Willing Love

by Mary Jean Adams

  Prudence’s wandering gaze stopped on a familiar face. Mr. Evan watched her from across the casket and over the heads of those clustered around the grave in front of him. A drop of rain hung from the end of his slightly crooked nose before falling to the ground.

  She nodded to him.

  They had only met three days ago, but his presence comforted her. If only he could have been the one standing next to her instead of Richard on one side and Mr. Whitley on the other. Of course, as the head of Ashcroft now, she stood with Rachel Ashcroft’s closest friends and associates, some of whom barely acknowledged her existence a few weeks ago, while Mr. Evan stood amidst a cluster of Ashcroft employees.

  It was downright silly to think the sympathetic look in his eye had to do with anything other than a formal regard for his employer.

  He gave her a nod, then turned his attention back to Parson Simmons’ recitation of the requisite verses.

  Prudence shivered. Well, what did she expect? His crooked smile? A wave? Her last words to him had been a promise to have him dismissed.

  The head of an empire was a lonely place to be. She swiped away a rivulet of rain from her cheek with frozen fingers.

  Even if her grandmother hadn’t died that evening, Prudence never would have followed through on her threat. She might be quick-tempered, but her temper was more like a summer rain shower than this never-ending, bone-chilling drizzle. She may be quick to anger, but her ire fizzled out before she did any real damage. Usually.

  Prudence shifted in her sodden boots. The stable master couldn’t know that. He didn’t know her the way the few she was close to did. She had shown Mr. Evan only her worst side, and the man had probably spent the last couple of days worrying about his position at Ashcroft. After all, with Rachel Ashcroft gone, he now worked for her granddaughter. Her temperamental, obstinate granddaughter—or so he must think.

  She really had treated him rather horribly, even though he had done nothing but try to help her.

  Prudence folded her arms against the chill and the remorse that ate at her conscience.

  Grandma Rachel always said people carried enough burdens without adding regrets to the pile. If you’re sorry for something you should say so.

  She would do just that, at the earliest opportunity. Later today, at the funeral breakfast, she would make amends.

  The rain slowed, then stopped all together. Parson Simmons closed his Bible with a soggy snap. Around her the crowd filtered away, their murmurs of condolences blending into the slosh of rainwater still gushing from the gutters of the chapel.

  Prudence looked up at the sky, smiling for the first time in two days.

  ****

  Gil closed the double oak doors behind the last of the mourners with a sturdy click, and Prudence let out a long breath.

  “There’s that sigh again.” Richard offered his hand to help her stand.

  “I think after today I deserve to sigh as much as I should like.” Prudence groaned and straightened legs stiff from sitting for hours.

  Her tea had gone cold long ago, and its stimulating effects had worn off shortly thereafter. Her bottom ached, her shoes pinched, and she wouldn’t be surprised to see blood stain her dress from where her whalebone corset dug into her side.

  Worst of all, Mr. Evan hadn’t come to the funeral breakfast. She hadn’t been able to apologize and put things to right between the two of them.

  Well, no matter. Grandma Rachel had taught her to take matters into her own hands when the situation demanded it. The time had come to do just that.

  “Would you like me to stay?” Richard asked.

  Prudence looked into Richard’s eyes. Such sweet eyes. So warm. So comforting. Looking into her old friend’s eyes was like slipping into a pair of well-worn slippers.

  Except Prudence didn’t feel like slippers just yet.

  She shook her head. “No, but I thank you for the offer, Richard. I think I’d just like to go to my room to be alone with my thoughts and perhaps rest before supper.”

  Richard raised an eyebrow, and Prudence let her gaze slide to the floor. Perhaps years of experience had taught him to be skeptical whenever she said she wanted to be alone.

  For heaven’s sake, she was no longer twelve. It wasn’t as if she would find a toad to stick in his coat pocket again. Or like she would wander off to climb the cliffs over Smuggler’s Bay. Or ride Bolt at breakneck speed, teaching her to jump the hedgerows between the fields.

