She looked up, shielding her eyes from the rain. “How much higher do we need to climb?”
“Oh, I don’t think the cliff face itself is higher than a thousand feet.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“But with the switchbacks, it’s another half mile of upward climbing on this path, then we take a hard right and have another mile and a half over rough terrain, on to Heathmore.”
The smile slid off her face. “Another half mile? Of climbing?”
He nodded.
“But . . . however did my aunt manage it?”
“She was a tough thing, though I doubt she would have attempted it in the rain. She seemed to do all right, at least for the first year I lived here. But she moved down to town two years ago. She said she missed her daily dose of bickering with Reverend Wellsbury and wanted to be able to pester him all the time, but I suspect the climb became too much for her knees.” He shrugged out of his oilskin coat, wrapping it around her shoulders. He held his breath, waiting for her to throw the garment back at him. Instead, she lowered her chin and breathed in, long and slow. He could almost imagine the war waging inside that fair head.
Should she or shouldn’t she?
Well, he wasn’t going to ask.
In a similarly surreptitious manner, he picked up her bag and slung it over one shoulder, opposite his satchel. He turned back up the path, welcoming the heaviness of the bag and the feel of the rain as it began to soak through his frockcoat, because that meant she was protected from those annoyances. After a moment he heard the hard scramble of her boots against the loose rocks. He paused, waiting for her to catch up, trying to imagine how difficult it was to attempt something like this in wet skirts. He was quite sure he wouldn’t have attempted it.
“Well, if you truly want Heathmore for yourself, you are going to need to find a new way to do me in, Lord Branston,” she panted.
“Oh?” he asked around his smile. He reached out his hand—no words, just a quiet, blind offer of assistance that she was free to take or leave according to her own whims.
He was rewarded for his patience by the clasp of her gloved hand in his.
“That’s right,” she said. “Because I refuse to be tossed off a cliff if you are going to force me to climb it first.”
DESPITE HIS TEASING threats, he hadn’t paused to toss her over once they reached the top.
In fact, he’d kept her quite close to his side, helping her up here, pulling her over there.
She had not had the breath to refuse his help, choosing instead to concentrate on the necessary task of not breaking her own neck. She slipped several times, saved only by the steady, reassuring pull of his hands. She regretted, now, the stubbornness that had brought them out in such foul weather. It was clear that she was endangering them both. But he didn’t offer a word of criticism, just kept moving, solid and steady, in the direction she’d asked to go.
Eventually, they passed a white brick lighthouse, its rhythmic swirl of light and horn hardly piercing the deepening fog. She was tempted to stop, collect her breath. But he didn’t slow down, just moved on, the trail becoming something more precarious now, little more than a goat path.
Not that she’d seen any goats.
In fact, after another half hour of walking, it occurred to Lucy that she hadn’t seen any signs of life since the lighthouse. A single word came to mind when she considered how to describe the fog-covered vista, and that was “barren.” As she stared out at the alien landscape, it occurred to her that her father had been right about at least one thing: the land up here appeared to be little more than useless heath and bog. To their right lay the ocean, and to their left lay what seemed to be miles and miles of stony ground and water-logged grasslands, glimpses of loneliness snatched through the occasional break in the fog.
“In case you were wondering, we are on the outer edges of Heathmore’s grounds now,” Branston offered.
Lucy squinted into the swirling mist, wishing she had waited for a better day, wishing for even a small, twisted tree she might count on for a landmark. She didn’t see anything that looked familiar. In point of fact, she didn’t remember anything about this harrowing journey, though her six-year-old legs must have traipsed this treacherous path, once upon a time. A sense of uncertainty settled in her heart as she stared out at the foreign vista.
What had she gotten herself into?
“You look disappointed.”
