Wyndcross (The Families 0f Dorset Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  The woman Sally leaned her broom against the house, wrapping her arm around Mrs. Clarkson and saying in a motherly voice, “There, there, Louisa. Let me have the babe for a moment. Rest yourself.” She took the baby and shot a darkling look at Lord Ashworth before pulling the blanket tighter around the baby.

  Kate noticed that her stomach felt tight, as if she were listening to a conversation she had no right to hear. Beyond plugging her ears, though, she was powerless to avoid it.

  Lord Ashworth was staring at Sally, visibly rattled by her behavior toward him. He seemed to shake himself back to the situation at hand, though, and turned back to Mrs. Clarkson.

  “Madam, it would seem that I or my family have played some part in your distress, and this determines me even more to do something. What can I do?” He handed her his handkerchief, which she thanked him for and proceeded to wipe her eyes with.

  “You are too kind, my lord,” said Mrs. Clarkson, “but there isn’t anything to be done.” She paused and swallowed loudly as another gush of tears spilled over. “It’s Jasper. He’s been arrested, and they say he will hang.” Her voice broke on the final word, and she covered her mouth with both hands.

  “Good heavens,” Lord Ashworth breathed. “For what?”

  “They say he’s a free-trader, my lord,” Mrs. Clarkson said tearfully. “But he isn’t! Not my Jasper! He’s an honest man.”

  “And him with a brand-new babe and a wife to feed and care for,” interjected Sally, incensed.

  Lord Ashworth looked troubled. “No, indeed. Jasper is the last person I would suspect of doing anything contrary to the law. Did they present any evidence for the charges?”

  “They say they found smuggled goods on the property. Fifty barrels full of French wine.”

  “Anytime I see a barrel in these parts,” Sally said, “I shake my head and give ‘em a wide berth. Lord knows what’s hiding inside with all these free-traders about.”

  Lord Ashworth chewed his lip, his arms crossed. “Was it false evidence?”

  Mrs. Clarkson shook her head. “There were indeed fifty of the barrels, but—” Mrs. Clarkson stopped herself and colored up.

  Lord Ashworth frowned. “But what?”

  Mrs. Clarkson bit her lower lip, her eyebrows drawn together in uncertainty.

  Sally appeared to have calmed down and was looking at Lord Ashworth with a considering gaze. She kept her eyes on him but said to Mrs. Clarkson, “Go on, my love. Tell him.”

  Mrs. Clarkson seemed to find it hard to articulate what she had to say and would not meet Lord Ashworth’s eyes. “It is just that...well, you see...I….”

  Lord Ashworth intervened, taking one of her hands between his in a reassuring clasp.

  “Please, do not feel a need to spare my feelings.”

  Mrs. Clarkson looked at him with a grimace and took a deep breath. “Jasper doesn’t hold with the free-traders, my lord. But I believe there is a general understanding among the tenants here that we are to—” she hesitated “—look the other way, as it were, when our property is used for such purposes. That is, if we hope to remain tenants.” She lowered her eyes.

  Sally nodded in approval but also seemed wary of meeting Lord Ashworth’s eyes.

  He nodded, his jaw tight.

  “Thank you for confiding in me. I will make things right. These things can take time, which is unfortunate, as your needs—” he nodded toward her baby “—are immediate in nature. In the meantime, please do not hesitate to call on me for any need at all. I will ensure that you are cared for in Jasper’s absence.”

  He patted Mrs. Clarkson’s hand before bowing to her and to Sally, who looked torn between approval and suspicion, and then he walked back to the wagon.

  11

  Kate’s eyes stayed trained on Mrs. Clarkson as Lord Ashworth climbed back into the wagon with much less energy than he had done the first time. He ordered the driver to proceed then turned to Kate to make his apologies. His expression was sober, and it was apparent that his mind was elsewhere.

  She was at a loss for what to say, feeling guilty for having been witness to a scene she was sure Lord Ashworth could never have wanted an audience for. She felt her stomach twist and turn at the thought of Mrs. Clarkson’s plight.

