by Erin Grace
‘In fact, I had knocked several times at the front door, but to no avail. I thought I heard voices, and it would seem I was correct.’
‘Mr Dunford just left.’ She glanced over her shoulder, ready to run. ‘But, that does not explain what you are doing here, mister…’
‘My apologies, madam. I have only just realized that I had failed to introduce myself the other day when I visited Mrs Jenkins.’
‘Yes, you did.’ She shook her head. ‘I mean, you didn’t.’ Why wasn’t she running?
He inclined his head and bowed with little pomp or ceremony. As he looked up, a sweep of raven hair fanned across his forehead drawing her attention to those incredible blue eyes.
Could someone with such angelic eyes be capable of harming an old woman? Nonsense. She really must stop listening to Annabelle. But curiosity begged her to enquire about her missing friend.
‘And, did you find Mrs Jenkins well?’ To her horror, every syllable dripped with accusation.
He tilted his head, his fervent gaze scrutinizing her every move. ‘As well as can be expected, under the circumstances. However, if you are trying to determine the reason for my visit, that still remains confidential.’
Bristling with embarrassment, she reached up and tucked a loose lock of hair behind an ear. ‘I wasn’t prying. I am merely concerned for my friend’s welfare.’
‘Naturally.’ The blue in his eyes deepened to ebony. ‘Perhaps it will put you at ease if I introduce myself. Captain Gabriel Holsworthy. At your service.’
Her eyes narrowed. Service, indeed. If he had truly wanted to be of use, he could have at least held onto the blasted chicken for her.
Wait. Holsworthy? Oh dear.
A cold trickle of uncertainty rippled along her spine as she took proper stock of the man before her. Oh no. No. It can’t be. As she noted the sudden familiarities of the man’s stature, build and profile the trickle she’d felt moments before turned into a raging torrent of dread.
Her aunt was going to have her head. He was a Holsworthy!
She swallowed hard, her face warming. Never more had she wanted to trade places with that chicken. At least then her end might prove swift and merciful. Henrietta on the other hand had the regrettable ability of inventing new and unique ways of punishing someone.
She dropped a small, wobbly curtsey. ‘I do beg your pardon, Captain. I had no idea who you were.’
His expression was unreadable, but he held her gaze with an intensity that frightened her in a way she couldn’t explain.
‘Would it have mattered?’
‘No. I don’t suppose it would have.’ She swore the hint of a smile curled the edges of his mouth but was gone as quickly as it appeared.
He replaced his hat and nodded. ‘I didn’t think so. I am here to speak with the vicar. Is he your husband?’
She coughed, near choked on her shock. ‘No! I mean, no. He is in fact my uncle.’
‘I see. So, you aren’t Mrs Jenkins. And you are not the vicars’ wife. Now, as you know who I am, would you be kind enough to tell me who you are?’
She struggled to string two words together as he deftly tugged at the fingers on his right glove then removed it from his hand. Such large, powerful hands.
‘Lily. Lily Bowden, sir.’ He reached out, clasped her hand – which lamentably still hung like a wet blanket by her side - and raised it to his lips.
He paused, glanced down at her then placed a soft kiss upon the back of her hand.
Oh my. His touch scorched her skin, and under the weight of his stare, a strange awareness made her skin prickle and her feet go to lead. Never had she felt so awkward, so utterly powerless.
She pulled away from his touch and gestured for him to enter. ‘Please, won’t you come in, my lord? I’ll go to the church to fetch my uncle.’
‘I am already inside. Are you feeling quite well, madam?’
Of course, he was already inside. Idiot. She nodded, reached behind her and fought with the ribbon ties of her apron. But her fingers were all thumbs until she nearly tore the bow apart.
For goodness sake.
‘If you would like to remain here. I shall go fetch my uncle at once, my lord.’
‘If you have no objections, I shall go with you. And, there is no need to address me as ‘my lord’. I am not the earl, madam. That would be my father.’
