“The master is not at home, my Lady,” Holmes said as he took her pelisse from her.
“He is not?” She repeated in surprise. She should have been happy at this news, she knew it. It meant there was a little distance between her and Loftus, a distance that she did not have to orchestrate. Yet there was a little disappointment there too. She attempted to shake off the feeling.
“No, my Lady. Markus is in the drawing room; I shall escort you.”
She nodded and followed Holmes to the drawing room. Markus was sat on one of the chairs, fiddling with his hands, apparently waiting for her.
“Markus!” She called before Holmes could introduce her formally. She was keen for Markus to feel comfortable with her, that a certain informality could exist between them. “How are you today, dear?” She hurried forward and around Holmes who was bowing to leave.
Markus was jumping off the chair, his face spreading into a smile at the sight of her. He nodded in reply to her question.
“That is excellent news. Now, I have had a little idea. Do you know how to play the pianoforte?” She pointed towards the grand piano in the corner of the room. Markus followed her gesture but shook his head. “Would you like to learn?”
He nodded again.
“Wonderful,” she held out her hand to him. He took it easily, without hesitation. “Come with me and we shall have a little play together.”
Sat side by side on the piano stool, a couple of hours passed easily. Augusta found Markus a keen student who was eager to learn. By the end of their time with the pianoforte, he could play a simple tune with one hand. Augusta found him more and more responsive to her conversation, his face showing his replies and depth of emotion. When she jested, he laughed easily without hesitation.
Keen to help him beyond just having a good time, they soon retreated to the library where Augusta began pulling out some of her old favorite books from her childhood.
“Would you like me to read a story, Markus?” She turned her head round to see him sat on a stool, nodding eagerly. “ I always had my favorites when I was your age. I had a particular liking for Aesop’s fables and of course, Robinson Crusoe. Do you know the story? The tale of the sea traveler who washes up on a deserted island?” The boy nodded again.
Augusta turned her eyes to the book spines in the shelves. She knew she could not tackle Markus’ grief head on, it could risk the boy retreating once again from her. The best plan she could think of was to tackle the matter indirectly. Her eyes landed on the title of a perfect book to discuss.
“How about Tales of Mother Goose? Have you heard of this one?”
Markus shook his head.
“It is a collection of fairy tales. Of strange and wonderous stories, and of course, magic.” She hurried to the chair beside him. “Would you like to give it a go?” The boy nodded eagerly, so she pulled back the cover and launched into the first tale.
Markus loved them all, but soon Augusta turned her eyes to the tale of Cinderella. Though a sad tale to begin, as the protagonist suffers bereavement of both of her parents, in the end, she finds a happy life.
Augusta knew it was a far cry from Markus’ own experience, but she wanted to slowly show him that bereavement was not the end. That life can continue, and great things can still be enjoyed in the world. To her relief, Markus seemed to greatly enjoy the narrative. She made no comment on the story and drew no parallels between them. She was simply happy to sew the seed in his mind that grief can be overcome.
It was in the last tale from the book of fairy tales that she realized Markus was no longer showing any animation at her side, no longer responding to the twists and turns of each story. He had fallen asleep, with his head resting in her lap. She placed the book on the arm of the chair beside her and turned her attention to him. As he slept, she stroked his brown hair back from his forehead, admiring the peace with which he could sleep. There was a small smile around his lips as he rested on her knees.
As daylight faded beyond the windows, a storm blew in. The wind and the rain battered the glass panes, leaving Augusta nervous as she stood in the hallway, preparing to leave. She had pinned her hat in place and pulled her pelisse around her chest, but nothing could protect her from the gale outside.
When the footman had come to announce dinner for Markus, she had to raise him from his slumber and help deliver him to the small dining room. He was a little sad when she had to go, but she made a promise to see him again the next day.
She peered through the window beside the front door, her anxiety growing by the moment. The rain was already streaming from the houses down to the pathways, flooding the street and creating a shallow river. A flash of lightning blinded her for a moment, followed shortly by a boom of thunder. It was hazardous; to take a carriage out in such weather could mean risking the life of the driver.
I cannot stay here.
The option to stay was not practical. To stay into late evening at the house of a widower when she was a spinster? Would it not spell scandal? Especially as they used to be betrothed. She knew she had no choice. She buttoned up her pelisse, preparing to search for Holmes and ask for the use of the carriage when the door opened in front of her.
It was the Baron. He walked through the door, sodden to the bone, struggling to close the door again behind him from the strength of the wind. As he finally managed to close it, he leaned against the door and removed his hat. His brown hair was flattened, water running from the tendrils down his forehead and across his cheeks. His clothes were stuck to his skin, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders.
Augusta had to force her eyes up from his body to his face. Her mind more than a little distracted by his appearance.
