“I don’t know,” she said. She had been wondering that since Lady Fortley had given her the news about the earl’s homecoming. During the days that had followed that announcement, however, she had tried to push the anticipation of seeing Justin again from her mind. It was well enough for Andrew to idolize him, but it was quite a different story for her to do so.
Little boys needed someone to look up to. Someone worthy of their admiration. Someone brave and masculine. Suddenly Sarah’s lips tilted, her eyes still on the medicines she was restoring to their chest. It was a smile full of self-mockery as she recognized an unmistakable portrait of Justin Tolbert in the glowing list of attributes she had just devised.
Andrew had missed knowing someone like that. And she supposed considering the earl of Wynfield as his personal hero was harmless enough. If only half the reports she had heard about Justin’s military exploits were true, Sarah acknowledged, then Andrew’s heroic image of Wynfield was highly accurate.
And after all, Andrew would probably not encounter their neighbor again during the short time he would spend in the district. Neither would she, of course. Which was just as well for her peace of mind.
Despite Andrew’s hopes, the earl was not in church the following Sunday. The little boy’s spirits had been momentarily crushed by the sight of the still-empty Wynfield pew. Although Sarah had had more practice at concealing disappointment, hers was just as powerful, she admitted, if not so open as Andrew’s.
The following Monday morning, in an attempt to escape the pall of that disappointment, which had seemed to hang over her spirits all the rest of that quiet Sabbath, she determinedly undertook to complete all her accumulated errands. It was ironic that one of those would result in the very encounter she had told herself she was a fool to hope for.
She had set out very early on her rounds, starting with her father’s aged or ailing tenants and ending up midmorning with a visit on the Wynfield estate. The Randolphs, one of the earl’s crofter families, had been blessed with a new baby. Since it was their thirteenth child in less than ten years, Sarah wasn’t sure how much of a blessing they considered the infant’s arrival.
She had brought a beef roast, a large cheese, and two loaves of bread from this morning’s baking for the new mother. She would leave it up to Meg Randolph to decide if the gifts were congratulatory or condoling.
As she drove her pony trap up to the front door, the sound of hammering coming from inside the cottage disturbed the country stillness far more than the squeals of the numerous Randolph children, most of whom seemed to be playing in the yard.
Sarah was naturally curious about that unmistakable noise of industry, since she had never known Jed Randolph to drive a nail in all the years he’d lived here. Of course, since the cottage seemed in danger of tumbling in on itself during the next stiff wind, perhaps Jed had decided that if he didn’t make some repairs, no one else would. Or maybe he had been afraid that the new earl would turn him out for the shiftless lout he was.
As Sarah stepped over the threshold, invited shyly inside by the eldest daughter, her eyes rose to consider the repairs the shiftless Jed had finally undertaken. The hammerer, however, wasn’t Randolph, she realized, her breathing suspended. Nor was he any of the neighbors, although the man who was pounding long nails into a brace affixed to a broken rafter overhead was as simply dressed as any one of them might have been.
His shirt had been turned back at the cuffs, revealing supple wrists, muscular forearms and finely shaped, sun-browned hands. The garment itself, despite how casually it was worn, was made of linen and excellently cut. And, although he was wearing trousers rather than a gentleman’s pantaloons, they, too, were undeniably elegant, slim enough to delineate strong horseman’s thighs and narrow hips. They were worn over highly polished and obviously expensive, if worn, boots.
Definitely not a tenant, Sarah acknowledged, feeling her heart begin to race exactly as it had when Lady Fortley had given her warning of this on Sunday last. Wynfield’s home.
“Lady Sarah!” Meg Randolph said, her voice full of genuine pleasure. She had stuck her head through the open doorway of the cottage’s only bedroom. “You be most welcome, my lady,” she added, her eyes taking in the basket over Sarah’s arm.
