by Tessa Candle
Surely he could not. And there would be no reason for Mrs. Holden to share Mr. Hatch's forwarding address with a stranger. She swallowed. That was something, at least. He must not know of her new identity. He must be visiting Brookshire for reasons unrelated to her.
Then a second wave of panic struck. She’d been a bloody complacent idiot. What if, when Cousin Peter asked about her, Mrs. Holden innocently let it slip that the Marquess of Fenimore had called to make similar enquiries? What if Cousin Peter had come to the neighbouring estate so that he might more easily spy on Fenimore in hopes of catching sight of his prey?
She was done for. She had to get away again. It was maddening when she was so close to being free—but that only meant that her cousin would have grown more desperate to murder her. She was more at risk than ever.
She had to get back to the hermitage, gather her things and flee. And yet she was forced to wait, as quietly as possible, until the unhappy man cleared out.
Her muscles grew sore from the strain of holding still, and every moment she feared the bell on her pole would ring, announcing the presence of a fish and alerting the man.
But after a quarter hour she heard a new sound. The man was snoring. She closed her eyes in a silent prayer of thanks. If she could just sneak away quietly. She looked regretfully at the pole. Removing it would certainly ring the bell. Her conscience stung to leave behind the borrowed angling equipment, but so it must be.
She mused about this sense of guilt as she crept along the bank of the stream. Why did her conscience bother her now? She was a woman with more than a little involvement in actual fraud and theft in her past. Omitting to return a fishing rod paled in comparison.
But she knew it meant something had changed in her heart. Never swindle good people was Andrews' creed. This small sin of not returning borrowed property bothered her because she now believed Frobisher was a good man—a bit nosey, but fundamentally good.
It was not just his rushing to prevent that horrid man from stabbing the woman, or the fact that he had expressed such respectful kindness—even a strange sort of affinity—for his newly acquired hermit. She had learned of his desire to find the Widow Colling, that his intentions were generous and noble, even toward her, a person whom by now he must know to be a swindler adventuress. This touched her, and she knew how dangerous these new feelings were.
Although she hurried on her way, she had a lengthy walk home during which to torture herself with the question of whose presence most endangered her: the evil cousin or Frobisher? She sighed. There was nothing for it. She was once again to be driven from the only shelter she had.
When she arrived at the hermitage, Rosamond's heart nearly leapt out of her chest when she opened the door. A man sat waiting, with what looked like a rifle beside him.
This was it. All her deception, disguise and wandering was for nought. Cousin Peter would finally kill her.
Chapter 40
Mr. Hatch was not at home when Frobisher paid his call, followed by several servants bearing baskets of provisions. But Frobisher kept a key to the hermitage in his pocket, so he let them in. It was handy having a key, and it made him feel closer, more connected to his hermit. It was not so odd. He owned the place, after all.
A brief enquiry revealed that the hermit had borrowed rod and tackle, and must therefore be out for some angling. It pleased Frobisher that Mr. Hatch had taken him up on the offer. He would surely return from his fishing trip when the sun neared setting.
Intrusive as it was, Frobisher took advantage of his absence and instructed the servants to fix up the cottage, furnishing it with some decent chairs and removing the sad patches of burlap in favour of proper curtains.
The straw in the bedroom was also replaced with a real bed and feather mattress. He was pleased with the work, and resolved to instruct the butler to find any other things that might make the hermitage more pleasant—if he ever got to have a word with him.
Jones had thus far evaded any audience with his master. But then, Frobisher had not spent much time at home this day, so he supposed they might merely have missed one another. He had not forgotten his anger with the servant, but he wished to focus on more pleasant things at the moment, such as visiting Mr. Hatch.
When all the provisions had been stowed, and the servants had laid out some dinner on the table for Mr Hatch and poured wine for their master to drink while he awaited the hermit's return, he dismissed them. He would prefer to chat privately.
However, sitting alone to wait without any amusements but his own thoughts was more than Frobisher could endure. He began to pace about the dining room, looking at things, making note of all the items he might bring to make the cottage more comfortable.
Then he went to the parlour in search of a book, but found none. He supposed that should not surprise him. The hermit was, by definition, of limited means. He could hardly spend his days patronizing book sellers. But finding nothing to read there, Frobisher was tempted to further intrusion. He went to search the bed chamber in the hope that Mr. Hatch might have a newspaper, at least.
There was no reading material to be found, but upon opening a cupboard, he found a casket and few of Mr. Hatch's personal items. They were still wrapped up from his travels, and Frobisher contemplated peeking into them, but he stopped himself.
It was one thing for him to poke about with the good intention of making improvements to the man's quarters. It was quite another to use this kindly act as a pretext for unpardonable spying.
He closed the cabinet and returned to the kitchen to deliver himself from temptation. He would learn about Mr. Hatch by talking with him. That was, after all, his intention in making the visit—not to initiate their acquaintance by violating his privacy. He tapped his pocket. He would keep the key to the hermitage, though. That only made sense.
