her. The idea was so amusing that she couldn’t prevent a small laugh.
“Do you find Sophie’s accident humorous, Miss Atherton?” Lady Trevelyan was looking at her in puzzlement.
“No, indeed,” Madeleine replied quickly. “I feel certain that Lord Saunders’s actions prevented Sophie from incurring further injury, which may have proved quite grave.” She immediately changed the subject, commenting on Sophie’s new frock, a subject which was dear to the hearts of both the young lady and her aunt. The ensuing conversation about the new fashions kept them occupied for the remainder of the meal.
That night, after the rest of the household retired, Madeleine retrieved her manuscript from her trunk and indulged herself in a few hours of solid work. After the distraction of the play, it felt good to get back to her book, which was progressing chapter by chapter.
The next morning found her in the library, scribbling a letter to Sophie’s mother, which Sophie dictated from her reclined position on the sofa. They were several paragraphs into what promised to be a lengthy missive, including the details of Sophie’s injury, the heroism of Lord Saunders, and the attentiveness of the doctor, when Dr. Hancock himself strode into the room.
“Good morning,” said he, crossing to them with a bow.
Sophie quickly sat up, straightening her skirts as both ladies returned the greeting.
“I have just seen His Lordship, and wanted to inquire after my other patient.
How are you feeling, Lady Sophie?” Dr. Hancock’s smile was personable and professional at the same time.
“I am well, Doctor,” Sophie answered, returning his smile. “My headache is gone.”
“Excellent. What a pleasure to see you again at Trevelyan Manor, Miss Atherton.”
“And you, Doctor. How is Lord Trevelyan?”
“He is much the same.”
“Her Ladyship mentioned that you find his case puzzling,” Madeleine commented.
He nodded. “He has an array of symptoms that do not normally go together, or point to any one disease. Unfortunately, these past months, I have seen no improvement.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“We are all sorry,” he remarked with feeling.
Setting down his black bag, Dr. Hancock set to work unwrapping the bandage from Sophie’s ankle. With great care and attention he examined the injured appendage, which was swollen and discolored. He added that under no circumstances must she put any weight on that foot until he felt certain it was healed. After exchanging some further dialogue with the patient, and giving her medication to relieve the pain, the doctor took his leave.
Later that morning, Helen and Anna were allowed to accompany Madeleine as she pushed Sophie around the garden in her wheelchair. After lunch, Sophie was carried upstairs to take a nap, and Madeleine returned outside for a solitary walk.
Rather than return to the coast, Madeleine set out in a new direction, through the woods and across the meadows. She hummed to herself as she ambled along, passing farmhouses and climbing over the stiles that separated one property from another. The landscape was lush and serene, the only sounds the whisper of the wind in the trees and grasses, the buzz of insects, and the bleating of sheep.
After walking for perhaps three quarters of an hour, Madeleine came upon a tidy-looking farm. A man was hard at work in the fields. The farmhouse was well maintained, and the barn and stables appeared to be relatively new. In the yard, a woman hung wet laundry on a line, while two small children played tag among the sheets.
At the far edge of the acreage stood an ancient barn constructed of stone, brick, and timber. Its few windows were all shuttered. The thatched roof gave it a charming appearance. A small adjacent building looked to be an old abandoned stable. Madeleine guessed that the farmer had replaced these older buildings with the new ones.
Just then, a horse stuck its head out through the opening of a Dutch door in the old stables, which she’d thought to be abandoned. Madeleine stopped, recognizing the beast. It was Tesla. As she processed this information, the door to the old barn suddenly opened.
Madeleine’s heart gave an involuntary leap of astonishment as Lord Saunders himself stepped out.
He stood about thirty feet away. And he looked . . . in a word . . . disheveled.
He wore no coat or tie, just a white shirt that was open at the neck, with his sleeves rolled up above the elbows. Over this he wore a long, dark gray apron that was badly stained—the kind of apron a blacksmith or carpenter might wear. His brown hair was in disarray, sticking up in several directions, a tousled look that was inexplicably captivating.
She stared at him, wondering if that’s the way his hair looked when he got up out of bed in the morning. Blood rushed to Madeleine’s cheeks. What am I doing, thinking about him getting out of bed?
This perusal took place in the blink of an eye. As she watched, Saunders bent down and placed a tray of dirty dishes and glassware on the stone path by the front door. When he stood up again, his gaze traveled in her direction . . . and he froze.
Shock rendered him speechless.
Madeleine also found herself at a loss for words. She knew perfectly well what she had, inadvertently, come upon. The place where Lord Saunders had made those beautiful hairpins and clockwork sculptures.
His secret workshop.
Who knew what else he was working on in there? She had promised herself that she wouldn’t seek him out—and she hadn’t. She had further promised that if she did run into him, it would be only a brief encounter. Well, she could be brief. Curiosity overcame her scruples.
