He was astonished how her words pleased him. Compliments he received usually had to do with how smoothly he solved problems for others on the estate. He could not recall the last time someone had praised him for something personal.
Because you never share personal things, chided a small voice within him. You have become so anxious not to reveal your work with Gwendolyn you cannot speak of anything in your heart.
He could not argue with that voice.
“Look, Arthur!” Bertie tugged on his greatcoat. “Ship!”
Shielding his eyes, Arthur saw sails close to the horizon. He picked up the boy so he could see more easily past the rocks at the edge of the hill.
“Cap’s?” asked the twin he was sure was Lulu.
Miss Oliver confirmed his guess when she smiled and said, “Lulu, be patient. One of these days, Cap will come back to Porthlowen.”
“Soon?”
“Very soon.”
The child’s disappointment was clear on her face. Arthur felt compelled to comfort her, but he had no idea how. Later, he must speak with Miss Oliver about the best ways to offer solace to an unhappy child.
He realized he was getting his first lesson when Miss Oliver knelt and drew some items out from under the cloth tucked into the top of her basket. As she placed them on the ground in front of the children, who crowded around to see, she kept her hands on slender sticks and fabric so the breeze did not send them skittering away.
The children asked questions as Miss Oliver added a spindle of twine to the pile, but Arthur knew what she was planning. He watched as her nimble fingers put the pieces together. When she was finished, she held up a kite. In abrupt silence, the children stared at it, giving her a chance to explain what it was and what it could do.
She rose gracefully. “Shall we try to get our kite to fly?”
The children cheered in excitement and begged to be first.
Seeing the indecision on her face, because she did not want to choose one child over the others, Arthur admired anew how careful she was to keep the tots happy and show them they were loved.
He reached for the kite. “Let’s go!”
“I think not.” Miss Oliver put her arm in front of him. “Mr. Hockbridge would not be pleased to see you running about.”
“I assure you I am fine.” He held out his hand in a silent command for her to give the toy to him. When she did not move, he said, “If you don’t mind, Miss Oliver…”
“But I do. I shan’t have you harm yourself again because you refuse to see sense.”
“Quite the contrary. I do not intend to chance injuring my leg anew.” He held out his hand. “The kite, if you please, Miss Oliver.”
For a long moment, he thought she would not give it to him; then, without a word, she held it out.
“Thank you,” he said, as he took it and looked at the children. “First we run.” At an easy trot that spared his ankle, he held up the kite. The wind caught it immediately, and it soared up into the sky.
“Look! Arthur flies kite!” shouted Bertie.
Arthur chuckled, amused by how the little boy treated him with respect, yet acted as if Arthur were his big brother. When had he last come outside to enjoy the day and do something as frivolous as flying a kite? Regret battered his heart when he realized he could not answer the question. It had been far too long since he had done anything but his duty.
Squeals of delight filled the afternoon. The children danced around, clapping while the kite dipped and rose on the breeze. Arthur gave each one a chance to hold on to the string with him. He had them stand in front of him while he held the twine with one hand and the child with the other. He laughed along with their giggles.
“Shall we give Miss Oliver a turn?” he asked, then corrected himself. “Shall Maris have a turn?”
Color rose on Miss Oliver’s cheeks as he spoke her given name, but she shook her head. “I am happy to watch.”
“Nonsense.” He refused to let her stand aside and not be part of the fun. Drawing the kite with him, he walked to where she stood.
“Very well,” she said, and he suspected she was eager to hold the kite’s string, too.
“Are you ready?”
She laughed and reached for the taut string. “I think I am as ready as I ever shall be.”
Instead of handing it to her, he raised his arms and brought them down on either side of her, so they both could hold the kite. Just as he had with the children.
But her reaction was completely different. She ducked under his arm and backed away, then looked at him, aghast. Her eyes were wide and her face ashen. Her fingers gripping her cloak shook so hard he could see that from more than an arm’s length away.
“What is wrong?” he asked, confused.
“I must— That is, we must— The children…” She moved away and gathered the youngsters, telling them it was time to leave. They protested as she herded them ahead of her down the path toward the cart.
Arthur collected the basket and drew in the kite. That slowed him so much that Miss Oliver had finished placing the children in the cart by the time he was halfway down the hill. It was even tougher on his ankle to descend than to climb.
“Miss Oliver?” he called.
He would have thought she did not hear him, except she glanced in his direction as she climbed onto the front seat and picked up the reins. When she raised them to give the command for the horse to go, the children started yelling.
He could not hear their words, but they pointed at his horse tied to the back. She stopped the cart and got out. Untying his mount, she waited until he reached the bottom of the slope. Then she handed him the reins without meeting his gaze.
“Miss Oliver—”
“If you will excuse us, my lord, it is time for the children to return to the house.” She added nothing more as she hurried to the cart and climbed up.
She drove past him. The children waved to him, but she did not look back.
With a halfhearted wave to the youngsters, Arthur remained where he was. What good would it do to give chase and ask her why she had abruptly changed right in front of his eyes? Her laughter had become fright, but what had scared her?
