by Bliss Bennet
Under his breath, he hummed along with the unseen singer until the lyrics leapt into his head.
Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly,
Lavender’s green
When you are King, dilly dilly
I shall be Queen
The humming from above caught, then ceased. Yes, because he hadn’t just thought the words; he’d actually started singing them out loud. Frightening the poor melodist half to death, no doubt.
Clutching the ragged handful of wildflowers he’d collected after he’d returned from the Croft farm tight in one hand, he used his other to pull himself up the hayloft’s ladder.
“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you,” he said as his head emerged into the dark loft. Theo squinted, his eyes struggling to make out the figure cocooned amongst the bales, glad the intruder had sense enough not to bring a lantern or candle amidst all this dry hay.
“Shhh,” he heard, followed by a low, feral growl. “Puss does not take kindly to intruders, not with her kits yet unweaned.”
“Miss Atherton?” He hauled himself up into the loft, taking care to keep his distance from the protective feline. “A kitten as King, and you as his Queen? A sight to behold, indeed.”
No laugh, not even a small chuckle, greeted his sally.
He cleared his throat. “Is something the matter, Harry?”
“The matter? Why should there be anything the matter?” she answered, her voice tight and clipped.
“Because you always run up here whenever you’re upset.” Where had those words, that memory, sprung from? Theo couldn’t say, but even so, he knew with a certainty he rarely felt that they were right. “At least you used to, when you were a child.”
That had been why he’d raced up here himself all those years ago, after watching, helpless, as his mother took her last, rattling breath. Because in his confusion and grief, he’d thought to steal away some of the comfort the hayloft always seemed to offer Harry.
He settled himself back against a bale, careful to keep his distance from the protective feline. “I always wanted to come chasing after you, but Kit threatened me with his fists if I did. Said it would be ungentlemanly, spying on a girl all red and splotchy from crying.”
She made an awkward sound, half sniff, half snort. “So kind, your little brother. Still, I suppose it was better than being taunted by a pack of unruly boys.”
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could make out her figure, sitting cross-legged on the hayloft floor a few feet away, her head curled over a tiny furred bundle in her lap. Apparently mama cat did not consider Miss Atherton an intruder.
Low, vibrating whirrs from deep in the kitten’s throat indicated the pleasure it took from her hand stroking down and back over the arch of its tiny spine. He’d forgotten how the simple contentment of an animal could offer one a measure of peace. Especially when one’s fellow humans turned up rough.
But a kitten’s patience only lasted so long. The small creature yawned, then scrambled from her lap and, in several awkward bounds, leaped away through the springy hay. Foolish creature, not to appreciate the soothing touch of a kindly woman’s hand.
“Harry?” he asked again.
“I thought it would be easy, coming back here,” she whispered, almost as if she were talking to herself. “Even after spending so many years living in Brighton, I always thought of Oldfield, of Saybrook Cottage, as home.”
He set aside his bundle of wildflowers and edged closer, straw crackling under his ungloved hands. “But it is not?”
“Oh, of course it is. But at the same time, no.” With a sigh, she drew her knees up against her chest and wrapped her arms tight about them. “My father is so different. And I am different, too. We do not seem to know how to rub along with one another, now that I am woman and not a child.”
“He still treats you as a child? Even with all you’ve been doing to help him?”
Her head jerked. “All I’ve been doing?”
“Yes, all you’ve been doing.” He crossed his arms. “Croft says he and the other farmers discuss as much business with you these days as they do with your father.”
“Oh, surely he exaggerates.” But she kept her gaze fixed on the cat and its kittens, refusing to meet his eyes. Theo smiled at another sudden memory, of a far younger Harry averting her face whenever she’d had to tell a half-truth. She’d never been able to lie, not without her expression giving it all away.
“Haviland also told me how your father refused to hire a new clerk after his last one left, and how you’ve taken on the bulk of the clerk’s tasks.”
She shrugged. “It is no more than any daughter would do.”
