“Courage, Elise.” Miles smiled at her. “Humphrey is more of a puppy than a bloodhound.”
At that pronouncement, Humphrey’s chest puffed, and his chin and nose lifted in obvious disapproval of his master’s description.
“I trust Mrs. Langley’s letter arrived.”
“It did, my lord,” Humphrey answered quite correctly. “And might I say that the household is quite pleased that you and Mrs. Langley have been reunited with a friend of such long standing.”
Elise blinked a few times. Had the stuffy butler just bestowed his approval? And why, she demanded of herself, did that realization threaten to break her composure?
“Thank you, Humphrey,” Miles said. “We are, indeed, most pleased to have found Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Humphrey, I am certain, has prepared a chamber for her.”
“Yes, my lord,” Humphrey answered, walking with them into the entrance hall, where he proceeded to take Miles’s hat and coat.
A maid was on hand to relieve Elise and Anne of their outer coverings. Elise stumbled only a moment with the now-unfamiliar service before allowing her coat, bonnet, and extensively mended gloves to be taken. Anne took a little more coaxing.
Elise used the minute or so required to hand over her outer things to look surreptitiously at her surroundings. The exterior of Tafford gave the impression of uneven cobbling together, but the inside, or the entry hall, at least, was anything but haphazard. The floor was smooth tile set in an intricate pattern of black and white. The walls were painted a light blue, landscapes and portraits hanging at pleasing intervals. Entry tables bore vases of freshly cut blooms. A majestic stairway led to the upper floors from which a landing overlooked the entry below. The space exuded taste and wealth.
“Mrs. Humphrey has chosen a room for you near the nursery,” Miles told Elise, coming to stand directly beside her and speaking in a low whisper.
She didn’t like the close proximity or the familiarity of the position. With Anne pressed to her side, she placed more distance between them and Miles.
He hesitated only a moment before continuing. “Does that meet with your approval?”
“My approval wasn’t needed to begin this journey. Why should it be required now?”
“Mama Jones did run a little roughshod over you, I admit, but—”
“Mama Jones wasn’t the only one,” Elise muttered. She took another long look at the finery around her. This wasn’t her world any longer. She almost couldn’t bear to even stand in the entryway. “Where will Mama Jones be placed? I’d much rather be near her, whether it’s in the attics or a tenant cottage or somethin’ like ’at.”
“She is to come as a guest, Elise. Not as a servant.”
“She would feel . . . uncomfortable as a guest in a house like this, Miles.” She shook her head. “I feel uncomfortable as a guest here.”
Miles stopped on the step and looked at her, that same look of hurt he’d borne earlier. “Don’t say that, Elise,” he said. “I know this isn’t Epsworth, but this is my home. I want you to be comfortable here. I want you to feel like it is your home, the way our homes were interchangeable for us as children.”
“We none of us belong in a place like this.” Elise shook her head as she looked around at the grandeur. “Not Anne. Not Mama Jones. Certainly not me.”
Miles continued climbing the stairs but didn’t speak. Elise felt him stiffen and sensed she’d upset him, but she’d spoken no less than the truth. Their lives were not the same as they’d once been. They were no longer equals. She realized that even if he didn’t yet.
Chapter Eight
Something moved in Miles’s peripheral vision. He turned away from the fireplace in the library to look toward the door. Elise stood there pale faced but otherwise emotionless. She looked directly at him.
“I came for a book,” she explained quietly.
He all but jumped to his feet. “You’re welcome to any book you’d like.”
Elise didn’t immediately accept his offer. She watched him with a look of intense concentration that echoed the expression her daughter always wore when watching him.
He crossed to the door, smiling at her. She did not return the gesture. He hadn’t expected her to. Being patient was difficult, but the closer he looked, the more pain he saw. She might have been lashing out with anger, but he felt certain the root of it was a deep misery.
“What type of book are you looking for?” he asked, careful to keep his tone casual.
“I’m not sure.” He heard uncertainty in her voice, perhaps a hint of embarrassment. “I’ve not read a book since . . .” Her voice trailed off, but Miles knew what she’d been speaking of. She hadn’t read a book in all the years she’d been gone.
“Come, now.” Miles motioned her farther inside but kept his distance. “I have perused this vast collection a bit since my arrival at Christmastime. There are books on gardening, astronomy, mythology.” Miles allowed a teasing smile to touch his lips as he looked down at her once more. “I do believe I even saw a few selections from the Minerva Press.”
“I do not think Gothic novels would be the best way to return to the world of literature.” More lightness touched her tone than he’d yet heard, and now that he thought on it, her accent had improved a bit as well.
When had that changed? That was a good omen, was it not?
Slow and steady, he reminded himself. “I seem to remember you had a fondness for Robin Hood,” Miles said.
“Yes.” Her tone remained extremely guarded.
“There is a very fine edition of that tale in this library.” He crossed to where the book sat. “My cousin, whose father was the late Marquess of Grenton, is named Marion. I believe the Robin Hood legend was a favorite of that branch of the Linwood family.”
“She, no doubt, was actually permitted to be Maid Marion during her childhood.” Did he hear the slightest hint of a smile in her tone? “I, on the other hand, was never given that role.”
