With overheated cheeks, she drew her attention to the shoreline. Father and Mr. Roberts were just ahead of them, though they were too far away for any conversations to be overheard over the wind and rain. Both boats were making steady progress, now that capable men were at the helms.
“I assumed Hugh chose to stay ashore?” she asked.
“Yes, he did.” Mr. Eastwood gripped the oars. Had his knuckles been that white before?
She bit her lip. She really should hold her tongue and not press for more information. But then, being blunt with the gentleman hadn’t injured her thus far.
“You and my brother argued earlier.”
He eyed her cautiously, though he did not deny her statement.
“May I ask what the argument was about?”
His jaw twitched. “Merely a difference in opinion.”
Amy itched with curiosity, but his words held a finality to them that revealed how very little he wished to discuss the matter. With a nod, she relented. “I’m sorry you quarreled. Though I cannot say I am surprised, as I frequently disagree with my brother, as well.”
She looked around her, the wind having somewhat calmed with the storm’s arrival. Raindrops fell unceasingly from the low clouds, splashing into the lake, creating endless ripples with the soothing, rhythmic sound of water against water.
Despite the peace she felt, frustration still boiled within her at the thought of Hugh. “He’s infuriating at times, but I suppose my lot in life is to forgive him and his many, many shortcomings.”
“And you do so every time?”
She shrugged. “What other choice do I have? After all, is that not what we are taught to do, to forgive others, so we may be forgiven ourselves?”
A furrowed crease slipped between Mr. Eastwood’s brows.
“Do you not agree with me?”
“No, I do. I am merely impressed with your ability to do such a thing.”
She gave a little laugh. “I assure you, it is not easy. And there are things that I have yet to forgive.” Bringing Mr. Roberts to her, being one of them. “But I suppose all we can do is move forward each day.”
Mr. Eastwood nodded, though his eyes wandered away as if he was deep in thought.
She studied him, wondering what he thought of before his eyes met hers. Her first instinct was to look swiftly away, embarrassed at having been caught staring again. But something within her made her hold his gaze.
The rain had seeped through the shoulders of her spencer, and the lap of her dress had completely soaked through. But despite the chills running up and down her spine, a warmth pervaded her limbs. He rowed the oars slower, moving back and forth in a deliberate manner.
As he leaned forward, the oars stopped, and his eyes flickered to her lips. Her breath caught in her throat as his own mouth parted. Was he…did he…
But the moment was gone in an instant. He pulled his eyes over his shoulder and began to paddle once again.
“Nearly there,” he said, his voice gruff, the same way it sounded after he’d stroked her skin in the cottage gardens.
“Excellent,” she said, though disappointment wedged firmly into her hopes.
Mr. Eastwood avoided her eyes the rest of the journey. She told herself it was because the gentleman did not wish to reveal his desires in front of her family. But a thread of doubt marred her dreams.
With a twisting stomach, Amy reached the shore shortly after Papa and Mr. Roberts. Her parents helped her out of the boat while Mr. Eastwood secured his vessel, and Mr. Roberts spoke in whispered tones to Hugh off to the side.
Would Mr. Roberts tell all of Coniston what had occurred between them, or would he keep it to himself now that the rejected party was himself? Either way, Hugh would be sure to not defend her.
“Are you well, my dear?” Mama wrapped her arms around Amy’s sodden shoulders and led her toward the shelter of thick birch trees near the road.
“Yes, Mama.”
Papa joined them with a crumpled brow. “Perhaps you two ought to remain here while I return to the cottage for our carriage. If I had any forethought, I would have insisted taking it in the first place.”
“That is all right, my dear,” Mama soothed. “We enjoyed the walk here. Did we not, Amy?”
Amy nodded, hiding how she’d really felt about not taking the carriage. “Of course, but there is no need for you to walk to the cottage on your own. We will arrive home faster if we join you.”
“Oh, but the mud, Amy,” Mama said.
