by Baird Wells
“You could stay on,” he argued. “The Hastings enjoy your company. Stay as their guest.” While he spoke, he grasped for more answers, more solutions, arranging arguments in advance against any protest she might raise.
Her head was already shaking against him. “Chas and Paulina would never have it. It isn't so simple.”
“Tell me how it is, then,” he growled, frustrated. “You're a woman of a certain age, Alexandra. Your brother cannot still have so much hold over you.”
“My brother? No.” Anger burned in her words. “Not my brother.” He sensed there was more, that she was about to continue, but then she deflated. “Things will change, soon. For now, let's enjoy the time we have. I certainly am, at the moment.”
He wasn’t done fighting her departure, but a husky note to her last words mollified him. Letting his palms slip over the grass, Spencer fell onto his back. Alix joined him, twining their fingers in the space between their bodies. Her smaller hand fit inside his, palm smooth against his calloused one.
“Funny how you can come to depend so much on something you've otherwise managed to live without. Something you never knew existed.”
He knew exactly what she meant, had felt it for days. What Alix had called friendship, except it ran into gray areas along its borders. He turned his face to her and cradled her cheek. He hadn’t intended more, but Alix closed the space between them with a kiss, her lips warm and soft against crisp night air.
He held her there, still cupping her face and not daring more or retreating.
She was the first to pull away and, sighing, nestled against him. She shivered and pressed closer, igniting a slow burn.
“Cold? Would you like to go in?”
“No,” she murmured to his relief, raising their joined hands and resting them on her belly, “Not just yet.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rap-rap rap-rap rap!
She'd heard him the first time, but had rolled over and covered her head with the quilt and ignored him. His knock was heavier, more insistent this time, and Alix wriggled from her bed, stomping through a smaller front room and throwing back her door.
Spencer grinned and looked her over. “Were you awake?”
She raked fingers through tumbled hair, staring back and letting her appearance answer his question.
His grin spread, and he was undeterred. “Well, when are you getting up?”
Alix narrowed her eyes. “Now, it seems.” Her frown couldn't hold and she broke into a smile. “I'll be down shortly. Give me a few minutes.”
“Perfect!” His smile was serene, and he turned and leaned against the wall. “I'll wait here.”
Of course he would.
“We're going out!” he called through the door as she shut it.
“I haven't eaten yet!” She protested.
“You'll manage.”
Alix rifled through her trunk for something she hadn't risked wearing with Paulina about. Tossing through her wardrobe, she came upon a crisp white muslin gown with deep flounces to the knees, more extravagant than she was usually permitted. Next, she claimed a raspberry velvet pelisse trimmed in white satin braid, a coat Paulina insisted was gaudy but had asked to borrow twice. Last came a straw bonnet with a matching pink ribbon. She looked herself over in the glass, losing and finding her nerve twice at the combination. Then she turned away and grabbed her reticule, deciding not to overthink a matter just this once.
Coming out the door she nearly plowed Spencer over. He held out a white linen napkin in one hand and a blue porcelain cup in the other. Toast, and judging by the aroma, coffee.
He studied her with a slow nod which gained momentum, and Alix's hesitation at her choice of clothing faded away.
“Butter,” he announced, holding out the napkin, “and cream.” He raised the cup. “You can eat them on the way downstairs.”
“Ugh.” She sighed, claiming the toast now hovering in her face, not quite awake enough for his enthusiasm.
Spencer didn't seem to notice. He took the steps two at a time ahead of her, pacing the hall while she managed to drink without spilling. He claimed her cup and empty napkin as she reached the bottom and set them atop a narrow table, the only convenient surface at hand.
“What?” he questioned at her disapproval. “Someone will get it.” He grabbed her sleeve, moving off again, bounding for the door like an enthusiastic puppy.
The morning was clear and blue, sunlight spilling golden over green treetops. A summer breeze whispered away its heat and fanned them with a sweet perfume of honeysuckle bordering the drive. It was absolute fantasy but, for just a breath, Alix dared to imagine it as reality, her future a delicious string of similar days, all at Spencer’s side.