Madeleine strode deliberately up the path and stopped a few feet away from him. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
Charles stared at her.
Last he knew, Miss Atherton was safely stowed at Polperran House. Safe, he had told himself, because she’d been out of reach, out of sight. But not out of mind. Since the day, weeks ago, when she left Trevelyan Manor, she had continued to be foremost in his thoughts. He had constantly found himself wondering where she was and what she was doing.
Since he’d retreated to his workshop a couple of days ago, the wondering had escalated and become carnal in nature. He had imagined in graphic detail what he’d like to do with her—to her—if only he could be alone with her in his private space. The daydreams had been incredibly arousing, leaving him hard as a rock and aching.
He had been entirely aware that those daydreams would never happen, not in his lifetime. He could wish all he wanted, but she was never going to suddenly, magically appear on his doorstep and jump into bed with him.
Yet here she was. How on earth had she found him?
Part of him rejoiced at this apparition, while another part of him—the sane, rational part—warned him that she was an excellent, highly intelligent woman who had no idea what was going on in his mind. Under no circumstances should he let her enter his shop. Not just because he wasn’t keen to share what he was working on. More because, after all the erotic fantasies he’d had about her, he couldn’t be certain he could keep his hands off of her.
Especially the way she looked at the moment—so damned attractive in a wispy white summer dress that hugged her curves and contrasted perfectly with her fair complexion and shiny reddish-brown hair. It suddenly occurred to him that he was wearing his oldest clothes and the world’s filthiest apron.
Embarrassed, he shut the door behind him, running his fingers through his unruly hair to tame it. “Miss Atherton. What brings you out this way?”
“I was taking a walk. I’ve never explored this area.” She gave him an innocent smile.
Innocent? He wasn’t so sure. For ten years, he had managed to keep his workshop’s location a secret. She had been in Cornwall for what, a little more than a month? And she’d managed to find it. He wouldn’t put it past her to have come out deliberately looking for the place. He didn’t know whether to damn her tenacity or admire her for it.
“Hooo. It’s so hot.” She removed her hat and fanned herself with it. “Are we still on the Trevelyan estate?”
His glance fell on the moisture that had collected on her brow. Moisture she wiped away with the back of her hand. He wished he could be that hand. Idiot, answer her question. “No. Just beyond it.”
She glanced at the dirty dishes on the tray at his feet. Then in the direction of the farmhouse. Then back at him. Her silent look inferred that she knew what those dishes signified. “So, this is the place, huh?” she said. “This is where you stay for days at a time, to make your magic?”
Despite himself, a grin tugged at his lips. There was no point in denying it. “It is. I would appreciate it, though, if you would keep that information to yourself.”
“No problem, my lord. That’s just one more secret I’m keeping where you and I are concerned.”
He felt his face flush at that. She was referring to their kiss, of course. Shouldn’t she be blushing as well? She didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Why are you here? At Trevelyan, I mean? I thought you were at your sister’s.”
“Your mother asked me to come. To be a companion to Sophie while she convalesces.”
“Ah. How kind of you.” Poor Sophie had taken an awful spill. It could be weeks before she recovered. Would Miss Atherton stay at the manor house the entire time? If so, how would he cope with all these fantasies and feelings that continued to haunt him every time he thought about her? Which was basically all the time? “Well, you found me out, Miss
Atherton. Congratulations.” He stepped back, his hand on the doorknob. “I bid you good afternoon.”
“Wait! You’re not going to turn me away, are you? Without showing me what you’re working on?”
“I am doing precisely that.”
“But I’d love to see—”
“There is nothing here that you would find of interest.”
“I doubt that. Anything you would sculpt or create would be of interest to me, Lord Saunders.”
That’s right. She thinks I am a sculptor. “Curiosity killed the cat, Miss Atherton.”
“I am not a cat.”
“My shop is not a fit place to show a lady.” This was true.
“I’m not a lady. At least, not according to the British definition of the term.” She gave him an impish grin.
“I do not show my workshop to anyone.”
“Why not?”
“My projects are ongoing, unfinished. They are my own business.”
“I feel the same way. Whenever I’m in the process of writing something, I don’t like to show it to just anyone until it’s finished.”
“Well then, you understand why I don’t—”
“But,” she interrupted, “there are certain people to whom I do show my work. People whose input and opinions I value. Working in solitude is vitally important for a while, but it’s lonely, too. At times, having another pair of eyes can be useful.”
He paused. There was truth in what she said. It is why he went to London so often. To discuss his work with like-minded people. She was a creative person herself. He recalled the conversation they had shared, that day on the bluffs. How informed she had been regarding scientific matters. Perhaps she would be interested in what he was doing. It would not hurt to give her a peek, would it?
No. No. No. It was a bad idea to let her inside his shop—to spend any time alone with her. And it wasn’t as if he could spell out the reason why. “Sorry. That might work for you, Miss Atherton, but not for me.”
