by Amy Corwin
“The accounts, my lord,” Harris reminded him, tapping the black leather cover of the ledger book he held. “If you would grant me a few moments of your time?”
“But Grandmother just received a new copy of La Belle Assemblée,” he said, unable to resist.
Harris stared at him and then heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, my lord. The accounts?”
“If you insist.” This time Blackwold sighed before he followed his secretary obediently, wondering if pouring over fashion plates might not be preferable, all things considered.
Chapter Fourteen
Despite the dowager’s illness, the next few days were halcyon ones spent under blue skies decorated with fluffy white clouds and temperate weather for March. Even the biting northeastern winds had eased into soft breezes. The path along the cliff called to Hannah, and she frequently walked there, despite the incident with Hera. The wide sky fascinated her and filled her heart with such a rush of longing that her breath caught in her throat. The moody weather shifted without warning from translucent blue to dark, gunmetal gray as brief storms raced in, rained, and then evaporated in the blink of an eye. Under the influence of the soft mist, the gently undulating countryside was rapidly turning to lush green, dotted with swaths of spring flowers that lent their soft fragrance to the near-constant breeze.
Hannah, Gina, and Blackwold spent most mornings riding over the lovely countryside—showing Hannah an England she’d truly come to love. Poor Hera was left behind, however, locked in her stall, with her head hanging over the door as if she, too, longed to go cantering over the rolling turf.
On Friday morning, they even managed to ride a few miles further afield, to the small village of Boscastle. The quay was a hive of activity, and many of the inhabitants seemed too engaged in the business of fishing to notice the trio of riders.
With a twinkle in his brown eyes, Blackwold recommended they visit the church. Hannah gazed at him, suspecting some sort of jest, but unable to see what it could possibly be. It was a church, after all. What could be amusing about that?
But in the cool, dimly-lit church, Blackwold solemnly pointed to the epitaph for the Rev. W. Cotton and his wife:
Forty-nine years they lived man and wife,
And what’s more rare, thus many without strife,
The first departing, he a few weeks tried
To live without her, could not, and so died.
“Doesn’t seem possible, does it?” Blackwold asked as they strolled out into the bright sunshine.
“I don’t see why not,” Hannah replied. “My own parents were very happy.”
“For forty years?” Gina stared at her, waiting for her cousin to help her into the saddle. “Without any arguments?”
“Well, no, not forty years.” Hannah arranged her skirts to fall gracefully over the sidesaddle and patted the warm neck of the dappled gray mare. “And they naturally had a few contretemps—all those who are married do so. However, I’m sure they would still be firmly attached to one another had they lived. Their quarrels rarely lasted long.”
Her mare snorted and shook her head, restive and wanting to be on the way back. Hannah had noticed that the further they roamed from Blackrock Manor and the comfortable stables, the more restive the horse grew.
With Blackwold’s assistance, Gina climbed onto her sidesaddle. She frowned as she fiddled with the reins. “But they married for love, did they not?”
“Yes,” Hannah replied with a smile. “And they were very well suited. They were both fascinated with travel and could rarely be persuaded to stay in one place for very long.”
Blackwold mounted his own horse, a magnificent bay with beautiful lines. “Then they were fortunate, indeed, to find each other. Love is generally the most ephemeral and fleeting of emotions, and one that rarely grows for long, even between those who are well suited.” He gathered the reins and turned his horse’s head toward Blackrock.
“Fleeting if one’s emotions are shallow.” Hannah stared at his straight back as she guided her horse to trot next to Gina’s.
Did he truly believe what he said? The thought lowered her spirits, and her shoulders sagged. Even her mare seemed to plod along, head down in an exceedingly dispirited manner.
The last few nights, Blackwold had made such a habit of visiting her at the stroke of three that she found herself waking up in anticipation. Sadly, he’d also fallen into the habit of kissing her goodnight on the forehead, no matter how she lifted her chin and closed her eyes in the hopes that he felt the same attraction fluttering in his stomach that she felt in hers.