A groom fussed over Spencer's yellow curricle, checking its hitches and patting down both horses. With a little bow he opened the door for Spencer, who helped her up and climbed in behind.
Her curiosity was piqued, realizing that they were riding out together. “What are we about this morning?”
Spencer snapped the reins, leading them around the yard and down the drive. “Are you acquainted with our annual Lady Day?”
“No, but it sounds as though gloves are involved.”
Spencer chuckled, pulling his hat lower over his eyes. “As in our lady, the Virgin Mary.”
“We’re moving further and further outside my purview.”
“Mid-March,” he explained, “leaseholds are renewed and rents are paid. Normally, I settle business in the village with my steward Mister Sheldon. Only, this year I was busy conquering France.”
Alix clucked her tongue. “Inconsiderate of you on several counts.”
“The French army agrees with you.” He wheeled them left, away from the main road toward a series of low slopes. “Now that we're approaching midsummer, the village will hold fairs. Men come for work, cotters trade, and so on. Today is the first of such gatherings, and an opportunity for me to meet with my tenants.”
She had teased him thus far, but Spencer’s explanation impressed on her his importance, and the importance of his villagers. Still, she refused to be deferential. “Goodness. You're like a king!”
He shook a fist. “And a ruthless king at that. You'll have the best view of the beheadings.”
“I can hardly wait.” Alix closed her eyes, breeze whipping over her face and enjoying Spencer's nearness.
“No sleeping,” he ordered and nudged her with an elbow.
She nudged back. “Shh! Don't ruin the moment by speaking.”
He made a wounded sound, then laughed.
The horses slowing their pace brought her eyes open again. The road's brown ribbon dropped, curved, and spilled between neatly arranged rows of stone cottages and shops. Golden thatch roofs glistened in the sunlight with colorful specks of people passing up and down the main street. The thoroughfare ended at an old stone church, its wide wooden doors thrown open for the crowds. Fields of striped green, bronze, and black earth formed a patchwork border outside the village. Roly-poly sheep, white again after spring shearing, meandered between low stone walls.
Their surroundings were easy, natural, and peaceful in a way that spoke to her soul. Alix allowed it in and dared a step away from her old self.
Spencer drew them to a stop alongside one of the walls, raising his hand at the approach of a white-haired man. He stood slightly stooped, his frame thinned by the passage of at least sixty years, by her guess.
Spencer rose a hand in greeting. “Tom Thornton.”
“Lordship.” Tom bowed, taking Spencer’s hand, stealing glances at her all the while through creased blue eyes.
Spencer nodded, acknowledging her. “Lord Hastings’s cousins have come to Broadmoore. Mrs. Rowan was good enough to join me today, offering us a chance to show off our talents.”
Tom nodded to her and to Spencer, head going like an old rocking chair at the pleasing information. “Me and the elders are glad for it.” He patted the chest of his brown homespun coat with gnarl
ed fingers. “I've a short list of folks who've asked to speak with you, when it’s quite convenient.” There was a pride in Tom’s voice hinting that the list making had fallen to his lot, as one of the few literate elders.
“Mrs. Rowan and I will have a walk of the village. I'll find you when we're done.”
Tom lunged off, carried by long strides, swatting a hand and grumbling instructions to the crowd ahead of his master. Men and women stopped their labors, and even a group of giggling children ground to a dusty halt. Everyone lined the street in front of well-tended buildings, bowing and curtsying at Spencer's passing.
The scrutiny of so many pairs of eyes felt like a punishment to Alix rather than respect. She settled her gaze somewhere near their waists, wishing their processions over as quickly as possible. When they reached a little side lane heading off towards the fields, Spencer muttered something to Tom, who then turned and made a gesture she didn’t catch. Everyone reanimated behind them and tension unknit from her shoulders.
Under the noise of the crowd she dared a whisper. “How do you tolerate that?”
He shrugged. “They are my band of civilian soldiers; I would hardly say I tolerate them. They show gratitude for work and dwellings, and I tip my hat in thanks for all their hard labor and loyalty.”
