A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh

by Carolyn Miller

  His throat clamped. But while they remained incognito, and her illness remained so unresolved, so prone to episodes of tremors and nausea and weakness, so ferociously uncertain, she remained his responsibility. Would forever be his responsibility. “I love you, Emma.”

  “Then if you love me, please do something that will make you happy.”

  “But I am.” He gestured to the back of the house where he’d established his study. “You know how much I love my research here.”

  “I also know that you want more.”

  He swallowed. How could his baby sister have discerned so much about things he barely recognized himself?

  “Please, Gideon. Please don’t dismiss all possible young ladies from your future, just from some misguided sense of honor.”

  “It’s hardly misguided,” he muttered.

  “I know,” she said, patting his arm. “But I feel you should know that I would quite like to have someone I could consider a sister. It’s been a challenge, let me tell you, putting up with two brothers all my life.”

  “Probably not nearly as challenging as James and I have found putting up with such a termagant of a sister.”

  “I am a termagant, aren’t I?” Her eyes gleamed, her mouth tilted in a grin.

  “The biggest termagant I know.”

  “Only because you do not yet know Miss Hatherleigh’s grandmother. I have the feeling you might find her more formidable than even me.”

  “Impossible.”

  She laughed, and he helped her down and into the house, before leading Nancy to the stables behind, his thoughts tracking back to the young lady he’d tried to avoid thinking upon. He shook his head. A young lady like that, consider him? Those rocks he liked to study might as well live in his head.

  CHAPTER FİVE

  CAROLINE STROKED THE tan coat of Mittens, whom she had successfully persuaded her grandmother to keep, provided Grandmama never had to see or hear the pug. At least she had one friend here, she thought, rubbing her cheek against the top of the pug’s head. And at least Mittens seemed to know her place, scarcely stirring from her basket near the fire, which was unsurprising, given the weather they had endured of late.

  She took in the view from her bedchamber window, the long stretch of gardens leading to the cliffs, beyond which the sea glinted, an alluring gemstone, sometimes blue, sometimes silver, always changing. Sunday’s rain had persisted for days, culminating in last night’s wild storm, a storm of such ferocity that she had wondered whether the wind might succeed in tearing off the shutters. Today had calmed somewhat, and the moody weather called to her, the gray skies beckoning her to escape the confines of Grandmama’s house. For once she could understand Verity’s constant desire for escape, to be loosed from the noose of unspoken expectations. Her lips twisted. Perhaps one day she might even understand this youngest sister of hers.

  Her thoughts shifted to her other sibling, and a sigh escaped. Poor Cecy. She did not seem to be dealing with the disappointment of Mr. Amherst very well, as Mama’s latest epistle appeared to attest. Perhaps Caroline should suggest Cecy come visit her at Saltings. Then at least she might experience new things that would distract her from constant disappointment.

  Though heaven knew this was perhaps not the best place to think about something other than intriguing young gentlemen. Another sigh released, and she shook her head as she placed the now-sleeping pug back in her basket. Why must she think on him still? He was obviously unsuitable, somewhat genteel if not precisely a gentleman. How could he be a gentleman with that scar on his cheek? Truly, he seemed somehow disreputable, almost like a pirate.

  She smiled at herself. Yes, definitely a pirate, for one could see he did not care particularly for appearances, as the careless arrangement of his neckcloth attested. Neither did he seem to care for social etiquette, as his too-bold expression had declared; no gentleman she knew would have ever looked at her with such impudence. Yet he obviously cared for the young lady by his side, and she for him. They must be married, or betrothed, at least. A pang struck. What must it be like to be safeguarded in such a way, to have a young man not merely respect her but willing to protect her, perhaps even desire her?

  A peculiar fluttery sensation crossed her chest. She put hands to her hot cheeks, annoyance growing within at the strange twisted thoughts. This was foolishness. She would marry a perfectly respectable young gentleman, not for love but for financial benefit and political alliance. She had always known that. Anything different was … was being very silly indeed! Was making her almost as silly as Cecy!

