by Laura Martin
Amelia’s eyes met his and immediately she smiled, an unfettered, instinctive smile of warmth and pleasure. Edward felt something snap inside him and found himself smiling back.
‘Thank you for inviting me to dine with you,’ Amelia said.
He hadn’t, but of course he didn’t say anything. Mrs Henshaw would be mortified if he ruined her cunning plan at the first hurdle.
‘Thank you for the dresses. Mrs Henshaw has just pinned this one to fit for now, but she said she would adjust them for me,’ she said, pulling at the material of the dress. She was obviously a little uncomfortable wearing a garment that didn’t quite fit, but Edward thought she looked exquisite all the same.
‘You look fine,’ he said.
‘Oh, good.’
He cursed himself for his lack of ability to compliment her, but Amelia recovered quickly.
‘Mrs Henshaw filled me a bath this afternoon,’ she said, placing her hand into the crook of Edward’s elbow, ‘It felt divine to finally wash all the mud and grime off properly.’
Edward grunted, trying not to blurt out that he’d walked in on her having the bath and nearly been ungentlemanly enough to venture round the screen.
‘And whilst I was in the kitchen I took a peek at what Mrs Henshaw was cooking up for dinner. It looked incredible and smelled absolutely delicious.’
‘Good. I’m hungry.’
Amelia fell silent and Edward wondered if he’d always been so clumsy in making polite conversation. He didn’t think he’d struggled at university and of course with Jane things had been different. He’d known her since they were both young children, barely any effort had been needed.
Silently Edward escorted Amelia to her seat and pulled the chair out for her, ensuring she was comfortable before he sat down himself. Reaching across the table, he poured out two glasses of red wine, pushing Amelia’s towards her before taking a large gulp.
‘I saw you outside today,’ Amelia said as she toyed with the stem of her wine glass. She was always moving, always fidgeting, and sometimes Edward just wanted to reach out and place his hand over hers to show her how to keep still.
Edward nodded.
‘What were you doing?’
‘Just looking. At the house.’ And thinking. All the plans he’d once had for the estate, all the work he’d undertaken to improve the house and gardens.
‘Did you like what you saw?’
He looked at Amelia sharply, wondering if she was trying to provoke him. She was a little minx sometimes and he wouldn’t be surprised if she was goading him into blurting something out just to get him to talk to her. He hadn’t exactly been stellar company so far.
‘Your home in India—have you always lived there?’ Edward asked.
Amelia frowned as she tried to follow his trail of thought. ‘Yes, my father built it before I was born.’
‘Then you will understand how one’s memories can be tied to a building, a place. A lifetime of good times and bad times, all contained within one house.’
‘Is it the good times or the bad times you think of when you look at Beechwood Manor?’
‘Both.’ Edward paused and considered his answer further. ‘I suppose all the good memories are tainted with the bad, though.’
Amelia reached across the table and took Edward’s hand, her soft, warm skin connecting with the sensitive pads of his fingertips.
Guiltily they sprung apart as Mrs Henshaw entered the room with two steaming bowls of soup, setting them down in front of Edward and Amelia before bustling back out. Edward waited for Amelia to start, but although she picked up her spoon she did not dip it into her bowl.
‘What happened here, Edward?’ she asked.
He could have pretended to misunderstand her question, or just refused to answer, but Amelia was not the sort of person to let something go.
‘There was a fire.’ A terrible fire.
‘In the East Wing?’ she prompted.
‘Yes.’ He nodded curtly, to try and signal that the conversation was over.
‘You were here when it happened?’
Edward gripped the edge of the table, the memories of the heat and the flames taking over his mind.
‘You lost someone, didn’t you?’ Amelia asked gently.
Edward stared down into his bowl of soup before closing his eyes. Then abruptly he stood and strode from the room.
Amelia finished her dinner alone, shrugging as Mrs Henshaw brought the main course and enquired where Edward had gone. She’d upset him and that hurt her. She hadn’t meant to be so insensitive, but she knew herself how cathartic it was to talk about these things. Edward bottled everything up, if he would just rant and rave about what had gone wrong in his life, let it all out, then maybe he might be able to start healing.
* * *
After dinner she roamed around the house, too restless to go to bed and too preoccupied to settle to any particular task. Once or twice she picked up a book, but put it down again almost immediately. Still there was no sign of Edward. With resolute steps she turned her attention to the West Wing. If he wouldn’t come to her she would go to him. It wasn’t as though she was going to sleep until she had seen he was at least partially recovered.
She knocked on his door, softly at first and then a little louder. When there was no reply she gently pushed it open. His bedroom and the small sitting room off it were empty. It didn’t look as though Edward had returned since dinner. Amelia hesitated, knowing she should not trespass in his private rooms, but the temptation of the desk, and the piles of papers on top of it, was too much.
Carefully she leafed through Edward’s sketches, feeling the warmth spread through her body as she realised all of the recent ones were of her. He had sketched her digging in the garden, strolling through the rosebushes and even just lounging on one of the chairs in the sitting room. His drawings were good, even Amelia’s amateur eye could see that, and he had caught something deeper than just her physical likeness on the paper.
