“He is,” Sarah affirmed, her tone not as harsh as it might have been; none of what she felt was Sinclair’s fault.
She could do little about her expression, however; it was stony as she inclined her head. Sinclair turned and left. She watched him disappear down the corridor.
His footsteps faded, then she heard a door close. She sat unmoving for a full minute, then she lifted the blanket in her lap and reapplied herself to the patch she’d been darning.
There was no point even trying to think until her temper cooled.
He should have told her—as even Sinclair, a confirmed bachelor, understood.
An hour and a half later, Sarah strode across the lawn, then swung onto the paved paths of the rose garden. Arms wrapped around herself, she paced. Her jaw remained clenched; a sense of cold that had nothing to do with the weather had sunk to her bones.
How could she engage with him, make headway against his foolish dictate, when he continued to push her away? When he refused to engage with her even on the subjects he should engage with her on, but rather erected a barrier—a wall that increased in breadth, width, and solidity by the day—between them.
At least he’d dismissed the offer; in that, at least, he’d kept faith with her.
Yet keeping faith with her on the subject of their marriage, of their love, was what he was otherwise so adamantly not doing. Refusing to do.
Although her temper had calmed somewhat, she only just managed to suppress a frustrated scream.
She walked briskly, pointlessly, back and forth; rosebushes offering the promise of spring today provided no distraction. Today her mind wasn’t inclined to seek encouraging analogies. Today, she was engrossed in feeling cold.
In feeling unbelievably alone.
She’d grown up with four sisters, and Twitters; she’d rarely spent an hour alone. Yet now, in her new home with her husband in residence, for the first time in her life, she felt loneliness bite.
Sensed its emptiness.
Quelling a shiver, she swung around to pace back toward the house. A faint sound reached her; she looked up.
And saw Sinclair leaving via the terrace, Charlie seeing him off at the library’s French doors. Sinclair hadn’t stayed as long as he usually did. Even from this distance, she detected a certain stiffness in Charlie’s stance, in his nod as he parted from Sinclair. She couldn’t make out his expression, yet it appeared her husband was not best pleased.
Sinclair turned to follow the terrace past her sitting room and on to the stables; Charlie retreated and shut the French doors.
Sinclair strode along, then caught sight of her. Halfway along the terrace, he hesitated, glanced back at the library windows, then walked quickly down the steps and strode her way.
Surprised, she halted and waited. Like Charlie’s, Sinclair’s face was usually unreadable. His expression rarely gave any hint of his thoughts, let alone his feelings, yet she was growing used to dealing with Charlie; she was growing more adept at looking elsewhere for clues.
By the time Sinclair joined her, she was puzzled. He appeared to be bridling an intense irritation. “Lady Meredith. I wanted to inform you that, after my earlier gaffe, I felt compelled to mention my indiscretion to his lordship.”
She raised her brows. She hadn’t expected that.
“While he seemed entirely unconcerned that I’d told you, I…” Sinclair paused, then drew in a breath; his lips thinned even more. “In short, his attitude over his lack of consideration in not having informed you of the offer for the orphanage fell far short of my expectations.”
Abruptly, Sinclair focused on her face. His sharp hazel eyes searched hers; Sarah struggled to place the emotion coloring his eyes, his voice…and was amazed to realize it was concern.
Apparently perfectly genuine concern.
“I realize, my dear, that I have no experience in such matters. I’ve lived my life almost entirely alone.” His tone had softened, but his grim dissatisfaction remained. “I don’t wish to pry, but I can see—appreciate—that matters are a trifle strained between you and…Charlie. Perhaps that’s a normal thing, so soon after your wedding—as to that, I don’t know. Nevertheless, I wish to most sincerely apologize if I have in any way contributed to that strain. Such was not my intention.”
She held his gaze, savored the sincerity in his words, then inclined her head. “Thank you.” She hesitated, then looked past his shoulder at the house. “I…it would be inappropriate to say more, but I most sincerely appreciate your understanding.”
