by Betina Krahn
“Not quite grateful . . . yet . . . but it seems you’ve put it behind you.”
“I believe I have. I haven’t even thought of him for months. Not until I told you about what happened. And even then, I didn’t feel any desire to see or even remember him.” She realized what he said to Fancy applied to her as well. “A wise man I know once said that the bad things that happen to us can make us stronger, if we learn from them and grow beyond them.”
“Really?” He gave a huff of surprise. “Who is this paragon of wisdom? I think I need to meet him.”
“You.”
He blinked.
“You’ve taught me a number of things, Arthur Michael Graham. Not the least of which is the depth and resilience of my own heart. Your example has not been lost on me. You’re what Betancourt needs.” She paused, then realized she had to say it. “You’re what I need.”
She lay her hand against his cheek, realizing why she was so angry at her mother. It had nothing to do with that stupid present or a failed flirtation; it had everything to do with her mother’s lack of trust in her and stubborn lack of regard for Arthur. It was time she remedied that.
“You’re the heart of my heart,” she said, pressing a soft kiss on his lips. “Don’t ever forget that. I surely won’t.”
He sat there, stunned by the change in her, as she stood and took a deep breath. “Now I’m ready to talk to my mother.”
She found Elizabeth in her room, resting on the chaise near the open window. She closed the door softly, but her mother heard her enter and sat up, looking wary.
“We need to talk,” Sarah said.
Elizabeth nodded and waved her to the chair near the fireplace. Sarah ignored the gesture and took a seat beside her mother on the chaise.
“I was furious with you,” she said with a calm that amazed her. “I came back into the house ready for a shouting match—to tell you to go back to London and mind your own business. How dare you bring that awful reminder of that night and stick it under my nose?”
“I thought you needed—”
“A reminder of my past failures? My youthful indiscretions? My gullibility in thinking someone might actually love me?”
Elizabeth looked genuinely horrified. “No. Not that—not any of that.”
“What then?” Sarah demanded. “What was your purpose in planting that present on my lap, in front of Arthur?”
Her mother looked down, thinking, chastened by Sarah’s words. “I wanted you to remember that things—situations and people—are not always what they seem. Arthur has been through a great deal, and it has changed him. God knows if it is for better or for worse.”
“Well, God surely knows—because I certainly do—it is definitely for the better. He’s experienced pain and injustice and learned from it. He’s been held against his will and even imprisoned, but he endured. His love for his brother and Betancourt gave him the strength to overcome tremendous obstacles and return to his home. I’ve seen him with his tenants, with animals, and with tradesmen . . . watched him organize men to fix fences and barns, fight a fire, treat injuries, and yet he’s humble enough to weed a garden with his own hands. I know his heart, and that is what matters to me.”
“But Sarah—”
“No, Mama. No buts or what-ifs. He’s not perfect, I suppose, but he’s perfect for me. And that’s what matters. I’m not perfect either. I’m headstrong and independent and too proud of my learning to listen to others sometimes. But I’ve made a place for myself here at Betancourt—”
“For now,” her mother warned softly and with regret. “That is what worries me most. You’ve put your heart into this place and into that man. But what happens when . . . if . . . Will it last or will he decide to abandon it all again because it is too complicated or difficult?”
“I don’t know what the future holds, Mama. None of us do. But I do know I’ll be here with him as long as he needs me.”
* * *
Sarah’s statement was meant to reassure her mother, but even as Elizabeth opened her arms to her daughter and held her close, she realized that there were so many variables in the situation that her daughter was not counting. Danger, difficulty, legal challenges on the horizon, family struggles and contention . . . it would not be an easy path for them. And while Arthur seemed smitten with Sarah, as she was with him, there was no guarantee that he meant to give her the title that her love and dedication to him had already earned. That of wife.
