He was also glad Susanna had mentioned that Mrs. Haverhill had moved away. His family had long owned the place, and he assumed they still did, so felt few qualms about entering on that score. He recalled where the key to the door used to be kept. Would it still be there after all this time? He set Arabella down a moment. “Here, lean against the wall. Don’t put too much weight on that foot.”
“Sorry. I have eaten a great deal of sweets since coming to Brockwell Court. I probably broke your back.”
“Not a bit of it. You are absolutely perfect.”
“Hardly. No one can claim that.”
“Certainly not I.”
He knocked on the door, just to be sure. “Halloo? Anyone home?”
He extracted the key from the flowerpot and unlocked the door.
“How did you . . . ? Are you sure you should do that?”
“We own the cottage, or at least I think we still do. The former tenant has moved on.”
“Oh.”
Richard pushed open the door and looked inside. Unreality blurred his vision. For a moment he was twelve years old again, staring in the window, then turning and running through the woods, tears streaming down his face.
He picked up Arabella and carried her across the threshold.
In the main room, he set her on a sofa near the hearth. The previous tenant had left the place fully furnished. He pulled a blanket from the back, shook it out, and laid it across her shoulders.
“Th-thank you.”
He hesitated. “I could leave the door open, if you wish. For propriety’s sake.”
“And let the cold wind inside?” She shook her head. “I’ll risk the gossip. Unless you are worried about your own reputation?”
“Ha-ha. Everyone already thinks me a reprobate. But you are admired and respected here.”
She tilted her head, regarding him in some surprise. “You are kind to think of my reputation at such a time.”
Richard looked away from her wide eyes. Glancing around the room, he observed to himself, “Very little has changed.”
“You have been in here before?” she asked.
“Never.”
She looked at him in confusion, but he made no reply. His gaze landed on the cold hearth. “There is still a little wood and a lump of coal.” He looked atop the mantel and found an old tinderbox, complete with fire striker, flint, and remnant of char cloth. Now if only he could successfully light it without making a fool of himself. Servants had always lit his fires. Sinking to his knees, he struck the steel against the flint, and lo and behold, sparks fell onto the cloth. With gentle blowing, he was able to conjure a small fire, feeding it kindling and then one of the logs, which would hopefully soon warm the room.
In the meantime, he found another blanket in the wardrobe and laid it over her knees.
“Will you be all right on your own for a few minutes? I am going to try to unharness the horse. I saw a little shed beside the house.”
“Yes, go. I’ll be all right here.”
It took longer than he’d imagined, but he finally managed to release the horse from its traces and then led the jittery animal into the small shed and out of the wind. “There you go, girl. Rest here for a while.”
He returned to the cottage and knelt before Arabella. She looked so pretty, cheeks pink, her golden hair in tendrils around her face, having come loose at impact. He forced his attention to her boot. “Do you mind if I take a look at your foot?”
“I . . . I suppose it would be wise to survey the damage. Throbs awfully, but my half boots offered some protection. These frilly gloves are useless however. My fingers are stiff with cold, so I doubt I can manage the laces.”
“I’ll give it a go.”
He removed his leather gloves, cupped his hands together, and blew on his fingers. Then he undid the bow and began loosening the laces. It took him back to Justina’s childhood and the many times he had helped his little sister on or off with her little half boots or had retied her laces when one came loose. They had often ridden together, gone exploring, or taken off their boots to wade in Pudding Brook.
“What has you smiling like that?” she asked.
He glanced up. “You won’t believe me, but I was thinking of Justina. I used to help her like this when she was little.” He met her veiled gaze and saw her skepticism. “Though with my reputation, you probably assumed the worst.”
She looked away, her blush confirming his suspicions.
Boot unlaced, Richard gingerly grasped the heel and eased it off her foot.
She grimaced.
“Sorry. Am I hurting you?”
“No, I just thought of my stocking. You’ll have to turn your back so I can roll it down.”
