by Lara Temple
‘No, I had Tubbs, my valet, bring everything here the first day I arrived. Despite the jumble, there wasn’t that much left there. It was all in the box you already inspected. And nothing in his private chambers, either. Everything should be right here in this room.’
She faltered as he came round the desk. He was even larger looming over her, the fabric of his pantaloons stretched as he leaned casually against the desk, the wooden edge press into his thigh, accentuating a sleek muscular line.
Her cheeks stung with a sudden memory she hadn’t even realised she’d retained, of that leg against hers as she’d toppled on to him in the Folly—her knee had struck the floor between his legs and it hurt, but it was the foreign, sure sensation of his body under hers she remembered most vividly, his muscles moving as he shifted, the strength of his arm around her. It made no sense for those sensations to return now, just when she was becoming comfortable in his presence, but now the air in the room felt as heavy as before a storm, pressing her into her chair.
She cleared her throat and kept still, watching his long finger trail down her notes. It paused at the bottom and he scanned the room, as if expecting the missing volumes to jump to attention. Despite the surface chaos, there really were not many places anything could be hidden and she had watched him search them all during the first day in the study.
‘I cannot imagine him losing so many notebooks. He treated them with more care than most parents extend to their children. What on earth was he up to? This makes no sense at all,’ he said to no one in particular, his fingers rubbing the thick paper.
Her nerves danced to that subtle rasp and she shivered. He turned to her so swiftly she could not school her face in time and he must have seen something because his abstraction was gone in an instant.
‘What is wrong, Ellie?’
So much was wrong she did not know where to begin. The urge to unburden everything to this stranger was so overpowering, she pressed her fingers over her mouth. It wasn’t only Whitworth that weighted on her now, but these feelings he was forcing on her unawares. They made a mockery of her wistful dreams of some day finding a man who would want to build his life with her.
Those dreams had been impossible enough burdened as she was with her family’s problems. To make Chase their object was wrong on so many levels—he was the proverbial rolling stone and it would hardly be a plain spinster well past her prime and saddled with a troublesome family who would turn his whole world view on its head. Perhaps one day some woman would achieve that feat—someone beautiful and charming and seductive and as far from Ellie as the moon was from a clump of dirt in the field.
What was wrong?
Oh, God, everything.
‘I’m tired.’ It sounded childish and she tried to smile. ‘I wish I could sail away...into your sister’s drawing or into a Desert Boy book. I often stared at those marvellous illustrations and imagined I was there...’
* * *
She sighed and her shoulders slumped, the brief glimpse of dreamy Ellie beaten back by melancholy once more.
Chase wanted dreamy Ellie back so he did something he never, ever did—he offered up his siblings as sacrifice.
‘I don’t know who the author is, but it just so happens I know who drew those illustrations.’
‘You do? Who is it?’ Immediately the light was back in her eyes and he gave silent, but grateful apologies to Sam.
‘Sam.’
‘Sam? Lady Samantha? Your sister?’
‘The same. But you cannot tell anyone. I should not have told you myself.’
‘Oh, my heavens, she is marvellous. Perhaps that is why her drawing caught my attention so. You must be so proud.’
‘I am. But she prefers not to have people know so I would appreciate if you do not share that information.’
‘Of course I shan’t, though Anne and Hugh would probably faint from excitement if I did. So how does it happen that you do not know who the author is?’
‘The publishers contacted Sam directly, saying the author asked for her in particular, but insisted on remaining anonymous. This is why we are convinced it must be one of the antiquarians who knew Lord Huxley, because only they were likely to be acquainted with her talents. Sam says she would almost rather not know. It adds to her sense of mystery and magic when she sketches.’
‘I dare say, but I admit I would be dreadfully curious.’
‘We are, believe me. At some point we even wondered whether it was Huxley, but when we asked him he said he was as curious as we. I think in his heart of hearts he wanted to be more than merely a scholar and was quite envious of the author’s talent and lived in dread he would discover it was one of his antiquarian rivals.’
‘Well, I think he is a marvellous raconteur. One day you will read from these amazing notebooks to your children and be grateful for the gift he left you.’
She touched the edge of the notebook he held, her finger just a breath away from his, though she did not appear to notice. He did. He noticed her words as well and his shoulders curled in on themselves in an instinctive recoil, but he kept his voice calm.
‘I will not have children, but Lucas probably...’
‘Oh, but you must!’ Her exclamation apparently surprised her as much as it did him and she straightened, flushing a bright poppy red.
‘I must?’
‘I meant...not that you must, of course, merely... Surely you wish to have children some day?’
‘No. Unlike you, Miss Walsh, I prefer not to have other people depend on me.’
‘That is not quite apparent from your cousin’s notebooks.’
‘If I am good at fixing other people’s problems, it is only because they aren’t mine. I find life easier to live if I never risk wreaking destruction on people I care for. There is a monumental difference between offering someone occasional assistance, and assuming chief responsibility for a child’s well-being and upbringing. You cannot compare the scope for doing harm in either case.
‘Of course you couldn’t, but having children, a family, can give you so much. To give all that up merely to evade risks, or to have an easier life... You cannot mean it.’