“It is just that the word ‘grounds’ implies something a bit more . . . well . . . grander.” She turned in a small circle, looking for some glimpse of life. “I remember it rather differently. Fields of flowers and butterflies.” Then again, she’d been six. What was she supposed to remember, lethal, rain-slick paths where one wrong step could send you plummeting to your death? “Does nothing grow up here besides rocks?”
He shrugged. “That depends on your perspective. This is a peculiar piece of land. The Lizard Bay peninsula is the only place in England with this type of geography. The soil along this stretch of coast is too alkaline for traditional crops. But that doesn’t mean nothing will grow.” He cast a hand toward the fog-shrouded side of the path. “It is hard to see at present, but there are many examples of unusual plant life here.” He paused. “More than you can imagine, rare and beautiful. Whoever has the care of Heathmore has care of them.”
Lucy looked again, trying to blink away her prejudices. She didn’t see how it involved any care at all: it was wild and vast, quite independent of any human hand. She felt a catch in her throat as she considered this all belonged to her now, the rocks and grass and even the fog.
But she suspected she was going to have a hell of a time growing a vegetable garden.
“The cottage is only few hundred yards farther.” He pointed to a distant outcropping of rock. “Just through there.”
She peered through the curtain of mist. Why was her stomach skittering? She couldn’t be nervous. She was almost there, nearly at the end of this mad crusade that had all but consumed her the last few weeks. She ought to be sprinting down the path. But for some reason, her nerves were jumping. What would she find beyond those rocks? Her future, bright and shining and perfect? Or a reality she didn’t want to face?
She trudged the last few steps, grateful for the weight of the borrowed oilskin about her shoulders. The gesture had been kind—kinder than she deserved, given that it was her own stubbornness that had them out in this weather. But for Lord Branston, such kindness seemed to be commonplace. Just ahead she could see his shoulders flex and twist as he stepped over rocks and obstacles, the delineation of firm muscles outlined by the wet frockcoat, plastered against his skin. Though she was quite sure Aunt E would be appalled by the direction of her thoughts, she was rather grateful to be following.
Otherwise, she’d miss the view.
Finally, Lord Branston circled around from behind, his hand gentle against the small of her back. “There you are, then,” he said, pointing through a break in the rocks. “Your first sight of Heathmore Cottage.”
Lucy stepped forward, staring at this house her aunt had bequeathed her. Fears of gaping holes and sagging roofs were shoved to one side as she took in the whitewashed stone walls and the gleam of new, wet slate on the roof. It appeared to have once been a crofter’s cottage, two stories and solidly built. In the waning light it looked safe and warm and altogether inviting. She glanced back at him. “Uninhabitable? It looks rather well-tended to me.”
“Yes, well, there’s been a bit of work put into it since your aunt’s passing.”
“Which you had neither permission nor the right to do,” she reminded him archly. She turned back to her cottage and strode toward it until she was running a hand over the damp stones, stones that now belonged to her. Her lungs squeezed tight to feel the solid promise of them.
“The repairs aren’t finished yet.” His voice pushed from behind. “It’s been slow going, bringing the slate up the path one bundle at a time. If you plan to kee
p it, you’ll need to be prepared to invest a bit more in its upkeep.”
A frisson of irritation curled through her. “I don’t know what you mean, Lord Branston. The house looks quite livable to me.” She pursed her lips and held out her hand. “May I have my bag, please?”
He handed it over. It was heavier than she remembered. She probably ought to thank him for carrying it so far. But somehow the realization that his descriptions of the cottage’s state of disrepair were more falsehood than truth made the gratitude shrivel a bit on her tongue.
She moved toward the front door, wanting to see if a similar state of falsehood waited inside. Opening her wet bag, she drew out the key she’d carried all the way from London. She slid it into the lock and tried to turn it. Nothing happened. She jiggled it. Took it out and tried again. “Is there a trick of some kind?”
“No. It has a new lock.”
She turned to face him, her hands clenching. “You’ve locked me out of my own house?”