“Of course.”
But when the boot was removed, they saw the toe of the stocking had been torn away, and her big toe and the next protruded through the hole.
“It wasn’t like that this morning. Please don’t think I make a habit of wearing torn stockings, Mr. Brockwell. I know you are fastidious in all points of sartorial elegance.”
Humor glimmered in her eyes, and he guessed she was teasing him to lighten the awkward moment. He grinned. “Indeed I am. And this torn stocking offends me. Will you mind terribly if I tear it further to get a better view?”
“No, you may not! Stockings are dear, and this one may yet be mended. Close your eyes and let me take it off.”
“Oh, very well.” He sighed and closed his eyes.
“By the way,” she said, “it isn’t fair you have such long eyelashes. Now, no peeking.”
“On my honor.” Was he a man of honor? Richard wondered. He was about to be tested.
He heard the rustle of fabric and dutifully kept his eyes closed.
“There.”
He opened his eyes, his gaze lifting to her flushed face. “You are lovely when you blush.”
Then he adopted his best professional demeanor and studied her foot. A delicate thing. Small, elegant. Shapely ankles . . . He swallowed and looked at her toes instead. Less to admire there. The big toe and its compatriot were already swollen and turning an unbecoming shade of purple.
He ran his fingers over the swelling skin. “Can you move them?”
She did so.
He made a face. “Puts one in mind of monkey toes.”
“Mr. Brockwell! You are not gallant.”
“Sometimes humor is best.”
“I agree.”
“No obvious breaks or bleeding. That’s a good sign, but I’d like the doctor to take a look.”
“Perhaps you have missed your calling.”
“Me, a blood-and-bones man?” He shuddered theatrically. “Horrors. Just seeing your ghastly purple toes is enough to put me off the profession.”
“Ha-ha.”
A knock sounded at the door, startling them both. A small voice called, “Mr. Brockwell?”
Richard went to the door and opened it to Peter, Susanna’s son.
“I saw your sleigh fall into the ditch. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” His gestured to his companion. “Though Miss Awdry here has hurt her foot. Might you stay with her while I try to find the doctor?”
“I’ll go. I’m much faster than you. Besides, Dr. Burton is with my grandmamma right now.”
“Excellent.”
“Won’t take long,” the boy added. “You ought to have brought her to our house in the first place.”
“I didn’t think I could carry her that far.”
The boy nodded sagely. “You are old, after all. I shall be back in a trice.”
Richard stifled a retort. “Thank you, Peter.”
He ran off, and Richard returned to Arabella.
“What a kind little boy, except for calling you old. How do you know him?” she asked.
“His mother is Susanna, our new nurserymaid.”
“Ah . . .” She lifted her chin, that same suspicion shadowing her face.
Richard sat beside her to wait, surprised
when she spread the blanket over him as well.
“Thank you. Actually, that’s not fair,” he amended. “Susanna was my friend long before she came into our employ.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes. Both her and her brother. Susanna and I were the same age and Seth a year older. They lived in Honeycroft, in the woods not far from here. They were all kindness itself to me as boy. Accepted me, almost as one of their family.” Under the blanket, he reached for her hand. “Your fingers are still cold.” He held them, gratified when she did not pull away.
“But you had a family of your own.”
“I did. But there was something special about theirs. Loving, affectionate, good-natured . . . Whereas my own parents . . . Well, that was not always the case.” He shifted on the sofa, quickly diverting the topic. “And what about your parents? Was their marriage a happy one?”
“Yes. There was quite an age difference between them, but they were thoroughly devoted to one another. My mother misses Papa every day, and so do I.”
Richard nodded his understanding. “I’m sorry. When I heard Mr. Reeves died, I felt true loss.”
“How long ago did he die?”
“About two years. I should have come back for the funeral, but I didn’t. If I had, I might have realized earlier that Mrs. Reeves had fallen on hard times.” He slowly shook his head, guilt lancing him. “I should have guessed. After all, she had lost her husband and her only son. Nothing was the same after Seth died. Susanna married and moved away, and I . . .”