“A little wet out, is it?” She teased as he snapped his head round to see her. He had not realized she was stood nearby.
“You could describe it so,” he smiled in return. It lit up his features. Augusta felt an ache in her stomach to make him smile again. His eyes moved from her face to her clothes, taking note of the pelisse and her preparations to leave. “You cannot leave now Miss Creassey. The weather is far too dangerous for travelling. The carriage could tip and endanger both you and the driver.”
“I have no wish to endanger anyone,” Augusta flinched as another crack of thunder sounded overhead. It rumbled for a few moments over the top of the house, urging them both to cast their eyes to the ceiling for a moment. “But you and I both know that I cannot stay here. I must leave.”
She watched as the Baron rested his head back again on the door in resignation.
“Yes, I suppose you are right.” He moved away from the door, took off his high-waisted jacket and began to squeeze the excess water from the garment – the rainwater fell in dregs to the floor. “At least wait a few minutes until the storm has lightened. I could not see for the rain out there.”
“No,” she said firmly, walking towards the door, close to his side. She had made up her mind. Seeing the Baron with his jacket off was making her remember the dream of the night before. It made her anger at him spike, anger that he could make her want him in such a way. She could not possibly stay. It was too dangerous for her crumpled heart to bear. He was too much of a temptation. “I must leave now.”
“Do not be foolish. Would you walk the whole way home?” His voice was sharp.
“If it comes to it.” She jerked her chin, defiance in her countenance.
“Anything could happen to you in that storm,” he gestured to the door as he threw his jacket on the nearby coat stand.
“I am stronger than I look,” she turned her head towards him and tilted her chin high.
“Are you indeed? Well, I struggled against that storm, and I remember a particular evening in our past where we proved that I was the stronger one of the two of us.” The smirk and taunt from the Baron nearly made Augusta laugh. The reference certainly startled her.
It had been an evening in their courtship. They had stolen out of the main room of an assembly together when convers
ation had turned flirtatious, Loftus suggesting he could carry her easily, that he would show her how once they were married. She had defied him, teasing him that he might not be strong enough to carry her. It had ended in a competition of strength with an arm wrestle. Augusta had lost.
“Perhaps I have grown stronger since then,” Augusta challenged again, noting how the Baron was trying to hold back his own laughter.
“Miss Creassey be serious for a moment. It is far too dangerous out there for you to attempt to walk such a distance.” He stood pointing at the doorway with one hand on his hip. His white shirt and waistcoat were wet, sticking to the outline of his arms and chest. Augusta was finding it even harder to tear her eyes away from him. She could not stay in his company.
“Perhaps you could lend me a horse then?” She asked, determined to leave. “With a horse I would only be risking my own health, not a coach driver’s.”
“Miss Creassey –”
“I cannot stay here, Baron Bardolf.” The seriousness with which she spoke appeared to connect with him. He adjusted his countenance for a moment. He turned away from her and snatched his jacket off the coat stand again.
“Very well, upon one condition,” he was frustrated, pulling his wet coat on over his arms with some difficulty.
“Which is?”
“I will ride with you.”
“That is not possible,” she scoffed and stepped towards the door again, her voice harsh.
“You are a guest in my home,” the Baron moved to her side, preparing to open the door. “What kind of host would I be if I allowed you to travel home in such dangerous weather? I could not countenance it. I will ride with you as far as the road of your house, to ensure you make it safely home.”
“I do not accept your terms.” She shook her head, trying to look away from him.
“Then no horse.” He shrugged as if it did not matter to him. “I leave it in your hands, Miss Creassey. Would you like me to escort you through the storm? Or would you prefer to stay here and risk scandal?”
She did not need to consider the question, she moved again towards the door, wordlessly giving him her answer.
Chapter Seven
Augusta was struggling to see through the heavy downpour. Each droplet of rain appeared to be as large as a bucket. The roads beneath the horse’s feet were slippery, dappled with puddles. The horse below her was nervous too. As she sat side saddle, instructing its path through the street, it grew tense and frequently neighed in objection of being out on so foul an evening.
As another clap of thunder struck, the street momentarily ablaze with white lightning, and the Baron’s horse beside her protested too, whinnying loudly.
“This is unbearable!” The Baron called to her, in order to be heard over the tempest. He made no effort to conceal his anger from her. He was infuriated at being taken out in such weather. “I can barely see our path.”
“I do not need to see it,” she professed as she led the way in front. “I could do this journey with my eyes closed.”
“You appear to be forgetting that it is your horse who is walking it and not yourself.”
She ignored his quip, too aware of the onslaught of the rain. It was making her cold and shivery as the water seeped through her clothes and corset. Her hair was sticking to her neck uncomfortably in tendrils.
