He stood beside the gig, securing a trunk onto the back of it with a length of rope. A heavy-boned chestnut gelding dozed in the traces. “Have you just returned from London?”
“As you see.” Her fingers tightened on the handle of her valise. “What are you doing here?”
“Retrieving my trunk from the station agent’s office.”
She hadn’t thought her spirits could get any lower. “You’re staying, then?”
“For the month, at least. Miss Talbot has a great many activities planned.”
“Well…” She could think of nothing more to say to him. Her thoughts were too much occupied with her own troubles at present. “I shall leave you to it.” She turned to go, only to stop short when he called after her again.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
“Home,” she said. “To Bramble Cottage.”
“May I drive you?”
“No thank you.”
His mouth tilted up at one corner. He had a disconcerting way of half smiling. As if he were amused by some private joke. “Come, Miss Hayes. It’s hot as Hades this afternoon. I’m certain you’d rather ride than walk.”
“I can’t. Not with you.”
“Why not? There’s nothing objectionable about a gentleman driving a lady in an open carriage.” He held out a hand to her. “Come. I insist upon it.”
Laura gave in with a defeated sigh, her shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. What difference did it make in the end whether she walked or rode? She’d have to go home eventually. She grudgingly put her gloved hand in his and allowed him to help her up onto the seat. “Whose carriage is this?” she asked as she placed her valise at her feet.
“It belongs to the vicar.” Mr. Archer vaulted onto the seat beside her and gathered up the reins. The dozing chestnut sprang to life. “He couldn’t spare a manservant to come to the station.”
“The vicar keeps on very few servants.” The gig started forward with a lurch. Her hand clenched around the padded seat. “You’ve met him, I assume.”
“Monday night when George and I returned from dining at the Park.” Mr. Archer’s mouth hitched again. “He read me the parable of the prodigal son.”
“How appropriate.”
“Indeed.” The horse plodded along at a leisurely pace. Mr. Archer seemed little inclined to urge him on.
“George can’t have liked being sermonized at.” He never had in the past. It was one of the reasons he’d left Lower Hawley.
“He wasn’t in any fit state to object.”
“Oh.” Laura felt a flicker of disappointment. It shouldn’t have come as any surprise to her. George had always had a propensity for heavy drinking. Two years away would have only worsened the habit.
She wished, all at once, that he’d never returned home. That he’d never brought Mr. Archer with him. It was a distraction she didn’t need—couldn’t cope with.
“Haven’t you anyone to come and fetch you?” Mr. Archer asked. “A groom or a manservant or someone?”
Laura looked out at the passing scenery. Trees, shrubs, and stray patches of wildflowers lined the deserted road. The railway station was closer to Edgington Park than to Bramble Cottage. In the distance, she could just make out the dense overgrowth of Talbot’s Wood. She longed to be there. To submerge herself beneath the cool surface of the pond. There was nothing of the world underwater. No unmet expectations. No burdens too heavy to carry. Nothing save herself and the sound of her own beating heart.
“Miss Hayes?” Mr. Archer said.
She cast him a distracted glance. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I asked why no one was here to collect you.”
“We don’t keep a carriage any longer,” she said. “Nor a coachman to drive one.”
“How did you arrive at the station yesterday?”
“I walked.”
“And you intended to walk back today? Alone?”
“It’s perfectly safe.”
“I don’t doubt it. All the same, it seems rather ramshackle for a young lady to be traipsing about unaccompanied.”
“It’s unexceptionable in the country.” She paused before adding, “And I’m not a young lady, Mr. Archer. I shall be five and twenty soon.”
“And therefore, at your last prayer.”
Her lips compressed. “Some people hereabouts might say so.”
“Then some people hereabouts would be foolish beyond permission. You’re a long way from an aged spinster, Miss Hayes. And an even longer way from being able to wander about unremarked—either here or in London. You should have taken someone with you.”
“It’s no concern of yours, sir.”
“No, it isn’t. And yet…” He fell silent a moment, his expression thoughtful. “I suppose I feel responsible for you.”
“I can’t think why.”
“I did all but save you from drowning on Monday.”
“You did no such—”
“The both of us wet to our skin and you in your knickers. It leaves an impression on a fellow.”
Heat rose in her face. “A gentleman wouldn’t mention such things.”
“But I’m not a gentleman, as you pointed out at Edgington Park.” His tone was dry. “Indeed, I believe you came perilously close to labeling me a fortune hunter.”
“And I have no fortune. So you can have no interest in me, sir.” She rose from her seat, even as the carriage rolled on. “You may set me down here.”
“God’s sake, Laura!” He hauled on the reins. The chestnut gelding came to a stumbling halt, the gig jolting behind it.
Her heart hammered as she moved to jump out. The skirts of her traveling gown wound precariously round her legs. “I’m obliged to you for bringing me this far, but I—”
“What in blazes is the matter with you?” Mr. Archer leapt down from his seat. He was in front of her in an instant, reaching to grasp her round the waist a fraction of a second before she tumbled down in a tangle of skirts. “Are you trying to break your neck?”