  The edge of her lip ticked up before she had a chance to check it. Those things would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Nevertheless, she could not let Richard know what she had in mind. Ever her protector, he would never allow her to visit the stable master alone. He would insist on accompanying her, and that wouldn’t do. If Richard were there, she would have to either couch her apology in vague words or own up to what an obstinate fool she had been. She couldn’t bear the idea of losing whatever regard Richard might have for her.

  But perhaps it wasn’t Richard she was so concerned about.

  She needed to put things to right, to handle things in a way that would have made her grandmother proud. Only then would she repair the damage she had done to her own self-regard.

  She used the back of her hand to brush an imaginary strand of hair away from her forehead, punctuating the movement with another sigh.

  “Very well, then.” Richard raised her gloved hand to his lips. “I shall be by in the morning to check on you.”

  It sounded more like a warning than a promise.

  “Thank you.” Prudence let her hand slip from his.

  “Perhaps you would like to go riding?”

  “That would be lovely.” She feigned as much polite enthusiasm as she could muster. She walked Richard to the large oak doors in the foyer, forcing herself to take slow even steps.

  Richard bent to give her a quick, brotherly peck on the cheek. “Tomorrow then?”

  “Yes, tomorrow.” Prudence heaved another sigh for good measure.

  This time, Richard only hesitated a moment before descending the granite steps toward his waiting horse. He took the reins from the groom and mounted the bay in one smooth, graceful movement. The horse whinnied and shook her dark mane.

  Richard perused Prudence from the saddle for a moment.

  She gave him a small wave, and he urged his horse forward and down the crushed gravel drive. She watched him go long enough to assure herself that her ruse had been convincing, and that he wouldn’t come back and ruin her plans.

  When she was sure she had seen the last of him until morning, she closed the massive oak doors, turned in a swirl of black silk, and bounded up the stairs toward her bedroom.

  “Would you like me to send one of the maids to attend to you, Miss Prudence?” Mrs. Hatcher called from the bottom of the steps.

  Prudence skidded to a stop on the landing and forced her breathing to slow. Had Mrs. Hatcher seen her take flight?

  “No, no, thank you, Mrs. Hatcher. I am going to lie down for a while. Please see to it that no one disturbs me before dinner.”

  “Yes, miss,” Mrs. Hatcher said before bustling back to whatever shadow she had emerged from.

  Once in her bedroom, Prudence unfastened the bodice of her black gown. In her haste, one of the buttons popped and skipped across the polished wood floor with a plink, plink, plink before rolling to stop somewhere under her bed.

  She would find it later. She had to be back before supper, or she would be missed. There was little time left to find Mr. Evan, make her apologies, and start their relationship anew.

  Prudence’s cheeks flamed. Their business relationship she assured herself. They had no other kind. He was her employee. It mattered not that circumstances had caused her to come into rather intimate contact with him three nights ago.

  Her skin warmed with the memory of her breasts pressed against his strong back, the spicy scent of his skin, the way his muscles moved as he carried her so effortlessly back to the manor. She hadn’t imag
ined a connection to him, had she? It felt much like the one she experienced when she rode Bolt, almost as if they were one being…yet it had been so much more with him. Perhaps it was because she had never really been that close to another living being before.

  Prudence jerked open the door to her wardrobe and pulled out a light brown and green striped, woolen mantua and petticoat. They had to be the least attractive garments she owned, but the unseasonable chill had been made worse by the rain. No sense in freezing to death in pursuit of an easy conscience. She pulled it on over her chemise, then yanked a cap over her hair. She surveyed her haphazard appearance in the mirror then tugged on her cap until it sat at least somewhat straight on her auburn curls.

  But the gown…Prudence grimaced at the way the dark orange-brown hue made her complexion turn pasty. She pinched her cheeks to add a touch of color.

  It would have to do.

