Chapter Three
THE RETURN OF THE CAPTAIN
The only bright spot in the drudgery of Kyrah’s life was the rare opportunity to sit in the little garden by the cottage. An ivy-covered stone wall surrounded the garden, which could be entered through a wooden gate. A little stone bench and a huge broad-leafed tree were surrounded by little patches of wildflowers in no particular pattern. A little ditch of water ran under the wall, through the garden, and out again beneath the opposite wall. A carpet of little yellow buttercups grew on the banks of the ditch, and Kyrah loved the sound of water running past.
In her little snatches of free time, it was difficult to make a trek all the way to the church ruins and back. But she could come here to the garden and lose herself, if only briefly. And her thoughts were always with Ritcherd. If only he were here, she told herself, everything would be better. But he wasn’t here, and life could not possibly be worse. Time had made Kyrah accept her circumstances, but it didn’t make her burdens any easier to bear.
Each morning she would rise before the sun and see to her mother’s needs before going to the big house to work. There were few other servants, and Kyrah found her responsibilities overwhelming. She was glad for the times when Peter Westman’s business took him out of the area for long periods of time. But when he was home, he more than made up for his weeks away. Kyrah could never explain the subtle uneasiness she felt in his presence. There was something in the way he looked at her that made her feel cheap and dirty. His subtle comments and degrading glances continually belittled and humiliated her. When Peter Westman was around, he didn’t let her forget for a moment that she was nothing more than a servant, the daughter of a foolish gambler. He seemed to take some kind of perverse pride in having power over her, and she feared that one day he might want more out of her than cleaning and cooking.
Whether Peter was at home or abroad, Kyrah was continually reminded of his attitude simply by the work she was required to do on his behalf. It wasn’t until she made certain the house was in order and the laundry gathered that she made it home to get her mother’s lunch. She then washed the dirty clothes and linens, hung them to dry and went back to the big house, rarely returning home before dark. Just today Peter had returned from a particularly long jaunt to the continent, and Kyrah felt the increase in her workload by having to cook his meals and do his personal laundry.
Late that night, Kyrah stared into the dim reflection of her bedroom mirror as she brushed her hair down. Peter’s insinuating glances catapulted through her mind, echoed by the childhood taunts that had mellowed to quiet whisperings each time she went into town. It was becoming more and more difficult to look at herself and comprehend the visions of a lady that Ritcherd Buchanan had often spoken of. Setting the brush down, Kyrah sighed as she turned her hands over to survey their worn appearance. They were not a lady’s hands. Of that she was certain.
Exhausted, she attempted to push her thoughts away, knowing they were trite in comparison to her responsibilities. The days were long and hard, and the nights were too short to achieve the rest she needed. Habitually she sighed and pondered how it might be if only Ritcherd were here. But tonight something felt different. She looked into the mirror again and felt as if someone else was looking back at her. She’d changed. Perhaps it was one too many glares of smug disapproval from Jeanette Buchanan, or one too many times that Peter Westman had reminded her with a sneer of who and what she had become. Whatever the reason, something had changed in Kyrah, and she had to ask herself: what if Ritcherd were here?
If Ritcherd were here, she would be humiliated and torn to pieces by his feeling obligated to show interest in her when she was no longer of his social status, even though to many she never had been. The very idea was so devastating that she had to force it away in order to get some much-needed rest. But the spark in her thoughts needed little to kindle it into a consuming fire, and the following morning Jeanette Buchanan was quick to provide the fuel.
Fortunately for Kyrah, her path rarely crossed with Ritcherd’s mother, and she fought to hide how the woman’s very presence unnerved her as she waited in line at the post office for her mail. Kyrah knew that Jeanette could easily have her mail picked up by servants, but she seemed to enjoy opportunities to gossip, or at least to collect fodder for it. Jeanette, who had already received her own mail, stopped to chat with someone nearby, glaring several times toward Kyrah. Their eyes met only once, and Kyrah marveled at how thoroughly cold she could feel from a mere glance. Noticing the fineness of everything Jeanette was wearing, Kyrah couldn’t help but feel intimidated when she compared it to her own humble attire. Trying hard to remain expressionless, Kyrah kept her eyes turned away, wishing she could ignore the conversation that was obviously being carried on for her benefit.
