by Cardon, Sara
She nodded briskly and turned to go, but pulled up short. Lord Beauchamp strode towards her with two other men close behind. Relief flooded her, followed by chagrin. Had he overheard her? She clenched her paper. The disapproving man behind her was thickheaded enough to listen to no one but another man, and perhaps only someone he had to show deference to. One of the children offered Thomas a hoop, and he ran off to play.
“Ho there,” Lord Beauchamp said to the father. “How dare you speak in such a manner. To a lady, no less.” He appeared in perfect control, but Marjorie noticed his hands clenched at his sides.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” the man bowed. “I meant no disrespect.” He gestured to his girls. “I have two little ladies myself.”
She felt feverish all over again at how the man brushed off his offensive behavior.
Lord Beauchamp stared at the man, and a muscle in his jaw corded. Then he showed the man his back and bowed to Marjorie. “Miss Fairchild.”
“Lord Beauchamp.” She curtseyed low, laying her manners on a little thick.
He winked. Marjorie held back her smile of pleasure. His presence brought a cooling relief, soothing her frustration.
Lord Beauchamp turned to his companions. “Lord Lieutenant and Mr. Wright, may I introduce Miss Fairchild. She is a favored guest of Lady Du’Breven. Miss Fairchild, meet His Majesty's Lieutenant for the county of Yorkshire, Lord Lieutenant Halstead. And this good man is Mr. Wright, my solicitor.”
Marjorie curtseyed and exchanged pleasantries. “I am waiting for my aunt,” she explained, trying to ignore the stare from the girls’ father. “Oh, here she comes.”
“Would you and Mrs. Jones care to join us for some tea?” Lord Beauchamp asked. Then he whispered near her ear, “That is, if you are open to my company.”
Her heart lightened. “Yes.” Always.
Lord Lieutenant Halstead spoke to Marjorie. “If you have no objection, let me call my son Thomas to join us as well.”
Marjorie’s smile bloomed. Thomas. “Of course. I am sure he will act the perfect gentleman.”
18
Risks and Revelations
Miles stood within the paddock near the stable yard and checked his watch. He and the stable master of Somerstone Manor had spent the better part of the afternoon reviewing management.
Mr. Ferrell patted the sick bay mare. “This poor lass ate from a patch of corn cockle. That pesky weed is poisonous. Ah’m guessing she’ll pull through alrigh’ though.” He smiled a gap-toothed grin.
A flash of red hair caught Miles’ attention. Marjorie approached the fountain in the center of the busy stable block, wearing a gray riding habit. His heart began to race. He still had her sketchbook in his possession and had not had a chance to tell her. He was afraid she would ask him if he had looked at it. He swallowed his guilt.
Reginald had found it and showed him a drawing. “Look at you, all staid and straight-laced,” Reginald had said, laughing.
Miles had snatched the book and reproached Reginald for prying. But alone in his room, Miles could not resist. He was curious how she saw him. She had captured him, all right. His face reflected back at him—utterly boring. No whimsical flourishes. A quick glance told him she had quite the imagination where others were concerned. An ache formed in his chest as he contemplated what she must think of him.
Marjorie was going for a ride, was she? This he wanted to see. In fact, he would make sure to join her. And deuce take it, but he wanted her to see him as interesting.
He slapped a hand down on the wood railing. “You run a fine stable yard, Farrell. Your training system was most insightful.”
The stable master rubbed a knuckle to his forehead. “But Ah’ve more to show you.”
Miles tugged on his gloves as Marjorie passed behind the stalls. “I wish to ride my stallion. Right away,” he said.
The stable master blew out a breath. “Aye. I’ll ask John to saddle Boaz.”
“Could I also ask for one of your groomsmen to come along?” A chaperone should set Marjorie at ease.
“Aye.” The stable master’s brow quirked, and his mouth twitched. “Are you in need of protection or afraid you may throw a shoe?”
Miles shifted his weight, feeling foolish. “I will be accompanying Miss Fairchild,” he explained.
