by Jayne Davis
“I’ve been giving the matter of a possible guardian some thought,” Will said, when they’d settled into the library after dinner. “Someone who will help you as well, if… if something happens before we have any children.” His gaze moved from her face down to the neckline of her gown as he imagined how such children—
Concentrate!
Connie put her book aside. “Who have you chosen? Mr Nancarrow, or your solicitor, I suppose.”
“No. If it is going to be a matter of standing up to my father, it has to be someone with more influence. There are only two men I can think of. One is my Uncle Jack, but I haven’t seen him since I was a child, and he’s in India.”
“It could take months, a year even, for letters to be exchanged.”
“Exactly.” And if Uncle Jack had been in England, Will might not now be married to Connie and that would be a shame. “The other is my friend, Harry Tregarth,” he went on, bringing his mind back to the business on hand.
“Is he…?” Connie’s voice tailed off, and she pressed her lips together.
“Is he like me?”
She nodded.
Will wasn’t sure if he should be offended at the doubt on her face. “He’s more sensible, Connie, truly. And I am trying to think more about things rather than just rushing in.”
A blush rose to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… You are taking care of things.”
Not as much as he might be. “You are quite right to question me. It’s your future, after all.”
“Possible future. I’d rather not have to test his abilities as a guardian.”
Because she didn’t want to lose him, or because she would be less protected? He hoped it was the former. “He’s a good man, Connie,” Will continued, bringing his thoughts back to the matter at hand. “And Sir John—Harry’s father—is in the government, so he has some influence and can also provide sensible advice.”
She bit her lip against a question, but he answered it anyway. “Sometimes Harry even listens to it.”
She chuckled. “May I meet Mr Tregarth?”
“Of course. I’ve already invited him to come and visit us, but I’ll write again tomorrow about this guardianship idea.” He would write to his sisters as well, to tell them how he was getting on, but he’d have to word the letters carefully—his father was certain to read them first.
“If the weather holds fine tomorrow, Connie, would you care to come for another drive with me? We could go to the sea, if you wish.”
“Not Ashmouth?”
“No, not after what happened to Mrs Strickland. We’ll go the other way, take some food.”
They would have privacy for his final confession. One that she wouldn’t be upset about, he hoped.
“I’d like that, thank you.” She smiled, and picked up her book. She’d abandoned Tristram Shandy, he noted. Wealth of Nations? He could see she hadn’t got very far into it, so he’d wait a while to see what she thought of Dr Smith’s arguments.
A month ago, he would have scoffed at the suggestion he could enjoy just sitting in the same room as a beautiful woman while she read a book. There were other things he’d enjoy more, obviously, but this would do for now. Best to get tomorrow’s confession out of the way first, in any case.
Chapter 30
Sunday 6th July
Will drove the chaise, dispensing with Archer’s services for the afternoon. They turned east, meandering along narrow lanes until finally the track descended gently towards a little fishing village. Connie looked around, her wide smile and sparkling eyes showing her appreciation of the waves beyond a sweep of pebbled beach.
“Will this do?” Will asked, pulling the chaise to a halt.
“Very nicely, thank you.” She took his hand as she stepped down from the chaise, and he handed her a blanket.
“Look after your horse, mister?”
A grubby boy stood at the mare’s head, stroking her nose. From his size, he would be about the same age as Danny Trasker.
“Very well. Can you loosen the harness and give her some water? There’ll be some pennies for you if she’s kept comfortable.”
The boy’s mouth widened in a happy grin, and he bobbed his head before turning back to the mare.
Will’s lips pressed together in a determined line. That was what lads like Danny Trasker should look like, not battered and worried sick. The number of people he felt responsible for seemed to be increasing daily.
Connie had spread the blanket on a stretch of grass and crossed the pebbled beach down to the water’s edge. Will deposited the picnic basket, then sprawled on the blanket. Connie was playing the age-old game of dodging the waves, laughing as she almost got her feet wet, then advancing again to follow the water running back down the slope.
She’d hitched up her skirts, showing slim ankles, shapely calves. He tried to keep his imagination from wandering further up her legs—he’d brought her here for a purpose.
Connie breathed the smells of salt and seaweed, the cries of gulls almost drowning out the rush of the waves on the pebbles. They had only walked for a few minutes by the sea when he’d taken her to Ashmouth, before Archer had summoned them to the injured housekeeper. This was much better. There were so few people around, perhaps it would not be too improper later to remove her shoes and stockings and paddle in the sea.
She saw that Will was unpacking the basket, and returned to sit beside him. “Thank you for this, Will. It’s lovely.”
Will returned her smile, but briefly.
“Is something wrong?”
“I have something more to tell you,” he said. “I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”
Former lovers?
“It’s not another woman, Connie. At least, not exactly.” He ran one hand through his hair.
“Tell me, Will.” Whatever it was, he was worried about her reaction to it.
“I have a son.”
She hadn’t expected that. Although it wasn’t so surprising, really—he hadn’t been a saint when he lived in London.