She was staring at him as if she had never seen him before. Resentment started bubbling up in him.
‘One can have a perfectly worthwhile life without children. Huxley did.’
‘I have no doubt that is true, but Huxley had you.’
‘Huxley liked having us around part of the year, but he was not accountable to us and the only person he ever tried to save was my mother and he failed at that just as I did. I like my life just as it is, Miss Walsh. I see no need to inflict myself on a future generation of Sinclairs. You should know all about the dangers of imposing fatherhood on the wrong specimen. I imagine your life would have been substantially easier with a different father.’
‘Hardly. Neither I nor my siblings would have existed.’
‘Don’t split hairs, Miss Walsh. You know what I mean. My father might not have deserved his reputation as a rake and a scoundrel, but he still wasn’t exactly the man to see you through life’s challenges. My mother lived and died thinking the man she cared for above all else was too weak to be depended upon and it shut her down and nothing I...anyone of us did could atone for that. Believe me, we tried.’
‘It was not your role to do so, Mr Sinclair. You were her child, not the other way around.’ Her voice was softly compassionate and he gritted his teeth against the need to reject her facile statement.
‘You are a fine one to speak. What the devil do you think you have done with your siblings?’
‘That is different. When my parents died we relied on Henry’s father for guidance and, believe me, had he lived I would have been only too happy to continue my dependence on his good judgement. He was a most wonderful man. Kind and steady and reliable. It was a pity he had no more children after Henry
, but he never loved another woman after Henry’s mother passed.’
‘A paragon of all virtues.’
Her brows twitched together.
‘No man is a paragon of all virtues and I see no need to be so mocking. But that is not the point. The point is that since his death my siblings had no choice but to depend upon me.’
‘And now on Henry.’
She brushed her hand over the leather cover of the notebook, her lashes shielding her eyes as if sealing him off from whatever emotion tied her to her betrothed.
‘And now on Henry,’ she repeated.
He turned a little too abruptly, scraping his thigh on the edge of the desk. She glanced up and he turned to the windows overlooking the lawns. There wasn’t much to see—fog obscured the treetops and turned the world hazy and dismal. A fitting reflection of his mood.
‘I think that is enough for today, Miss Walsh. I doubt your Henry is out in this weather. Perhaps you should go find him and remind him of his duties.’
Chapter Seven
Ellie entered the yellow saloon early and was pleased to note Lady Ermintrude had not yet descended. Everyone else was already present, though. Drusilla sat embroidering on the sofa, while Henry stood watching Chase and Fenella play backgammon by the fireplace. Henry smiled at her and she smiled back. Drusilla’s shoulders hunched over a little more.
On a burst of inspiration Ellie moved closer to the young woman.
‘It is Anne’s birthday soon, Henry, and I wanted to buy her something. Perhaps a shawl. Do you know where I could purchase something along those lines?’
‘I haven’t the faintest notion, Ellie. Can’t you find something here to give her? Maybe one of Uncle’s gewgaws?’
‘That is a marvellous idea, Henry. Perhaps one of his jars of locusts.’ Ellie met Drusilla’s gaze and for a moment a complicit smile passed between them before Drusilla’s face froze again and she bent back to her embroidery.
‘There is a draper’s shop and a silk warehouse in Deptford. I think that will be more appropriate.’
‘Thank you, Miss Ames. Henry, perhaps you could find some time to accompany me this week?’
‘Lord, not to the draper’s, Ellie. I will die of boredom.’
‘That is not very kind, Lord Huxley,’ Dru said with a little snap in her voice. ‘Your company would ensure Miss Walsh receives the proper attention in town. It would be considered unusual for her to go there without anyone from the Manor.’
Henry flushed and Ellie dropped her head, taking another tiny step out on to the plank.
‘You are very kind, Miss Ames, but I know how busy Henry is. It is not right I take him from his duties when he has so much to attend to... Perhaps, if it is not too much of a bother, you and Miss Fenella might come with me?’
Henry heaved a sigh so heavy with resignation it bordered on a groan.
‘Oh, very well. In fact, I could use a breather from all these da—dashed sheep. I see the blasted animals every time I close my eyes. Sheep, sheep and more sheep with a couple of lambs thrown in. Couldn’t Uncle have chosen to raise a less boring animal?’
Drusilla jerked to her feet, her tambour frame tumbling to the floor.
‘You should not scoff at sheep so, Lord Huxley. They are a wonderful animal. Gentle and useful and they like being together and are so very good natured and... Why is it that everyone thinks big rough animals like bulls or bears or...or even horses are superior to something peaceful and soft? If you had ever held a lamb in your arms you would know better...’
Her blush was so extreme it obliterated her freckles, her voice breaking, and she hurried out of the parlour. Henry stood in stunned silence as Fenella hurried after her sister, casting Henry a fulminating look.
‘Go apologise, Henry.’ Ellie gave him a little shove towards the door.
‘Apologise? What on earth for? I only said...’
‘Go.’
‘But, Eleanor...’
‘Now.’
He filled his lungs and with a groan plunged after Dru.