After Jeanette announced that she’d just received a letter from Ritcherd, she couldn’t miss the opportunity to add that Miss Trenton, the daughter of a lord, had been writing to her son and was greatly anticipating his return, as was Miss Roscom, the sister of a baronet.
Kyrah was grateful to finally reach the window, and Mrs. Farrell, the postmistress, greeted her warmly. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said, smiling. Kyrah could hear from behind that Jeanette had stopped talking. She couldn’t help hoping that Mrs. Farrell was overheard as she added, “Five letters from Captain Buchanan. They sure come all at once, don’t they?”
Kyrah thanked her and turned away, noting by her brief glance at Jeanette’s expression that her hopes had not been in vain. Once outside, Kyrah shuffled through the bunch of letters, sighed, then went quickly to see to her other business. It would be hours yet before she would have time to read them.
Past midnight, in the loft of the cottage with a single lamp burning, Kyrah finally found herself alone with what Ritcherd had written. She sorted the letters in order of dates so that she could read them in sequence, then she read what she had come to recognize as an effort to tell her what he was doing without complaining about the circumstances, even though she knew he was miserable.
It was the last letter that struck her differently.
My dearest Kyrah, I received a letter from you today, the first in a very long time. It was dated several months ago, and I feel so lost and isolated out here when I think of how separate our worlds are and the time that even communication takes to travel between us. I fear that perhaps things are not as they should be with you. I can’t explain why. I only know that it adds to my frustration at being so far away.
There is little I can say, Kyrah, except that I pray constantly that this war will be over soon, and perhaps the gaps between our worlds can be bridged. I hope that time will have eased some of the differences between us, and fate will find us in the same realm at last.
Whatever it is, Kyrah, we will work it out. Give your parents my love. I hope it won’t be much longer. Forever yours, Ritcherd.
Kyrah wasn’t certain why she felt suddenly angry, though she sensed her anger was directed more toward what fate had done to her than toward Ritcherd himself. She stuffed the letters in the bottom of a drawer with the others, then fell asleep quickly from exhaustion, knowing there was no bridge wide enough to bring her into the same realm as Ritcherd Buchanan.
Through the following days, she became certain that it would be best for everyone concerned if Ritcherd remained out of her life. She almost prayed that he had fallen in love in the months since he’d last written, so he could be spared having to graciously tell her that he couldn’t associate with a servant girl.
She often thought of the little bird she had given freedom to so many years ago, and knew that the circumstances here were much the same. She had known then that despite how badly she had wanted to keep the little bird, it would have been selfish of her to expect it to stay. And now, she simply loved Ritcherd too much to see their relationship ruined by the change in circumstances that made it impossible for them to be together.
On a hot August afternoon
, through the grapevine of servants she had unwillingly joined, Kyrah got word that Captain Buchanan was back in England and would soon be returning home. She felt tangibly ill. The wall she had built up to protect herself from any further pain or humiliation had wedged into her heart, leaving her with no desire to even see him. Little by little, she had convinced herself that they should not be together. And the attitude of the man she worked for only added to her conviction that she was not the woman for Ritcherd.
Nearly three years after Captain Buchanan left his home in Cornwall, word came that he would be arriving soon. Kyrah felt dismayed to realize that knowing he was nearby left her breathless, and she couldn’t help wondering what he was doing. What did he look like? Was he still the same, or had he changed significantly?
She nearly hated herself for lying awake with thoughts of him, and told herself repeatedly that she must be strong and find a way to keep them apart—for his sake. It made her shudder to think of the degradation and humiliation he would suffer from his friends and acquaintances—not to mention his mother—if he were to associate with her after what had happened. She just couldn’t let him face it. It was as simple as that.
The Captain of Her Heart Page 5