She permitted him to assist her down and then backed swiftly out of his arms. Her eyes stung with the threat of tears. “I would prefer to walk the rest of the way. If you would—”
“Laura,” he said again. His voice was husky with concern.
Her temper flared. “And I don’t recall giving you permission to use my Christian name! That’s the second time you’ve—”
“This is the second time I’ve come to your rescue. If that’s not a basis for some familiarity, I don’t know what is.”
“You haven’t rescued me from anything.” The words came out harsher than she’d intended. Tears quickly followed, spilling hot onto her cheeks. She dashed them away. “No one can.” She spun on her heel to leave.
Mr. Archer caught her firmly by the elbow, preventing her escape. He loomed over her. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“I want to be left alone.”
“This isn’t about my teasing you, is it? There’s something else going on.”
“Let go of me,” she said. “Or I shall scream.”
His hand fell from her elbow. “I’m not trying to plague you. But if I’ve upset you—”
“Really, Mr. Archer. Your appearance in Lower Hawley isn’t as earth-shattering as you seem to believe. My present state has nothing at all to do with you. I simply need a moment to compose myself. I’m in no fit state to see my family—and I have no inclination to cross swords with you.” She dropped an abrupt curtsy. “I bid you good day, sir.”
With that, she turned and strode blindly into the woods.
It wasn’t far to Talbot’s Pond. Her secret place. Her sanctuary. At least, it had been until Mr. Archer had unceremoniously shown up there yesterday morning.
But he didn’t matter now.
Nothing mattered except her disastrous meeti
ng with Mr. Weatherwax. She’d had a whole night to reflect on the subject, and she still couldn’t quite believe it. Couldn’t quite accept that all of her careful plans had come to naught.
What was she going to tell Teddy and Aunt Charlotte?
More to the point, what in the world was she going to do?
As she made her way deeper through the trees, her full skirts caught on the leaves and underbrush that surrounded Talbot’s Pond. Once there, she sank down on the grassy banks in a spill of petticoats and wrinkled silk. Tears leaked from her eyes. This time, she didn’t bother to dash them away.
She wasn’t a great one for weeping. It was a pointless exercise. Her emotions were better spent in solving problems and making plans. Easy enough when one had a surfeit of ideas. There was always something else to try. Another method by which to trim the Hayes family’s budget. To keep them all clothed, shod, and fed.
It had occurred to her yesterday, as she’d left Mr. Weatherwax’s offices in London, that she hadn’t adequately prepared for failure. And now, having to face it was a shade more than she could bear.
She covered her face with her hands and wept.
Once started, the tears were impossible to quell. She wept until they’d fully run their course. It might have been a quarter of an hour. Perhaps even longer. She had no sense of time. It had been ages since she’d cried her heart out so thoroughly, scarcely able to draw breath between sobs.
It was better this way, she thought as she rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief. The cottage was no place for tears or expressions of hopelessness. There was enough of that from Teddy and Aunt Charlotte. If they knew—if they even suspected—that she was despairing, it would send the rest of the household into an uproar.
She dried her tears with her handkerchief, blew her nose, and raised her head.
And then she froze.
Mr. Archer sat on a boulder nearby, her valise on the ground at his side. His head was bare and his coat unbuttoned. He looked as though he’d been there for a long while.
A crashing wave of embarrassment rendered her speechless. She could think of nothing to say. Nothing to excuse her appalling lack of self-control. And that he should witness it! No one had ever seen her weep to such a degree before. No one in her family, nor of her acquaintance, would have believed her capable of doing so.
But now…
She could only look at Mr. Archer through swollen eyes, mortified at the thought of how thoroughly wretched she must appear.
As for Mr. Archer, he uttered not a word as he rose and went to the edge of the pond. He extracted a folded white linen handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat, and crouching down, dipped it into the water and wrung it out. When he’d finished, he came back to where she knelt in the grass, and sank down on his haunches in front of her.
Laura’s heart hammered as he took her chin in his fingers and tipped her face up to his.
He held the wet handkerchief at the ready. “If I may?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.
Mr. Archer didn’t wait for her permission. He didn’t seem to require it.
Her eyes fell closed as he blotted her face. His touch was soft and careful. Almost tender. She couldn’t fathom how such a big man could be so gentle. But she had no will to ponder it. She was too tired. Too weary in heart and soul.
The cool water was a relief on her hot eyes and cheeks. A breath shuddered out of her. She didn’t know how long she’d been holding it.
“There,” Mr. Archer murmured. “That’s better.”
As if she were a small child and not a woman grown! But she couldn’t find it in herself to be offended. Rather the reverse. The husky, soothing tone of his deep voice worked its way into the center of her being. Like the vibration of a finely made cello, striking a pleasant, echoing hum through her veins.
She raised a hand to her face to take charge of the handkerchief. Her fingers brushed his. “Let me—”
“Of course.” He relinquished his hold of it.
Laura finished mopping her face, holding the wet handkerchief over her eyes for another long while. She felt Mr. Archer draw back. Heard him get to his feet and move away from her. When she at last let the handkerchief drop, he was seated once again on the boulder, his back resting against the curving tree trunk behind him.
