The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  She didn’t mind the quaintness of the town. In fact, she was rather charmed by it. But she would never admit to such a thing.

  “It is not that I have a strong desire to leave. Only that, well, it is too small for our needs, Mama.”

  “Too small? Nonsense. It is more than sufficient for our little family of four.”

  That was true. With four bedrooms, a dining area, and a sitting room, the Paxtons were in need of nothing else while on holiday. Still, Amy had to try again.

  “But the windows do not close properly in nearly every room. I’m terribly chilly at night.”

  “We shall find you an extra cover then.”

  Amy frowned at Mama’s response. “For two months? As the weather grows more and more chilly? The fireplaces are so small, there’s hardly any warmth in the rooms at all!”

  Mama laughed. “Come now. You exaggerate. If I didn’t know any better, I would think you would wish to leave because you are still upset with Mr. Eastwood and are attempting to diminish any chance of happening upon him again.”

  She raised a knowing brow, but Amy looked away, unwilling to reveal her mother’s accuracy. That was precisely why she wished to leave Coniston. The cottage, the lake, and the autumnal scenery were truly delightful. But the thought of residing in the same town as that pompous chicken-handler for two months was more than she could bear. They were sure to cross paths, and that she did not look forward to.

  She didn’t enjoy having her flaws being pointed out, nor did she like the idea of those hens being taken care of by a man who clearly did not know a thing about the animals.

  “He is a charming gentleman, Amy, and so good to us, too.”

  Amy sniffed with derision. “I cannot understand why you tout Mr. Eastwood’s praises when his actions are what any gentleman ought to do. He is not behaving valiantly. He is performing a duty.”

  “Now that isn’t true. Why do you speak so harshly?”

  They passed a modiste’s shop, and Amy peered through the glass, exploring delicate, grey gloves and a silk green bonnet trimmed with lace and yellow ribbon—anything to distract her from Mama’s impending words.

  “Mr. Eastwood has done a great deal for us. Far more than any typical gentleman ever would.”

  Very well. Amy couldn’t deny the man’s kindness toward her family. Not only had he offered them the cottage free of charge—which Father, of course, had declined—he’d also allowed them the use of a few of his servants during their stay. Her parents had all but forgotten the elder Mr. Eastwood’s deception and seemed to cling to Mr. William Eastwood as if he were their champion. They’d even laughed off Amy’s encounter with him when she’d told them about the incident with the chicken.

  “How humorous!” Hugh had said, guffawing uncontrollably.

  Of course she would never rely on Hugh to take her side. Apparently, he’d spotted a few ladies in town while he was at the Black Bull Inn and was even more interested in remaining in Coniston now. Amy only hoped he would not be too occupied with females to remember his agreement to help her during their first social event—whenever the occasion arose.

  Yes, her family had managed to set aside a number of things in regard to the Eastwoods. But Amy could not. Mr. Eastwood had shouted at her, accused her of getting in the way of his work, and then pointed out her greatest flaw. So she would use her humiliation to fuel her anger, hoping—praying—it would in turn lessen the embarrassment he’d caused her.

  They continued traversing through the village, shops’ window displays and open booths giving way to terraced houses boasting of half-timber work with wooden frames exposed and warped glass for windows. Rather than appearing neglected, the homes radiated a level of comfort that worked through the toughened knots in Amy’s tight shoulders.

  She sighed. Would that she could so easily find something terrible about this place as she could Mr. Eastwood.

  “Oh, Amy, do cheer up,” Mama said, having observed her dismay. “You must find it in your heart to forgive him and trust that he is a fine gentleman. After all, you know we are not the only ones to consider his goodness. Surely you recall Mrs. Morris’s words. He is the best of men, according to her.”

  Amy suppressed a groan. Of course she recalled her words. The baker’s wife had gone on and on about Mr. Eastwood’s virtues for nearly ten minutes.

  “Oh, charming, charming man,” she’d said upon discovering they were Mr. Eastwood’s new, temporary tenants. “He will do anything for anyone at a moment’s notice. Remarkable coming from such an upbringing, really. He is the kindest man you shall ever meet. You will soon discover how attentive a landlord he can be. Though, even before he took charge of his estates, he always took great care to ensure all of the Eastwood’s tenants were comfortable, secure, and at peace in their homes.”