Miles remembered those episodes well. Robin Hood had been one of their favorite games as children, though Beth had insisted she be the ever-suffering Marion. “You made an admirable Little John though.”
“That I did.” Had she actually just laughed, even the tiniest bit? How he hoped so! “I doubt there was a finer Little John in all of England,” she said.
“Although I doubt the original Little John ever tied Maid Marion to a tree stump.”
“It was my turn,” Elise said. “Beth promised I could be Maid Marion and then wouldn’t let me. I really had no choice.”
Miles felt the need to tiptoe through this conversation. Elise was less hostile, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think that couldn’t change in an instant. “And we wondered why Beth quit playing with us.” Miles pretended to be confused.
“We were a couple of savages, weren’t we?” A look of longing crossed Elise’s face. Longing was decidedly a step in the right direction.
“And now I am a marquess. Makes me wonder if the peerage is doomed.” His jovial quip seemed to miss its mark.
Before his eyes, she pulled back into herself. She was unreachable again. Her expression was nearly blank, her gaze lowered.
Miles realized in that moment why her now-characteristic stance—drawn expression, lowered head, quiet, respectful tone—struck him as oddly familiar. Elise could not possibly have looked more like the countless women scattered throughout England who were weighed down by the struggle to feed their families, to earn their bread, to simply survive.
He crossed to where Elise stood and held the illustrated Robin Hood out to her. “Anne will enjoy the pictures, I daresay.” He studied her with growing concern. The moment of camaraderie had disappeared too quickly. Like a flash of lightning, it had existed for only a moment before leaving them in the dark once more.
He’d let himself hope Elise would return to herself once their journey was complete and she was no longer confined to the carriage. He’d thought to see more of her old personality emerge. But the Elise he rem
embered had yet to make an appearance.
“Anne will be entranced,” Elise said. “She has never seen a picture book.”
“Is she sleeping?”
Elise nodded. “But if she wakes and I am gone, she will be upset.”
“Has she seen a doctor about her hearing?” Miles knew the instant the words left his mouth that he’d been too blunt.
Elise’s mouth pulled tight. “I could not always afford to feed her. Doctors were out of my reach.” She spun on the spot and began a stiff-spined march from the room.
There was a glimpse of his Elise! She had always been sweet-tempered and kind to a fault, but—lands!—she had been proud at times. It wasn’t the side of Elise he’d expected to see first, but it was oddly encouraging.
“Are you going to push me out of a tree now?” Miles called after her.
That stopped her on the spot. She looked back over her shoulder, confused.
“Once, when I upset you, you pushed me out of a tree.” Miles raised an eyebrow. He waited for the flash of memory, for a hint of shared humor. But it seemed the atmosphere was too strained and tense.
She didn’t smile at the memory, didn’t give him an ironic look. If anything, her expression grew more pensive, her eyes boring into him.
Miles pushed out a breath. “I’m sorry.” Nothing he did seemed to work. He only wanted to have his friend back again.
“You broke your wrist,” she said quietly, her voice suddenly thick with what sounded like emotion.
“Oh, Elise,” he whispered and crossed to her. To his shock, she didn’t glare or turn away. Her sad eyes simply held his gaze.
“You never even scolded me for that,” she said. Why had that memory brought about this rare moment of openness?
“You were five years old,” Miles said. “And you cried about my wrist more than I did.”
“I was convinced you hated me.” She sniffled. “I was absolutely certain you would abandon me.”
“But I didn’t,” Miles pointed out.
“Not then,” she whispered.
“Not—?”
Elise abruptly pulled away. “I should go back to Anne.”
“Elise—”
“Good night, Miles.” She was all the way to the door already.
“Elise.”
But she was gone.
Not then. The words repeated in his mind over and over. Not then. What the devil did she mean by that?
* * *
Elise sank onto her bed, the volume of Robin Hood on the night table. She took a shaky breath. A hot tear escaped the corner of her eye. She closed her eyes tightly, not allowing room for another tear to follow the first.
Miles had conjured up so many memories. And though she did regret the day he’d broken his wrist, the times she’d reflected on while standing there in the library had been happy ones. For a fleeting moment, she’d wanted to simply melt into his reassuring embrace just as she had on the most horrible night of her life. He’d held her in front of him as they’d ridden in silence back to Epsworth, Elise shaking with cold and fear and pain. He had held her so many times in the weeks that followed.
How easy it would be to lean on him again when her heart was so heavy. So very easy, but so very dangerous.
“Help me,” Elise said into the darkness. “I cannot bear to be hurt again.”
Chapter Nine
After a morning of writing letters, Miles was desperate to be out of doors. He’d contacted his solicitor, as well as Mr. Cane, the solicitor who had once handled his father’s affairs; he had also acted as liaison with the man of business who had handled the account Miles created in Elise’s name before leaving for the West Indies. Miles had then written to the current occupants of Furlong House, now known as Hampton House, to request the few items belonging to the Furlong family that the Hamptons had agreed to store in the house’s attics. No doubt, word of Elise’s reemergence would be all over the neighborhood where they’d once lived in a matter of days.
