On Sparrow Hill

by Maureen Lang

  He received the accusation solemnly, without denial. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I walk the circumference of the manor each night, Mr. MacFarland. To see that all’s well.”

  His gaze still held hers as if determining either the veracity or the worthiness of such an admission. “Perhaps you should hire a night watchman. Or at least, it seems to me, such a task would be better off to one of your male attendants. That tall one—Duff, I believe you call him—he seems eager to do your bidding.”

  How could she admit her nightly walk wasn’t just a service to the school but rather a way of rejuvenating herself? When it wasn’t raining, this was a nightly ritual she anticipated the moment the sun began sinking in the sky. To be alone with no roof between her and God, to breathe in the fresh air that smelled wondrously different at night than it did during their morning drills, to see the stars in all their glorious blue. To pray.

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Not that Berrie had any intention of asking Duff to assume such a duty. She resumed her walk.

  As if detecting her lie and unwilling to let it—or her—pass, Simon touched her arm to stop her. The contact was effective. She turned to him expectantly.

  “It isn’t safe to be alone in the dark.”

  “Our nearest tenant is a good deal down the hill, a family of five quite content to live their life without snooping around our school. A solitary place seldom brings trouble.” The worst she feared was a tree root she’d tripped on a few times in the dark.

  “The remoteness doesn’t make it safe, particularly such a large manor house. And beside the human predator, there are other things that make the night unsafe. Bats, rodents, who knows if there may be a wild dog nearby.” He grinned, something Berrie had rarely seen directed her way. She stared at his mouth, unable to glance away. “And you know, don’t you, about all the troubles a leprechaun can bring? Who would know you even needed help, out here alone in the dark?”

  She reined in her gaze, redirecting it forward. “Do you often try to inspire fear in others?”

  “I’m pointing out things you should have already taken into consideration and therefore asked your Mr. Duff to do this for you.”

  She was caught by the way he’d said “your Mr. Duff.” Was that Simon’s reason for searching her out, then? Had he suspected she might be coming out to a rendezvous with Duff? How convenient a scandal would be: disgrace her and make it easy to close the school altogether.

  “Thank you for your concern, Mr. MacFarland, but I assure you I’m not alone when I walk at night. My God is my shield and my protector.”

  “I hardly think it fair for foolish behavior to stir a busy God into extra duty, do you?”

  She wasn’t sure where to start on the various misguided thoughts behind that statement. “Not that I see my behavior as foolish; however, you can hardly put God and busy in conjunction with one another or you make Him something less than He is, don’t you?”

  “True. But in my recollection of theology, there is also an admonition not to test Him. Why purposely force His protection when it’s far more logical to have a night watchman or assign this task to one of the male attendants?”

  “I like doing it myself!” Berrie hadn’t meant to admit the truth, though it occurred to her if she had done so sooner, this conversation wouldn’t have gone on or taken such an exasperated undercurrent. “I like the night air, the stars and the moon, the shadows and the sounds. So I won’t be assigning the task to someone else, if you must know.”

  She moved forward again but another touch to her arm forestalled her. She turned, startled because his touch was so gentle she wasn’t sure his intention was to give her pause or not.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Confusion drew her brows. “For . . . what?”

  “My perceived mistrust of you, following you, interrupting you, irritating you. I believe my offenses—real or at least perceived by you as such—came in that order.”

  She let out a small smile. “I believe so.”

  “Apology accepted, then?”

  She nodded. She would have walked on, returning the way she’d come, back to the front of the manor and inside, but something held her in place.

  “Sometimes when you look at me,” he said, his voice low, “I see the deepest mistrust. I wonder if you believe my sole desire is to cast you in the worst of light. I followed you only out of concern, Miss Hamilton. Nothing more.”

  How true he’d read her, how accurately observed.

  “Even now,” he whispered, “you don’t believe me.”

  “No, I suppose I don’t,” she said, taking a step to pass him. He took the smallest step in her path, and suddenly he was far closer than she expected. Then, without warning, he shifted to stand fully in front of her and bent closer so that his face was level with hers. She stood still, knowing she should back away if he did not. She didn’t move.

  “I don’t think anything malicious of you,” he whispered. “In fact, I . . .”

  He did not finish his statement, and Berrie couldn’t imagine how to do it for him. Instead, she stared at his face, so clear in the moonlight, as if it were the first time she saw him and there were some unseen force pulling her gaze into his. She ought to move away, and yet there she stood, studying and being studied. The exchange couldn’t have lasted more than a moment and yet it seemed far longer.

  Simon started to step away, and Berrie rushed to do the same. She couldn’t want to be so near him; this was the man who always brought out the worst in her.

  She started to walk away, but she felt his hand fall gently back to her elbow. If he’d moved away it had only been temporary, because here he was again, too close . . . and yet not close enough. An extraordinary thought crossed her mind as she saw him look at her face, his gaze lingering on her lips. For the barest moment, he was contemplating a kiss. She should look away, step back. But she didn’t.

