A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1)

by Paullett Golden

  Unable to resist, Percy offered, “If we start our journey early tomorrow, we can plan a visit.”

  Abbie grimaced. “I can’t see why you’d want to visit Leigh Hall if you have no intentions of purchasing it. You love London, and that’s that.”

  “Ah, but you forget—love compels me. Your happiness is all I desire.” Percival raised his cup to a pleased vicar and a frowning betrothed. “For Leigh Hall, we’re bound!”

  Chapter 12

  Abbie snuggled deeper into her traveling cloak, battling the chill that persisted despite a warm morning sun. She watched Mr. Randall approach in a curricle. Dread mingled with curiosity. After experiencing his charm, she was less than enthusiastic about having him as an escort to Sidbury, but she could not deny that pesky desire to see him and get to know him further.

  He was dashing atop the sporty vehicle, two mismatched horses leading him to her. Even when traveling in a shabby, hired curricle, he was dressed in splendor, his greatcoat caped and revealing glimpses of a crimson coat and waistcoat with floral embroidery beneath.

  “If it isn’t the loveliest of lovelies, Miss Abigail Walsley!” He drew the curricle to a stop and climbed down, his smile never wavering.

  “Good morning, Mr. Randall. You’re punctual.” Try as she might to look prim, her lips curved as he reached for her hand.

  “And miss a moment of time with you? Never.” He waved to the curricle. “It’s a far cry from my own, but it’ll have to do. The innkeeper knew a fellow who was willing to part with it for a day. I’m beginning to think there’s nothing and no one the innkeeper doesn’t know.”

  Slipping her hand in his, she allowed him to help her into the seat. Her first curricle ride! The slight dizziness and racing pulse of anticipation swept over her. She endeavored to make herself comfortable, smoothing out her dress. How impossibly high off the ground she was! Mr. Randall leapt into the seat next to her. Her faintness increased. The seat was so narrow, her leg bumped his as he situated himself. And they were to ride thusly to and from Sidbury? Heaven help her.

  “Have you packed provisions in your reticule? Dressed in an extra layer or two? Prepared yourself for a lengthy journey with me?” He angled his body to face her, the ribbons in his hand.

  “We’re only going to Sidbury, Mr. Randall, not London.” Even so, the trip would feel hours long with their legs touching.

  “And you’re positive you don’t want to bring a maid? Your father may feel confident your betrothed serves as an adequate chaperone, but given the truth, I can’t think you’d be comfortable on such a trip without an eagle-eyed biddy ready to thwack me over the head with her parasol should I so much as look at you. I’m sure I can find one if you’d prefer.”

  Abbie laughed. “I trust you to be a gentleman. And who’s to say I don’t have rocks in this reticule to defend my honor?”

  “I would be surprised if you didn’t.” He eyed the bag. “If you need an extra layer over your cloak, say the word. You can have my coat. I’ve no idea how long we’ll be on the road and don’t want you catching a chill.”

  “How chivalrous you’re being today. I’m warm enough. It’s not even five miles, you know.”

  “Is it really?” His shoulders slumped, and he cast her an exaggeratedly glum look. “And here I thought I had you at my side for at least an hour’s drive.”

  With a smirk, she said, “I’m ready for my adventure, sir. Tally-ho!”

  He flicked the ribbons. Abbie jolted backwards and grabbed the arm of the seat to hold steady, the air filling with peals of her laughter.

  They rode for but half a mile before Mr. Randall turned the horses from the road to Sidbury onto an overgrown lane. Abbie looked about to gain her bearings. Another quarter mile would be the drive to the Dunley estate. It was a walk she knew well. She had never in all her walks turned here, but she knew where it led: Leigh Hall.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Leigh Hall, of course. Did I not promise your father we would see it?”

  “Oh, come now. You jest. Telling him is one thing, but doing it is quite another. There’s no point, is there?”

  Mr. Randall slowed the vehicle to better take in the surroundings. The lane was narrow and winding, enclosed by woodland and overgrown foliage. Leigh Hall was said to be beautiful; she had never seen it to judge for herself.