  The circumstances of Jasper Clarkson’s arrest brought back a flood of unpleasant memories for Kate. But before she had time to come up with any response to Lord Ashworth’s apologies, the wagon jolted forward, reminding Kate forcibly of her injury, and replacing all other thoughts with intense discomfort.

  Just as she felt unable to bear any more and was on the verge of calling out to the driver to stop the wagon, her legs lifted off the wagon floor.

  She opened her eyes.

  Lord Ashworth placed the blanket and her feet on his own lap and then secured them with his arms to prevent them from moving, one arm underneath and one above. Though something inside her urged her to draw back from such an intimacy, she was too grateful for the relief from pain that his intervention had brought to do anything but smile weakly and utter a feeble thank you.

  After a few moments, Kate glanced at him. He was staring at the wall of the wagon, his eyes glazed over, and his forehead creased. She was sure he must be reflecting on the encounter with Mrs. Clarkson. Whatever his reflections were, they did not appear to be pleasant. She was conscious of a wish to smooth out the crease in his brow and make him smile and laugh again.

  He seemed to sense her gaze on him and looked up.

  “I’m sorry,” he shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I was lost in thought. I apologize for the exchange you witnessed. I am sure it could not have been comfortable for you.”

  “There is no need for an apology, my lord, though I am sure you were wishing me at Jericho.”

  He smiled but shook his head. “Quite impossible, ma’am, I assure you.”

  “And I assure you,” she contradicted, “that it is quite possible. You need only ask my maid or my aunt; in short, those who know me best have wished me at Jericho any number of times.”

  He chuckled softly only to become grave again.

  She clasped her hands in her lap. “I understand that the situation is quite serious,” she said, her color slightly heightened. “Forgive my levity.”

  “It is a sobering situation,” he said, biting a knuckle in distraction.

  It was indeed sobering. The small baby Mrs. Clarkson had been holding was perilously near to growing up without her father. Kate’s own youngest sister Julia had only been a baby when their father had died. Kate’s nostrils flared and her eyes stung as she thought of another family experiencing such an injustice.

  What would Lord Ashworth do? Would he stand up to the free-traders as her father had done? In a way, she envied him. He was in a position to act. Did he realize the good he could do? Perhaps she could help him see.

  “I admit that I myself have very little patience with free trading.” She spoke slowly, choosing each word with care. “My father’s death was the indirect result of it.”

  Lord Ashworth again looked up at her, his expression unreadable.

  It had been ages since she had spoken of his death. She took a steadying breath. “When he took issue with the local band of smugglers who had begun using our horses at will, he was shot for his trouble and died a few days later.

  “I have spent my life,” she continued, “wishing that I could have done something to prevent his death. Wondering why such an injustice happened to such a good person. He was trying to do right.”

  She exhaled. “I promised myself long ago that I would show the same integrity he showed at the end of his life if I ever had the chance.” She looked at Lord Ashworth intently. “If you have that chance, my lord, please take it. You stand in a position to do much good for people like the Clarksons. Surely there will be others like them if nothing is done.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Perhaps things would have gone differently for my own family if someone with your influence had interv
ened.”

  Lord Ashworth drew in a long breath and let it out slowly, his eyes staring blankly at the pattern of Kate’s dress which draped over his lap. He said nothing.

  Had she overstepped a line or given offense? After all, who was she to tell him what to do or how to handle his responsibilities? Suddenly her passion seemed a gross encroachment and an undeniable impropriety. Her cheeks grew warm.

  “Forgive me, my lord. It is a subject on which I feel strongly, and in my passion, I have forgotten myself. I’m sure the last thing you need is a lecture from a stranger. I am still learning to hold my tongue.”

  He smiled somewhat quizzically.

  “What is it?” Kate asked.

  He bit his upper lip before answering. “Nothing important. Your words simply brought Shakespeare to mind.”

  Kate’s brows went up. “Shakespeare?”

  One corner of his lips turned up. “‘I do desire we may be better strangers.’ I could almost hear you say it. I find it curious that you should call yourself a stranger to me.”

  She laughed shakily. “As You Like It?”

  He nodded, visibly impressed.

  “Well that is not what I meant,” she said, “though I always appreciate a Shakespeare reference.”

