“I think you should. Just a little.”
“Lord Stronbert...”
“I think it is time you called me Nigel.”
Alicia was honestly shocked at the idea. “I could not.”
“As you wish, of course,” he drawled.
Alicia busied herself with arranging the items on the cloth. She spread them out so that they formed a barrier between her and the marquis. He reached across it to set her wine glass beside her, somehow making the barrier very ineffective indeed. “We have all manner of fruit and vegetables from the hothouses most of the year,” he said conversationally. “Would you pass me a chicken wing?”
When she lifted the container closest to her he said, “Oh, just hand me one.” She set the container down and lifted a chicken wing from it which she extended across her barrier. Again their fingers brushed; she did not shiver. “Excellent,” he said approvingly. “I do think that one should be informal at a picnic.”
Stronbert spoke of the hothouses and the stables and the deer park and the lake. He requested items of food from her and offered her others. “Do have a sip of your wine. It is extraordinary.”
Alicia lifted the glass to her lips; it was indeed the most mellow she had ever tasted—fruity but not sweet. “I like it.”
“My father had it laid down years ago.”
“You should have saved it for a special occasion,” she said guiltily.
“I did.”
Alicia did not know how to respond to this, did not want to think about its significance. Through the whole of the meal she had the strangest feeling that something was expected of her, and she could not understand what. Stronbert did not say anything, but there was a patient, waiting look about his eyes when they rested on her. In her confusion she lifted a tart and took a bite of it. The flaky crust and the raspberry filling were delicious. She reached down and handed one across the barrier to Stronbert saying, “Here, you must have one of these.”
The smile with which he rewarded her made her feel pleasantly fluttery inside. She had pleased him somehow and the brush of his fingers as he accepted the tart was not frightening but reassuring. “Ah, here are the children,” he said a moment later. “I promised them they might join us if they did not come before we finished eating.”
Matthew and Helen rode toward them gaily waving and burst into speech before they stopped, “We have not come too soon, have we? We thought for sure you would be finished by now.”
“Well,” Alicia laughed, “I for one could not touch another bite.”
The children looked inquiringly at their father, smiling impishly, and he beckoned them to join him. “No doubt you have already eaten, but Lady Coombs has discovered that the raspberry tarts are very special and you may each have one if you wish.”
The children seated themselves at the ends of the barrier and Alicia handed each of them a tart.
“May I have a sip of your wine, Papa?” Matthew asked.
“You give them an inch...” he murmured helplessly. “One sip, young man.”
In an effort to make this the largest sip possible the boy choked on the wine and had to be pounded on the back for a moment by his father. Matthew raised an embarrassed face to Alicia and said quietly, “Forgive me, ma’am.”
“I think it is only to be expected at one of your father’s picnics,” she said judiciously. “We are very informal, you know.”
The children giggled and began to chatter about previous picnics they had made. Alicia listened to them as she packed the remaining food into the hamper. Then she sipped at her wine, feeling Stronbert’s eyes on her. When she had finished, she put her glass in the hamper, asked him if he was finished, and leaned over to take his glass from him. The barrier was no longer there, of course. Stronbert rose and held out his hand to her. She took it and was lifted easily to her feet. He gave her hand a firm squeeze before letting it go.
“Have you time to walk to the deer park, Lady Coombs?” he asked gently.
“Y-yes, I should like that.”
She placed her hand on his offered arm and was very aware of his strength. For a moment she hesitated, but he appeared to take no note of it and in a while she was more relaxed. After all, the children were there. She had nothing to fear.
Later, when they returned to the horses, the children rode off and Stronbert assisted Alicia to mount. They rode back to town companionably discussing the coming party and which neighbors had been invited. Stronbert seemed to know some anecdote about each of them, and Alicia knew them all from the shop. As they approached her cottage, Stronbert said seriously, “I should like to make a special effort to introduce Felicia to some of the young people. She is like to be lonely when Dorothy and Rowland leave.”
“Yes,” Alicia replied, a note of sadness creeping into her voice. “But you know, Lord Stronbert, that you are an exception in accepting her. Lady Wickham and her son have been otherwise.”
“It can do no harm for her to be seen at the Court.”
“No, I am sure it can only be beneficial.”
Stronbert jumped down and came around to her. He did not ask this time, but she allowed him to lift her down, and his hands fell away as quickly as they had before. “Thank you,” she said shyly. “I enjoyed the ride and the picnic tremendously.”
“I’m glad. I have business tomorrow, but I hope you will ride with me the following day. No picnic. We cannot expect such fine weather to last at this time of year. Shall I come by at one?”
“Yes, please.” She was offering him her hand before she was aware of doing so and gazed wonderingly at it. He shook it gravely, only his eyes acknowledging her bemused expression.
Chapter Fifteen
Lord Stronbert’s business the next day was arranging for Lady Coombs’s protection. He was pleased with the small progress he had made with her, but reminded himself that leading her to accept normal social contact was far different than accustoming her to the idea of marriage with its more intimate demands. There was a long way to go, and he had no intention of neglecting her protection while he trod the careful path. Stronbert sent for several of his most trusted employees, separately, and set them about the tasks he had determined on.