“They are beholden to you,” she argued, not certain if she was asking or telling.
“I am their lord, true enough. But I cannot plow the fields or tend the sheep, harvest crops or mend thatch all on my own. Armies have generals, towns have mayors, and vassals have lords. Any man who believes such a post grants him leave to be haughty or cruel…” He shrugged, turning them back onto the village street. “Ships have mutinies and armies, rebellions. He should expect a stern reminder that no man rules by his own will.”
Satisfied, she tugged on his arm. “Well, I'm not curtsying to you, even if you did bring me coffee.”
“It's tea that causes all the trouble with you people,” he quipped, glancing round. Then he tugged her arm in return, pulling her with purpose through the crowd.
“There are so many people,” Alix marveled, wondering at a steady stream of pedestrians which flowed up and down the main street.
“Visitors,” he tossed back over his shoulder. “Neighboring villages come 'round to trade or find work. They’ll return again in the fall, when crops are in.”
They stopped first at a narrow wooden stall tended by an old woman with a face like a potato, her rough brown skin contrasting a wealth of snowy hair tugged up into a knot. She fixed Spencer's appearance with a gap-toothed grin. “Lordship. We're all more than pleased to see you home, fit and in one piece.”
“And I am pleased at being seen so.” Spencer bowed his head with respect. “Mrs. Collum.”
Two girls flanking her ducked their heads. Sisters, Alix guessed by their faces, with oceans of blonde ringlets, twin pert noses and large blue eyes. One was no more than seven or eight while her older sibling was well on the path to womanhood. It was she who dared glances at Spencer while he studied chunks of honeycomb and jars of golden amber. “The honey is very fine, Mrs. Collum,” he complimented. “Particularly so early in the year.”
Mrs. Collum drew up proudly, smoothing her coarse linen apron with a broad hand. “Patrick's done right with the hives since my son's been away. Not like as Mister Collum used to, but he'll progress.” She rested fingers on the older girl's shoulders. “All my grandbabies is growin',” she offered. “Sarah's sixteen now, lordship.”
Spencer raised his hat, oblivious, and smiled. “Then happy birthday, Miss Collum.”
“Thank you,” was muttered from smiling lips between absolutely scarlet cheeks. Alix bit her lip and fought a smile.
Mrs. Collum looked her boldly over, head to toe. “Mrs. Rowan. Tom Thornton says you're Lord Hastings's kin.”
She paused, surprised to learn that she’d been the subject of gossip to people she hadn’t known existed an hour before. “He's told you right, Mrs. Collum.”
“And a Yank!” She clapped surprised hands as though swatting away a shock almost too much to bear. “You've intentions to stay here then?” Alix didn't miss the pointed glance between herself and Spencer, nor the pursing of elder Miss Collum lips. “No, not much longer. My brother's business is nearly concluded.”
“Shame,” muttered Mrs. Collum, without a hint of disappointment.
This time Alexandra didn't bother covering her amusement. “Here,” she counted out her shillings into Mrs. Collum's leathery palm. “I'd be delighted to take a jar home.”
Their transaction concluded with a dismissive hmm, and Spencer tipped his hat to the ladies.
“Lord Reed,” she chided when they were beyond hearing, “You'll have Mrs. Collum out shopping for wedding dresses.”
One brow raised. “Meaning what?”
“Truly, Spencer?” Alix shook her head, ignoring his confused stare. Frightening that a man his age could be in such a fog.
She drifted next to him, letting her mind wander along with the crowd. There was so much to take in, seemingly endless tenants and craftsmen calling for his attention over the din, pressing him with their wares; a good winter ale that had just come ready, or a pie of last fall's apple preserves; straw baskets, butter and candles. Pots steamed above rock-ringed fires, savory odors hinting at sausages and rich stew. Everyone was eager to impress their landlord with produce and appearance. A thick rope stretched between the posts outside of one house, hung with three wedding-band quilts in pink, yellow, and blue calico prints. Alix marveled at the skill and patience it must have taken to sew them, brushing soft cotton with her fingertips.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I'm not partial to yellow, but this is really lovely.”
