Beached with a Baronet

by Murdoch, Emily

  Moses’s eyebrows rose, and he repeated, “Miser.”

  At least she had the good grace to look a little embarrassed at the word. “‘Tis not my own description, you understand – just that which others use.”

  He could not help but look at her when they were conversing, and he was glad of it, for he was not sure whether he would be strong enough to look away, even if they were silent.

  “Miser,” he repeated quietly. “Well, ‘tis true I suppose, though no man on God’s green earth ever had such cause as I.”

  Miss Vaughn was silent, but the openness and the kindness in her face made him relax in his armchair, and his mouth opened to share his story with the first person outside of his immediate acquaintance.

  “Like all good tales,” Moses said gruffly, “it started with a woman. I met her at Ascot, believe it or not – eyes across a crowded room, would you credit it? I … I loved her very much. She was everything to me for over a year, and I proposed marriage early on in that year. We planned for the wedding, and we planned our futures together and … and we were happy.”

  If Miss Vaughn had noted the crack in his voice, she did not indicate so, and Moses took her silence for assent to continue. Even if she had asked him to stop, he was not sure if he was able to: like bleeding poison from his blood, now the process had started, he was loath to finish.

  “We planned for the future, we considered our hopes and dreams, and at the centre of them all: a family. Children, Miss Vaughn, are not just the desire of the female sex. I longed for children, and we talked about how many we would have, how we would raise them – here, together, with no wet nurses or farming out to villagers. We would love them more than ourselves, more than each other, I do believe, because in every turn of their head and smile on their face I would see my Charlotte in them, and she would see me.”

  Moses swallowed. His throat was dry now and it was starting to scratch, but he would not stop.

  “Her brother was a doctor, in Ely. A month before our wedding date, she travelled to visit him there and spend some time with the last remaining family member she had, before she joined my own. What she did not know, and he would have told her had he known of her intended visit, was that … that ague had broken out just days before.”

  There was a gasp, and Moses was startled to see Miss Vaughn’s mouth open, but he stopped her from speaking with a raise of his hand.

  “She was a caring soul, my Charlotte,” he said quietly. “I did not know how much until I received her brother’s letter. Determined as she was to help, she had accompanied him – against his wishes – to care for a patient of his, and Fate had her way. Within days, my darling had succumbed.”

  Moses’ gaze had drifted to the fire, unlit, but now it moved back to Miss Vaughn and saw the concern in her eyes, and something a little deeper which he could not name.

  He sighed. “I think I can honestly say, Miss Vaughn, that in many ways I too died that day. My heart certainly broke, and it has never been mended. That was just over a year ago, and in that time I have wished for nothing but to be left alone. Alone with my bitterness.”

  Chloe stared at him in astonishment. It had simply not occurred to her that there was such deep passion within such a dark and depressive frame. Sir Moses Wandorne gave the impression of deep emotion, certainly, but emotions such as gloom, and sadness, and misery.

  The idea of Sir Moses being violently and passionately in love was something that didn’t quite match the figure hunched in the armchair before her. To hear him speak of children; of the children that he had longed for, a dream that she herself shared but had never revealed to anyone…it was intoxicating.

  “I will admit,” she murmured, “that the idea of losing someone close to me … someone that I loved so deeply would be utterly devastating to me.”

  What she did not say, and wild horses would not have been capable of dragging it from her, was that now that she looked at him, she could see the echoes of the man that Sir Moses had once been in the features before her. Those dark eyes. That long, tangled hair that would be so refined if kempt. His broad frame. The presence that he created, even when bad tempered.

  “You are a brave man,” she said with a small smile. “I have no idea how you manage to … to continue. To cope with it all.”

  He laughed, and it was bitter and dark. “I do not think that I do. Emotions, romantic entanglements, the ability to love … I do not think that I will ever venture too close to any of them again. What good can they do me?”

  Chloe hesitated. This particular opinion of hers had been frowned upon by her acquaintance, but somehow, here in this dark room, with this dark soul, it did not sound so strange.

  “I have always thought,” she said quietly, “that romance clouds the senses, rather than enhances them. Marriage is formed as a contract, and we blind ourselves to the fact that in many cases, there is little heart and almost no real emotion at all.”

  Sir Moses raised an eyebrow. “You have seen some loveless marriages in your time.”

  “‘Tis rare that I see the opposite,” Chloe confessed with a wry smile. “And yet I do not believe that romance is necessary for a successful one. It is possible, surely, for two people to come together with a mutual understanding for the betterment of both without the entanglement of romance?”

  Her words seemed to hang in the air between them for a moment, and her eyes caught his, and her stomach lurched. What did she mean – what was she saying, she barely knew herself except those eyes kept drawing words from her, and she believed them to be true, and she felt the truth within her, and yet …

  “Perhaps you are right,” Sir Moses said lightly. “I have certainly avoided human companionship for so long now, I barely know what I am missing. ‘Tis the reason that I have hidden myself away for the past twelvemonth. I have not seen anyone, bar a few close friends, and I have not wished to.”