As she reached the bottom of the pile she placed the drawings back on the desk and made her way out of the room. If Edward wasn’t in the main part of the house or the West Wing then he must be in the East Wing. Despite him warning her to stay out of the fire-damaged Wing, Amelia barely hesitated before stepping into the corridor.
The light of her candle flickered and cast long shadows in the darkness of the East Wing and Amelia found herself creeping silently down the long corridor. There were doors off to either side, bedrooms most likely, but something drew Amelia further down the corridor to where the fire damage was at its worst.
Here an entire portion of the house had been ravaged by the fire, the walls still blackened with soot and even the faint aroma of smoke remained. As the floorboards creaked underneath her feet Amelia had visions of plummeting through the damaged floor to the hard flagstones of the ground below.
Amelia paused beside an open door, every fibre in her body telling her this was where she would find answers and maybe Edward, too.
As she stepped inside the room it took her a moment to work out exactly what it had been before the fire, and then as her eyes rested on a half-burned rocking horse she heard herself gasp softly.
It was a nursery. A beautiful, fire-ravaged nursery. Amelia bit her lip as suddenly she understood the depth of Edward’s pain and suffering. No one should have to lose a child, not like this.
Her eyes began to adjust to the gloom and she could make out other features, familiar shapes morphed and warped by the fire. There was a small bed, the remains of a rocking chair and a pile of what Amelia could only assume had once been toys. A sooty teddy bear sat on the bedsheets as if sadly waiting for an owner who would never return.
Amelia spun around as a noise from by the window startled her. Edward’s silhouette was outlined against the glass, his s
houlders hunched as if he was physically trying to block out the pain. She hesitated, wondering if he would explode in anger at her for venturing into the forbidden East Wing, for trespassing on his grief and memories, but when he remained silent Amelia crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him.
‘What was his name?’ she asked quietly.
‘Thomas.’
She felt him drop his head and rest his chin on top of her hair, allowing her to hold him tight. Amelia couldn’t even begin to imagine his suffering and knew whatever she said would never be enough. No wonder he had locked himself away.
‘Come,’ Edward said after a few minutes, leading her out of the room and back to the main part of the house. He held her hand, his large fist enveloping her small one, but the pressure of his fingers were light on hers.
‘You don’t need to tell me anything,’ she said as they reached the West Wing and their bedrooms. Edward hesitated a moment, and then pulled her gently into his rooms.
‘Sit,’ he instructed, motioning to the armchair by the fire she had sat on a few nights previously.
Amelia obeyed. She knew it was entirely inappropriate to be in Edward’s bedroom, especially at this time of night, but in truth they had overstepped the line between appropriate and scandalous days ago. This little indiscretion was just another in a long list.
Edward pulled his desk chair over beside her and sat looking at the embers glowing in the grate for a few minutes.
‘I shouldn’t have pried,’ Amelia said eventually. She wanted to know what had happened, wanted to know every detail of how Edward had lost everything dear to him so she could better understand him, but not if retelling it was going to cause him pain.
‘Thomas would be six now,’ Edward said softly.
‘Thomas was your son?’
He nodded and Amelia saw the flash of pride and love cross his face.
‘He was the sweetest little boy, mischievous and playful, but ever so loving.’
Amelia remembered the drawings of the young boy she’d seen on her first morning at Beechwood Manor.
‘I was so happy. We were so happy. Our lives were complete, we had each other and we had Thomas, I never wanted anything more than that.’
And it had all been ripped away from him. Amelia felt a wistful longing. She doubted she would ever feel love and satisfaction like that, not now her life would be spent always in the shadow of her crime. One day she might marry, but it would be to a second-rate suitor, someone who had flaws of his own so would overlook her past.
‘The fire...’ Edward trailed off, running a hand over his brow.
Amelia slipped from her chair and knelt on the floor in front of him, her hand resting gently on his arm. She wanted him to know he didn’t need to tell her anything, but she sensed now they were here, now Amelia had seen the scorched nursery, he wanted to share his pain with someone.
‘Thomas had been ill. We were taking it in turns to sleep in his nursery at night whilst he recovered.’
Of course Edward would be a wonderful and caring parent. Amelia thought back to all the ways he had looked after her during their short acquaintance. He was a kind and giving person underneath the sometimes gruff demeanour.
‘It was your wife’s turn?’ Amelia prompted.
He nodded. ‘I still remember kissing them both goodnight. I never thought...’
Amelia couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like to wake up every day knowing those you loved were no longer in the world. No wonder Edward had shut himself away for these three years.
‘No one could tell how the fire started, but it was in the nursery. By the time the alarm was raised a good portion of the East Wing was on fire.’
She could see the panic in his eyes as he relived the memory in his mind.
‘I went in through the flames and they were just lying there on the bed, side by side.’
Amelia could imagine him charging to the rescue, battling the fire and the smoke to save the people he loved the most.
‘I carried them out, but it was too late. The doctor said the smoke killed them while they slept, that they wouldn’t have suffered...’
