A Reluctant Courtship

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “Does not news travel swiftly? I just met him this morning.”

  “He arrived last night, apparently. Does he think the cliffs can be shored up?”

  “He is inspecting them today to see. He said the caves here can be trouble.” She smiled. “I know the revenue service thinks so.”

  “I imagine they are a boon to the smugglers.”

  “Indeed. Many a house along the coasts has routes directly from caves into their cellars. But not us,” she hastened to add. “Papa made certain of that. He was too politically savvy to allow even a hint of those sorts of goings-on here to cloud his reputation.”

  But not enough to ensure his spoiled youngest daughter did not.

  She suppressed a sigh, and her chest hurt at not redeeming herself before he died. Marrying the man he’d wanted for her would help.

  “The dower house cellars are not deep enough to reach the caves,” she continued. “They are little more than a series of storage rooms and the coal room that abuts the wall so coal can be delivered easily.”

  “And that wall faces which way?” Ashmoor paused at the gate beneath the arching tree branches. “A side lane, I think?”

  “Yes. There’s a lane that leads off the road, but it ends in a pasture before it reaches the sea. We grow very little here in Devonshire other than sheep for wool and a little fruit. We have some farmland in Somerset, but the house there is very old and small and we never go there.”

  Except her brother could banish her there if she was not careful. Perhaps her association with Lord Ashmoor would help her consequence in her brother’s eyes. Of course, if he was amongst those who believed Ashmoor’s blood was tainted from his father’s alleged crimes, then the association would harm her further.

  She shook off that worry and led the way up the flagstone path to the front door. Mavis peeked around the corner of the building, then crept forward as Honore unlocked the door.

  “We’d’ve gone in the back way, miss,” Mavis said, “but ’tis locked.”

  “I should hope that it is.” Honore twisted the key in the lock. The latch clicked, and she pushed the door open, then started to step over the threshold.

  Lord Ashmoor rested a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “If there was someone in here before, there may have been again, so I think we should go with caution.”

  “I brought a strike-a-light again,” Mavis offered. From her pocket, she produced the implement that resembled a small gun. “Should I be lighting the candles first?”

  “Just one or two will do,” Ashmoor said.

  “One for each of us,” Mr. Poole spoke from behind them.

  “Three for us gentlemen,” Ashmoor added. “Miss Bainbridge and Miss Morrow and you girls can wait—”

  “No, we cannot.” Honore snatched the strike-a-light from Mavis, stepped over the threshold, and lifted the globe off a wall sconce. She pulled back the trigger. Steel rasped against flint, igniting a spark that created a flame of oiled waste at the end of the barrel. The candle flared, dull against the glow from the fanlight above the door.

  His face a mask of resignation, Ashmoor lighted another candle from hers. “At least let me go first.”

  “Do you know which way to go?” Honore gave him a sweet smile.

  He sighed.

  She laughed and led the way across the hall to the book room. She flung open the door at the same time the clouds outside parted and sunlight streamed through the windows. As though someone had suddenly lighted ten score candles at once, the golden beams washed over the gleaming wood of the furniture and floor, sparkled off the brass inkstand on the desk and the handles of the fire tools, and shimmered in the glass of candle globes and doors covering part of the bookshelves.

  The room was spotlessly clean.

  14

  If not for the rumble of wind around the corner of the house, a pin could have fallen on the upper floor and been heard. Not so much as a sniff or a gasp of breath, the scuff of a shoe sole on the floor, or a whisper of clothing from an arm moving a fraction of an inch disturbed the next several moments.

  Then Miss Bainbridge cried, “How?” She spun on her heel and glared around at the assembled company. “How could this room have gotten clean overnight? No one was here. I would declare it in church.”

  “Obviously someone was here.” Meric stepped away from her and made a circuit of the chamber. He ran his fingertips across the mantel, a bookshelf, the desk. His hand came away clean. He turned back to Miss Bainbridge. “And this is the room in which you found that piece of silver?”

  “It was on the table where those—” She broke off and scowled, her lips pursed so tightly they puckered as though . . .