“You?”
“Let us just say I have regrets where the Reeveses are concerned. And especially where Susanna is concerned.” He did not try to defend himself. Arabella knew his reputation, and he doubted she would believe that he no longer trifled with young ladies’ affections. Why should she?
He looked at Arabella, heart beating dully within him. She really was too good for him. “I have regrets where you are concerned as well. I have been insufferably rude and have not treated you as I ought.”
“Perhaps, but you have not injured me. I know I followed you around like a loyal pup as a girl—you no doubt took pains to avoid me. And you vexed me no end when you made insolent remarks about my sister.” She added on a teasing note, “Oh, I wanted to injure you then, but you did not injure me.”
Richard, however, remained somber.
“And Susanna . . . How does she feel about you now?” Arabella asked. “Have you ever apologized to her?”
“I have, but she has not forgiven me, and I don’t blame her. Her life has not been easy.”
She looked at him closely. Too closely. “You love her, I think.”
Richard stared into the cold hearth and answered truthfully, “I will always love her, as I loved her brother and parents. But I am not in love with her, nor she with me.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” Richard looked around again and heaved a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here, in Bramble Cottage.”
“Why?”
“It is a place of bad associations. But let’s leave off with ancient history. There is no use in dredging up the past. It can only hurt people.”
“Sounds like whatever it was hurt you already.”
“Me?” He stared at her. “I am not in any pain. I am my own man. Free to live and do as I please. I could not be happier.”
“If you say so,” she said again.
He rose and placed a pillow under her foot, added another piece of wood to the fire, and then looked out the window. “Peter and the doctor should be here any moment.”
“I am all right, Mr. Brockwell. Do sit down.”
But he kept pacing. “It’s a lovely cottage, really. With a little work, perhaps a modest addition, it could be quite comfortable. One could write a great many books in such a snug cottage.”
“Do you think so?”
“I imagine so, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Though I am, of course, no novelist.”
Richard looked around him. It was a pleasant house, and the views from the windows were peaceful and bucolic. Could he write in such a place, or would the memories always haunt him?
He asked, “Can I get you anything? Another blanket? Shall I see if I can find any water? A pump?”
“No, I am well. Don’t worry.” She looked up at him, a teasing smile on her lips. “You know, you take good care of a lady, for a determined bachelor.”
Discomfited at her praise, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Well . . . don’t want your sister coming after me, do I?” He winked, and she tossed a pillow at him.
A short while later, Dr. Burton arrived. Discerning no break or sprain, he wrapped her foot for support and prescribed rest and willow bark tea for the pain. Then he and Richard conveyed Arabella safely back to Brockwell Court in his cart.
When her mother had finished fussing over her, and Arabella convinced her sister she was perfectly well and just wanted to lie down and rest for a time, Arabella was finally left alone in the guest room.
She wanted time to reflect. To rehearse and make sense of all that had transpired between her and Mr. Brockwell over the last few days.
First that romantic walk in the snow that had turned to sleet. Ducking under the holly tree with him. Hidden from view. All alone in the world or so it seemed . . . if one did not count his dog.
He had stroked her cheek and looked deeply into her eyes. Then his gaze had shifted to her mouth. She was certain he’d wanted to kiss her, and heaven help her, she’d wanted him to.
She thought next of the ill-fated sleigh ride, remembering how he’d picked her up and carried her inside. She had wrapped her hands around his neck and would like an excuse to do so once more.
After setting her gently down, he had lit a fire and made sure she was warm enough. He’d knelt before her and honorably closed his eyes while she removed her stocking, long dark eyelashes fanning against his cheek. So handsome. So gentlemanlike.
That thought gave her pause. Richard Brockwell, gentlemanlike? No, Arabella! she argued within herself. Don’t idolize the man. And don’t forget—you know his true nature. As does Susanna, by the sound of it.