The man broke into another gap-toothed grin. “Now tha’ Ah’m happy to help with.”
Miles found Marjorie near the mounting block, stroking the nose of a golden mare and speaking in low tones. Her hair shone becomingly, and a hat sat at a jaunty angle on her head. His insides warmed, seeing her in her element.
“Miss Fairchild.” He bowed. Her face lit with surprise upon seeing him. “I am about to go for a ride. May I join you? A groom can follow.”
“Of course.” She flushed. “Let me speak with my companion a moment.” Marjorie conferred with the older woman, who looked satisfied. Marjorie stepped close, holding her riding habit draped over one arm.
“Here, let me assist you,” he said, switching places with the groom.
Miles bent and cupped his hands. She drew near with a stirring scent of lavender. He glanced at her, pressed close to him, as she touched his shoulder to maintain her balance and placed her left foot in his hands. He gently rose, and she guided herself gracefully into the saddle. He helped move her slim boot towards the stirrup. Marjorie kept one hand on the reins and adjusted her skirts.
She glanced down and at him and beamed. “I am settled.”
Miles nodded, reluctantly stepping away. His horse was brought to him, and they soon set off.
“Where to?” he asked her.
“North. There is a monument of sorts I wish to see,” she called over her shoulder. “Oh, how I have missed this.”
Miles’ mouth went dry as he watched Marjorie’s straight back, showing off her feminine shape as she moved with her horse’s even gait. She was a natural and carried a confidence in her air which was becoming.
Determined to be more interesting, he pulled ahead and was rewarded when she laughed. Marjorie leaned in and urged her mare into a canter. He decided he rather enjoyed watching her from behind, and let her pull ahead.
“It is over there, I believe.” Marjorie pointed to the west.
The groomsman followed them at a distance. An elongated pyramid came into view, and they slowed their horses, riding side by side. The structure was built of great blocks of stone and had a passageway as wide as the entrance to the stable block. The slim Egyptian pyramid did not fit with the pointed archway. And what looked like an urn was perched at the top of the folly.
Miles frowned. “What a strange sight.”
“This is called Needle’s Eye,” Marjorie explained. “A marquis bet he could do the impossible—drive a carriage through the eye of a needle.”
“Ah, as a rich man.” Miles understood the reference. What a waste of resources. “He must have been intoxicated.”
“Precisely.” Marjorie laughed. “So when he came to, he had this built.”
“And won the bet.” He thought darkly of Reginald and his wager with Webb. Fortunately, Webb should be well on his way.
They stopped their horses amid the wild heather a short distance from the pyramid.
“I must say, none of my embroidery needles look remotely similar,” Marjorie said.
“Maybe if we squint it will resemble a needle’s eye.”
She smiled.
“What do you think of this eyesore?” he asked.
She pressed her lips together. “It puts me in mind of walking down the aisle of some strange church.”
He shook his head to himself, loving how she saw beauty where he saw an obstruction. “Well, shall we do the impossible and ride through the eye of a needle together?” he asked.
Marjorie stared at him, as if he had said something profound. He tilted his head, trying to figure it out. It hit him hard enough it could have knocked him out of his saddle.
He and Marjorie—together—was imposs
ible.
Or was it? His pulse sped, a rush of emotion and breathlessness at the possibility of Marjorie in his future. His life had always brought him fulfillment, but imagining going back to his regular routine held no appeal. He desired more. Something of substance. And this woman—this woman made him imagine a vibrant future. She was a calming influence, a friend, and made him want to be a better man.
He was considering the impossible. He was considering marrying her.
“Have you changed your mind?” she asked. “You look as if you fear a firing squad.” She was grinning at him, bewildered.
Miles smiled softly. “My thoughts are more pleasantly engaged.” He swallowed and reached out his hand. “Come, the two of us can ride alongside.”
Marjorie placed her hand lightly in his. He clasped it, sensing the value she placed within his care. He wanted to be the one to cherish her. Nothing had been as fulfilling as his time with her.