Chapter Six
“My lord, this arrived for you.” No hint of emotion colored Goodwin’s voice.
Even so, Arthur whirled in his desk chair and stood. A hot sting ran along his leg from his ankle to his knee. He needed to take care, even after more than a week, not to jostle his leg or move it quickly.
Could it be a message at last from Gwendolyn?
The past week had been interminable. Not because he waited for Gwendolyn’s answer. Not because he had no chance to seek information about Cranny’s murder. In fact, Arthur had given far too little thought to his courier duties or his friend since the kite-flying outing. His thoughts were focused on why Miss Oliver had sped away with the children.
Getting an answer from her had proved as impossible as accepting that he had overdone it and set his recovery back. He had seen Miss Oliver on occasion in the house. The closest he had been to her was when she sat in the pew opposite his at church on Sunday. Every time he had aimed a surreptitious glance in her direction, she looked elsewhere. She had participated in the service, but he saw none of the heartfelt enthusiasm she showed with the children. That startled him, and he wondered why she seemed to draw into herself rather than reach out to the community under the church’s roof.
Not that he had a chance to ask, even if he could have found a way to do so without overstepping the bounds of polite behavior. He was sure he had caught sight of her turning and walking in a different direction when their paths were about to intersect. He made excuses to himself and others not to go to the nursery. Even when his sister mentioned young Bertie thought his friend had abandoned him, Arthur could not bring himself to visit.
If he did, he would have to make conversation with Miss Oliver. How could he when the first words he needed to speak were Why do you cringe when I am near? Sh
e did not act that way with anyone else in the house. That she had been hurt by another man was the only possible explanation for her bizarre behavior.
Who was the cur? Neither Baricoat nor Mrs. Hitchens would allow such behavior in the great house.
What bothered Arthur even more than Miss Oliver not telling him why she had reacted as she did was that she feared he would treat her the same way. He could not reassure her he would never treat a woman so. Not when even bringing up the subject was impossible.
Now Goodwin had brought a missive from Gwendolyn. Arthur must turn his attention to his duties as a courier. Never before had that been so difficult.
He had done nothing with the letter she had sent last week. The instructions—assuming they were instructions—had been such a garbled muddle he had not risked leaving the enclosed page at one of the designated drop-off points. It invited disaster to leave any message in one place for long. Someone other than the next link in the courier chain might find it, and valuable information could be lost.
So he had waited, gladly spending time with Miss Oliver and the children. The reality of his obligations returned when he saw the black wax Gwendolyn used to seal her letters on the folded sheet his valet held. Though tempted to order Goodwin to take the letter away so Arthur was not drawn into the subterfuge anew, he took the page and waited until his man left the room before he broke the wax seal.
A quick scan of the contents sent waves of relief and tension through him. Relief that, even on first glance, he could see Gwendolyn had resumed using their familiar code. Tension because he had no doubts the contents must be sent onward without delay.
First, he needed to read the page folded around the message he had to convey to the next courier. Arthur never broke the seal on the inner sheet, though curiosity teased him to peek. The inner page was written in a different code that would be deciphered by the final recipient. A necessary precaution, because the information could mean the difference between life and death for the king’s men who fought Napoleon’s forces.
Arthur carried the letter to his desk. As he did each time, he placed the page he would not read under a porcelain box of blotting sand. There, it would be safe while he decoded the page with his instructions.
More than two hours later, Arthur leaned away from his desk and rubbed his eyes. The message was straightforward. As soon as he possibly could, he must pass along both sealed pages from the last two letters Gwendolyn had sent. They must be placed in his primary location so the next courier could continue the messages on toward London. The spot was a small opening between two stones in the ancient foundation of a circular structure on the moor.
Usually he took messages when visiting one of the tenant farms. Once he was far enough out onto the moor that nobody would see where he was bound, he sped to what his father believed was an original Celtic settlement.
Arthur’s stomach growled, and he realized he had missed the midday meal. He rose, kneading his lower back. When he saw a plate of cold meats and cheese set on a table near one of the windows, he smiled. He was fortunate Goodwin kept track of time.
He ate as he returned to his desk to check one last time the information Gwendolyn had sent. He must code his own instructions to the next courier. It was far too simple to make a mistake, and Arthur did not want to delay the messages any longer.
Gwendolyn had been perfect in her use of the code until the previous communication. When they were younger, he would have looked forward to the opportunity to tease her about it. She would have known he was jesting and mocked him back. But the next time he saw her, he must be serious and ask her to be his wife. Every day, as the date for the hunt gathering grew nearer, the idea of marrying Gwendolyn became more bizarre.
Arthur could not let himself be distracted while he prepared his coded message. Sitting, he went to work, glad to clear his mind of anything but his task. It took him less than an hour to finish the note for the next courier. After the ink dried, he folded the page around the two unopened messages. He reached for the green wax Gwendolyn had given him to use. He could not use his regular seal. That would identify him as a member of the earl’s family.
“Arthur?”
He recognized the hesitant voice. Looking over his shoulder at the door, which was ajar enough to let a small child peek around it, he said, “Bertie, come in and tell me what you are doing away from the nursery this time.”