Perhaps he wasn’t attracted to her at all and simply hoped she’d finally admit she’d seen the face of the man on the beach.
Then what would he do? Smother her with one of her pillows? The murderer was obviously either he or one of his relatives, so she could only anticipate the worst.
Well, what else had she expected? That he would fall in love with her and ask her to marry him?
For people like Gina and Blackwold, duty was held in the highest regard, and they would do as expected. They would set aside their emotions and marry to advantage and live well-ordered, dutiful lives. The thought made Hannah want to scream.
A quick glance at Gina’s frowning face made her suspect that the girl wasn’t enchanted by the prospect of doing her duty, either.
Duty… If that was so important to Blackwold, why had he brought them to Boscastle? Why show them that epitaph, that testament to the enduring power of love? Even if it were stated humorously, the epitaph nonetheless told the tale of a couple so devoted that one could not live without the other.
Her own parents had been the same. And how many others had also found life unsupportable when their helpmate perished?
That Blackwold would show her that epitaph and then continue to pursue his obligation to marry for duty rather than love seemed to point to only one thing: that he had seen the affection she harbored for him in her eyes, but he didn’t feel the same. That he didn’t believe in the power of love.
This foray might have been undertaken, not for the sake of curiosity, but as a warning to her not to give him too dear a place in her heart.
By the time they trotted into the courtyard at Blackrock Manor, she was sick of her thoughts. Her frown matched Gina’s as a groom helped them dismount, and her mood soured further when Henry wandered around the corner of the house.
“Miss Cowles!” he called, waving to them.
“Cousin Henry,” Blackwold greeted him with a nod.
Henry replied, “Blackwold.” Skirting Blackwold, he approached Hannah and offered her his elbow. “Grandmother has been asking for you.” He glanced at the gray mare as the groom led her toward the stable. “If I had known you were going riding, I would have escorted you.”
“No need,” Blackwold said, interrupting him.
Shrugging, Henry maneuvered Hannah toward to the door. “Blackwold is so occupied these days, he barely has time for any of us. Poor Grandmother has been quite wretched and in need of distraction.”
“But we have all been visiting her—I read to her yesterday afternoon for several hours,” Hannah protested, her cheeks flushing. Someone was always attending to the dowager, hoping to amuse her and make her feel less miserable.
But she supposed that since Lady Blackwold was confined to bed, the hours went much more slowly and seemed a great deal more empty than they did for the rest of them.
Henry patted her hand where it lay within the crook of his elbow. “I am sure you’ve done a great deal. Her spirits were so low this morning that she felt particularly lonely and in need of your company. Though you’ve only been with us for a short time, I know she feels very attached to you. As we all do.”
Flush deepening, Hannah tried to pull her hand away from his arm using the pretext of lagging behind him a step. His arm tightened, and he moved her forward insistently.
“I should change—I smell of the stables,” she protested as they came to the wide stairc
ase. “I will visit the dowager as soon as I refresh myself.”
“Very well. I will let her know you have returned and will attend her shortly. You’re very kind, Miss Cowles. We are so fortunate to have you here.” Henry released his grip on her as they reached the second floor.
First floor, she amended silently. She had to remember she was in England now, and they designated the floors quite differently. “Thank you,” she replied with a sigh. “I won’t be long.”
After making a quick toilet and pulling on a simple day dress in pale rose with matching pink shoes, she picked up the gothic novel she’d been reading to the dowager. Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto wasn’t precisely Hannah’s preferred material—in truth it was a little long-winded—but Lady Blackwold seemed to enjoy Isabella’s attempts to elude marriage to Manfred.
As she approached the dowager’s door, it opened and Henry stepped out into the hallway. He smiled when he caught sight of her. “Miss Cowles! Thank you again—my grandmother is eager to see you.” With a shallow bow, he opened the door and held it for her. “Miss Cowles, Grandmother…”
“I can see her as well as you can, Henry,” the dowager said. Her heavily veined hands straightened the thick blue quilt over her lap. Her ruffled white nightcap was tied securely under her sagging chin, and her bed jacket was a frothing sea of lace and elaborate white silk embroidery, giving her the appearance of a very elderly, wrinkled mermaid peering out from the foamy crest of a wave. “Close the door after you!”