Neither moved; a moment passed, then he said, his tone quieter, more gentle, “He…is a lot like me. In many ways, he strikes me very much as a younger version of myself, with his fascination for finance and investments.”
She glanced at him; he was looking at the library. His lips quirked ruefully. “As I mentioned, I’ve lived all my life alone. Enough to hope, for his sake, that he…comes to his senses.” He looked back and met her eyes. “And realizes what he has in you.”
She was astonished that he had commented on such a personal subject, let alone managed to do so while remaining within the bounds of polite conversation.
Before she could gather her wits to respond, he bowed. “Good-bye, my dear countess. I wish you better tidings. Until next we meet.”
With that, he was gone, striding away across the lawn. Reaching the terrace, he climbed the steps, then headed toward the stables.
Feeling oddly comforted, Sarah wrapped her arms once more about her; turning away from the house, she paced deeper into the garden.
Buoyed by Sinclair’s unexpected championing, she considered going in and bearding Charlie…but if she’d read Sinclair’s disapprobation, Charlie would have, too. His stiffness in farewelling Sinclair suggested he would be in no good mood over that point or, indeed, any point to do with her.
Eyes fixed unseeing on the path, she grimaced. Sinclair might have meant well, but Charlie was Charlie—masculine, arrogant, and likely to turn as inflexible as iron if pushed. It was highly unlikely that prodding him at the moment would advance her cause.
The burden of loneliness that Sinclair’s advent and his unexpected support had lightened slowly sank back onto her shoulders, weighing her down. A shiver too sharp to suppress had her turning around; loneliness wrapping ever tighter about her, she walked back to the house.
She returned via the terrace to her sitting room. She’d just closed the French doors on the dying day when Crisp appeared bearing a taper to light the candles and dispel the gathering gloom.
He also carried his salver, which he proferred. “A note, my lady.”
She lifted the plain folded sheet. “Thank you, Crisp.” She opened it and scanned the lines within, and frowned.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?”
Crisp’s question brought her back to herself. She looked at him. “No…that is, I’m not sure.” She glanced again at the note. “Mrs. Carter at the orphanage writes that there was a strange disturbance last night, but she doesn’t say what.” She contemplated the note, then forced a quick smile. “What ever it is, I’ll learn the details when I go there tomorrow, and as Mrs. Carter hasn’t requested any help, I suspect this is purely to keep me informed.”
“No doubt, ma’am. As is proper.”
It took an instant or two for Crisp’s last sentence to penetrate her distraction. She glanced at him, but with his usual butlerish mien in place, he was circling the room, lighting the candles she’d placed here and there; she couldn’t catch his eye.
He bent to light the lamp on the side table; once he’d adjusted the wick so that it was burning steadily, he turned to her and bowed. Then he straightened and spoke to a spot above her head. “Mrs. Figgs and I…well, we realize that as matters fell out we did not have occasion to receive you in the manner in which a new countess is traditionally welcomed to the Park. And indeed, introducing you to the staff would have been redundant as you were already acquainted with us all. However”—Crisp drew himself up to his
full imposing height—“Mrs. Figgs, I, and all the staff wish to assure you of our fondest welcome and our hopes to serve you faithfully for many years to come.”
Sarah had to blink back tears. “Thank you, Crisp.” Her voice soft, she added, “Please assure Mrs. Figgs and the staff that I appreciate their wishes and their willingness to serve me.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Crisp bowed deeply, then turned on his heel and left her.
Sarah dragged in a huge breath, then dropped onto the chaise. A second unexpected declaration of support. She thought back; Crisp had been shooting concerned glances her way for a few days. Figgs, too. They must have detected…how had Sinclair put it? Ah, yes, that matters were a trifle strained between her and Charlie.
She should have guessed that the staff would notice, yet it seemed they, too, had declared for her. That they, too, appreciated what she was offering Charlie, the promise and the power of it.
It seemed the only one who didn’t appreciate that was Charlie.