  The simple gown was drab, not mourning attire exactly, but she doubted the stable master would be a stickler for propriety of that sort. More to the point, the modest dress did not accentuate her figure. Not in the slightest. Even the V-shaped neckline dipped only so low as to show the barest hint of a curve. That was for the best. After all, she did not want Mr. Evan to misunderstand the point of her visit to the stables.

  Prudence ran her palms over the small mounds at her chest and down to her narrow waist. Who was she trying to fool? On the right woman, even this dress would appeal.

  On her, any dress was as good as the next.

  ****

  “Excuse me.” Prudence interrupted a tall blond man giving instructions to a stable boy of about fourteen on the care of the largest black horse Prudence had ever seen.

  “Here you go now, Davie.” He handed the reins to the boy. “Do you think you can handle him?”

  “Yes, sir,” the lad said with a grin that had Prudence grinning back.

  The boy led the beast past Prudence and between the rows of stalls. She admired the way the muscles beneath the horse’s powerful flanks made his black coat shimmer in the filtered sunlight. Whoever rode this horse would have to be equally as powerful.

  Had Grandma Rachel acquired a new stud that she had not been made aware of? Her grandmother always had a fine eye for horses. Not only could she spot those with the best bloodlines, she had a knack for knowing which were the most virile. While Prudence’s grandfather and great grandfather had been responsible for getting Ashcroft & Sons’ shipping business off the ground, the success of Ashcroft Stables had been largely Grandma Rachel’s doing.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the blond man said, startling her away from her speculation about the stallion’s potential. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Prudence Ashcroft.” She reached out her hand.

  A grin split the man’s face. Prudence thought it odd he should be so pleased to meet her, but it was a promising start. If he were the owner of the black and a new boarder at the stables, she would have a chat with him about allowing her to pair his stallion with one of her mares once she concluded her business with Mr. Evan.

  “Stuart Malone.” He took her hand. “Your servant, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Malone.” Prudence pulled her hand away when he held it just a bit too long. “Have you seen Mr. Evan, by chance?”

  She glanced around at the immaculate stalls. They looked even cleaner than they had three nights ago. Mr. Evan was clearly a competent man.

  “Mr. Evan?” He pronounced the name slowly as though he couldn’t quite place it.

  “Yes, the new stable master. Tall man, dark hair, small scar under his right eye.” She swept an imaginary line under her own eye with a gloved finger. “Oh, and a slightly crooked nose.”

  She almost added and the most intense eyes you could imagine, but decided that even if Mr. Malone had met Mr. Evan, he might not have noted that detail.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Evan.” The light of understanding shone in his face. “The new stable master.”

  “Yes. Have you seen him?” Prudence tamped down her impatience.

  “I’m afraid he isn’t here right now.” Mr. Malone’s cheek twitched.

  “Ah, I see.”

  Prudence wanted to ask if he happened to know where he might be, but that small twitch in the man’s cheek looked suspiciously like a repressed grin. Mr. Malone found her amusing for some reason.

  Too bad. He was a rather handsome gentleman, but she didn’t enjoy being laughed at.

  She picked up her skirts, unnecessarily so as there wasn’t a speck of dirt or manure on the stable floor, and strode, back straight as a plank, into the feeble sunshine.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Prudence glanced up. A line of towering white clouds, their edges marked by shadows, marched across the horizon. A cool breeze ruffled her cap.

  She wished she could share Mr. Malone’s amusement, but right now, her life seemed much like the weather. Moments of joy as short-lived as the sunshine and soon overshadowed by the ever-present rain.

  Prudence drew in a painful breath. She shouldn’t be so disappointed. She would have other opportunities to speak with Mr. Evan. Even if he intended on leaving, it wouldn’t be easy for him to find another position as prestigious as the one he held at Ashcroft. And she had no intention of letting him go, so she could count on him being around for at least a little while.

  Prudence leaned against the rough paddock gate. If she waited awhile, he might yet make an appearance.

  Mazy had borne her foal within the last day. The gentle mare stood contentedly while the young horse gamboled about on spindly legs, then returned to his mother for nourishment.