  Then his lips were upon hers in a kind of kiss she’d received only once in her life—from Lord Welby back in England. The man who had once said he wanted to speak to her father, then never did.

  But this was Simon MacFarland kissing her, and what was more stunning than that, she wasn’t doing a thing to stop him. Instead, her arms went about his neck, her lips pressed into his with equal exploration and intention.

  The look upon his face when he lifted his mouth from hers made her guess he was as astonished by the kiss as she.

  He stiffened, then took a full step back. “That was quite . . . unexpected. I must ask your forgiveness again. I’ve no excuse. I don’t even—”

  He cut himself off once more, and aside from completely agreeing that the kiss was unexpected, Berrie wanted to hear his finished statement. “You don’t even like me?”

  Simon shook his head. “I was going to say I don’t even believe a man should kiss a woman unless they’re wed or about to be.” He cleared his throat. “If that is what you expect of someone who’s just taken such liberties with you, I assure you I am willing to do the honorable thing and seek your company with the possibility of . . . marriage.”

  That his voice sounded positively ill upon that final word wasn’t lost on Berrie. Her fists clenched at her sides. “What an honorable proposal, Mr. MacFarland. Let me assure you of two things. First, I intend never to marry. And second, even if I were open to such a thing, I assure you I would never receive the attentions of someone who fairly strangles upon the thought of me as his wife.”

  If he was stiff before, he was more so now. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you, for having a certain kind of wife in mind? A sort you obviously could never be. I don’t need someone who is madly in love, blind to my faults, but I would prefer a woman who at the very least respects and honors my thoughts and opinions.”

  “Perhaps then you might take your charming proposal to someone who can be that for you. It’s been my observation that when you respect and honor someone, they might do the same in return.”

  She
started to turn away, noticing he didn’t move to follow. So be it. She didn’t need him to escort her back to the front door.

  “If your intention is to argue, Miss Hamilton, I can think of various other topics than one as serious as marriage. Your loyalty to England, for one. Your work schedule for another. The fact that you’ve left your family and your home even suggests there might be some reason to have run away from them, and I cannot help but wonder why. There are no doubt other topics that might inspire an argument between us.”

  “Undoubtedly. Your complete disregard for manners being on top of a great, long list of your offenses.” Setting such a list aside, her gaze narrowed as she stared at him. “Bringing up my loyalty to England in hopes of arguing it away from me would be like attempting to argue me out of being a woman. I am what I am—an Englishwoman. As for my reasons for leaving my home and family, I assure you there was no flight involved. I am fully supported by my loving parents, two successful brothers, and a sister and sister-in-law, all of whom mean more to me than anyone. You obviously have no idea that someone could be called of God to do something and be willing to sacrifice the comforts of home to answer such a calling. Which would bring me to another item on my list: your definition of God is so alien to me as to wonder if you have any faith at all, sir. If so, it is a faith completely and utterly foreign to me.”

  “My faith, if anything, is far more practical than yours. I’ve no fanciful notions of a God who wants to be involved in my life. As for sacrificing, that I have done more than you can imagine. A life of my own, for one, while I devote myself to my country, which needs too much of me. Beside that, I have two sisters, neither of whom seem to want my protection but need it nonetheless.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Perhaps they don’t. I cannot speak for Innis, though you did say she is about to be wed, but as for Katie, she is safe and happy here.”

  Simon folded his arms in obvious skepticism. “Can you honestly stand here and tell me she has a job in your school, as you’ve let her believe? That she isn’t just one more student for you?”

  Berrie kept her gaze level with his. “I believe with every part of me that in time Katie will be more help than harm here. Eventually she truly will be the example for other students in most if not all areas we’re trying to teach.”

  “Eventually.” The word sounded just short of scoffing.

  “Maybe God designed Katie for exactly what she’s doing—patiently helping others try to figure out language and baskets and folded serviettes. She can’t do that cloistered away in your home.” She wanted to turn away at last, go back inside, and let him go to the inn, but in his silence she wondered if her words had made any impact at all.

  Finally he spoke. “You are advocating a future for Katie, something I’ve never been able to envision for her except to keep her safe.” His tone had taken an unexpected turn, one of consideration rather than conviction.

  “Everyone has a future,” she whispered, “but wouldn’t Katie’s be better if she were allowed more than just safety? Why not think about all the things she can do instead of all the things she can’t?”

  Simon almost smiled. She saw a glimpse of something similar in the corner of his mouth. “Since the moment I met you, Miss Hamilton, you’ve never ceased to give me something to think about. To be honest, I hadn’t imagined Katie staying here more than the year I agreed to.”

  Berrie was surprised he admitted that he’d been lacking in any way regarding his sister. Acknowledging a fault in himself—that was one thing she’d been convinced Simon MacFarland would never do.

  But that was no more astonishing than his kiss had been, and the memory of it made her heart beat beyond her control. He ought to leave, and right away, so she could try erasing the memory altogether.

  35

  * * *

  All the way from the village, Rebecca feared speeding through tunnels in a paparazzi car chase like the one that killed Princess Di, even though there were no tunnels or underpasses between the chemist shop and the Hall. Rebecca’s fears were made more ridiculous since she never allowed herself to exceed the speed limit. And yet how dare he follow her? There he was in her rearview mirror.