“I beg to differ. Few young ladies of fashion would give up even a single diversion for the infinitely tedious task of totting up pence and pounds day after day.”
“A country spinster is not the same as a lady of fashion, my lord.”
“And you are not a dried-up old crone, Harriot Atherton. There’s no call for you to drudge away over my estate books for hours on end.”
“But I enjoy the work,” she protested.
“Then you should be paid for it, like a proper secretary.”
“No,” she exclaimed, her voice loud enough to draw remonstrant growl from the nursing cat.
“Quiet yourself, Mother,” Theo said, his words pitched to lull. “There’s no danger to you or yours here. Only a stubborn lady who refuses her own due.”
“No,” she repeated, this time in a much quieter tone. “It would only upset my father. You would make him think you did not respect him, did not think him able to do his job. And despite what you say, I only do what any daughter would. Any dutiful daughter.”
Harry might be the epitome of a dutiful daughter, but Theo was hardly a dutiful son. Perhaps she hadn’t intended insult, but the inadvertent comparison still stung.
He leaned closer. “Do you always put the needs of others before your own, Harry? When I invaded your sanctuary here after my mother died, and you offered me the comfort of your arms—was that solely out of duty? And when I pushed you for more, did you allow me such liberties because anybody’s feelings, even those of a lewd, grasping beast of a boy, are more important than your own?”
Harry gasped. “Allow? My memory of that better-forgotten incident differs significantly from yours, sir. Have you forgotten the slap I dealt you?”
Theo sat back and scrubbed a rueful hand over his jaw. “Yes. I’m sorry, Harry. That was uncalled for.”
“Quite.”
“And I never did apologize to you for that kiss all those years ago, either, did I?”
“No,” she said, her gaze lowering to her lap. “But you had more pressing matters to deal with then.”
Of course he had. His mother’s funeral. A father brought frighteningly low by grief. Three siblings in dire need of cheering. Far easier to run away and forget his trespass than to apologize, especially with such compelling reasons to provide cover for his cowardice.
Now, though, hearing Harry’s excuses on his behalf made his throat grow thick with shame.
Scrabbling in the hay behind him, Theo retrieved the bundle of wildflowers he’d dropped. With an awkward half-bow, he held them out to her. “I’d meant these to be a ‘thank you,’ for suggesting I meet with Farmer Croft myself. But perhaps they might serve a dual purpose. Will you accept my most sincere apology for my rude, presumptuous behavior, Harry? Even though it comes so long after the offense?”
She stood, too, and took the drooping bouquet from his hand. He watched as her finger grazed over the tops of the blossoms, touching them as gently as she had the kitten. What might it feel like to have that finger tracing over his own skin? He shuddered away the unexpectedly compelling thought.
At long last, she raised her gaze to his. “Thank you for this, Theo, and for your apology. I appreciate both, more than you will ever know.”
Theo took a deep, satisfied breath. A strange feeling, this taking responsibility for one’s
own failure, and being forgiven for it in turn.
“I know it’s not much,” he said, gesturing to the flowers. “But rue is supposed to symbolize regret, is it not?”
“Yes. But how could I ever regret receiving my first bouquet from a gentleman?”
“What? No flowers, ever? Why, those fops down in Brighton must be slow tops, indeed.”
“Slower than you, certainly,” she answered, a smile in her voice.
An even worse thought entered his head. Theo clasped his hands in front of his heart in exaggerated entreaty. “Please tell me the boys of Lincolnshire weren’t as dilatory. An entire field full of meadow rue wouldn’t come close to conveying my regrets if your very first kiss came from my bumbling adolescent self.”
“Best start gathering ye rue while ye may, then, sir,” she teased. “And your sin was even more reprehensible than that. For I’d been nursing the most painful case of calf-love for your brother Benedict at the time.”
Theo groaned. “And instead you got me, the careless, foolish brother. How utterly demoralizing, both for you and myself. But only say the word and I’ll dash off a missive this moment, inviting Benedict back to the family manse so you can exert your feminine wiles on the boy.”
