Much of the time, he had not looked at the stage. It was more fascinating to watch her in the glow of the candlelight. Her skin had flushed with excitement and, as she concentrated on the music, she bit her lip. He would like to take her to the opera again. Or the symphony. There were so many things to show her in London.
His fingers ran over the keys. The tune was pretty, but lacking in power. His mother would sometimes arrange for an orchestra to play at their home. He’d liked that. He would sit at the back of the room, forgotten by the musicians, and listen.
A solo is but one song. It is when instruments play together that there is magic.
That thought, those words, struck him anew. Almost, it seemed as though he heard them from a source external to him. It felt as it did when he looked up at the stars and imagined Socrates, Themistocles or Epictetus viewing a similar skyscape. He felt both overwhelmed and enlightened.
He had feared love. He had lost himself in his love for Miss Whistler. And with his father he had felt a need to be different, to pretend. Indeed, it had appeared to him that pretence was a prerequisite for love.
Except perhaps that was not true.
Plato said that every heart sings a song, incomplete until another heart whispers back.
Sam had never expected to hear that whisper. Indeed, much as he respected many aspects of Plato’s work, he had thought him misguided in this.
Very gently, he tapped on a key, listening to its pure note and realised that maybe, perhaps, if he was lucky, life need not be a solo enterprise.
* * *
Millie woke up the next day with the music still pulsing through her. For one evening, she’d allowed herself to people her world with happy fantasies. Everything—her gown, the opera, the man, the huge chandeliers heavy with candles—had added to that feeling. Even now she could picture his dark hair, mesmeric eyes, strong jaw and chiselled cheeks. It had been wonderful. The memory would warm her during Cornwall’s winter nights.
But she could no longer let herself indulge in foolish thoughts. She was Cinderella and the midnight hour had struck. Sam had given them a wonderful night. They had a bond. People who survived peril formed a connection. But the danger had passed. They would write occasional notes and send Christmas cards. A bond did not equal a future.
Millie spent the day either roaming restlessly about the house or sitting staring somewhat blankly at the wall. Lady Wyburn and Lil had gone shopping while Frances, Marta and the nursemaid went for a walk. Both groups had asked her to come, but she found that she did not have the energy. Instead, she sat listlessly in the sitting room that she shared with Lil. She started a letter to her mother but soon found herself staring into space, the letter incomplete. After numerous false starts, she tossed the crumpled balls into the basket. She’d tried to read, but found herself rereading the same line over and over with no memory of its content. She attempted her needlepoint, but tossed it aside in a tangle of silk.
So instead, she stared into the flickering flames. At some point she must have fallen asleep, as a tap at the door jolted her awake.
‘Mr Garrett is here, miss,’ Merryweather said.
‘His sister and aunt are out, I’m afraid.’ Her voice sounding rather squeaky, which made her flush.
‘I mentioned that Lady Wyburn, Mrs Ludlow and Miss Lillian were out, miss, but he stated rather emphatically that he wished to see you.’ Merryweather spoke lugubriously. His doleful tone was likely not personal. The man could make the cheeriest greeting melancholy.
‘Well...um...send him up.’
‘Yes, miss. Do you wish any refreshment?’
‘No, I do not think so.’ She could not spend any more time with Sam than was necessary. Nor could she indulge in any more intimate chats or shared confidences. It was confusing. It muddled her emotions. It was playing with fire and was not sensible.
Indeed, likely he merely wished to talk to her about Frances or perhaps he had some further information about Lord Harwood. She straightened, composing herself and trying to assume a businesslike expression.
Just then, Sam strode into her small sitting room as Merryweather bowed his way out. The room felt instantly smaller. And Sam seemed taller. And broader. His eyes were more piercing and his jaw and cheekbones more angular.
There was a brisk energy about him and a determination.
‘Sam? What is it?’
‘Millie, I—We need to talk,’ he said.
She startled at the urgency in his tone. ‘About Frances? Or the investigation? Has something happened? They are not releasing Mrs Ludlow or Jason, surely?’
‘No, not about Frances or the Ludlows.’ He threw himself into the chair opposite her, as if angry at her suggestion. ‘I need to talk about us. I know you want to be independent. I respect that. I will talk to a solicitor to determine how best to do so, if necessary. But Plato had it right. We have a connection. We are like an orchestra.’
‘What? An orchestra? Is this about Harwood?’ she asked, fearing that some shock must have caused such disjointed confusion.
‘What, no, what has Harwood to do with it?’
‘Nothing. You were talking about your solicitor.’
‘Right. Yes. Sorry, I am not doing this well.’ He paused, inhaling as though forcibly collecting his thoughts and ideas. ‘Sorry. I have gone about this all wrong. What I wanted to say is, Millicent Lansdowne, will you marry me?’
She gasped. She felt her mouth hang open as she stared at his dark eyes, the perfect contours of his face, the firm lips and the tiny crease of his dimple which lined his cheek. ‘Are you mocking me or asking out of pity or gratitude?’