A brown haired woman in the doorway smiled, nodding appreciation and patting at her cap and apron. Spencer took down the quilt and folded it over his arm. “The lady will have this one,” he said, digging inside his coat.
“No.” Alix pressed his shoulder. “I can't let you...” No man had bought her a gift since her courtship with Edward years before. Coupled with being beholden to Chas and Paulina, Alix felt uncomfortable. “No,” she repeated, “I can manage.”
“I did not say otherwise.” At first he was aloof, exchanging coin and gathering the quilt tighter. He claimed her fingers, pressing the heat of his hand between their gloves. “Your stubbornness is endearing any other time, Alexandra. Just allow me this one thing.”
Flustered, Alix held her tongue, nodding and staring at the ground. Her stomach betrayed her with a protesting rumble, and she laughed.
“I see,” grumbled Spencer. “No gratitude for my toast.” His chuckle warmed her, and he tugged her arm. “Come on then. Let's have something to eat.”
There was plenty to choose from: boiled fresh eggs, ham and sausages, boiled potatoes and leeks. A meaty, spicy odor of mince pies nearly concealed the scent of her absolute weakness, strawberry tarts. Nearly, but not entirely; she’d claimed two in-hand by the time Spencer had gathered the rest of their meal.
Spencer led them to a wide field just beyond his horses and spread her quilt on the grass. He worked on uncorking some ale he’d purchased while she undid the twine binding their brown wax-paper parcels. Alix bit the crispy, salty rind from a slice of ham, chewing thoughtfully and sighing. “This has been the most wonderful day.”
“Has it?” He downed a mouthful of ale and passed her the bottle. “I was afraid you'd be bored to tears.”
“With you? Impossible.”
Spencer ducked his head, looking for all the world a little shy. It was an appealing contrast after an hour of the entire town doting on him.
After a second sweet, yeasty mouthful of ale, Alix found her nerve. “I want to ask you something.”
Leaning back on one arm and claiming an egg with the other, he nodded.
“What made you notice me that night?”
He chewed thoughtfully, squinting against noonday sun. “I had deter
mined to enjoy myself with a lady. When I found the most beautiful one, I advanced.”
She snorted and shook her head.
“You may well dismiss it, but it's true.” Spencer drew knees to his chest, sitting forward and bringing them closer. His eyes closed. “True, but not the entire truth. If I dare complete honesty, I’m not certain what caught my attention.” Spencer met her eyes. “But I recall the moment it happened. There was a gentleman standing behind you. He remarked upon something and you laughed, threw him a look over your shoulder. I swear, you stopped my heart for a moment.”
She didn't remember the gentleman, or the moment to which Spencer was referring. Not that either one mattered against his words. Alix ducked her face to hide a blush.
Spencer claimed the ale from her. “Curse John Hastings and his good manners.”
Before Alix could offer her agreement, something slammed her from behind, snuffling hot breath into her neck.
“Sampson!” cried a tiny voice. “Sampson, no!”
Sampson she discovered, was a dog, and not just any dog. He was a Dane, and the biggest animal she’d ever seen not pulling a carriage. He nuzzled her harder, licked her cheek, and began snorting along a scent trail to their food while Spencer waved his hat at the giant beast.
Huffing and panting combined with tiny footfalls drew her attention away from the behemoth, and she turned to find a petite little thing of six or seven, brown braids flapping, chasing after the dog. Waving a chunk of sausage, Alix did her best to distract him from the rest of their fare.
“Bad Sampson!” the girl scolded, making a half-hearted dip for Spencer's benefit. “No running away.” Alexandra was chastised by a pouty frown. “You can't feed him sausages; they make him sick.”
“Oh!” She pulled a grave face. “I am very sorry.”
Sampson, for his part, wagged eagerly, a happy gesture in opposition to his morose, drooping black and white face. The girl stretched up on tiptoes, wrapping slender arms around her dog's neck. “It's all right. You can have just this one, even if it is naughty.”