  But if the reporter had any intention of taking more snapshots, he gave it up once she turned onto the private property of Hollinworth Hall.

  She pulled her mini beside Quentin’s car, its presence giving away his arrival. She did not emerge from behind the wheel. Sitting immobile inside, she clutched the wheel, eyeing the package she’d bought.

  Had she seen the man in the chemist shop? Perhaps. Certainly there had been a few customers there while she surveyed the pregnancy tests. Surely he knew what she’d purchased, and the logical assumption would be that she’d bought it for herself. How long would it be before all of London was reading not only about Quentin Hollinworth’s dual love life but that one of the women he was seeing had bought such a thing?

  If only she’d had the sense to take Dana with her, let Dana buy the item. But there would have been no doing that; poor Dana had been especially pale this morning.

  Rebecca considered the possibilities, looking at herself in the rearview mirror. Perhaps the reporter didn’t know who she was. She slapped her forehead. Of course he knew.

  A tap at the window jarred her from her misery. Quentin was there, bending down to peer through the window with a smile, albeit a puzzled one.

  She emerged on the other side, eyeing him over the roof of her mini.

  “I didn’t see you come out of the Hall.” Her voice sounded as strained as she felt.

  “I didn’t. I was in my car about to go in when I saw you arrive. Is everything all right?”

  “No.” Rebecca would have preferred time to calm her senses but forged ahead anyway. “I just had my picture taken by someone I’m almost certain was a reporter.”

  He came around to her side of the car. “I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to get used to, darling.”

  He took her into his arms, and for a moment she let him. She needed his comfort. Then she remembered his embrace wasn’t comforting. Not when visions of Lady Caroline in a peignoir replayed in her mind. Rebecca pulled away, took a step back. Instead of telling him the truth, all of it, she held up the bag in her hand. “I was buying a pregnancy kit, Quentin. How soon do you suppose that will be reported?”

  “A what?” He looked first amazed, then once again puzzled. “Why were you buying such a thing?”

  “For Dana. Not that I should be telling you that; her husband doesn’t even know yet. You know what that reporter will say, what he’ll tell the entire reading world. What people will think.”

  He smiled calmly. “You once told me you didn’t care much what people think.”

  “I do when they’re misconstruing facts . . . and when one of the readers might be my father! What will he think when he reads such a thing?”

  Quentin put his hands on her shoulders, but the attempt to steady her failed. “We’ll tell him the truth, the sooner the better, before he reads about it. It’s the only way. In fact—” his tone grew quieter, slower—“there’s something else about this whole media mess you ought to know. I only found out about it last night myself. I tried calling you. You must have been asleep already.”

  She shook her head. “I heard your call. I didn’t answer it.”

  His brows drew together. “Why ever not?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “What were you going to tell me?” She meant to let him tell her but couldn’t hold back. “A little detail you forgot to mention—about Lady Caroline being your houseguest again?”

  “Yes—I mean, no, not at all. She’s not my houseguest; she’s my mother’s. And you knew? For how long?”

  “Someone sent me a clipping. I must have received it by yesterday’s post, but I only opened it last night. Just before your call.”

  “And so you decided not to talk to me? Didn’t you want to ask me about it?”

  Rebecca tried to w
alk past him, not ask even now. The garage was narrow on this side, and with him in the way she couldn’t get by. He stood firmly in place.

  “A friend of mine from London telephoned and said something about the article, and I knew nothing of it. I would have told you sooner if I’d known.”

  “If you’d known what, exactly? That I was bound to find out anyway that you and Lady Caroline are once again sharing the same roof? You knew long before that story became public.”

  She hated this argument, hated her words and the jealous, spiteful tone behind them. Life had been so much easier before admitting her feelings for him. Why had she ever done such a thing?

  Quentin seemed to take the pause the same way she had, with a distasteful assessment of what was happening. Their first argument.

  “You have a right to be angry,” he said quietly. “I should have told you my mother invited her to stay at the cottage days ago when she first arrived. It’s my mother’s attempt to put us back together. Caroline is the sister of an earl, like Mum herself, and therefore Caroline . . . measures up. It’s all a ploy—one I had nothing to do with.”

  She sighed. “Oh, Quentin, that doesn’t surprise me at all. But I needed you to tell me that . . . from the beginning.”

  “You already don’t like my mother. If I’d told you, it would have only made it worse. And it means nothing to me, having her there.”

  Rebecca studied him. “You’re standing here telling me you felt nothing at all when she came to the breakfast table in her peignoir? Forgive me, Quentin, I find that hard to believe.”

  “All right, I’m a man, but I have complete control over my actions. What’s in my head matters most, Rebecca. And I don’t want her. I want you.”

  He reached for her again but she held up her free hand, the other one still clutching Dana’s kit. “She’s right for you, Quentin. Your mother is convinced of that and so is the newspaper. They said you’d gone back to ‘one of your own.’”