  Chloe’s mouth broadened with a smile. “Do you mean to tell me that you have been here, in this house, all year? When all from Leeds to London have been attempting to guess where you have hidden yourself on the continent? My word, the truth is nothing like the rumours!”

  As soon as the words had left her mouth, she regretted them: how coarse, how callous had been her thoughts and they had just tumbled out!

  But instead of bitter anger, it was a smile that came from her companion as the storm raged around them.

  “Rumours?” He said darkly. “What rumours?”

  Despite her best efforts, Chloe could feel a blush tinging her cheeks as she took in Sir Moses’ gaze. Glowering or not, he was a strikingly handsome man.

  “I took no part in them,” she said hastily, trying not to think of the feeling of his fingers on her back when he had carefully laced up her dress.

  Sir Moses did not reply, instead leaning back in his armchair and staring at her expectantly, almost as though he was amused.

  Chloe swallowed. “Well,” she said, curling her feet up onto the chaise longue in the unladylike manner that she was usually scolded for. “There are there who believe that you have immigrated to the continent, because of ill health. The lakes of Italy, you know, or somewhere in Switzerland.”

  No matter how closely she regarded his expression, it was impossible for her to read it accurately. Was he censuring her for speaking, offended by her words, shocked, perhaps, at the wild imagination of society at large?

  As he did not stop her, Chloe continued, “Of course, there are others with more fanciful ideas. My favourite is that you have sent out expeditions to America looking for gold – very Christopher Columbus, you know – and actually found some.”

  Sir Moses laughed, and this time it was a natural, hearty laugh, that seemed to start from his stomach and rise up into his shoulders, rocking them slightly. It was the first true laugh that Chloe had heard from him since she had stepped into this strange, dark house, and it seemed to wash her in a warm glow that settled somewhere lower than her stomach.

  “Are you
disappointed with the truth?” He chuckled.

  She returned his laugh with one of her own. “No, I am no chit of a girl who expects a great mystery behind every unexplained fact. ‘Tis true of science, I think, to find a rational explanation behind something that is previously unknown.”

  He nodded, and Chloe found herself hoping that he would speak again in that deep voice. It had a strange power over her: at once calming, and at the same time exciting.

  “And to tell the truth,” she added more seriously, “I cannot think any less of you for feeling so bitter and heart worn, after your experience. No one would.”

  He said not a word. Rain fell harshly on the windows, and a roll of thunder a little way off told her that the storm was, at least, moving away from them – but it was nothing to the storm that was starting to grow in her heart. This man, this strange man: part lover, part bitter, part collector, all man. She liked him. Despite herself, and despite every effort it seemed from him, she liked him.

  Chloe looked down at her fingers in her lap, and then asked tentatively, “Do … are you still in love with her? Charlotte, I mean?”

  For a moment she thought that she had gone too far; that the impertinence always under the surface of her conversation had sprung up once more.

  Sir Moses sighed deeply. “I will admit that her memory lingered on with me for much longer than I would have thought. I expected to see her each time I opened a door. Every foot on the stairs had to be hers. Each letter I received a note from her brother saying that it had all been a mistake, and she had been revived, and she was asking for me …”

  Chloe watched as his gaze became unfocused for almost a minute, and then it snapped back to attention, and he gave her a look that she could not decipher.

  “You cannot be in love with a memory,” he said finally. “What emotion I have for her now is more like sorrow than love. I mourn what could have been.”

  “‘Tis only natural,” Chloe said quietly.

  Sir Moses shrugged. “If I were to be as honest with you as I try to be with myself, I would say … I would say that the idea of loving again terrifies me. Of not being able to keep someone that I care about safe in the future. It paralyses me, and so I have come to accept, bitter as it is, that I will probably die completely alone.”

  Somewhere deep in her heart, Chloe ached for him – this man who had so much to give, and had yet had that opportunity ripped from him so cruelly. Without thinking, she reached forward and laid her hand on his, and felt his warmth.

  “Surely, ‘tis better to live alone,” he said, voice dark, “as that is my fate.”

  4

  Chloe tried to breathe and forced cool air into her lungs.

  “It does not have to be your fate,” she managed to say, withdrawing her hand from his as his gaze lifted to hers and she felt the searing heat of what she was doing. “You … you live in a large and beautiful home, Sir Moses. Even staying inside here would give you a better life than many others.”

  What was she gabbling now, such nonsense! Attempting to console a baronet with the fact that he lives in his ancestral home? And yet she had to say something, anything to take away his attention from the fact that she had touched him, that their hands had touched, that something happened as her skin met his.

  “I barely see any of it now,” he said nonchalantly, throwing up his hands. “I have spent so much time within it with my anger and sadness inside me that all I see is the bitterness on the walls, the hatred I had for my life then, and how trapped I felt. I see no beauty in it.”

  A spark of curiosity lit in Chloe’s mind, and she leaned forward unconsciously as she said, “Well, I do. The little that I have seen of your home tells me that a person of true taste once decorated it, and I would very much like to see more of it, in the morning.”

  “Why not now?”

  Sir Moses seemed to have spoken without first consulting his face, for as Chloe looked at him, a look of astonishment overtook him.

  “I mean,” he said hastily, “if you would like to.”