Frobisher threw himself into a wooden chair at the kitchen table where he had leaned his walking stick, and poured himself another class of claret.
The door opened to reveal Mr. Hatch. He gaped at the sight of Frobisher, seated with his wine. The hermit's face was not merely startled or surprised. The suddenly pallid visage and wild eyes that first met Frobisher's gaze convinced him of the man’s absolute terror.
Frobisher stood up abruptly. "I am sorry to have startled you. I brought you some dinner—I thought I would tarry until you returned…" His voice trailed off. Mr Hatch was wobbling.
In a flash of movement, Frobisher was beside him, holding him up, supporting him until he could get him into the chair by the fire. Then he fetched the stunned man a glass of wine.
"Drink this. I must apologize for having frightened you so. Are you quite well?"
The blue eyes that looked up at him were calmer now, but held a puzzled look. "Not well, my lord. But I will be myself again soon. Forgive me. I must have been too long in the sun. And his lordship quite astounds me with kindness." The man now looked around the room at the improvements, smiling sadly. "I am sure I have done nothing to deserve this."
Frobisher again felt overwhelmed with warm feelings, awash in golden light and inexplicably happy to be in this man's presence. It might have disturbed him, if he could lift himself from the euphoria long enough to entertain doubts about its causes. He thought the scent had returned too, though it was fainter now. Was he smelling the kerchief in his pocket, or was it possible that Mr. Hatch had the same perfume about his person?
Unmindful of what he did, Frobisher leaned in closer, trying to make out his scent.
Mr. Hatch sprang up from his seat. "Ah, let me not leave this beautiful meal to sit and spoil, my lord. I do not know how to thank his lordship for this kindness." He evaded Frobisher entirely and moved to a chair opposite Frobisher's, putting the table between them. But he stood behind his seat, waiting for Frobisher to seat himself.
Had he misinterpreted Frobisher's attempt at smelling him?
"I must say that it has been a long time since I have seen such a feast." Mr. Hatch's voice had a practiced cheerfu
lness that did not ring true.
But his words, at least, must be truthful—for when would he ever have had such a fine meal? Probably never. The man look half starved. And yet he stood behind his chair in good form, waiting for his superior to be seated. This restraint spoke of a delicacy and familiarity with custom that struck the marquess once again with the inexplicable refinement of his hermit. Perhaps he had served at table, at some point in his life.
Frobisher recovered himself. "Please do not stand upon ceremony. I would like for us to be at ease with one another." He knew he had made the man nervous with his blundering attempt at smelling him. "And I do not mean to stay to dine. I only wanted to see you well provided for.”
Frobisher did not want to go, but he feared that if he remained any longer he would only make a bigger cake of himself. He walked to the door, and the man sprang to his feet.
"No, please, do not bestir yourself. Enjoy your dinner. The servants will come clear the things in the morning."
Mr. Hatch looked uncomfortable but inclined his head in assent. "This is the kindest condescension, my lord. I thank you."
"It was nothing, at all." Frobisher croaked. "I only hope you find the new arrangements much more comfortable. And I desire you will permit me to have another dinner served here tomorrow. I should like to dine with you then… to become better acquainted with you."
Mr Hatch only bowed mutely.
Frobisher dashed out the door without a backward look. He had suffered enough humiliation for one day. What had possessed him to invite himself back the next? Was he not supposed to be departing to London?
Chapter 41
As the door closed behind the departing marquess, it took all Rosamond’s self-control not to collapse in a trembling pile. It was too much to endure, first overhearing Cousin Peter's wife disclose that he had returned to Brookshire, and then returning home to see a man she believed to be her cousin himself seated at the table in her cottage. There was only a faint relief in realizing that her eyes played tricks on her, and it was really Frobisher.
Yes, it was he—not armed with a rifle, as she had thought, but sitting quietly with his walking stick leaned on one of the several chairs he had supplied among the other furnishings, beside a table full of delicious food.
Rosamond would not permit herself to indulge in the memory of his expression, of his leaning into her—trying to smell her. How foolish it was to wear that fragrance. No, she would not recollect how his drawing so near made her feel. Her fluttering heart she dismissed as mere panic. She dashed back to her bedroom.
The comfortable looking new bed and furniture gave her a moment's pause. It looked very pretty and inviting, but had her things been moved? Had anyone gone through them? She hurried to the new wardrobe to find her casket. Everything was still in it, and her sack was there, seemingly untouched. She stashed the casket and a few stray accoutrements into it, then ran back to the dining table to fetch some food.
Her stomach growled at the dishes laid out for her. She stuffed a chunk of expensive French cheese into her mouth as she scooped bread, ham and grapes into her sack. Grapes! Such a luxury. The cheese was creamy and melted delightfully. She crunched a purple orb and let the refreshing tang wash over her tongue and playfully chase the savour of the cheese.
She paused in her ransacking of the dinner table to sample some of the wine. It was delicious. The chair before her invited her to slouch into it and take another long sip, swirling it around her palate, letting it enchant her like a magic potion. It had been a long time since she had tasted such a fine vintage. The marquess had really spared no expense.
