by Stacy Henrie
James had completely forgotten the need to clean up. “No. I can do them.” Though he couldn’t recall ever washing a dish in his life. “Please relax in the drawing room or the library. I’ll join you when I’m done.”
Ignoring their objections, he gathered up the plates and cutlery and made his way through the servants’ hall to the kitchen. He was relieved to find only a few more dishes there that needed cleaning. The large sink seemed the logical place to start his task. He placed everything inside, suddenly grateful for indoor plumping.
“I can help.”
He looked over his shoulder to see Phoebe entering the kitchen with the drinking glasses in hand.
“I’m capable of doing something as simple as washing dishes,” he said with greater irritation than he’d meant to. In truth he felt a bit out of his element, in more ways than one, around the grown-up Phoebe Hill.
She stopped beside the sink. “I know you’re capable. You’re like no other lord of the manor I’ve ever met. And believe me, working as Mrs. Tanley’s companion, I observed a great many gentlemen.”
He met her gaze and realized she spoke with absolute sincerity. “And you are unlike any other lady of the manor.”
“I’m not a lady of the manor, at least not yet.” Her blush accentuated the pretty features of her face. “And I might never be.” She leaned back against the counter. “Sometimes I feel as though I’ll never quite belong anywhere, now that I have this inheritance. I’m too independent for some and too rich for others.”
Her concerns were so similar to his own it was as if she’d heard his thoughts aloud. The melancholy of her expression reached out to him, inviting him to share. “It’s not an easy position to be in, Phoebe. And I think you’re doing marvelously well at it.”
Her lovely smile wrapped itself around his heart. “Thank you.” Turning, she faced the small mountain of dishes. “Will you allow me to at least wash them, then you can dry?”
James welcomed the plan. Cleaning up would go faster with help and he felt more confident with drying dishes than washing them. He’d also have the added benefit of Phoebe’s company. “Agreed.”
It wasn’t long before the conversation flowed between them as it had earlier in the day. There were also pleasant moments when Phoebe’s fingers brushed his as she handed him a damp plate or glass. Too soon, the dishes had all been washed, dried, and placed back inside their respective drawers or cupboards.
He trailed Phoebe back upstairs, enjoying the sound of her laughter and her occasional snort of exclamation. They hadn’t yet spent a full day in each other’s presence, and yet, he felt a real kinship with her. And, if he were truly honest with himself, something deeper too.
He was leaving, though, as Phoebe had pointed out on the drive back to the mansion. His mother and stepfather expected him to return to England and to his duties there. And yet, for the first time in years, James no longer wished to do what was expected, but what he wanted.
Chapter 4
The days fell into a predictable pattern after that, a pattern James quickly came to anticipate. Daytime hours were spent cleaning inside the house. In the evenings before the sun set, he and Phoebe would stroll along the rocky coastline or join her mother in the drawing room for reading and card games. On occasion he and Phoebe would see to the supper dishes, giving Mrs. Hill and their temporary cook, Sylvie, a reprieve.
By the end of the second week, the inside of Baywood House had been restored to its former splendor. James conducted a thorough inspection of each room and felt a mixture of pride at his contribution, joy at the memories that surrounded him, and sadness at leaving the mansion behind.
With the house set in order, he’d turned next to the grounds. His experience in England and Scotland had given him confidence regarding soil and plants. But after he and Phoebe had mistakenly torn up most of the remnants of the herb garden, she’d suggested he invite a gardener from one of the neighboring estates to tutor them. Which James had done.
The old man with whiskered jowls who’d come over the last week had been more than willing to share his decades of knowledge with the young pair. He’d also lent them his assistance in clearing away the dead plants and shrubbery and readying things for winter.
James thoroughly enjoyed his time with Phoebe but especially outdoors. While he’d come to see cleaning the house as more agreeable, he felt most comfortable and useful outside among the trees and dirt, where their interesting conversations continued.
A week before the auction, which he’d advertised in town and in the newspapers as far away as New York and Boston, James awoke to rain pelting against the window. A flicker of disappointment dogged him as he got dressed. The glorious days of fall sunshine wouldn’t last much longer. Not that he would be here to see cold weather come and cover the grounds in white. His regret at leaving deepened as he made his way downstairs for breakfast. The longer he stayed in Newport, the more he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
With anyone else.
Phoebe greeted him with her typical smile. “When was the last time someone went through the attic?” she asked after he’d served himself from the sideboard and sat at the table.
“I don’t know.” He buttered his toast as he mulled over the question. “Is there anything up there?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t been up there in years. Do you know, Mother?”
Mrs. Hill sipped her usual morning cocoa, then set her teacup on its saucer. “I remember Mrs. Austin had us store a few things in there years ago.”
“Shall we go through the attic today?” Phoebe turned to James. “At least until the rain clears up to work outside again?”
The idea of going through the attic sounded intriguing. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
“I’ll find something to do down here,” Mrs. Hill volunteered. “These knees of mine aren’t meant to climb all the way to the attic anymore.”