  “Do you feel that we are strangers, then?” He looked contemplative, but to Kate this was a welcome change from his gravity.

  “Well we are not strangers, per se,” Kate conceded, “but we are very near it, are we not?”

  He smiled and then looked at her through squinted eyes. “That is not an answer to my question. I didn’t ask if we are actual strangers but whether or not you feel that we are.”

  She drew back, surprised by the question and unsure what to make of his asking it.

  His quizzical smile remained, as if he knew that his question had hit home.

  She thought about the set they had danced in London, their unexpected meeting at the abbey a few short days ago, and the limited time they had spent in one other’s company since. Of course they were essentially strangers! But even as she went to answer, she stopped.

  It would be to tell an untruth. She returned his gaze and for a moment searched for the answer to his question.

  She had felt a baffling connection with him, even from their first meeting at the ball, before she had known his name or anything about him.

  She had dismissed the feeling as silly and romantic, but it persisted despite her best efforts. Seeing a more serious and considerate side of him as she was now had strengthened the draw she felt.

  When she finally answered him, her gaze had moved to the passing trees behind him, and her voice was calm and quiet, as if she was unsure whether she wanted him to hear the word.

  “No.”

  Having uttered it, she almost wished the word back. It felt like a betrayal of Clara.

  Lord Ashworth watched her for a moment. “How are your injuries?” The tension broke with the question. His quizzical look had disappeared.

  She realized that she had forgotten her ankle and knee altogether in the past few minutes. “Much better than before, thank you. I am sure it is nothing serious. So, you see I have quite needlessly ruined the day for you.”

  “Nonsense. I find myself in good company. Lancelot will be happy to return me to the picnic once I am sure that you are attended to.”

  His return to regular conversation soothed her inner agitation. She thanked him and fell silent again, wondering how long her clumsiness would put her out of commission.

  “It is obvious that you are very much at home in the saddle, Miss Matcham. I presume you like to ride?”

  “I do indeed,” she replied. “More than I have found opportunity for in London, so the country suits me very well.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” He looked around them at the undulating landscape. “There are plenty of fine rides along the coast in the county. I hope you will experience a few of them at least during your stay.”

  “I should be only too glad to do so.” She tilted her head to the side, considering Cinnamon who was being led by a servant behind the wagon. “Though, I confess that I am sorely missing my own horse after today. Cinnamon—that is, this mare Lady Crofte has kindly allowed me to ride today—she’s a sweet girl but quite without the spicy personality her name suggests.”

  Lord Ashworth chuckled. “Perhaps her name was chosen wishfully rather than descriptively. My own Lancelot, though a fine chap, suffers from a similar condition. He is an appalling coward, constantly shying at the smallest stick. He puts me entirely to shame, but he will respond to no other name.”

  “Well, take heart.” Kate’s eyes sparkled with merriment. “Courage can be learned. My own mare was named for her appearance rather than her personality.” She stared off at a field which came into view as they turned a corner. “I actually feel a bit selfish being here without her. She loves a good gallop, which is simply not to be had in London. At least not without severe consequences, I have found.”

  “Well that sounds like a story if I ever heard one!” He folded his arms, ready to be entertained.

  Kate shook her head adamantly, her eyes twinkling as she remembered the severe scolding she had received from Fanny.

  “One day I shall hear the story, Miss Matcham,” he said in a rallying tone. “You are quite attached to your mare, then.”

  She nodded slowly. “To say truth, I miss her quite as much as I miss my friends, though I’m sure it is not at all the thing for me to say so. Fanny is forever reminding me that Cleopatra is a beast, not a human. But I have had her since I was a girl. She was a gift from my father and so has more meaning than just any horse, I think.”

  The last sentence trailed off a bit as Kate realized how much she was revealing to him—someone whom she had pledged to view through a disinterested lens. She bit her lip, as if trying to stay her confidences. Her wont was to draw others out in conversation rather than speaking of herself. Both Lady Anne and Lord Ashworth, though, seemed to bring out a part of her that was more prone to share her own thoughts.

  When they arrived at Wyndcross, Avery came out to meet the wagon, clearly wondering why it contained people rather than picnic supplies.