Why was he being so kind to her? It made it much harder for her to leave, especially now that she had agreed to dine with him again tomorrow. That was foolish, but what else could she have done? One did not refuse the man who was both lord and employer.
What would he think if she simply disappeared? It was not merely that he was a lord, and therefore not to be disobeyed. When he quitted the cottage he had seemed vulnerable. If she left now, she might really hurt his feelings.
And she might be panicking for nothing. Even if it was Cousin Peter who had shown up next door, that did not mean it had anything to do with Rosamond. It was entirely possible that he had gotten wind of his wife's male visitor, and had come to the country to put a stop to the tryst. His motives were probably hypocritical, but not necessarily homicidal. He might be on his way back to London with his wife bound and gagged at that very moment.
So why was her every instinct to run away? She sighed. Because that is what she always did. Running and hiding were what she was best at.
Rosamond straightened her spine and unpacked the food from her sack. If there was a real risk, she would leave, but she was not going to fly off like a scared mouse for no reason.
As the last bit of food was returned to its proper place, she bit into a slice of ham, chewing inelegantly as she looked about at the newly fitted up cottage. The hermitage was quite cosy now. She smiled around her full mouth and refilled the wine glass. It was like having a real home.
Chapter 42
The next morning Frobisher arose early and went for a walk to Mrs. Colling's cottage at Blackwood. It was funny that he thought of it as her cottage. Of course it wasn't, but it was her last known residence, and the way she had decorated and fitted it up fixed it in his mind as her own charming place. He wanted to check on her other plants. It would be nice for her to return to the cottage and find it well cared for.
As he approached the gate, he heard a rustling in the forest that surrounded the yard. A deer, perhaps? He felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe it was Mrs. Colling herself, spying on him again. He grinned as he looked into the trees, but saw nothing. A laugh of self-mocking escaped him. Of course it was not her. She was in London, where he should be right now, looking for her.
But he had made that blasted appointment for dinner with Mr. Hatch. What had he been thinking? Frobisher found his complete lack of sense alarming. His impulse to be near Mr. Hatch was pure bewildering madness.
Never mind that. He did not want to think of it. Frobisher went about his work, pulling weeds and feeling soil to make sure that the plants needed water before giving it to them. He finished up by straightening the trail of seashells that lined the pathway, putting them back in place, where they had been disturbed, and clearing away branches and leaves that the wind had blown in.
When he finished, he straightened and examined his efforts. "There. She should like that, if only I can get her to come back."
He dusted his hands and smiled indulgently at the dirt on his lace cuffs. He did not care in the least. He walked back to Fenimore with pride, feeling the grime under his nails was a badge of honour.
Chapter 43
Rosamond's heart would not stop fluttering. She told herself it was merely the result of so nearly being caught on her excursion to Blackwood cottage to check on her plants. It had nothing to do with the kindness Frobisher showed in coming to maintain her old yard. Absolutely nothing to do with the longing in his voice as he muttered, "If only I can get her to come back."
She simply could not believe what she had just witnessed. And how was it that this man appeared everywhere she went? For all that he was a useless nobleman, he managed to dog her trail without having any idea that he was doing so.
She rebuked herself for the thought. Some power in the cosmos was indeed up to mischief, always throwing them into each other's paths, but it was unfair to call Frobisher useless. Unfair, unkind, ungrateful. He had been so caring and solicitous of Mr. Hatch's comfort. And now she could plainly see that he concerned himself so much about Mrs. Colling that he worked with his own hands to keep the cottage where she had lived in good order, just because he thought it would please her.
Rosamond blushed for every uncharitable thought she had ever had about Frobisher. There was no need for him to dirty his hands with labour. He could easily have allocated the task to any one of his servants—although she suppose
d after what she had heard from the butler that their efforts might have been indifferent.
There at least she could return his kindness by assisting him to put his house in order. All that was required was for her to stop flinching away like a coward and simply have a conversation with him. She waited a few more minutes, then returned to the path, following Frobisher back to Fenimore. It was a shame they could not walk together.
Chapter 44
When Frobisher returned home, he went straight to the housekeeper to give instructions for the elaborate dinner he had planned, and even popped his head into the kitchen to terrify the cook into her best performance.
The task of menacing the servants thus discharged, he made his way back through the hall to go to his study. At the bottom of the stairs, who should he spy but Jones giving some instructions to a footman. The butler straightened and blanched when he saw Frobisher. Apparently the housekeeper had delivered Frobisher's message.
"Jones. I am astonished to see you up at this hour and doing your job. Is there not some local amusement you would rather be off chasing, or perhaps you would prefer a good lie-in?"
The man looked down at his shoes. "My lord, I beg your forgiveness. I do not even know how to begin explaining my actions. But if your lordship sees clear to keep me on, it will never happen again. Only…" His voice trailed off, and he swallowed.
"Only what?" Frobisher was slightly mollified by what he perceived to be real contrition in the demeanour of the servant.
"Only—" he paused again. "Is there anything I can do for his lordship?"