At the sound of her name, Sarah glanced from that enticing view of the hammerer’s back to her hostess’s face. She smiled a greeting. Then, refusing to be denied, either by common sense or gentility, her eyes returned to the sight they had been feasting on. The earl of Wynfield, however, had already turned to face the doorway in which she was standing.
She could see him much better than he would be able to see her, she realized. The sunlight, coming from behind her, would make her little more than a silhouette. Fingering in through the open door, however, it served to illuminate his features clearly enough for her to realize how much Justin Tolbert had changed.
He was five years older, of course, but the maturity that had been etched into that handsome face went far beyond that span. His features were as darkly tanned as his hands, although it must have been some weeks since he had left the strong Iberian sun that had wrought that change. It had also lightened the chestnut hair, which, she noted in surprise, was already beginning to gray at the temples.
The small white lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes were new as well. Even the eyes themselves were changed, Sarah thought. Not in color, of course, but... Perhaps in what they had seen? she wondered. Or in what he had endured.
It had always been a very attractive face, charmingly boyish if a little unformed. There was nothing left there now of the boy she had known. The angles of the bones that underlay the weather-beaten skin were almost too harshly defined, the planes hardened by experience and deprivation. Whatever had happened to Justin Tolbert during the last five years, it had returned him home a man. Without any doubt, a man.
“Sarah?” he said, his eyes as questioning as his voice.
“Welcome home,” she said simply.
To her own ears, the phrase sounded breathless, thready with emotion. The hazel eyes did not change, apparently finding nothing extraordinary about the commonplace she’d offered.
“Thank you,” he said.
The corners of his mouth edged upward into an approximation of his once-familiar smile. And her rebellious heart, against all her strictures about how it should behave, turned over and then rose to crowd her throat.
“Time enough, I should think,” he added, his smile widening.
“Time enough?” She floundered, wondering if he could possibly realize the effect he was having on her.
He turned, however, gesturing toward his handiwork. The brace he had added had not forced the beam totally straight, but the roof would have had to be lifted off and the cracked, sagging rafter replaced for that to be accomplished. So he had done the next best thing. At least the thatch wouldn’t come tumbling in on the family with the next wind, and the rain and snow would be kept out through another winter.
“It’s a start,” he said, his eyes coming back to hers.
In his voice was an unmistakable pride in that simple accomplishment. Sarah wondered how many British earls personally repaired their tenants’ cottages, and then decided that, whatever the number, it was probably not nearly as many as it should be.
“And all I can afford,” Justin added, the white fan of lines around the corners of his eyes disappearing as he smiled again, openly mocking his predicament. “As I’m sure you’ve heard.”
She wasn’t certain how to respond to his honesty. He would know she was lying if she denied knowledge of the condition of his estate. She was, however, the last person in the world to condone gossip. She had endured more than enough about herself to consider listening to it a harmless pastime.
“I’m so sorry about Robert,” she said, instead of commenting on his financial predicament. “I know how close you two were.”
He nodded, his mouth tight. “Thank you,” he said softly.
A
nd then there seemed to be nothing else to say. In the suddenly awkward silence, Sarah heard for the first time the cries of the newborn she had come to visit.
“Have you seen the baby?” she asked. The Randolphs’ new arrival should be a safe topic, even between the two of them.
“She doesn’t care much for the hammering,” he said, smiling.
“I can imagine she might not,” Sarah agreed, returning the smile.
The encounter, after that first heart-stopping moment, was becoming far less difficult than she had feared. And less...less whatever else she had hoped for as well, she acknowledged. What had once been between the new earl of Wynfield and Lady Sarah Spenser was, at least as far as he was concerned, obviously over and done with. Justin might have been chatting with any member of the local gentry.
“How’s your father?” he asked.
She wondered if he knew the truth of her father’s condition and then decided that if he had, he would never have been unkind enough to ask that question. Almost no one inquired about the marquess of Brynmoor nowadays. Which meant that Wynfield hadn’t yet encountered someone like Lady Fortley and been treated to the district’s version of the Spenser family’s recent history.