  “Ah, Avery,” Lord Ashworth greeted him. “Just the man we need. Miss Matcham has received an injury. We thought it wise to escort her home so that she can rest and receive any necessary treatment.”

  Avery’s brows knit. “The mare is never hurt, Miss, is she?”

  Kate had been gratified by Avery’s concerned expression. However, it had clearly been not on her own account but on the account of the horse. She bit her lip to suppress a smile and looked at Lord Ashworth whose eyes twinkled in enjoyment as he glanced at her.

  “As you can see,” she indicated the horse being led by an approaching servant. “Cinnamon is unharmed. Thankfully my clumsiness brought injury only to myself.”

  “Well, Miss, I’m glad to hear that,” Avery said, taking Cinnamon’s reins and running his eye over the horse.

  Lord Ashworth covered a laugh with a cough, and Kate pursed her lips to keep from smiling as their eyes met.

  “Yes,” Lord Ashworth said, “very fortunate that Miss Matcham was injured.”

  Kate nudged him.

  Avery was still inspecting Cinnamon and seemed not to notice. He stood up, his eyes lingering on the horse, and said, “Only wait here while I fetch help to carry you inside, if you please, Miss.”

  “Allow me,” Lord Ashworth said, “to assist you in transporting Miss Matcham inside. I am happy to do so.”

  Avery agreed, and using their arms, they made a makeshift chair for Kate. She made every effort to be as easy a charge as possible, but she cursed her clumsiness.

  She was taken into the library where the two men placed her on the chaise-lounge. Avery rushed off to inform Lady Crofte of the situation, leaving Kate alone with Lord Ashworth. She thanked him for his escort, and, determined to subdue the desire she felt to spend more time in his company, begged him to
return to the group at Saint Catherine’s Chapel.

  He looked at her for a moment. “I would like to stay to ensure that you are well-cared for, but my experience tells me, as yours does, I imagine, that Lady Crofte is an expert on all things invalid. You could hardly be left in more capable and empathetic hands. My only concern is that you may be crushed with concern. The best we may hope for is that her personal doctor is engaged elsewhere. I have no great opinion of him.” He considered a moment and added, “I doubt if anyone could hold him in higher esteem than he holds himself.” He flashed a charming smile at her. “I shall pay you a visit tomorrow to see how you go on, though.”

  He held her gaze for a moment with a warm smile and then, without waiting for a response, bowed and left her to herself. She blinked quickly and took in a steadying breath as she watched him leave the room, keenly aware of the way her treacherous heart had fluttered at his gaze.

  Kate’s promise to keep her distance from Lord Ashworth, to stop her burgeoning feelings in their tracks, to encourage things between Lord Ashworth and Clara; all had been utter disasters. A more miserable failure of her plans she could not have imagined. Of what use were her good intentions if what actually transpired had the opposite effect?

  The only redeeming quality of the day was meeting and conversing with Lady Anne. Everything else left her feeling confused. Even Henry’s behavior toward her was perturbing. She could find no reason for his strange demeanor. It seemed that Clara was going to some trouble to force association between Kate and Henry. Whether this was a result of Henry’s constrained manner or the underlying cause of it, Kate couldn’t be sure.

  Lady Crofte entered, all kindness and concern for Kate’s unfortunate injury. So full of stories of her own maladies and misfortunes was she that the doctor was only called for after a significant amount of time had passed. Kate breathed a sigh of relief when the doctor’s request that a poultice be made took Lady Crofte out of the room, touting the merits of her maid’s latest concoction.

  Doctor Attwood was obviously well-matched as the caretaker of someone like Lady Crofte, indulgent and prone to exaggerate as he was. Though Kate was dismayed at first by his grave demeanor, she soon saw through the grim predictions and prognosis he provided. She was frustratingly reasonable and bafflingly oblivious to the martyr-like approach Doctor Attwood seemed to expect of his patients. She discovered quickly that the good doctor would not willingly allow her to undercut his professional opinion with her calm and composed rationality. He seemed to feel it incumbent upon himself to make her understand the gravity of her situation.