He held out his hand, a different key lying flat against his palm. “We had to break the latch initially to get in. I thought it safer to repair it than leave it open to vandals.”
She took the new key, examining it with a sense of increasing annoyance. Unlike the key that had come mailed in the brown paper package, this one was new and shiny.
Full of fresh promise.
And not at all the one that had become her talisman.
From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore
April 3, 1826
It is said (by Reverend Wellsbury) that women change their minds more frequently than the weather. How, then, do you explain the nearly constant nature of our feud? After the Great Marston Road Debate of 1825, the vicar and I reached a rocky state of equilibrium. Reverend Wellsbury would propose an action, and I would vote it down. Or else I would come up with a brilliant idea, and he would work behind my back to convince the townspeople to take the opposite view. The two of us have tied up town politics in a vitriolic standstill, and I am not proud to admit that perhaps we have both given our personal differences free rein and not always considered the betterment of the town.
Something has to change. We can’t continue this way, or poor Lizard Bay will suffer the consequences. But I’m not leaving.
And I hear there may be a position opening up for a new vicar up in Marston . . .
Chapter 16
Thomas stepped inside the cottage and wiped his feet on the rag carpet by the door. Over the past two weeks, he’d spent countless hours here, consumed by the cottage’s never-ending list of repairs. Three years ago, when Aunt E still lived here, she’d always welcomed him into the small parlor, sitting him down in one of her ancient, creaking chairs, asking him what he’d found during the day’s walk. He’d shared his secrets—willingly or not.
But Lucy didn’t seem interested in sharing any secrets. She set down her bag and stood in the middle of the room, stripping off her gloves one finger at a time. She turned in a slow circle, and he could see her gaze skitter across the trio of beleaguered chairs and the old settee, its upholstered cushion lopsided and sun-faded. He leaned one shoulder against the wall as she completed her perusal, his satchel heavy about his shoulder. It might not be much to look at, but he was rather proud of the parlor’s state of cleanliness.
After all, he’d dusted the furniture himself.
“I don’t remember any of this.” She chewed on her lower lip as though it held answers the room couldn’t give her. “My memory of it seems . . . I don’t know. Larger.” She sighed, looking around again. “Then again, I was only six years old.”
Thomas thought of how much Miss E had loved the small crofter’s cottage, even with all its cramped corners and old, dilapidated furniture. There were four rooms in total, a sitting room and kitchen on the bottom floor, and two bedrooms on top. Small by London standards, but it had been more than large enough for Miss E.
He shook his head, a bit disappointed by the girl’s lack of enthusiasm. “If you had visited your aunt more often, perhaps your memories would be clearer,” he replied.
She cut him a sharp glance. “I may not have known my aunt through frequent visits, but do not presume I know nothing of her, or of this house. She sent us a Christmas card every year.” She hesitated. “And she left me her diaries.”
“Ah. I had wondered how you knew she hated roses.”
She blinked at him. “You mean . . . you knew about the roses? And Mr. Bentley?”
Thomas nodded. In her old age, Miss E had been a chatty thing, prone to the occasional bout of dementia. As someone who spent time with her, he was bound to collect odd bits and pieces of her history. He hadn’t known Miss E kept a diary, but it didn’t surprise him. She had been a fiercely bookish sort of spinster with a lot of lonely hours to fill.
“But why would my aunt tell you something so . . . so . . . personal?” In the room’s muted light, Lucy’s eyes seemed huge.
“I reckon she was glad for the chance to simply talk to someone.” He crossed his arms. “I suspect she was a little lonely, living by herself all the way up here.” He hesitated. “And I predict you will be as well.”
Her eyes narrowed. “My aunt chose to live here, by herself. She could have visited us in London anytime she wanted.” She took a step toward the fireplace and ran a finger along the empty mantel. “And I am not completely without memories, you know. I remember a set of glass figurines she kept here. A pair of horses. She took them down for me to play with.” Her voice deepened. “I nearly broke one of them, but she didn’t scold me.”