“Why don’t you come with me in my carriage?” Mr. Eastwood motioned to his carriage nearby. “I brought it in case of bad weather. It will be a tight squeeze with the six of us, but it certainly is better than catching a cold from all this rain.”
“Oh, dear Mr. Eastwood,” Mama said, resting a hand on his arm. “How can we ever thank you?”
“You can forgive me for choosing this day to go out boating.”
They chuckled at Mr. Eastwood’s joke. Amy tried to smile, but her spirits could not keep up with what her brain demanded.
As the carriage rolled toward them and Mr. Roberts’s horse was tied to the back of it, the group gathered together. Hugh still frowned, and Mr. Roberts peered down at the mud on his boots. Mr. Eastwood hardly seemed to notice anyone else as he attempted to replace his gloves and jacket over his sodden hands and shirt. But as Papa helped Mama into the carriage, Mr. Eastwood gave up on dressing with an aggravated sigh, which finally proved to lift Amy’s mood.
Amy followed Mama into the carriage, sitting beside her as Papa sat across from them, shuffling to the wall. Hugh followed, shifting to Papa’s side with an unintelligible grumble.
Mr. Roberts was next, poking his head in the carriage with a look directly at Amy then to the empty seat beside her. Her heart sank. The carriage may be large enough for the six of them, but there would be an inordinate amount of bouncing into one another as they traveled along the inevitable muddy roads. She looked to Papa in a panic.
“Ah, Mr. Roberts,” Papa said at once. “You’ll be better off sitting beside Hugh. Mr. Eastwood is far larger than you and will not take kindly to having to squeeze into this side.”
Mr. Roberts, though clearly disappointed, did not have the courage to say no to Papa. With a sigh, he settled down beside Hugh.
Amy sent a grateful look to Papa, who winked at her in response.
Her relief was short-lived, though, when Mr. Eastwood popped his head in next. His eyes skimmed the occupants of his carriage before landing on Amy. She hadn’t had time before now to realize who would be sitting next to her, should Mr. Roberts not be. And though this was a far more agreeable option for her, Mr. Eastwood’s grimace revealed his own feelings on being seated so closely beside her.
Swiftly, he sat down, shifting his body as close to the carriage wall as possible. Even still, their legs, shoulders, and elbows pressed closely together.
Amy tried to subdue her racing heart, the tips of her ears burning. Mr. Eastwood hardly appeared affected. In fact, he looked more perturbed than anything having to sit beside her.
As the carriage rolled forward, she dropped her eyes. Was he merely repulsed at the idea of sitting so closely to her? Did the thought of Miss Winslow lend to his aversion?
No, Mr. Eastwood himself had said they were just friends. And surely he did not believe Amy to have an attachment to Mr. Roberts, so he wouldn’t be keeping away for that, either.
There was only one explanation to his sudden aversion of her. He must have seen her attraction to him and—unable to reciprocate her growing feelings—was now doing his best to discourage her from pursuing him.
Was she truly about to be rejected for a third time?
She closed her eyes, ignoring the burning sensation of her flesh where she made contact with Mr. Eastwood. She tried shifting subtly toward Mama, only then noticing part of her dress was under Mr. Eastwood’s very firm, very wet thigh.
“My apologies,” he murmured. He must have felt her attempt to gin
gerly tug it out.
He raised his leg a fraction, reaching down to pull the fabric out just as Amy did the same. Their bare hands brushed against each other, a shock of warmth and brightness shooting up her arm. She pulled back swiftly, his green eyes peering down at her. Her breathing halted, heart murmuring softer than a butterfly’s wings as his gaze darted down to her lips once again.
This time, Amy could not deny the look of desire apparent in his focused eyes, nor in her own swirling chest.
Another bump in the road tossed them side to side, breaking their gaze, and Amy pulled back. Had anyone seen what had just occurred? Father leaned his head back against the carriage, closing his eyes, Hugh was scowling at his fingertips, and Mama was looking in the opposite direction. But Mr. Roberts stared across from her with narrowed eyes.