‘Of course, my apologies, sir.’ She groaned inwardly at her mistake. Even if he was a condescending wretch, his family owned the entire region, including Speckles Wood. In fact, her uncle was employed by Lord Etford. Perfect. More reason for her aunt to murder her slowly and painfully. Not only had she neglected her baking duties by fending off Mr Dunford, she’d ruined her clothes with jam and offended the very man who would eventually be their landlord and master. All in all, it had been quite a day.
‘No apologies are needed. You may address me as captain, if you wish.’ The sudden flush of pink in her cheeks bespoke the woman wasn’t quite the hoyden who’d confronted him over a chicken a few days past. Yet, his instinct warned him she wasn’t a compliant miss either.
The possible combination intrigued him.
‘Thank you, Captain. One moment please, whilst I collect my hat and coat then I will take you to the church.’
He held the door open for her as she removed a small flower trimmed bonnet and a well-worn pale green pelisse from a wooden peg on the wall then dropped a brief curtsey and walked past him. The long, faded dress she wore did little to disguise the gentle curve of her hip and swell of a modest bosom.
As she placed the bonnet on her head, he couldn’t help but notice the long wisps of auburn curls that caressed her ivory neck but admonished himself for his keen observation. All well, said and done. Too bad his traitorous body had already decided she was attractive, when he himself was yet to even consider such a notion.
Getting involved with a village maid was the last thing he needed, though he admitted to himself it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. Not since he’d returned from India.
Tying the frayed blue hat ribbons, she offered him a meek smile.
‘If I may, Captain, please accept my condolences on your brother’s recent death. It must be the most dreadful time for you.’
His feet turned to clay, as his hand gripped the top of his cane.
Her sudden remark took him aback. Not so much as she’d dared comment on his family’s tragic events, but more so that this headstrong female had been the first person to actually offer their sympathies. Not even his own father had thought to console him.
It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did.
Collecting his emotions, he shook off her comments and moved to walk alongside her as she headed out along the stone path. What was wrong with him? He was making far too much of her actions. He’d never much cared for anyone’s thoughts about his family and he wasn’t about to start now.
‘You speak as if you knew my brother well.’ Seeing her suddenly in a different light, he scrutinized the young woman from the tip of her disheveled hair to the well-worn boots on her feet. Interesting. Certainly not the type his late brother usually favored. Had they been intimate? Lover’s perhaps?
An odd sensation twisted in his gut as he pictured her lithe frame in Henry’s embrace. Then his mind filled with images of her bare shoulders, his imagination creating long slender legs, curved hips and a bosom round and ripe like summer fruit.
‘I did not mean to be forward, sir. In fact, I had only met Mr Holsworthy several times in the village and at church when he would attend.’ His curiosity piqued as her cheeks flushed crimson. What was she hiding? ‘But I could not say that I knew him at all well.’
Undefined tension rose from within him and seemed to leach from his very skin, surrounding him like some invisible barrier meant to keep all at arm’s reach. And, from the awkward manner in which she glanced at him, he sensed she could feel it too.
Suddenly uncomfortable in her presence, he moved his stony
gaze to the muddy path before him and picked up his pace. His leg ached with the sudden demand. The sooner this conversation was over the better. ‘You say you didn’t know him well, and yet you feel moved enough to give condolences?’
‘I do.’
‘Why?’ He delivered the word with a harshness that surprised him, but he didn’t show it. Since when had he sounded like his father?
‘I feel for anyone who suffers loss, especially that of a family member. So, pray forgive me if you consider my sentiments to be inappropriate. I am often chastised for speaking my mind.’
‘A word of advice.’ He paused by the moss-covered headstones of the old church yard and met her watchful gaze. There was something in those emerald green depths that beckoned to him, an intelligence he suspected lay just beneath her feisty veneer. But he’d trusted in such eyes once before – a terrible folly indeed. ‘I believe your sentiment came from the heart, madam, not your head. Not a condemnable offense perhaps, but I advise you not to reveal your sympathetic nature to anyone.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Such notions can equate themselves to pity, and I assure you few people will want or ask for your pity - especially me.’
Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession. ‘I do not pity you, I was merely offering…’
Lips parted, she halted beneath his burning glare.
Offering what? Affection? A caress? A warm body to take that one might lose themselves from the misery of the world for a few precious hours? No? Then what good were wishes and condolences when neither can heal nor fill the void left behind? He stared at her arched mouth, heart pounding with unexpected need.
He pulled his gaze away and swallowed hard. ‘Never mind.’ He gripped his cane, turned and continued toward the old stone chapel. Fog billowed out of his mouth and his leg ached with the sudden change of weather. Dark grey clouds had covered what had promised to be a reasonably fair day. Though, the pending storm suited his mood to perfection.
Damn his temper. Where was his reserve? Refusing to look back, he gritted his teeth and struggled not to limp. Grasping the cane tighter, he hoped she didn’t follow, fearful perhaps she had somehow read his thoughts, or worse – captured a glimpse into his soul.
And what would she have seen?
A cold, heartless wretch who didn’t give a fig for family or the sycophantic society he’d been weaned upon from birth?
Hell. He barely recognized himself these days. He could never claim to be open or care free, but since his return from the war something dark had taken hold of him and damned if he knew how to let it go.
Or, perhaps in truth, he didn’t want to.
Chapter 5
Lily paused at the edge of the cemetery gate, her gloved hand resting on the weather worn wooden pickets. White mist steamed from her nose, the cold air somehow more frigid since the captain had stormed away, leaving her to follow in his turbulent wake.
Inconsiderate, disagreeable man.
Yes. He may be the heir apparent, but that didn’t give him the right to treat her with the same regard as something odious he’d stepped in.
She let out a deep breath, slammed the rusted gate and headed toward the church door. Her chest ached with the effort not to show her hurt feelings. Hurt? She refused to acknowledge how her throat had tightened, her eyes misted. Since when would she have allowed such a man to wound her so?
Yet, the fact remained he had stunned her with his condescending remarks. Such anger and bitterness she’d never seen. Who was he to condemn her for trying to offer a modicum of compassion? Compassion. Indeed! He’d probably never heard of the word.
No wonder his eyes were so blue, they merely reflected the solid ice he was made of inside.
Nothing like his belated brother. From the few times she’d met Henry Holsworthy, she thought him a refined gentleman with an accommodating smile and dry sense of humor. The two brothers couldn’t have been more different.
She paused by the old ornate church entrance and stamped the clumps of dirt from her boots. Her aunt despised dirty shoes inside. Every Sunday, parishioners could be seen scraping their boots upon the grass or the heavy iron-based brush mat Henrietta had placed outside the church door. If someone dared muddy the aisles, they could be assured of being ‘persuaded’ to linger after the sermon to clean the entire church floor.
She brushed the light snow from her pelisse and bit her bottom lip as she gazed into the darkened corridor just off the main entrance that lead toward her uncle’s office.
Perhaps there was no real need for her to go inside? The captain had left her abruptly, obviously content to pursue her uncle himself. Well, perhaps not content, but definitely determined. Yes. She had done her best by seeing him to the church, and therefore he could think no worse of her returning to her tasks in the vicarage kitchen.
She turned to leave but stopped. With shoulders sagged, she glanced over her shoulder and sighed.
Lord. Surely matters can’t be as bad as they seem, can they?
Perhaps the fates would smile upon her and she never need see the wretched man again after today? After all she’d only been to Etford Park on two previous occasions, her uncle usually going to visit his lordship on his own.
The first time she’d been there was when she and her sister had first arrived in Speckles Wood. Her uncle must have made mention of their arrival, as they were summoned to meet Lord Etford the very next week.
It had been a visit she’d sooner forget.