Her impulse was to take the bull by the horns, but she knew him too well; wisdom insisted no good would be served—not now, not this evening.
Her fingers clenched; the rustle of paper drew her gaze to the note from Katy. It was puzzling, and worrying, but Katy was an experienced and competent woman; if she’d needed help to night she would have asked.
Tomorrow was Monday; as usual Sarah would ride to the orphanage. She planned to spend the entire day there.
Better than spending her entire day here. Alone.
The clock struck the hour. She looked up at it, then stirred. Rising, she walked to the escritoire. She’d fallen into the habit of leaving the lid down; this was her room, after all. Folding the note, she placed it in the pigeonhole reserved for orphanage business. She glanced once more around the room, then with a sigh, headed upstairs. A long soak in a hot bath could only help.
Her aunt Edith’s diary was gone.
Later that evening Sarah stood before the open escritoire and stared at the empty vertical gap where the diary had been. After a largely silent dinner, as had become their habit she and Charlie had retired to her sitting room. Charlie had settled in the armchair by the hearth and become absorbed in some text on engineering; tired of the incessant mending and seeking comfort, she’d decided reading more of her aunt’s observations might divert or even help her. But nothing what ever reposed in the rack where the diary had been. She scanned the various spaces in the escritoire, but no glimmer of silver plate winked from anywhere within it.
“But…” Frowning, she ran her fingertips down the edge of the empty rack. “I know I left it there.”
She’d put it there the day she’d moved her things into this room, and hadn’t retrieved it since. “Where on earth could it have gone?”
And how? Perhaps the maids had moved it. She set about ransacking the escritoire’s lower drawers; finding nothing there, she glanced around, then moved to the side table nearby. The drawer in that contained candles and tapers, but no diary.
She continued around the room, searching high and low, anywhere the diary might have been put. Increasingly frantic, trying to deny the growing conviction that the diary was no longer there to be found, that it had been stolen. Over the last week she’d frequently left the terrace doors propped wide. But this was an earl’s private estate, and the house was a long way from any boundary.
Disturbed by her efforts, Charlie glanced up. She felt his gaze on her, but didn’t turn to meet it. Although she was sure her agitation was showing, she noticed he hesitated, that he actually debated whether or not to speak before asking, “What is it?”
Facing away from him, she pressed her lips tightly together for a second—to suppress the words soaring temper set on her tongue—then evenly stated, “My aunt Edith’s diary. I left it in the escritoire, but now it’s gone.” Something close to despair colored her tone.
She suddenly wanted to be held, to be hugged and told everthing would be all right. She sensed Charlie tense as if to stand and come to her, but then he hesitated; when she glanced his way, she saw him resettling the book on his knee.
“No doubt you’ve misplaced it.” The words were cool, dismissive—distant. He didn’t bother glancing at her but refixed his gaze on his text.
For a moment, Sarah stared at him, stunned by the emotional slap.
Then she drew in a deep breath, clenched her jaw, and turned away. I didn’t! she screamed at him in her mind, but refused to let her fury loose—refused to weaken herself by so doing. Not yet.
Clinging to the more important issue, sensing again that inner conviction that the diary truly was gone, that it had by what ever means vanished, she drew another deep breath and, with awful calm, entirely ignoring Charlie, crossed to the bellpull that hung beside the mantelpiece.
She tugged, then, clasping her hands before her, waited.
Crisp answered her summons, bearing the tray with the silver teapot and delicate china cups. Seeing her standing, he quickly set the tray down on the side table by the chaise. “Yes, ma’am?”
Head high, Sarah met his eyes. “I left my late aunt’s diary in the escritoire, Crisp, but it’s no longer there.”
Crisp glanced at the escritoire, a frown forming. “The silver-plated one, ma’am? Mandy, the maid who dusts in here, did mention it.”
“Indeed, it’s an unusual design, probably unique.” Sarah paused, then, fingers twisting as she struggled to hold down her welling emotions, said, “I was very fond of my late aunt, and therefore value the diary highly—it was a keepsake. Could you please ask the staff if they’ve seen it elsewhere in the house?”