‘Of course not. I do not go around offering to marry women out of pity or gratitude.’
‘But...’
He hurried on. ‘And I know you do not want to marry anyone. I know you want to be independent and, in our society, it is hard for a married woman to be independent. I am certain I can determine something. That is why I mentioned a solicitor. The two of us, together, are greater than the individual.’
‘Sam, it is not just about independence. You live in London. I am not the type of woman that someone like you should marry. You need someone witty and beautiful.’ She stood, needing to distance herself from him, hoping the physical space would provide clarity.
He stood also. ‘But that is what I love about you. You are not a “type”. You are a person. You are a strong, caring, obstinate, brave, funny person. And you are also witty and beautiful. That’s why I love you.’
‘You...love...me?’ she whispered.
‘Yes, I have been afraid of loving. I have been afraid of being vulnerable. But with you, I do not feel alone, I do not feel as though I am in this world alone and I love that feeling.’ He stepped towards her. ‘I love you.’
Joy and hope tangled with doubt and fear in a confused mush. She reached up to him, cupping his face with both hands, and staring into the dark grey-green of his eyes. ‘I love you, too, but we cannot pretend that our differences do not matter. I do not want to be in London society. That isn’t me.’
‘It isn’t me either.’
‘It isn’t?’
He shook his head. ‘I am still discovering who I am and I want to keep discovering that with you.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’ He kissed her, tentatively at first and then with a growing passion as one hand reached up into her hair and the other caressed her back, pressing her tight to him.
‘But,’ she said, breaking free of his drugging kiss, ‘I have to write my own story.’
‘You can write anything you want,’ he muttered, feathering kisses across her nose and her cheeks, his hands stroking her backbone in a way that made her arch into him. ‘Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?’
‘Frequently. But I cannot live in London all the time.’
‘Fine.
What about Cornwall?’ he asked.
‘You’d live in Cornwall? I did not think you liked it.’
‘It is growing on me. Besides, I want to open a school.’
‘A what?’ She stepped back from him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Likely it is a foolish notion,’ he said, looking chagrined, colour flushing into his cheeks, making him appear younger and less certain.
‘Tell me,’ she said, eager to reassure.
‘I wanted to explain my idea in an organised way.’
‘Do not worry about organised.’
‘You have changed me. You have made me think about so many things. Sometimes the world feels too huge to change. And it is absolutely too huge to change all at once. But maybe we can take small steps, like opening a school in Fowey.’
She went to him. She wound her arms around him, pressing herself tight to him.
He claimed her mouth. Her hands slipped from his shoulders, as she caressed the muscles in his chest, moving under the cloth of his shirt. She heard the wild drumming of her own pulse. She felt him respond to her touch. She thrilled to his soft, needful groan.
‘The answer is yes,’ she whispered.
She felt an exaltation, an awareness of her body and a cessation of thought and reason with a singularity of focus on this one moment. It seemed that her body became molten, no longer bone and muscle, but sensuous and fluid. She knew a wild freedom, moving without thought, instinctively responding to the driving heat which started at her core, pulsing and expanding throughout her body.
‘Where is everyone?’ he muttered.
‘Out. Or deaf,’ she said.
They shifted backwards in an intimate dance, moving into her adjoining bedchamber until she felt the mattress at the back of her legs. Half-stumbling, they fell to the bed. The mattress sank under their weight.
Cupping her face, he caressed her slowly, gently, tenderly.
‘You’re sure?’ he whispered.
‘Yes. Yes,’ she said. ‘Occasional risk-taking may be necessary.’
He kissed her; long drugging kisses. He stroked her neck, pressing his lips to her collarbone and the skin at the neckline of her dress.
She heard him remove his shirt. Through half-closed eyes, she watched the way his muscles moved, highlighted by the low amber glow of the fire. He pulled back the blankets and he lay beside her. He felt warm and strong. He kissed her slowly, gently, moving against her. Darts of feeling pulsed through her. She clung to him, her body demanding something which was foreign to her, but in a heady, wonderful way.
Sam groaned as he undid her buttons, pulling away her gown and chemise. He kissed her chin, her neck, her collarbone, cupping each breast. He pulled off her skirts, her chemise and pantaloons, peeling them off her body. She felt the whisper of air against her nakedness, but knew no hesitation or embarrassment.
Instead, she felt only a needful joy as he lowered himself so that his body covered her own.
* * *
The glow of the firelight flickered against the white walls. He leaned against a pillow with Millie curled against his chest, her dark hair soft and silky. They should get up. It was shifting into late afternoon and someone would be home soon. Yet he felt a heady content as he looked at her. Her long lashes lay like fans against her cheeks, her soft pink lips twisted into a half-smile while her cheeks were flushed and rosy. With one finger, she lazily drew circles across his chest.
‘You smell good, much better than in the cabin,’ she said drowsily.
‘You, too.’
‘I will have to teach you to love the moors. And the sea.’
