The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  With a heavy sigh, she faced Mr. Roberts. She’d attempted time and time again to confront the gentleman about his sudden arrival in Coniston, but he hadn’t allowed her to get a word in since pushing off from the shore.

  Not only had she been forced to listen to him recount all the happenings of Bath for the last twenty minutes, he was now resorting to asking her question after question, ranging from what she’d eaten for dinner the night before to if she still enjoyed walking.

  The man was treading water vocally as poorly as he treaded water with the oars in this very boat. Had he ever rowed before? She would be very surprised if he had. They were nowhere near the others, having drifted with the water to the east side of the lake.

  However, she was not too far away to miss Hugh’s scowl, nor the way he shifted away from Mr. Eastwood. What on earth had happened between them? Hugh only ever looked that upset when he’d been scolded by Papa. Had Mr. Eastwood spoken harshly to him?

  “You look happy here, Miss Paxton. As lovely as I can ever remember you being.”

  Amy cringed at yet another one of Mr. Roberts’s forced compliments. How had she ever found this man charming?

  “You do your hair differently, though, do you not?”

  He was very clearly attempting to speak for longer so Amy might not have the opportunity to confront him about his motivations for being there, but she was quite finished with his words.

  “I’ve done my hair in this way for more than six years, Mr. Roberts.”

  His smile faltered, and for a single moment, Amy’s conscience was pricked. That is, until she recalled everything the man had done to her.

  “Of course. I remember now. But that must be a new dress. I don’t remember you ever wearing such a flattering color.”

  Amy was past the pleasantries. The question was at the tip of her tongue. Hugh would no doubt advise against her asking. But then, she’d been doing just fine getting along with Mr. Eastwood without her traitorous brother’s advice.

  All at once, everything—her brother’s betrayal, her disappointment with how the boating was going, Mr. Roberts’s appearance—weighed down on her shoulders. But she would not allow this man to ruin her life any more than he already had.

  “And, Miss Paxton, I cannot say enough good things about—”

  “What do you want, Mr. Roberts?”

  He blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Why are you here? Clearly there is some reason. After all, one does not typically travel across half the country simply to greet the woman he rejected months before.”

  Mr. Roberts stopped his rowing, though it was doing little good before. A cool draft of wind slid beneath Amy’s spencer and round the back of her neck.

  “I do apologize, Miss Paxton, truly. I thought to break the tension between us before I revealed to you the real reason behind my being here.”

  She scoffed. “It is amusing to me that you believe you can ease the tension between us, when that is impossible. This tension was made impenetrable after you told all of Bath what occurred between us.”

  He winced, shifting against the boat’s wooden seat. To see his discomfort, to finally say the words she’d been longing to say for weeks, was nothing short of freeing. She was a bird sailing just above the lake, or the puff of clouds drifting across the blue skies. Nothing could stop her, not even her better judgment.

  “How dare you?” she continued. “How dare you come here without any notice? How dare you speak to me as if the worst had not occurred between us, as if you cannot even remember it?”

  He swallowed. “I will admit to my mistakes, Miss Paxton. I do not claim ignorance. I was in the wrong for a great many things—particularly when I…when I shared with a few of my closest friends what you had said to me.”

  The water started to churn below them, roughly lapping at the boat’s sides, but Amy hardly noticed. She had known all along what Mr. Roberts had done, but to hear the admission directly from his own mouth tore open the old wound that had not yet fully healed.

  “How could you be so cruel? Even if you did not have any feelings for me of the romantic sort, I thought at the very least we were friends.”

  “We were friends. We are friends.”

  She gave a wary shake of her head, her voice softening. “Friends do not gossip about another’s secret matter of the heart, sir.”

  His crestfallen face did little for the justice she wanted. “I know. I know, Miss Paxton. When they asked what had happened between us, I didn’t know what else to say.”

  “And remaining silent never occurred to you?”

  His shoulders slumped forward. “No, unfortunately it did not. Though that is precisely what I should have done. And for that, I am truly, truly sorry.”