Yes, a sensible plan, that, masterminding a match between his brother and the daughter of his steward. Why, then, did the idea of Harry kissing Benedict make him so ill at ease? And not only, he feared, because he worried Ben’s attentions were fixed on someone else entirely.
“Please, do not trouble yourself,” Harry said with a laugh. “As an old Friesian general of my great aunt’s acquaintance used to say, ‘calf-love, half-love, old love, cold love.’”
Theo leaned an arm against a hay bale. “Ah, found a better swain in Brighton than old Ben, did you? One who gave you no flowers, the dunderhead. But perhaps a few kisses, to erase the memory of mine?”
A small, secret smile lit her face. “No need to worry, sir. Yours is not the only kiss I’ve ever received.”
“Ah, you did have a love in Brighton,” Theo said, struggling to make his tone as light as his words. “So why did you leave?”
Harry bent over his drab little bouquet as if she expected to find some hidden scent amongst its wilting blooms. When she raised her head, that private smile was gone, replaced by one wider, but far more brittle. “Not every kiss leads to lasting love, sir. As I’m certain you are well aware, if even a tiny portion of the tales of your London escapades are true.”
The false cheer in her voice, the way she turned the subject away from herself and back on to him—was not it just like her, to insist her own feelings were of no matter? But she had been hurt by her faithless swain, of that he was certain. Damn the perfidious cur to hell and back.
“Of course not,” he said. “Some kisses are simply for pleasure. And some are to dissipate tension, or anger. Some can even offer comfort. Like this.”
Cupping her nape in his hand, he set his lips against hers, pressing all the solace he could into the simple touch.
He had meant it to ease her cares, but the warmth and stillness of her beneath him seemed to calm him, too. Almost as if the tranquility of the lavender about which she’d sung resided somehow within her.
After a long, quiet moment, he raised his head. Stroking a thumb over her cheek, he gazed into her wide, wide eyes.
“Whoever he is, Harry, he is not worth your regrets. Not if he let you go without a fight.”
Then, before impetuosity and rising lust drove him to demand more, he scrambled down the ladder and out into the starless night.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Harry opened the back door and threw out the water she’d used to wash the morning’s dishes. Yesterday’s rain had kept her indoors, but today had dawned bright and clear, thank the heavens. Spending another day inside alone, brooding about the contradictory behavior of Theodosius Pennington, simply would not serve. Apologizing for accosting her one moment, then kissing her the next—whatever could the ridiculous man mean by it?
To offer comfort, he’d said. But she had not asked for any such thing. No, not a single word about that disappointment she’d suffered in Brighton after making such foolish, naïve assumptions about Lieutenant Chamberlayne’s intentions. But somehow Theo had known she’d been in need of solace, even though she’d all but convinced herself that it was all behind her, a painful, yet necessary lesson about counting one’s chickens well learned. How surprising, how embarrassing, to discover her shame over her misplaced trust still cut so deep.
And how galling, to think that a man as debauched as Theo Pennington might be a better judge of her own feelings than she was herself.
Almost as galling as the knowledge that while Theo had learned restraint in the years since their first kiss, the feel of his lips against hers still sent her senses careening beyond her control. And all from a simple touch he had meant only for comfort!
A cloud passed over the morning sun, its cool shadow jerking her free of her own thoughts. And here she was, brooding again over a man even more above her station than was Lieutenant Chamberlayne. Heaven help her poor, misguided soul.
“Miss Atherton? Excuse me, miss,” a young voice interrupted.
She’d been so distracted she’d not even seen Laban Dawber approaching the cottage, though the house was surrounded by open fields. She shook her head, then set down the washing pan just inside the door.
“Hello, Laban. Are you in search of my father?” she asked as she dried her hands on her apron.
Laban nodded. “Da says I’m to find him, and not to return until I’ve put this into his own hands.” He shook the sheet of paper he held tight in his own.