Chapter Twenty
That afternoon two additional constables arrived with Officer Jolly at Betancourt, were introduced and taken into the study to peruse maps of the estate. Arthur, Red, Reynard, and Grycel met with them and Arthur issued them shotguns usually intended for ducks and pheasants.
None of the constables were comfortable with firearms, so Red took them out behind the coach house for some practice. Their performance was not impressive until Sarah appeared, borrowed one of the guns, and cleared all of the targets off the wall.
Shortly, the constables were shooting with more determination and considerably better accuracy.
* * *
Evening was coming on when Steig returned to Betancourt and sought out Arthur for a word.
“What did you find?” Arthur asked, studying the man’s closed and unreadable demeanor.
Steig responded with news that was at odds with his grim demeanor. “Nothin’ in particular. But there’s a feel out there. Something’s brewin’.”
“It’s been a week since the fire . . . three days since their attempt on Sarah,” Arthur recounted. “You think they’re planning something else?”
“Whatever they’re aimin’ to do, it ain’t done yet,” Steig said.
Arthur nodded.
“Any sign of Gil or Mace?”
“Nah. Probably layin’ low. Stupid bastards . . . goin’ after the duchess like that.”
Arthur nodded. “Well, Reynard and I are going to ride out and take a look around. I’d like you to stay here and keep Sarah safe.”
“Understood,” Steig answered, straightening.
“She’s in the house now, but God knows where she’ll be in ten minutes.”
Steig nodded and headed for the house. He breezed through the kitchen, giving Dolly a playful wink as he snatched a fresh roll and a slice of the beef she was cutting.
He munched as he made his way upstairs to the entry hall where Ned was dithering over the dirt the men’s boots had left on the black and white marble. He asked the underbutler where Miss Sarah could be found and got a preoccupied shrug. He peered into the parlor, which was empty, and then the study, where Red was enjoying a nap. Mazie came down the main stairs carrying a basket of linen and paused to glower at the crumbs he was dropping.
“Eatin’ in the hall, Mister Steig—wot’s got into ye? Shoo—get on wi’ ye!” Just before she bustled him outside, he managed to ask after Miss Sarah. “Now where else would ye ’spect to find the duchess? Wi’ some critter, somewheres.”
He was pushed out the door. Shrugging, he stuffed the rest of his snack in his mouth and headed for the stables. But she wasn’t there. Eddie and Old Harley were brushing down the young horses fresh from training, and said they hadn’t seen her. They pointed him to the dairy, where the dairy maids mentioned they’d seen her down by the cottages.
He started for the cottages, beginning to worry, when he spotted her in the doorway of one of the small houses speaking to a couple of women. He strode purposefully to her, intending to tell her she should stick closer to the main house and let him know if she needed to venture out so he could accompany her.
But she turned to him with such a mischievous smile that he was taken aback for a moment.
“Just the man I was hoping to see,” she said, beckoning him inside. He ducked through the doorway, but was surprised to find there was plenty of room to stand upright inside. It was a tidy cottage—two rooms that smelled not of whitewash, but actual paint. The sunny cream color took on a golden hue in the early evenin
g light that made the main room cheery. Two stuffed chairs sat before a cozy fireplace, and there were a table and chairs for eating beside a small cooking stove and sink. Someone had even provided a couple of pictures for the walls.
“What do you think?” Sarah asked, watching his puzzlement at being ordered inside.
“It’s real . . . clean,” was all he said.
She nodded to the women with aprons, mobcaps, and brooms and they gave awkward curtsies and hurried out the door.
“I know you’re not comfortable in the servants’ quarters. You’re not used to living cheek by jowl with so many nosy women.” She smiled when he gave a start. He also wasn’t used to being observed or talking about his personal preferences. “So I thought since there was an empty cottage, you might prefer making your lodging out here.”
He looked around, eyes wide. “You want I should stay out here? I haven’t done nothin’ to anybody, I swear—”
“That’s not what I mean at all, Steig. You’re part of Betancourt now. You keep unusual hours, and if I read you right, you like your privacy. Here, you’ll have it.”