Together, they crossed the threshold of Needle’s Eye. When she released his hand, he tried to hide how shaken he was, how much he wanted to hang onto her. He blew out a breath. Think this through, he told himself firmly. As soon as he had a moment to himself, he would make a new plan.
When they again reached the stable block, the sun was waning, changing the clouds to pinks and reds. The groom took both of their horses. Marjorie walked towards the fountain, a wide stone basin on a sturdy pedestal. Water spurted from the top of the fountain, then rippled in a curtain around the edges, and splashed into the pool below.
“This is fascinating,” Marjorie said, drawing close and extending a hand to the rainbow of colors caught in the spray.
He smiled at the look of pleasure on her face. Her boot hit the raised edge of the pool and she dropped the train of her dress. She pitched forward and Miles slid an arm around her waist, grasping her and pressing her back into his chest. He caught his breath at the feel of her in his arms—her trim waist, her soft hair, the faint trace of lavender. She relaxed against him. Suddenly he could think of nothing but holding Marjorie. Pulling her closer.
“Thank you, I—” She twisted in his arms, her face close. If he bent down, he could kiss her.
A throat cleared behind him, and Miles thought to ignore it. Her eyes were the most mesmerizing blue. Marjorie looked past his shoulder and her eyes widened. She pushed on his chest and Miles’ heart plunged with disappointment. He stepped back, immediately missing her warmth as if the sun had hidden behind a dark cloud.
Miles turned, irritated with the groomsman. The hair on the nape of his neck prickled, and his mouth opened. Marjorie walked into the open arms of her father, embracing him.
“Mr. Fairchild,” Miles choked. His face burned and his palms sweat. Confound it, he felt like a scoundrel caught with evil designs.
“Lord Beauchamp.” Mr. Fairchild dipped his chin in acknowledgement, his brow furrowed, confused.
Miles’ mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. Her father would not interfere or take her away, would he?
“I paid a visit to my brother in Sheffield. Thought I’d stop in and surprise you,” Mr. Fairchild said carefully to Marjorie. He clenched his jaw and blew out a breath. “I only have a little time tonight. Let me take you for a walk.”
19
Fatherly Advice
Marjorie pointed her father towards a woodland path leading back to the house.
Mr. Fairchild squeezed her hand and rested it in the crook of his arm. “I needed to know for myself that you’re well.”
“This visit to Yorkshire has been enchanting,” Marjorie said, glancing over her shoulder. Her heart hiccupped to find Lord Beauchamp watching them leave the stable block. He could have been a sentry by the way he stood tall, his jaw defined, with a pensive set to his dark brows. She looked away, almost tripping on the gravel in front of her. The feel of his arms around her had filled her with a warmth so inviting she wanted to reach out and pull him close again. She flushed at her bold thoughts.
Mr. Fairchild moved a branch out of his way. “I did not realize Lord Beauchamp was in your social circle.”
She took a cleansing breath. “Hardly. Lady Du’Breven invited Aunt Harriet and extended the invitation to include me. I am not usually in such exalted company, I assure you.” Thunder rumbled from a distance. She glanced at the sky visible through the canopy of leaves overhead. “The party lasts but a week more, then I will not see the Beauchamps.”
“Beauchamps? Is Mr. Reginald Beauchamp in attendance?” Mr. Fairchild asked.
“Yes.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. The lightness of the evening sunset dissipated as a bank of dark clouds pressed down.
She pushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I no longer admire him. I am in no danger.”
“The man has a bad reputation. What about Lord Beauchamp?”
“What about him? He has been . . .” Safe? Steady? Wonderful in a surprising way? “A friend. He treats me as if we were equals.” Sometimes she thought Lord Beauchamp’s eyes flashed with more than friendship. She shook her head and sighed, sure she imagined his interest in her.
“You are not Lord Beauchamp’s equal, and don’t forget it,” Mr. Fairchild said.