  Amy boiled recalling the woman’s words. Of course, she’d been intrigued when Mrs. Morris had mentioned his “upbringing,” but Amy had promptly brushed the interest aside. His past mattered not to her, after all.

  Pleasant chatter from open windows drifted across the street, and a few, early fallen leaves rolled alongside them noisily, as if racing Amy and her mother to the edge of town.

  “Well,” Amy began, “he may have fooled everyone in town, even all of you, but he will not fool me. No man can raise his voice to a lady and have her forget.”

  Nor could he potentially neglect hens. Or bring up a proven fault. But that was better to keep away from her family’s knowledge. Hugh would give her an intolerable look of “I did say you were blunt, did I not?”

  Mama shook her head in reproof, but Amy forged on before a word could be spoken. “Honestly, what sort of gentleman allows his estates to fall into such disrepair? The manor was unacceptable, but the cottage is in no way ideal either. Ivy crawling over the windows, chipped paint in the corners of the sitting room, and that wretched broken gate. I tore my best dress on it, as you know.” She peered down at her skirt, holding it out to reveal the small tear in her hem she’d attained that morning. “If he cannot care for his estates, what can he do?”

  “Amy, be kind.”

  “I am not being unkind, Mother. Simply truthful. I shudder to think what sort of gentleman refuses to take care of his property. Surely it is a reflection on how he treats his tenants. They must be neglected in the worst way.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Paxton.”

  Amy gasped, swinging around to face Mr. Eastwood himself. He stood with his arms behind his back, a tight-lipped expression across his face.

  Chapter Five

  How long had Mr. Eastwood been following them, listening to their conversation? Amy wanted to criticize him for eavesdropping, to scold his imposition, but she could not find the right words—because she was in the wrong. Her ears burned and her tongue buzzed after wagging it like a bitter gossip, criticizing a gentleman because her pride had been offended.

  “Mr. Eastwood,” Mama breathed in greeting, no doubt horrified at her daughter’s hurtful words.

  Curtsies and bows were extended, and as Mr. Eastwood straightened, his green eyes—Amy hadn’t noticed they were green before—centered on her.

  “Contrary to your belief, Miss Paxton, I always strive to take special care of my tenants.”

  His tone was not one of anger, as she’d expected. If Amy didn’t know any better, she would have said she detected a hint of sorrow, instead.

  “And I have done so since taking charge of my estates,” he finished.

  “Oh, Mr. Eastwood,” Mama began when Amy said nothing, “of course you do. We would not think otherwise.”

  “Forgive me, but I believe your daughter does.”

  His eyes had yet to leave Amy’s. Two days before, he’d taken the Paxtons straight from the manor to the cottage, dirt on his brow and hair falling forward with sweat from his day of work.

  Now, he stood before them, clean and well-kempt, his cravat smartly tied and his silk green waistcoat reflected brightly in his eyes. Was he not mourning f
or his Grandfather, then? Or was his jacket black enough for that?

  Blast, if he wasn’t strikingly handsome—mourning or not. And blast, if he wasn’t humiliating Amy again.

  “Oh,” Mama stammered, “that is due to my daughter being, well, she…she…”

  “She was speaking her opinion,” Mr. Eastwood finished, “which she is more than entitled to.”

  Mama nudged Amy with her elbow, but Amy could think of nothing to say. She knew she ought to apologize, but she’d never been caught speaking so uncharitably. Mostly because she’d never spoken of someone so uncharitably. At least not aloud. This man—or rather, being embarrassed by this man—truly brought out the worst in her.

  “However, if I may defend myself…” Mr. Eastwood waited until Mama gave him an encouraging nod. He peered down at Amy, though he spoke as if to her mother. “Given the evidence, of course your daughter would assume the worst of my abilities to care for my property and tenants. And yet, I cannot help but think that, were she in full possession of the details surrounding my familial situation, she might change her opinion about my capabilities.”

  “Oh, of course, Mr. Eastwood. Of course,” Mama cooed.

  A second wave of blood rushed back to Amy’s head, circling round her cheeks in a burning blush. He was humbling her in front of her mother now?