  How simple life was for the young. Not that she was old by any means, but with her grandmother’s death, Prudence would be responsible for a great many things. While girls her age were dancing at balls, planning weddings, or nursing their newborn babes as Mazy did, she would be running a business and trying to keep the family fortunes intact.

  She watched foal and mare for a while, arms folded across the top of the rough wooden planks, one booted foot propped against the lowest of them, while she waited for Mr. Evan’s return. With every crack of a twig or clang of a bucket, she turned, hoping to see the man. And every glance about her met with disappointment for it was either a stable boy attending to a task or the ever-grinning Mr. Malone watching the boys at work—and studying her.

  Prudence turned back to the paddock and rested her chin on her hands with a thump.

  What did Mr. Malone find so fascinating that he would hang about the stables now that his horse had been rubbed down and given his bag of oats? She had done nothing to encourage him. Most boarders would have been long gone by now.

  The thunder rumbled again, closer now. A shadow crept across the pasture. A breeze threatened to tug the cap from her hair. Prudence glanced up, and a large drop of rain landed on her cheek. She held out a hand, palm up, and several more drops pelted her upturned face.

  Mr. Evan would have to wait another day for his apology.

  Turning, Prudence studied the stable. She could take refuge until the rain stopped. It would be warm and cozy, and she would have Bolt to keep her company. However, she’d also have the annoying Mr. Malone plus a handful of stable boys. She might as well head back to the house where she could be miserable by herself.

  Prudence looked back toward the main house and found she didn’t want to go back. It would be filled with servants, ready to see to her every need. Even now, the warm glow of a hearth shone through the plate glass windows of a back parlor.

  Servants didn’t fill a house. With her grandmother gone, no one would be there to welcome her home. No one who hadn’t been paid to do so, that is. No one would be there to wrap a warm blanket around her shoulders, give her a hug, then sit with her while she drank her hot tea.

  A second path, little more than a dirt trail, led away from the house. Prudence followed it past the stables, past a copse of beech trees, past a briar patch that refused to be tamed, until she reached th
e little stone chapel and the family cemetery.

  The gate creaked when Prudence opened it. Despite the care the groundskeeper took to ensure the gate stayed well-oiled, rust coated the metal, and the hinges never failed to squeak. As a child, she had often gone into the cemetery to retrieve an errant ball or other toy and imagined the gate squeaked to warn the dead of her arrival.

  Of course, as a child, the dead in the little family cemetery were just names. Her smile faded as she came first upon the headstones that marked her mother and father’s final resting places. She ran her hand over the granite. Brown lichens grew on the edges, and the etchings showed signs of weathering, but the steady drizzle had darkened the stone until the names and dates stood out in stark relief—Emily Saunders, 1720-1744; Charles Saunders 1716-1743.

  She had never known either of them. Her father died before she was born, and her mother died soon after. Grandma Rachel had raised her. Prudence had even taken her grandmother’s last name to avoid confusion.

  She read the name on the headstones again. Saunders. She knew her real name but had never really thought of it as hers. More like a middle name, inscribed on the records page in the family Bible, but never used again.

  Was it odd that, as a child, she had never wondered who her parents were or what it would have been like to have a mother and father? Perhaps it signified some defect in her character, some lack of familial instinct or maternal bonding ability.

  Her grandmother had told her tales about her mother. But that Emily Ashcroft had been like a character in a story, someone her grandmother made up to keep a young girl entertained.

  Her grandfather’s headstone lay a few feet away. He had died a couple of years after her mother. Sometimes, when she was drifting off to sleep or daydreaming in the library, she thought she could remember the smiling face of an older man beaming at her while he held her high above his head. She had always imagined it to be a distant memory of her grandfather, but the more rational side of her attributed the memory to fanciful thinking. At most, she had been three when her grandfather passed. She couldn’t possibly remember his face.

  Prudence trailed the tips of her fingers over the lichen-covered stone. Other than her grandmother, these people were the only real family she had. How could she not even be curious about who they were?