  He forced his gaze back to her eyes, seeking truth. “What, Miss Bainbridge? What are you claiming now?”

  “I am claiming nothing. I am telling you there was a pile of books lying on that table. They are not here now. They are—” She ran to the wall of shelves and began to hunt. “Here.” She pulled off a thick tome bound in red Moroccan leather. “And here.” She drew out another one. “And—oh, this is too, too strange.”

  Afraid she was about to burst into tears, Meric focused his attention on the others still crowded around the doorway. “Let’s go inspect the other rooms and see if they have been visited by the cleaning spirits too.” He didn’t try to mask his sarcasm.

  None of them moved.

  “What I want to know,” Miss Morrow said, “is why someone would do this. It would have taken several people all night to accomplish this.”

  “I expect,” Meric said, “they worked out that Miss Bainbridge already knew someone had been in the house, so they wished to remove any possible traces of who they are.”

  “Which means,” Miss Bainbridge said from close behind him, “that someone is near at hand. I mean, who else would know I am being . . . banished to live here but someone on this estate?”

  “Or in our household.” Philo looked and sounded far too cheerful for someone announcing a traitor in their midst. “We were talking about it last night, and with the way servants pad around spying . . .” He shrugged. “Anyone in Devonshire could have known by midnight.”

  The two maids backed away with those silent steps they seemed trained to use, their faces red.

  “I’m going to take a look around outside if I may, Miss Bainbridge?” Meric turned to her. “The rest of you—”

  “I do not care what the others do, but I am coming with you.” Miss Bainbridge seized his arm like a limpet, and only force would dislodge her. “Mavis, Gracie, finish cleaning upstairs so we can have the men come in and do the carpets.”

  “Are we sure no one’s been upstairs?” Meric asked.

  “They had not been yesterday.” Miss Bainbridge nudged his elbow like a collie nudging a sheep.

  Left with no choice without being rude, Meric started out of the room. The others scattered away from the doorway and reassembled around the steps. Dust still lay thick upon them and the banister. Unless the person flew, no one could have gotten to the upper floor.

  “Easier to see those windows from the house,” Miss Bainbridge said. “Go ahead up and get started, girls. And since this is a fine day, open as many windows as you can to give the place a good airing.”

  “Yes, miss.” The maids bobbed curtsies, gathered up cleaning materials, and headed up the steps.

  The rest of them looked from room to room, ending in the kitchen. Like the library, every surface had been cleansed of its accumulation of dust. Not so much as the smudge of a finger or boot heel marred the furniture and floors. It was the work of someone good at cleaning, and in what must have been only candlelight. He couldn’t imagine Miss Bainbridge doing the work on her own, but Miss Morrow was loyal to her, and the maids obeyed her commands without hesitation. Yet suspecting her was absurd. Still, who else had access to the house? Who else could move about the grounds without interference?

  His innards uneasy, he allowed Miss Bainbridge to steer him into the garden. No
w falling dormant save for a few hardier herbs, it appeared to be a miniature version of the lawns around the main house. Walls surrounded the property on three sides, more to shelter from the sea winds than to provide protection from intruders, as the front gate was open. The main house and grounds boasted a wall, however, making access difficult, though not impossible.

  “Where is this coal chute?” he asked Miss Bainbridge.

  “Outside the wall.” She released his arm at last, leaving a cold place through his coat, and led the way through the same gate she had entered the other night, the one she said she could obtain a key for without difficulty.

  That thought rattling around in his head, he followed her along a lane just wide enough for a wagon, and she showed him a door cut into the wall and covered with a wooden hatch. It wasn’t large enough for a grown man to squeeze through unless he was quite small, but a boy or average to small female could fit just fine.

  Miss Bainbridge was an average to small female.

  He gave her a head-to-toe assessing glance to see if he was right. She flinched away from him as though he had touched her, and turned her back on him.

  “As you see, it would not be easy to enter the house,” she said.

  “But not impossible.” Philo stooped by the coal hatch. “This hasn’t been opened in an age. Look how warped it is. It’ll take a sledgehammer to get this unstuck.”