The little boy skipped across the room, grinning. Without waiting for permission, he climbed into an upholstered chair. He sat, his short legs not reaching the edge of the seat cushion.
“Come to see Arthur the bear.”
“Does Maris know you are here?”
Bertie’s smile fell away. “No.”
“She will be worried, won’t she?”
“Guess so.” The answer was reluctant.
Putting the pages from Gwendolyn under his coat, Arthur stood and held out his hand. “We need to let her know where you are.”
“Then go out?”
“That is for Maris to decide.”
“We go? You tell Maris we go?”
Arthur fought not to smile at the little boy’s attempt to get him on his side. He was pleased Bertie wanted to spend time with him; yet the child was in Miss Oliver’s care.
“We must wait and see what she says.”
Bertie sighed, his small shoulders rising and falling.
“It cannot be bad in the nursery,” Arthur said. “You have friends there.”
“Just girls.” His nose wrinkled. “They play with dolls and the dollhouse.”
“Is Gil with Carrie—Lady Caroline?” Arthur corrected himself when the little boy glanced at him with puzzlement.
“Yes. Gil go. Bertie stay with the girls. I want no more playing dolls.”
“Ah, I see.” He hid his amusement. To Bertie, his predicament was as important as matters of the estate were to Arthur.
Promising the boy could have an outing would be wrong without checking with Miss Oliver first. Would she even speak to him when he took Bertie to the nursery? She would, but only because good manners required it.
Patting the folded pages under his coat, he looked at Bertie, who stood on tiptoe to get a piece of cheese. Bertie wanted to go on an outing. Arthur needed to leave the house without anyone being curious where he was bound. Why not combine the two? Offering to show the children what was left of the ancient buildings would provide the perfect excuse. As many outings as he had taken with Miss Oliver and the youngsters in the past fortnight, nobody would take notice of another. The children could run about, and Miss Oliver’s attention would be on them while he slid the pages between the rocks. His mission would be accomplished, and Bertie could escape an afternoon of playing with dolls.
Arthur ruffled the little boy’s hair, astounded a child would provide the inspiration he sought. Lord, thank You for bringing this child to me today. Watch over us while we try to save many lives. He faltered on the prayer. Yes, getting the information to London posthaste could make a difference, but he must be cautious. Endangering Miss Oliver and the children would be a high price to pay for victory over the French.
He told himself not to be dramatic. No one save Gwendolyn knew he was a courier. No one but he and she could read their code. He knew there were French spies abroad in Cornwall, as well as those who wanted the government to think less about defeating Napoleon and focus on how poor harvests had left people on the edge of starvation. Any of them would be eager to keep the message from reaching London.
“Bertie, why don’t you sit while I finish what I was doing?”
“What you doing?”
Arthur should have expected the question. With a laugh, he said, “A ‘none of your bread-and-butter’ task.”
Bertie grumbled as he climbed into the chair. “Maris says that when she does not want our help.”
“I will want your help.” He held up a finger to halt the excitement bursting out of the little boy. “In a few minutes after I finish this.�
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As he sat at his desk, Arthur was startled how the word finish resonated through him like a hammer clanging on a bell. The burden of the secrets weighed more heavily on him each day. He had not guessed how much he wished to be done with his hidden life.
He melted the end of the stick of wax and let several drops fall onto the folded sheet. As it cooled, he pressed his finger into the green wax to seal it. He had promised Gwendolyn he would assume Cranny’s duties, and he would not let her down. Either as the courier or as her husband, if she accepted his offer of marriage.
Whether he wanted to make that proposal or not.
Miss Oliver’s face emerged from his thoughts along with the questions of what and who had hurt her, but he tried to ignore the images. He must in the future, so why not develop the habit before he saw Gwendolyn? He must do everything he could not to hurt either woman.
He wished he knew how.
*
“Lord Trelawney!” Maris pushed loose strands of hair toward her bun. How was she going to tell him Bertie had slipped away again? She could be dismissed for a lack of attention. The little boy had been sitting at the table, paging through a book, one minute, and the next time she looked up from her conversation with Irene, one of the kitchen maids, seconds later, he was not.
“No Bertie!” called Lulu as she stepped off the back stairs’ landing and into the day nursery. She held Irene’s hand.
The maid shook her head with a worried frown. She dropped into a curtsy when she saw Lord Trelawney in the other doorway.
“Not upstairs.” Molly appeared around them.
“I believe I have found who you are looking for,” said the viscount as he drew Bertie from behind him. He gave the child a gentle push into the nursery.
Maris took Bertie by the hand and marched him to the window bench. Picking him up, she sat him on it. She told him to stay there.
Bertie nodded, big tears in his eyes.
She wanted to comfort him, because she hated seeing the children cry. However, he must learn he could not wander away whenever he wished. Could that be what had happened to the children? Had they slipped away from their parents and found their way to the boat? No. The older boys might have managed it, but none of the children was big enough to carry the baby or to boost Gil into a boat.
Love Inspired Historical October 2015 Box Set Page 31