Crisp’s gaze had traveled to the French doors, then to Charlie, eyes on his book, apparently totally disinterested. When Crisp’s eyes returned to her face, his sympathy was clear. “Of course, ma’am. We’ll search for it. And I’ll check with Mandy when she saw the book last. I believe she dusted in here the day before yesterday.”
His decisive response brought some relief; at least she’d soon know if by some chance the diary had been moved. She inclined her head. “Thank you, Crisp. Please let me know what Mandy says, if she remembers if it was there.”
“Indeed, ma’am.” With another swift glance at Charlie, eyes on his book, unmoved and unmoving, Crisp bowed and departed.
Sarah’s gaze fell on the teapot. After a moment, without looking at Charlie, she moved to the side table and poured herself a cup. Charlie didn’t drink tea at this hour if he could help it; lifting her cup and saucer from the tray, she carefully sat, sipped, then gave her attention to the basket full of linens.
On impulse, she turned the basket out and searched through the blankets, sheets, and towels, but there was no silver-plated book buried among the folds.
Later that night, Sarah blew out the candle by her side of their bed; burrowing down into the soft mattress, she pulled the covers up over her shoulder—and tried to relax. Tried to compose her mind for sleep, but with so much hurt and anger roiling inside her, she knew it would be hours before she achieved any degree of calm.
Charlie. What was she going to do about him? She hadn’t missed his instinctive response to her distress, any more than she’d missed his deliberate suppression of same. Yes, he loved her, but he was refusing—refusing!—to let his love show.
She might have been able to brush his behavior aside, to ignore it as just another example of what she knew his dogged direction to be, as nothing more than she might have expected given that he’d yet to surrender and cease his senseless denial of his love, except that it was Edith’s diary she’d lost.
She felt the loss keenly, like a wound in her heart. Edith had been far more than just an aunt; she’d been someone very special, someone who’d understood, who had taught her so much, who had shared her wisdom and her counsel. It was Edith who had educated her mind and opened her eyes to life—and so to love.
Her distracted mind tripped over that point. If it hadn’t been for Edith and her insights, would she have marr
ied Charlie? Or would she years before have followed her older sisters’ and mother’s path and settled for a simple, undemanding union?
Her lips twisted at the irony.
Outside, the wind howled, a ravenous creature bent, it seemed, on rattling the sashes. Denied, it turned its fury on the massive trees, cruelly raking, cracking branches one against the other.
Sarah shivered, snuggled deeper under the covers and closed her eyes. And tried not to think of the ache in her chest. Just like the weather, life had turned unexpectedly cruel.
She told herself it wouldn’t last, that it would blow over and she’d see sunshine again. But with her heart already bruised, and now aching more deeply from the unexpected blow of the diary’s loss, when she heard the door open and Charlie’s footsteps cross the room, she lay still, feigning sleep.
Ten minutes later the bed bowed at her back and he joined her beneath the covers. She kept her limbs relaxed, kept her breathing slow and even—and battled to wrestle down the anger that rose, unbidden, to swamp her.
If he reached for her, if he touched her…she might very well hit him.
Instead, propped on one arm, he watched her; she could feel the weight of his gaze even through the covers. The silence stretched, punctuated by the slow heavy tick of the clock on the mantel.
Then he shifted, and turned away. He slumped on his back; she thought she heard him sigh. Then his breathing slowed, became more even; she felt sure he’d fallen asleep.
With a mental sniff, she vowed to do the same.
Charlie lay on his back and stared up at the dark canopy, and wondered what on earth to do. He knew she wasn’t asleep, but with matters between them like this—with cold stony silence enveloping the bed—he felt powerless to change things. Unable to act, uncertain what to do.
Helpless.
He wanted to comfort her. But he no longer knew how.
Or, perhaps, was no longer certain he had the right.
The Taste of Innocence Page 28