“This . . . it’s for me?” He was having a hard time making sense of it.
“It is.” She pointed to the smaller room. “That’s the bedroom. It’s small, but the bed should fit. And there are quilts and pillows. You can still take your meals at the manor with us. You won’t have to cook.”
He stuck his head into the other room and stared at the bed and lamp and the cupboard meant for clothes. Pulling back, he seemed a little dazed.
“Look around a bit, get the feel of it,” she said, heading for the door. “I’ll be in the stable when you’ve decided.”
She stepped out into the golden evening and he heard her greeting people from the other cottages as she headed to the stables. He wobbled over to one of the stuffed chairs and sank into it. It actually fit his big frame. He looked around and his gaze fell on the open door. Use that door now . . . or . . . commit to the duke and Betancourt. And Miss Sarah’s safety.
She had just offered him a place to be and a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in years. God knew he didn’t deserve it . . . but . . .
He had a decision to make.
A short while later, he stalked past the barns, outbuildings, cottages, and the old blacksmith’s forge, which was now a toolshed. Some people skirted him on the path, others were brave enough to smile or give him a nod of greeting. He’d been here long enough to become a familiar face to some of Betancourt’s folk, but his size and tough demeanor kept most of them at a distance.
When he entered the stable, Old Harley pointed to the cross alley and tack room, where he found Sarah on her knees beside a large wooden box full of puppies. They were climbing and sniffing her and licking at her fingers. She looked up at him with a smile and said, “Pick one. They’re not ready to leave Nellie yet—it’ll be a couple of weeks. But you get first pick.”
He was stunned. “A pup? You’d give me one of yer dog’s pups?”
“If you want one. The duke said you had a dog once and you have a soft spot for them. You may need some company in your new home.”
He sank to his knees, staring at the box of squirming, yipping puppies and slowly began to smile.
To Sarah it looked like he was having to crack parts of his face to get them to move. But finally he reached out to one of the puppies and gave it a pet. He glanced at Sarah and she smiled.
He picked up two different pups, holding them up, letting them chew on his fingers, looking them in the face. The third he chose was a fuzzy, short-eared gray puppy with copper-penny eyes. It didn’t nip, it licked him and stared back at him as if it recognized its new master. He pulled it close to his chest and the pup nestled against him. He stroked the soft coat and ears gently and looked at Sarah with a wonder that was almost painful to behold.
“I’ll take ’em both—the house an’ the pup.” His voice sounded thick with emotion. “I’m yer man, duchess.”
Sarah grinned as she pulled out a red ribbon and tied it around the puppy’s neck, indicating he was taken. And for the first time since she came to Betancourt, she forgot to correct someone for calling her duchess.
* * *
The next afternoon was quiet and increasingly overcast. The oldsters among the house staff started to complain of lumbago and pain in their knees and shoulders, declaring their symptoms a sure sign of coming rain. But not a drop had fallen by the time a coach-and-four turned into the drive and headed for the doors of the main house.
“There’s visitors . . . Miss Sarah.” Mazie panted, looking like she might collapse from running up the stairs. “Ned sent me . . . to fetch ye.” Sarah stood in the hallway, having just knocked on her mother’s door to return a ladies’ journal her mother had left in the parlor. Her mother called for her to enter and sat up quickly when Sarah handed her the journal and the news that they had a visitor.
“Is it Sir William? Has he come back?” Elizabeth asked.
Mazie was already down the hall, out of range of the question.
“Mazie would have said it was Sir William.” She looked unsettled by a thought. “I just hope it isn’t Cousin George with more unpleasantness.”
It wasn’t George.
As Sarah and her mother approached the top of the stairs, they heard a familiar voice call, “Come back here, you little devil. Don’t you dare touch anything!” A moment later they spotted a young woman in a finely tailored suit charging down the entry hall after a very young child who was giggling and running full steam back through the hall.
