Adam merely nodded. He knew that it was all an act, For one thing, the landscape where Sir Toby lived, only thirty miles off, was different from the lands around Lawley Hall in almost no way at all. Sir Toby was only trying to anger him, only trying to provoke a reaction, and he was determined not to give it.
He responded to Sir Toby’s observations only in disinterested grunts and was doing an admirable job of pretending that he was somewhere else until they rounded a bend in the road and saw two women walking down it, carrying heavy burdens, struggling under the weight of some great sacks.
They were both dressed for hard labour but were too far off to see their faces. However, Adam was certain that the older and shorter of the two was Mrs. Warwick — he could recognize her from her bearing.
“Oh, hello,” Sir Toby said, his eyes alighting on the figures in the lane. “Here is some sport. A local crone and her daughter, is it?”
“A respected woman in these parts,” Adam said coolly in response. It was true. Even those who would generally behave with roughness and disrespect would always remove their caps respectfully at the sight of Mrs. Warwick. It would be difficult to say whether this respect rose primarily from fear — very likely it did. Nonetheless, it had always served the old woman well.
“Respected but not respectable, no doubt,” Sir Toby said, urging his horse a little faster so that they might gain on the two figures in the lane. “I cannot imagine that a woman like that is part of any good society.”
Adam said nothing. He was looking at the other figure, who he could tell from her form and her bearing to be younger than Mrs. Warwick, though the particulars of her person were concealed by a large and heavy shawl.
Perhaps it was a local maid. There was no particular reason why Adam ought to have seen her before, and yet even from a distance he was sure there was something in her manner that he recognized.
He was certain that she was familiar, yet he could not say where he had seen her before, and she was too far away to make out her countenance.
“Well, why should we not greet them?” Sir Toby asked tauntingly. He urged his horse into a canter, riding alongside the two women in a mess of muddy puddles and flowing rainwater.
As well might happen, the dirty water splattered everywhere, and even from a distance, Adam could hear the two women exclaiming at the sudden sensation of being doused in icy water.
“Toby!” he shouted out in fury, enraged at the sight. He could not see his cousin’s face, but he could well imagine the look of complacent cruelty that currently occupied it.
He wanted to hasten after his cousin and chastise him roundly for his behavior, but he had no wish to inadvertently repeat the offense. He rode up as quickly as he could, carefully avoiding the many puddles and making haste to lift his top hat to the two women and greet them with a courteous, ‘Good morning’.
He scarcely wished to look them in the eye, so ashamed was he of his companion’s behavior.
But when he did look down, when he made eye contact with the two women, he actually gasped aloud.
There, swaddled in a thick shawl and cap, and looking much like any serving maid, was Miss Miller.
The first thing that struck him — the first thing that always struck him, even in a situation such as this — was her beauty. The chill of the day had brought the roses to her cheeks, and there was something in her lovely complexion that had taken on an extra brightness and clarity.
She looked quite different than the way she had the last time he had seen her. More tired, perhaps, but somehow more alive too - seemingly unconcerned by what others might think of her, walking freely. Her eyes, which he had not thought could possibly get any brighter, shone like a pair of polished jets.
However, at the present moment, another look occupied her face — one of distress and anger at the humiliation that his cousin had just inflicted upon her.
Mrs. Warwick was looking up at him too, with a look of calm assessment. What are you going to do? Her face seemed to say.
“Ladies,” he said, almost choking out the word in his horror and distress, “Ladies, I am more sorry at my companion’s behavior than I can possibly express.”
Sir Toby had halted his horse a little way off and was sitting astride his mount, looking at the three of them with such an expression of amused contempt that Adam’s very blood began to boil.
“Come now, cousin,” Sir Toby called out. “Do not distress yourself. I’m sure they’re very good sorts of women, but no doubt they’re more than used to a bit of dirt.”
His eyes came to rest on Charity.
“My apologies, lovely maiden,” he said, sweeping off his hat in an exaggerated gesture and smiling lasciviously at her. “I should never have splashed you if I had known that you were such a pretty wench. Kindly take me to your abode, and I shall do everything in my power to make amends to you.”
The suggestion dripping from his voice made his vile, bawdy meaning abundantly clear.
Adam was not entirely conscious of what he did next. He did not precisely mean to dismount his own horse, nor did he recall making the decision to stride up to Sir Toby’s with such menace that the creature shied away forcefully, almost unseating its rider.
He did not precisely know what he was doing when he seized Sir Toby by the ankle. Given that he had already been forced out of the saddle by the sudden motion of his mount, it did not take a great deal of exertion to bring Sir Toby tumbling to the ground.
He lay in the mud, his white breeches quite covered in filth, his hat askew. He blinked up stupidly at Adam as if he had no idea what had just happened.