Poor Stephaney. Her little sister had been wracked with grief over the loss of their father barely a week before. Stephaney had just stood there next to her in the middle of a massive green colored room, numb to everything around her, while the elderly lord spoke to their uncle.
Oh, Papa.
Her heart ached at the memory of her last shopping trip in London. It was two days before Christmas last year, and she and Stephaney had been buying some last-minute gifts. Papa was always a difficult person to buy for, as he never seemed to want for anything. But Stephaney had refused to give up and searched every store until she’d found the most perfect tobacco pouch in soft brown calf’s leather.
Mama was fond of needlework, and so she had bought a lovely sewing kit, complete with very fine silver-plated scissors. Though since they had moved to Speckles Wood, she’d never seen her mama sew anything not related to darning Henrietta’s endless repairs.
The snow had just begun to fall, and she and her sister had spent their last pennies on a special box of sugar-plums as a treat for Christmas dinner. But, as they rushed along the crowded street toward their home, they were greeted by the ashen face of their mother standing in the doorway of the townhouse. They would never set foot in the house or see their beloved Papa again.
Cholera, the doctor had said. ‘Lily!’
She spun around, near tripping over her own feet. ‘Aunt Henrietta!’
Near the shadowy vestibule doorway her aunt, Henrietta Talbot, stood perched like a raven ready to swoop on its prey.
A tiny lump rose in her throat.
She pasted on a smile and removed the tattered shawl from her shoulders. ‘Good afternoon, Aunt Henrietta.’
‘Why good afternoon, Miss Lily. And shall we reflect on the fact it is indeed now ‘afternoon’. I had returned early from my ladies meeting just now, fully expecting the days baking to be done and what do I find? Nothing but an empty kitchen and little more for morning tea than a few jam tarts. Fortunately, however, I made do with yesterday’s dry scones. Though I don’t know what my ladies will think. They are due at the vicarage any moment for a meeting about how we shall decorate the church for the Christmas service.’
Oh dear. Her scones were dry even when they were fresh.
‘Well, yes, you see I can explain what happened. In fact, you must have only just missed me leaving the cottage.’
Henrietta crossed her arms over her generous bosom and stepped toward her. The woman’s grey-streaked black hair had been pulled back
into a severe bun at the base of her neck, giving her a gaunt, yet austere expression.
‘I’m sure you can. In fact, I am yet to find you without an excuse for your tardiness and lack of consideration. However, before you regale me with your most recent exploits, don’t you feel it best that your dear Mama join us?’ The woman’s eyes near glittered with anticipation at the prospect of her bringing shame upon her mother. ‘Follow me.’
Her arms stiffened by her sides and hands clenched into tiny balls as she trailed behind her aunt toward an exit at the rear of the church. One day. One day she would find a way to help support her poor mother and sister, and they’d be away from this terrible place.
‘Caroline.’ Outside, Henrietta stared up at the ancient, wooden rooms built for storage at the side of the church. ‘My dear Caroline, would you please join me in the courtyard for a moment?’
She cringed as the rickety old staircase creaked under the weight of her mother descending. Not that her mama was portly, rather the opposite in fact, but the stairs were weak and dangerous. Her aunt and uncle refused to spend a single penny on fixing them despite the fact many sections of wooden support beams had shied away from the stonework.
‘Yes, Henrietta, what is it?’ Her mother’s weary tone reflected the countless hours of hard work she did for Henrietta. Never once had her aunt bothered to utter a single ‘thank you’.
She swallowed hard at the sight of her mama’s swollen finger tips, near raw from being pricked with the darning needle. Their only thimble, a silver one which had been a gift from her papa to Mama, had gone missing months ago and her aunt refused to buy her mother a new one.
And, not only did Henrietta insist her mama do all the sewing for the vicarage, but often took in darning from those in the village more than able to do it themselves. Many of her aunt’s ladies’ group would stop by for tea and bring some tedious items they were too lazy to repair themselves. Then, come Sunday, it would be her aunt receiving flattery and praise for her mama’s hard work.