Instead of cowering from embarrassment, she raised her chin and turned away, vowing to never look in the man’s direction again.
That would certainly be easy enough, for her mind was entirely too focused on how grateful she was for her spencer jacket, for if she had not worn the thicker fabric, she would have been sure to have felt every muscle working in Mr. Eastwood’s arm through his thin, soaked shirt.
And that would have undone her completely.
Chapter Sixteen
Clack, clack, clack.
Amy groaned, rolling over in her bed and pressing her pillow over her head. For a moment, silence met her, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
Clack, clack.
In a swift movement, she sat upright, throwing her pillow at the foot of her bed and scowling fiercely at the window. That wretched gate. Would it never cease its—
Clack!
Her eyes narrowed. She would not receive a lick of rest tonight with that racket.
The gate had been left unlatched and now hit against the stone wall with annoying irregularity. If she was on the opposite side of the house, overlooking the lake, she no doubt would still be asleep.
Of course, the gate’s discord was not the only reason she could not sleep that night, but that was beyond the point.
With a shake of her head, she tore off her covers and left her bed in search of her dressing gown, stomping around in the darkness, hoping to wake every member of her family though knowing she would not disturb a soul. They could sleep through anything.
Throwing her dressing gown round her shoulders, she clomped out of her room, passing by Hugh’s chambers with particularly loud footsteps. After all, he was the reason for this terrible day, beginning with the disaster that was boating that morning and ending with the gate tapping on that wretched stone wall.
After her worthless brother had invited Mr. Roberts to stay for dinner—which kept Amy hidden away in her room from the moment they returned from boating—the two gentlemen had stayed awake drinking until eleven o’clock. She’d watched from her window as their shadows moved to the gate. After a wave of departure, highlighted only by the light of the moon, Mr. Roberts had opened the gate and failed to secure it behind him. Hugh returned indoors a moment later without latching it either.
She hadn’t thought anything of it until a soft wind had picked up, and now it was all she could hear.
Clack, clack, clack, clack.
Terrible day, indeed.
After retrieving a lantern, she opened the door of the cottage, pausing on the threshold. She peered into the darkness with her raised lantern as the cold settled around her instantly. The rain had let up in the late afternoon, allowing clear skies the rest of the evening. Though the earth had yet to soak in all the moisture it had received, the moon shone forth in a bright light, outlining the trees in a glowing, silver paint and illuminating the pathway before her.
She stretched her lantern forth, clutching her dressing gown closer to ward off the cold as she tiptoed barefooted across the dewy ground. The gate must have sensed her approach and stopped its clacking at once, for the soft trickling of the brook was all that marred the silence of the evening.
Still, as she reached the wall, she flung the gate forward with a hard, satisfying swing. The wood rattled in protest, but Amy raised her chin and walked away with a gratifying swish of her skirts.
Now she would finally get some sleep.
Clack!
She swung around with wide eyes. The gate had escaped from its latch and once again tapped against the stone wall.
Was it broken? No doubt from Hugh and Mr. Roberts opening it. Not because of how hard she’d closed it just now.
She attempted to secure it once again, but the gate flapped open without hesitation. Pursing her lips, she shone the candlelight closer to the ground, settling on a large rock.
That would do nicely.
Placing her lantern securely on the stone wall, Amy bent down to retrieve the rock, cradling it between her arm and her side before turning to the gate, ready to stop its clacking once and for all. Finally. Her fingers were beginning to smart in the autumn temperatures.
“Miss Paxton?”
Amy gasped, cold air chilling her insides as she dropped the rock and jumped back in surprise. Her heart strummed against her chest. “Mr. Eastwood?”
The gentleman emerged from the shadows, hat, jacket, and gloves in hand as he stood in the gateway. His cravat was fully undone, hanging limply down either side of his neck, and his shirt hung open to his half-buttoned waistcoat. Candlelight flickered against his features, creating shadows across the top of his chest and at the base of his throat.