  He was penitent, that much was clear. She really ought to forgive him, to allow her heart to heal, now that she no longer had feelings for him. But the wound was still too fresh.

  “That is the real reason I am here,” he continued. “To make amends for my abysmal behavior.”

  Amy shivered, a sudden chill enveloping her like a sodden blanket. The dark clouds over the fell had traveled swiftly and now hung over the lake like a foreboding canopy. The sun was no longer shining, but that was not the reasoning behind Amy’s trepidation.

  It was Mr. Roberts’s intent gaze that pushed her over the edge.

  She longed to tell him to stop, to keep his words to himself, but her tongue was bound.

  He continued in a lower tone, his brown eyes focused solely on her. “When you expressed your feelings to me, I was shocked. So shocked, I could think of nothing to say but a hasty dismissal of my own feelings. But, as I’ve had time to think, I realized that all along, I do have feelings for you. And, well, now I long to rescind my previous cruelty and ask for your hand in marriage.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thunder rumbled behind her, and Amy’s face drained of all warmth. Mr. Roberts looked at her expectantly, but she could say nothing. How could she with such a proposal?

  Gripping the sides of the boat, she attempted to find reasoning for his declaration. Was he truly in earnest? Did this mean that he loved her, wished to marry her? Her insides churned. This was not supposed to happen. Not with Mr. Roberts.

  Weeks ago, her heart longed for nothing more than this man. But now…

  “Miss Paxton, Mr. Roberts!”

  Amy swiveled her head to Mr. Eastwood, who rowed swiftly toward them with Hugh. Mr. Eastwood’s shoulders worked as he pumped the oars and shouted over his shoulder. “The storm is coming in quickly! We must get to shore before the water becomes dangerous!”

  Amy realized only then how the water pelted the sides of their boats, splashing droplets atop her lap. The blue skies had been replaced by dark clouds, and the wind whistled in her ears. Her parents were already on their way toward the shore, and as Mr. Eastwood turned his boat around, Mr. Roberts attempted to do the same.

  “Have you any response, Miss Paxton?” The boat remained stationary as he pitifully skimmed the oars atop the water.

  She glanced to where Mr. Eastwood stroked swiftly away from them. Now facing her, his eyes lingered on hers, but she broke their contact, afraid he might read her thoughts.

  Save me from this man.

  “I know my words will come as a surprise to you,” Mr. Roberts said. “Especially after our last meeting. But I hope you will believe me when I say how thoroughly I regret what occurred between us.”

  A rough wave hit the side of the boat, splashing water inside to rest at the soles of her boots. “Perhaps we might defer this conversation until we have reached safety on land, sir.”

  “I cannot wait, Miss Paxton.”

  She closed her eyes, the swift, side-to-side movements of the boat churning her already upset stomach. Were the waves not so choppy, she’d jump from the blasted boat and swim to shore herself.

  “I’m afraid you will have to wait, Mr. Roberts, or we will be having this conversation at the bottom of the l
ake.”

  Finally, after many grunts and huffs, Mr. Roberts managed to turn the boat around, but as he struggled against the waves, they lost more ground than they gained.

  As she now faced the shoreline, she peered beyond his shoulder. Mr. Eastwood and Hugh were just reaching land, and Mama and Papa pointed out across the lake to where Amy perched like a veritable sitting duck with Mr. Roberts.

  Curse this man and his words, and curse Hugh, too. Were it not for his encouragement, she never would have found herself in this predicament.

  After a few more unsuccessful rows, Amy’s worries increased. “Perhaps I can help,” she offered. At this rate, she was certain she could row better than this man.

  “No, I am well. If you but agree to speak with me more on this matter, tomorrow perhaps, I’m certain that will give me the strength I need to make it back to shore.”

  His eyes were hopeful, but Amy could not stand to be pressured in such a way, nor could she bear the thought of this painful conversation continuing. If he was telling the truth and really did have feelings for her, she had to let him down gently, for she would hate to humiliate him in the same regard she had been.

