by Brown, T. J.
Suitably chastened, Victoria nodded. Along with Kit, Nanny Iris had made the months since her father’s death bearable. She had lived the life Victoria longed to live—independent and adventurous. She had been the Buxton family nanny until Victoria’s father’s little sister, Halpernia, had drowned. Then she had traveled, teaching English in faraway countries until she finally came home to be with family in her old age. It was a full life that had little to do with catering to a man or children, and Victoria longed to emulate it.
Now that the crisis was over, she longed to tell Nanny Iris about her own upcoming adventure, but for the first time a little doubt niggled. Victoria knew that Nanny Iris cared for her. Would she really be all right with Victoria running off to London by herself? She decided to amend her story a bit, just to be safe.
“Do you remember that article I sold? The one I brought you?” she asked.
“Remember it? Of course I remember it. I told my brother about it just the other day!” Nanny Iris went into the kitchen and came back with some real tea and a plate of biscuits. “Here, this will wash out the nasty taste.”
Victoria took a sip of the tea. “Well, I sent him another article.” She waited until the old woman settled herself across from her before continuing. “He liked that one, as well. He didn’t say he would publish it, but he did repeat his invitation to meet with him, so next week I am going to London to do just that!”
Nanny Iris’s eyes widened. “Do you think that’s wise?”
Victoria frowned. This was not the reaction she had expected at all. “Of course it’s wise! He has asked me twice.”
Nanny Iris shook her head. “No, dear. He has asked V. Buxton twice. Not you.”
“I am V. Buxton,” she told the old woman firmly.
“I know that, but Mr. Harold Herbert doesn’t know that. I don’t bet often, but I would wager that Mr. Herbert believes V. Buxton to be a young man, possibly a university student or one who has just finished his studies. Not the very bright, self-educated, very young daughter of a brilliant botanist.”
Why was everyone determined to ruin this for her? Mr. Herbert was already impressed with her work. Surely it wouldn’t matter that she was female. She remembered the intellectuals who often frequented her father’s dinner parties while she was growing up. Many were women, such as the Italian doctor Maria Montessori and the brilliant physicist Marie Curie, and all were taken seriously no matter their sex. She tilted her chin. “I plan on being a botanist, one way or another. My father taught me how important it is for a scientist to be published. And Mr. Herbert has already bought one of my articles! It is going to be fine.”
Victoria swept away any doubts with a wave of her hand. She had to hold firm to the conviction that she was destined for greatness, that she was more than an invalid whose own lungs threatened to fail her at any given moment. Otherwise, she’d still be bedridden, the object of everyone’s constant worry and coddling. She was strong. And she would be successful, one way or another. She would show everyone. Including Nanny Iris.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Rowena spurred her horse on to a quicker pace and soon they were galloping across the field. The cold pierced her skin through the carefully arranged netting on her face and she knew Aunt Charlotte would berate her later for chapping her cheeks.
Ever since she and Aunt Charlotte had gone on calls, Aunt Charlotte had taken a strange interest in Rowena, at times treating her as she treated Elaine. Rowena and Elaine puzzled over this, but neither was sure what to make of it, only that her ladyship had something up her sleeve and they should both be on their guard.
But out here, Aunt Charlotte ceased to exist. In fact, everything ceased to exist. It was the closest Rowena had been to happiness since her father died. Except for when she was flying with Jon, or when he kissed her on the frozen pond. But at those moments, she hadn’t been close to happy, she had actually been happy. No, happy didn’t quite describe it. She’d been euphoric.
But that had been weeks ago. She still searched the sky every day, but the only wings she spotted were those of the crows, whose caws mocked her pain.
So today she was taking matters into her own hands and riding to the Wells Manor, which lay just to the southeast of their own home. Long before, a Wells had saved the life of a Buxton heir and had been given a manor home along with a sizable portion of Buxton land. The friendship had been lost over the years until recent history turned the age-old friends into enemies, but surely that had nothing to do with Jon and her, did it?
Rowena slowed her horse to a walk, her mind spinning. Every time she convinced herself that Buxton family history had no bearing on her future, doubt kicked in. Of course it affected them. How could Jon introduce her to his mother? Mother, I know this is the beloved niece of the man who stole our land and drove your husband, my father, to his grave . . . but I love her.
Love? Rowena jerked on the reins in surprise and her horse snorted. Where had that come from? Did she want him to love her? Her mind answered with speed so blinding she wondered why she had not seen it before. Yes. Of course she wanted his love. The world had felt so cold and gray in the months since her father’s death and Prudence’s departure, the thought that someone could love her gave her a sense of warmth and comfort. But she couldn’t help but wonder whether that meant that she truly loved him?
She thought of the strawberry blond of his hair, the clear blue of his eyes, and the keen way he had of seeing and weighing everything. His bravery and persistence when he was testing airplanes over and over again, even with memories of recent—and nearly fatal—crashes fresh in his mind.
She certainly preferred him to any man she had ever known, but love? And why would she want him to love her if she didn’t love him back? Perhaps she was far more of a coquette than she’d thought she was. Or maybe she was allowing her fondness for flying, which she loved unabashedly, to influence her feelings for the handsome pilot.