Felicia spent as much time as possible during the next few days with Dorothy and Rowland. It made her sadly dashed down to think that they would be leaving soon. She cherished their friendship. But her feelings about Rowland especially were confused. Before Tackar had abducted her she had shared a special sort of companionship with him. She had not allowed herself to think ahead to the future, precisely. But she often thought of their talks while she was sewing and going about her tasks. She had especially dwelt on the afternoon when Dorothy had wandered off to pick the blue cornflowers in the meadow where they had paused. Again and again her mind dwelt on the scene of Rowland standing with her under the gnarled elm and telling her that her hair was the color of the falling leaves. She could almost feel his hand as he stroked her hair. He had been about to kiss her, and she had wanted him to. And now?
After the experience with Tackar she shied from even the most casual touch from Rowland. Somehow the memory of his touching her hair now embarrassed and frightened her. At first she had feared Rowland because he was a man, and only a man could be capable of what Tackar had intended. As her sight began to clear a bit, she acknowledged that Rowland was not the kind of man Tackar was. She became ashamed of herself for her lack of faith in him. But she still dreaded the thought of her body being touched so intimately and being defenseless. She would always be defenseless. There was no help for that.
So her confusion continued, and although Alicia spoke gently with her sometimes to try to ease her worry, she was not able to speak of her fears. It was useless to cherish her nebulous dreams of Rowland, for she would never be able to be a—never a wife to him. When she had put it into words she scolded herself for being so foolish. It was a childish dream. Rowland was four years older than she, a man grown, and no doubt had plenty of pretty, well-to-do
young women to choose from, should he decide to marry. He would never wish to marry the daughter of a shopkeeper, surely, no matter how gently born. And even if he did, she thought, sobbing quietly in her bed one night, I could not marry him or anyone. Could not again be put in a man’s power, no matter how kind he might appear.
Alicia heard the muffled sobs and went to her daughter. “My love, what has distressed you so?” she asked as she pushed the tear-dampened hair from the pretty young face. Her daughter had, for a time after her abduction, wakened from horrifying nightmares, but these had seemed to cease.
“I cannot bear it that Dorothy and Rowland are to leave,” Felicia whispered as she allowed her mother to cradle her.
“Yes, that is hard. But they must return to their home, you know. I cannot doubt they will come to visit the Court again sometime.”
The girl’s lips quivered uncontrollably. “I almost feel angry with them for leaving me here alone,” she confessed softly.
Alicia smiled in the dark. “I can understand that, love. But I hope you will not let them leave knowing you are upset or angry. You must make new friends at the party and show your old ones a smiling face when they leave. Can you do that?”
“I hope so, Mama.”
“It grieves me to keep asking so much of you, Felicia. I would that I could make your path smooth. But I cannot.”
Felicia was silent for a moment and then she asked hesitantly, “Will the others at the party accept me? We were not invited to Tosley Hall.”
“I am sure most will see the wisdom of accepting you, if you are invited to the Court. Doubtless Lady Wickham will snub you, but then why should you care? She is a disagreeable woman and you could have no wish to enjoy her friendship, or her son’s.”
“I have met a few of the others while riding with Dorothy and Rowland. Most have been civil, but they have never invited me to their homes.”
“But then you have spent all your time with the Clintons. When they are gone, well, perhaps others, knowing you are free, will invite you. I cannot warrant it will be so,” Alicia said sadly.
“I know, Mama. Do not fret for me.”
Alicia could not prevent herself from suffering along with her daughter. Felicia had been mercifully granted a respite from facing the ordeal of lowering her station, but she would have to face it now, when it was harder. Alicia did not sleep well that night and she looked drawn when Stronbert called to take her riding.
“Is something the matter, Lady Coombs?”
“It is only the headache, Lord Stronbert,” she replied with an attempt to smile.
“It may come on to rain, too. Would you prefer to put off our ride to another day?”
Alicia’s eyes rested on the frisking mare for a moment. Muse had pricked her ears forward at the sound of Alicia’s voice and was attempting to nuzzle her. “No, let us ride, even if for a short while.”
The late November afternoon was cold with an icy breeze through the almost-bare trees. Their ride took them past the fields, forests, and farms to the west of Tetterton. They talked easily as they rode, and Stronbert pointed out the local landmarks of interest. When the rain started they were several miles from town and Stronbert suggested that they shelter under some trees a way off the road. He saw the doubt in her eyes and said, “Come, Lady Coombs, you do not wish to spoil your riding habit, do you?”
But the skies opened up just then and by the time they reached the trees they were both soaked. “I am sorry,” Stronbert apologized. “I did not think we would have such a heavy rain. Nor did I think,” he added exasperatedly, “that it would turn to hail.”
Alicia gave a doleful chuckle as she felt the icy balls beat against her. Stronbert dismounted and imperiously held his hands up to her. She allowed them to grasp her waist and lift her down. Even the cover of the trees was little protection; her riding habit proved more stylish than warm or proof against the icy slush driven against her face and body. Stronbert held her eyes for a moment and said gently, “I am going to hold you. Please do not be afraid of me.”