  She drew in a breath. Glanced at the beckoning skies. Yes, a walk in cool winds might blow some sense into this very foolish brain!

  A short time later, pelisse buttoned up, shawl and bonnet tied on firmly, sketchbook and pencils in hand, she made her way down the stairs and found her grandmother in the drawing room, exchanging quiet conversation with Miss McNell.

  “Ah, Caroline. Are you planning on going out?”

  “I would like to see the rose gardens, Grandmama. They appear most lovely from my window. I thought I might see if I can find something worth sketching.”

  “Well, it’s good to see you have some sense. They’ve nothing on them at this time of year of course, but come summer they are most spectacular. I have been wondering about the wisdom of trying a new variety. I’m persuaded that the Scotch variety might cope with the sea air a little better …”

  Eventually her dissertation on the benefits of one rose variety over another wound to a halt, allowing Caroline to murmur an excuse and make her escape. She moved along the terrace and down the steps to the garden, as she had said she would. The rosebushes did look sad, little more than gnarled sticks stiffly shaking in the breeze, but well she remembered previous summer visits when her grandmother’s pride had not been misplaced, and the roses had bloomed in all their heady-scented glory.

  She hurried past them, down to where the paved path led to a small fenced vantage point. Here she could hear the crash of waves, could peer down to where the thin stretch of pebbles and sand hugged the cliffs. These cliffs were not white as those she had seen farther east; rather they were more a reddish color. Which seemed strange, now she thought about it. Which thought itself seemed even stranger, that she would even think to think about such things as the colors of cliffs. She shook her head. Clearly time at her grandmother’s was affecting her ability to reason as she ought.

  The call of birds snagged her attention, and she watched their weaving through the wind that threatened to pry loose her bonnet. She closed her eyes, savoring the scrape of coolness on her skin, the scent of salt and earth, the delicate tickle of curls wisping across her cheeks. Something tugged within, to know more of this raw world in which she now stood, to be unfettered like the birds, not bound to societal expectation and obligation and propriety.

  To just be.

  Restlessness pulled again. She could recognize the feeling now for what it was; she held no peace, no contentment. The quiet doings of the past ten days had only induced boredom—and she did not want to be bored all her days. Her eyes snapped open. Is that what marriage to a perfectly respectable young gentleman would result in? Something where she was forever made to feel shielded, insulated, more a spectator to life than a true participant—is that what following society’s rules achieved?

  That tug in her heart wrenched once again.

  Was life truly dictated by one’s social position, or could one live beyond what was expected, beyond the confines of the known? How did people even do that? She occasionally heard stories of eccentrics, people who turned their back on what was expected and lived their lives to please themselves, following their passions and dreams regardless of the consequences. Such people as their distant cousin, the scandalous Lady Hester Stanhope, born to a life of privilege, yet casting it off to explore the ancient ruins of the Holy Land, or so Mama had once mentioned in dismissive tones. But regardless of improper behavior, Caroline could not help but secretly adm
ire the courage such decisions demanded; what passions must consume their lives. She rather thought she lacked either courage or passion to stray too far from the life mapped out for her, but if she did, what would her life look like? Would such a thing lead to happiness greater than this boredom?

  She exhaled, the sound swallowed in the cool breeze. Such thoughts felt nearly treasonous with their potential ramifications. She was not that sort of girl; that manner of thinking was Verity’s domain, not hers. These thoughts were best smothered, best placed back inside the foolish box from whence they’d come, and never allowed air again.

  Caroline glanced at the sketchbook she still held. The view here was certainly inspiring, but she wanted something different, something more, something that made her less a spectator and more involved as a participant in the scene. She peered down at the beach below. Perhaps something there might be suitable—

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  Caroline turned, unsurprised to see her maid, presumably sent by her grandmother to ensure her safety. A huff of exasperation escaped. Surely Grandmama did not expect any harm to come across Caroline’s path on her very own grounds?

