His words shook her, as did the haunted look in his eyes. He peered toward the lantern, and only now did Amy notice the weary circles framing his eyes and the sunken attitude of his otherwise squared shoulders.
“Then I suppose partial truths will suffice,” she responded.
He studied her, the soft trickling of the brook on the other side of the gate breaking up the silence. “Then I will tell you that I do wish to see you and to help at Flitfield. But I truly do have a great list of things to take care of tomorrow.” He backed up a few paces, leaning against the stone wall where the gate hung open. Scrubbing his hands up and down his face, he sighed. “Though I apologize I cannot help your family myself.”
As his shoulders sank further, Amy’s heart constricted at having added to whatever burden weighed down upon him. “Do not apologize, sir, on our account. We are more than capable of living with a gate that does not latch properly.”
He dropped his hands, and though he nodded, his weariness did not dissipate.
She winced, wishing to aid him in some way after all he’d done for her and her family. But what could she do? Offer a helping hand, a listening ear? She doubted that he’d want either.
Stepping toward the other side of the stone wall, she faced him as they stood in the open gateway. The light flickered behind Mr. Eastwood, silhouetting his sunken figure.
“You’re tired.”
He nodded, his head low.
“Perhaps you ought to return to Birchwick then.” Keeping him at the cottage any longer would be purely selfish.
“I ought to. And you ought to return to bed.”
“I ought to,” she repeated.
Yet, both of them remained where they stood.
Amy studied him, knowing she ought to make the first move to leave, but there was something keeping the man here. What was it?
“Sir, do you wish to speak about something?”
Speak about something? Oh, yes. He very much wished to speak about a great many things. But he never had before. How could he start with Miss Paxton, the woman he was drawing dangerously close to, the woman from whom he couldn’t keep away?
He shouldn’t even be out there with her in the dead of the night. Should someone happen upon them, should Charity discover their actions…
But, as Miss Paxton’s soft eyes warmed his cold worries and spoke encouragement to his soul, his defenses fell. He would only speak for but a moment, then he would leave.
“It’s Mr. Rutledge. He’s…dying.”
Saying the words aloud reinforced the fact he’d just been informed of that evening. He still hadn’t processed the information, nor the grief in Mrs. Rutledge’s eyes as she sat beside her husband in his bed, holding his hand. Mr. Rutledge could not hold hers in return.
Miss Paxton’s breath puffed around her in a soft, white cloud, candlelight reflecting in her glistening eyes.
“I didn’t know he was so very ill,” she whispered.
William nodded. He’d said all he’d wished to say. He was a private person, and sharing his thoughts with this woman wouldn’t do any good.
Yet he struggled to keep the words reined in as they continued to build up behind his restrictive tongue at an alarming rate. Where had this desire come from, to share his feelings with another? He’d not wanted to do such a thing since before Charity had taught him to do otherwise.
She’d spoken of her father’s passing once when they were children, but she’d been so woeful afterward that she’d bottled it right back up, thereby teaching William to do the same with his own grief and troubles, if he wanted to avoid further pain. Thus far, it had worked just fine.
But perhaps…perhaps speaking with the friend he had in Miss Paxton would help. Perhaps if he merely shared a few words more, he’d finally be able to comprehend the grief now encompassing him.
“I thought the same,” he began, his words slow and calculated, “that he had many years ahead of him, even with his weakness in his limbs.” He shook his head, the words growing in force, spilling over the dam he’d built around his heart and rushing forward—shame, regret, and sorrow rolled into one. “I’ve been so preoccupied of late. I haven’t made enough time for them to even notice the change in him.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb against his closed eyes. “He fell down the stairs a few days ago and hasn’t left his bed since. The physician believes that he may never get up again. And I just can’t imagine—”
His voice cracked, ending his words. He gritted his teeth. He shouldn’t be revealing such emotion, such weakness, especially in front of Miss Paxton. But the truth of the matter was, he was weak. He was exhausted, weary, and worn down to the very earth. He needed to sleep, to rest from all he’d learned that evening. But he couldn’t bear to be alone. Not right now.
He’d been alone for too long.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Eastwood,” Miss Paxton whispered. “I know how close you are to the both of them. I can’t imagine the heartache you and Mrs. Rutledge must be experiencing.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, blinking hard to push away the emotion rising within him, induced by her soft, compassionate tone.
The silence between them persisted, her empathy nearly tangible, and despite his best efforts, a tear escaped his eye and slipped down his cheek.
Hoping perhaps she hadn’t seen the moisture in the darkness, William averted his gaze. But he stilled as Miss Paxton reached a tentative hand forward.
As her soft fingers finally made contact with his cheek, her gentle strokes removed any trace of moisture from his skin. He released a slow breath, unwittingly leaning into her touch. Instead of causing more grief and more pain, her caress drew out any remaining sorrow, all while immersing his person with reassurance and newfound strength.
He was soothed and comforted in a way he’d never known—all by a simple touch. When she pulled away, he opened his eyes, having no memory of closing them to begin with.
