When they went to the village shops, Mr. Archer sat next to Henrietta in the barouche. When she played the pianoforte in the Edgington Park music room, he was at her side, turning the pages of her music. And when they strolled in the Edgington Park rose garden, he bent his head to Henrietta’s, sharing private words with her that provoked her blushes and laughter.
Laura wasn’t jealous. How could she be? She had no claim on Mr. Archer, and wasn’t likely to ever have one. She had no fortune to lure him. Nothing but her poor self and whatever meager attraction he felt toward her.
Not that it really mattered.
She had too much on her mind to care what Mr. Archer was up to with Henrietta.
Even so…after three days in company with him, his single-minded attention to her friend began to grate. How changeable he was! How utterly adept at playing the doting suitor. Was there nothing real about the man? Nothing meaningful or true?
He seemed a sinister chameleon, capable of changing his personality to suit his company. There was nothing of the honest gruffness she’d experienced in him when he’d hauled her out of the pond, nor of the gentleness he’d shown her when he’d dried her tears. He cast her no brooding glances, and showed no signs of the frustration he’d exhibited when he’d backed away from her under the yew tree. Indeed, there appeared to be nothing authentic about Alex Archer at all.
On Sunday, Laura saw him in church. He was seated in a pew at the front, along with George, Henrietta, and Squire Talbot. It was the pew reserved for the squire and his family, a seat of honor many rows away from where Laura humbly sat with her Aunt Charlotte.
After the service, Mr. Archer lingered behind to be introduced to some of the villagers.
Henrietta glanced back at him with a smug smile as she and Laura walked out of the church together. “He’s not as handsome as George,” she said, “but he is handsome.”
Laura didn’t know how her friend could say so. With his dark good looks and commanding height, Mr. Archer fairly put George in the shade. To Laura’s mind, there was no comparison at all. “Are you considering marrying him?”
Henrietta’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Marriage? My goodness, Laura. The things you say.”
“Well?”
Squire Talbot’s barouche was waiting ahead, the coachman seated on the box, and a footman poised to open the door for his mistress.
“He hasn’t asked me,” Henrietta said. “I’ve only known him a week.”
“A week in which you’ve been in his company every single day.”
“As have you,” Henrietta returned. “And you’re not in expectation of a proposal.”
“I’ve seen more of George, of late, than I have of Mr. Archer.”
It was the truth. Since Mr. Archer had turned his attentions to Henrietta, Laura had been thrust into George’s company far more than she cared to be. Granted, things between them were a little easier. But she didn’t trust George. There was a furtive sort of restlessness about him. As if he were counting the seconds until he could get away from Lower Hawley and back to the depraved life he’d been living in town.
“Poor George,” Henrietta said with sigh. “He’s not the best company, is he? I expect he finds all the fresh air and outdoor activity a tedious ordeal.”
“It’s good for him,” Laura said. “Whether he likes it or not.”
“My feelings exactly.” Henrietta stopped not far from her father’s barouche. “I’m pleased that Mr. Archer enjoys the country. He’s very well suited to Lower Hawley, don’t you think?”
What Laura thought was that Mr. Archer would be well suited anywhere. She wondered how he really felt about their little village. How appealing would ruralizing be if there wasn’t the promise of a fortune at the end of it? Not very appealing at all, she suspected. “He’s certainly been game enough for all of the activities you’ve planned.”
“Yes, he’s very indulgent of my whims. And Papa approves of him, too. The two of them get on so well together.” Henrietta gave Laura a narrow glance. “Do you know, I thought he looked at you rather too much in the beginning. Now he looks at you not at all.”
“Mr. Archer?”
“I daresay he found you interesting at first. Even pretty.”
Laura recognized the sharp hint of jealousy in Henrietta’s tone. It instantly put her on her guard. She couldn’t afford to make an enemy of Henrietta Talbot. Especially not when she’d only just borrowed twenty pounds from her.
It was too much, but Henrietta had insisted.
“You will pay it back, of course,” she’d said. “Within a twelve-month, shall we say? At six percent interest?”