  “Yes, Mary?”

  “Lady Aynsley sent me with this”—she held out an umbrella—“in case it rains.”

  Caroline glanced at the sky. It did indeed still hold an ominous tinge of gray. “Thank you.”

  Mary remained, hovering, as if uncertain whether she would be dismissed or needed.

  Caroline swallowed another sigh. “I believe I shall take a walk of a more substantial nature.”

  “I beg your pardon, miss?”

  “I wish to go down there,” Caroline said, pointing to the beach below. “Do you think this gate leads to the shore?”

  “I’m sure I would not know, miss.”

  “Well, in that case, there’s only one way to find out.” And with a tilt of her chin, Caroline moved to the gate and the grassed path beyond.

  “Miss? Are you sure?”

  Caroline ignored her, taking not-quite-ladylike steps, as if the lengthened stride might help her escape her grandmother’s notice more quickly. Why she felt this sudden urge to escape the bounds of propriety that only seconds ago she’d felt she must succumb to she knew not, save that if she didn’t, she might well always feel a sense of regret.

  The gate opened with a slight squeak, a sound almost lost in the call of seabirds, and the roar and hiss of the waves. She followed the path along the cliff top to where it twisted in descent, then gingerly trod down the worn earth-hewn steps, strands of seagrass scraping her skirts.

  “Be careful, miss!”

  “Of course I’ll be careful.” Really, what did people take her for? She had never presented as a fainting miss, had she?

  “I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t think your grandmother would like to know you were traipsing about around here.”

  Caroline turned to eye her maid. “Then it’s best she doesn’t know, isn’t it?”

  Mary flushed. “Y-yes, miss.”

  A few steps more and they had reached a small sandy track that led to the beach. A strange sense of anticipation thrummed through her veins.

  She stumbled onto the beach, her slippers sinking in the damp sand, sliding on the pebbles. Really, this was most ridiculous, a sentiment echoed in her maid’s mutterings behind her.

  “Please remember I did not invite you to accompany me,” Caroline said.

  The maid flushed, and lowered her eyes.

  Caroline pressed her lips together. Perhaps she could be just a little too sharp with her words at times, but—she tossed her head—one simply did not apologize to maids.

  She scanned the beach. Red-gold cliffs bounded yellow sand, and round gray rocks of varying sizes littered the shore, like a giant’s abandoned marbles. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she warily stepped closer to where the waves lapped the shore, their hush and sucking almost mesmerizing, the sigh of the sea holding the slightest strain of sadness. Yet somehow the sight and sound were soothing, easing the restlessness within. Caroline closed her eyes. She could understand now why people enjoyed living by the sea.

  “Miss?”

  Mary’s voice held a note of worry. She must present an odd picture standing here, the water lapping nearly at her feet. She opened her eyes, and, aiming for a conciliatory tone, said, “This is quite lovely, is it not?”

  “If you say so, miss.”

  A tiny shell caught her attention and she bent to pick it up, examining it carefully in her gloved hand.

  “This is certainly a pretty piece. Look at the color, how it glows.” She held it out for her maid’s inspection.

  Mary sniffed. “Why, yes, if you like that sort of thing.”

  Conscious of a sense of disappointment, Caroline glanced away. When had her maid become more proper than she? When had she started caring what her maid thought? Oh, why had she dared scorn propriety and venture down here?

  She stilled, breath suspended, as a figure emerged from behind a rock, drawing her attention. The man seemed to be searching for something, if his stooped posture and careful examination of the ground was anything to go by. What could he be searching for?

  As if he’d sensed her thoughts he paused his activity and glanced up. From this distance, she could not precisely determine his features, but with his dark hair and breadth of shoulders he looked similar to that young man she had been thinking on earlier. A thrill of expectancy rippled through her. Who was he? And why did he have this effect on her?