  “Sir, I apologize.” She paused, another wave slamming against the side of the boat, wetting her feet and the side of her dress. “I once had feelings for you, but I must be honest and say that I do not any longer.”

  He stared at her, remaining stationary as shock pursed his brow. Could he truly be surprised after his treatment of her?

  “How can that be?” he asked.

  What could she say—because she never truly loved him? Because any chance she might have had to grow her feelings for him dissipated with his treatment of her? Because…because she might have feelings for another now?

  A low rumble crawled across the sky, the boat tossing. Amy grasped onto the edge to steady herself, bracing her feet apart, no longer caring for decorum.

  She could only spot Hugh and Mama on the shore. Had the others gone to secure the boats?

  She leaned to the side, and relief flooded her limbs at the sight of Mr. Eastwood and Papa rowing toward them in a single boat.

  They must have seen Mr. Roberts struggling against the water. Thank heavens. Not only was she to be freed from this conversation, but she would also be saved from a watery grave.

  “Why do you smile?” Mr. Roberts asked, glancing over his shoulder. He faced forward, his face red from exertion and now embarrassment. “They needn’t come out here. I am perfectly capable of rowing back on my own.”

  As if to prove his words, he began vigorously working the oars against the water, but no matter how he tried, the boat did not budge. His technique was off, the rhythm of his rowing unbalanced—as was evident by Mr. Eastwood’s fluid movements as he approached them at a quick pace.

  Mr. Roberts spoke between grunts. “Before they arrive…will you please…tell me why…you no longer…have feelings for me?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. I cannot.”

  His eyes flitted over his shoulder. “Is it because…you have…attached yourself…to another?”

  Her cheeks warmed, despite the cold wind nipping at her flesh. “No, it is not.” She would not give him even a glimpse into her heart, afraid of what he might do with it. “And even if that was the reason, it certainly would not be any of your business.”

  Mr. Roberts frowned, finally falling silent. He no longer attempted to move the oars, waiting with his eyes directed at the water pooling in the bottom of the boat until their rescuers arrived.

  “Are you well, Amy?” Father asked as they neared.

  “Yes, Papa. We—”

  “We were nearly to shore,” Mr. Roberts interrupted, raising his chin and motioning to the paddles. “It’s these blasted oars. I’m not used to such poor design. But I was maintaining just fine, I assure you. Perhaps if you tie the boats together and give us a little pull…”

  Mr. Eastwood exchanged glances with Papa, who had not ceased sending disapproving stares toward Mr. Roberts.

  “It will be far easier for Mr. Paxton and I to row to shore without having to drag a boat with two passengers behind us,” Mr. Eastwood said.

  “I heartily agree.” Amy removed her sopping gloves and shook the water free from the fabric, earning her an indiscernible look from Mr. Eastwood.

  Mr. Roberts, however, was not quite ready to appear weak. “I merely needed a moment’s reprieve. Now I am quite refreshed. If you two gentlemen will lead the way, I will be sure to bring Miss Paxton to land safely.”

  Worry gripped her, fearing they might actually go along with his asinine suggestion. Fortunately, Papa snorted and Mr. Eastwood gingerly spoke up.

  “I’m certain Miss Paxton appreciates your valiant effort, sir, but it is time to admit to the facts. You haven’t moved anywhere for nearly ten minutes. For Miss Paxton’s safety—and all of ours—I suggest you take our advice immediately.”

  Mr. Roberts clamped his mouth shut, and Mr. Eastwood and Papa shared a visible look of relief.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Paxton?” Mr. Eastwood asked.

  Papa nodded.

  When the front of the boats were brought together, Mr. Eastwood tossed a large, thick lead to Mr. Roberts, who missed the rope twice before managing to catch it.

  “Tie it securely,” Mr. Eastwood instructed.

  Mr. Roberts fumbled with the knot, and Mr. Eastwood’s nostrils flared as he eyed the boiling clouds above. Any moment now the rain would begin. Would the wind increase, making it even harder to row to shore?

  Thank heavens Papa had come instead of Hugh. Her weedy brother would no doubt be worse at rowing than Mr. Roberts.