“I say, my good fellow,” he said, in a strangely mild response. “It was only a bit of amusement. I am quite sure that the little strumpet does not mind in the least. These country girls have quite the sense of humor, and I am quite sure that she has heard much worse from plenty of men.”
It was at this point that Adam struck his cousin.
The first blow clearly left him dazed. His nose began to bleed profusely, the abrupt scarlet of it blending with the mud that covered his countenance.
For a split second the two of them regarded each other, and then Sir Toby was on his feet.
“Is that how it is going to be, cousin?” he taunted. “You will lie down and allow me to take every scrap of your inheritance without so much as a word, but you will risk your reputation in public to defend the honor of some little wench? What fascinating priorities you have. Perhaps your father was entirely right about you. You seem to behave with all the recklessness of a madman.”
The mention of his father inflamed Adam afresh, and the second blow seemed to come out of nowhere.
In a sense, perhaps it was better that he should strike Sir Toby while the two of them were both on their feet. It had been unmanly of him to raise his fist to his cousin while he was still lying dazedly in the mud.
Still, there was plenty of time to redress the injustice now.
The second punch forced Sir Toby to take several steps back, and after the force of the impact had cleared away, his face twisted into a hideous expression, and he launched himself bodily toward Adam.
Adam was able to defend himself against the random blows of his uncoordinated cousin with relative ease, but the very sight of it was absurd to him.
“Stop this at once!”
The familiar voice rang out, catching Adam off-guard and off-balance. He whirled around to see Miss Miller regarding him with a look of such fierce disdain that he felt quite ashamed of himself.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked. Her hands were placed on her hips in the manner of a fishwife, but her tone was as refined and imperious as any he had heard her used before. Adam found her very beautiful at that moment, and not a little intimidating.
“He insulted you,” Adam said.
“As well he might,” Miss Miller replied. The disdain in her voice grew even stronger - Adam had hardly thought that such a feat was possible, but the evidence of it was
in his very ears. “A foolish dolt like that may do whatever he wishes, and it is a far greater reflection on his own character than it should ever be on mine.”
Adam nodded in supplication. The moral authority in her voice made him feel ashamed.
“What I am asking you, however,” Miss Miller continued, “is why you have chosen to brawl in the lane in this unseemly fashion. Do you think that because your father wishes to strip you of your title that you are no longer obliged to behave in a manner befitting a gentleman? Are your manners and principles so easily discarded?”
“No indeed,” Adam replied. He took a step toward Miss Miller. “I was overcome by anger, it is true, but you have made me see that my behavior was unbecoming.”
“If you wish to duel me, then duel me, Harding,” Sir Toby called out from somewhere on the ground behind him. “I am more than equal to the prospect. Indeed I should relish it.”
Adam could only do his best to avoid rolling his eyes in disdain. It seemed remarkable to him that the fact his cousin was lying in a puddle of mud, tinged with his own blood, was not sufficient to discourage him.
Chapter 32
The three of them trudged to Mrs. Warwick’s cottage in silence. Sir Toby had disappeared over the horizon in a disorderly jumble of muddy clothing and bloodied skin.
Mrs. Warwick quietly supplied Mr. Harding with a bucket of cold water to wash himself, and a poultice of herbs to apply to the bruise now beginning to form on his cheekbone.
After performing these offices, she left the room with a discretion that one could only marvel at, leaving Charity and Mr. Harding seated in silence on opposite sides of the battered kitchen table.
For a long while, neither spoke, but eventually it was Mr. Harding who breached the silence.
“Will you tell me why you are here instead of at your father’s house, and why you are dressed the way you are?”
“I turned down a marriage proposal that my father considered to be advantageous,” Charity replied flatly. She felt he did not need to know any information beyond the one comment, and even if she did, it would not have meant that she was inclined to give him more.
She could see something leap behind Mr. Harding’s eyes at her words, and remembered that unfortunate encounter that she had had with Mr. Harding and Mr. Edwards. Clearly, that was why he had stayed away from her for so long.
“And why are you here?” Mr. Harding persisted.
“I do not have anywhere else to go,” Charity said, aware of how hollow her voice sounded and how very distant. “I do not believe that I am welcome in my father’s house.”
She did not intend to say the words; she did not like the way that it must have made her seem so weak. But they simply slipped out of her, as the very sight of Mr. Harding had opened up a part of herself that she had dammed off so carefully.
She could not help but speak the truth to him; if only he felt the same toward her.
She decided that she might as well make further use of her inclination on this day to speak with perfect plainness.