Instead, she thought of how easily he’d removed a feminine boot, grinning as he did so, and saying brazenly “With my reputation, you probably assumed the worst.”
She had thought he’d been recalling undressing a lover. He’d had lovers, she did not doubt, and felt uneasy at the thought. Was he really the libertine many people thought him?
Again she recalled his sultry gaze and heard his warm, sensual voice in her ear. “You are lovely when you blush.”
She tried to dislodge the image from her mind’s eye. Don’t fall under his seductive powers!
And yet . . . he’d had his chance there in the deserted cottage. What better opportunity to attempt to take liberties if he’d wanted to? But he had behaved in a gentlemanlike manner. Except, perhaps, for roasting her about her unattractive toes.
He could have taken advantage of their private moment to at least try to kiss her, but instead he’d told her about the Reeves family and his friendship with Susanna. His words and troubled expression remained vivid in her mind. “Let us just say I have regrets . . . especially where Susanna is concerned.”
He had not given details, but he had clearly disappointed Susanna somehow. And would no doubt disappoint her as well, given the opportunity. He’d said, “She has not forgiven me, and I don’t blame her.”
Forgiven him for what? Arabella wondered. She could guess. He was a reputed rake after all. But his feelings for Susanna seemed far more serious than a casual seduction.
Arabella reminded herself that she knew his unflattering, ungentlemanlike secret. At least one of them. She’d been a guest in Brockwell Court years ago when he was nineteen and she sixteen. The others had gone out hunting, but she stayed back to read. Hearing voices, she’d peeked into the passage. His father stood at the door to his bedchamber, voice raised in anger. Richard had been sent down f
rom Oxford and since his return had been caught trifling with a housemaid.
And now Richard had arranged to have pretty Susanna hired on as a maid at Brockwell Court. She’d seen them talking together in clandestine fashion already. What was the truth: Were they really just friends, or were they having an affair? She was a widow after all, and Richard Brockwell was known to have a penchant for pretty widows. Or did he deeply love Susanna?
And which would be harder to bear?
Sometime later, Justina came in to see how she fared. Standing by Arabella’s bed, the younger woman clasped her hands together. “I am so sorry this happened. Especially during our party and in our sleigh.”
“Don’t worry. I am all right. Just resting.”
“I do hope this won’t spoil your evening. It is New Year’s Eve, after all.”
She gave Justina a plucky smile. “I shan’t let it spoil anything.”
“Good.” At the sound of voices from outside, Justina turned to the window.
Arabella heard both adult and childish voices along with peals of laughter. Curious, she asked, “Who is it?”
“Richard and Mr. Murray and two children. I’m not sure who. All bundled up as they are, it is difficult to see.”
Arabella rose and walked gingerly across the room, her ankle sore but steady.
Justina turned her head. “Are you sure you are all right to walk?”
Biting her lip against the pain, Arabella said, “Perfectly.”
She joined Justina at the window. In the back garden, two children darted in and out of the snow-covered topiary house—a boy and a little girl in woolen coats. The boy’s grinning face appeared in the topiary “door” as he hurled a snowball at Richard, who deftly dodged it. Arabella recognized the boy as Peter, who’d fetched the doctor to Bramble Cottage. Susanna’s son. Richard tossed a snowball back, but the boy ducked inside the shelter and evaded him.
“Richard and I used to play like that,” Justina breathed, her expression wistful.
Susanna appeared below, likely finished in the nursery for the day, and came out to collect her children. The young girl ran toward her, and Susanna bent to receive her embrace. The child giggled and sneaked snow down her mother’s neck. Susanna squealed like a schoolgirl and bent to pick up a handful of retribution. She threw it at her fleeing daughter, missed, and hit Richard in the back. Or had it been purposeful? Richard laughed and chased the little girl, lifting her high in the air, while Mr. Murray turned and threw a snowball at Susanna.
An Ivy Hill Christmas Page 14