Laura’s stomach clenched just to think of it. She hadn’t expected that Henrietta would make her a gift of the money. She’d fully intended to pay it back, whatever the sum. But her friend’s businesslike attitude toward the request—speaking of payment terms and interest, and even requiring Laura to sign a note—had made Laura distinctly uneasy.
“Nonsense,” she said. “Mr. Archer is completely smitten with you.”
“Do you really think so?” Henrietta asked.
“I know it.” Laura felt like a liar and a fraud. Even worse, she felt like a poor friend. She should be warning Henrietta, not encouraging her. “But, Hen…”
“If you’re going to tell me that I know nothing about him, and that he may very well be a fortune hunter, you may save your breath to cool your porridge.” Henrietta resumed walking to the barouche. The footman opened the door for her and assisted her up into her seat. “I have it all well in hand, Laura.”
Laura stood at the arched iron gate at the edge of the church’s small graveyard. Carriages and smaller gigs of every type jockeyed for position on the road—some coachmen waiting to retrieve their masters and mistresses, and some attempting to leave with their occupants in tow.
Parishioners were still spilling out of the church. Sunday services with Mr. Wright were generally well attended, but this Sunday it seemed the entire village had turned out to celebrate George’s return—and to get a glimpse of the mysterious friend he’d brought back with him from London.
When Squire Talbot finally arrived at his barouche, ready to depart, he wasn’t alone. Mr. Archer was with him, smiling at whatever it was the squire was telling him.
Laura’s fingers tightened on her prayer book. She felt a flicker of self-consciousness. Even more so when Mr. Archer’s gray gaze briefly fell to hers. He immediately looked away, but not before she’d seen that his smile of a moment before had disappeared.
“Miss Hayes,” Squire Talbot said. “Good day to you.”
“Good day, sir.” She doubted whether anyone heard her. Henrietta was immediately occupied with addressing Mr. Archer, and the squire was busy climbing up into the seat of his barouche and issuing instructions to the coachman.
Laura turned and went back into the church to collect her aunt. She found her slumped in the front pew, the vicar standing over her with a look of concern. “What is it?” Laura hurried up the aisle. “What’s happened?”
Aunt Charlotte waved her away. “Only a dizzy spell.” Her face was flushed, twin spots of color standing out on her cheeks. “I’m quite recovered now.”
“It’s the heat,” the vicar said.
“Is that all?” Laura sat down beside her. “Are you certain it’s not your heart, Aunt?”
“No. I don’t believe so. Though it is racing a trifle.” Aunt Charlotte gave her an apologetic look. “Perhaps we should summon Dr. Taylor?”
Laura rubbed a reassuring hand up and down Aunt Charlotte’s silk-clad arm. “Yes, I daresay we should.” It would be another expense, but Laura didn’t begrudge it. Some things were too important. “Where is your fan?”
“In my reticule.”
Laura retrieved it. It was a painted paper confection, more decorative than useful. She neverthele
ss snapped it open and waved it briskly in the vicinity of Aunt Charlotte’s face.
“Best take her home, Miss Hayes,” the vicar said, “and see that she has something cool to drink.”
“Are you able to walk back to the cottage?” Laura asked.
The vicar’s brows shot up over the rims of his spectacles. “You walked here? Oh dear. I didn’t consider.” He looked about him. “I can’t think where my son has got to, but— Ah! Here is Mr. Archer.”
Laura looked up with a start. Mr. Archer was coming up the aisle toward them, his tall beaver hat in his hand.
“Mrs. Bainbridge has taken a turn, I fear,” the vicar told him. “Can I trouble you to drive them home in the gig?”
“Oh no,” Aunt Charlotte objected. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing—”
“I’ll hear no objections.” The vicar smiled. “Mr. Archer would be only too happy to oblige, wouldn’t you, sir?”
Mr. Archer inclined his head. “Of course. I’ll fetch the gig from the stable.”
Laura sat with Aunt Charlotte until he returned. He didn’t send someone to tell them he and the gig were ready. Instead, he came back into the church himself and offered Aunt Charlotte his arm.