She was used to missing her father—the pain stayed with her day and night—but suddenly an older, softer ache surfaced, and it was her mother she longed for. Someone she could talk to about young men. Someone to help her figure all of this out.
The path turned onto a road with a broken wooden fence and she knew she had arrived at the Wells family manor, left neglected and run-down because of her uncle’s greed.
Swallowing, she turned her horse through the fence, wondering again what she had hoped to accomplish in coming here. Perhaps if she could just speak with him. He had asked her to fly with him again and had yet to make good on his offer. Yes. That was what she would say.
Feeling more confident, she nudged her horse into a trot and continued down the frozen track. She rounded a corner and inhaled when she saw the home. It was small compared to what she was used to, and it looked older and mellower than Summerset, though it obviously had been built during the same era, as the basic design and stone were the same. But whereas everything at Summerset Abbey was created to inspire awe, Wells Manor was built to be as comfortable and as useful as possible. The kitchen garden, though fallow this time of year, lay in full view on the side of the house and Rowena could glimpse the family’s orchards just beyond it. A worn path from the front door led to a barn on a small copse beyond an old abandoned well house. This was a house where the inhabitants might have had help but were no strangers to working the land themselves, which made good sense to Rowena. If one were to live off the land, one should know how it worked.
No one showed up to help her off her horse, nor to put her horse away. The moment she dismounted, butterflies fluttered in her stomach and her confidence vanished. She shouldn’t be here. What if he was angry that she had come? But surely a man didn’t kiss a woman and ask her to fly with him if he planned on disappearing soon after.
And, after all, she was a New Woman, not a mouse.
Gathering her courage, she tied her horse to a nearby tree. He snorted at such treatment, far preferring to be stabled and rubbed down, espe
cially on such a cold day. She knew she couldn’t leave him unattended for long.
She laid her riding crop on the ground and took a moment to wrap her riding skirt around one side, hooking it into place so she would be able to walk comfortably. Then she stepped quietly to the front door. Hesitating only for a moment, she closed her eyes and knocked, knowing she was breaching about a thousand rules of etiquette. She hoped that his mother, a woman who had lost her husband to suicide, wouldn’t care about such things.
At the thought of Jon’s parents she almost lost her nerve and ran back to her animal. What was she doing here?
The door opened and a young girl of about sixteen appeared in the doorway. Her eyes widened when she took in Rowena’s severely cut riding habit of dark Irish linen and the hat tilted just so on Rowena’s head.
The girl’s brown hair fell untidily down her back and the hem of her ill-fitting dress showed damp stains. “Mother!” the girl yelled. The two of them stared at each other for a moment and Rowena noted the girl had a basket of eggs slung over one arm. Then she slammed the door in Rowena’s face.
Moments later an older woman opened the door. Her faded hair must have once been as red as Jon’s, and her eyes were the same compelling blue. But whereas Jon’s face was made of sharp, intelligent planes, this woman’s face had been ravaged by grief, and two permanent wrinkles ran from the corners of her eyes down her cheeks as if worn there by an ocean of tears. The woman, however, wasn’t crying; she was smiling a tentative smile.
“I apologize for my daughter. We don’t get many visitors back here and she felt she wasn’t dressed well enough to receive anyone.”
The words were mild but Rowena detected enough of a chastisement to be ashamed. They told her that though this woman wasn’t one to stand on ceremony, she knew what was polite, and appearing out of nowhere was just not polite.
“I’m very sorry for not sending word of my visit, but I was just riding by and I thought I would inquire whether Jon was home?”
The woman’s eyebrows rose slightly, but the look on her face softened a bit. “No, he hasn’t been home for the last few weeks. He’s been working in Kent.”
Relief washed over her like cleansing rainwater, rinsing away all her self-doubt. He was with Mr. Dirkes. He wasn’t intentionally avoiding her, he was just doing his job. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Oh, I am sorry to have bothered you. I just hadn’t heard from him and was beginning to worry . . . ” Rowena began moving away, her relief making her babble.
But the woman reached out and caught her arm. “I understand. With a job like his, I worry every day. I don’t know how he can do what he does.”
“Oh, because it’s wonderful,” Rowena burst out.
“You’ve been flying?” the woman asked, her voice rising in surprise.
She nodded, shyness suddenly making her look away. She felt her cheeks heating. “He took me up with him once. He’s going to take me again.”
She heard a little shriek from inside the house and the woman’s lips twitched. “Why don’t you come in and have a hot cup of tea before you start off again? My name is Margaret, and I am Jon’s mother.”
“My name is Rowena.” She didn’t offer her last name, but it wasn’t asked for, and she didn’t want to give the woman a reason to cast her out. Rowena longed to see where Jon lived, where he had grown up. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble?” she asked as she was being ushered inside.
“No, of course not. We don’t get many visitors, but the day we can’t offer a cup of hot tea and some sustenance to a young woman out riding on a day like today is the end of the Wells family.”