  “I see no harm in touring the estate before we head to Sidbury,” he said. “I’ve been in correspondence with the steward, and while it was short notice, he seemed eager at the prospect of a potential new owner. His only complaint was he wouldn’t have a chance to air it out.”

  “You’ve misled him, then. He thinks you’re going to purchase it.”

  The driveway meandered through autumn-touched trees, a creek snaking to meet it then running alongside. With better clearing, this could be an impressive entry. As it was, she wondered if they were lost in the woods, never to find their way to the house.

  “I’ve not misled anyone. Who’s to say I won’t purchase it, with or without you as my bride?” He winked at her when she turned to scowl at him. “If you will, think of today as writing research. Imagine Sir Bartholomew is visiting his aged great uncle, and Leigh Hall is the man’s estate.”

  Abbie harrumphed, but she did not bother to hide the grin. Unwittingly, he had added depth to her one-dimensional knight. No, a great uncle did not add character development, but foolishly, she had never questioned whether her knight had family. The possibility of a great uncle, or whoever the person might be, gave her new subplots to explore and added more to Sir Bartholomew’s backstory and motivation than she had planned. How silly that one offhand remark had her imagination running wild!

  Until the estate came into view. All thoughts of her stories fled.

  A three-bay, stone block covered in overgrown, leafless vines awaited their arrival. A sizable wing branched perpendicular to the main house. The windows were gabled, the entrance arched, and the view spectacular with woodland to one side and open fields to the other, sweeping out and down into the valley.

  It was serenity.

  From the right angle, she wagered she could see the church.

  Her escort pulled the curricle to a stop in the circled drive. As he secured the horses and came around to help her down, she ran her hands under her bonnet to ensure her hair had not worked itself into disarray during the ride. Feet met gravel to the tune of the front door opening.

  “Mr. Randall!” waved a man who Abbie assumed was the steward.

  A plump fellow with old fashioned, powdered curls came bustling from the entrance. She knew him from church, but they had never exchanged conversation outside of the polite discourse after Sunday service. He had always seemed a genuine sort of fellow.

  After a brief introduction of all parties, the steward clasped Mr. Randall’s hand in his.

  “Mr. Randall and Miss Walsley, such a pleasure to meet you both.”

  “Mr. Wynde. Thank you for meeting us on short notice. As my missive said, Miss Walsley and I heard the good news about the hall’s availability. We couldn’t resist coming for a look.”

  “Yes, yes, come in. I’ll show you around.”

  They followed the steward inside, Mr. Randall continuing the conversation, Abbie taking in the house. It was considerably larger than the vicarage, but not as grand as the Dunley estate, rather a modest country manor, if one could call a manor modest. Her first step into the vestibule had her wrinkling her nose. It smelled damp and stale. Nothing a good air out could not remedy. The condition, at least, appeared pristine.

  “Once a monastery,” Mr. Wynde was saying as Abbie walked about the entrance hall. “Then converted into a manor. Not much evidence of the old monastery, though. A stone arch here and there perhaps. Twenty acres of woodlands. The gardens overlook the valley, though the beds aren’t a pretty sight, le
ft to weed.”

  The steward carried on. Abbie saw herself into the first room, a ground floor parlor of some sort, perhaps an anteroom for guests. Linen and blankets covered the furniture. Layers of dust coated the mantel and sheets. She peeked under one to spy an ornate chaise longue.

  Still talking, the steward and Mr. Randall joined her.

  “House’s been tied up in legalities for years, McVey’s kin battling to get their grubby hands on it. All’s settled finally. I’ve not had time to air out or hire staff; been overseeing the farms like. There are tenants and farms to look after, all which come with the house, and seeing as how I’ve been looking after them for so long, I’d like to say I come with the house, as well. Been heartbreaking to see it go to dust. McVey was a good man, loved this house. I hope it’ll go to a good family, a couple like you two perhaps.”

  Abbie met her betrothed’s smirk with one of her own.