Once they’d finished eating and Sylvie had cleared away the dishes, James lit an old lamp and followed Phoebe to the second floor, where a narrow staircase led to the attic.
“Did you come up here often as a child?” He tried to recall whether he’d ever spent much time in the attic and couldn’t remember.
Phoebe nodded. “When you and your family went to town, the maids and I would see who could sit in the dark attic the longest.” She cast a mischievous look at him over her shoulder that made him grin. “I won, every single time.”
He wasn’t surprised. Phoebe had gumption and determination, both then and now. She was also resourceful, independent, competent, witty, beautiful . . . James reined in his thoughts. They would only weaken his resolve to do his duty and return to England in another week.
They reached the attic door and Phoebe pushed it open. The space wasn’t large; it didn’t even span the entire second story of Baywood House. But there were plenty of shadowed corners and only a little light from the single window. He could understand the frightened fascination Phoebe and the maids had felt for the room.
“There doesn’t seem to be as much here as I remember.” Phoebe moved between some old and broken pieces of furniture to stand before one of several large steamer trunks. Lifting the lid, she peered inside. “These must be some of your mother’s old ball gowns.”
Something that wasn’t likely to fetch much of a price at an auction. James opened one of the other trunks. Wooden blocks, china dolls, and other toys were tucked inside. These were things he hadn’t seen in years.
“It’s my trick pony,” he exclaimed, pulling out the painted tin horse that stood proudly on top of a rectangular penny bank.
Phoebe joined him beside the trunk. “I remember this mechanical bank.” Her fingers trailed the words “Trick Pony” on the shiny red surface. “You let me try it out on your birthday.”
“I turned ten that summer and was so excited when I opened this.” He turned the horse over in his hands. “It was the last birthday present my father selected for me.” The memory
brought both pleasure and pain.
Her hand on his arm was comforting. “It’s still a lovely present. And surely something you can keep. It doesn’t need to be sold at the auction.”
He dipped his head in a nod of agreement. Perhaps there were other small things he could keep, such as his father’s most beloved books.
“Should we see if it still works?” Phoebe asked with a smile. “I can run downstairs for a penny.”
“There might be one in here.” He fished around among the toys, handing out some of the larger ones to Phoebe, before he located a forgotten penny at the bottom of the trunk. “Aha.”
Taking a seat on the floor, he placed the toy in front of him. Phoebe settled down next to him, her expression mirroring the anticipation he felt. He dropped the penny into the designated slot, and to his elation, the tin horse began to rock back and forth, kicking its wooden hooves in indignation.
“It still works,” he declared. “After all this time, it still works.”
As he stared in fascination at the once-treasured toy, something inside him clicked into place, bringing sudden clarity. It was as if an important yet forgotten piece of himself had been dusted off and given attention, much like his trick horse.
James rested his elbow on his lifted knee and picked up the now motionless toy. “I’d forgotten about this horse until I saw it again, and yet, there was a time when it meant everything to me.” He ran his thumb over the horse’s head. “I accidentally left it behind after my birthday and I remember crying on the steamer when I realized my mistake. I couldn’t imagine living without the horse, but by the next summer I don’t recall even looking for it.”
He glanced at Phoebe, grateful to see understanding in those charming brown eyes of hers rather than confusion or pity. “It’s been the same with the house, all these weeks,” he continued. “I thought I’d moved on, and yet, being back here has reminded me how much I love this place and how greatly I will miss it once it sells.”
“Can’t you buy it yourself?” He knew how much it cost her to ask the question and he admired her all the more for it. Her friendship had become as precious to him as Baywood House itself these last three weeks.
“Unfortunately, no. My annual income from my stepfather, which is mostly contingent on managing his estates, combined with my father’s fortune wouldn’t be enough.” He set the toy horse back down. “My mother did state the proceeds from the auction will be mine.”
Phoebe leaned back on her hands. “Perhaps you can buy yourself a farm in England then with that money.”
James laughed lightly, although there was a certain appeal to her suggestion. “I would prefer a farm here.”
“Then why not buy one?”
“You mean not go back to England?” he countered.
“Yes,” she said, nodding.
A few tendrils of her dark hair had fallen loose and rested along the high collar of her dress. Would those strands be as silky to the touch as he imagined?
“My duty is there, not here.”
“Then perhaps it’s time to rethink your duty, James.” The conviction in her tone pierced through his desire to dismiss the idea as preposterous. “We have other duties besides those to our families. We also have a duty to God and to ourselves.”
He wasn’t surprised by her comment. She’d shared her own unwavering faith with him as they’d worked alongside each other the past few weeks. But her words in this moment struck him more deeply than any others and silenced the ready excuses he might have tossed out.
“I know that’s probably bold to say,” she admitted into the stillness, her gaze lowering to her lap, “too bold for an heiress.” She gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “But I see how happy you are when you talk about Baywood House and Newport and farming. It’s how I feel about this place and this town. Minus the farming, of course.”
Climbing to his feet, he reached out both hands to help her up as well. She placed her bare palms against his, and as he pulled her gently to her feet, he tugged her a step closer. The familiar spark of electricity hummed between them as it had over and over again since she’d come to stay at Baywood.