Edward fell silent, his head dipped and his eyes closed. Amelia wished she could reach up and smooth the pain away, but she knew nothing she said or did would make much of a difference. Every day Edward would have to mourn his wife and his son and every day the pain would rip him apart.
Suddenly Amelia felt helpless. She wanted to do something, say something. When she had confessed her crime to Edward he had listened carefully and then made a sensible and reassuring plan. He was the reason she wasn’t mentally falling apart, or worse, festering, rotting in a cell somewhere. Now he needed her, he’d trusted her with this emotional wound and she didn’t know what to say to him.
‘A day lasts until it’s chased away but love lasts until the grave,’ she said eventually. Edward opened his eyes and looked down at her. ‘It’s an old Indian proverb, my nanny used to say when I was a child. It means no matter what you never stop loving those close to you until the day you die.’ Amelia felt the colour rising to her cheeks and wondered if she had spoken out of turn.
‘A day lasts until it’s chased away but love lasts until the grave,’ Edward repeated, nodding slowly. ‘Very apt.’
‘Do you have any other family, anyone to help you mourn?’ Amelia asked softly.
Edward shook his head, ‘I pushed everyone away. I couldn’t bear the looks of pity in their eyes.’
They fell silent, both lost in their own thoughts. Amelia wondered whether anyone could ever recover from a loss like this. Edward was a good man, a kind man, and if anyone deserved a second chance at life it was he. He’d taken her in and protected her when she was a complete stranger. She just wished there was something she could do to help him, but part of her wondered if he would ever be able to enjoy himself without feeling guilty because his wife and son weren’t there beside him.
‘I can see why you shut yourself away,’ Amelia said eventually.
‘I doubt it was the right thing to do.’
‘Maybe at the time it was the only way for you to cope.’
Edward seemed to think about this for a while. ‘It just seemed impossible to carry on life as normal when I’d lost...’ He trailed off and Amelia squeezed his arm.
Amelia couldn’t tell how long they sat like that, with her curled by Edward’s feet, her head resting on the arm of the chair, but eventually she must have nodded off for the next thing she remembered was Edward’s arms lifting her up gently and carrying her to her own bed. She was still half-asleep as he lay her down carefully on top of the sheets, paused and then kissed her softly on the cheek. As the door closed behind him Amelia lifted her fingers to where he had kissed her. Her skin was tingling and she had the urge to preserve the moment, but slowly her body relaxed and she slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Ten
Edward prowled through the house, a frown on his face. He’d agreed to one maid, one harmless young woman to help dust and tidy around the place. He should have known things would spiral from there. In the past week Mrs Henshaw had taken full advantage of her return to the house and now the place was practically crawling with people.
He sighed. He wasn’t angry with Mrs Henshaw, he couldn’t be when he knew she had his best interests at heart, but he just wanted a little privacy.
‘Good morning, sir.’ A maid curtsied as he walked past.
Edward grunted and then regretted his surliness. ‘Good morning, Betty.’
All in all there were now five members of staff at Beechwood Manor, including Mrs Henshaw. Two maids, one upstairs and one in the kitchen, a footman and a gardener. Edward had argued against the need for each one, but as the house began to regain some of its old sparkle and lustre he had to admit they wer
e doing a good job. Mrs Henshaw always had run a tight household.
As Edward stepped outside he saw Smith, the gardener, hurrying towards him.
‘Good morning, sir. Might I just have a quick word?’ Smith said, pulling his flat cap from his head as he spoke.
‘What can I do for you, Smith?’
‘It’s a delicate matter, my lord...don’t want to offend.’
‘Go ahead,’ Edward prompted, with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knew what this was going to be about and there wasn’t an easy solution.
‘Well, I don’t wish to cause offence, but it’s the young lady, sir, your guest.’
They had agreed to keep Amelia’s identity a secret from the staff for now, after taking Mrs Henshaw into their confidences. Amelia had been introduced to the staff as a friend and guest, staying with him for a few weeks to take in the country air.
‘I keep finding her digging up my flowerbeds, sir.’
Edward had noticed. Each afternoon Amelia would return to the house covered in mud, looking rather dirty and dishevelled. He often sat by the window in his bedroom, just watching her as she worked. There was something so energetic about Amelia, so alive. Often he would draw her whilst he observed, but sometimes he just found himself watching. Sometimes an hour would pass without him quite knowing how.
‘I wouldn’t mind at all, sir. Soil always needs a good turning over and who am I to say what a guest of the master can do? But...’ The gardener trailed off, his cheeks flushing.
‘But she’s disturbing the plants?’
‘Exactly, sir.’ Mr Smith sounded relieved.
Edward looked around the garden with a critical eye. He couldn’t deny Mr Smith had worked miracles in a matter of days. The middle-aged man had only been in Edward’s employ for less than a week and already the garden was transformed. Overgrown bushes had been trimmed, weeds pulled and he had just made a start on planting a few new flowers.
‘Miss Amelia likes to keep busy,’ Edward said. ‘I wonder whether there might be an area of the garden where you would be happy for her attention to be directed. Somewhere she can focus on without getting in your way.’