She pressed a hand against her heart to keep it from bursting right through her flesh. She couldn’t remember the last time the man had appeared fully dressed before her—he hadn’t even been wearing his jacket when she’d first seen him at the lake.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, peering down at her bare feet sticking out from her dressing gown.
Her dressing gown. Heavens above, what was happening right now? She tucked in her toes and nervously stroked her plaited hair draped over her shoulder. Thank heavens she’d forgone paper curls that evening, though her ringlets had all but died, and she was now left with stringy strands to frame her face. “No, the rock missed me only just.”
“I apologize for startling you. I thought you heard my approach.”
“No, I didn’t.” Her words faltered as their eyes met, and memories of their time that morning flooded her mind—their few moments in the boat, their ride in the carriage, his eyes on her lips…his apparent discomfort being near her.
She swallowed. “What are you doing out here so late at night?”
“My visit with the Rutledges ran late.”
He shifted, though he didn’t make to leave. Why did he linger? Did he wish to remain in her company, or was he doing so to be polite? And was he avoiding her earlier because he didn’t like her, or because he shouldn’t like her?
“Are you all right?”
Amy looked up, unaware that her brow was puckered. She blinked away her worry. “Yes, merely wondering if you were invited to have the pie that Mrs. Rutledge also promised me and my family. Although, I take it you earned the dessert by doing some act of service for them?”
His lips curved. “How did you know?”
“Because you are always helping someone in need.”
“And do you disapprove of this?”
“Disapprove?” She forced her eyes away from the angle of his jaw, only enhanced by the lantern’s light. “Quite the opposite, sir.”
A moment ticked by in silence, her dressing gown now officially doing nothing in regards to warming her. Should she beg her leave now? She was fairly certain no passersby would find them, nor would her family see them out the window—what with their ridiculous ability to sleep through everything—but should they be caught speaking so late at night, and her in her dressing gown of all things…
“May I now ask what you are doing out here so late?”
Perhaps a moment longer in his company wouldn’t hurt. She motioned to the gate. “Merely attempting to fix this before it’s t
apping drives me to lunacy.”
He studied the latch. “It’s broken again? How?”
Amy looked away. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
He eyed her for a moment before placing his belongings atop the stone wall opposite the lantern. Hunkering down, he examined the latch more closely. “So, you were telling the truth earlier. You really can’t sleep with irregular sounds occurring, can you?”
He peered up at her over his shoulder, a hint of a smile in his eyes.
He remembered? All those days ago, when she’d said she couldn’t sleep with the dripping from the window in her room, he’d remembered?
With warmth swirling in her heart, she replied. “No, I’m afraid I cannot.”
Returning his attention to the gate, he nodded. “The latch is a little off-centered, but I believe it will be an easy enough fix.” He stood, brushing off his hands. “I’ll be sure to send someone early tomorrow morning, if that will suffice.”
“Send someone?” The question slipped from her tongue before she could stop it. She’d never known the man to send someone else to do his work.
He didn’t meet her gaze. “Yes, I fear my day is excessively busy tomorrow, and I won’t have time to fit this in also, with what I have planned. I hope that does not displease you or your family.”
Amy clasped her hands together, trying to hold her tongue, but she couldn’t bear it any longer. She needed to know. She had to know.
“As a matter of fact, it does displease me. Because I cannot help but think…” She drew in a deep breath. “If you do not wish to see me any longer, sir, or help us at the cottage, you needn’t feel any obligation to do so. But I would appreciate a forthright response, if you would be so kind.”
He blinked, taken aback at her blunt words, before a brief laugh escaped his lips. “You are not one for mincing words, are you, Miss Paxton?”
She shrugged helplessly. “I do try to be reserved at times, but I find life far easier to live when the truth is spoken first.”
“And if the whole truth cannot be shared?”
The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5) Page 16