‘I’ll learn,’ he muttered into her hair. ‘I will teach you some things, too.’
‘And fishing.’
‘I was not thinking of fishing. And not in a storm.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘And if you’re going to live on the coast, I’ll have to teach you to swim.’
‘Sounds cold.’
‘I’ll keep you warm.’ She raised herself on her elbow, looking at him with her serious, dark gaze. ‘Tell me about this school?’
He smiled a little shyly. ‘Right now, it is just an idea. I realised that you and Sally are right. People deserve choice. Education is one way to give people options so that it is not a choice between the mines or smuggling.’
She kissed him. ‘I love that idea. We can get a building, hire a teacher or I could teach.’
‘Maybe we will open schools in other towns or run for political office and change the world.’
‘One coastal town at a time. Sam, I never thought—I have never felt like this before.’ She spoke with an appealing wonder, curiosity threading the soft huskiness of her tone. ‘Like the world has options and choices and excitement.’
‘I have not either.’ He looked at her and the soft movement of her finger against his chest. ‘I feel, for the first time in for ever, that I am not a solitary creature.’
‘And I feel for the first time ever, that I am the sort of woman to find romance. I never thought I was.’
‘And what sort of woman finds romance?’
‘The debutante type. I am more...dull.’
He laughed. ‘Dull? You saved me from drowning and chased down criminals. You’re anything but dull.’
‘Very well, I have adventurous moments, but not exactly in a “happily ever after” way.’
He ran his fingers down her cheeks so that he cupped her chin. ‘That’s because this is not about happy endings. This is the happy beginnings. This is our happy beginning.’
Epilogue
Millie sat at the desk in the small cottage which had been converted into a schoolroom. Gerald added some fuel to the fire and a flurry of sparks chased up the chimney. There had been frost this morning and the air felt chilly with the nip of the coming winter.
‘Go now,’ she said to her young helper. ‘I see your mother and sister are here.’
He left and she waved to Sally through the window and watched them leave, heading towards the harbour. From this vantage point, she could see the ocean. It was a nice day, but the sun was already low in the sky so that the sky was a pink gold and the waves were bright with diamond sparkles.
Sam rounded the corner and she smiled, waving. Standing, she started to collect her things, ready to go home. She paused for a moment, watching his fluid movement as he strode forward. Silhouetted against the diamond sparkles, he looked strong, broad and purposeful. He carried several books, which had most likely arrived in the afternoon post.
There had been some initial hesitation among the villagers about the school. Some children feared it might limit their freedom and a few determinedly remained down by the sea. Sam had been smart and had merely walked down with the other children and they’d scrambled among the rock pools, learning about the fish, the tides and the crustaceans. He’d made it all so lively that attendance had grown. Flora’s fresh baked bread or, on occasion, tea treat buns, served mid-morning had proved an added enticement.
Sam entered. ‘Two new volumes of Virgil.’
‘And the primers for English?’ she asked.
‘They should arrive soon. I have also translated Row, Row, Row Your Boat into Latin if you would care to teach it to the younger children.’
‘One cannot start a classical education too soon,’ she said.
‘I also have some new ideas for mathematics and thought that next year we should go to London. I believe I could convince the Philanthropic Society to support us.’
‘Sounds wonderful, but let us get home now. I am so excited that Frances and Noah have decided to visit. Mother is so much better now that she gets such constant news from the city.’
She stood, packing a few items before pausing, frowning briefly.
‘You do not think that a visit to Cornwall will negatively impact Frances’s health, d
o you?’
He pressed a kiss to her head. ‘She is much better,’ he said. ‘She will be fine.’
They started to walk across the floor to the outer door, before Millie stopped, hurrying back to her desk. ‘I mustn’t forget my knitting.’
She pulled open a drawer. She had experienced limited success with tatting or netting and hoped to manage better with knitting.
‘I’m making something for Noah,’ she explained, pulling out a bundle that included a ball of wool and two needles, one of which was attached to a five-inch square of knitting.
‘A woolly handkerchief?’ Sam asked dubiously.
‘It was supposed to be an article of clothing.’
‘Clothing? He does have arms.’
‘A scarf,’ Millie said. ‘And I have every hope that I will achieve this by Christmas.’ After all, it was only October.
With the knitting collected, they gave a final look about the small school and then exited, closing the door behind them and walking into the village. They were going to meet Lillian, who wanted to do a little shopping, and then take the carriage home together. Flora was organising preparations for Frances’s visit and had been giving the cook all manner of directions. Indeed, she was in her element now she had a staff once more.
Millie sighed, tucking her hand into Sam’s elbow.
‘Happy?’ he asked.
‘So very, very happy.’
* * *
If you enjoyed this book, why not check out
these other great reads by Eleanor Webster
No Conventional Miss
Married for His Convenience
Her Convenient Husband’s Return
A Debutante in Disguise
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Warrior’s Innocent Captive by Ella Matthews.
Caught in a Cornish Scandal Page 24