“An illegitimate son?” It had to be.
“Yes. I was fifteen, it was not long after my mother died. Sally was the blacksmith’s daughter, in Over Minster.”
Fifteen? She stared out to sea as thoughts spun through her head. That seemed very young to her, but she knew little about men of that age. It must be ten years ago now; well in the past.
Then the final part of what he’d said came back to her. Over Minster—the next parish to Nether Minster, where the Fancotts would help anyone in trouble.
She turned towards him to find his eyes searching her face, his expression anxious.
“Is that how you know Mr Fancott?” she asked.
“Yes. My father thought I was stupid to try to help her. I didn’t know what to do.”
How would he, at fifteen?
“Our own vicar was of the same mind as my father, said it was the girl’s fault, so I went to see the vicar in the next parish. Fancott sent her here, without my father’s knowledge, until the child was born. I used all my allowance for several years to give her a bit of a dowry. According to Fancott she’s happily married with half a dozen more children. He writes to her now and then.”
So Will hadn’t seen the woman for ten years, and nothing in his demeanour said he wanted to. His actions showed another facet to his character, and one she liked. He’d been thoughtless, yes, but at fifteen that was almost to be expected. More importantly, he’d done what he could to make sure the girl had not suffered for it in the end. From what Martha had said, many men of his class wouldn’t think twice about getting a village girl in trouble.
“And your son. Did her new husband accept—?”
“According to Fancott, he knew of the child, but Fancott thought the lad would have a better life with someone who really wanted him. He found a couple in Exeter, the Westbrooks, who were happy to take him in and raise him as their own.”
That made sense. Connie’s half-sisters had nev
er complained about the way her mother had treated them, but not all step-parents were as fair.
“Is that why you visit here? To see him?”
“I do see him occasionally,” he said. “Although most of my news is indirect, via Pendrick, in Exeter. Mrs Westbrook is Pendrick’s sister. Westbrook is a solicitor, so the boy’s getting a respectable upbringing. The Westbrooks have never made a secret of the fact they are not his natural parents, but it’s Westbrook he thinks of as his real father, not me.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? Best for him, at least. Do you mind?”
He had picked a daisy, and was pulling the petals off one by one. She thought he did mind, but he had done what was best for the boy. She looked away, swallowing hard. He would make a good father one day, to their children.
“I… I think it would be selfish of me to intrude, Connie. When he’s older, it might be all right.” He flicked the remains of the daisy away. “He’s very much wanted there. You can imagine the kind of life an illegitimate son would have if he’d grown up anywhere near my father.”
“Thank you for telling me, Will. It’s in the past; you can’t change what happened, but you did the right thing afterwards. You’re still doing the right thing.”
The sudden relaxation of his features revealed how tense he’d been.
“No other secrets?” Perhaps she should trust him and not ask, but she wanted to hear him say no. “I told you all of mine—about my mother, and my true father.”
He reached out and took her hand. “No other secrets, Connie, I swear it.”
He looked so earnest that her heart turned over. “I believe you.”
“Thank you.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, his lips warm on her skin. The warmth spread to the rest of her, but he released her hand and turned to the picnic basket.
“Shall we see what Mrs Curnow has given us?” Will opened the basket and brought out ginger cake and lemonade.
Connie gazed out to sea again as she ate, still feeling the print of his lips on her hand, but her mind was on his revelations. Will had loved his mother, that was clear from everything he’d said about her. What must it have been like for a young lad when his mother died, living with such a father? She’d had the Fancotts to comfort her—had there been anyone for Will?
She slid a glance towards him—he, too, was gazing at the waves. As she looked he turned to her and smiled, that dimple showing again. The expression in his eyes made her heart beat faster.
He was a grown man now, not that lonely boy, but men needed love too. She could very easily come to love him—she suspected she was halfway there already.
“Shall I teach you to skim stones?” Will’s voice brought her back to the present.
Stones?
Will was sorting through the pebbles near their patch of grass, selecting thin, flat ones.
“Yes, like this.” He stood and walked down to the water’s edge, waiting for a flat bit of water between waves then leaning sideways to throw the stone. It skipped once, twice, three times before disappearing into the water on the fourth bounce.
“I must be losing my touch,” he said, looking back at her with a grin. “My record was seven when I was a lad.”
He held out a stone. “Would you like to try?”
Why not?
Will showed her how to hold the stone, with one finger hooked around its edge. “Flick your wrist when you let it go.”
He watched her face as she took the stone, not her hands. He had shown more of himself to her today than he had before, and it hadn’t been easy to tell—because of both his own regrets and his anxiety about how she might react. He’d needed to move, to do something, so now they were skimming stones.
She seemed to have taken it well, although her face had lost the happy sparkle of their arrival. But she looked thoughtful, not sad, and produced a rueful smile when her first stone sank without trace.
“It takes practice.” He held out another, but it went the same way as the first. “Keep trying—like this.” He stood behind her and folded her hand over the next stone, making sure her fingers were in the right place. Her skin felt smooth on his palm, silky.