  She knew only one thing: this young man, whoever he may be, seemed to know something about escaping life’s restrictions, and such knowledge held a tantalizing promise indeed.

  Gideon glanced up from the specimen and almost dropped it. Her! He took a step forward, then paused, noting the terrier-like aspect of the maid-type creature beside her, eyeing him with a look that could only be described as suspicious. The young lady she guarded, however, seemed to be holding something more akin to interest in her expression, interest that fueled hope she might be amenable to his approach. Of course, it was scarcely the done thing to speak to a young lady without prior introduction, but he sensed he needed to speak with her now, before the winds of chance separated them again, perhaps forever.

  This knowledge hounded his steps as he made his way to the pair, standing at the water’s edge.

  “Good morning,” he called.

  “Good morning,” the young lady said, as the maid beside her hissed, “Miss!”

  “Forgive me for approaching you, but I cannot help but wonder at the sight of a young lady roaming these sands as I do. It is not at all usual.”

  A smile flitted across her face as she replied, “I am quite aware it is not the usual thing. But today the sea seems to hold a mournful quality that I simply had to come see.”

  Did it? She did not strike him as the fanciful sort. But he was a fool to hope she had ventured down here simply because she had spotted him, and was as curious as he to learn about a mysterious stranger.

  He smiled at himself, and gestured to the shoreline. “It is certainly an interesting place to be, especially after the storm last night. Who knows what sort of treasures the sea and cliffs might give up?”

  She held out a small pink shell. “I found this just now.”

  “Ah, a cephalopod. It is a very pretty specimen.”

  “I thought it very pretty.” She retracted her hand. “But Mary here doesn’t agree.”

  He glanced at the maid who looked resolutely elsewhere. “Not everyone is enamored of such treasures.”

  “No.” Her head tilted, and he was given opportunity to study her features, a porcelain skin that obviously was not used to the out of doors, seeing as it even now was reddening against the icy wind. Blue eyes of a milder hue than the sea behind her. Strands of rich ruddy-brown hair curling in wisps across her forehead, tugged by the wind.

  Her gaze met his, and he was again conscious of that delicious thrill he’d felt last Sunday. Why her
gaze should affect him he dared not think upon.

  “And may one enquire as to whether you are collecting sea specimens also?” she asked, to her maid’s horrified squawk of “Miss!”

  She lifted her eyes to the heavens.

  “I could only oblige you with an answer if you would allow me to make myself known to you. My name is Gideon Kirby.”

  She curtsied and smiled prettily. “Miss Hatherleigh.”

  He grinned. He didn’t need her introduction; her name had been burned into his brain last Sunday. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  The maid cleared her throat, forcing him to glance at her. She scowled.

  He returned his gaze to Miss Hatherleigh. “In answer to your question, yes. I am searching for some of nature’s treasures.”

  “Nature’s treasures?”

  “Fossil specimens.” He smiled. “Like that of your pretty shell.”

  She glanced at her shell doubtfully. “This is a fossil?”

  “Yes. We believe a tiny creature would have lived within it, once upon a time.”

  As her maid uttered a sound of disgust, the young lady looked at him, brows raised. “We?”

  “My fellow scientists and I.” Was it vainglorious to say such? But he was a scientist, even if his father had mocked his pretensions. “Never tell me that you are interested in such things?”

  “I never will.”

  He chuckled. “I wonder if I would be right in assuming yourself a visitor to these parts.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And may I be so bold as to enquire from whence you came?”

  “Hasn’t stopped you so far,” muttered the maid.

  “Mary, how about you go stand over there?” Miss Hatherleigh said, pointing to where a series of steps were carved into the hillside, and then waiting for the maid to obey before returning her attention to him. “Forgive her. I do believe my maid thinks herself part watchdog. Now, you were saying?”

  “I simply wished to know if you are a visitor to these parts as I am.” Well, that wasn’t all he wished to know, but he couldn’t afford to ask anything but the most innocuous questions.