“Yes, Grandmother.” He bowed to both ladies, smiling at Hannah before disappearing into the hallway. The door closed with a soft snick of the lock.
“So, Miss Cowles, you’ve finally managed to pause in your pursuit of my grandson long enough to visit your poor, lonely benefactor.”
Hannah stared at her, clutching the leather-bound book to her chest. Protesting that she was not pursuing Blackwold seemed absurd, and she refused to do so. “Your granddaughter and I just returned from Boscastle. We’ve been getting some fresh air. If you feel strong enough, perhaps you might like to go outside to get some air this afternoon. I’d be happy to assist you.”
“Fresh air? Where are your wits, girl?” She leaned forward, her eyes fixed upon Hannah. “I am ill—do you wish to push me into my grave? Fresh air, indeed!”
Hannah gripped the wooden chair next to the small, elegant desk positioned in front of a window and pulled it closer to the head of the bed. “Would you like to continue The Castle of Otranto?”
“Yes—in a minute.” The dowager’s gaze dropped to her covers for a moment. She smoothed the quilt again, her hands moving restlessly. “I am not very strong, Miss Cowles. The doctor has been—he quite despairs of me.”
“Nonsense. You are well on the road to recovery.”
The dowager’s eyes flashed. Her thin mouth tightened. “You are optimistic—that has always been one of the most egregious faults possessed by you colonists. One need only look at your ridiculous revolt to see the consequences of such an attitude. You never recognize a looming tragedy until it is upon you.”
“It does seem to have worked out, however. And we are no longer colonists, Lady Blackwold. So, I don’t believe optimism is a fault in need of correction. Quite the reverse.”
“And I doubt you see the nose in the middle of your own face!” the dowager retorted, her face flushing an unhealthy magenta.
“Quite true.” Hannah clasped her hands on top of the book resting in her lap. “Unless I happen to glance into a mirror, of course. Now, as I recall, Manfred had locked poor Theodore in a tower in the last chapter. Should I begin reading there?”
Lady Blackwold glared at her. “I haven’t the slightest interest in whatever fate befalls that pathetic ninny!”
“Thank goodness,” Hannah said, letting out a long breath. “The Castle of Otranto may have been very popular a few years ago, but I have to admit that I find it tedious. Is there another book you’d prefer?”
“No, there is not! I have no interest in spending the last few hours of my life listening to you read.”
Hannah laughed. “You are not dying, I assure you.”
“Everyone dies, young lady, as you will soon discover.” The dowager cut off Hannah’s protest with a wave of her hand. “And I have something I wish to discuss with you.”
“Very well. I will do my best to respond intelligently.”
“No intelligence is required, Miss Cowles. Just a good and honorable heart.”
Hannah smiled and nodded, although a nervous flutter in her stomach made her clasped hands tighten.
“I have spoken to my grandson, Henry, several times about this situation. He has informed me that you have proven your identity to everyone’s satisfaction.” The dowager fixed her gaze on Hannah’s face, as if to pin her to her chair. “And he agrees that since your father’s title remains dormant, it may be possible for your husband to apply for and receive the title, based upon the original letters patent. This will have to be examined, of course, but I believe your husband will be able to lay claim to the original estates and so on if this proves successful.”
“Perhaps, but I am not interested—”
“You may profess to a lack of interest, but the truth is, why else come to England? You are a young, moderately attractive woman—what other purpose could you have but to lay claim to what should have been your family’s inheritance?” Her gaze fluttered to the blue quilt before focusing even more firmly on Hannah. “My Henry—he has received so little, has so few expectations and is far more deserving… Well, this is what I wished to discuss with you—my last request.”