“Miss Creassey, we must return,” he warned again, moving his horse to her side. “The weather is worsening –” In answer to his words, the thunder cracked overhead again. She flinched at the sound. “To reach your house, the road passes alongside a river. I would not be surprised if that river has burst its bank. This is too dangerous.”
“I cannot go back to your house, you know that,” she glanced at him, her voice firm, seeing his green eyes sharp beneath the darkness of his hat. Water was running off the brim, dripping down in front of his face.
She looked away from him to the path, but the horse beneath her suddenly slipped. She tried to rearrange her hold on the reins, yet it was too late to take control. The horse had completely lost its footing.
“Augusta!”
She barely noticed the Baron had used her first name. She was tumbling to the ground with the horse. She landed in one of the puddles and hurried away on her knees, ignoring the flash of pain that ricocheted through her legs. She moved before the horse could roll onto her. She looked back, trying to jump to her feet.
The Baron had already leapt down from his own horse to steady hers, urging him to stand and be calm again. Once the steed was settled, the Baron turned his attention to her, rushing to her side.
“Are you well? Are you injured?”
“I am fine,” she was breathing heavily though, irked at his concern. It bothered her that he was worried for her. He had not been worried eight years ago when he had given his attention to another woman. She kept her eyes down, unwilling to look in his face as she checked her body for injury through the rain.
“Do you accept now the danger of this journey?”
Thunder clapped again.
“Perhaps,” she relented, walking away from him back towards her horse. He followed her. She took hold of the horse’s reins, but before she could pull herself into the saddle, the Baron also grabbed the reins, preventing her, his movement sudden and sharp, bringing her close to him. They paused for a moment, their eyes both flared in anger towards each other.
“Let us at least ride out the storm somewhere.” He gestured to an empty house at the end of the road. It was a building that had long been in disrepair, abandoned years ago and left vacant. “In there. I shall bring the horses. Once the rain eases, I will escort you the rest of the way to your house.”
She wanted to object, but the escapade had proven how dangerous it was. She could barely see the end of the road to where the house stood. She nodded in assent.
He took both sets of reins and guided the horses down the street as she rushed ahead, eager to be in the safety of the abandoned house. Whilst he tied the horses up under some shelter, Augusta hurried to the door and pushed it open. The old oak door swung open with a whine, revealing a grey house beyond, clouded in the darkness of the night and filled with shadows.
She stepped inside, relieved to be away from the assault of the rain. She stood in the entrance, her skirt dripping and creating a new puddle, unsure which way to direct her feet. Either side of her were two once grand rooms, now empty of furniture with wallpaper peeling and cobwebs in the corners. She chose the smallest of the two rooms, stepping inside with her feet urging the floorboards to creak beneath her. She moved to an old fireplace, her shivers dominating her figure, wondering if there was a way to start a fire.
“I will look for some firewood.” The Baron’s words startled her. She clutched the mantle of the fireplace and looked back to him. He was watching her from the doorway to the room. She nodded in reply.
What am I doing?
The question ran through her mind repeatedly. Should anyone discover that she and the Baron had been alone together in such a house, their reputations would be tarnished, yet she had no choice. She quickly unbuttoned the pelisse, determined to be practical, and pulled it free of her shoulders. She squeezed it in the corner of the room, watching as the water ran from it, creating a new puddle. She unpinned her hat too, but the material was so sodden, it was beyond repair, the silk permanently damaged. She left it on the windowsill and turned back into the room. She jumped when she found the Baron in the doorway again.
He was staring at her, with the wood of an old broken chair in his arms. His eyes were not on her face, but on her clothes. She looked down, following his gaze. Her blue empire gown clung to her figure, emphasizing the slimness of her waist, the curve of her hips and the contour of her bosom. She pulled the pelisse back around her body, hiding from him. She was maddened by his attention to her. It made her movements sharp as she looked past him.
He snapped his gaze away, as though burned and walked towards the fireplace. He kept his focus on the fire
as he set to work, preparing the wood in a pyramid shape and using an old, discarded tinder box to bring a spark to the kindling. It took a few minutes, but the wood soon set alight and glowed orange and red, the aura dancing across the room, lighting the shadows.
The Baron sat down on the floorboards beside the fireplace and removed his jacket, tossing it to the side in order to dry. Augusta turned her eyes away, trying not to look at how his clothes clung to his figure too.
“Miss Creassey, you are shivering, I can see it from here.” He looked over his shoulder, toward where she stood by the windowsill, his voice firm. “Come near the fire, for goodness sake, it will keep you warm.” He looked back to the flames, with his exasperation evident.
In the Baron's Debt: Historical Regency Romance Page 6