  Finally, when the vessels were tied securely enough at the top of each boat to make the crossing, Amy made to stand, ready to join Father in the other boat, but he held up his hand to stop her. “You stay there, cricket. Mr. Roberts and Mr. Eastwood will swap places.”

  Mr. Eastwood, take her back to shore instead of Papa? Amy hesitated. “I can manage stepping into your boat, Father.”

  “No, I’ll not risk you falling in. Mr. Eastwood is more than capable, I daresay. And Mr. Roberts, well, he will have to risk it.” He gave the man a pointed look, as if willing him to misstep and plunge into the lake.

  As Amy resituated herself on her seat, tucking in her legs to provide more room, Mr. Eastwood swiftly leapt into the adjoining boat. They rocked back and forth, and Mr. Eastwood hunkered down until they were steady.

  Next, Mr. Roberts clambered forward, nearly falling twice before managing to step into Father’s boat, though he tripped over the edge and landed with a grunt, barely catching himself before he could fall into the lake.

  Papa glanced to Amy. “Pity,” he mouthed out.

  Amy’s smile lasted only a moment as she returned her attention to Mr. Eastwood, who was now seated across from her, swiftly untying the weakened knots Mr. Roberts had made before tossing the leads back to Father.

  “Keep her safe,” Papa instructed.

  Mr. Eastwood nodded. “I will, sir.”

  Papa gave Amy an encouraging nod then plunged the oars into the water, setting off toward the shore. Mr. Roberts folded his arms and stared at his lap.

  As Mr. Eastwood launched their own boat into a turn, Amy centered herself on the bench, trying to breathe calmly. This was what she’d wanted all along—to row on Coniston Water with Mr. Eastwood. But Mr. Roberts’s confession had certainly tainted any joy she might have felt. How was she to hide what had just occurred, now that she was with Mr. Eastwood?

  A moment ticked by in silence, Amy struggling for something to say that didn’t involve Mr. Roberts’s words, or the argument that she assumed had occurred between Mr. Eastwood and Hugh.

  “Thank you for coming to help us,” she said softly, the rough waters no longer bothering her, now she knew she was in Mr. Eastwood’s safe hands. “We would have been treading water for hours had you not.”

  Mr. Eastwood glanced over his shoulder before facing her
once more, rowing powerfully through the surging water. “It is no trouble, of course.”

  Their eyes met, his expression unreadable. The first drops of rain began to fall from the sky, one pelting her cheek.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t return before the rain set in.” He motioned to her cheek with a flick of his chin.

  “Oh, I don’t mind a little water.”

  He stared at her, appearing to hesitate. “Am I safe to assume you do not mind getting embroiled in a fight with water now and again?”

  She tipped her head to the side at his curious question. “Are you suggesting we start one, Mr. Eastwood?”

  His lips curved. “No. I was merely curious.”

  She studied him for a moment, her eyes wandering over his forearms that flexed with each movement. That hard labor at the manor and with the Rutledges did a great many favors to his physique.

  “Your assumption is correct, though, sir. I do enjoy a good battle, and water is often my weapon of choice.”

  Instead of smiling, his brow pursed, and he looked rather…disturbed. Should she not have admitted to such a thing?

  “I’m sorry if you disapprove of such behavior.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Paxton. I heartily approve.” He peered up at the sky, wincing as the rain pelted his face. “But might I request that you suppress any urge you might have to start a fight, as I fear we are both going to be very wet, indeed, from the storm instead.”

  Amy knew his comment was to make up for his look from earlier. But she couldn’t very well press him on the issue. “I will restrain myself. But might I offer you the use of my bonnet to keep your head dry from the rain, sir?”

  He smiled at her teasing. His cravat had been loosened since they’d started their expedition out on the water that morning. It hung low, opening his collar to reveal the angles of his neck each time he peered over his shoulder to gauge how close they were to land.

  Her stare lingered a moment too long, for in the next moment, their eyes met, and the small twitch of Mr. Eastwood’s lips revealed that he knew very well that she’d been admiring him.