“He’s very well,” she said. That was the truth, of course. The disease that afflicted her father had not affected his health. Or his strength. More’s the pity, she thought.
Meg Randolph bustled into the room at that moment, new babe in arms. Like all the Randolph offspring, this one was apparently topped by a fuzz of orange-red hair, which was peeking out under its white cap. She would soon acquire the matching freckles that adorned the others of Meg’s brood. Right now, however, the baby’s skin was pink and white, as delicate as porcelain. Without asking permission, Meg exchanged the baby, its cheeks still tearstained, for the basket Sarah had brought.
“We do thank you, my lady,” she said. “Lord knows we can use this.” Realizing belatedly that her comment might imply criticism of the earl, Meg shot a quick glance in his direction, searching for some sign that she’d given offense. Apparently he had taken none, Sarah realized, also looking up from the baby.
Wynfield was smiling, long-lashed hazel eyes focused benignly on the baby she held. Her own gaze fell again, considering the endearingly blank face.
“A fine baby, Mrs. Randolph,” the earl complimented. “But I don’t believe she’s had her christening gift.”
Justin slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers, flattening it to fit, and brought out a handful of small coins. Their total would amount to less than a guinea, Sarah guessed, but still, it was a nice gesture, and would make the approaching winter easier for his tenants.
Meg set Sarah’s basket on the table and retrieved her daughter. “I could mention that ain’t none of the rest of them had a christening gift from the Wynfields either,” she whispered to Sarah, “but gift horses and all that.”
She carried the baby across the room and held her out to the earl. Perhaps she had only intended to offer her daughter for his inspection, but if so, Wynfield misunderstood the gesture. He put the handful of coins on the narrow shelf above the fireplace and reached for the baby as he had seen Sarah do. Surprised, Meg made the exchange much more awkwardly than she had with Sarah. The baby began to cry as soon as the earl’s hands replaced her mother’s vastly more experienced ones.
“Don’t you be offending your betters, lass,” Meg said, patting her daughter’s shoulder as she smiled at Justin. She guided the earl’s left hand into place behind the baby’s head.
He held the infant slightly away from him, her small bottom resting securely in the palm of his big right hand, his long tanned fingers spread behind her back. In that position he could look down into her face as he gently jiggled her up and down. Surprisingly, the baby’s sobs lessened and then stopped altogether, replaced by the occasional hiccuping breath.
“She knows a handsome face when she sees one,” Meg said.
“Maybe she’s grateful the roof is fixed,” Sarah suggested softly. She could no more have pulled her gaze away from the sight of Wynfield cradling that baby than she could have given Andrew to a passing Gypsy.
“Well, I’m grateful,” Meg said. “And that’s the truth, my lord. Jed’s not very handy about the house.”
“Neither am I,” Justin admitted, smiling at her. “But I think this will hold through the winter. And as soon as I’m able, Mrs. Randolph...” He paused, his eyes making a survey of the dilapidated cottage.
“I know,” Meg said softly. “We all know you’ll be doing your best, my lord.”
There was another awkward silence, which the earl broke by moving his right palm gingerly under the baby’s bottom.
“I believe she’s damp,” he said, looking to Meg for rescue.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Meg said, laughing. “’Tis a frequent enough occurrence at her age, I assure you.”
She reached for the baby, but just before she took her from the earl, she leaned forward and placed a kiss on the fingers of the sun-browned hand that was supporting the baby’s head.
“You’re a good man, my lord,” she said softly.
Despite her attempt at a sotto voce delivery, Meg’s words carried across the room, making Sarah wonder if Justin had heard her remark about the lack of any previous christening gifts from the Wynfields. But of course, if there were criticism in that statement, it had not been directed to the current earl. Sins of the father, Sarah thought, watching a quick rush of color sweep up Justin’s Jean cheeks.