  “Now?” Chloe repeated, attempting to calm her rising heartbeat at the thought of wandering through this dark and mysterious place with this handsome man.

  Sir Moses smiled. “Now.”

  A roll of thunder echoed overhead making them both jolt with surprise. The storm that had seemed to be moving away from them had evidently decided to alter its course and was now right over them once more.

  If Chloe had believed in fate, or destiny, or any such nonsense, she may have changed her mind. She would probably have apologised, claimed tiredness, and asked to be shown to her room. And likely enough, Sir Moses would have acquiesced, rung the bell pull, and it would have been Baxter that had taken her upstairs and left her to sleep. And that would have been the end of it.

  But Chloe did not believe in fate, or destiny, or luck. She did believe in chance, and the chance to see more of the Wandorne estate, and in the company of Sir Moses Wandorne, mysterious recluse, was more than she could bear.

  “I would love to see more of the house,” she admitted with a smile, her head turning slightly and her earrings moving against her neck. “But are you sure … you would not rather give me the tour in the morning?”

  Her heart was thumping loudly now, and it was only good manners that offered him this way to escape her. Every part of her longed to walk with him now, to see him in the darkness, to perhaps take his arm, and then he would take her hand, and –

  “You will be gone in the morning,” Sir Moses said brusquely as he stood up. “Now is the best time, I think. The question is, where to start?”

  Chloe mirrored his movement with a heaviness in her chest. Of course, she would be gone within a few hours of waking tomorrow; there was nothing to keep her here, and it was likely that there would be some sort of outcry if she did not appear outside The Beeches before luncheon.

  So why was sadness overwhelming her at the thought of leaving him?

  “I think the hall would be best.” Sir Moses moved to the doorway, and looked back at her over his shoulder. “Miss Vaughn, are you not coming?”

  Chloe had almost forgotten just how tall he was, how broad his shoulders were, the tilt of his head as he questioned her. She may have attempted to deny it to anyone who had asked her about it at that very moment, but at least with herself she could be honest.

  There was an attraction there, between them, that she could not deny. A part of her did not want to deny it, wanted to revel in it, wanted to explore it.

  But the door opened, and Sir Moses asked again, “Miss Vaughn?”

  She flushed, and moved without answering – and found to her shame that she was swaying her hips a little more, arching her spine slightly to show off the movement, leaning forward ever so slightly to let the curve of her breasts show.

  What was this wanton behaviour! The flush deepened as she looked for some sort of response in Sir Moses, hoping in her secret heart that he had noticed, that he felt something too, that she was not the only one here sensing something that could be –

  But he had already stepped through into the corridor, and was saying, “It was the hall, of course, that set the whole tone of the architecture here, as you have no doubt noticed. It was built …”

  Chloe swallowed as she strode forward a little faster now. It was time to get a grip on herself, she told herself. Poor Sir Moses is still grieving for his fiancée, and you think that a little movement of your body will be enough to tempt him to – to what? What are you even hoping for?

  Her cheeks blushed even darker as she caught up with him. Ah, but she knew. She knew the way that a woman and a man could be together, and though she be innocent of the practice, the theory was something she was well aware of.

  And wanted. Wanted with Sir Moses. Wanted very badly.

  “…colours reminiscent of Turner, do not you think?”

  He was looking at her now, expectantly, and she smiled.

  “It is a most elegant painting.”
r />   And it was. A landscape, Italian by the look of the trees reaching out to touch the sky, with a lake in the foreground and ripples pooling out from the side as though a dragonfly had just landed on it.

  “Cupressus sempervirens, the Mediterranean fir,” Chloe said quietly, reaching out her fingers as though to touch the paint, but holding well back.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Moses look at her strangely. Perhaps it was the candle he now held that flickered, giving the impression of deep longing, for when she turned to look at him more directly, it was gone.

  “And here amongst the ferns, a sculpture by Anne Seymour Damer,” he said, indicating with a lazy finger.

  Chloe saw the statue – a small Madonna – but was far more captivated by the ferns.

  “Cyatheales,” she said, brushing them gently with her fingertips. “I have rarely seen such good specimens indoors. Does Baxter or another servant water them regularly? I have experimented with watering cycles, and I find daily the most useful to spark flowering in summer.”

  There was silence, and she raised her eyes to look at him. “Did I say something amiss?”

  “No, not at all,” Sir Moses said finally with a shake of his head. “I was just wondering whether you had read about the Chelsea Physic Garden?”

  “Oh, yes,” she enthused, slowly meandering down the corridor with him as he picked up the pace once more. “I have been a great admirer of the Physic Garden for some time, and I ordered the monograph on it as soon as it was printed. Did you know that the grounds are still forbidden for women to enter – even now?”

  He laughed again, but there was no malice in his words as they turned a corner and entered a dining room, all decked out in red velvet carpet.

  “Miss Vaughn, you are a very unusual woman.”

  Chloe blushed, and then a smile broadened out onto her face. “You know, I do believe that you said that as a compliment, rather than a complaint.”

  “And so I did,” replied Sir Moses, slowing at the table but making no move to explain its wood, its maker, or its history.