“Flick your wrist, like this.” He moved her hand to show the action needed, standing close so their arms could move together. He could no longer smell the salt air, just the scent of her skin; the breeze became strands of her hair tickling his face.
He took a deep breath. “Bend your knees a little,” he added, stepping back from her abruptly and hoping that his racing pulse would slow. He had to keep his distance if he was to keep his word.
Connie felt Will’s absence as he moved away. It wasn’t coolness from the breeze that reached her back, but the feeling of a loss of something within her. What would it have felt like if he’d stepped forwards instead of backwards, pressing his body against her and encircling her with his arms? If he had turned her to face him and—
“Connie?”
Oh, yes. Throw the stone.
It sank as the first two had.
Pebbles scraped as he moved, but he held her next stone at almost arm’s length, his fingers at one end of it.
This time it skipped. Only once, but she turned to him with a happy smile. “Another!”
She’d half hoped for him to step closer again, to wind his arms around her to show her how to do it better, but he only smiled, a little stiffly. “I’ll find some more stones for you.”
She threw a dozen stones, managing several skips with most of them. Without his presence so close behind her, she could concentrate on flicking them as he had shown her.
Will sat on one end of the blanket with his knees drawn up, the basket now planted firmly in the middle. Connie hesitated before sitting down at the other end. Was something wrong?
He was gazing at the sea. He’d kissed her hand before—what would his lips feel like on her own? What would those broad shoulders feel like beneath her hands? That warmth inside had little to do with the sunshine. Perhaps tonight she would—
“Connie, I’ll be going out to watch for smugglers again this evening.”
Not tonight, then.
A bucket of cold water would have been less dampening. She would wait up for him, but he might not be back until the early hours.
“I’ll only be observing, Connie, as I promised. Nothing happened last night, and they’ll need to move those goods soon.”
She nodded as his eyes met hers, but then he turned back to the basket, bringing out two small pie dishes. “Squab pie,” he said, handing her a plate and a fork.
Connie wasn’t hungry, but it was something to do with her hands while she tried to decide whether to tell him she was changing her mind about waiting. He wasn’t looking at her, and he’d moved the basket to place it between them. Something was wrong—she wasn’t sure what. Was he feeling regretful about the son he hardly saw?
She could not discuss consummating their marriage now. Not here on the beach, with the ride home to come and nowhere to retreat to if she made a complete fool of herself.
She stuck her fork into the pie, looking doubtfully at the filling. “Squab is young pigeon, is it not?” Was she really babbling about food?
“At this end of the country, squab pies are mutton and apple.” He took a mouthful, his gaze fixed on his plate.
So be it. Discussing Mrs Curnow’s cooking could distract her for a little while.
“No more, thank you,” Connie said, as Will offered her a plate of fruit. She smiled, but her face felt stiff. She’d wanted to ask more about his life after his mother had died, for some reason wanting to know there’d been someone for him, even if only an old nurse or governess. But Will’s dinner conversation had stuck to the estate, the farms, books they had read—seemingly anything to keep to impersonal topics. At any other time, Connie would have enjoyed it, but not tonight.
“If you will excuse me, then, I have some urgent letters to write.” He stood as he spoke, his smile looking forced.
Letters? He’
d not mentioned anything urgent earlier. Although he hadn’t said so, it was also clear he didn’t want her to join him in the library, as she had done almost every evening so far.
Is he deliberately avoiding me?
She toyed with her wine glass as the door closed behind him, remembering the ride back in the chaise that afternoon. Until today, she hadn’t realised how often their bodies had touched as they drove around together—shoulders, elbows or hips. Today, those touches were noticeable for their almost complete absence.
With a sigh, she rang the bell for Barton to clear the table, and retreated to her parlour with a book. She might be able to summon up the courage to talk to him about it tonight, when he returned from watching, or perhaps in the morning.
Will set off across the fields in the gathering dusk, feeling a miserable wretch. Standing behind Connie on the beach had almost undone him; moving away from her had done little to reduce his body’s awareness of her, its want.
He’d given his word, and would not try to seduce her into changing her mind.
Keeping their conversation on impersonal topics had helped a little, but the hurt in her eyes when he left her after dinner showed she knew his excuse to be the lie it was. But he knew that if he was to keep his word, he would need to be somewhere away from her.
She knew him much better now, after today’s revelations. That had been her reason for wanting to wait. Perhaps he should ask her directly—it might not be easy for a woman brought up as she had been to raise such a subject, particularly if he was keeping his distance. He could not avoid her this way for the rest of the month he’d promised.
“Been talking in the village, my lord.” Archer’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“What more do you know?” This, at least, was something he did need to concentrate on.
“Quite a bit, after I talked to Mrs Trasker on the way to Ottery.” Archer stopped. “My lord, that Nancarrow will keep them safe, won’t he? It was bad enough before, but after what she told me, Sandow’ll be even worse.”