“I like your bold words,” he said in a low voice, his heart banging like a hammer in his chest. He released one of her hands to touch her hair beside her ear. It was, indeed, as smooth as he’d guessed. “And you are absolutely right about my duty.” He intertwined his fingers with hers; they fit perfectly. “May I ask your permission to do something in this moment that has nothing to do with my duty?”
• • •
When his gaze dropped to her lips, Phoebe knew exactly what he wished to ask her permission for. Her pulse wound faster. “Yes?”
“May I kiss you, Phoebe?”
“Yes,” she repeated in a whisper.
His hand moved from touching her hair to cupping her face with his palm, his thumb caressing her cheekbone. Closing her eyes, she waited, her breath coming faster. She’d dreamt of this moment often after spending so many wonderful days working alongside James inside the house and out. His lips dusted hers, shooting feeling down into her toes and up to her scalp. He paused as if gauging her reaction, then he kissed her a second time. Her heart sprang into her throat at the gentle and hopeful touch within his kiss. She didn’t want him to leave, not next week, not ever. Because she was starting to fall in love with him.
After a few marvelous moments—or were they minutes?—James ended the kiss and pulled her into his arms for an embrace. “I don’t want to leave you,” he murmured against her hair, voicing her own thoughts out loud.
“Me neither.” She tightened her hold around his waist.
“I can’t tell you, Phoebe, what your help has meant to me. That you would selflessly sacrifice to help with the house shows what a true friend and a remarkable woman you are.”
Rather than inspiring joy, his words felt as abrupt as a slap. She hadn’t agreed to help him out of complete selflessness. Her heartbeat picked up again, but not from happiness or anticipation this time.
“I don’t know how everything will work out next week,” James was saying, “but somehow I want to find a way to still see you.” He eased back to touch her chin. “I think I’m in love with you, Phoebe.”
The tender light in his green eyes only fueled her guilt. She had to say something. Clearing her throat, she fell back a step, though she still kept hold of his hand. “James, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” His expression conveyed nothing but curiosity.
Phoebe swallowed hard. “I did want to help you. I love this house and I remembered how kind you were to me when I was a child.” She licked her lips, wishing she could go back to kissing him instead of hurting him with her confession. “That wasn’t my only reason for wishing to help you though.”
His brow furrowed. “What was the other reason?”
“I . . . I hoped that by helping you I could somehow help my chances at buying the house.” How bitter the words tasted against her tongue.
The consternation on his handsome face as he pulled his hand from her grip cut into her. “But I told you that first day, Phoebe, there was nothing I could do. There still isn’t.”
“I know.” She clasped her empty hands together, feeling small and selfish.
“And yet you still thought there was a chance if you helped me?”
She nodded meekly before lifting her eyes to his. “I’m so sorry for not telling you sooner. And even if that was my main reason for coming, it isn’t why I’ve stayed, James. I’ve stayed because . . . well, because you’ve come to mean a great deal to me.”
“As much as the house?”
Phoebe wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t lie to him. Her dream of owning Baywood House, of living here permanently, was still a possible reality. A life with James seemed less so. “I don’t know.”
“I see.” The finality of his tone provoked further regret inside her. Lifting his hand, he brushed his fingers along her cheek in an aching
ly gentle gesture of farewell. “I’m disappointed. And yet I appreciate your honesty.”
He moved to pick up his horse from off the floor. “I think I’ll keep this after all,” he said, tipping it toward her. “The new owner of the house is welcome to everything else up here.” With that he exited the attic.
Phoebe waited for the door to shut behind him before she sank onto one of the trunks. Even as uncertain as her future was, it had felt hopeful and bright only minutes ago, especially while kissing James.
But now . . . Now her tears fell as steady and quiet as the rain outside the tiny window, the dusty space and old furnishings a silent witness to her grief over what might have been.
• • •
“You live in England, but you want to buy a farm—my farm—here?” The middle-aged man scratched at his thinning hairline.
James shook his head. “I won’t be returning to England to live. And yes, I may purchase your farm. I like what I see.” He waved a hand to encompass the clapboard house, large barn, and plenty of acreage. It was a smaller farm than the one he’d viewed yesterday, but perhaps it would be wiser to start small in his new venture.
Just saying the words aloud to a stranger reinforced his decision. He’d come to it two days ago—he would remain in America, and with the funds from the sale of Baywood House, he would purchase his own farm.
Reaching out his hand, he shook the other fellow’s. “I’ll be in touch in a day or two.”
The farmer nodded, still looking perplexed.
James strolled down the lane, crunching leaves beneath his feet. The auction was tomorrow. In a way it couldn’t come soon enough, and yet, he also wanted to put it off. Things had been strained between him and Phoebe ever since their kiss and her confession. He’d talked out his disappointment and frustration to the old gardener the day before, and the man proved as good a listener as he had a teacher and groundskeeper.
“Do you forgive her?” he’d asked James, his gaze keen.
After a moment, James had answered in the affirmative, “Yes, and I understand why she thought her help might further her cause to buy the house.”