Alicia opened her mouth to protest, but the imperative look in his eyes froze her words. She felt his arms encircle her, his hand turn her face to his shoulder before he leaned with his back against the tree that the wind lashed around. He made no move to caress her. With one arm about her shoulders he folded her small cold hands in his other large warm one against his chest. She could feel the warmth of his body against her shivering form. He spoke to her in a calm, dispassionate voice, of the Yorkshire storms he remembered. She did not hear him at first, for her fear enveloped and panicked her. He could feel the tautness of her form gradually relax as his voice went on and on. The worst of the storm passed after fifteen or twenty minutes and he matter-of-factly set her aside from him to comment diffidently, “I must get you home before you catch your death.”
Alicia kept her head bowed until he was ready to hand her onto her horse. She met his eyes then and her lips quivered slightly as she said, “Thank you, Lord Stronbert.”
He only smiled his acknowledgment and swung himself onto his horse. They maintained a swift pace back to Alicia’s cottage. “Will you not come in and warm yourself at the fire?” she asked.
“I should like to, but I had best see that the horses are rubbed down as soon as possible.”
She nodded, thanked him again, and scurried into the house. Mavis clucked over the soggy riding outfit, and over her mistress, whom she bustled up the stairs and helped out of her clothes. “I’ve a good fire going in the drawing room, ma’am, but I can have one for you here in a jiffy.”
“No, I will come down to the drawing room. Can you do anything with my habit?”
Mavis regarded it skeptically but assured her she would do her best. Alicia went to sit in front of the fire in her dressing gown, slowly drying her thick auburn hair before its heat. Her thoughts however strayed to the scene beneath the trees when Stronbert had held her. How frightened she had been at first. Which was foolish, really, since she knew that he was not a man who would take advantage of her. He had a way of inducing her to do things she did not really mean to do, though. When he looked at you in that certain way, it was as though he knew he was right and any opinion you might have on the subject was frivolous. She shook back her steaming hair and decided that she must go to the shop.
* * * *
The dowager was seated with Miss Carnworth in the winter parlor, a merry blaze on the hearth to warm the room. “I think perhaps my new gown should have a flounce,” she announced abruptly.
“Evelyn, when will you learn to accept someone else’s judgment? Felicia has designed you the most charming and appropriate gown imaginable and you must needs try to destroy it. A flounce! Do you wish to challenge the young people at the party with your youthful flounces and spangles? Nigel has told me that he finds your gown admirable.”
“Has he now?” The dowager raised her head from the fringe she was knotting and stared inquiringly at her companion. “When did he see it?”
“Only yesterday. Felicia and Dorothy brought him to my room for that precise purpose.”
A cross expression flitted over the dowager’s features. “He has more faith in that child’s taste than in my own. Surely he owes more respect to his mother than that.”
Miss Carnworth’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t be absurd, Evelyn. His respect for you has nothing to do with your taste—or lack of it,” she murmured dryly.
“These last weeks he has neglected me,” the dowager complained.
“You astonish me! Did he not execute your every commission in London?”
“Why should he have gone away at all?” the old woman asked petulantly.
“Why should he not? This is his home, and we are all here by his generosity alone. Never did he suggest that you retire to the dower house when he was married. Quite the contrary. He has taken in every needy relation who has applied to him, and some who have not. I cannot blame him if he wishes to shake the dust of the place from h
is heels now and again, Evelyn. A young man, a widower, must regard this as something of an old people’s home, and wish for a little amusement.”
The dowager’s face set stubbornly. “He is thirty-eight recently and should settle down to his home and his children.”
Miss Carnworth threw her hands up in despair. “Good Lord, I cannot believe you could say such a thing! One would think he went roaring off to town every other week to hear you talk. He cannot have made more than half a dozen trips from home in the last two years. And his attentions to you and his children are quite remarkable.”
“He has divided his attentions widely of late,” the dowager complained, pulling over-fiercely at the knot to set it in place. “Here are his niece and nephew claiming his time, to say nothing of Felicia. And I believe he has been riding with Lady Coombs recently.” The old woman cast a suspicious glance from under her lowered eyelids to see how this comment would affect Miss Carnworth.
“About time someone did,” she retorted with asperity. “Lady Coombs has been working altogether too hard in the shop. It is not a life she is accustomed to, Evelyn.”
“I know, I know, but it need not be Nigel who undertakes her amusement. Surely the young people could invite her to join them.”
“I doubt she would interfere with their youthful exploits. She would fear to dampen their spirits with her presence.”
“She is little more than a child herself,” the dowager protested.
“Only in comparison with us, Evelyn. She must be close to Nigel’s age.”
With a dark look the dowager transferred her gaze to the window. “The rain has stopped. I have no doubt Nigel will be soaked to the bone when he returns. He will need a fire in his room.”
“He is perfectly capable of sustaining a wetting, Evelyn. Shall I instruct that a fire be started for him?” she asked as she rose.
“Now where are you going? I can very well give orders to the servants, Susan. Everyone treats me as though I were too old to be of use,” Lady Stronbert said fretfully.
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