  “I had best notify Mr. Tuckfield before I get my coal delivery.” Miss Bainbridge tucked her hands beneath her upper arms as though her fingers had grown cold.

  They probably had. The day, though bright and clear, held the hint of winter coming just around the corner.

  “If you would like to do so now,” Meric said, “feel free to go about your business. We should be on our way.”

  “I should go to the cliffs and see what the mining engineer has to say.” Miss Bainbridge shivered. “I want them to be safe again.”

  “If you are going to the cliffs, you need more than that shawl,” Miss Morrow said. “It has gotten colder out here.”

  Meric removed his coat and draped it about Miss Bainbridge’s shoulders. “Will that do for the time being?”

  “You must not. You will get cold yourself.” Even as she protested, she grabbed the sleeves of his coat and tied them in front of her like cape strings.

  She looked so adorable with the wide collar framing her creamy skin and her golden hair beneath a ruffled cap, he doubted he could get cold while she was near.

  “I’m all right. Remember, I’m used to a harsher climate than this.” He turned his face into the wind off the sea and met his brother’s eyes.

  Philo said nothing, just raised his eyebrows.

  Feeling even warmer, Meric offered his arm to Miss Bainbridge and led the way down the lane toward the sea. Behind him, Chilcott walked beside Miss Morrow. Meric had seen his secretary offer the lady his arm, but she had refused, tucking her hands inside her shawl instead.

  “Isn’t there a poem that says, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth’?” Philo asked.

  “Shakespeare,” Miss Bainbridge said. “But what are you—”

  Meric pressed her fingers against his forearm and glanced over his shoulder.

  “Ohhh.” The drawn-out sound puckered up her lips.

  Meric welcomed the low wall where the lane ended. It distracted him with the necessity of climbing over it, then offering his hand to the ladies. Miss Morrow seized his hand as though it were a lifeline. Philo aided Miss Bainbridge, then offered her his arm, the jackanapes.

  “My big brother is a bore, always worrying about everything,” Philo was saying. “I shall entertain you with all the random quotations my mother managed to stick in my head.”

  Miss Bainbridge laughing, Philo carrying on with those random quotations, they trotted across the pasture, scattering sheep to the four winds.

  “Your brother is charming,” Miss Morrow said to Meric. “Do you hope to marry him off while he is here in England?”

  “The thought hadn’t occurred to me, especially not with—” Miss Morrow’s fingers dug into his arm, and he cleared his throat. “That is to say, I suppose he’s old enough, but I think he has interests back in New York.”

  “He should find a nice English girl, perhaps even an heiress,” Miss Morrow said, “as long as he is your heir. Even afterward. You know more than most how the line of inheritance can shift.”

  “True. But I don’t think he likes England much.”

  “He looks happy enough right now.” Chilcott spoke in a dull tone, as though he were anything but happy.

  “I won’t make him wed or not.” Meric tried to use the same kind of decisive accents he had noted in his butler and valet.

  It must have worked, for none of them spoke again until they reached the far barrier of the pasture and the cliffs beyond. That close to the sea, even with the elevation above the foaming waters, the roar of wind and surf made talking to anyone not right at one’s shoulder difficult. It wasn’t an easy path to traverse, with rocks and vegetation clinging to the ground with the expectation of being swept away at the next storm. Meric didn’t even try to be companionable as he examined the path, sometimes stooping to get a closer look at the shrubbery or a scar where a rock had been moved aside. The path told a tale of recent activity—but from a smuggler’s pack, a phalanx of French prisoners marching to escape vessels in the dark of the night, or just ordinary persons using the shortest route between two points?

  A dower house sitting empty for years but being used, only to have someone clean it in an instant—clearly giving its usage away yet eliminating any hope of a clue to an identity. A broken button embossed with the symbols of the French Revolution and still cried by the followers of that greedy man Napoleon. Too, too little to clear his name once and for all. Certainly too little to come close to clearing his father’s name.

  “How does the saying go?” Miss Bainbridge spoke from behind him. “Finding a needle in a haystack?”