“Father’s working on the drains in the south field this morning.”
Laban shook his head. “Just been by there, but saw neither hide nor hair of him. Besides,” he added, holding the missive out to her, “it’ll be quicker if I give this to you than to chase around in search of himself all morning.”
“What is it?” she asked as she unfolded the note.
“From Tom Carter. Tells what we owe for his fixing the roof this past winter.”
“But that repair was made months ago. And he’s not yet been paid?”
“No.” Laban grimaced. “Mr. Atherton told my dad to go ahead and hire Tom Carter, and Saybrook would pay. And my dad done it, then give him the bill from Tom, for Tom thought dad was to pay. But then your dad said he never did, give him the bill, I mean. So I thought, better to put it in your hands than old dry-beard’s, begging your pardon, miss.”
“Of course, Laban,” she answered, hardly aware of what she said. She’d had no idea of the arrangement her father had made with Laban’s, nor any memory of a bill from Tom Carter passing over his desk. And Carter a man so prone to exaggeration and complaint, too. He’d have every tradesman in the village worrying that the new Lord Saybrook was unwilling, or perhaps even unable, to pay his debts if he wasn’t reimbursed forthwith.
And this time, Theo Pennington would be right to blame his steward for the blemish on his good name. And for the thatcher’s refusal to do any further work on the estate.
Her eyes focused on the amount owed Tom Carter. Not too large a sum, thank heaven. Not so large it couldn’t be covered by what they held on hand in petty cash.
“Laban, we will take care of this matter right now, if your father can spare you for another hour or so.” She drew the cottage door shut behind her.
“Wouldn’t mind if I took the whole of the day, not if it would put a stop to Tom’s grumbling.” Laban grimaced again. “Cannot go to church of a Sunday without the fellow croaking and wittering at us all.”
“Then come with me.”
Harry set off at a brisk pace across the fields toward Saybrook House, Laban beside her. Even if her father was not in the estate office, she knew where he kept the petty cash locked away. And where he’d hidden the key.
She made sure Laban scraped off his muddy boots before allowing him to follow her int
o the Saybrook kitchens, then up the back passageway to the steward’s office. She hardly knew whether she hoped to find her father within, or absent, so she might deal with the business herself and avoid the chance of raising his uncertain temper.
But when she opened the door, it was not Henry Atherton who sat behind the large oak desk, multiple ledgers spread open before him. No, it was her old childhood friend, Haviland Mather.
In fact, I believe I will call upon him later this week, and ask if he will serve as auditor for the estate.
Laban Dawber’s eyes shot between Harry and Haviland, as if sizing up two prizefighters about to engage in a round of fisticuffs. Was her dismay so evident?
No, it would not do to question Haviland in front of Laban. She forced a welcoming expression onto her face.
“Miss Atherton.” Haviland rose and gave a short bow. “A pleasure to see you. And a young Dawber, too, if I am not mistaken?”
“Mr. Mather, this is Laban Dawber, who is here on a mission of mercy. May I, please?” She gestured toward the desk.
“Of course.” Haviland stepped to the side, though his drawn-up brows indicated his surprise. She passed him, then stood there, tapping her foot. Only after she added a raised eyebrow did he finally take her hint, turning his back and walking over to the window, allowing her the privacy for the business she needed to conduct. No need for him to find out how to what degree she’d assumed her father’s duties, especially if he were here for an audit.
After examining the account books on the desk in front of her, she chose the relevant ledgers and entered the debtor and creditor details. She turned, then, to the drawer which held the petty cash, catching back an exclamation to find it already half-opened. Her father forgotten once again to lock it. Or had Lord Saybrook given Haviland a key?
Frowning, she pulled out notes and coins, counting out the sum owed Mr. Carter. After folding it all up in a paper, she set her father’s seal to the wax, then, when it had cooled, handed it to young Dawber. “Now, Laban, take this to Tom, and be sure to ask him to give you a receipt to bring back here. Straight to Tom and back again, remember now.”