  This man would be the death of her.

  “At any rate, I am terribly sorry about your dress, Miss Paxton. Were I clever enough with a needle and thread, I’d offer to mend it myself.”

  Mama twittered a laugh at Mr. Eastwood’s comment before he continued. “However, I will admit to being far more useful with a hammer and nails. So I should like to see to the—what was it?—the wretched broken gate, as well as any other issues you may take with my cottage.”

  “Oh, that is certainly not necessary,” Mama said. “We are most pleased with the home you’ve leased to us. Aren’t we, Amy?”

  Amy opened her mouth, but not a word came to fruition.

  “Worry not, Miss Paxton. You needn’t attempt civility on my account.”

  She clamped her mouth shut, nostrils flaring at his thinly shrouded insult.

  “I shall come with you directly, if you have no objection, Mrs. Paxton.”

  “We wouldn’t wish to inconvenience you, sir,” Mama said.

  “It is no inconvenience at all, I assure you. It is the least I can do for the damage my neglect has caused poor Miss Paxton’s dress.”

  Amy narrowed her eyes. The half-smile on his face hinted at sincerity, but his tone was unmistakable. He was poking fun at her. After a lifetime with Hugh, she could not bear to be teased.

  “Shall we?” He motioned forward.

  Mama turned with a look that was unmistakable to Amy. “Be kind,” she mouthed.

  Amy didn’t know how she could be kind to this gentleman who had a keen propensity to call her out and humiliate her in front of her loved ones. At least Mr. Roberts had done so in private. Of course, he’d then gone on to share Amy’s misguided words with half of Bath, but that was beside the point.

  They set off down the street, Mama thankfully walking between Mr. Eastwood and Amy, until a call from behind stopped their progression.

  “Mr. Eastwood? Oh, Mr. Eastwood? Do wait a moment!”

  A short woman with a white cap atop her greying hair and a fichu tucked into her green floral gown rushed toward them, waiving a stick in the air.

  “Mr. Eastwood, you’ve forgotten your walking stick!”

  He reached out to accept his belonging. “Ah, thank you, Mrs. Rutledge. I don’t know how I managed to forget it.”

  She chuckled. “You rushed so quickly from our house, it is no wonder you did.”

  Mr. Eastwood cleared his throat, averting his eyes from Amy with a motion of his hand. “Mrs. Rutledge, might I introduce Mrs. Paxton and her daughter. They will be staying at Flitfield Cottage for the next month or two.”

  Mrs. Rutledge’s eyes brightened. “Oh, how delightful! I did not think you were to fill the home with tenants until well into the next year.”

  Mr. Eastwood shifted his footing, appearing flustered yet again. “Yes, it is quite fortunate how it all came together.”

  Mrs. Rutledge shifted toward Amy and Mama. “It truly is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. We do so enjoy visitors in Coniston. I hope your stay is most pleasant.”

  “Thank you,” Mama said.

  Amy managed to smile her gratitude at the woman, despite her continuous unease around Mr. Eastwood. Mrs. Rutledge was clearly from the middle class and poor, by the state and dated style of her clothing, but her infectious grin would pull anyone’s attention away from her place in society.

  “And to think you shall have the pleasure of being the tenants of Mr. Eastwood.” Mrs. Rutledge rested a hand on his forearm. “He is the most attentive landlord for whom one could ever wish.”

  The irony of the situation brought about a fresh wave of embarrassment. Was this part of Mr. Eastwood’s plan to retaliate for her unkindness? Bringing this woman out of nowhere to defend his capabilities?

  The woman continued. “Just today, he called upon my Philip and me to bring a beautiful basket of fresh, green apples. I’m sure I shall make a lovely apple pie with such delectable fruit.” She turned to Mr. Eastwood. “You had best expect an invitation to enjoy a slice soon. I know how you enjoy my pie.”

  “Of course. I would be delighted.”

  Amy avoided Mr. Eastwood’s charming smile. Of course he’d be nice to Mrs. Rutledge. She’d just offered to make him a pie, for heaven’s sake.