  “Mr. Wynde,” he said, walking over to stand beside Abbie. “Would you mind if we explored the house on our own? We could meet up with you in half an hour at the foot of the stairs.”

  “Splendid idea. Of course, you’ll want to discuss it all without me present. Half an hour.” With a few too many bows, he left the room.

  “Well?” Mr. Randall cupped her elbow. “What would you like to see first? This is, after all, Sir Bartholomew’s great uncle’s house.”

  Swatting at his arm, Abbie said, “You’re incorrigible. Let’s find the drawing room, shall we?”

  Room after room, they explored, admiring the view, peeking under sheets, commenting on the condition and décor. When they found the drawing room one story up, they were in no hurry to leave, or at least Abbie was not, and neither was Mr. Randall, it seemed, for he swept one of the linens off a couch and took a seat, stretching his arms across the back.

  She felt his gaze follow her as she moved from window to window, taking in the view from the back. Beyond a line of yew trees, the land sloped into the valley. As she predicted, she could just make out the church, partially obscured by a copse of trees.

  Beneath one of the windows was what Abbie assumed to be a buffet. What she discovered was even better. With a tug, she freed the sheet, uncovering a long, narrow desk carved from mahogany, all the little drawers and cubbies still filled with paper and writing implements. An empty inkwell waited to be refilled. Lost in the moment, she sat at the desk and stared out the window. What a glorious place! It filled her with inspiration, not for Sir Bartholomew and some fictitious great uncle who may or may not make it into her novel, but for her. She could see herself sitting here every afternoon, writing.

  “Do you like it?” Mr. Randall asked.

  Dazed, dreaming of this view and this desk as part of her future, she whispered, “It’s perfect.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said. You’re right, you know.”

  It took long minutes to shake herself from her fantasy and realize she was in a room of a dusty house with a rake of a fake betrothed. It took longer minutes still to understand he was speaking to her. The fantasy lingered on the fringes of her mind, demanding attention.

  She turned to face him, startled anew to be here with him. “Right about what?”

  “My life. I have no direction, no purpose. An estate like this could be the answer.”

  Caught between a scoff and a laugh, she settled for a frown. “But I thought you hated the country, didn’t want the responsibility, and wouldn’t dare give up your London fun.”

  “Is that what you think of me?” Mr. Randall stared into the distance, lost in thought. “It must be true, then.”

  “Are you serious, or are you jesting again, Mr. Randall?”

  It was his turn to frown. “My name’s Percival. Will you forever insist on this formality, even while I call you by your given name? Please, Abbie. Call me Percy.”

  Biting her lip, her pulse accelerating, she nodded. “Very well. Percy. Now, are you being serious about this estate? I don’t believe you are.”

  His absent expression passed, replaced with a dashing smile that nevertheless seemed wooden. “You know me too well, darling. I couldn’t be serious if my life depended on it.”

  “I believe you’re actually joking now, which tells me you were being serious before. If you’re considering purchasing an estate, be it this one or another, you must be positive it’s what you want to do. You would have staff and tenants who depend on you. It’s a life change you’d need to be ready to make. There would be no changing your mind after a month to return to London. Well, I suppose you could, but what a mess that would be.”

  “What about you? Where do you see yourself this time next year? Or two years from now? Five years? What will Abbie be doing with her life?” He stood and walked to the window next to her, looking out onto the valley.

  Abbie opened her mouth to speak a ready answer until she realized she had none. Published. Writing her next novel. Calling on her fellow parishioners. Attending her literary society. Yes, that seemed right. Her life would proceed exactly as it was currently, and that was how she wanted it. What if her friends married? Would they continue to attend the literary society after marriage and children? She could not say with certainty.

  This was a silly conversation. She did not know or care what next year looked like as long as she was content with life now.

  When she did not answer, Mr. Randall—or Percival, rather—turned to her. “Ah, darling, I believe our guests have arrived for loo. Will you prepare the table? You know how Mr. Pendergast loves to sit on the fattest cushion with his bum facing the hearth.”