“The Wheelers’ well is fouled,” he said, instead of answering Meg’s compliment. “I’ve promised to see if I can discover why. You be sure to send me word,” he said to Meg, “the next time something goes wrong here.”
“We’ll be fine now, my lord. I wouldn’t have sent this time, but the last blowing rain we had wet the youngest ones’ pallets. And I knew that, come fall...” Meg shrugged.
“You did exactly as you should have done,” the earl said. I’m only sorry you’ve had to wait so long for these repairs.”
“Ah, well,” Meg said, shrugging again. “You was away doing your duty for king and country. Things’ll be very different, we all know that, my lord, now you’re back.” Again the silence was prolonged and a little uncomfortable.
“I’ll walk you out,” Sarah suggested, deliberately breaking it. She suspected that fouled well or not, Justin would be more than eager to escape babies and gratitude and any discussion about his plans for making changes on the bankrupt estate. Then she realized, belatedly, that he might be even more eager to escape her escort than any of those.
There was no way to rescind her invitation. So she waited for his response, her eyes held resolutely on his face. Whatever she had expected—or dreaded, perhaps—didn’t come to pass.
Justin smiled again at Meg and then limped across the room toward the outer door. His gait was uneven, throwing his tall, straight body subtly out of alignment. It seemed painfully, even terribly awkward to Sarah, especially when compared to the grace of motion she had always associated with him.
Suddenly, too vividly, Sarah remembered the night he had first asked her to dance. The London ballroom had been overcrowded, its heat stifling. Justin had been wearing his uniform, the handsome regimentals setting off the perfection of his strong body and his still-boyish face. She had thought then that there was no man more handsome in the room. She had stepped willingly into his arms, and when the music began, she had drifted, following his lead. Their steps had melded perfectly, mindlessly. They had moved together without conscious thought. As if the two of them had been created to dance together...
And they would never do that again, she realized. Her eyes lifted, but she was forced to blink to clear the unexpected blur of tears. And when she had, she found that Justin was waiting for her beside the door, his eyes on her face, which was now as clearly illuminated as his had been when she was standing in that same position.
Then he turned toward the threshol
d, indicating with his hand that she should precede him. His profile was illuminated by the sunlight. She could see that his expression, which only a moment before had been filled with pleasure as he looked down into the wide, unfocused gaze of Meg Randolph’s baby, was hard and set. A small muscle twitched beside his compressed lips.
Embarrassed by her tears, Sarah crossed the room, head down, and stepped outside, grateful for that small respite from those remarkable hazel eyes that saw far too much. She didn’t slow until she reached the pony trap, forced to wait on Justin to hand her up and give her the reins. When he had, his long brown fingers perfectly steady under the trembling pressure of hers, she looked down on his face.
“I wanted to thank you for rescuing Andrew last week. I’ve suspected for some time that he was being bullied by the older boys, but he would never tell me the truth.”
“He was giving almost as good as he got. He wasn’t crying uncle,” Justin said, smiling up at her.
Whatever she had read in his face a moment ago, when he had seen her so foolishly react to his injury, had now been cleared away, she realized. She had not been intended to see it, of course. That she had was something Justin would ignore, thereby demanding that she ignore it as well.
“I almost wish he would,” Sarah said.
“Bullies delight in cowering victims, Sarah. Andrew had the right idea. Just the wrong technique,” he said. “And a decided lack of size. Even that will probably come in time,” he added.
There was another silence. Perhaps he was waiting for some comment about Andrew’s father and what might be expected for the little boy’s growth in the future. And she could make none.
“In any case,” she said instead, “I’m very grateful for what you did. So is Andrew.”
“I would have done the same for any child. I simply reacted to the one-sided nature of the chase.”
“You didn’t know...” She hesitated. Despite the fact that the district had long ago decided on the truth of Andrew’s parentage, there seemed to be no way to ask that question.
Gayle Wilson Page 4