  “Oh, it is the least I could do after you ordered us that lovely new spit-jack for our cooking oven.” Mrs. Rutledge turned to Mama and Amy. “And this was after he’d removed a bird from our chimney. I do feel we take advantage of his hospitality at times.”

  “Nonsense, Mrs. Rutledge,” Mr. Eastwood said. “You know I am always happy to help the both of you.”

  “He is rather helpful, isn’t he?” Mama jumped in. “He is on the way with us right now to fix a broken gate at the cottage.”

  Mrs. Rutledge gave a warm look to the gentleman. “That doesn’t surprise me one bit.”

  Mr. Eastwood looked away with an uncomfortable grimace. Feigned humility, no doubt.

  “Well, as much as I should like to go on and on about Mr. Eastwood’s many virtues—and you know that I could—I shan’t keep you a moment longer. Mr. Rutledge will be wondering what has kept me. Thank you again for the apples, Mr. Eastwood.” She turned to the Paxtons. “Lovely to meet you both. I should like to have you over for apple pie, as well. I live just there.”

  She pointed to the smallest, terraced home of the row with a proud gesture.

  “That would be delightful,” Mama said.

  Amy nodded her gratitude for the woman’s generosity, especially considering Mrs. Rutledge had so very little to offer. It really was unfortunate she had been duped by Mr. Eastwood, as well.

  Of course, Amy didn’t really believe such a thing. Her pride was still smarting. But she’d let everyone else in the village love the man.

  Amy would not.

  After bidding farewell to the woman who skittered quickly back to her home, Amy, Mama, and Mr. Eastwood continued, finally reaching the small dirt road leading out from the village.

  Towering trees with orange and gold leaves lined both sides of the road, sunlight filtering through the foliage, speckling the pathway in dancing shadows.

  The whole setting would have provided much peace for Amy—were it not for the fact that Mama had somehow managed to maneuver her way to the outside of their little party, pushing Amy to walk in the center between Mama and Mr. Eastwood.

  “I trust you enjoyed your visit to town this morning, ladies,” Mr. Eastwood said.

  Amy kept her gaze forward, refusing to allow his deep, rumbling voice to coax her into speaking. Chatting openly about a gentleman in a place she could be overheard was yet another poor decision that reminded her that she need
ed Hugh’s help. Not to capture Mr. Eastwood as a potential suitor, of course. Just to avoid another societal death.

  When Amy’s choice to remain silent became apparent, Mama finally responded for the both of them. “We did, thank you. Though, I must admit, the walk there and back amongst this delightful scenery has been my favorite part about it.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Eastwood agreed.

  “Is Birchwick far from Coniston?”

  “Not at all. A mere ten minutes west of the cottage.”

  “Do you prefer walking to riding, then?”

  He nodded. “I was not allowed to walk—”

  He stopped abruptly. So abruptly Amy did not have a moment to prevent herself from looking up at him. He blinked multiple times, as if searching for different words to say.

  Had he said he was not allowed to walk? What gentleman was not allowed to go where he pleased? And who would prevent such a thing?

  Amy studied him for a moment before their eyes met, but he looked away in an instant.

  “That is to say, I was encouraged to ride more often, but I do prefer walking.”

  Mama hesitated. She must have sensed Mr. Eastwood’s reluctance, as well. She gave a subtle shake of her head, warning Amy not to press the matter.

  As if Amy would speak to the gentleman. Though, she had to admit, she was intrigued by what he was so obviously hiding. Had it something to do with his upbringing, too?

  “I must agree with you, sir,” Mama carried on naturally. “Walking is as fine an exercise as they come. My Amy agrees, too. Do you not, Amy?”

  Was Mother not aware of her decision to remain quiet for the foreseeable future?

  “Indeed,” Amy mumbled.

  Mr. Eastwood peered down at her. Amy walked slightly closer to Mama.

  “What other exercise do you enjoy, Miss Paxton? Chasing chickens, perhaps?”

  Amy frowned at the soft laughter coming from Mama. Why were both of her parents seemingly enamored by Mr. Eastwood’s determination to constantly rain humiliation down upon their daughter?

  Well, Amy would have to disregard her own decision to not speak with the gentleman. At least long enough to deliver a return to his mocking.