It was as if the spirit of honesty that existed in the grove was recreated between them, but instead of being a spirit of playfulness, there was now a great feeling of tension, even anger between them. Charity felt that she had grown a great deal older just in that short space of time since they had first met.
“Was Mary Warwick your mistress?” she asked.
She did not think that in all her twenty years she had ever expressed herself so plainly, and with so much latent rage contained within her voice. All her life she had forced herself to be calm, quiet, obliging. Well, no more. She would have her answer, and she did not care if she had to destroy the image of herself as a delicate young lady in order to obtain it.
Mr. Harding’s face paled, though she knew not whether it was an alarm that his secret was out, or horror at being accused of such an outlandish deed.
“No… no…” he said, shaking his head and brushed aside the idea, as he could not even bear to engage with it. But Charity was having none of this, no casual denial.
“Look me in the eye,” she commanded, her voice steady. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you had nothing to do with their deaths, that Mary Warwick was not your lover and her child your natural son.”
“Miss Miller,” Mr. Harding said. He raised his eyes to look at her, and she saw a fire there, the likes of which she had not seen in him before, a fire which captivated her, whereas before she had been merely intrigued.
“Miss Miller, I know that we do not know each other well. Certainly, we know each other a thousand times less well than I should like, and would hope to one day know you. But I believe that you have seen enough of my character to know that I am not capable of the things which you have just accused me of. I do not think that I need to answer what you say, because I am certain that the answer lies in your own heart.”
Charity drew in a breath. She felt the air was escaping her and she had no way of catching it. She knew not what to say, what to think, but before she was forced to formulate a further response, Mr. Harding continued.
“Nonetheless, I have too great a respect for you to refuse to answer what you have asked me. The answer is simply this — no. The answer is that Mary was never my mistress, nor was Freddie my son. Nor most significantly of all, did I play even the slightest part in their terrible and tragic deaths.”
At these words, a shadow passed over his face.
“I will own that they were both, in their ways, very dear to me. Far dearer than I knew myself until very recently. But I cannot tell you what relation they were to me, not without sharing a secret that is not my own to share. Therefore I must ask that you have faith in me, even though I know that is a very great thing to ask when I have not had the honor of an opportunity to prove myself to you.”
“A secret,” Charity said flatly, echoing the word that had fallen from his lips and struck her hard. “Are there to be still more secrets between us?”
“Just one, Miss Miller, and I hope that you will see it as a reflection of my honor that I do not share with others that which is not mine to share,” Mr. Harding said earnestly.
Charity hesitated. What he said was true enough, she could not hold it against him that he took the honor of others seriously, and intended to safeguard it wherever he could.
“I want to believe you,” she said slowly, “but there is a part of me that is fearful.”
“Why should you feel any fear?” He leaned forward to capture her gaze with his own.
That question made Charity stop short to consider. The fact that she was afraid had seemed like such an article of faith to her for so long that she barely knew what the cause of her fear was anymore.
“I suppose,” she whispered, “I have nothing to fear at all, for everything that I had feared has already come to pass.
“I feared that I would be left, bereft and without friends, and thanks to the machinations of my father, that has already happened. I feared that I would be left without you, and that has already happened. Truly, Mr. Harding, what else is there for me left to fear?”
“You tell me,” he replied. “My gift of perception cannot rival yours, and therefore I wish to know your account of this situation, rather than presenting you with mine.”
Charity paused for a while. She had played a great many card games in her time — such was the lot of a country parson’s daughter. She was a shrewd player, and usually, she knew better than to show her hand.
But today there was an impulse in her, one that she did not understand and could not account for, that commanded her to lay her heart on the table for Mr. Harding to inspect, although she knew not what the consequences of such a move might be for either of them.
“We do not know each other.” Her voice was shaking. “It is true that you have told yourself a tale about me, and I must admit that I have likewise nurtured certain fancies about you. But it is not based on anything, Mr. Harding. It is not anything real.”
She l
ooked up. She could see that her words had harmed him, yet he did not look in any way dissuaded. When he spoke, it was with a good measure of firmness and resolve.
“You are too unkind, to yourself and to me,” Mr. Harding said softly. “It is true that we are not as intimate at present as I hope that we shall someday grow to be. But it is also true that when I met you in the grove, I saw in you a kindred spirit, the likes of which I have never met before, neither at home nor in all my travels.”
He reached out and took her hand. It was such a natural gesture that neither of them so much as questioned it. They sat there together, their hands joined where they rested on Mrs. Warwick’s battered old kitchen table.
“I looked into your eyes and found my equal in them,” Mr. Harding said. “Perhaps I was too forward, too hasty, in undertaking to accelerate the attachment. Its beginnings were unorthodox, and in such a setting one has very little idea of how to proceed in a seemly fashion.
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