She peered up at him, and a vulnerability pulled his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to…”
But she shook her head. “There is no need to apologize, not while showing grief for a loved one’s ailment. It is natural. Healthy, even.”
“You are right, of course.” He cleared his throat. “I just didn’t expect to…”
She nodded with understanding. “I’m sure you are tired. And you must allow yourself time to process your sorrow. He is very dear to you.”
“He is. They both are. They…”
He paused. Miss Paxton looked up at him expectantly. Could he share with her what he wished to share? Speak about his past without losing control and turning into a blubbering mess?
Charity didn’t like speaking of her feelings, or of the Rutledges. She’d never really befriended them as William had. She was too preoccupied with caring for her own mother since her father’s passing…
He shook his head. He didn’t really wish to speak of his past, did he? Yet, from somewhere deep inside, a desire rose up within him like a pillar of fire—a desire to tell Miss Paxton everything, in order to explain the depth of his relationship with the Rutledges.
But how could he, after keeping it inside for so long, swearing he’d never speak of it again? This had always been one of the main deciding factors in his choice to marry Charity. That, and how it would help both of their families heal wounds brought upon them long ago—wounds caused by Grandfather’s pride and carelessness. With Charity as his wife, he wouldn’t have to speak of his past to anyone.
Yet, right now, he didn’t have to. Not once had Miss Paxton pressed him for information about his grandfather. She’d treated William with respect and civility, unlike countless people he’d grown up with—and that kindness was deserving of an explanation.
Now to see if his courage lasted.
Leaning against the stone wall with his hands behind him, he began. “I’m sure you’ve gathered enough from me and others to understand that I was raised in a very controlling household, dictated solely by
my grandfather.”
Miss Paxton nodded hesitantly. “I have, though I’ve done my best not to listen to the rumors, sir. I know you value your privacy.”
He nodded his gratitude for her words—words which were more proof that he could trust this woman with his family’s sordid history.
“I appreciate the respect you’ve shown me. However, I should like to share more, if you care to hear?”
She nodded, a strand of hair falling from her plaited hair. “I should like that very much, Mr. Eastwood.”
Chapter Seventeen
With the cold air forgotten, William drew in a deep breath, expecting more resistance from his own tongue, but as soon as he began, the words did not stop. “Grandfather had a firm hold on both of my parents. He would say things—horrible things—to them, merely to break down their spirits so they would be more submissive. I watched this from a young age and knew straight from the beginning, I did not want such a life for myself.
“As I grew older, I attempted to rebel in every possible way—stealing boats, playing with the children he forbade me from seeing, walking instead of riding a horse, helping our tenants in any way I could imagine. Though, he still forced me to be privately tutored at home for years so he could have a closer watch over me.”
Miss Paxton shook her head. “I can’t imagine such a life.”
“It was miserable, in the truest sense of the word. But somehow, Father encouraged Grandfather to allow me to go to Oxford. It was there I tasted true freedom, what life was like without living under the thumb of a ruthless despot.”
“But you returned,” Miss Paxton stated. “Forgive me, but I don’t understand why you would.”
His lip tugged up wryly. “I was naïve enough to believe I could convince my parents to change their ways, to stand up to Grandfather, so they could be happy, as I finally was. However, upon my return, I discovered things were far worse than when I left. Grandfather’s health had deteriorated, and with it, he became all the more vindictive. All his properties, tenants, and friends had been neglected and forgotten, except for his precious Birchwick Hall.”
William’s lip twitched. How proud that man was of his estate, the immaculate gardens, the expanse of wealth emphasized in his fountains and statues, his hedge maze and grand trees. If William could demolish the entire estate, he would.
He shook his head and continued. “He no longer allowed my parents to leave Coniston. They couldn’t attend any social gatherings, nor did he hold any at Birchwick. If he was not well enough to see anyone or do anything, no one could.”
Miss Paxton’s brow crumpled. “This is why you were so adamant I stand up to Hugh, because you thought he had the same hold over me as your grandfather had over your parents.”
He nodded in silence, and she continued. “I can’t imagine such a life. How could anyone be so cruel, so thoughtless?”
William hesitated for the first time. Was he really about to share the truth behind his grandfather’s actions, why the estates were really mismanaged? Charity knew only because her mother told her, but the majority of those in town merely speculated the truth.
Yet he knew, deep down, he could trust Miss Paxton to keep it to herself. “My father told me that his own grandfather was just as controlling. They were taught from a very young age that a father’s opinion surpassed all others and that women held lesser value. Grandfather had convinced Father that he needn’t have any more children because one male heir was enough, though Mother always wished for more children. Despite Father doing most of what his own father said, he fortunately did not adopt the mindset that he was better than his wife.”
Miss Paxton’s lips twisted in disgust. “I cannot imagine living under such a mindset as your Grandfather’s. The women in your family must have been as unhappy as the gentlemen.”
William nodded somberly. “That was why I decided to never marry until Grandfather passed, so his cruelty would not be inflicted on any future wife I had. And as for my grandmother, I can only assume that she was just as unhappy as my mother. She died in childbirth, along with her second child. Though…” His lips thinned. “It was not my grandfather’s.”