“Mrs. Bainbridge? If you’d care to lean on me?”
Aunt Charlotte took hold of his arm gratefully. “Thank you, Mr. Archer. I confess, I feel quite undone.”
Laura walked along with them, eyeing her aunt with worry. The gig was waiting at the gates, the padded seat only big enough for two. She took a step backward. “If you’ll drive my aunt back to the cottage, I’ll join her there presently.”
Mr. Archer’s gaze jerked to hers. “You mean to walk back?”
“Yes, I— Oh!” She emitted an unladylike squeak as he caught her round the waist and tossed her up onto the seat. Her skirts billowed about her. “There isn’t room,” she protested. “I don’t mind walking—”
“We’ll fit,” he said grimly.
And they did.
Though it meant that Laura was pressed shoulder to knees against Mr. Archer’s side the entire way home. She scarcely drew breath until he stopped the gig in front of the cottage and jumped down. When next she looked at him, he was vaguely red about the collar. Perhaps he’d felt the discomfort of it, too? The peculiar sensation of being so close to a person of the opposite sex. A person that one was strangely attracted to. That one had kissed.
Then again, perhaps it was only the heat?
He helped Aunt Charlotte down from the gig.
Laura didn’t wait for him to help her, too. She caught her skirts up to one side and leapt down herself. Mr. Archer shot her a dark look. “I’ll run ahead and get one of the servants,” she said.
By the time she ran through the gates and up the path, John Yardley was already at the door. She quickly explained what had happened, and with his assistance, she and Mr. Archer got Aunt Charlotte into the house and up the stairs to her bedroom.
“Laura?” Teddy called out from his room across the hall. “What’s going on?”
“In a moment, my dear,” she called back. “Yardley? Fetch Mrs. Crabtree with my aunt’s tonic.” And then to Mr. Archer: “If you could just help me get her onto the bed?”
“Allow me,” he said. “If I may, Mrs. Bainbridge?”
“I fear I’m too heavy,” Aunt Charlotte protested.
“Nonsense.” Mr. Archer settled Aunt Charlotte effortlessly onto the mattress, pausing to adjust a pile of goose-down pillows behind her back.
In that moment, Laura’s heart swelled with an emotion that was almost painful. It was something more than gratitude. Something more than anything she’d ever felt for a gentleman before.
She turned abruptly away.
“What is it, my dear?” Aunt Charlotte’s voice was tremulous. “You’ve not taken ill, too, have you?”
Laura gave a huff of laughter. “Wouldn’t that be a marvelous end to our day.” She turned back to face her aunt. “I’m fine, you know that. I’m always fine.”
“Miss Laura?” Mrs. Crabtree came to the door, a brown medicine bottle in her hand. She’d been their cook since Laura was a child, and after Papa’s death had taken on the additional role of housekeeper. Any other servant would have left them by now, but Mary Crabtree was loyal to the bone. “I’ve brought Mrs. Bainbridge’s tonic.”
“At last.” Aunt Charlotte extended her hand to Mrs. Crabtree. “You go on now, Laura, and tend to your brother. Mrs. Crabtree is all I need.”
“Tonic first,” Laura said. She waited while Mrs. Crabtree administered it.
Aunt Charlotte swallowed a spoonful and leaned back with a sigh. “My heart is calming already. Don’t send for the doctor, Laura. Let me rest awhile first. The tonic may be all I need.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, yes. Give me an hour and we shall see. No need to have Dr. Taylor ride out for nothing.” Aunt Charlotte smiled weakly at Mr. Archer. “Thank you for coming to my aid, sir. So very kind of you.”
“I’m at your service, ma’am,” Mr. Archer said.
“Laura!” Teddy called out again.
Laura left her aunt’s room, Mr. Archer close behind her. “My brother,” she said. “If you’ll give me a moment.”
“I should like to meet him.”
“Would you?” Laura looked up at him. Her pulse skipped. He was unnervingly close. “I’ll have to ask him. He may not be well enough for visitors today.”
“I’ll wait.”