“But you are not dying, Lady Blackwold,” Hannah pointed out with a smile.
“I am far more gravely ill than any of you suspect!” The dowager’s eyes flashed and her sagging chin quivered with emotion. “And I have only one request—one small thing to hope for.”
Hannah’s heart sank. She didn’t want to hear the dowager’s request. “Lady Blackwold—”
“Be quiet! We have opened our home, and I daresay our hearts, to you, and my dear Henry is not unattractive. He is a kind and generous man—he should have been Lord Blackwold if the fates had any sense whatsoever. And Blackwold can be such a fool, though we all adore him. In any event, I will have Henry comfortably settled. All I ask of you is your promise that you will agree to marry my Henry.” She held up one shaking hand, demanding silence. “He is the one taking the risk, for there is no certainty that what should have been your father’s title will be granted, along with any estates associated with it. However, he has insisted that he is prepared to shoulder the risk and responsibility. He holds you in great affection, Miss Cowles, and would make an excellent husband. Will you promise me—on this bible,” she gestured to the black leather-covered volume on her bedside table, “that you will marry my Henry?”
No! Absolutely not!
Her thoughts screeched and whirled with revulsion at the idea. She could never marry a man she didn’t love, and there was something about Henry Hodges that she couldn’t trust. His vanity and self-satisfaction made him difficult to like, much less consider as a spouse.
“I am truly sorry, Lady Blackwold, but I can’t.”
The dowager stared at her, so angry that she literally shook. Her hands clutched and released the blue quilt over and over again.
Hannah leaned over and placed a hand on the dowager’s arm, fearing an apoplectic attack.
Lady Blackwold took a deep, quivering breath and said through thinned lips, “It is all I ask of you, Miss Cowles. In return for the hospitality we have shown you. Is this how you show your gratitude? By refusing what may be your best—your only—hope of a secure future? I have heard the rumors from the village. Do you think you will find a better mate than my Henry? Are you that silly and blind? We are offering you security and the chance to establish yourself in your family’s hereditary seat. Would you throw that all away because of your stubbornness—your silly, missish attitude?”
&nbs
p; “I—”
The dowager let out a long breath and slumped, the angry color leaving her face. A tear ran down her cheek into a deep furrow that ran to the corner of her drooping mouth. Her wrinkled, sagging skin seemed to hang loosely on the underlying bones, and the gray, unhealthy color alarmed Hannah.
She moved over to sit on the edge of the bed and grasp the dowager’s left hand in her own.
“Is it truly too much to ask?” Lady Blackwold murmured. “All I want is to see my Henry—and you—happy. Will you not consider it?”
“I don’t—”
The dowager shook her head. “I am as bad as an old fishwife.” A harsh laugh broke from her. “I am not so foolish that I do not realize it. But there are so few ways I can help anyone anymore, and I worry so about Henry. And you, my dear. You are a young woman, alone in an essentially foreign land. Have you truly considered what that entails? I am not a wealthy woman, Miss Cowles. In the end, I can give Henry nothing. Surely, you understand? Blackwold has everything, and Georgina will marry well, I am sure of it. Carter, well,” she shrugged, “he has his living. And you—you may be an heiress, but there are dozens of wealthy women who lead unhappy lives—unaccepted by Society, despite their money. Can you not ease my mind that both you and Henry will both be taken care of? Life could be so pleasant for you both, and Henry could obtain the title and estate he so deserves. Will you not give me your promise so I can go to my rest with peace of mind?”
“I wish I could.” Hannah shook her head and stood to look out the window.
The sky was still clear blue and dotted with fluffy clouds, but despite the sunny, calm weather, her low spirits saw touches of gray in the clouds, a darkening on their undersides, threatening a storm.
“Have you not wanted a home of your own? A place where you belong and can call your own?”
The dowager’s question pierced Hannah’s heart like an arrow from a British longbowman. Yes. I have always wanted my own home. It was why she’d come to England. So why did her very soul resist the notion so fiercely now?