  It took Abbie only seconds to catch on. Fluttering her eyelashes, she gave him a demure look then headed to the table near the fire, yanking off another sheet.

  “Let us hope his frock does not singe like last time,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, dreadful business. I owed the man a new suit, never mind it was he who continued to move his chair closer to the fire. Shall I ring for tea?”

  As Percy’s hand tugged at the bellpull in the corner, Mr. Wynde stepped into the room. The steward looked from one to the other of them, perplexity tainting his brow.

  “Not yet half an hour, I know,” Mr. Wynde said. “But I wanted to see how you carried on. I’m afraid there’s no staff for tea.”

  When Abbie met Percy’s gaze, the pair dissolved into laughter.

  Less than an hour later, they pulled up in front of Prudence’s house in Sidbury, a terraced, thatched cottage that reflected the owner’s disposition with its colorful array of flowers, all still blooming despite the late October chill. When they knocked, it was four-year-old Fanny who answered the door. Wide eyes, a cherub mouth, and satin tresses adorned the oval face. Wordless, she reached her arms to Abbie to be carried, her stare riveted on the stranger.

  The house erupted in noise the second they walked over the threshold. Chattering, chittering, and chuckling combined with the wails and whines of children. It was not only Mrs. Prudence Rockford, her husband Mr. Rockford, and the baby to greet them, as Abbie had expected. No, gathering in the hall from the parlor was their sister Mrs. Bonnie Sullivan, her husband, their thirteen-year-old son William, and several neighbors either poking a head around the parlor door or conversing within.

  Casting an apologetic glance to Percival, Abbie’s cheeks flamed. All this fuss over a misunderstanding, not that anyone in the house knew that fact.

  The next long minutes were filled with uncountable introductions by an overexcited Pru, one hand on her round belly, the other patting the arm of a grinning Percival who did not at all seem to mind the overfamiliarity of Abbie’s family and acquaintances. Seated in the parlor next to the inglenook fireplace, exposed beams overhead and flagged floors below, Abbie nodded and smiled when necessary, trying not to become overwhelmed. Fanny soon lost interest in her aunt with a newcomer in her midst. The little girl poked and tugged at hi
s coat.

  “And what have the two of you been doing this fine day?” Pru asked, her eyes moving from Abbie to Percival and back. “I was telling Mrs. Brisby this morning—wasn’t I, Mrs. Brisby—that he’d be a fine gentleman with a fine carriage and escort my sister in the style to which she would soon become accustomed. And here you both are, arrived in a sporty, racing vehicle that meets my expectations in every thinkable way, and I know—didn’t I say, Mrs. Mercer—that Abbie has had the time of her life this morning, riding in such stylings with the man who has caught her eye. There’s love in the air—am I not correct, Mr. Rockford—there is love in the air.”

  Percival, the devil, replied, “You are most perceptive, Mrs. Rockford. They say it’s not at all the thing to spend too much time with one’s bride. But you’ll understand me when I say I can’t stay away from Miss Walsley for long before I feel a dreadful tug at the heart.”

  “You are a man besotted!” Mrs. Brisby exclaimed, setting down her needlework to clasp her hands over her heart.

  “Guilty, I’m afraid. Guilty. The only thing that will keep us apart is our difference of opinion on the décor. My beloved has the worst taste in curtains.” He winked at Abbie. “Just today, she was eyeing a picturesque window at Leigh Hall and wanting to cover it with emerald green draperies. Now, I ask you, who covers such views with emerald green?”

  All in the room laughed, except Abbie who was too busy covering her rouged cheeks with her palms.

  Pru placed a hand on Percival’s arm once again. “What were you doing at Leigh Hall? I’ve not been there in years, not since old Mr. McVey passed. He always had the best cakes—didn’t he, Bonnie?”

  With an uncharacteristic expression of unadulterated bashfulness, Percival shuffled his toe on the stoned floor and said, “Now, now, Mrs. Rockford, don’t have me revealing such confessions in front of all and sundry. It was idle curiosity more than anything, but I do aim to make Abbie the happiest of brides, if you catch my meaning.”