“The vicar’s horse—” she began, her voice the veriest croak.
“Grazing happily near the road.”
“You can’t leave him there.”
“He’s quite safe, Miss Hayes.”
She inhaled a steadying breath, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Mr. Archer, I—”
“We needn’t speak of it.”
“But surely you—” She broke off. The last thing she wanted was to start another onslaught of tears. “You shouldn’t have followed me here.”
Mr. Archer regarded her from beneath lowered brows. His mouth was set in a pensive frown. “No. I most definitely shouldn’t have.”
Truer words Alex had never spoken. Indeed, he had the unsettling premonition that he would come to regret having gone into the woods after Laura Hayes. That doing so had been one of those impulsive decisions that would cast a shadow over the whole of his life.
But what else could he have done?
As she’d plunged into the woods, her smoke-blue eyes brimming with tears, he’d seen no other choice but to go after her. It had, in that moment, seemed a gentlemanly imperative. Not only because she’d forgotten her valise—though that had certainly provided a rational excuse. Not because she was beautiful and fascinating and vexing as all hell. Not because he cared. He didn’t care. He couldn’t. Not about her.
“I have no fortune,” she’d said before attempting to leap from the carriage. “So you can have no interest in me, sir.”
And she was right.
He knew that. It was a fact. One that couldn’t be altered. Laura Hayes wasn’t for him. What he needed was a quiet, uncomplicated heiress. A young lady who would permit him to go on as he had before—cold, unmoved, untouchable. A female who wouldn’t rattle the very framework of his carefully crafted existence.
“You may leave now,” Miss Hayes said. “I’m quite all right. Very much myself again. There’s no need—”
“When you’ve composed yourself, I shall drive you home. And I’ll hear no argument on the subject.”
Her mouth tightened. He expected her to challenge him. But though she plainly bristled at his high-handed tone, she said nothing at all. Seconds later, she moved to rise on unsteady legs.
Alex went to her at once, catching both of her hands in his and helping her to her feet.
She stood in front of him for a long moment, head bent, hands clasped intimately in his. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But something passed between them as surely as speech. He felt it resonating within him. An unseen chord—unplayed, unheard, these many years. It brought a lump to his throat, and a burning prickle to the backs of his eyes.
Her hands squeezed his once. In gratitude, he thought. And then she let him go.
“I’m ready,” she said.
He inclined his head before retrieving her valise and turning back in the direction he’d left the gig. The vicar’s horse was still there, loosely tethered to a tree, munching contentedly on the overgrown grass and weeds at the edge of the woods.
Miss Hayes was quiet as Alex helped her up onto the seat and then vaulted up himself. When he took up the reins, the horse reluctantly moved into action, a clump of weeds still dangling from its mouth.
“It’s not far,” she said, her gaze fixed on the slow-passing countryside. “Less than two miles.”
It was the last she spoke to him until they reached the gates of Bramble Cottage.
Alex had never seen such a profusion of blooms. The afternoon heat was heavy with the scent of them.
<
br /> He’d expected a smallish manor house, rather like the brightly polished vicarage with its cheerful red door. But there was nothing particularly cheerful about the Hayeses’ home, or the delirious perfume that surrounded it. With its chipped plaster, sagging shutters, and overgrown gardens, it looked for all the world like something out of a children’s fairy story. A wild, lonely place that might have been cursed or enchanted in equal measure.
“We haven’t a proper gardener anymore,” Miss Hayes said.
“Don’t apologize.” His gazed drifted from the climbing roses to the clusters of sweet peas, stock, and lavender that surrounded the gate. “It actually rather reminds me of you.”
She made a sound low in her throat. “Thoroughly abandoned.”
His mouth curved in a reluctant smile. “Bewitching, I was going to say.”
“That’s only the fragrance of the flowers. It plays havoc with everyone’s senses.”
Alex wasn’t so sure. He would have said so, but at that instant the front door of the cottage creaked open. A portly blond lady emerged onto the path. She was garbed in acres of black silk, her chin trembling as she looked out to the drive.
“Laura?” she called. “My dearest, where have you been? We expected you an hour ago.”
“My aunt Charlotte,” Miss Hayes said under her breath. “I shall have to introduce you.”
“By all means.” He tied off the reins and set the brake before jumping from the gig to assist her down. He’d scarcely set her on the ground before she was opening the gate and dispensing with the introductions.
“Aunt Charlotte, this is Mr. Archer, a friend of Mr. Wright’s from London. Mr. Archer, my aunt, Mrs. Bainbridge.”
Mrs. Bainbridge looked at him, frowning. “Mr. Archer. I thank you for bringing my niece home.”
“It was my pleasure, ma’am.”
“She’ll no doubt have told you that it was unnecessary. We make shift for ourselves in Lower Hawley.” Her gaze fell on Miss Hayes’s face. “Laura, what in heaven—”
“It’s fine, Aunt,” Miss Hayes said. “I’m fine.” She shifted her valise to one hand, setting her other hand on her aunt’s back. “Shall we go inside? We mustn’t keep Mr. Archer. Not in this heat.”
A Convenient Fiction Page 7