‘That is generous, but is it wise?’ Chase asked behind her once Henry was gone.
‘Is what wise?’
‘Ordering your betrothed to go soothe another woman, especially when said woman is more than a little enamoured of him. Is this a test of his resolve? Or perhaps a test of your power?’
She picked up Dru’s frame, examined the perfect stitches and placed it carefully on her basket.
‘You are not as clever as you think, Mr Sinclair.’
‘Now, that is insulting since my own expectations are not very high. But there is one area where I compensate for my lack of intelligence with experience.’
She snorted.
‘Are you seriously intending to lecture me about your experience with women?’
‘No, with men.’
‘I see. The rumours about you are wrong then.’
She had expected to offend him, but he merely laughed.
‘Minx. You are saucier than you let on. I was speaking of my experience of, not with men. Most men, especially young, active and easy-going men like Henry, would rather avoid an emotional scene and, should they find themselves in the middle of one, they are willing to do practically anything to calm the waters. Sending someone as soft-hearted and lamb-like as Henry after a tearful young woman who even he must know by now has something of a tendre for him is a situation fraught with danger. So, if this a test, don’t be surprised if he fails.’
‘Thank you for your excellent advice, Mr Sinclair, but I find I do not require any more of your pearls of wisdom about the inferior sex.’
‘I never said women were the inferior sex.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘I stepped straight into that ditch, didn’t I?’ He laughed again, but his amusement faded as she looked away.
‘Ellie...’
‘Where is everyone?’ Lady Ermintrude demanded from the doorway. ‘It is five o’clock!’
‘I believe Drusilla found a tear in her flounce,’ Ellie replied promptly, nudging the embroidery basket under the sofa with her foot. ‘Fenella went to help her mend it.’
‘And Henry?’
The clock just began to chime the hour and Ellie cast a glance in Chase’s direction, searching for a plausible excuse. He gave a faint shrug.
‘Henry is on a chivalric mission, Aunt. Miss Walsh’s favourite shawl has gone astray somewhere between the East Wing and the yellow saloon.’
‘That is most inconsiderate of you, Miss Walsh. I will not have supper set back for such trifles. I hope you treat your possessions with more care in future.’
‘Of course, Lady Ermintrude. I am very sorry.’
She was saved by the hurried appearance of Fenella and Dru, followed by Henry. All three looked rather heated and Ellie jumped into the breach.
‘Did you find my shawl, Henry?’
Henry might not always be quick on his feet, but he had had ample training in his years of association with the Walshes and after a glance at his glowering aunt it took him only a moment to readjust.
‘Sorry, Eleanor. It’s bound to turn up somewhere, though. Good evening, Aunt.’
‘Is it? That is debatable, Henry. Now if you have all quite finished with your trivial pursuits, I would very much like to proceed to supper.’
Chapter Eight
Chase pushed away from the desk. This was the third time he’d tried to read through Huxley’s correspondence with the librarian of the British Museum and not a word was registering with his disobedient mind.
He needed air.
He pulled back the curtain, relieved to see the rain had stopped and the sky was freckled with clouds, mirroring the sheep dotting the field beyond the lawn. The sun broke free of a wispy cloud and turned the lawn to a carpet of emeralds and diamonds. Chase unlatched the wi
ndow and filled his lungs with the crisp air.
‘I need to breathe some air free of dust motes and parchment. Has Henry taken you to the Tor yet, Miss Walsh?’ he asked without turning.
‘Since I don’t even know what that is, I presume he hasn’t.’
‘Shame on him. I never knew the boy could be worked this hard. We called it the Tor, but it isn’t truly a tor like the ones in the West Country—in fact, I don’t think that term applies in Sussex. It is that craggy hill over there beyond the field. But it has a fair view over the fields to the sea on a clear day so we might be lucky if the clouds don’t close in on us again. We might even be able to spot your industrious betrothed trailing behind the land agent. If you wish to join me, put on some sturdy shoes and I will meet you by that stile in ten minutes.’
He didn’t wait for her response. If he did she would talk herself out of it. As it was he was only half-convinced she would join him and even less convinced it was a good idea. The solution to this growing tendency to stare at his cousin-to-be was to keep his distance, not take her alone into the fields.
* * *
Chase waited at the stile, wondering if Ellie would drum up the nerve to join him and wishing he hadn’t extended the invitation. His only excuse was that her all-too-frequent transitions from schoolmistress to lost little girl were wreaking havoc with his equilibrium.
If he’d had an ounce of sense, he wouldn’t have invited her.
If she had an ounce of sense, she wouldn’t come.
The surge of heat as he saw her come up the narrow path from the Manor’s modest gardens was an indication of precisely how little sense he had.
He was surely both too old and too young for such complete lapses of judgement over a woman who was not only betrothed to his cousin, but who often treated him like an amusing but occasionally annoying younger sibling.
There had to be some sound reason for this madness. Perhaps it the almost unnoticed passing of his thirtieth birthday, or the effects of watching his older brother so happily married, or...something. Because he could not remember the last time his body rushed ahead of his mind so absolutely, leaving it coughing in the dust.