  “Something of the kind.” Meric peered up the path and caught a glimpse of two men standing near where the cliff had broken away and nearly taken Miss Bainbridge down with it to smash upon the rocks. “I believe we have found your steward and the mine engineer.”

  Tuckfield stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest and his face taut and grim. If possible, his mouth grew even tighter at their approach, until Miss Morrow stepped up beside Miss Bainbridge. He smiled then, lighting his whole face. “Ladies, what brings you out here on such a windy day?”

  “I need to remind you of the need for coal in the dower house,” Miss Bainbridge said. “And—” She drew Meric’s coat more closely around her, as though feeling a suddenly deeper chill.

  Meric felt the heat of the sunlight, for all its autumnal paleness, and strode to the edge of the cliff. “Is it safe now?” he asked the man he presumed to be the mine engineer.

  “Aye, sound enough, but I’m wishing to go into the caves. Mr. Tuckfield seems to be a bit leery of me doing so.”

  “Is he a coward?” Chilcott spoke just a little too loudly.

  Meric stared at his quiet and polite steward and secretary. “Why would you suggest—ah.”

  Tuckfield had his head bent low over Miss Morrow’s, and she was smiling shyly without looking at him.

  “What’s that all about?” Meric asked softly.

  “He is inviting her to accompany him to some assembly in Clovelly.” Chilcott shuddered. “A public assembly for a gently bred lady like her.”

  “It seems to me,” Meric observed, “that she likes the notion.”

  “Huh,” Chilcott grunted.

  Miss Morrow nodded and glided forward to join Miss Bainbridge with the mining engineer, while Tuckfield flashed Chilcott a triumphant smile and followed the ladies.

  “I wouldn’t like to say as yet why I think the cliff gave way,” the man was saying. “The ground seems sound enough here, but you never know what can go wrong. Water runoff, maybe. Vegetation digging
its roots into the rock. I must study further and go below.”

  “I’ll go with you if Tuckfield is . . . concerned about it,” Chilcott offered.

  “What would you know about caves?” Tuckfield demanded. “Ashmoor does not have caves.”

  Meric’s lips twitched. Beside him, Miss Bainbridge covered her mouth with her hand, but her eyes twinkled.

  “No, Ashmoor has no caves.” Chilcott smiled. “But my family home does. When would you like to go, Mister . . .”

  “Polhenny.” The mine engineer inclined his head. The men shook hands.

  “When would you like to go?” Chilcott asked again.

  “Should you not ask your master first?” Tuckfield glanced to Meric.

  He shrugged, enjoying the tug-of-war between the two men. “He can take the rest of the day if he likes. I’m for home after I see the ladies safely to the house.”

  “I will come with you.” Tuckfield offered Miss Morrow his arm.

  “Please come report to me when you are finished, Mr. Polhenny,” Miss Bainbridge said before she slipped her hand into the crook of Meric’s elbow. “We can discuss effecting repairs.”

  “That is not necessary, Miss Bainbridge,” Tuckfield said. “With his lordship coming home soon and—”

  “To me, Mr. Polhenny,” Miss Bainbridge reiterated.

  Chilcott smirked at Tuckfield being overridden, but the smirk faded into a scowl as he realized his lady was walking off with the other man.

  Meric smiled at his employee, then turned his attention to Miss Bainbridge. Her fingers were cold through his shirtsleeve. She wore no gloves, having believed she would be cleaning or, at the least, inspecting a dirty house. His own hands felt warm enough, so he covered her fingers with his other hand and avoided his brother’s questioning gaze.

  “Don’t say anything,” Meric murmured to her. “They might hear you.”

  “May I laugh?” Her eyes danced. Her fingers warmed beneath his.

  “No.” But they both chuckled.

  “What is so amusing?” Philo asked.

  “Dogs tussling over a bone,” Meric said.

  They all laughed, and a soft warmth radiated through Meric, a lessening of a tension he hadn’t been aware plagued him until it melted away beneath the silvery peal of Miss Bainbridge’s laugh, the shimmer of her gaze, the warmth of her fingers.