Sarah halted, scarcely able to believe her eyes.
“Daisy?” Her mother grabbed the railing and charged down the steps. “God in Heaven—it’s Daisy!” She squealed like a child on Christmas morning. “Daisy!” By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, Daisy had caught her fractious two-year-old, scooped him up in her arms, and hauled him back to where her mother was in danger of exploding with joy.
Elizabeth threw her arms around Daisy and the little one, repeating Daisy’s name over and over, rocking her from side to side. Sarah floated down the stairs, filled with conflicting emotions . . . happiness at seeing her beloved older sister and dread at what her presence here portended. By the time she reached them, Daisy was pulling away from her mother’s embrace to introduce her young one: “This is William. He’s two years old and, with good reason, we refer to him as Wild Bill.”
“And where is Little Red?” Sarah asked, craning her neck for a peek out the front doors.
“Oh, he’s here, too. With his father. They’ll be in shortly—Sarah!” Daisy thrust Wild Bill into her mother’s arms and lunged at her sister with open arms. “Ohmygod—look at you—you’re beautiful!”
She hugged Sarah, set her back to look at her with true pleasure.
“When did you get to England?” Sarah asked when she was able to think again. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”
“We figured you’d expect us—after bombarding us with telegrams and letters. The first one we got was a bit of a puzzle, but the second one—from you—was clear enough. Wild horses couldn’t have kept Ash from booking passage. And I was not about to let him come to England without me. It’s been too damned long—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Too blessed long since I’ve seen my family. The boys needed to see their Grandma Lizzie, Uncle Red, and their newborn cousin! What did they name him?”
“Oliver.” Elizabeth tried desperately to keep her grandson’s hands off her hair, her broach, and the lace on her collar. “Heavens, he is a wild one.”
“Where is Ashton?” Sarah hurried to the open door and pulled it wider. The driver and footman were unloading piles of baggage that poor Ned eyed with dismay. A five-year-old boy was running all over the place, yelling, “Where’s the ponies?”
That had to be her nephew, Redmond. Aptly named. He clearly had a streak of Uncle Red in him. She rushed out to see Ashton and found him watching his offspring’s exuberant
response to his boyhood home with pride and relief. When he spotted her coming toward him, he brightened—“Sarah!”—and met her with open arms and a whirl that ended in a hug.
He looked down at her with a tension that was fully explained by three short words. “Where is he?”
Sarah looked toward the stables and the barns and outbuildings.
“I’m not sure. Reynard’s here and Uncle Red, and Reynard’s friend Grycel Manse. Sir William Drexel was here for a bit, but had to get back to London. I’m sure if he had known you were on the way, he would have stayed.”
She nibbled her lip, searching the side yard, coach house, and stables for a clue to where they’d gone. Just as she was about to suggest they go together to look for him, four figures appeared around the bend in the lane that ran through the working heart of Betancourt.
“Wait—that may be them now.” She began to wave furiously.
* * *
Arthur and the others had been out checking the security of the barns and outbuildings, and looking over two newborn foals. Reynard was making a case for training some of Betancourt’s horses for racing of one sort or another, when they came around a bend in the lane and spotted a coach at the front doors. Sarah was waving wildly, and beside her a tall man in a dark suit was rubbing the back of his neck as he strained to see them.
A bolt of lightning couldn’t have had more impact on Arthur than the sight of the man beside Sarah. His shape, his posture, the way he rubbed his neck . . . even without a clear look at his face, Arthur knew his identity.
Dear God—he had come!
Arthur started to walk, then run, ignoring the questions and comments around him.
“Is that who I think it is?”
“It’s about damned time that boy got here!”
“This oughta be good.”
Each stride raised his heart rate until the pounding in his chest made it hard to breathe. He slowed as he neared his brother and came to a stop a few feet away, taking in every detail, every nuance of his brother’s appearance.