She rapped once on Teddy’s door before entering. He was at his desk, sitting up straight in his wheeled chair, a pile of half-finished drawings strewn before him.
“What the devil is going on?” he demanded. “Is someone here?”
She told him about Aunt Charlotte—and about Mr. Archer’s assistance. “He’d like to be introduced to you, if you feel equal to it.”
Teddy made an impatient gesture in the direction of the door. “Send him in.”
Alex wandered down the upstairs hall of the cottage while Miss Hayes talked with her brother. It was lined with wood-paneled doors, the floor covered with a worn floral carpet. Not all of the doors were shut. A few hung half-open on their hinges, giving glimpses of what lie within. In one, he saw a heavy four-poster bed with faded blue hangings. It had a needlework quilt spread across the bottom of it, and a walnut table at its side, adorned with an oil lamp and a pewter jug of freshly cut flowers.
Miss Hayes’s room, he’d wager.
There was a faint fragrance to it. Roses and lavender, and freshly starched petticoats. Something sweet and clean and unmistakably her.
He gave the door a gentle push. It swung wide, revealing a marble fireplace, an imposing mahogany wardrobe, and a silk-draped dressing table littered with feminine bric-a-brac. His gaze drifted over the crystal perfume bottles, enameled containers, and set of silver-plated hairbrushes.
How easy it was to imagine her sitting there, arranging her ebony hair. His chest tightened with unwelcome emotion at the thought of it.
Helpless frustration followed.
What the devil was he doing? Lurking about outside Miss Hayes’s bedroom like some starving stray dog outside of a butcher’s shop?
But the room called to him, just as its owner did. Home, it seemed to say. A place of respite, and peace. Of crisp sheets and soft pillows.
The orphanage had had none of those things. There, he’d slept in a cold dormitory with dozens of other boys, housed two to a bed. He and Tom Finchley had shared a mattress of perpetually damp, insect-ridden straw. It had never been clean enough. Warm enough.
It had never been a home.
Not like Bramble Cottage. And not like Miss Hayes’s room, the intimacy of it beckoning to him so sweetly. It took an effort to withdraw from her door and return back the way he’d come.
He’d spent the past thre
e days avoiding her. As much as she could be avoided when she was acting as companion to Henrietta Talbot.
And now, here he was, in her house—practically in her room—not avoiding her at all.
If he had any sense he’d return to the vicarage. There was no reason to remain now that Mrs. Bainbridge was settled. No reason save a flicker of curiosity about Miss Hayes’s brother—and a nearly overpowering concern for Miss Hayes herself.
“Mr. Archer?” She emerged from her brother’s room, holding the door open. “If you’d like to come in?”
It was a large room, not unlike her own, except for a general sense of masculine clutter. An enormous black-and-white cat sat on the bed. It regarded Alex with large, unblinking eyes.
Miss Hayes gave it a scratch beneath its chin. “This is Magpie.”
Alex stopped briefly to pet the cat. The smug beast permitted his touch, much in the way a god might permit obeisance from a worshipper.
Miss Hayes advanced into the room. “And this is my brother, Edward Hayes.”
Near the window Miss Hayes’s brother was seated in front of a desk in a wheeled chair. He was in his shirt sleeves, a conspicuous ink stain on his right cuff. “You may call me Teddy,” he said, extending his hand. “Everyone does.”
Alex shook it firmly, surprised at the young man’s strength. “Then you must call me Alex.”
“Are you staying long in Lower Hawley?”
“If things go well.”
And they were going well. Squire Talbot seemed to genuinely like him. He’d taken Alex out on the estate more than once. Had shared brandy and cigars with him in his study. Had even solicited Alex’s opinion on installing a private gasworks.
Things with Henrietta Talbot were advancing at equal speed.
Not only had they progressed to addressing each other by their given names, only yesterday he’d come very close to kissing her. She’d been flirting with him all afternoon in that haughty way of hers. And he’d been flirting right back, inclining his head to hers to make some teasing remark. She’d swiftly turned her face up, bringing her pouting lips a fraction of an inch from his.
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