Thomas’s shoulders softened. Now that sounded like Miss E. The woman might have been quick to snap at Reverend Wellsbury, but she had an imminent store of patience for mischievous young children.
Lucy turned to face him, taking a deep breath. “The house looks quite clean, Lord Branston. So much for the stories about the rats.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t lie about that.”
“I was given to believe the place was filthy. That it was all but falling down.”
“I’ve pulled out the parlor furniture and cleaned and dusted.” His defense echoed fitfully through the small room. He could well imagine how it looked, but she was leaping to a conclusion she didn’t understand. “But there are other rooms still waiting for a proper cleaning. I’ve had trouble finding anyone to come up and help, of late.”
“Because they knew the place didn’t belong to you?” Her voice was sharper now.
“No, because they think it is haunted.”
She rolled her eyes. “This talk of ghosts again.” She took a step toward him. “Lord Branston, I’ve heard quite enough. The evidence speaks for itself. You were untruthful about the condition of this house, no doubt to try to convince me to sell it to you sight unseen.”
“I didn’t—”
“And you have lied to the people of Lizard Bay, stirring stories of ghosts and the like, no doubt so they wouldn’t offer you a challenge.”
His spread his hands, growing a bit angry himself. Was she truly so blind that she couldn’t see how hard he was trying to help her? “I have offered to pay more than the house’s actual value—”
“But not at first. Your initial offer was far too low.”
He gritted his teeth. She had him there. But he hadn’t wanted to rouse suspicion as to the property’s true value. Not with so much at stake, and not when he’d still believed her an empty-headed debutante. “I will pay you whatever you think the property is worth.”
“That’s a generous offer.” But her voice echoed with doubt. She took a step toward him, cocking her head. “But such generosity only rouses my suspicions more. Why do you want Heathmore so badly you would at first try to purchase it for a blind pittance, only to now offer whatever I might ask? What hidden value does it have to you?”
There was enough truth in her musings to make him swallow. But he wanted to show her. To explain his thinking. “If you would just let me show you—”
“Show
me what?” she interrupted, shaking her head. “Can you conjure a house full of rats now? Wave a magic wand and turn the place filthy again? I don’t trust you, Lord Branston.” There was a moment of painful hesitation, and then she sighed. “And I can admit to being disappointed that my lack of faith seems well-founded.” She shrugged out of the oilskin. “Thank you for showing me the way here, but I no longer require your assistance.” She tossed the coat toward him. “I’ll thank you to leave now.”
He caught it with an awkward hand, droplets of water flying here and yon. She wanted him to leave? Oh, bugger it all. There she went, leaping in without thinking again. He recognized the sharp tilt of her chin. She’d looked much the same yesterday afternoon when they sparred on the street. He widened his own stance. “Absolutely not. I am not leaving you here alone.”
“The choice does not lie with you.” She pointed toward the door. “Please, go now.”
Thomas tried to find a calming tone, something to ease the rising redness in her face. “Lucy. You are cold and wet and not thinking clearly.” He’d meant to soothe her. Soften the tightness of her jaw. But instead his words seemed more like a match touched to tinder.
“Oh, for the love of bloody Christ, would people stop telling me I am not thinking clearly!” she exploded, throwing her hands up in the air. “First my father, then my sister Lydia, and now you. Why must my thoughts be muddied, simply because they don’t agree with yours?”
Thomas gritted his teeth. Right, then. Perhaps a soothing tone had been the wrong tactic to take. “Well then, don’t be foolish,” he said next. “The path was dangerous enough in daylight. If we delay returning until dark, it could well prove lethal.”
Her face turned a bright red. “Foolish, am I? I have breasts, I suppose, which makes me capable of nothing more than a touch of hysteria every now and again. Well, if you are so afraid of the dark, best get started back. I will not be returning to Lizard Bay tonight.”
The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior Page 19