Rowena detected a slight burr in Margaret’s voice and wondered whether she was Scottish. She took off her riding cloak as she was ushered through a wide entryway down a long hall with wide pocket doors on either side. Some were closed while others were open, showing cheery fires roaring inside. The ceilings were low and timbered, giving the home a warm, cozy feeling that seemed to be missing from most of Summerset. But then again, Aunt Charlotte was not exactly the warm and cozy type.
“I hope you don’t mind if we have our tea in the kitchen; that is where we live most of the time anyway. With five boys and only one daughter, it just doesn’t seem appropriate to make them have tea in the sitting room, where they are apt to spill something or otherwise make a mess.”
The kitchen was a huge room with a fireplace on one wall, a wood stove on another, and a cooker against the back wall. The walls were round river stones put together with mortar, and Rowena could tell it was the oldest part of the house. A table made of long wooden planks stood in the middle, while a butcher block the size of a small bed stood to one side.
“Do have a seat at the table. I had just put the tea on when I heard Cristobel’s unearthly scream. I am so sorry about that. As I said, we don’t have much company and I’m afraid I’ve let the girl run wild.”
Rowena heard an annoyed yelp from the hallway but said nothing. She took a seat at the end of the long table, worried that Margaret would start asking questions about her family that she wouldn’t be able to answer truthfully.
In spite of Rowena’s assertions that she help, Margaret bade her to stay seated and had a quick tea set on the table in no time. Then she sat firmly next to Rowena and stared at her with her blue eyes.
Rowena squirmed uncomfortably at Jon’s eyes peering out of his mother’s face.
“How long have you known my son?” she asked.
Rowena ducked her head to hide a smile. That certainly didn’t take long. “Not long. Just a couple of months, really.”
“How did you two meet? I was under the impression that he had no time for anything except his aeroplanes.”
This time Rowena didn’t bother to hide her smile. “I think that’s true. He was flying, or crashing, actually, when we met.”
His mother clapped a hand to her mouth. “So you’re the woman on the hill.”
Rowena shifted. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might have told his family about her. She wondered about his older brother, George, whom she’d met at the skating party and who had been none too happy about her surname. Had he said anything to his mother about her?
“You practically saved Jon’s life!” an awed voice said behind her.
She turned to find that the girl at the door had quickly changed her skirt and brushed out her hair. She served herself a cup of tea and joined them at the table.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Rowena said weakly.
“So he took you up in his plane to say thank you,” Cristobel continued. “He said you were a real trouper. You were hardly afraid at all. I love your riding habit. I outgrew mine and we haven’t enough money to replace it yet, but maybe when George comes home from the bank. I, of course, have been up lots of times.”
“If lots of times are exactly twice,” her mother said, smiling. “Slow down, our guest isn’t used to the speed of your tongue.”
Cristobel glowered at her mother.
“I have a younger sister, too,” Rowena assured them. “I’m used to it.”
“Well, that’s a mercy. Did you enjoy flying with Jon?” Margaret asked, turning back to Rowena.
“I loved it,” Rowena said, trying to find the words. “I felt so free, as if nothing that happened down here mattered at all.”
“But it does matter, doesn’t it?” a masculine voice said from the hall. Rowena jumped, her heart leaping, but it wasn’t Jon who stood in the door, watching her with an unreadable expression across his face. It was his brother, George, who had made it very clear the first time they met that he harbored nothing but disdain for the Buxtons, and thus for her.
“George!” Cristobel leapt up and gave her brother a hug. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow!”
“Business went better than expected.”
“Oh, that’s a relief,” his mother said, getting up to pour her son a cup of tea.
Rowena sat very still, waiting for him to re
veal her identity to Margaret and Cristobel, just as Rowena was beginning to like them. He walked into the room and lounged against the butcher block, waiting for his tea. He wasn’t as handsome as Jon—the blue of his eyes was darker and he had grim lines sunk on either side of his mouth. This was a man who had known the bitterness of caring for a family before his time.
“Yes, Mother,” he said, never taking his eyes off Rowena. “If selling off another part of our land can be termed a relief.”
“Not exactly tea talk in front of company,” his mother chided, handing him a cup.
“My apologies. I was just surprised to find Miss . . . ” He paused, waiting for a name.
“You may call me Rowena. And I thank you so much for the tea, but I really must be leaving.”
“But you just got here!” Cristobel wailed. “We haven’t gotten to talk about anything yet!”
Margaret smiled as Rowena rose from her chair. “As I said, my daughter has been left alone for far too long. She needs the company of girls her own age, and though I can see you are much older, I would love to have you back here for a real visit. Perhaps you could have supper with us? It’s the least we can do, considering how you practically saved Jon’s life.”
Rowena just wanted to escape George’s mocking eyes. She wished she had never come here. What would Jon say when he found out she had ingratiated herself with his family before he had even made clear any intentions toward her? And yet, wasn’t a kiss the same as declaring intentions? Or was she being impossibly old-fashioned? “I’d like that very much,” she said weakly, reaching for her cloak.
The entire family saw her to the door. Rowena was sure the two holes burning in her back were from George’s glaring. The two women said their good-byes at the door, then George walked her to her horse and held the reins as she mounted. He didn’t mince words.