Miss Paxton’s brow pursed in confusion, then slowly, her lips parted. “Oh. Oh, I see.” She looked away, the blush visible on her cheeks even in the darkness.
He regretted his words in an instant. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t speak of such matters. I—”
“No, I’m glad you did.” She swallowed. “I was merely surprised, that is all.”
“I was, too, when I first discovered the truth from Mrs.…” He shook his head. That is one part of the story Miss Paxton did not need to know—how Charity’s mother knew of his family’s past more than he did. How her husband’s death was caused by…“Much hearsay has been spread about me and my family, about my life. But this is the truth of the matter. This is why Grandfather left the manor and cottage in ruins. It was where he first discovered her betrayal. At first, he had leased the estates to gain more money to improve the state of Birchwick—his true love—but I believe the memory ate away at him, even to the day he died.”
Miss Paxton blew out a breath, stroking the end of her plaited hair, tied off with a red ribbon. Were the strands as soft as they appeared?
“Was that his reasoning behind his neglect of his tenants, too? Including the Rutledges?” she asked.
William nodded. “After being wronged by his wife, Grandfather gave up on caring for anyone but himself. He forbade Father from helping, as well, but he could not stop me, though he threatened to strip me of my inheritance, along with countless other warnings.”
He peered out to the side of him, candlelight reflecting off the brooklet like small crystals. He wasn’t certain where his words were headed, but as they continued, he could not stop them. “Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge have been there for me since the beginning, in the darkest moments of my life. When I was twelve, I was determined to leave Birchwick and never return. Mrs. Rutledge found me late at night, wandering the streets of Coniston. She invited me in for a slice of pie, then both she and Mr. Rutledge encouraged me to return, for the sake of my parents—and for the sake of the tenants. I realized then where my duty lay, and I haven’t looked back since. So I will continue to help my tenants, especially the Rutledges, until I can help them no longer.”
“I’m certain they will forever be grateful for your help.”
“I can only hope.”
Their eyes met as his words finally ended, and an odd sensation occurred within him. He’d been afraid to share his feelings for so long—as if speaking aloud would make him relive the painful memories. But the opposite had occurred. Despite his grief over Mr. Rutledge’s declining health, William almost felt…free.
But would this freedom have come if he’d spoken with anyone but Miss Paxton?
At the thought, a discomfort burgeoned in his chest. He told himself it was due to sharing almost everything he’d held inside for years. But deep down he knew, he knew the soreness was due to whatever was happening in his heart as Miss Paxton’s eyes sparkled, staring up at him.
Charity’s eyes had never shone in such a way.
He shifted his footing to dispel the thought, chuckling nervously as he rubbed a hand against his chest. “Look at me, chattering away as if the two of us weren’t outside alone in the cold after midnight. I do apologize.”
“That is all right.” Her voice drifted around them in the otherwise sleeping earth. “I’m grateful you trusted me enough to speak of such things. I know it can’t be easy.”
William had been about to agree, to open up about how difficult it had been for him to share these things with anyone, but he bit his tongue. This woman must have a spell on him. There was no other explanation as to why he would wish to speak so much.
As the silence between them continued, he searched for a different topic, ignoring the fact that he really should be leaving for home. “I’m sorry our boating excursion ended so abruptly this morning. I’m certain y
ou were all disappointed.”
She shrugged. “My parents were. Though I was rather relieved to see it come to an end.”
He’d already shared all the words he wished to say, and he now felt a great deal better. He really should leave. And yet…
“Why is that?” he asked.
“I suppose it did not turn out the way I had hoped it would.”
Leave, William. Leave.
“You refer to Hugh’s suggestion for you to boat with Mr. Roberts?” Blast his errant tongue.
She looked away. “You are too astute, sir.”
His eyes traced the soft curve of her neck and the slight tip of her nose, and his heart reached out to her. “I wish you would not abide by his advice.”
“And I wish you would tell me what the two of you argued over.”
He smiled at her quip. “Perhaps I will, if you tell me exactly who Mr. Roberts is.”
“He is Hugh’s friend.”
“And…” he prodded.
William didn’t think Mr. Roberts was anyone special, at least not to Miss Paxton, as was evident by her clear discomfort around the gentleman. But he knew there was something more between them than she was letting on.
She fiddled with her plait again. How charming she looked in the candlelight, with her hair loose and hanging around her face, wearing her dressing gown.
His heart tripped. Thoughts of his past and Mr. Rutledge’s ill health kept his mind from dwelling too much on her appearance. But now, with no distraction from her ethereal presence—her delicate, white dressing gown and blonde hair highlighted by the candlelight—he had nowhere else to look.
“I will answer your question,” she began, “when you tell me who Miss Winslow is.”
His heart dropped. This was the perfect time to be honest, to tell her his intention to marry his childhood friend. But then, what would that do to his relationship with Miss Paxton? Would they no longer be able to speak as comfortably as they did now? He’d certainly have to stop talking to her in such a compromising situation, but he wasn’t ready to. Not yet. Besides, the chance of someone walking by and finding them together was highly unlikely.
The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5) Page 17