Marjorie flinched at his forceful words. She brought her wrist to her chest to staunch the pain stinging her heart. Even without giving herself permission, she had begun to hope for more with Lord Beauchamp.
Mr. Fairchild let go of her and pushed a rotted log out of the path. “I don’t wish to hurt you. But I don’t want to see you hurt either.” He kept his boot on the decaying stump, rocking it back and forth. “Men in his situation don’t marry so far beneath them.” He released a slow breath through his nose.
Marjorie shivered, her fervor dropping as his censure hollowed out all her confidence. “I would not be so bold as to expect marriage to a Beauchamp.” There was no need for his concern.
Mr. Fairchild tilted his head, his eyes piercing. “Has he asked anything of you?”
She blinked. “Such as?”
He took off his hat and glared at it as if it had committed a crime. “It pains me to speak so frankly, but you deserve to understand the way of things. Gentlemen are known to sometimes lead dual lives.” He swallowed. “One virtuous and one not.”
Marjorie’s boot slid on mud, but she caught herself. Her mouth tasted like grit. “What are you implying?”
Mr. Fairchild met her gaze, waiting patiently like a teacher quizzing a pupil. “It’s despicable, but some of these men keep a woman of lower standing as a mistress.” He blew out a breath, but met her eye, squinting as he waited for her reply.
She wilted at the image of Lord Beauchamp in such a base relationship. It would be so beneath him. As her father’s eyes bored into hers, the emptiness inside her grew. She shook her head as understanding dawned. Her father could not mean Lord Beauchamp would only see someone like her as a mistress? The grime on her boots may as well have been all over her for the way she itched to get clean.
She pointed to the path spanning the open space between the trees and the manor. “A storm is coming.”
“Marjorie, my girl,” he said. He took her elbow before she left the woodlands, but she could not meet his eye. “I speak plainly so you can understand. I would never do anything to injure you.”
She studied her dirty hem, nodding her head and squeezing her eyes against the hurt. “Of course.”
“I need you to be aware of what may be beneath a pristine front, because I’m not around to keep an eye out for you, as I’d like.” He shook his head and pressed his lips together. “It’s a rotten shame to see you saddened. Would that I could give you more.” His mouth lifted in a smile, but it did not reach his eyes.
Her heart ached at his regret. She knew he did the best he could. “Nonsense. I am blessed to have you care for me.”
He opened his arms, and she fell into the embrace, breathing his familiar scent of horses and tobacco. He could never fill the void her mother left, but t
he loss they each suffered had bound them closer. He was a good man, and it was enough.
“People who care the most are the ones I want to keep close,” she murmured into his shoulder.
He pulled back, wiping his eyes, his jaw tight with unspoken emotion.
She wanted to lighten his regret. “Who else would have let me jump into puddles?”
His watery expression changed into a grin. “Everything was a game to you. A world of make-believe.”
She shook her head, wishing the world were as clean and wholesome as she imagined. Even if the uncomfortable truths smeared the beauty of life, she did not regret having her eyes opened. Raindrops hit the dense leaves above them, hushing the world, and wrapping them in a blurry shelter. She would look carefully to see past any veneer of manners others used to conceal their true conduct.
“You straddle two worlds—real and imagined. Privileged and working class,” he said.
She considered that, letting the difficulties sink in and her resolve to stay safe take root. They spoke for some time more, about her uncle in Sheffield, the stable yard at Strathford, and her experiences in London. Water swirled in muddy rivulets in the saturated earth. The air was crisp with the scent of grass and soil. The rain stirred up mud in some spots, while others were washed clean.
“Best get you back during this lull before the storm hits in full force,” Mr. Fairchild said.
“Will you walk with me the rest of the way?”
He shook his head. “This is as close as I dare take you. My course clothing and calloused hands don’t belong anywhere near the company you keep.”
“I will always be proud of you.” Marjorie’s heart ached, already missing him. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for visiting me.”
20
Charades
She was avoiding him, Miles knew it by the way she averted her eyes when he walked near her in the drawing room.