A cool, humid breeze rushed past as Miles made his way determinedly onto the back grounds of Tafford. He’d decided within hours of inspecting his new home that the meadow was his favorite place on the estate. It even had a tree, though it was not in the middle as the one in Warwickshire had been. It was a magnificent tree, an oak, the leaves of which he imagined were a sight in the autumn. They would turn a brilliant gold, he’d wager.
Miles pushed his way past the formal garden and into the open expanse of the Tafford meadow. It would rain by nightfall; he could feel it in the air. A good brisk walk to the banks of the Trent would help relieve his tension. In the West Indies, he’d spent nearly all day, nearly every day out of doors, walking among his workers and all over the estate.
Today, there were no obstacles, nothing Miles needed to concentrate on as he walked, so he allowed his mind to wander. The first thought that bombarded his overworked brain was Elise’s visit to the library the night before. They’d shared happy memories, a welcome change from the heavy, stilted conversations they’d shared thus far. She’d seemed lighter, if not happy.
“You have a meadow.”
Miles actually jumped at the sudden sound of Elise’s voice. She stood not twenty feet ahead of him, her expression as guarded as it had been nearly every minute since he’d found her. The lightness he’d seen briefly the night before was gone.
But she was speaking of meadows, something they had often spoken of. They’d shared a meadow all their lives. It was a fragile connection but a connection just the same.
“Yes, I do.” Miles was seized by a sudden and unexpected urge to pull her into his arms and simply hold her to him. He knew better; she would only grow more distant if he did something so foolish. But the desire was there, and he couldn’t seem to shake it.
“I have always been fond of meadows,” Elise said.
“I know.” He glanced about. “Where is Anne?”
“Sleeping. I needed to escape the house for a moment. She’ll nap a while longer, but I can’t be away long.”
The silence that followed proved awkward. Elise didn’t look directly at him but kept her gaze roaming the meadow around them, her mouth compressed into an unreadable line. Her hair was pulled into a prim bun at the nape of her neck, such a contrast to the way she’d always looked before.
She had begun putting her hair up that last year, though it was never terribly neat. She’d spent too much time running and spinning and riding her mare at top speed for her grown-up coiffure to remain in place. Standing there in the meadow at Tafford, Elise was neat and almost unnaturally put together. Miles felt the oddest impulse to reach out and pull a tendril of her hair loose just to see her looking more like the girl he’d once known.
“Have you seen the tree?” Miles asked, breaking into the silence.
Elise’s eyes rose to his once more. Her blue eyes contrasted with the deep brown of her hair. No one else’s eyes had ever been quite that shade of blue.
“The tree by the river?” she asked.
Miles had been contemplating her coloring with far too much of his concentration and, for a moment, wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “The tree . . .” Then he remembered. “Yes. By the river.”
“I saw it from a distance,” Elise answered warily.
Why did even a simple conversation about a tree make her so deucedly nervous? Did she dislike him that much? Or simply distrust him? What could he possibly have done to lose her trust so entirely?
“I seem to remember you were fond of trees as well as meadows,” Miles said.
Elise’s eyes darted away from him. Her expression reminded him forcibly of the night before and the conversation they’d had in the library. It was almost as if she was desperately holding something back: a word, a gesture, something.
“Are you happy here, Elise?” Miles asked abruptly, knowing his frustration was evident in his tone but unable to prevent it from creeping in. Nothing he did pierced the distrust and anger she constantly put between them. Fru
stration seemed unavoidable.
“I . . .” Elise finished the sentence with nothing more than a shaky breath.
Miles turned away. What could he possibly say to that? It was an obvious “no.” She wasn’t happy. He had always imagined that if he could just find Elise and bring her home, everything would be fine. She would be happy. He would have his dearest friend back. All would be well again.
But that hadn’t happened. She was there and miserable, and she felt nearly as far away as she had been the past four years.
“Miles.” Elise’s quiet voice carried to him several paces away from her.
He stopped but didn’t turn back. He couldn’t bear to see her solemn and unhappy expression. Despite the anger so often in her eyes, it was the pain that hovered just beneath the surface that sliced through him every time he saw her.
“I do like trees,” Elise said.
He nodded but kept his back turned.
“And unlike some people, I have never fallen out of one.”
“I was pushed,” Miles corrected.
“I said I was sorry,” Elise answered and sounded very much like she’d rolled her eyes, though Miles doubted she actually had.
He glanced over his shoulder. Elise allowed a fleeting upward twitch of her lips. Almost a smile. Almost.
Her gaze shifted to the tree ahead of them. “How many hours do you suppose we spent sitting under our tree?”
“Most of our childhood, I would say,” Miles answered.
“I have needed a meadow, Miles.” She seemed troubled. Deeply troubled. He closed the distance between them. “And a tree where I could sit and think through my problems.”
Miles forced himself not to take her hand. She had pulled away from that gesture too many times.
“It is a very good tree,” he said. She hadn’t looked away from it yet. “A decent substitute for our old friend.”
Elise looked up at him. There was suddenly so much worry and uncertainty in her eyes. What have you been through?
“Will you introduce me?” Elise asked quietly, almost hopefully.
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